Free To You, Mr Chips by James Hilton Page A

thought of a big improvement: the Candidate was really his father, who hadn't actually died but had somehow got lost, but now here he was, found again, and they were both going to be together for always. They would live in the Parade, quite near to Uncle Richard, and Gerald need never go back to Grayshott except to see Martin Secundus and ask him to come and stay with them. 'Father . . . this is Martin . . .'
    And when he grew up he would go on serving his father in the Secret Service, because he was more than an ordinary father. He was a Loving Father, like the Father people talked about in church.
    The clock on the mantelpiece ticked through Gerald's dreaming, ticking on the seconds to the time when he should be grown up and a man. What a long time ahead, but it was passing; he was eight already, and he could remember as far back as when he was four and Aunt Lavinia hit him for blowing on his rice pudding to make it cold.
    But why ' Our  Father'?  My  Father, he said to himself proudly, remembering how the Candidate had smiled.
    So the hours passed in that shabby little back bedroom at Uncle Richard's; but Gerald never noticed the shabbiness, never noticed that the furniture was cheap and the wallpaper faded, never realised from such things that Uncle Richard and Aunt Flo were poor people compared with rich Aunt Lavinia in her dull, big house. All he felt was the realness here, and the unrealness of everywhere else in the world.
    One morning the doctor pronounced him better and fit to get up. 'His school begins again on Tuesday,' said Aunt Flo. 'Will he be able to go?'
    'Good gracious, yes,' replied the doctor. 'Good gracious, yes.'
    Till then Gerald had had hopes that somehow the cloud of Grayshott on the horizon might be lifted, that the holidays would not end as all other holidays had done; but now, hearing that most clinching 'Good gracious, yes,' he felt a pin point of misery somewhere inside the middle of him, and it grew and grew with every minute of thinking about it.
    That night was very quiet and there were no footsteps or voices, and in the morning, when he got up and dressed and went downstairs, he saw that the door of the parlour was wide open.
    'Well,' said Uncle Richard, tapping the barometer as usual, 'so here you are again, young shaver.'
    There was a difference somewhere. Something had happened. After breakfast he began to ask, as he had so often begun: 'Can Olive and I--' and Uncle Richard said: 'Eh, what's that? Olive's not here any more--wuff-wuff--she's gone away with her father.'
    'Gone away? The Candidate's gone away?'
    Uncle Richard laughed loudly. 'Don't you go calling him the Candidate any more, my boy. Because he isn't. He's the Member now.'
    'What's the Member?'
    'It means he's Got In. Margin of twenty-three--narrow squeak--but that doesn't matter. Still, it shows he wouldn't have done but for young Beale's behaviour with that motor-car of his--perfectly scandalous thing--as I said at the time--perfectly scandalous--wuff-wuff--and--consequently was--as I said--it turned the scale. Turned the scale--wuff-wuff--didn't I say it would?'
    All this was nothing that Gerald could understand much about, except that the Candidate had gone. 'Uncle Richard,' he said slowly, and then paused. Aunt Flo shouted: 'Richard, why don't you answer the boy? He wants to ask you something!'
    Uncle Richard put his hand to his ear. 'Ask away, my boy.'
    'Uncle Richard--will--it--all--ever--happen--again?'
    'Eh, what? Happen again? Will what happen again?'
    Then Gerald knew it was no use; even Uncle Richard couldn't understand. He ran away into the greenhouse and stared through the red glass.
    The next morning Aunt Flo wakened him early and gave him a brown egg for breakfast, because he had 'a journey in front of him.' Then he kissed her and said good-bye, and looked at the tricycle in the greenhouse for the last time. Uncle Richard took him to the station and told the guard about his luggage and where he was going.