The Bagthorpe Saga: Ordinary Jack

Copyright

First published in Great Britain by Faber and Faber Ltd. in 1977

First published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

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Copyright © The Estate of Helen Creswell 1977

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover illustration © Sara Ogilvie 2017

Helen Cresswell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008211677

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008211684

Version: 2016-12-20

To Brian, with love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

The Bagthorpe Saga

About the Publisher

Chapter One

When Rosie, who was only eight anyway, beat him doing ten lengths of the pool, it was the last straw. He didn’t show he cared. He made such a point of sauntering carelessly to the dressing room that he skidded and went flat and everybody laughed. He forced himself to laugh as well, and only found the grazes on his elbows when he was towelling himself.

I got born in the wrong family, he thought, as he trudged back home alone over the fields. The others were still in the water, getting their money’s worth.

Ordinary Jack, that’s me. It’s what they should’ve christened me – Ordinary Jack Matthew Bagthorpe – with an e.

There were four Bagthorpe children, and the other three were always winning prizes and medals, and William, the eldest, had got to the point where he was winning cups, silver ones, for the sideboard, and little shields with his name engraved on them.

You’re immortal if your name gets put on cups and shields, thought Jack moodily. I’ll never be immortal.

William’s cups and shields were for tennis, and were bad enough in themselves, but what really rankled was that tennis was only the second String to William’s Bow. (Most of the family had second Strings to their Bows, and some had three or even four. Strings to Bows were thick on the ground in the Bagthorpe household.) William’s real speciality was electronics. He had put up an aerial thirty feet high in the vegetable garden and was in touch with a whole lot of radio hams all over the world including one called Anonymous, from Grimsby, who wouldn’t give his real name. William said he was a pirate, which sounded fascinating, but he wouldn’t let anyone else speak to him.

“A veil of secrecy must be preserved,” he was fond of saying.

Jack, who would have given anything to be on speaking terms with a pirate from Grimsby, often felt like punching William when he said this.

Uncle Parker was dozing in a deckchair under the apple trees when Jack reached home.

“Hello, young Jack,” he said, without opening his eyes.

There’s another of them, Jack thought. Can even see with his eyes shut.

None the less, he liked Uncle Parker, who was not all that brilliant, and whose main distinction was that the way he drove his car was the talk of the neighbourhood (though he had never yet been prosecuted for it).

“If you could do anything in the world this afternoon, what would you do?” enquired Uncle Parker, his eyes still closed. This was another thing about him that Jack liked. He never said what you expected him to say.

“Be immortal,” said Jack promptly.

“Bit pointless,” observed Uncle Parker. “You’re bound to survive the afternoon anyway, I should say. You can’t be immortal just for an afternoon, you know, old son.”

“I know that,” said Jack, nettled. “It means to live for ever. Anyway, you asked me, and I told you.”

“You won’t get immortal piggling at your father’s pansies,” said Uncle Parker. “That I can tell you. More likely to get cut off in your prime.”

Jack snatched away his hand which had admittedly, though quite of its own accord, been picking off pansy heads.

“It just shows what a nervous wreck I am,” he said. “I already bite my nails, and say ‘touch wood’ all the time, and now I’m piggling pansies. Goodness knows how I’ll end up.”

“I suppose what you’re all steamed up about as usual is not being a genius?”

Jack nodded. The two of them had had this kind of conversation before. Uncle Parker, not being a Blood Relation of the Bagthorpes, merely lucky enough to be married to Jack’s Aunt Celia (who was not only ravishingly beautiful but could also solve The Times crossword in ten minutes flat without a dictionary and do pottery and poetry) could sympathise with Jack’s feelings. On the other hand, whereas Uncle Parker did not seem to mind being everlastingly eclipsed, Jack did.

“What’s been going on at the pool, then?” enquired Uncle Parker. “One of ’em do a triple somersault from the top board and get invited to the next Olympics, did they?”

“Rosie beat me doing ten lengths.”

“Pooh!” said Uncle Parker.

