§ 5
But it is high time that Joan and Peter came back into this narrative. For this is their story, it bears their names on its covers and on its back and on its title-page and at the head of each left-hand page. It has been necessary to show the state of mind, the mental condition, the outlook, of their sole guardian when their affairs came into his hands. This done they now return by telephone. Oswald had not been back in the comfortable sitting-room at the Climax Club for ten minutes before he was rung up by Mr. Sycamore and reminded of his duty to his young charges. A club page called Mr. Sydenham to the receiver in his bedroom.
In those days the telephone was still far from perfection. It had not been in general use for a decade.... Mr. Sycamore was audible as a still small voice.
“Mr. Sydenham? Sycamore speaking.”
“No need to be,” said Oswald. “You haven’t been speaking to me.”
“Who am I speaking to? I want Mr. Sydenham. Sycamore speaking.”
“I’m Mr. Sydenham. Who are you? No need to be sick of your speaking so far as I’m concerned. I’ve only just been called to the telephone——”
“Your solicitor, Sycamore. S.Y.C.A.M.O.R.E.”
“Oh! Right O. How are you, Mr. Sycamore? I’m Sydenham. How are those children?”
“Hope you’re well, Mr. Sydenham?”
“Gaudy—in a way. How are you?”
“I’ve been with Lady Charlotte today. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything of——”
Whop! Whop. Bunnik. Silence.
After a little difficulty communication with Mr. Sycamore was partially restored. I say partially because his voice had now become very small and remote indeed. “I was saying, I don’t know if you understand anything of the present state of affairs.”
“Nothing,” said Oswald. “Fire ahead.”
“Can you hear me distinctly? I find you almost inaudible.”
Remonstrances with the exchange led after a time to slightly improved communications.
“You were saying something about a fire?” said Mr. Sycamore.
“I said nothing about a fire. You were saying something about the children?”
“Well, well. Things are in a very confused state, Mr. Sydenham. I hope you mean to take hold of their education. These children are not being educated, they are being fought over.”
“Who’s thinking over them?”
“No one. But the Misses Stubland and Lady Charlotte are fighting over them.... F.I.G.H.T.I.N.G. I want you to think over them.... You—yes.... Think, yes. Both clever children. Great waste if they are not properly educated.... Matters are really urgent. I have been with Lady Charlotte today. You know she kidnapped them?”
“Kidnapped?”
A bright girlish voice, an essentially happy voice, cut into the conversation at this point. “Three minutes up,” it said.
Empire-building language fell from Oswald. In some obscure way this feminine intervention was swept aside, and talk was resumed with Mr. Sycamore.
It continued to be a fragmentary talk, and for a time the burthen of some unknown lady complaining to an unknown friend about the behaviour of a third unknown named George, stated to lack “gumption,” interwove with the main theme. But Mr. Sycamore did succeed in conveying to Oswald a sense of urgency about the welfare of his two charges. Immediate attention was demanded. They were being neglected. The girl was ill. “I would like to talk it over with you as soon as possible,” said Mr. Sycamore.
“Can you come and breakfast here at eight?” said the man from the tropics.
“Half past nine,” said the Londoner, and the talk closed.
The talk ended, but for a time the bell of Oswald’s telephone remained in an agitated state, giving little nervous rings at intervals. When he answered these the exchange said “Number please,” and when he said, “You rang me,” the exchange said, “Oh, no! we didn’t....”
“An empire,” whispered Oswald, sitting on the edge of his bed, “which cannot even run a telephone service efficiently....”
“Education....”
He tried to recall his last speech at the club. Had he ranted? What had they thought of it? What precisely had he said? While they sat and talked muck—his memory was unpleasantly insistent upon that “muck”—the sands ran out of the hour-glass, a new generation grew up.
Had he said that? That was the point of it all—about the new generation. A new generation was growing up and we were doing nothing to make it wiser, more efficient, to give it a broader outlook than the generation that had blundered into and blundered through the Boer war. Had he said that? That was what he ought to have said.