Young Phillip Maddison Read Free Page A

Can’t you do without one just for tonight? You must look your best for your photograph tomorrow, you know. I want to send one to your Aunt Victoria, and another to Uncle Hilary. I thought it would be considerate of you, as they always remember your birthday.”
    â€œI don’t like either of ’em.”
    â€œHush Phillip! They are your Father’s sister and brother, and they have both been very kind to you.”
    â€œI won’t hush! Aunt Viccy always looks at me as though I were some sort of freak. When I went to stay with her after Christmas she said ‘Even when you were a little baby of nine months, Phillip, your big wondering eyes were filled with fear. Why, why, why?’ As though anyone can help what they looked like! But you know, I did sort of think of a reply the other day.Shall I tell you? It was this. ‘Well Aunt, it must have been caused by what I was looking at!’”
    â€œPhillip—Phillip! You naughty boy!” Hetty went out of the room, trying not to laugh. She had never felt easy with that particular sister-in-law. She felt that Victoria always tried to like her, but it was against her real nature to do so.
    *
    Left alone, Phillip set about undressing. Then he examined his face. His eyes stared anxiously back at him from the mirror upon the tall mahogany chest of drawers. They looked dark and gloomy in the light of the yellow-fringed gas-flame issuing from the gilded burner. Were his eyes filled with fear? He felt sad. Then thinking of Helena Rolls, he sighed. He had a very ugly face. The Valentine! Quick, before Father came home! It would be awful if he were to see it.
    A hasty tip-toeing to the bathroom; face held down in cold water to give, his cheeks a healthy look; a rapid soaping and blowing of water through hands; an equally quick drying, then back again to his room, and a flurried donning of clean flannel shirt smelling slightly of Mrs. Feeney—soapy rinsing water. While he dressed, a wild thought came to him: dare he ask Helena Rolls if she would like a photograph of him? After all, faint heart never won fair lady.
    Phillip thought with some excitement of Mr. Woods’ studio in the High Road, of the ordeal of facing the big mahogany camera on the wooden tripod, while the black cloth was over both box and photographer’s head during focusing. He must remember not to grin, for that would show his crowded front teeth; his dog’s-teeth, as Mavis called them. Nor must he look too serious, or Father might say again that he looked weepy, as though he had been out in the garden to eat worms. The hypo-marks on one of his last photos had looked just like tears, Father had said. He was always crying at the least excuse, said Father; he was not a manly boy; even Aunt Viccy had told him that, when he had pretended to cry after she had threatened to tell Father he had taught cousin Adele a bad word. “And why tell lies?” she had asked, when he said that the word he had used was tart : he had told Adele that too many tarts caused indigestion, or vice versa. He had pretended to look very contrite while Aunt Viccy had solemnly lectured him for using “grubby little words”.
    His Aunt Victoria’s pale face was associated in Phillip’s mind with the word Why? Why was it necessary to tell fibs? Why did he use such bad words, such grubby little words? Was it nice, to repay hospitality in that manner? Why was he not more manly? Why did he cry at the least thing? Why could he not look her straight in the eyes, instead of having such a shifty gaze? Why could he not be like other boys, decent boys, from decent homes? Why did he worry his Father so much, with his constant prevarications? Why could he not go straight?
    â€œLook at me, Phillip! Look into my face! Now tell me, why are you such a young rascal? Where do you get it all from?”
    He had stared straight into her face. “I don’t know, Aunt Victoria”.
    Aunt Viccy