Chapter 7
Nigel Learns Something Unexpected
Angela hardly required Scotland Yard to solve the Case of the Missing
Derby Man. The toffee tin left carelessly on the kitchen table, the
chair set directly in front of the icebox, and the suspicious
behaviour of a certain little boy that afternoon, all indelibly
implicated Nigel. So when Roger arrived home from the train, he found
his son sitting in contemplation of his crime, in the corner with
Pooh, and the naughty derby man again delegated to the top of the
icebox.
Once Nigel's penance had been done, the Macmillans took a picnic
supper to Persham Park for a concert on the lawn by the military band.
Nigel was typically thrilled by bands. He particularly liked the
trumpets, and the bag pipes, and the cymbals and drums, and often
would march to the music. But at this performance, both Roger and
Angela noticed their boy was unusually glum, and even an ice cream
with colour sprinkles didn't bring him out. Clearly, the boy was
distracted by something more than having had to sit in his corner two
nights in a row.
When the family arrived home, Nigel nervously looked toward the Whitby
place and stumbled over the front door stoop as he did.
"Be careful, Nigel," Dad cautioned. "You'll fall down."
At that very moment the boy saw Mrs. Whitby briefly appear in the
parlour window. That was some relief. At least he hadn't killed her.
Then abruptly in her place stood Mr. Whitby, who peered out that
window and looked directly at Nigel. The boy knew Mrs. Whitby,
the unknown is always more frightening than the known. So the boy
hurriedly squeezed his way past his father, through the door and into
the foyer.
"What on earth has got into you?" Angela exclaimed, setting their
picnic basket down on the kitchen table. "You're as skittish as a
cat."
No sooner had she said that when there was a quiet knock on the front
door. Nigel scampered across the parlour and threw himself behind the
divan.
"Have you lost your senses?"Roger said after him, and then turned to
open the door.
There stood the portly Mr. Whitby.
"Well!" Roger said brightly, "Hello, Herman! How are you?"
"Good ev'ning, Roger," Mr. Whitby answered, then nodded to Angela in
the kitchen, "Angela."
"How's Agnes?" Roger asked.
"May I come in?"
Roger ushered Herman in and they walked toward the divan.
"Nigel," his dad ordered, "Get up for goodness sakes and go help your
mother in the kitchen."
"If you don' mind," Herman said, "I'd like to talk with Nigel a bit."
"What's this about?" Angela inquired bit suspiciously, coming in from
the kitchen.
Nigel attempted to slip over to the stair case and make an escape up
to his room.
"You just wait here, Nigel," Roger said. "Let's hear what Mr. Whitby
has to say."
With a sinking heart, Nigel sat on the bottom stair and clasped Pooh
desperately to his chest. Sensing the seriousness of the developing
events, Claris, who was on her way up to her room, came back down the
stair case and sat beside her brother.
Mr. Whitby gave an awkward smile and shook his head.
scratching his whiskery chin, "Agnes came rushin' into the house
earlier, nearly beside 'erself. And I couldn' for the life of me get
it out of 'er wot had upset her so. All she could say was that your
lit'le boy had been in the garden, and had some type of confounded
toy. And she wouldn' tell me anything more."
Oh shit, Angela thought. Here we go now.
Nigel lowered his head onto Pooh's shoulder.
"Do you have any idea wot she'd be talking about?" Mr. Whitby asked.
Angela took the initiative.
"I believe it's this toy," she announced.
She got the derby man and placed it in Mr. Whitby's hand. He looked
at it curiously.
"I'm so sorry, Herman," Angela said, "I honestly had no idea he'd
shown that to Agnes. It's a tremendous embarrassment."
The old prude, she thought coldly.
"Well, this is quite an old piece," Herman commented in surprise,
He lifted the arm.
Angela couldn't help but blush.
But old Mr. Whitby simply dissolved into unrestrained laughter.
"Oh, what a treasure THIS is!" he cried at last, grinning up a dozen
wrinkles. "Where ever did you come across it?"
to preserve her seriousness, but was unable to restrain a smile.
"It is terribly pornographic, isn't it?" she confessed.
"And you think this upset Agnes?" Mr. Whitby scoffed, "Heavens, no!"
"Excuse me?" Roger finally said.
than pickles in a barrel!"
Claris snickered.
A horrifying realisation slowly passed over Roger's face.
"Roger!" Angela exclaimed, cutting him off.