“It’s all right you saying ‘Pooh!’ You’re not her brother, and older, and you won’t hear them all going on at tea-time when she tells them.”

“I shall, then,” returned Uncle Parker. “We’re stopping. Grandma’s birthday, remember. And I shall say ‘Pooh!’ then, just as I say ‘Pooh!’ now.”

“Will you? Will you really?”

“Naturally. You must have the courage of your convictions, Jack, old lad. If you mean ‘Pooh!’ then you must say ‘Pooh!’ and the devil take the consequences.”

“But why do you mean ‘Pooh’?” persisted Jack. “After all, it’s pretty good – she is younger than me.”

“If you’ll forgive me saying so,” said Uncle Parker, “the way you swim, just about anyone could beat you. So her doing it doesn’t exactly add up to an Olympic future. If she brings it up at tea, I shall put it into the category of ordinary, common or garden boasting, and I shall say ‘Pooh!’ accordingly.”

“Not her speciality, of course, swimming,” said Jack glumly. “I was thinking of trying to make it mine, but I shan’t now.”

“Well, I wouldn’t, either,” agreed Uncle Parker. “If old Rosie’s already got a head start on you, not much future there.”

“So what shall I have as a speciality?”

Jack did not really believe Uncle Parker would be able to answer this question. Hours of solitary, nail-biting thought on his own part had as yet produced no result.

“I’ll think about it,” promised Uncle Parker. “Think about it and let you know.”

“Thanks. Nothing to do with maths, thanks, and nothing to do with sport. We’ve already got two walking computers, and Mother’s always carping on about cleaning silver cups.”

“Doesn’t leave much,” said Uncle Parker. “But I’ll try. Hello. Here come the genii.”

Jack turned his head and they both watched the advance of the Bagthorpes. You could hear them better than you could see them because they were bawling out a song together. It sounded like Frère Jacques but could easily have been something else. None of the Bagthorpes were great singers, though Rosie played the violin and Tess the oboe and piano and both were always appearing in concerts, and William (for his third String) was a wizard on the drums. Mr Bagthorpe was given to saying on occasion that William must have been a tribal warrior in a previous incarnation, which, while interesting, was hard on his present family.

They don’t look like geniuses, Jack thought, not for the first time. Just like anybody else’s brother and sisters they look.

Now William, lank and sandy, had Rosie on his shoulders, clutching and screaming as she swayed up there. Tess (who was thirteen and read Voltaire in the original for pleasure and was a Black Belt in Judo, besides talking like a dictionary) ran behind, beating William with a branch.

Normal, even, sometimes, thought Jack. He even knew that they were all fond of him, in their own way. But more as if I was a kind of pet, or something, he thought. As if I’m just harmless. Not as an equal. I want to be equal.

Now they were through the wicket between garden and meadow and William finally pitched the shrieking Rosie somersaulting on to the grass.

“Didn’t hurt yourself, did you, Jacko?” William pitched himself full length beside him. For answer, Jack raised his skinned elbows.

“Making a grand exit,” said Tess. “Gosh, they look sore.”

“Hey – Uncle Park!” Rosie was up again now. “Guess what? I beat Jack doing ten lengths.”

“Pooh!” Uncle Parker was true to his word.

“What d’you mean, ‘Pooh’?” demanded Rosie. “He’s three years older than me.”

“And swims like an elephant,” returned Uncle Parker, admittedly unflatteringly. “There’s too much boasting goes on at this house.”

“Not boasting,” corrected Tess. “Mother and Father both say we should be proud of achievement. They say it’s an inbred fault of the English to underestimate themselves. Their favourite sin is ‘pride that apes humility’.”

“Well, if it is,” said Uncle Parker, “you lot are certainly doing your bit to redress the balance. Enough boasting here to leaven the whole loaf.”

“Except for me,” said Jack, “who hasn’t got anything to boast about.”

“Never mind,” Tess said. “I bet you’ve got a hidden talent that will emerge. Einstein was a terribly late starter, you know, prodigiously late. You’ve got to have got some hidden talent somewhere or you couldn’t be a Bagthorpe. You might go to the moon when you grow up, or anything.”

