Jeremy | Page 9

the children he deserved.
Nevertheless Jeremy had always been interested in him. He liked his fat
round shape, his rough, untidy grey hair, his scarlet slippers, his blue
tam-o'-shanter, the smudges of paint sometimes to be discovered on his
cheeks, and the jingling noises he made in his pocket with his money.
He was certainly more fun than Aunt Amy.
There, then, they all were with their presents and their birthday faces.
"Shall I undo them for you, darling?" of course said Aunt Amy. Jeremy

shook his head (he did not say what he thought of her) and continued to
tug at the string. He was given a large pair of scissors. He received
(from Father) a silver watch, (from Mother) a paint-box, a dark blue
and gold prayer book with a thick squashy leather cover (from Aunt
Amy).
He was in an ecstasy. How he had longed for a watch, just such a
turnip-shaped one, and a paint-box. What colours he could make! Even
Aunt Amy's prayer book was something, with its squashy cover and
silk marker (only why did Aunt Amy never give him anything
sensible?). He stood there, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling, the
watch in one hand and the paint-box in the other. Remarks were heard
like: "You mustn't poke it with, your finger, Jerry darling, or you'll
break the hands off"; and "I thought he'd, better have the square sort,
and not the tubes. They're so squashy"; and "You'll be able to learn
your Collect so easily with that big print, Jerry dear. Very kind of you,
Amy."
Meanwhile he was aware that Uncle Samuel had given him nothing.
There was a little thick catch of disappointment in his throat, not
because he wanted a present, but because he liked Uncle Samuel.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind him his uncle said: "Shut your eyes,
Jerry. Don't open them until I tell you"--then rather crossly, "No, Amy,
leave me alone. I know what I'm about, thank you."
Jeremy shut his eyes tight. He closed them so that the eyelids seemed to
turn right inwards and red lights flashed. He stood there for at least a
century, all in darkness, no one saying anything save that once Mary
cried "Oh!" and clapped her hands, which same cry excited him to such
a pitch that he would have dug his nails into his hands had he not so
consistently in the past bitten them that there were no nails with which
to dig. He waited. He waited. He waited. He was not eight, he was
eighty when at last Uncle Samuel said, "Now you may look."
He opened his eyes and turned; for a moment the nursery, too, rocked
in the unfamiliar light. Then he saw. On the middle of the nursery
carpet was a village, a real village, six houses with red roofs, green
windows and white porches, a church with a tower and a tiny bell, an

orchard with flowers on the fruit trees, a green lawn, a street with a
butcher's shop, a post office, and a grocer's. Villager Noah, Mrs. Noah
and the little Noahs, a field with cows, horses, dogs, a farm with
chickens and even two pigs. . .
He stood, he stared, he drew a deep breath.
"It comes all the way from Germany," said Aunt Amy, who always
made things uninteresting if she possibly could.
There was much delighted talk. Jeremy said nothing. But Uncle Samuel
understood.
"Glad you like it," he said, and left the room.
"Aren't you pleased ?" said Helen.
Jeremy still said nothing.
"Sausages. Sausages!" cried Mary, as Gladys, grinning, entered with a
dish of a lovely and pleasant smell. But Jeremy did not turn. He simply
stood there--staring.

III
It is of the essence of birthdays that they cannot maintain throughout a
long day the glorious character of their early dawning. In Polchester
thirty years ago there were no cinematographs, no theatre save for an
occasional amateur performance at the Assembly Rooms and, once and
again, a magic-lantern show. On this particular day, moreover, Mr. and
Mrs. Cole were immensely busied with preparations for some parochial
tea. Miss Trefusis had calls to make, and, of course, Uncle Samuel was
invisible. The Birthday then suddenly became no longer a birthday but
an ordinary day--with an extraordinary standard. This is why so many
birthdays end in tears.
But Jeremy, as was usual with him, took everything quietly. He might

cry aloud about such an affair as the conquest of the wicker chair
because that did not deeply matter to him, but about the real things he
was silent. The village was one of the real things; during all the
morning he remained shut up in his soul with it, the wide world closed
off from them by many muffled