Chocky, Page 5

  ‘So I told her that’s how cars are, anyway, and ours is a new car, and a jolly good one. And she said that was nonsense because our car is just silly, and nobody with any brains would make anything so clumsy and dangerous, and nobody with any sense would ride in one. And then – well, it’s a bit muddled after that because I got angry. But, anyway, I don’t care what she thinks: I like our new car.’

  It was difficult. His indignation was authentic: a stranger would not have doubted for a moment that he had been engaged in a dispute which was not only genuine, but impassioned. Any lingering doubt I may have had as to whether we really needed advice about Matthew was swept away then. However, rather than risk a wrong step now, I kept up the front.

  ‘What does she think cars ought to be like, then?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what I asked her when she started on our car,’ said Matthew. ‘And she said that where she comes from the cars don’t have wheels at all. They go along a bit above the ground, and they don’t make any noise, either. She said that our kind of cars that have to keep to roads are bound to run into one another pretty often, and that, anyway, properly made cars are made so that they can’t run into one another.’

  ‘There’s quite a lot to be said for that – if you can manage it,’ I admitted. ‘But, tell me, where does Chocky come from?’

  Matthew frowned.

  ‘That’s one of the things we can’t find out,’ he said. ‘It’s too difficult. You see, if you don’t know where anything else is, how can you find out where you are?’

  ‘You mean, no reference points?’ I suggested.

  ‘I expect that’s it,’ Matthew said, a little vaguely. ‘But I think where Chocky lives must be a very, very long way away. Everything seems to be different there.’

  ‘H’m,’ I said. I tried another tack. ‘How old is Chocky?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, pretty old,’ Matthew told me. ‘Her time doesn’t go like ours though. But we worked it out that if it did she’d be at least twenty. Only she says she’ll go on living until she’s about two hundred, so that sort of makes twenty seem less. She thinks only living until you’re seventy or eighty like we do, is silly and wasteful.’

  ‘Chocky,’ I suggested, ‘appears to think a great many things silly.’

  Matthew nodded emphatically.

  ‘Oh, she does,’ he agreed. ‘Nearly everything, really,’ he added, in amplification.

  ‘Rather depressing,’ I commented.

  ‘It does get a bit boring pretty often,’ Matthew conceded.

  Then Mary called us in to supper.

  I found myself increasingly at a loss to know what to do about it. Matthew had evidently had enough sense of self-protection not to tell any of his friends or school-fellows about Chocky. He had confided in Polly, possibly, I thought with some idea of sharing Chocky with her, but that had certainly been a failure. Yet, quite clearly, he found it a relief to talk about her – and after the car incident I had undoubtedly provided a very sorely needed safety-valve. Nevertheless, one had the feeling that at most times he was talking circumspectly – as if he were holding himself ready to bolt for cover at any unsympathetic response. The question seemed to be which of several possible courses was least likely to raise his defences.

  Mary, when I told her about the car incident that evening, was inclined to favour the straightforward line of asking our regular doctor, Dr Aycott, to recommend a consultant. I was not. Not that I had anything against old Aycott. I wouldn’t deny that the old boy was an adequate enough pill-pusher, but I couldn’t help feeling that the Matthew problem was not in his line. Moreover, I pointed out, Matthew did not like him so it was improbable that he would confide in him. It seemed much more likely that he would consider we had abused his confidence by mentioning the matter to Aycott at all; in which case there was a risk that he would clam up altogether.

  Mary, upon reflection, admitted the validity of that:

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘It’s getting to the point where we can’t just go on letting it drift. We must do something.… And you can’t simply pick a psychiatrist out of a list with a pin. You want the right kind of psychiatrist, proper recommendations, and all the rest of it…’

  ‘I think I may have a line on that,’ I told her. ‘I was telling Alan about it the other day, and he mentioned a man I used to know slightly at Cambridge; a fellow called Landis – Roy Landis. Alan knew him rather better, and he’s kept in touch with him. It appears that after Landis qualified he went in for mental disorders. He’s got a job at the Claudesley now, so he must be some good at it. Alan suggested it might be worth having a try at him – informally, just to give us a lead. If he were willing to have a look at Matthew he’d be able to tell us whether we ought to consult somebody professionally, and who would be the best man for the job. Or, possibly, it might be in his own line, and he’d take it on himself. We’d have to see.’

  ‘Good,’ Mary approved. ‘You tackle him, then, and see if you can get him to come down. At least we shall feel that we’re doing something…’

  Time, and professional precept, can work wonders. I could scarcely recognize the rather untidy undergraduate I remembered in the well brushed, neatly bearded, elegant suited Roy Landis who joined Alan and me at the club for dinner, and I had to admit that these superficialities, plus a responsible manner, go a long way to establishing confidence. They are also somewhat intimidating. I had a slightly uneasy feeling of medical ethics lurking in ambush.

  However, I plunged in. I stressed that our immediate need was advice upon the best steps to take, and told him something of Matthew. His professional caution relaxed as he listened, and his interest plainly grew. The episode with the new car particularly seemed to intrigue him. He asked a number of questions which I answered as best I could, beginning to feel hopeful. In the end he agreed to drive down to Hindmere the following Sunday week. He also gave me some instructions on preparing the ground for the visit, so that I was able to return home to report to Mary with a feeling of relief that, at last, we had things under way.

