Chapter 11
Small Wonders
Nigel had ever seen anyone so completely unstrung; such anguish and
anger and desperate remorse, all rolled up into one. It frightened
him terribly, for his mum had told him that good people trying to do
good sometimes unintentionally do bad, and it seemed to Nigel that he
had done something very bad to Mrs. Whitby. He was tearfully sad and
regretful, despite his mother's soft words and hugs.
So almost immediately, Nigel vowed he'd not ever again crawl into his
hideaway, although his dinosaurs and wild Indians waited, for fear of
upsetting Mrs. Whitby further. That vow notwithstanding, two days
afterwards he decided to peek out the parlour window to see if his
toys were alright. As luck had it, he spotted Mrs. Whitby through her
parlour window, seated in her loveseat. Worse still, Mrs. Whitby
spotted him, and her eyes, set in a grim and expressionless face,
seemed to flash.
Nigel quickly hid behind the drapes. In a moment, he peeked out
again. There she was, still frowning out the window. It was then
that a strange thing happened. For Mrs. Whitby, her expression as
stoic as a stone, slowly raised her hand and gave a little, queen-like
wave through the window. Of course, Nigel immediately craned his neck
to see who it was she was waving at-perhaps a police officer, he
thought-but there was no one coming up the lane.
Nigel concluded that Mrs. Whitby had lost her mind, and that it was
more than likely his fault.
The following day, a second and more peculiar event occurred. Nigel
stained with spots of peach preserves and his Pooh wrist watch
comprised his entire wardrobe. Mrs. Whitby had some very nice
marigolds, and he had just picked a handful when he was nabbed by the
constable. Guiding the near naked boy along by the arm, the officer
strode up to the Whitby's front door. He rapped on it sharply.
Presently the door opened, revealing Mrs. Whitby, dressed in her
housecoat and old leather slippers, wearing a look of mild
consternation.
"Yes? What is it?" she asked.
Of course, the old woman clearly knew what it was. For there stood
Nigel, who tried pitifully to conceal himself behind the purloined
marigolds, which he had pulled up by the roots.
"Sorry, ma'am," the officer said, "But the young fellow's been in your
garden again."
"Yes," she replied, "So I see."
"Would you like to make another complaint?"
Mrs. Whitby gave the officer an annoyed look.
"Haven't you anything better to do than detaining little boys?" she
asked, "Shouldn't you be protecting the taxpayer by catching
kidnappers and bank robbers and crooked politicians?"
The constable was so flummoxed that he just stood there for a bit.
"Excuse me, ma'am?" he stuttered.
"No," Mrs. Whitby finally said, "I do not want to make a complaint.
Goodbye."
"Very well, ma'am." The officer replied curtly and departed, leaving
Nigel standing on the porch. Still clutching the marigolds, the boy
turned to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" the old woman said, stepping off
the porch, "Come over here."
Nigel timidly followed Mrs. Whitby as she made her way to her
gardening bench. There she seized up the pruning shears and gave them
a few practice snips. Nigel froze in anxiety.
"Come on," Agnes ordered him.
Nigel stepped forward.
"Give me those flowers," she commanded, thrusting out a hand.
Nigel held the bedraggle marigolds out and Mrs. Whitby took them and
laid them on her garden bench. She then stepped over to a rose bush
and, after searching a bit, clipped out four red buds.
"Bugger all!" she cursed, sucking a thumb. "Bloody damned thorns."
She gingerly clipped the thorns off the bottom of the stems and handed
the roses to Nigel.
"Be careful now, Tommy, or you'll get stuck," she warned, then shooed
"Nigel," the boy said sheepishly, "My name is Nigel, Mrs. Whitby."
The old woman's brow furrowed in confusion, then annoyance.
"I know that. Now get along, Nigel."
And so he took the rose buds to his mum.
Nigel, who was quick to accept change as little boys are apt to do,
but to his parents, Roger and Angela, who happened that afternoon to
observe a small miracle at the Whitby residence. Roger first noted
Herman Whitby outside watering the hedges, sauntering to and fro as
was his habit. Then his eyes drifted toward parlour window, where he
glimpsed Mrs. Whitby seated in her overstuffed love seat, as usual.
Then his eyes widened in amazement.
"Angela!" Roger shouted, "Angela! Come quick! You're not going to
believe this!"
Angela sided up to him at the window.
"Take a look!" her husband exclaimed.
Angela glimpsed out and gave a start.
"Good God. Is that Nigel sitting on Mrs. Whitby's lap?" she asked in
surprise.
"No, it's the Shah of Iran," Roger replied sarcastically, "Of course
it's Nigel."
And it was. Through the window, Nigel, apparently as naked as a
newborn, was chattering away with Agnes as she turned the leaves of a
large photo album. And she was chattering back.
Then Roger and Angela witnessed a true miracle. For Agnes Whitby
"She's got a pretty smile," Angela noted in awe.
snort. He winced as his wife smacked him on the shoulder.