"She was a nurse. During the War. She would've loved this obscene
we used to sing during the War, with the Americans down at the Old Axe
The old man cleared his throat and began to sing.
voice faded off, and he gave a contrite smile. "Sorry kids. There was
actually a little shop off Sussex Road where you could buy these kinds
this would upset 'er."
"What else could it possibly have been?" Angela asked.
Nigel worked up all his bravery and spoke through Pooh's shoulder, his
voice muffled and tiny.
"I don't think she likes little boys." Nigel whispered.
Mr. Whitby gave him an astonished stare.
"Don' like little boys?" he cried incredulously, "Don't like little
BOYS?"
He gazed directly at Nigel and his surprised look gave way to a
warming smile. It was a very grandfatherly look, a gentle, comforting
and a little bit sad one that, strangely, made Nigel feel much better.
"Come over here, lad." Mr. Whitby said softly.
Claris nudged Nigel with an elbow and reluctantly the anxious boy
stood up and shuffled over to Mr. Whitby. The old man pulled
something out of his back pocket. It was a wallet, a very old and
thick one, all leather-cracked and crammed tight with old business
cards and crumpled receipts and such. Everyone in the room closed in
around him.
"Don't have a farthing on me," Mr. Whitby chuckled at everybody,
"You'll all have to come back later."
He opened the wallet and pulled out a well worn, yellowed picture
insert.
"Come 'ere, Nigel," the old fellow urged, patting his thigh. "Make a
grand dad happy and sit on 'is knee."
Shyly, the boy climbed onto Mr. Whitby's knee, and the man scooted him
up his thigh so the boy could lean against his shoulder.
"That's much better," Mr. Whitby said, "Mrs. Whitby can be a pill, but
of Mrs. Whitby, 1938 or there 'bouts, in her nursing uniform."
He held the picture up to Nigel as everyone else craned their necks to
see. At first, Nigel didn't believe him.
"She's very pretty, Mr. Whitby," the boy said. "Are you sure that's
her?"
The old man only laughed.
"Believe it or not, Nigel, that's Agnes! She was a fit bird, that
then dance all night, then get up and do it again!"
Mr. Whitby thumbed through several very old photographs.
"Here you go!" he announced suddenly, and held the picture up to
Nigel. "Do you see this?"
"Who is that little boy?" Nigel asked, becoming interested.
"Tommy?"
here," Mr. Whitby explained, "We'd gone into Middlesbrough to have his
portrait taken."
"Amazing. He looks like Nigel, don't you think Roger?"
Roger nodded.
so, indeed," he finally admitted.
"Nice picture, but that wasn't Tommy's favourite one." Mr. Whitby
Nigel peered at the picture. There were three people sitting at a
park bench. The boy guessed the thin young man in military uniform
was Mr. Whitby, and Mrs. Whitby was there in a dark flower-print
dress, a beaming smile on her face. And snug between the two was
little Tommy in short pants and a white shirt and a tie, his blonde
hair severely parted down the middle, grinning like a Cheshire Cat,
for he had obviously got a very nice present, judging from his smile
and the shiny box he held in his lap.
Whitby loved him more than anything in the world."
Silence abruptly descended. The parlour clock ticked in suspense.
was your little boy."
"Yes, Angela," Mr. Whitby nodded, "He died about four months after
that picture was taken."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
honestly," the old fellow recalled a bit sheepishly, then explained,
"I don't care what they say. You don't ever really get over that kind
well, she figured her tragedy was just one more of many, and she just
locked Tommy's death away. She's kept it locked in ever since."
The old man covered his rising emotion by running a finger beneath his
nose.
"We're terribly sorry, Herman," Roger said after a long silence, "We
really had no idea your son had been lost in the Blitz."
"Oh, no, Roger," Mr. Whitby said, glancing up. "He wasn't killed in
the Blitz."
"No?"
"It wasn't the Blitz at all." Mr. Whitby said, "I think it wouldn't
had all been sacrificed for our lads fighting Jerry, you see, so there
a nurse and she just couldn't save him. That hurt her most of all."
Angela put a hand over her mouth, her eyes suddenly moist as Roger
gazed uncomfortably at the floor. Nigel silently stared at the
picture. No one else had noticed, but he had, and his eyes were fixed
on the image of smiling Tommy on the park bench, clutching his shiny
box. Then Mr. Whitby folded his wallet and slipped it back into a
pants pocket, breaking the spell.
at least one little boy very, very dearly."
HMSVV2010
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