Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker Read Free Book Online

not to sing that afternoon. ‘I want to ask you something,’ she said, ‘as a man of the world, Mr Merton.’
    ‘Carry right on and no charge.’
    She appeared to have difficulty in speaking; an agonized look darkened her face. ‘Only this,’ she said. ‘I want to know Mr Merton: is there any law against singing in the street – or in any public place? Is it illegal?’
    He slapped his knee and leant across towards her.
    ‘Now that’s queer,’ he said, ‘For that’s just what I wanted to talk about. I might as well be frank, too. Barley’s worried about you. She thinks there’ll be trouble about your singing. Mind you – she and I, and people who know – people who understand the artistic impulse and so on, we like it. At least, I haven’t heard it. But I’m pretty certain I should like it.’
    ‘Wait till you get it all night,’ muttered Barley, who was listening in the passage while the kettle boiled.
    ‘You see, Mr Merton, I have to sing. But lately I’ve grown conscious of strange looks from people in the street. I’m afraid, oh dear! I’m afraid they don’t really care for it as I do and Barley does. And I never feel myself unless I’m singing.’
    ‘Why should you? I mean, why shouldn’t you? But the trouble is, Miss Ponsonby, we’re living in a world that’s hot against anything they call eccentric. If I had my way I’d let you sing all day and night. But it’s no use denying it; sooner or later, if you go on warbling in the market place, they’ll put you under lock and key.’
    ‘Oh no, oh no,’ she whispered.
    ‘Yes, oh yes. What I want to say is – sing when you’re at home, as much as you like. Nobody can object to that. But try to curb the impulse when you’re out and about.’
    ‘To be locked up – oh dear! In a cage, perhaps, oh how dreadful!’
    ‘Cage? What makes you say cage?’ He looked at her quickly. The word linked up with his own thoughts.
    ‘Linnets, Mr Merton. You know what they do to linnets?’
    Her voice had sunk away to a scratched needly sound, like an old record on an old gramophone. And her face was pale and ashen. Rye began to feel worried. He could see his bird slipping through his fingers. And he thought it was about time she treated him to a song.
    ‘You mustn’t get downhearted, Miss Ponsonby,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Stick to it when stuck. That’s our family motto. It’s always served me well. As I see it, you’re stuck away here in Sydenham, wasting a wonderful gift. Has it ever occurred to you? Beat the world, before it beats you.’
    ‘What – do – you – mean?’
    She looked scared. And even as he watched her, she seemed to shrink into her chair. There didn’t seem to be any shape to her. Only her large flat feet, which kept shifting on the worn carpet, had retained any life.
    ‘I mean,’ said Rye, ‘that it’s up to you not to let folk think you’re barmy – that’s straight from the shoulder, my dear lady, and I speak as a friend. I look at it this way. If you’ve got an exceptional gift for anything, unless you use it, unless you market it to the best possible advantage, the world’ll merely say you’re crackers and put you away where you don’t want to go. All musical geniuses are bats, if you look at them from ordinary standpoints. Look at friend Mozart. Do you call him human? Thumping out the jolly old semiquavers at the age of four. If the authorities had had their way, bang would have gone Wolfgang into a looney bin. Fortunately he had a father who knew his job. What did that father do? Marketed the kid promptly. Romped him round Europe to all the courts. Result – world cries genius!’
    He sank his voice to a tense whisper. She was staring at him. There was a tiny point of burning light in her small, dark eyes. ‘That’s what somebody’s got to do for you – before it’s too late. In other words – here I am, and I’m your devoted from now on. We’ll go fifty-fifty. I don’t want more than my share.