A Song of Sixpence by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online Page B

glass doors that were closed carefully behind us and, greeted by a waft of humid air, were immediately in the tropics. Towering palms rose to the high roof mingling with giant ferns spreading enormous fronds far above my head, banana trees with bunched fingers of miniature fruits, strange twining creepers, spiky yuccas, great lily pads the size of tea-trays floating on a pool, masses of luscious greenery of which I could not even guess the names, and amongst all this, coloured wickedly, gleaming like brilliant jungle birds, the orchids.
    In my normal state how ravished I would have been by this gorgeous materialization of so many of my dreams. Even now my anxiety was half forgotten. I gazed in wonder, dreamily following our guide as, in a manner which had turned discursive, even pleasant, she demonstrated her specimens to Father. It was hot, extremely hot. Already I was beginning to sweat. Deep banks of pipes ran everywhere, emitting a rising steamy vapour, and was it my overstrained fancy that wherever the access of calefaction became most intense Father was made to stop, examine, and listen? Looking at him directly for the first time since we entered I saw that he was suffering. Yes, suffering acutely, in his heavy woollen clothing. Great drops of perspiration were running down his face which, while not as yet matching the colour of the tomatoes in Mother’s sandwiches, had taken on the hue of stewed rhubarb.
    â€˜Ye find it a trifle close, maybe. Will ye not remove your cape?’
    â€˜Thank you, m’am, thank you, no,’ Father said hurriedly. ‘I am not at all inconvenienced. I rather enjoy a warm air.’
    â€˜Then take a look at this verra special cattleya. There … ye’ll get closer if ye bend forward over the pipes.’
    Unlike the other orchids, which hitherto had been unremarkable for their odour, this cattleya seemed to emit a most distinctive smell. It smelled, in a word, as Father leaned over, of fish.
    A fresh horror struck at me. Our trout, habituated to the chilly waters of the ocean, was not taking kindly to this equatorial pyrexia.
    â€˜Beautiful … extremely beautiful …’ Father now scarcely knew what he was saying as, surreptitiously, he sluiced his drenched brow with a back-handed flick.
    â€˜My dear sir,’ broke in our tormentor solicitously, ‘ ye’re positively sweltering. I insist on ye taking off that heavy cape.’
    â€˜No,’ Father gasped in a hollow tone. ‘ The fact is … we are really grateful but … an important engagement … already late … time getting on … we must be going …’
    â€˜Nonsense! I’ll not bear o’t. Ye havena’ seen but the half of my treasures.’
    And while our temperatures mounted and the torrid emanations increased, this terrible little woman made us complete the slow suffocating circuit, of the conservatory, forced us even, while she stood below, to climb the white-painted iron stair that spiralled to the roof where, intensified by its ascent, the killing heat produced a mirage in which the prospect we had been enjoined to view assumed the appearance of a deep green swelling sea with cool enticing waves in which Father, at least, would willingly have plunged.
    At last she opened the double glassed doors. Then, as we stood weakly in the blessed fresh air she bestowed, first on me, then on Father, a grim yet somehow amiable smile.
    â€˜Don’t fail to give my regards to your Dutch friend,’ she said, almost with benevolence. ‘And this once ye may keep the fish: ’
    Father walked all the way down the avenue in total silence. I dared not look at him. How frightful must be his humiliation—the crushed abasement of a man whom I had hitherto believed capable of anything, of coming out top in the most embarrassing and alarming situations. Suddenly I gave a start Father was laughing, yes, he had begun to laugh. I thought he would never stop.