John Wyndham - Chocky

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John Wyndham
CHOCKY
Preface
John Wyndham is by right considered a leading British
science-fiction writer of our day. Born in 1903, he tried various
careers including farming, law, commercial art, and advertising, and he
first started writing short stories in 1925. From !930 to I939 he wrote
stories of various kinds under different names, published mostly in the
USA. He also wrote detective novels. During the war he was in thc Civil
Service and afterwards in the Army. In 1946 he went back to writing
stories and decided to try a modified form of what is known as science
fiction. He wrote The Day of Truffids, translated into many languages,
including Russian. It is a fantastic, frightening, but entirely
plausable story of the future when thc world is dominated by triffids,
grotesque and dangerous plants over seven feet tall. This was followed
by The Kraken Waves, a book telling of the awakening and rise to power
of forces of cruelly terrifying consequence from beneath the surface of
the sea. Next came The Crysalids, a thrilling and realistic account of
the world beset by genetic mutations, The seeds of Time, a collection of
short stories acknowledged by their author as `experiments in adapting
the SF motif to various styles of short story', and The Midwich Cuckoos,
believed to be Wyndham's most disturbing story set in a quiet little
English village. Then appeared The Trouble with Lichen.
Chocky is the last book written by J. Wyndham, who died in 1969. It
was also translated into Russian a few years ago. Here the author is not
concerned with the panoramic views of world destruction, like, for
instance, in The Day of the Triffids. The stage is small, the cast are
few, the setting is familiar - yet, into the most uneventual lives, the
unexpected can disquietingly intrude.
Once you begin reading this book you start living with the Gores -
a plain middle class English family of our days. But then the unexpected
happens: a new and seemingly fantastic element appears within the Gores.
Now you see adults' rear and hostility towards things not fully
understood and difficult to cope with. The situation goes out of thc
Gores' control and a group of people intrudes whose basic motive is
their own profit,
This book is intended for the students of Teachers' Training
Colleges. The language is fairly simple yet idiomatic, and one will find
here quite a few phrases and terms important for the future teachers of
English.
Chocky has been slightly abridged and commented so as to fit the
knowledge of the first-year student. In the book the reader will also
find a list of names which pronunciation may present some difficulty.
1
It was in the spring of the year that Matthew reached twelve that I
first became aware of Chocky. Late April, I think, or possibly May;
anyway I am sure it was the spring because on that Saturday afternoon I
was out in the garden shed unenthusiastically oiling the mower for
labours to come (*) when I heard Matthew's voice outside the window. It
surprised me; I had no idea he was anywhere about until I heard him say,
on a note of distinct irritation, and, apparently, of nothing:
`I don't know why It's just the way things are.'
I assumed that he had brought one of his friends into the garden to
play, and that the question which prompted his remark had been asked out
of earshot. I listened for the reply, but there was none. Presently,
after a pause, Matthew went on, rather more patiently:
`Well, the time the world takes to turn round is a day, and that's
twenty-four hours, and...'
He broke off, as if at some interruption, though it was quite
inaudible to me. Then he repeated:
`I don't know why. And I don't see why thirty-two hours would be
more sensible. Anyway, twenty-four hours do make a day, (*) everybody
knows that, and seven days make a week...' Again he appeared to be cut
short. (*) Once more he protested. `I don't see why seven is a sillier
number than eight...'
Evidently there was another inaudible interruption, then he went
on: `Well who wants to divide a week into halves and quarters, anyway?
What would be the point of it? A week just is seven days. and four weeks
ought to make a month, only usually it's thirty days or thirty-one
days...' - `No, it's never thirty-two days...' - `Yes, I can see that,
but we don't want a week of eight days. Besides, the world goes round
the sun in three hundred and sixty-five days, and nobody can do anything
that will make that turn into proper halves and quarters.'
At that point the peculiarity of this one-sided conversation
aroused my curiosity so much that I put my head cautiously out of the
open window. The garden was sunny, and that side of the shed was
she1tered and warm. Matthew was seated on an upturned seed-tray, 1eaning
back against the brick wall of the shed just under the window, so that I
was looking down on the top of his fair-haired head. He seemed to be
gazing straight across the lawn and into the bushes beyond. There was no
sign of a companion, nor of any place one could be hidden.
