Giant’s Bread · Book I · IV · Chapter 1 4 3

III

When Vernon, later, was to look back upon his childhood, this one period was to stand out quite clearly from the rest. “The time I broke my leg” marked a distinct era.

He was to appreciate, too, various small incidents that were accepted by him at the time as a matter of course. For instance, a rather stormy interview that took place between Dr. Coles and his mother. Naturally this did not take place in Vernon’s sick room, but Myra’s raised voice penetrated closed doors. Vernon heard indignant exclamations of “I don’t know what you mean by upsetting him.⁠ ⁠… I consider I ought to nurse my own child.⁠ ⁠… Naturally I was distressed⁠—I’m not one of these people who simply have no heart⁠—no heart at all. Look at Walter⁠—never turned a hair!”

There were many skirmishes, too, not to say pitched battles fought between Myra and Nurse Frances. In these cases Nurse Frances always won, but at a certain cost. Myra Deyre was wildly and furiously jealous of what she called “the paid nurse.” She was forced to submit to Dr. Cole’s dictums, but she did so with a bad grace and with an overt rudeness that Nurse Frances never seemed to notice.

In after years Vernon remembered nothing of the pain and tedium that there must have been. He only remembered happy days of playing and talking as he had never played and talked before. For in Nurse Frances, he found a grown up who didn’t think things “funny” or “quaint.” Somebody who listened sensibly and who made serious and sensible suggestions. To Nurse Frances he was able to speak of Poodle, Squirrel and Tree, and of Mr. Green and the hundred children. And instead of saying “What a funny game!” Nurse Frances merely inquired whether the hundred children were girls or boys⁠—an aspect of the matter which Vernon had never thought of before. But he and Nurse Frances decided that there were fifty of each, which seemed a very fair arrangement.

If sometimes, off his guard, he played his make-believe games aloud, Nurse Frances never seemed to notice or to think it unusual. She had the same calm comfortableness of old Nurse about her, but she had something that mattered far more to Vernon, the gift of answering questions⁠—and he knew, instinctively, that the answers were always true. Sometimes she would say: “I don’t know that myself,” or “You must ask someone else. I’m not clever enough to tell you that.” There was no pretence of omniscience about her.

Sometimes, after tea, she would tell Vernon stories. The stories were never the same two days running⁠—one day they would be about naughty little boys and girls, and the next day they would be about enchanted princesses. Vernon liked the latter kind best. There was one in particular that he loved, about a princess in a tower with golden hair and a vagabond prince in a ragged green hat. The story ended up in a forest and it was possibly for that reason that Vernon liked it so much.

Sometimes there would be an extra listener. Myra used to come in and be with Vernon during the early afternoon when Nurse Frances had her time off, but Vernon’s father used sometimes to come in after tea when the stories were going on. Little by little it became a habit. Walter Deyre would sit in the shadows just behind Nurse Frances’ chair, and from there he would watch, not his child, but the storyteller. One day Vernon saw his father’s hand steal out and close gently over Nurse Frances’ wrist.

And then something happened which surprised him very much. Nurse Frances got up from her chair.

“I’m afraid we must turn you out for this evening, Mr. Deyre,” she said quietly. “Vernon and I have things to do.”

This astonished Vernon very much, because he couldn’t think what those things were. He was still more puzzled when his father got up also and said in a low voice:

“I beg your pardon.”

Nurse Frances bent her head a little, but remained standing. Her eyes met Walter Deyre’s steadily. He said quietly:

“Will you believe that I am really sorry, and let me come tomorrow?”

After that, in some way that Vernon could not have defined, his father’s manner was different. He no longer sat so near Nurse Frances. He talked more to Vernon and occasionally they all three played a game⁠—usually Old Maid for which Vernon had a wild passion. They were happy evenings enjoyed by all three.

One day when Nurse Frances was out of the room, Walter Deyre said abruptly:

“Do you like that nurse of yours, Vernon?”

