Tinker Tailor Soldier...

New Zealand Listener, Volume 12, Issue 289, 5 January 1945, Page 10

Tinker Tailor Soldier...

A SHORT STORY

written for "The Listener" by

J. H.

HENDERSON

(All rights reserved)

E had finished the last of the cherries and the stones, a hard white veined with red, nudged one another as they lay in smears of crimson juice at the bottom of his plate. When he had eaten the flesh from his first cherry, he wanted to spit the stone out of his mouth. I’ll spit it out to please Mum, he thought to himself, puffing his cheeks out tight and firm, then putting his lips together to form a little O, the stone close behind them, waiting. Then suddenly he let his cheeks fall flat, and pou-woufff, out shot the stone. But he was only a little boy, and his lungs weren’t very big just yet, and the stone, instead of sailing gloriously towards Mum, as he had imagined so happily, fell just in front of her, upon the white cloth of the dinner-table. "Oh, Peter, you mustn’t do that," his mother said, picking up the stone and putting it back in his plate. She showed him how Grown Ups, who never spit cherry stones into the air, drop the cherry stones into their spoons, and then lower them quietly into their plates. "Do it like this, Peter," she said, showing him. "Like this ... see? That’s right. Don’t be a big baby." So Peter did as he was told, and he lowered the cherry stones into his plate, but with every one he imagined it curving gloriously into the air, and he thought to himself defiantly, But I am a baby | en-e-how.

And now he had sucked all the firm red flesh from his cherries, and Mum and Dad and big brother John had finished all their cherries too. Perched high in his baby-chair, Peter began to play with the cherry stones, moving them from one side of the plate to the other. I’m mustering sheep like my big brother, and my spoon is my dog, he said to himself. And aloud he cried "Hey! Hey!" and mustered the sheep within his plate vigorously. Mum looked at Dad, and just for a moment their eyes were soft, and each knew of the other’s unspoken love, both for one another and for their little son Peter. For poor people, people close to the earth, hard-working people do not find it necessary to speak of their love. "Look, Peter, boy," said Mum, "here’s a nice new game for you to play." She leaned over towards the baby-chair, and with her own spoon, which was far bigger than Peter’s, she began to — out the cherry stones. "Tinker," said Mum, separating one stone from the others. "Tailor," ghe went on, with the next ies Then, bringing. p across the

plate: "soldier . « » sailor « e e rich man. See, Peter?" Peter was greatly excited. These were lovely new sounds, and he forgot all about his sheep, and cried "Tinker... Tinker . . . Tinker," turning the new word over and over upon his little tongue, "Poor man... beggar man.. . thief, Tinker ... tailor... soldier," said MumAnd that was the last of the cherry stones, "Now try with me," said Mum, and holding Peter’s hand which had clutched his own little spoon, they went over the stones, one by one, again. "Tinker... tailor... soldier... sailor ...fich man... poor man... beggar man... thief, Tinker ... tailor ..¥% soldier." * Eo AT was many, many years ago, my friend, when Peter was only four. And the years went by, and the farmers were still poor, but content, and Peter went away to the city school, and then to University, and nobody ever thought of those cherry stones of long, long ago. And the war came, and the voice of hate came to the cities and to even the quietest country farms; the voice of hate, black and white and glaring in the newspapers, and angry and threatening through the wireless sets. And Peter went away to the war, but his big brother John had to stay behind to look after the farm and also to care for his parents, who were getting old and rather quiet and sleepy, and greyhaired, now, you see. And Peter’s big brother married, and a new young woman with big blue eyes came to live at the farm, with John and the old parents. |

And after some little time, they, too, had a little son. And they called him Michael. And when Michael was three years old, they all suddenly wished they’d called him Peter. For Peter, the soldier, was killed near the Sangro, and lay beneath gnarled, rheumatic, old olive trees, far, far away in Italy. And only his photograph would look down upon them now, for ever. And Mum, who was now a grandmother, wept bitterly, but Dad remained tearless and gaunt, and gave no expression to his sorrow. * * a AND the days passed until one afternoon when they had almost finished their dinner and little Michael began to play with his spoon and raise a little uproar, crying "Hey! Hey!" And the new young woman with the big blue eyes leaned over towards the baby chair and said: "Look, Michael, I will show you how to play a lovely new game. Now watch me." (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) She began to pick out the cherry stones, one by one. "Tinker," said the new young woman with the big blue eyes. "Tinker! Tinker! Tinker!" shouted Michael excitedly. "Tailor ... soldier . . . sailor," said the new young woman with the big blue eyes, "rich man .. . poor man,.. beggar man... thief. Tinker .. . tailor -.. soldier. There. That’s the lot, Michael boy." It was then the old man turned aside and wept.