Matthew, however, went on:
`There are twelve of these months in a year, so...' He broke off
again, his head a little ti1ted as though he were listening. I listened,
too, but there was not a whisper of any other voice to be heard.
`It's not just stupid,' he objected. `It's like that because no
kind of same-sized months would fit into a year properly, even if...'
He broke off once more, but this time the source of the
interruption was far from inaudible. Colin, the neighbour's boy, had
shouted from the next garden. Matthew jumped up with a friendly
answering whoop, and ran off across the lawn towards the gap in the
dividing hedge.
I turned back to my oiling, puzzled, but reassured by the sound of
normal boyish voices next door.
I put the incident out of my mind for the time being, but it
recurred to me that evening when the children had both gone upstairs to
bed, and I found myself vaguely troubled by it. Not so much by the
conversation - for, after all, there is nothing unusual in any child
talking to lim, or her, self - as by the form of it: the consistency of
its assumption that a second party was involved, (*) and the improbable
subject for argument. I was prompted after a time to ask:
`Darling, have you noticed anything odd - no, I don't exactly mean
odd - anything unusual, about Matthew lately?'
Mary lowered her knitting, and looked at me over it.
`Oh, so you have, have you? Though I agree "odd" isn't exactly the
word. Was he listening to nothing or talking to himself?'
`Talking - well, both, really,' I said. `How long has this been
going on?'
She considered.
`The first time I noticed it would be - oh I suppose about two or
three weeks ago. It didn't seem worth bothering about. Just another of
those crazes children get you know. Like the time when he was being a
car and had to steer himself round corners and change gear on hills
and put on the brake whenever he stopped. Fortunately it wore off quite
soon. Probably this will too.
There was more hope than conviction in her tone.
`You re not worried about him? I asked.
She smiled.
`Oh, good gracious, no. He s perfectly well. What I am worried
about is us.'
`Us?'
`Well, it begins to look to me rather as if we may have got another
Piff, or something like her in the family.'
I felt, and probably looked, dismayed. I shook my head.
`Oh, no! Don't say it. Not another Piff!' I protested.
2
Piff was a small, or supposedly small invisible friend that Polly.
Our daughter, had acquired when she was about five. And while she lasted
she was a great nuisance.
When one tried to sit down upon a conveniently empty chair he
would often be stopped by a cry of anguish from Polly; (*) one had, it
seemed, been about to sit on Piff who would then be embraced and
comforted by a lot of sympathetic mutterings about careless and brutal
daddies.
Frequently, and more likely than not when the television play was
really thrilling, there would come an urgent call from Polly's bedroom
above; the cause had to be investigated although one could be almost
sure that it would concern Piff's need of a drink of water. We would sit
down at a table for four in a cafe, and Polly would ask the mystified
waitress for an extra chair for Piff. I could be starting the car when a
yell would inform me that Piff was not yet with us, and the car door had
to be opened to let her aboard. Once I testily refused to wa it for her.
It was not worth it; my heart1essness had clouded our whole day.
Piff must have been with us the best part of a year - and it seemed
a great deal longer - but in the end she somehow got mis1aid during our
summer holidays. Polly, so much taken up by several more substantial,
and much more audible, new friends, dropped Piff with great callousmess.
Her absence came as a great relief - even, one suspected, to Polly
herself. The idea that we might now have acquired another such was by no
means welcome.
`A grim thought,' I said, `but, fortunately improbable, I think. A
Piff can provide useful bossing material for a member of the younger
female age-groups, but an elevenyear-old boy who wants to boss seems to
me more likely to take it out on other, and smaller, boys.' (*)
`I'm sure I hope you are right,' (*) Mary said, but dubious1y. `One
Piff was more than enough.'
`There's quite a different quality here,' I pointed out.
If you remember, Piff spent about eighty per cent of her
time being scolded for something or other, and having to take it. This
one appeared to be criticizing, and coming back with opinions of its
own.'
Mary looked startled.
