I do not know when Matthew returned, He just have come in and crept upstairs while we were talking. After they had gone I went up to his room. He was sitting looking out of the open window at the sinking sun.
‘You’ll have to face her sooner or later,’ I told him. ‘Bi!t I must say today was not the day. They were most disappointed not to see you.’
Matthew managed a grin.
I looked round. The four paintings were propped up again on display. I commented favourably on the view’s of a pond. When I came to the last picture I hesitated, wondering whether to ignore it. I decided not to.
‘Wherever is that supposed to be?’ I inquired. Matthew turned his head to look at it.
‘That’s where Chocky lives,’ he said, and paused. Then he added. `It’s a horrid place, isn’t it? That’s why she thinks this world is so beautiful.’
‘Not at all an attractive spot,’ I agreed. `It looks terribly hot there.’
`Oh, it is in the daytime. That fuzzy bit at the back is vapour coming off a lake.’
I pointed to the stone pyramid,
‘What is that thing?’
I don’t know, really,’ Matthew admitted. `Sometimes she seems to mean a building, and sometimes it comes like a lot of buildings, more like a town. It’s a bit difficult without words when there isn’t anything the same here.’
‘And these lumps?’ I pointed to the rows of symmetrically spaced mounds.
‘Things that grow there,’ was all he could tell me.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
Matthew shook his head.
‘We still couldn’t find out – or where our world is, either,’ he said. ‘
I noted his use of the past tense, and looked at the picture again, The harsh monotony of the colouring, and the feeling of heat struck me once more.
‘You know, if I were you I’d keep it out of sight when you’re not here. I don’t think Mummy would like it much.’
Matthew nodded. `That’s what I thought. So I put it away today.’
There was a pause. We looked out of the window at the red arc of sun fretted by the treetops as it set. I asked him:
‘Has she gone, Matthew?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’
We were silent while the last rim of the sun sank down and disappeared. Matthew sniffed. His eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Daddy … lt’, like losing part of me …’
Matthew was subdued, and perhaps a little pale the next morning, but he went off resolutely enough to school. He came back looking tired, but as the week went by he improved daily. By the end of it he seemed more like his normal self again. We were relieved; for the same reasons, but on different grounds.
‘Well, thank goodness that’s over,’ Mary said to me on Friday evening. `It looks as if Sir William thing was right after all.’
‘Thorbe,’ I said.
‘Well, Thing or Thorbe. The point is that he told you that it was just a phase, that Matthew had built up an elaborate fantasy system, that it was nothing very unusual at his age, and there was nothing for us to worry about unless it were to become persistent. (*) the thought that unlikely. In his opinion the fantasy would break up of itself, and disperse – probably quite soon. And that’s exactly what’s happened.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. It was the simplest way, and, after all, what did it matter now if Thorbe had been right off the beam? (*) Chocky was, in one way or another, gone.
Nevertheless when I had received his letter on the Tuesday, I had found it exceedingly hard to take. The swimming he dealt with by explaining that Matthew had in fact learned to swim some time before, but a deep-seated fear of the water had caused him to suppress the ability. This fear had persisted until the shock of the emergency caused b his sudden immersion had broken down the mental block. Naturally, his conscious mind remained ignorant of the block, and had attributed the ability to an outside influence.
Rather similarly with the pictures. Undoubtedly Matthew had in his subconscious mind a strong desire to paint. This had remained suppressed, quite possibly as a result of terror inspired in him by the sight of horrifylng pictures at an early age. Only when 4is present fantasy had grown potent enough to affect both his conscious and his subconscious minds, forming a bridge between them, had the urge to paint become liberated and capable of expressing itself in action.
There were explanations of the far incident, and others, along roughly the same lines. And though much of what I considered worthy of attention had been ignored I had little doubt he could have explained that away, too, upon request.
It was not only one of the most disappointing letters I have ever waited for; it was insulting in the native smoothness of its explanations, and patronizing in its reassurances. I was furious that Mary could take it at face value; (*) still more furious that events appeared to justify her in doing so. I realized that I had expected a lot from Thorbe: 1 felt that all I had got was a brush-off, and a let-down. (*)
And yet the fellow had been right … The Chocky-presence /7ad dispersed, as he put it. The Chocky-trauma seemed to be mending – though I felt less sure of that …
So I contented myself with a simple `yes’, and let Mary go on telling me in as sympathetic a way as possible how wrong I had been to perceive subtle complexities which had, after al], turned out to be just a rather more developed, and certainly more troublesome, version of Piff. ii lt did her quite a lot of good. So, fair enough.
The parcel from the Royal Swimming Society arrived by registered post on the Monday morning addressed to Mr Matthew Gore. Unfortunately I was unable to intercept it. Mary signed for it, and when Matthew and I arrived in the dining-room together it was lying beside his plate.
Matthew glanced at the envelope, stiffened and sat quite still looking at it for some moments. Then he turned to his cornflakes. I tried to catch Mary’s eye, but in vain. She leant forward.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ she asked, encouragingly.
Matthew looked at it again. His eyes roved round the table, looking for an escape. They encountered his mother’s expectant expression. Very reluctantly he picked up his knife and slit the envelope. A small red, leather-covered box slid out. He hesitated again. Slowly he picked it up, and opened it. For some seconds he was motionless, gazing at the golden disc gleaming in its bed of blue velvet. Then:
‘I don’t want it,’ he blurted.
This time I did manage to catch Mary’s eye, and gave a slight shake of ny head.
Matthew’s low.er lip came out a little. It shook slightly.
‘It’s not fair,’ he said. `It’s Chocky’s – she saved me and Polly… It’s not true, Daddy …’
He went on looking at the medal, head down. The discovery that one lived in a world which could pay honour where honour was not due, was one of the shocks of growing up…
Matthew got up, and ran blindly out of the room. The medal, gaudily shining in its case, lay on the table.
I picked it up. The Society’s name in full ran round the edge, then there was a band of ornament, in the centre a boy and a girl standing hand in hand looking at half a sun which radiated vigorously presumably in the act of rising.
I turned it over. The reverse was plainer. Simply an inscription within a circular wreath of laurel leaves. Above:
AWARDED TO
then, engraved in a different type-face:
MATTHEW GORE
and, finally, the all-purpose laudation:
FOR A VALOROUS DEED
I handed it to Mary.
She examined it thoughtfully for some moments, and then put it back in its case.
‘It’s a shame he’s taken it like that,’ she said.
I picked up the case, and slipped it into my pocket.
‘It’s unfortunate it arrived just now,’ I agreed, `I’m keep it for him until later on,’
Mary looked as if she might object, but at that moment Polly arrived babbling, and anxious not to be late for school.
I looked upstairs before I left, but Matthew had already gone – and left his books of homework lying on the table…
He turned up again about half-past six, just after I had got home.
‘Oh,’ I said, `and where have you bee all day?’
‘Walking,’ he told me.
I shook my head.
‘It won’t do, Matthew, you know. You can’t just cutting school (*) like that.’
‘I know,’ he agreed.
The rest of our conversation was unspoken. We understood one another well enough.
10
The rest of the week went uneventfully, until Friday. I had to work late that evening, and had dinner in London, At almost ten o’clock I arrived home to find Mary on the telephone, She finished her call just as I carne into the room, and pressed the rest without putting the receiver on it.