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

III

Nurse’s mother was ill. Strange unparalleled nursery catastrophe. Nurse, very red-faced and grim, was packing with the assistance of Susan Isabel. Vernon, troubled, sympathetic, but above all interested, stood nearby, and out of his interest, asked questions.

“Is your mother very old, Nurse? Is she a hundred?”

“Of course not, Master Vernon. A hundred indeed!”

“Do you think she is going to die?” continued Vernon, longing to be kind and understand.

Cook’s mother had been ill and died. Nurse did not answer. Instead she said sharply:

“The boot-bags out of the bottom drawer, Susan. Step lively now, my girl.”

“Nurse, will your mother⁠—”

“I haven’t time to be answering questions, Master Vernon.”

Vernon sat down on the corner of a chintz-covered ottoman and gave himself up to reflection. Nurse had said that her mother wasn’t a hundred, but she must, for all that, be very old. Nurse herself he had always regarded as terribly old. To think that there was a being of superior age and wisdom to Nurse was positively staggering. In a strange way it reduced Nurse herself to the proportions of a mere human being. She was no longer a figure secondary only to God himself.

The Universe shifted⁠—values were readjusted. Nurse, God, and Mr. Green⁠—all three receded, becoming vaguer and more blurred. Mummy, his father, even Aunt Nina⁠—seemed to matter more. Especially Mummy. Mummy was like the princesses with long beautiful golden hair. He would like to fight a dragon for Mummy⁠—a brown shiny dragon like the Beast.

What was the word⁠—the magic word? Brumagem⁠—that was it⁠—Brumagem. An enchanting word! The Princess Brumagem! A word to be repeated over to himself softly and secretly at night at the same time as Damn and Corsets.

But never, never, never must Mummy hear it⁠—because he knew only too well that she would laugh⁠—she always laughed, the kind of laugh that made you shrivel up inside and want to wriggle. And she would say things⁠—she always said things, just the kind of things you hated. “Aren’t children too funny?”

And Vernon knew that he wasn’t funny. He didn’t like funny things⁠—Uncle Sydney had said so. If only Mummy wouldn’t⁠ ⁠…

Sitting on the slippery chintz he frowned perplexedly. He had a sudden imperfect glimpse of two Mummies. One, the princess, the beautiful Mummy that he dreamt about, who was mixed up for him with sunsets and magic and killing dragons⁠—and the other⁠—the one who laughed and who said, “Aren’t children too funny?” Only, of course, they were the same.⁠ ⁠…

He fidgeted and sighed. Nurse, flushed from the effort of snapping to her trunk, turned to him kindly.

“What’s the matter, Master Vernon?”

“Nothing,” said Vernon.

You must always say “Nothing.” You could never tell. Because, if you did, no one ever knew what you meant⁠ ⁠…