`What do you mean? I don't see how...'
I repeated, as nearly as I could recall, the one-sided conversation
I had overheard.
Mary frowned as she considered it.
`I don't understand that at all,' she said.
`Oh, it's simple enough. After all the arrangement of a calendar is
just a convention...'
`But that's just what it isn't - not to a child, David. To an
eleven-year-old it seems like a natural law - just as much as day and
night, or the seasons... A week is a week, and it has seven days - it's
unquestionable, it just is so.'
`Well, that's more or less what Matthew was saying, but apparently
he was being argued with - or he was arguing with himself. In either
case it isn't easy to explain.'
`He must have been arguing with what someone's told him at school -
one of his teachers, most likely.'
`I suppose so,' I conceded. `All the same, it's a new one on me.
I've heard of calendar reformers who want all months to have
twenty-eight days, but never of anyone advocating an eight-day week -
or, come to that. a thirtytwo day month.' I pondered a moment. `Besides,
then you'd need nineteen more days in a year...' I shook my head.
`Anyway,' I went on, `I didn't mean to make heavy weather of it. It just
strikes me as odd. (*) I wondered if you had noticed anything of the
sort, too.'
Mary lowered her knitting again, and studied its pattern
thoughtfully.
`No - well, not exactly. I have heard him muttering to himself
occasionally, but nearly all children do that at times. I'm afraid I
didn't pay any attention - actually I was anxious not to do anything
which might encourage another Piff. But there is one thing: the
questions he's been asking lately -'
`Lately!' I repeated. `Was there ever a time when he didn't?'
`I know. But these are a bit different. I mean - well, usually his
questions have been average-boy questions.'
`I hadn't noticed they'd changed.'
`Oh, the old kind of questions keep on, but there's a new kind, too
- with a different sort of slant.'
`Such as ...?'
`Well, one of them was about why are there two sexes? He said he
didn't see why it was necessary to have two people to produce one, so
how had it got arranged that way, and why? That's a difficult one, you
know, on the spur of the moment (*) - well, it's difficult anyway,
isn't it?'
I frowned not knowing what to say. `And there was another one, too,
a bout ``where is Earth?" Now, I ask you - where is Earth? - in relation
to what? Oh, yes, he knows it goes round the sun, but where, please, is
the sun? And there were some others - simply not his kind of questions.'
I saw what she meant. Matthew's questions were plentiful, and quite
varied, but they usually kept a more homely orbit: things like `Why
can't we live on grass if horses can?'
`A new phase?' I suggested. `He's reached a stage where things are
beginning to widen out for him.'
Mary shook her head, giving me a look of reproach.
`That, darling, is what I've been telling you. What I want to know
is why they should widen, and his interests apparently change, quite so
suddenly. This doesn't seem to me like just development. It's more as if
he'd switched to a different track It's a sudden change in quality -
quality and approach.' She went on frowning for the pause before she
added: `I do wish we knew a little more about his parents. That might
help. In Polly I can see bits you and bits of me. It gives one a feeling
of something to go on. But with Matthew there's no guide at all...
There's nothing to give me any idea what to expect...'
I could see what when we lost all hopes to have a baby of our own.
He was a month old when he entered our family bringing peace and
consolation to Mary. A year later there had come the first signs that a
new baby was on the way, and so, Matthew was about two, he had a new
baby sister - little Polly. I could also see where we were heading. In
about three more moves we'd be back at the old unprofitable contest:
heredity versus environment. To sidestep I said:
`It looks to me as if the best thing we can do for the present is
simply to listen and watch carefully - though not obviously - until we
get a firmer impression. no good worrying ourselves over what may easily
be an insignificant passing phase.'
And there we decided to leave it for the time being.
It was about ten days after that we about Chocky. It might well
have been longer had Matthew not picked up the flu at school which
caused him to run quite a temperature for a while. When it was at its
height he rambled a bit, with all defences down. There times when he did
not seem to know whether he was talking to his mother, or his father, or
to some mysterious character he called Chocky. Moreover, this Chocky
appeared to worry him, for he protested several times.
