Little Nelson by Norman Collins Page B

Cyril Woods-Denton’s Vicarage should have been singled out for special attention.
    Up to that moment the evening which the Vicar and his sister were sharing together had been a quiet and placid one – baked beans on toast, ‘This Is Your Life’, cocoa boiled up in a saucepan, the News, a few simple prayers, one last check on door locks and window fastenings, and bedtime. Not until 12.30 or thereabouts – neither of the occupants had thought to consult a clock – did anything untoward occur.
    Then they were both wakened by the sound of a fairy cycle being parked in the driveway. The noise made by the rear bracket scraping on the gravel was unmistakeable. Brother and sister rose hastily and looked out of the window, he from his room, she from hers. Below was revealed a remarkable sight. In the glow of a match that had recently been struckthey saw a travel-stained midget, heavily goggled and wearing elbow-length driving gloves, peering up at the nameplate on the door. The match went out and the rider, still clearly uncertain that he had found the right address, thrust his goggles up onto his forehead and began fumbling with the matchbox again. This time he dropped the match altogether, and began peeling off his driving gloves. When at last he had succeeded in striking the third match, Hilda was surprised to see how young he was.
    By now he was apparently satisfied that he had reached his destination. Reaching for a strap that was hanging across his right shoulder, he promptly began opening his despatch rider’s wallet. In the half light they saw him take out a crumpled-looking envelope and, with no attempt of concealment, walk boldly up to the front door. A moment later they heard the flap of the letterbox being raised and the sound of something being pushed through.
    It was Hilda who beat her brother in the race to the doormat. She was already halfway down the stairs when the Vicar came stumbling out of his bedroom, drawing on the woolly dressing-gown that had so alarmed Little Nelson. And it was Hilda who snatched up the crumpled parcel. She knew at once that it was precious and, for a moment, she held it pressed close against her bosom.
    By now Cyril was there on the linoleum beside her.
    â€˜But who is it addressed to?’ he kept asking. ‘Who is it for?’
    He was already holding out his hand as though he expected her to give it to him.
    â€˜It’s mine. It’s mine,’ was all that Hilda could say.
    And, pushing past him, she went hurriedly upstairs again.
    Seated on the end of the bed she began tearing at the brown paper. It was tattered enough already. And the string round it had been made up of quite short pieces: there were three large knots holding it together. And when she finally got the wrapping apart she could see that the contents had been wrapped up separately. Newspaper was what had been used this time; and very carefully used, too, with the torn edges all neatly folded over and tucked in. One by one she opened the tiny packets.
    The first contained two pennies of the big old-fashioned kind – one of them mint-fresh and gleaming. Then came a playing card, the six of hearts, with one corner missing; an acorn; the gold top of a Devon cream milk bottle; and the button that Hilda had been missing from her housecoat. There it was, one of the set, with the torn strands of cotton hanging from it.
    The sight of the button broke Hilda’s heart. It was just as she had always suspected. Though she hadnot actually seen it happen she had never doubted that Little Nelson had already put it in his pocket while still pretending to look for it. And, as she had told herself a hundred times, if that was what had really happened it was devotion and not deceit that had driven him to it.
    It was, however, the presence of the acorn as much as of the button that moved her so deeply. It stood out as an emblem, a symbol. Little Nelson had always liked smooth, bright, shiny