Giant’s Bread · Book I · III · Chapter 1 3 2

II

The world went on widening.

There were, for instance, uncles and aunts.

Uncle Sydney was Mummy’s brother. He was short and stout and had rather a red face. He had a habit of humming tunes and of rattling the money in his trouser pockets. He was fond of making jokes, but Vernon did not always think his jokes very funny.

“Supposing,” Uncle Sydney would say, “I were to put on your hat? Hey? What should I look like, do you think?”

Curious, the questions grown up people asked! Curious⁠—and also difficult, because if there was one thing that Nurse was always impressing upon Vernon, it was that little boys must never make personal remarks.

“Come now,” said Uncle Sydney perseveringly. “What should I look like? There⁠—” he snatched up the linen affair in question and balanced it on top of his head. “⁠—what do I look like, eh?”

Well, if one must answer, one must. Vernon said politely and a little wearily:

“I think you look rather silly.”

“That boy of yours has no sense of humour, Myra,” said Uncle Sydney to his mother. “No sense of humour at all. A pity.”

Aunt Nina, Father’s sister, was quite different.

She smelt nice, like the garden on a summer’s day, and she had a soft voice that Vernon liked. She had other virtues⁠—she didn’t kiss you when you didn’t want to be kissed, and she didn’t insist on making jokes. But she didn’t come very often to Abbots Puissants.

She must be, Vernon thought, very brave, because it was she who first made him realize that one could master the Beast.

The Beast lived in the big drawing-room. It had four legs and a shiny brown body. And it had a long row of what Vernon had thought when he was very small, to be teeth. Great yellow shining teeth. From his earliest memory, Vernon had been fascinated and terrified by the Beast. For if you irritated the Beast, it made strange noises, an angry growling or a shrill angry wail⁠—and somehow those noises hurt you more than anything in the world could, they hurt you right down in your inside. They made you shiver and feel sick, and they made your eyes sting and burn, and yet by some strange enchantment, you couldn’t go away.

When Vernon had stories read to him about dragons, he always thought of them as like the Beast. And some of the best games with Mr. Green were where they killed the Beast⁠—Vernon plunging a sword into his brown shining body whilst the hundred children whooped and sang behind.

Now that he was a big boy he knew better, of course. He knew that the Beast’s name was Grand Piano, and that when you deliberately attacked its teeth, that was called “playingtherpiano”! and that ladies did it after dinner to gentlemen. But in his inmost heart he was still afraid and dreamt sometimes of the Beast pursuing him up the nursery stairs⁠—and he would wake up screaming.

In his dreams the Beast lived in the Forest, and was wild and savage, and the noises it made were too terrible to be borne.

Mummy sometimes did “playingtherpiano,” and that Vernon could just bear with difficulty. The Beast, he felt, would not really be waked up by what she was doing to it. But the day Aunt Nina played was different.

Vernon had been conducting one of his imaginary games in a corner. He and Squirrel and Poodle were having a picnic and eating lobsters and chocolate éclairs.

His Aunt Nina had not even noticed that he was in the room. She had sat down on the music stool and was playing idly.

Fascinated, Vernon crept nearer and nearer. Nina looked at last to see him staring at her, the tears running down his face and great sobs shaking his small body. She stopped.

“What’s the matter, Vernon?”

“I ’ate it,” sobbed Vernon. “I ’ate it. I ’ate it. It hurts me here.” His hands clasped his stomach.

Myra came into the room at that minute. She laughed.

“Isn’t it odd? That child simply hates music. So very queer.”

“Why doesn’t he go away if he hates it?” said Nina.

“I can’t,” sobbed Vernon.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?” said Myra.

“I think it’s rather interesting.”

“Most children are always wanting to strum on the piano. I tried to show Vernon ‘Chopsticks’ the other day, but he wasn’t a bit amused.”

Nina remained staring at her small nephew thoughtfully.

“I can hardly believe a child of mine can be unmusical,” said Myra in an aggrieved voice. “I played quite difficult pieces when I was eight years old.”

“Oh! well,” said Nina vaguely. “There are different ways of being musical.”

Which, Myra thought, was so like the silly sort of thing the Deyre family would say. Either one was musical and played pieces, or one was not. Vernon clearly was not.