Aarons Rod | Page 7

the back kitchen to wash himself. As he was
bending his head over the sink before the little mirror, lathering to
shave, there came from outside the dissonant voices of boys, pouring
out the dregs of carol-singing.
"While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched--"
He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this
singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again he
heard the vocal violence outside.
"Aren't you off there!" he called out, in masculine menace. The noise
stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices
resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard
muttering among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet
scraped on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to

the street.
To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably
familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed.
The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very
clean, the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very
red, the mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the
American oil-cloth on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire,
the water in the boiler hissed faintly. And in front of him, beneath him
as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange,
incalculable rhythm from the bright brass tap into the white enamelled
bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was
over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this house,
which he had built for his marriage twelve years ago, the changeless
pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable. It prevented his thinking.
When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the
Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at the table, the
baby was sitting up propped in cushions.
"Father," said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white
angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton--"tie the angel at the top."
"Tie it at the top?" he said, looking down.
"Yes. At the very top--because it's just come down from the sky."
"Ay my word!" he laughed. And he tied the angel.
Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour,
and took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to
the back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now
it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink and
white braces. He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking
through his music. Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a
flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he sat he
was physically aware of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water
in the boiler, the faint sound of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby

in the next room, then noises outside, distant boys shouting, distant rags
of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country was roused
and excited.
The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over
the copper, letting in a stream of cold air, which was grateful to him.
Then he cocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table
before him. He tried his flute. And then at last, with the odd gesture of
a diver taking a plunge, he swung his head and began to play. A stream
of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. He played
beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight,
intense movements, as the delicate music poured out. It was
sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate.
The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity of the music
delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,
exasperated to the point of intolerable anger, in his good-humored
breast, as he played the finely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite
the music, the more perfectly he produced it, in sheer bliss; and at the
same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within
him.
Millicent appeared in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music
was a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on
her own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the
various books and sheets. She looked at him quickly, seizing her
opportunity.
"Are you going out, Father?" she said.
"Eh?"
"Are you going out?" She twisted nervously.
"What do you want to know for?"
He made no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went
down a sheet--then over it again--then more closely over it again.

"Are you?" persisted the child, balancing on