On the second evening his temperature ran high. Mary called down to
me to come up. Poor Matthew looked in a sorry state. His colour was
high, his brow damp, and he was very restless. He kept rolling his head
from side to side on the pillow, almost as if he were trying to shake it
free of something. In a tone of weary exasperation he said: `No, no,
Chocky. Not now. I can't understand. I want to go to sleep... No ... Oh,
do shut up and go away... No, I can't tell you now... He rolled his head
again, and pulled his arms from under the bedclothes to press his hands
over his ears. `Oh, do stop it, Chocky. Do shut up!'
Mary reached across and put her hand on his forehead. He opened his
eyes and became aware of her.
`Oh, Mummy, I' m so tired. Do tell chocky to go away She doesn't
understand. She won't leave me alone...' (*)
Mary glanced questioningly at me. I could only shrug and shake my
head. Then she rose to the occasion (*) Turning back, she addressed
herself to a point slightly above Matthew's head. I recognized the
technique she had sometimes used with Piff. In a kindly but firm tone
she said:
`Chocky, you really must let Matthew he quiet and rest. He isn't at
all well, Chocky, and he needs to go to sleep. So please go away and
leave him alone now. Perhaps, if he's better tomorrow, you can come back
then.'
`See?' said Matthew. `You've got to clear out, Chocky, so that I
can get better.' He seemed to listen. `Yes,' he said decisively.
It appeared to work. In fact, it did work.
He lay back again, and visibly relaxed.
`She's gone,' he announced.
`That's fine. Now you can settle down,' said Mary.
And he did. He wriggled into a comfortable position and lay quiet.
Presently his eyes closed. In a very few minutes he was fast asleep.
Mary and I looked at one another. She tucked his bedclothes closer, and
put the bell-push handy. We tiptoed to the door, turned off the room
light, and went downstairs.
`Well,' I said, `what do you think of that?'
`Aren't they astonishing?' said Mary. `Dear, oh dear, it does very
much look as if this family is landed with another Piff'.
I poured us some sherry, handed Mary hers, and raised mime.
`Here's to (*) hoping it turns out to be less of a pest than the
last one,' I said. I set down the glass, and looked at it You
know,' I told her, `I can't help feeling there's something wrong
about this. As I said before, Piffs aren't unusual with little girls,
but I don't remember hearing of an eleven-year-old boy inventing one...
It seems out of order, somehow... I must ask someone about it...'
Mary nodded agreement.
`Yes,' she said, `but what strikes me as even odder is - did you
notice? - he doesn't seem to be clear in his own mind whether his Chocky
is a him or a her. Children are usually very positive about that. They
feel it's important...'
`I wouldn't say the feeling of importance is entirely restricted to
children,' I told her, but I see what you mean, and you're perfectly
right, of course. It is odd... The whole thing's odd...'
Matthew's temperature was down the next morning. He picked up
quickly. In a few days he was fully recovered. So too, apparently, was
his invisible friend, undiscouraged by the temporary banishment.
Now that Chocky's existence was out of the bag (*) - and largely, I
was inclined to think, because neither Mary nor I had displayed
incredulity - Matthew gained enough confidence to talk a little more
freely about him/her.
To begin with, at any rate, he/she seemed a considerable
improvement on the original Piff. There was none of that business of hi
m/her invisibly occupying one's chair, or feeling sick in teashops to
which Piff had been so prone. Indeed, Chocky quite markedly lacked
physical attributes. He/she appeared to be scarcely more than a
presence, having perhaps something in common with Wordsworth's cuckoo,
(*) but with the added limitation that his/her wandering voice was
audible to Matthew alone. There were days when Matthew seemed to forget
him/her altogether. Unlike Piff, he/she was not prone to appearing
any - and everywhere, nor did he/she show any of Piff's talent for
embarrassment such as a determined insistence on being taken to the
lavatory in the middle of the sermon. On the whole, if one had to choose
between the two, my preference was decided1y in favour of Chocky.
Mary was less certain.