“I don’t particularly want to go to the moon, thank you,” Jack said. “Any fool could go there.”

“Anonymous from Grimsby reckons there’s an alien intelligence out there,” William told them. “Says he keeps picking up signals from outer space.”

“What do they say?” demanded Jack, interested.

William stood up.

“Sorry. I told you – a veil of secrecy must be preserved. I think I’ll go and see if he’s there now, actually. Might’ve got something new.”

Jack watched him go.

One day I will punch him when he says that, he thought.

“Better get back myself.” Tess stood up now. “I want to finish my Voltaire. And you’d better finish that Birthday Portrait of Grandma –” this to Rosie. (Rosie’s second string was portraits.)

When they had all gone Jack lay back on the warm grass and shut his eyes. He decided to try to go into a trance and get some inspiration that way, since ordinary straightforward thinking never got him anywhere. Uncle Parker, however, evidently misinterpreted this action.

“No good just lying back and giving up, you know.”

“I haven’t given up. I’m trying to go into a trance.”

“Hmmmmmm.”

There was silence for a while. Jack became conscious of the nearby humming of bees and flies, and the effect was hypnotic and he really did begin to think he was on the verge of a trance when Uncle Parker shouted, “I’ve got it!”

Jack shot up as if stung. His head went fizzy and black.

“You have?” He was still half hypnotised.

“I most certainly have.”

“Jack! Russell! Tea!”

He turned. His mother was standing by the rose arch, waving.

“Damn,” he said. “How long was I in a trance?”

“In a trance? You, young Jack, were in a trance my elbow,” said Uncle Parker severely. “Asleep, that’s what you were. There’s got to be a bit of diligence and application if we’re going to do anything with you, I can see that. Coming, Laura!”

He unfolded himself from the deckchair, all six foot four of him, and looked down at Jack.

“You may as well come and have some tea,” he said. “Get some energy up. You’re going to need it.”

Jack scrambled up and hurried to keep pace with him.

“It’s nothing sporting, is it?” he asked. “I said not sporting.”

“It’s not sport. How old did we say the old lady was?”

“Seventy-five,” Jack told him. “And Grandpa’s eighty-five. Not today, though. I hope I don’t get as deaf as that when I’m old.”

“Your grandfather,” said Uncle Parker, “is not as deaf as you all fear. He’s what I call SD – and you can be that at any age.”

“What’s SD? Stone Deaf?”

“Selectively Deaf. You hear, in effect, just as much as you wish to hear. And I am bound to say that if I were married to a lady who talks like your grandmother does, I should be SD – very much so.”

“I don’t think you ought to say that, on her birthday,” said Jack. “I mean, I know what you mean, but it’s not very kind to say it. Not on her birthday.”

“Sorry. No offence.”

They trudged companionably up the terrace steps and went through the French windows and into the Birthday Party.

Grandma was sitting at the far end of the table, though all that was visible was the odd wisp of white hair, because she was behind a large cake on a high stand. The cake was forested with candles. Jack had no intention of counting them. He knew for a fact that there would be seventy-five. His mother did not believe in doing things by halves. She would light the candles when the time came, and the icing would start melting while she was halfway through and by the time all the candles were lit the icing would be hopelessly larded with multicoloured grease and the whole top slice of the cake would have to be cut off and thrown to the birds. It happened every year. Mr Bagthorpe thought the practice dangerous and unnecessary, and said so, but was ignored. He even said that the birds ought to be protected, but no one took any notice of that either – least of all the birds, who sorted the crumbs with lightning dexterity and left the greased icing to seep, in the course of time and nature, into the lawn, with no apparent detriment to the daisies.

“Hello, Grandma,” said Jack. “Happy Birthday.”

He went down the table past the bristling cake and kissed her. Her skin was very soft and powdery and smelled unaccountably of warm pear drops.

“You are a good boy,” said Grandma.

“What about me?” enquired Uncle Parker, delivering his own peck.

