The Fortunes of Springfield by Eleanor Farnes Page B

two remained on the floor. One of them was a tiny covered wagon like the ones used in the treks across America a century ago; and Caroline, who had recently bought Terence an adventure story book dealing with this period, was delighted to see that he had taken good notice of it. She picked up the model.
    It was crudely made, but remarkably lively. Corks had been cut up to make rickety wheels, and match - sticks for axles: matchboxes, paper and glue had ma de the body of the wagon.
    Caroline said:
    “What a lovely covered wagon, Terence.”
    He said roughly:
    “Give it to me. It’s min e.”
    She handed it over at once, saying only:
    “When you have finished it, Terence, you must paint it. But now I’m afraid you must get to bed.”
    “I’m not going to bed. I’m going to finish my model.”
    “You know, Terence, you will never get anywhere by speaking to people rudely like that. If you were to say, in a polite voice, that you would like a little more time to finish what you were doing, I would probably let you have it. But nobody will give anything to a boy who speaks so rudely. Now, put the model away and get ready for bed.”
    He dropped the model on the floor. Caroline said: “Pick it up, Terence, and put it away.”
    By way of answer, he trod the wagon underfoot, grinding it savagely. It was completely ruined, and suddenly and very fleetingly such a dolorous expression passed over his face that Caroline decided not to be angry.
    “All your good work wasted,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Such a pity. You could have made a whole lot of wagons, like the pictures in the book, and had a trek across America. With forts, too.”
    A brief interest flickered in his eyes and was gone.
    “If I had a lot of men in covered wagons, I’d make them shoot everybody,” he said. “If I had a covered wagon and a gun, I’d shoot everybody. And then I’d be the leader.”
    “That wouldn’t be much good if everybody else was dead,” said Caroline matter-of-factly. “A leader has to have somebody to lead. Now, come along, bed .”
    Reluctantly, he got himself to bed. Just before she went out of his room, he said to her:
    “When I’d shot everybody, I would shoot all the Indians. And then I’d come back and shoot all the awful old people in England.”
    “My goodness,” said Caroline mildly, “you are going to have a time of it. Good night, Terence.”
    “Good night,” he said, forgetting to ignore her, wrapped up as he was in his dreams of conquest . She went out of the room thinking that she had got more out of him than ever before, thinking that if he wanted to vent his spleen on cowboys and Indians it was better than venting it on his sisters and school friends . She wondered if she could get at him through his love of modelling. She was still convinced that there was a loving and lovable boy underneath this defiant facade. She stood at the bottom of the stairs lost in thought.
    David came out of the mor n ing-room and saw her there. In the brief interval before she broke out of her thoughts and smiled at him, he had time to notice her. She had taken off the white apron she usually put over her dress when she put the girls to bed, and was wearing a dress of rather vivid blue—a brighter colour than she was accustomed to wear. She had made it herself and was proud of it. Certainly, David thought that it was attractive. He said:
    “You remind me of a game that was played in my childhood, called Statues. Why so still and so pensive?”
    “I was thinking about Terence,” she replied. She looked up into his dark eyes, but he saw that she was still thinking only of Terence. “I believe,” she went on, “ that in spite of the way he chokes off advances, he w ants somebody to take an interest in him. But I don’t think I’m quite the right person. Mr. Springfield, when I asked if I could have my own way with them, I didn’t mean that I wanted you to leave them entirely to me. It’s all right for the