  The next evening I told Matthew:

  ‘I had dinner with an old friend of mine last night. I think you might like to meet him.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew, not much interested in my old friends.

  ‘The thing was,’ I went on, ‘we were talking cars, and he seems to have some of the same ideas as you told me Chocky has about them. He thinks our present cars are rather crude.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew again. Then, with a steady look, he asked:

  ‘Did you tell him about Chocky?’

  ‘Well, I had to – a bit. You see, I could scarcely pretend that her ideas are yours, because they certainly aren’t. He seemed interested, but not much surprised. Not nearly so surprised as I was when you first told me about Chocky. I rather got the idea he may have run across someone a bit like her before.’

  Matthew showed signs of interest, but he was still cautious.

  ‘Someone who talks to him the same way?’ he inquired.

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Not to him, but to someone – or it may be more than one person – that he knows. Anyway, as I said, he didn’t seem very surprised. I’m afraid we didn’t go into it a great deal, but I thought you might like to know.’

  That turned out to be a promising start. Matthew returned to the subject of his own accord a couple of times. Clearly, he was more than a little fascinated by the idea of someone who found Chocky unsurprising.

  It was that, as well as the prospect of reassurance it held for him, I thought, that prompted him to admit that he might like to have a talk with Roy Landis, someday.

  The next Saturday we gave the new car its first real outing down to the coast. We bathed, and picnicked, and then Mary and I lazed in the sun while the children wandered off to amuse themselves.

  Half-past five was packing-up time. Polly was easily found and separated from a gang of young acquaintances but there was no sign of Matthew. At six o’clock he was still missing. I decided to tak
e a run along in the car to see if I could find him while Mary and Polly stayed where they were in case he should turn up.

  I had got right down by the harbour before I spotted him. He was in earnest conversation with a policeman. I drew up nearby, and Matthew saw me.

  ‘Oh, hullo Daddy,’ he called. He glanced up at the policeman, and began to move towards the car. The policeman followed, and lifted his hand to his helmet.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been having to explain to your young man that it won’t do.’ He shook his head, and then added, by way of explanation: ‘You can’t expect people to put up with you going exploring on their boats, any more than they’d put up with you going exploring in their houses, can you now?’

  ‘Certainly not Constable,’ I agreed. ‘Is that what you’ve been up to, Matthew?’

  ‘I was just looking, Daddy. I didn’t think anybody would mind. I wasn’t doing anything.’

  ‘But you were on the boat?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  It was my turn to shake my head.

  ‘It’s not the proper thing at all, Matthew. The Constable’s quite right. I hope you’ve apologized.’ I glanced at the policeman, and caught a slight flicker of his right eyelid.

  ‘It’s right he wasn’t doing any harm there, sir,’ the man agreed. ‘But it’s like you said, not at all a proper way to go on.’

  Matthew looked up at the policeman.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s only that I never sort of thought of ships being like people’s houses. I’ll remember what you said.’ And he held out his hand.

  They shook, seriously.

  ‘Come along now. We’re late,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much, Constable.’

  The policeman grinned, and raised his hand to his helmet again as we drove off.

  ‘What had you been doing?’ I inquired.

  ‘What I said: just looking,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Well, you were lucky. I only hope I am as lucky with the next policeman I meet. An amiable man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew.

  During the pause that followed he became aware that another apology was due.

  ‘Sorry about being late, Daddy. I didn’t notice the time.’ As if he felt more explanation was needed he went on: ‘You see Chocky’s never seen a ship – not close to, I mean – so I was showing her. But a man put his head up through a hole, and got angry, and took me to the policeman.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So it was really Chocky’s fault?’

  ‘Not really,’ Matthew said, fairly. ‘I mean, I thought she’d be interested.’

  ‘H’m,’ I said. ‘It seems to me more likely that if she was running true to form she’d think ships are silly.’

  ‘She does, rather,’ Matthew admitted. ‘She said it must waste an awful lot of power to keep on pushing all that water out of the way, and wouldn’t it be more sensible, if you have to have ships, to build them to go just above the water and have only to push air out of the way.’

  ‘Well, she’s a bit late on that one. You tell her we have hovercraft already,’ I suggested, as we arrived back at our bathing place and the waiting Mary and Polly.

  During the following week I felt even more glad that Landis was coming down the next Sunday. For one thing Matthew’s school report arrived. While, on the whole, it was not unsatisfactory, I detected a slightly puzzled air about parts of it.

  Mr Trimble acknowledged that Matthew had made progress – of a kind, but felt that he was capable of doing much better if he could confine his attention to the orthodox forms of mathematics.

  Miss Toach, while she was glad to record that his interest in her subject had sharpened considerably, thought he would do better to concentrate on geography at present, and let cosmography come later.

  Mr Caffer, the physics master, was not entirely pleased. He wrote: ‘There has been a marked difference in his approach this term. If it were to show itself less in a capacity to ask questions, and more in ability to absorb information, his work would improve.’

