Free Tennyson's Gift by Lynne Truss Page A

finishing the sentence.
    â€˜What does she say?’ asked Ellen, in an excellent stage whisper, which could be heard for a hundred yards in all directions.
    â€˜Shh,’ said Lionel. ‘Mother says
he’s not a gentleman.’
    â€˜Indeed?’ said Ellen. ‘How dreadful.’
    â€˜He takes people’s photographs without asking.’
    â€˜But that’s not possible,’ objected Ellen. Lionel’s handsome little face assumed a contemptuous expression.
    â€˜You agree that photographs are taken?’
    â€˜Well yes, but –’
    â€˜Have you ever heard of anyone giving a photograph?’ ‘I suppose not.’
    â€˜So.’
    Just then, Dodgson appeared in a glade twenty yards away. He seemed to be having trouble shaking off the little girl.
    â€˜Go away,’ he pleaded. (Dodgson had no stammer or ceremony when he talked with children.)
    â€˜But you said you loved your love with a D,’ said the child, who was holding a sheet of paper with writing on it. ‘Doesn’t that mean you want to run away and get married?’
    Dodgson closed his eyes. ‘Please, please,’ he said. ‘Hop it.’
    â€˜But I love you too, Mr Dodgson. I love my love with a D because he is Dapper. Come to the beach and tell me a story.’
    â€˜Daisy. I am here to see a man about a book. I have come to make a magnificent gesture; a priceless gift, the fruit of my genius. You wouldn’t understand.’
    â€˜If you come to the beach, I’ll let you do the thing with the safety pins.’
    Dodgson considered. He looked at his watch again.
    Daisy rested her hands on her hips.
    â€˜If you
don’t
come to the beach, I’ll tell Mama about the thing with the safety pins.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t.’ He gasped.
    â€˜I would though.’
    He groaned and capitulated. He took her little hand and turned back.
    â€˜I suppose it
is
a bit late to call now,’ he said. ‘They seem to have company, too.’
    Ellen and Lionel watched him out of sight. For some reason, his retreat filled Ellen with a sense of loss, and she had an urge to wave a handkerchief. As he disappeared from sight, they heard him say, ‘But apart from making my excellent gift, I would dearly love to talk to Mr Tennyson about the railway. It sounds such a splendid proposal …’
    Ellen looked at Lionel. ‘What a strange man,’ she said. ‘What did she mean about safety pins?’
    â€˜I have no idea. But I happen to know a secret. Mr Dodgson writes parodies of Father’s poems. I’m not supposed to know, because if Father finds out, Mother says he’ll froth at the mouth.’
    â€˜Why is your father so sensitive to other people’s opinions?
    Is he mad? Surely he knows he is a great, great man?’
    Lionel did not answer at once. He was seriously considering the ‘mad’ part of Ellen’s question, like the true black-blooded Tennyson that he was.
    â€˜Is he mad? Is
he
mad? Is he mad?’
    He tried it all three ways. The exercise was not particularly helpful.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘He’s not exactly Mister Stable of the Isle of Wight. Let’s just say it’s a bit rich the way he checks
us
for madness every day.’
    Lionel straightened up.
    â€˜He’s gone,’ he said. ‘Shall we go down to the sea?’
    â€˜Yes, please. Where’s Hallam?’
    â€˜Oh, Hallam stays indoors a lot. He’s such a girly.’
    Ellen smiled. ‘I see.’
    â€˜Are you coming, then?’
    â€˜But won’t we see Mr Dodgson there too?’
    â€˜Oh yes, but we’ll ignore him. I’m terribly good at that. I’ll teach you, if you like.’

    Freshwater Bay was very popular this afternoon, and Dodgson was the most popular thing about it. On all his summer seaside holidays, four o’clock was his regular story-time with children on the beach, and by the time Ellen