But the most marvelous event came nearly a week later, as the
Macmillan family settled down for the evening in front of the tellie.
There was a loud knock at the front door. Roger swung the door open
and there was Mrs. Whitby, standing on the porch. Somewhat behind her
stood Mr. Whitby, holding a large paper parcel. Apparently they'd
just returned from market.
"It would be very nice," Agnes began in a sour tone, "If you could
smell is so offensive I can hardly walk over there!"
"She's right, I'm afraid," Herman agreed over his wife's shoulder,
"Pretty bad smell, I can tell you."
Angela joined her husband at the door. Claris could have cared less,
but Nigel, intrigued at hearing the old version of Mrs. Whitby once
more, got up wrapped in his Pooh blanket and peered at her from
beneath his mother's arm. Mrs. Whitby certainly wasn't smiling.
insisted. "Come along!"
Her directness was so surprising that Roger, Angela and Nigel
obediently followed the woman outside and up to the rose bushes. Agnes
got her trowel, bent over and began flinging little foul sandy nubbins
out from under one rose bush. Clearly, Poohkums was the guilty party.
"You see?" she cried.
"Goodnight, all." Herman Whitby interrupted, waving from his front
door, and then went inside.
"I'll clean it up, Mrs. Whitby," Angela offered, but the old woman
simply waved the trowel in the air.
"Oh, never mind!" she grumbled, tossing the tool onto her bench, "I'll
get it tomorrow!"
And without another word, she stomped back onto the porch, went inside
and slammed the door.
Roger began to chuckle.
"Well, I suppose a leopard can't change it's spots," he laughed.
"And just when I thought that woman was human," Angela growled, then
plucked at Nigel's blanket. "Come along dear, let's go inside. Forget
about her."
Roger stepped onto the porch and was reaching for the knob when the
toe of his shoe struck something.
"What the blazes?" he muttered and glanced down.
It was a package, wrapped in brown postal paper and twine. Roger
picked it up and read the address.
"Who is it from?" Angela asked.
"Doesn't say and there's no evidence of postage," Roger replied, "But
"Is it mine?" Nigel asked excitedly. "What is it?"
"I'll wager the Whitby's are behind this," Roger commented wryly.
"Most likely a bomb."
That said, he picked up the parcel and took it inside. Fetching a
pair of scissors, Nigel's father placed the package on the kitchen
table and clipped away the twine. Claris came in to see what the
commotion was in the kitchen.
"Probably a bomb," she said when she saw the parcel.
Nigel knelt on a chair, his blanket wrapped around him. Thinking as
children do, he had absolutely no suspicions regarding the nature of
the package. Rather, Nigel was convinced it would be something
fabulous, so he was actually vibrating in anticipation.
"Hurry, Daddy," Nigel implored, grabbing his penis. "I'm about to go!"
Roger popped the tape from the ends of the package and peeled back the
brown paper. A small white envelope fell onto the table.
"Look at this!" Roger gasped, ignoring the envelope.
He lifted the colourful box and read the label.
"William Britain Military Miniatures, Britain Petite Ltd." He intoned
in some awe. "Her Majesty's Regiment of Coldstream Foot Guards."
"Open it, Daddy!" Nigel urged, pulsating in excitement "Open the box!
Open the box!"
So Roger used scissors to pry along the top, and lifted the lid. And
neatly arranged inside were more toy metal soldiers, all scrupulously
hand painted, than Nigel had ever laid eyes upon. There were
chargers, and shooters, and marching bandsmen and horsemen and buglers
the Coldstream colours. Nigel wriggled in absolute delight.
collector's edition. This must have cost better than a hundred
pounds. We can't possibly accept such a present."
Nigel looked up at his dad in horror, but his mum waved off his
daddy's comment and picked up the envelope.
"Open it, Nigel," she urged the boy instead, "See what it says."
So Nigel did, but because he couldn't read well, he handed the card he
found inside to his mother, and she read it aloud.
Dearest Nigel,
In all of our years, we have never received a gift so precious as the
treasure you have given us.
It is so dear, in fact, we fear we'll never be able properly repay
your kindness.
In so considering, please accept this play-set as a token of our
lasting gratitude for your thoughtfulness.
Thank you,
Mr. and Mrs. Herman Whitby
And
Tommy
"They call it a play-set!" Roger moaned, rolling his eyes, "It's
beyond belief."
"Wait a minute," Angela said, laying the card on the table, "What's
that in the little bag, there in the corner of the box?"
Nigel reached in and pulled out one last figurine. It was the naughty
drunken derby man, unabashedly displaying his great pleasure at having
been accepted into the Coldstream Guards.
"Lovey," Angela cautioned gently, "Don't make a row about this. Just
let it go."
"Well," Angela said, thoughtfully tapping her chin with a finger,
"I'll think about it."
Roger laughed.
"So, are they mine?" Nigel asked in bewilderment. "Are they?"
"Of course they're yours, you twit." Claris grumbled, "You always get
everything you want. It's so unfair!"
And so it was.
The End
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