“I know perfectly well who you are,” said Grandma. “You are that good-for-nothing young man who married Celia and ran Thomas over.” (Thomas was an ill-favoured and cantankerous ginger tom who had unfortunately got in the way of Uncle Parker’s car some five years previously, and whom Grandma had martyred to the point where one always half expected her to refer to him as “St Thomas”.)

“That’s me,” said Uncle Parker mildly. “Sorry about that, Grandma. Nice old cat that was. Just not very nippy on his feet.”

“He was a jewel,” said Grandma. “He was given me on my fourth birthday, and I was devoted to him.”

No one contradicted her. Clearly, no ginger tom in history had ever survived sixty odd years, with or without the intervention of Uncle Parker’s deplorable driving. But today was Grandma’s birthday and she was not to be contradicted. (She was rarely contradicted anyway. It was a whole lot of trouble to contradict Grandma. If Grandma said seven sixes were fifty-two, you agreed with her, as a rule. The odds against convincing her otherwise were practically a million to one anyway, and life was too short.)

“He was a jewel.” Grandma repeated her observation a trifle argumentatively. Grandma liked arguments and got disappointed when nobody else wanted them.

“You’re a jewel,” said Mr Bagthorpe diplomatically. He dropped a kiss on her head and pulled out a chair for his wife and the danger was temporarily averted.

Jack, seated between Uncle Parker and Rosie, cast a speculative eye over the table. All the customary Bagthorpe birthday trimmings were present, he noted with satisfaction. The sausage rolls (hot), salmon and cucumber sandwiches, asparagus rolls, stuffed eggs, cream meringues, chocolate truffle cake and Mrs Fosdyke’s Special Trifle – all were there, and the eyes of all Bagthorpes present were riveted upon them. There was a pause. Jack’s eyes moved to the top of the table. Grandma, thwarted of her argument, was hanging fire on purpose, he guessed, to pay them back. They waited.

“For what we are about to receive,” she eventually remarked, eyes piously closed, “may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

On the last two words her eyes blinked open like a cobra’s and a hand went rapidly out to the nearest pile of stuffed eggs.

“Amen,” gabbled the company, with the exception of Uncle Parker who said loudly and cheerfully, “Hear, hear!”

The food began to vanish at an astonishing rate.

“Well, darlings,” said Mrs Bagthorpe. “What is there to tell?”

Babel was instantly let loose as all present with the exception of Grandpa, Uncle Parker and Jack, began to talk with their mouths full. Mrs Bagthorpe believed that meals should be civilised occasions with a brisk and original interchange of views and ideas, but as none of the younger Bagthorpes were prepared to talk at the cost of stuffing themselves, they invariably did both at the same time.

“I beathja teleths,” came a crumb-choked voice by Jack’s elbow.

“Told you,” said Jack to Uncle Parker.

“What was that, Rosie?” enquired Mrs Bagthorpe. “You left what in the bath?”

“I beat Jack doing ten lengths.” This time Rosie’s voice was shamingly distinct and, what was worse, fell into a rare lull in the general din.

“Did you really?” exclaimed Mrs Bagthorpe, and “Pooh!” said Uncle Parker simultaneously with such force that morsels of crust flew across the table at his wife.

Conversation ceased abruptly.

“Did you say something, Russell?” asked Mrs Bagthorpe.

“I said ‘Pooh!’”

“That’s what he said before when I told him,” squeaked Rosie indignantly. “And it’s good – it is! Jack’s three years older than me and I beat him and it is good!”

“Of course it is, darling,” agreed her mother. “And I’m terribly proud of you. Bad luck, Jack.”

“Bad luck Jack my foot, leg and elbow,” said Uncle Parker. Everyone stared at him except Grandpa who was being SD and evidently did not realise what he was about to miss.

“I’ll elaborate,” said Uncle Parker. “In my opinion young Jack here, while being a perfectly good chap and worth ten of most here present, swims with the approximate grace and agility of an elephant.”

No one contradicted him.