`Are we,' she suddenly demanded one evening, staring into the loops
of her knitting with a slight squint, `are we I wonder, doing the right
thing in playing up to this nonsense? I know you shouldn't crush a
child's imagination, and all that, but what nobody tells you is how far
is enough. There comes a stage when it begins to get a bit like
conspiracy. I mean, if everyone goes around pretending to believe in
things that aren't there, how on earth is a child going to learn to
distinguish what really is, from what really isn't.'
'Careful, darling,' I told her. 'You're steering close to dangerous
waters. (*) It chiefly depends on who, and how many, believe what isn't
really is.'
She nodded. Then she went on:
`It'd be a most unfortunate thing if we found out on that we're
helping to stabilize a fantasy-system that we ought to be trying to
dispel. Hadn't we better consult a psychiatrist about it? He could at
least tell us whether it's one of the expectable things, or not.'
`I'm rather against making too much fuss about it,' I told her.
`More inclined to leave it for a bit. After all we managed to lose Piff
in the end, and no harm done.'
`I didn't mean send him to a psychiatrist. I thought just an
enquiry on general lines to find out whether it is unusual, or simply
nothing to bother about. I'd feel easier if we knew.'
`I'll ask around if you like,' I said. `I don't think it is
serious. It seems to me a bit like fiction - we read our kind of
fiction, children often make up their own, and live it. The thing that
does trouble me a bit about it is that th is Chocky seems to have
entered the wrong age-group. I think we'll find it will fade away after
a bit. If it doesn't we can consult someone about it.'
I wasn't, I admit, being quite honest when I said that. Some of
Matthew's questions were puzzling me considerably - not only by their
un-Matthew-like character but because, now that Chocky's existence was
acknowledged, Matthew did not always present the questions as his own.
Quite frequently he would preface them with: `Chocky says he doesn't see
how ... or `Chocky wants to ,know ... or `Chocky says she doesn't
understand why...
One thing I felt could be cleared up.
`Look here,' I told him, `I get all confused with this he-and-she
business. On grounds of grammar alone it would be easier if I knew which
Chocky is.'
Matthew quite agreed.
`Yes, it would,' he said. `I thought so, too. So I asked. But
Chocky doesn't seem to know.'
`Oh,' I said. `That's rather unusual. I mean, it's one of those
things people are generally pretty sure about.'
Matthew agreed about that, too. .
`But Chocky's sort of (*) different,' he told me earnestly.
I explained all the differences between hims and hers, but she
couldn't seem to get it, somehow. That's funny because he's really
frightfully clever I think, but all he said was that it sounded a
pretty silly arrangement, and wanted to know why it's like that.'
I recalled that Mary had encountered a question along those lines.
Matthew went on:
`I couldn't tell her why. And nobody I've asked has been much help.
Do you know why, ,Daddy.?'
`Well - er - not exactly why, I confessed. `It's just - um - how it
is. One of Nature's ways of managing things.'
Matthew nodded.
`That's what I tried to tell Chocky - well, sort of. But I don't
think I can have been very good at it because she said that even if I
had got it right, and it was as silly as it sounded, there still had to
be a why behind it.' He paused reflectively, and then added, with a nice
blend of pique and regret: `Chocky keeps on finding such a lot of
things, quite ordinary things, silly. It gets a bit boring.'
We talked on for a while. I was interested and showed it, but from
what I learned, however, I found myself feeling a little less kindly
towards Chocky. He/she gave an impression of being quite aggressive.
Afterwards when I recollected the entirely serious nature of our
conversation I felt some increase in uneasiness. Going back over it I
realized that not once in the course of it had Matthew even hinted by a
single word, or slip, that Chocky was not just as real a person as
ourselves, and I began to wonder whether Mary had not been right about
consulting a psychiatrist
However, we did get one thing more or less tidied up: the him/her
question. Matthew explained:
`Chocky does talk rather like a boy, but a lot of the time it's not
about the sort of thing boys talk about - if you see what I mean. And
sometimes there is a bit of - well, you know the sort of snooty way
chaps' older sisters often get ...?'
I said I did, and after we had discussed these and a few other
characteristics we decided that Chocky's balance did on the whole lean
more to the F than the M, (*) and agreed that in future it would be
convenient to class Chocky as feminine.
