Read Online The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon by R. F. Delderfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R. F. Delderfield
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pounds.
He took it under the naked electric bulb and dusted it with his hand. It had never been used. He had bought it years ago, intending to take it on a Whitsun walking-tour but somehow, when he came to pack it, it had seemed a ridiculously clumsy accoutrement for a three-day trip to Snowdonia and he had taken instead a small two-section knapsack that they used on picnics. Now, however, he regarded it carefully, for tonight it was a good deal more than a mere travelling bag. It was a kind of symbol or banner proclaiming his new self, the reckless man who banged insolent boys about the head, defied his Headmaster, threw up his job and then marched home to rape his wife. It had a rakish, devil-may-care look and its pockets seemed to wink at him and promise years of rewarding sin. Forgetting Sybil for the moment he threw it across his shoulder and went out on to the top landing where stood an oak chest of drawers that had been banished to the top floor because it lacked a leg and had to be propped against the wall. In here he kept his holiday clothes, a pair of thick corduroys, two or three check shirts, his swimming trunks, walking socks, brogues and an old, stained mackintosh. He made a selection, returned to the box-room and changed. Then he stuffed spare shirts, an extra sweater, the mackintosh, socks and three handkerchiefs into the main section of the bag and fitted it on to his shoulders. It was not nearly so heavy as it looked and settled snugly against the curve of his spine. The brogues were stiff and he decided that he must buy some thinner socks, which made him think of money. He emptied his pockets of a scholastic jumble, leaving keys, letters and other odds and ends in his discarded jacket and retaining only a notebook, his fountain-pen, cheque-book and wallet. The wallet contained eleven pounds ten in notes and his P.A.Y.E. and National Insurance cards. He looked at the cards sourly, deciding that both were unpleasant reminders of servitude and was tempted to tear them up but he thought better of it and stuffed them back in his wallet. Then, with long, springy strides, he ran downstairs to the drawing-room where his glass-fronted bookcase stood in the window alcove and ran his eye along the top shelf where he kept a
dozen or more old favourites, bound in soft leather and tooled in gold.
Mr. Sermon's books were not like other people's books, dust-hoarding and unused. They showed evidence of considerable handling over the years and the pages of all of them turned noiselessly, like considerate friends stealing past a sleeping man. He estimated the size of the long pocket in the knapsack and decided that he had room for three. Treasure Island, Kidnapped and Robinson Crusoe he knew almost by heart and he was almost equally familiar with David Copperfield, Silas Marner and Carlyle's French Revolution. He would have taken Froude's English Seamen of the Sixteenth Century had it not reminded him unpleasantly of the afternoon's riot. In the end he chose verse and took two anthologies, one modern and one classical. As an afterthought he added a well-thumbed copy of Baron De Marbot's saga of the Napoleonic Wars. At most of the crises in his life he had turned for solace to one or other of these volumes and he remembered reading Marbot's account of the Russian retreat when he was waiting for Jonquil to be born.
He paused and looked around the room for the last time, noting its clinical cleanliness and Sunday afternoon decorum. He decided then that he had never liked this room, never in fact liked any part of the house. It was utterly impersonal and if you lived in it long enough it reduced you to a two-dimensional person, w'thout a past or a future. As he was re-entering the hall he heard Sybil call from upstairs and for a moment, he paused, miserably indecisive. Then he decided that she was still in the bathroom and this stiffened his resolution. 'To hell with her!' he thought. 'She can't really believe I'll do it but I
He took it under the naked electric bulb and dusted it with his hand. It had never been used. He had bought it years ago, intending to take it on a Whitsun walking-tour but somehow, when he came to pack it, it had seemed a ridiculously clumsy accoutrement for a three-day trip to Snowdonia and he had taken instead a small two-section knapsack that they used on picnics. Now, however, he regarded it carefully, for tonight it was a good deal more than a mere travelling bag. It was a kind of symbol or banner proclaiming his new self, the reckless man who banged insolent boys about the head, defied his Headmaster, threw up his job and then marched home to rape his wife. It had a rakish, devil-may-care look and its pockets seemed to wink at him and promise years of rewarding sin. Forgetting Sybil for the moment he threw it across his shoulder and went out on to the top landing where stood an oak chest of drawers that had been banished to the top floor because it lacked a leg and had to be propped against the wall. In here he kept his holiday clothes, a pair of thick corduroys, two or three check shirts, his swimming trunks, walking socks, brogues and an old, stained mackintosh. He made a selection, returned to the box-room and changed. Then he stuffed spare shirts, an extra sweater, the mackintosh, socks and three handkerchiefs into the main section of the bag and fitted it on to his shoulders. It was not nearly so heavy as it looked and settled snugly against the curve of his spine. The brogues were stiff and he decided that he must buy some thinner socks, which made him think of money. He emptied his pockets of a scholastic jumble, leaving keys, letters and other odds and ends in his discarded jacket and retaining only a notebook, his fountain-pen, cheque-book and wallet. The wallet contained eleven pounds ten in notes and his P.A.Y.E. and National Insurance cards. He looked at the cards sourly, deciding that both were unpleasant reminders of servitude and was tempted to tear them up but he thought better of it and stuffed them back in his wallet. Then, with long, springy strides, he ran downstairs to the drawing-room where his glass-fronted bookcase stood in the window alcove and ran his eye along the top shelf where he kept a
dozen or more old favourites, bound in soft leather and tooled in gold.
Mr. Sermon's books were not like other people's books, dust-hoarding and unused. They showed evidence of considerable handling over the years and the pages of all of them turned noiselessly, like considerate friends stealing past a sleeping man. He estimated the size of the long pocket in the knapsack and decided that he had room for three. Treasure Island, Kidnapped and Robinson Crusoe he knew almost by heart and he was almost equally familiar with David Copperfield, Silas Marner and Carlyle's French Revolution. He would have taken Froude's English Seamen of the Sixteenth Century had it not reminded him unpleasantly of the afternoon's riot. In the end he chose verse and took two anthologies, one modern and one classical. As an afterthought he added a well-thumbed copy of Baron De Marbot's saga of the Napoleonic Wars. At most of the crises in his life he had turned for solace to one or other of these volumes and he remembered reading Marbot's account of the Russian retreat when he was waiting for Jonquil to be born.
He paused and looked around the room for the last time, noting its clinical cleanliness and Sunday afternoon decorum. He decided then that he had never liked this room, never in fact liked any part of the house. It was utterly impersonal and if you lived in it long enough it reduced you to a two-dimensional person, w'thout a past or a future. As he was re-entering the hall he heard Sybil call from upstairs and for a moment, he paused, miserably indecisive. Then he decided that she was still in the bathroom and this stiffened his resolution. 'To hell with her!' he thought. 'She can't really believe I'll do it but I
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