“The fact, therefore,” he continued, “that young Rosie here, while also being perfectly acceptable in many ways though some might say too clever by half, the fact that she has beaten Jack doing ten lengths seems to me to be an event totally devoid of interest. It seems, in fact, to be a non-event of the first order.”

“I am three years younger,” piped Rosie.

Uncle Parker turned to her.

“Kindly do not tell me that again,” he told her. “I have been given that information at least three times in the last hour and am by now in perfect possession of it.”

“No, Uncle Parker,” said Rosie meekly. “I mean, yes.”

“Crikey, Uncle P,” said William, “you are in a lather. Anyone’d think Rosie’d beaten you.”

“I don’t doubt that she could,” returned Uncle Parker calmly. “I am a notoriously bad swimmer, and I dislike getting wet unnecessarily. The only good reason for swimming, so far as I can see, is to escape drowning.”

“The thing I best remember about that jewel of a cat,” said Grandma reminiscently, “was his extraordinary sweetness of nature. He hadn’t a streak of malice in him.”

It was, after all, Grandma’s Birthday Party, and she probably felt she was losing her grip on it.

“That cat,” said Mr Bagthorpe, caught off-guard and swallowing the bait, “was the most cross-grained evil-eyed thing that ever went on four legs. If I had a pound note for every time that animal bit me, I should be a rich man, now.”

“How can you, Henry!” cried Grandma, delighted that things were warming up.

“I’d be Croesus,” said Mr Bagthorpe relentlessly. “Midas. Paul Getty. That cat bit people like he was being paid for it in kippers.”

“There he would lie, hour upon hour, with his great golden head nestled in my lap,” crooned Grandma, getting into her stride, “and I would feel the sweetness flowing out of him. When I lost Thomas, something irreplaceable went out of my life.”

“Bilge, Mother,” said Mr Bagthorpe. “That cat was nothing short of diabolical. He was a legend. He was feared and hated for miles around. In fact I clearly remember that the first dawnings of respect I ever felt for Russell here began on the day he ran the blasted animal over.”

“Language, dear,” murmured Mrs Bagthorpe automatically.

“Not on purpose, of course,” said Uncle Parker.

“Of course not on purpose!” snapped Mr Bagthorpe. “The way you drive, you couldn’t hit a brick wall, let alone a cat.”

“It just wasn’t very nippy on its toes, you see,” said Uncle Parker apologetically to Grandma.

“It nipped me on my toes,” said William. “Bags of times.”

The rest turned unsmilingly towards him.

“All right,” he said. “So it wasn’t all that funny. But what about this ‘Pooh!’ business of Uncle P’s? Let’s get back to that. Unless you want to hear what Anonymous from Grimsby told me.”

“I don’t think you’d better,” said Jack. “It’d be breaking the veil of secrecy.”

He enjoyed making this remark, but his pleasure was short-lived.

“I wish you’d learn to use words accurately,” said Mr Bagthorpe testily. (He wrote scripts for television and now and again got obsessed about words, which in his darker moments he believed would eventually become extinct, probably in his own lifetime.) “You can’t break a veil. A veil, by its very nature, is of a fine-spun, almost transparent texture, and while it may be rent, or even—”

“For crying out loud,” said Uncle Parker.

“Oh, dearest,” murmured his wife, “must you …?”

This was the first time Aunt Celia had spoken. She had not even noticed when Uncle Parker had sprayed crumbs at her. The reason for this was that she was gazing at a large piece of bark by her plate. No one had remarked on this because Aunt Celia often brought pieces of bark, ivy or stone (and even, on one memorable occasion, a live snail) to table to gaze on as she ate, even at other people’s parties. She did this because she said it inspired her. It was partly to do with her pot-throwing, she said, and partly her poetry. There was no argument about this since her poetry and pottery alike were not much understood by the other Bagthorpes. They respected it without knowing what on earth it was all about. Also, Aunt Celia was very beautiful – like a naiad, Uncle Parker would fondly tell people – and looked even more so when she was being wistful and faraway. In the hurly-burly of Bagthorpe mealtimes she was looked upon more as an ornament than a participant.