  ‘What have you been doing to Mr Caffer?’ I asked.

  ‘He gets annoyed,’ said Matthew. ‘There was one time when I wanted to know about the pressure of light, and another time when I told him I can see what gravity does, but I don’t see why it does it. I don’t think he knows why, and there were some other things, too. He wanted to know where I was getting the questions from. I couldn’t very well tell him they came out of things Chocky had told me. So he got a bit riled. But it’s all right now. I mean, it’s not much good asking him things, so I haven’t any more.’

  ‘And there’s Miss Blayde, biology. She seems to be a bit sniffy, too,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I expect that’s because I asked her how people who had only one sex managed to reproduce. She said, well, everybody had only one sex, and I said what I meant was one kind of person, all alike, not different like men and women. She said that could be in some plants, but not in people. And I said not always, and she said nonsense. But I said it wasn’t nonsense because I happened to know someone like that. And she said what did I mean – in that kind of voice. Then I saw it had been dim of me to ask at all, because I couldn’t tell her about Chocky, so I shut up, although she kept on wanting to know what I meant. And ever since then she sometimes looks at me very hard. That’s all really.’

  Miss Blayde was not the only one to feel baffled. A little time before, trying to get some idea what type of mental projection this Chocky was, I had asked:

  ‘Doesn’t Chocky have a home? Doesn’t she even tell you about her mother and father, and where she lives – that kind of thing?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Matthew. ‘I can’t make out what it’s like. You see, such a lot of the things she says don’t mean anything.’

  I said I was afraid I didn’t quite see. Matthew had frowned in concentration.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘suppose I was quite, quite deaf and you tried to tell me about a tune – I wouldn’t be able to know what you were talking about, would I? It’s a bit like that – sort of – I think.… She does sometimes talk about her father, or her mother – but the hims and hers get mixed up, as if they were both the same.’

  I wondered what complex we were on the brink of now, and tried to recall the name of some suitably gynandrous Greek, but it eluded me. I said merely that it must be confusing. Matthew agreed.

  ‘But our way is difficult for her to understand, too,’ he told me. ‘She thinks it must be terribly confusing to have two parents, and not a good idea at all. She says it is natural and easy to love one person, but if your parent is divided into two different people it must be pretty difficult for your mind not to be upset by trying not to love one more than the other. She thinks it’s very likely the strain of that which accounts for some of the peculiar things about us.’

  This reportage of Chocky’s ideas gave me some sympathy with Miss Blayde’s bewilderment. It also made me thankful that I had already approached Landis – though, at the same time my anxiety over his verdict was somewhat sharpened.

  The next thing was that Mary’s sister Janet rang up and gave her usual short notice of intention to pay us a visit over the week-end. Mary explained that we were engaged on Sunday, and fended off inquiries as to the exact nature of the engagement.

  ‘Oh, well, too bad, but never mind,’ said Janet, ‘we can easily make it Friday, and leave on Sunday directly after breakfast. It’ll give us a chance of seeing more of the country on the way home.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Mary as she hung up. ‘The trouble with Janet is that when she makes up her mind it just scatters my wits. Why on earth didn’t I put her off till the next week-end? Oh, well, too late now.’

  Five

  On Friday evening Janet and her husband, Kenneth, arrived, accompanied by their two youngest. They showed up, true to form, an hour and a half later than the time she had given, and thereafter for twenty-four hours the visit grooved along its usual pattern. Mary and Janet discussed Janet’s child
ren, their sister Patience’s children, brothers Ted’s and Frank’s children, and those of a number of mutual friends. Kenneth and I kept mostly to the safe, and only slightly controversial, topic of cars. Altogether it went quite smoothly. It was only on Saturday evening that Janet, apparently realizing that in all their conversations about children they had missed out Mary’s, decided to remedy the omission.

  ‘Of course it’s none of my business,’ she said, ‘but I always think that a fresh eye sometimes sees perhaps a little more than one that’s always there, don’t you?’

  One recognized the gambit. I glanced at Mary. Her attention was all on her knitting.

  ‘It could be. On the other hand, it has had less chance to observe,’ she replied.

  Janet’s question had been rhetorical. She was not to be deflected by generalizations. She went on:

  ‘It struck me that Matthew is looking a wee bit peaky – just a bit off colour, perhaps?’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mary.

  ‘You’ve not noticed it? That’s what I meant. Perhaps he’s been overworking a bit – they often outgrow their strength at his age, don’t they?’

  ‘Really?’ said Mary.

  ‘Or perhaps he isn’t strong naturally,’ Janet suggested.

  Mary had finished her row. She laid the knitting on her knee, and smoothed it over.

  ‘He seems quite strong and healthy to us,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he, David?’

  I picked up my cue.

  ‘Certainly he does,’ I put in. ‘Never anything more than the odd cold – and I don’t know how you stop any child catching that,’ I backed her up.

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ Janet said. ‘Still one can’t be too watchful. After all, it’s not as if we knew a great deal about his hereditary tendencies, is it? Doesn’t he strike you as being a bit listless sometimes – a little introverted, perhaps?’