Mary gave me a thoughtful look when I reported to her that, at
least, was settled. .
`The point it is gives more personification if Chocky is one or the
other - not just an it,, I explained. `Puts a sort of picture in the
mind which must be easier for him to cope with than just a vague,
undifferentiated, disembodied something. And as Matthew feels there,is
not much similarity to any of the boys he knows ...
`You decide she's feminine because you fee it will help you and
Matthew to attack her, , Mary declared. She spent then a few moments in
reflective silence, and emerged from it to say, a little wistfully.
`I do think being a parent must have been a lot more fun before
Freud was invented. (*) As it is, if this fantasy ga me doesn't clear
up in a week or two we shall feel a moral, social, and medical
obligation to do something about it ... And it's such nonsense really I
sometimes wonder if we aren't all of us a bit morbid about children
nowadays I'm sure there are more delinquents than there used to be...'
`I'm for keeping him clear of psychiatrists and suchlike if we can,
I told her. `Once you let a child get the idea he's an interesting case,
you turn loose a whole new boxful of troubles.' (*)
She was silent for some seconds. Running over in her mind, I
guessed, a number of the children we knew. Then she nodded.
So there we let it rest: once more waiting a bit longer to see how
it would go.
In point of fact it went rather differently from anything we had in
mind.
3
`Shut up!' I snapped suddenly. `Shut up, both of you.' Matthew
regarded me with unbelieving astonishment. Polly's eyes went wide, too.
Then both of them turned to look at their mother. Mary kept her
expression carefully non-counmittal. Her lips tightened slightly, and
she shook her head at them without speaking. Matthew silently finished
the pudding still on his plate, and then got up and left the room,
carrying himself stiffly, with the hurt of injustice. Polly choked on
her final mouthful, and burst into tears. I was not feeling sympathetic.
`What have you to cry about?' I asked her. `You started it again,
as usual.'
`Come here, darling,' said Mary. She produced a handkerchief,
dabbed at the wet cheeks, and then kissed her
`There, that's better,' she said. `Darling, Daddy didn't mean to be
unkind I'm sure, but he has told you lots of times not to quarrel with
Matthew - particularly at meals - you know he has, don't you?' Polly
replied only with a sniff. She looked down at her fingers twisting a
button on her dress. Mary went on: `You really must try not to quarrel
so much. Matthew doesn't want to quarrel with you, he hates it. It makes
things very uncomfortable for us - and, I believe you hate it, too,
really. So do try, it's so much nicer for everyone if you don't.'
Polly looked up from the button.
`But I do try, Mummy - only I can't help it. `Her tears began to
rise again. Mary gave her a hug.
`Well, you'll just have to try a little harder, darling, won't
you?' she said.
Polly stood passive1y for a moment, then she broke away across the
room, and fumb1ed with the door-knob.
I got up, and closed the door behind her.
`I'm sorry about that,' I said as I came back. `In fact I'm ashamed
of myself - but really ! I don't believe we've had a meal in the last
two weeks without th is infernal quarrelling. And it's Polly who
provokes it every time. She keeps on nagging and picking at him until he
has to retaliate. I don't know what's come over her: they've always got
on so well together ...'
`Certainly they have,' Mary agreed `- Until quite recently,' she
added.'
`Another phase, I suppose, I said. `Children seem to be just one
phase after another.'
`I suppose you could call this a phase - I hope it is,' Mary said
thoughtfully. `But it's not one confined to children.'
Her tone caused me to look at her inquiringly. She asked:
My dear, don't you see what Polly's trouble is?'
I went on looking at her blankly. She explained.
`It is just plain, ordinary jealousy - only jealousy, of course is
never ordinary to the sufferer.'
`Jealousy... ?' I repeated.
`Yes, jealousy .
`But of whom, of what? I don't get it.'
`Surely that should be obvious enough. Of this Chocky, of course.
I stared at her.
`But that's absurd. Chocky is only - well, I don't know what he,
she, or it is, but it' s not even real - doesn't even exist, I mean.'
