Ivy Compton-Burnett - The Present and the Past

‘What is a real home like?’

‘It is something you do not know, and I can only just remember. My life was over when I was four. I wonder how many people can say that.’

‘Then I have hardly had a life at all.’

‘Well, you have accepted a substitute.’

‘I never know whether I have or not. I don’t see how I can know.’

‘Boys, look at those corncrakes,’ said Miss Ridley, appearing round the haystack with the effect of something artificial at war with nature. ‘We do not often see two together. And listen to their raucous cry. It is a sound one always likes to hear.’

‘It is true that one does,’ said Fabian, ‘though there does not seem any reason.’

‘Have you finished your book?’ said Guy.

‘Yes, some time ago. I have been enjoying my surroundings. And now we must turn towards home.’

‘What is the word supposed to mean?’ said Fabian.

‘Come, come, no more of that,’ said Miss Ridley.

When they reached the garden, Henry and Megan were standing about it, unoccupied. Toby, who was never in this state, was once more devoted to the service of William, who was shovelling litter into a barrow. Toby was plucking single leaves and adding them to its contents.

‘Soon be full,’ he said to Miss Ridley.

‘You are a busy little boy.’

‘Big boy. So very busy.’

‘Will you be a gardener when you grow up, sir?’ said William.

‘No, Toby have one.’

‘Will you have me, sir?’

‘Yes, have William.’

‘Father has him,’ said Megan.

‘No, not Father; Toby.’

‘Perhaps Father will be dead by then,’ said Henry.

‘Yes, poor Father.’

‘What will you be yourself, sir, when you are a man?’

‘Have a church,’ said Toby. ‘Speak in a loud voice.’

‘Well, I shall come to your church, sir.’

‘On, no,’ said Toby instantly. ‘Not people like William.’

‘What kind of people?’ said Megan.

‘People like Father.’

‘Do you like Father better than William?’

‘No, like William.’

‘You would want everyone to come to your church,’ said Miss Ridley.

‘Oh, no,’ said Toby, solemnly. ‘Not church.’

‘Why do you choose this part of the garden?’ said Miss Ridley, not carrying the subject further.

‘Toby wanted to talk to William,’ said Henry.

‘But Eliza is watching Toby,’ said Miss Ridley, perceiving the former standing in the background, in fulfilment of her afternoon duty of seeing that Toby’s contentment did not fail. ‘Why don’t you find something to do? Toby sets you an example.’

‘He doesn’t understand what William is doing,’ said Henry.

‘William say “Thank you”,’ said Toby, in refutation of this.

‘Doesn’t he ever bring more than one leaf at a time?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Toby, placing a leaf with care. ‘One little leaf.’

William threw a flower-pot into the barrow, and Toby fell into mirth as it broke. William threw another with similar result, and Eliza started forward in consternation.

‘He must not get excited at this time of the day.’

‘Not time for tea,’ said Toby, with a scowling violence that supported her.

William tossed a dead mole into the barrow.

‘No,’ said Toby, shrilly. ‘Poor little mouse!’

William displayed the mole in his hand, and Henry came up and gazed at it.

‘How soon will decay set in?’

‘It has real hands,’ said Megan.

Toby bent his head and reverently kissed the mole.

‘Very soft. Nice fur. Dear little mouse!’

‘Why did it die?’ said Megan, in an offhand manner.

‘Well, everything dies in the end, miss. It will happen to us all.’

Megan’s face cleared at the thought of this common fate. The mole had only borne what she would bear herself.

‘Now you can have a funeral,’ said Eliza, in simple congratulation.

‘We must put the mole in a box,’ said Henry, with more zest than he had shown that day. ‘Or it will just enrich the ground as it decays.’

‘It wouldn’t know anything about that,’ said his sister.

The burial took place later, as preparation was involved. Toby officiated at his own insistence, and Eliza and the other children followed the mole to the grave. William was hailed and his attendance demanded, Toby waiving the question of the class of his congregation in favour of its size.

‘So I am at your church after all, sir.’

Toby raised a finger and began to speak.

‘O dear people, we are gathered together. Dearly beloved brethren. Let us pray. Ashes and ashes. Dust and dust. This our brother. Poor little mole! Until he rise again. Prayers of the congregation. Amen.’

‘Why, you will make a proper parson, sir.’

Toby took no notice and went on his knees, signing to his audience to follow. William was behindhand in his response, and Toby frowned upon him and waited for it.

‘The Lord keep you. His face shine. Kneel down a long time before you go. Give you peace. Amen.’

The company rose with a rustle certainly reminiscent of a dispersing congregation, and another voice was heard.

‘What is all this? How did he learn this sort of thing? How and when did it happen? I desire to know.’

‘He was taken to a children’s service,’ said Megan, looking at her father. ‘It was the day when a village child had died. He made Eliza read the service to him afterwards. He likes that sort of thing.’

‘He always listens at prayers,’ said Henry.

‘And you do not?’ said Cassius.

‘I listen like other people. Toby is different.’

‘I should not have believed it. It is a most unsuitable thing. And if you call it reverent, I do not.’

‘I think I do,’ said Flavia. ‘Indeed, I am sure of it. I had the sense of guilt that I have in church.’

‘He brings back Mr Fabian to me, sir,’ said William, recalling to Cassius a brother in the Church who had died in estrangement from him. ‘He is the living spit and will be more so.’

Cassius was silent, and Bennet approached from the house, holding her hands under her apron and emitting song. She smiled easily on the children.

‘Miss Bennet, what do you think of this?’ said Cassius. ‘A child of Toby’s age conducting a funeral, and with a knowledge that had to be seen to be believed! What is your view of it? I wish to know.’

‘Did he?’ said Bennet, looking at Toby in incredulity and admiration. ‘Fancy his doing a thing like that!’

‘Do you think it is as it should be?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bennet, gathering up Toby and regarding him with a mild concern that gave place to reassurance. ‘It is quite natural. It does not mean anything.’

‘A funeral in church seems to have made a deep impression on him.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Bennet, looking again at Toby and hitching him into an easier position on her arm. ‘He is not at all upset. He likes anything in the way of a ceremony. It was the same with the village play.’

‘It is Mr Fabian again, sir,’ said William. ‘Preaching and playacting go together. There is a lot in common.’

Cassius again said nothing. They had gone together in the case of his brother, with whom he had quarrelled in consequence of it.

‘I suppose we are going to have tea today,’ said Henry.

‘Upon my word I cannot tell you,’ said his father. ‘It is time for you all to be asleep.’

‘It is a little late,’ said Bennet. ‘I thought it was best to get the funeral over.’

‘Miss Bennet, your attitude to a funeral! I feel I have never known you. I am seeing you for the first time.’

‘It is a mole’s funeral,’ said Henry. ‘A mole is not a human being.’

‘It is the confusion between them that is my point.’