Young Phillip Maddison Read Free

I wonder Father doesn’t forbid you to keep him in the scullery. You don’t renew his sawdust twice a week, as you promised Father you would.”
    â€œRot! Timmy’s cleaner than you are. Anyway, shog off, I’m talking to Polly.”
    â€œHa, I know, you’re up to something.”
    â€œAnd you get down to the sink. Shog off!”
    â€œPhillip—Phillip!” came Hetty’s voice, from the landing above. “Your language, my son!”
    â€œIt’s in Shakespeare, Henrietta.”
    â€œHa, you only read the rude bits!” cried Mavis.
    â€œMavis dear, I’ll come and dry up for you in a moment.”
    â€œI will, Aunty Hetty,” said Polly, her eyes gleaming as she looked at Phillip. That boy, after a swift turn of the head to make sure that his sister had gone, put his hand on the black serge material of Polly’s waist, and slid it down below her patent-leather belt, in order to experience the thrilling sensation that he had felt when, together with Mavis and Percy, Polly’s brother, the foursome of small children at the Pickering’s country home, some years before, had played a game, innocently enough, called Mothers and Fathers.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re trying to do?” whispered Polly.
    â€œYou know!” he whispered back. “Shall we do it together, one day?”
    Polly tossed her head. “Wouldn’t you like to?” she breathed.
    â€œYes, wouldn’t you? Ss-sh!”
    Phillip moved away from her. He had heard his mother’s footfalls come out of the bedroom. Lightly, two at a time, without sound, he pulled himself up the stairs by the banister rail. “Hullo mother, got ’em?” he asked. “I was just coming up to you. Blime, you need to be a glow-worm to get about in this house.”
    â€œPhillip, I’ve told you before, you should not use that expression, it is not nice. Here are your collars, dear, I had them from Aunt Dorrie. Don’t forget to thank her, when you see her.”
    â€œWhat, for these old hand-me-downs! Still, if they were Bertie’s and Gerry’s, I don’t mind having them.”
    Remotely more muffled bangs of fog-signals came through the darkness.
    â€œYou’d better wash now, Phillip. Come into the bath-room, before your Father comes home. Here’s some matches, if you will kindly light the gas.”
    â€œNo, I will unkindly light it for a change.”
    The burner flared up. Phillip looked critically at the starched linen collars. They were indeed hand-me-downs, the front tags much-broken-and-stitched at the stud-holes.
    â€œThe mends won’t be visible, dear, your tie will cover them. Now wash your face, and don’t forget your neck and ears. And promise you won’t read? It’s bad for you, Phillip.”
    The bathroom was often used by Phillip as a library, as he sat comfortably on the mahogany seat, behind the locked door, with a book.
    â€œNot me! I’ve got work to do. Beastly Latin tonight, then foul Euclid, and stinking Algebra.”
    â€œReally Phillip, your language! Well, don’t be long, dear. I’ll lay out your Etons for you, in your bedroom.”
    â€œNo, I’ll be short, like Mrs. Bigge next door.”
    â€œReally Phillip!” laughed Hetty, as he followed her into the bedroom. “Sometimes I wonder where you get it all from.”
    â€œFrom the beastly Turneys,” replied Phillip.
    â€œWell, you certainly don’t get it from Father,” said Hetty, indulgently. “Oh, I heard from Aunt Dora today. I sent her your essay on Timmy Rat, you know, and Aunt thought it very good. She says you have a gift for writing.”
    Phillip thought of what he had written in the library book. He quivered within.
    â€œShall I put on a clean dickie? Or will the fog muck it up? Quick Mummy, quick! It’s library night!”
    â€œI think I sent your old one to the laundry, Phillip.