“Nurse Frances? I like her lots. Don’t you, Father?”

“Yes,” said Walter Deyre, “I do.”

There was a sadness in his voice which Vernon felt.

“Is anything the matter, Father?”

“Nothing that can be put right. The horse that gets left at the post never has much chance of making good⁠—and the fact that it’s the horse’s own fault doesn’t make matters any better. But that’s double Dutch to you, old man. Anyway, enjoy your Nurse Frances while you’ve got her. There aren’t many of her sort knocking about.”

And then Nurse Frances came back and they played Animal Grab.

But Walter Deyre’s words had set Vernon’s mind to work. He tackled Nurse Frances next morning.

“Aren’t you going to be here always?”

“No. Only till you get well⁠—or nearly well.”

“Won’t you stay always? I’d like you to.”

“But you see, that’s not my work. My work is to look after people who are ill.”

“Do you like doing that?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, everyone has some particular kind of work that they like doing and that suits them.”

“Mummy hasn’t.”

“Oh, yes, she has. Her work is to look after this big house and see that everything goes right, and to take care of you and your father.”

“Father was a soldier once. He told me that if ever there was a war, he’d go and be a soldier again.”

“Are you very fond of your father, Vernon?”

“I love Mummy best, of course. Mummy says little boys always love their mothers best. I like being with Father, of course, but that’s different. I expect it’s because he’s a man. What shall I be when I grow up, do you think? I want to be a sailor.”

“Perhaps you’ll write books.”

“What about?”

Nurse Frances smiled a little.

“Perhaps about Mr. Green, and Poodle and Squirrel and Tree.”

“But everyone would say that that was silly.”

“Little boys wouldn’t think so. And besides, when you grow up, you will have different people in your head⁠—like Mr. Green and the children, only grown-up people. And then you could write about them.”

Vernon thought for a long time, then he shook his head.

“I think I’ll be a soldier like Father. Most of the Deyres have been soldiers, Mummy says. Of course you have to be very brave to be a soldier, but I think I would be brave enough.”

Nurse Frances was silent a moment. She was thinking of what Walter Deyre had said of his small son.

“He’s a plucky little chap⁠—absolutely fearless. Doesn’t know what fear is! You should see him on his pony.”

Yes, Vernon was fearless enough in one sense. He had the power of endurance, too. He had borne the pain and discomfort of his broken leg unusually well for so young a child.

But there was another kind of fear. She said slowly after a minute or two:

“Tell me again how you fell off the wall that day.”

She knew all about the Beast, and had been careful to display no ridicule. She listened now to Vernon and as he finished she said gently:

“But you’ve known for quite a long time, haven’t you, that it isn’t a real Beast? That it’s only a thing made of wood and wires.”

“I do know,” said Vernon. “But I don’t dream it like that. And when I saw it in the garden coming at me⁠—”

“You ran away⁠—which was rather a pity, wasn’t it? It would have been much better to have stayed and looked. Then you’d have seen the men, and would have known just what it was. It’s always a good thing to look. Then you can run away afterwards if you still want to⁠—but you usually don’t. And Vernon, I’ll tell you something else.”

“Yes?”

“Things are never so frightening in front of you as they are behind you. Remember that. Anything seems frightening when it’s behind your back and you can’t see it. That’s why it’s always better to turn and face things⁠—and then very often you find they are nothing at all.”

Vernon said thoughtfully: “If I’d turned round I wouldn’t have broken my leg, would I?”

“No.”

Vernon sighed.

“I don’t mind having broken my leg very much. It has been very nice having you to play with.”

He thought Nurse Frances murmured “Poor child” under her breath, but that, of course, was absurd. She said smiling:

“I’ve enjoyed it too. Some of my ill people don’t like to play.”

“You really do like playing, don’t you?” said Vernon. “So does Mr. Green.”

He added rather stiffly, for he felt shy:

“Please don’t go away very soon, will you?”