`Whatever does that matter? Chocky's real enough to Matthew - and,
consequently,.to Polly. Polly and Matthew have always got on very well,
as you said. She admires him tremendously. She's always been his
confidante, and his aide, and it's meant a lot to her But now he has a
new confidante. This Chocky has displaced her. She's on the outside now
. I'm not in the least surprised she's jealous.'
I felt bewildered.
`Now you're beginning to talk as if Chocky were real.'
Mary reached for a cigarette, and lit it.
`Reality is relative. Devils, evil spirits, witches and so on
became real enough to the people who believed in them. Just as God is to
people who believe in Him. When people live their lives by their beliefs
objective reality is almost irrelevant.
`That's why I wonder if we are doing the right thing. By playing up
to Matthew we are strengthening his belief, we are helping to establish
the existence of this Chocky more firmly - until now we have Polly
believing in her, too - to the point of a wretched jealousy... It's
somehow getting beyond a game of make-believe - and I don't like it. I
think we ought to get advice on it before it goes further.'
I could see that this time she meant it seriously.
All right,' I agreed. `Perhaps it would be -' I was
beginning when I was cut off by the sound of the door bell.
I went to answer it, and opened the door to find myself facing a
man I knew I should have recognized. I was just beginning to remember
him - that is, I had got as far as connecting him with the Parents'
Association meeting - when he introduced himself.
`Good evening, Mr Gore. I don't expect you'll remember me.
Trimble's my name. I take your Matthew for maths.' (*)
I led him into the sitting-room. Mary joined us, and greeted him,
by name.
`Good evening, Mr Trimble. Matthew's just upstaIrs, doinG his
homework, I think. Shall I call him?'
Trimble shook his head.
`Oh, no, Mrs Gore. In fact, I'd rather you didn't.(*) It's really
yourselves I wanted to see - about Matthew, of course.'
We sat him down. I produced a bottle of whisky. Trimble accepted
his drink Gratefully.
`Well, now, what's the trouble?' I asked. Trimble shook his head.
He said reassurinGly..
`Oh, no trouble. NothinG of that kind.' He paused, and went on: `I
do hope you don't mind my callinG on you like this. It's unofficial. To
be honest, it's chiefly curiosity on my part - well, a bit more than
that really. I'm puzzled.' He paused once more, and looked from me to
Mary and back aGain. `Is it you who is the mathematician of the family?'
he asked.
I denied it.
`I'm just an accountant. Arithmetic, not mathematics.'
He turned to Mary.
`Then it must be you, Mrs Gore.'
She shook her head.
`Indeed not, Mr Trimble. I can't even get arithmetic right.'
Trimble looked surprised, and a little disappointed.
`That's funny,' he said. `I was sure - perhaps you have a relative,
or some friend, who is?'
We both shook our heads. Mr Trimble continued to look surprised.
`Well,' he said, `Somebody has been helping - no perhaps that's not
the riGht word - shall we say, GivinG your son ideas about his maths -
not that I mind that,' he hurried to explain. `Indeed, in a general way
I'm all for anything that gets children along. But that's really the
point. When a child is trying to cope simultaneously with two different
methods it's more likely to confuse him than get him along...
`I'll be frank. I won't pretend that your Matthew is one of those
boys you sometimes find, with a natural quick grasp of figures. He's
about average, perhaps a shade above, and he's been doing quite all
right - until lately . But it has seemed to me recently that someone has
been trying towell, I suppose the idea was to push him on, but the stuff
he's been given isn't doing that; it's getting him mixed up.' He paused
again, and added apologically: `With a boy with a real gIft for figures
It might not fact he'd probably enjoy it. But, frankly, I think too much
for your Matthew to grasp at the moment. muddling him, and
that's,holding him back.
`Well, just as frankly, I told him, `I'm at a loss. Do you mean
摘要：

JohnWyndhamCHOCKYPrefaceJohnWyndhamisbyrightconsideredaleadingBritishscience-fictionwriterofourday.Bornin1903,hetriedvariouscareersincludingfarming,law,commercialart,andadvertising,andhefirststartedwritingshortstoriesin1925.From!930toI939hewrotestoriesofvariouskindsunderdifferentnames,publishedmostl...

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