Sixpence

by Katherine Mansfield

Children are strange little people. Why should a small boy like Dicky, sensitive, loving and marvellously sensible for his age, have moods when he suddenly went "mad dog," as his sisters called it, and there was nothing anyone could do with him?

"Dicky, come here! Come here at once! Do you hear your mother calling you? Dicky!"

But Dicky wouldn't come.

Oh, he heard. A clear, ringing little laugh was his only reply. And he flew away; hiding, running through the uncut grass, rushing past the shed and looking at his mother from behind the apple trees, and jumping up and down like a wild Indian.

It had begun at tea-time. While Dicky's mother and Mrs. Spears, who was spending the afternoon with her, were quietly sitting in the living room, this was what had happened at the children's tea. They were eating their bread and butter nicely and quietly, and the servant girl had just given them milk, when Dicky had suddenly picked up the bread plate, put it upside down on his head and taken the knife.

"Look at me!" he shouted.

His shocked sisters looked and before the servant girl could get there, the bread plate fell to the floor, and broke into pieces. At this point the little girls screamed.

"Mother, come and look what he's done!"

"Dicky's broken a great big plate!"

"Come and stop him, mother!"

You can imagine how mother came rushing in. But she was too late. Dicky had jumped off his chair, run through the glass doors on to the veranda and, well — there she stood — helpless. What could she do? She couldn't run after the child. She couldn't follow Dicky among the apples and flowers. That would be wrong. It was more than annoying, it was frustrating. Especially as Mrs. Spears, whose two boys were perfect, was waiting for her in the living room.

"Alright, Dicky," she cried, "I’ll have to think of some way of punishing you."

"I don't care," said the high little voice and again there came that ringing laugh. The child was quite upset.

"Oh, Mrs. Spears, I don't know how to apologise for leaving you alone like this."

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Bendall," said Mrs. Spears, in her soft, sweet voice. She seemed to smile to herself. "These little things will happen from time to time. I only hope it was nothing serious."

"It was Dicky," said Mrs. Bendall. And she explained the whole situation to Mrs. Spears.

"And the worst of it is, I don't know how to cure him. Nothing when he's in that mood seems to work."

Mrs. Spears opened her pale eyes. "Not even hitting him?" she asked.

But Mrs. Bendall closed her lips. "We have never hit the children," she said. "The girls never seem to need it. And Dicky is a baby and the only boy. Somehow..."

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Spears. "I am not surprised Dicky behaves like this. I'm sure you are making a great mistake trying to bring up children without hitting them. Nothing is as effective. And I speak from experience, my dear. I used to try gentler ways" — Mrs. Spears paused — "soaping the boys' tongues, for instance, with yellow soap or making them stand on the table for the whole of Saturday afternoon. But no, believe me," said Mrs. Spears, "there is nothing, there is nothing like their father hitting them."

"Their father," she said. "Then you don't hit them yourself?"

"Never." Mrs. Spears seemed quite shocked at the idea. "I don't think it's the mother's job to hit the children. It's the father’s."

"Yes, I can see that," said Mrs. Bendall, quietly.

"Now my two boys," Mrs. Spears smiled kindly, hopefully, at Mrs. Bendall, "would behave just like Dicky if they were not afraid to. As it is..."

"Oh, your boys are perfect," cried Mrs. Bendall.

They were. You could not find quieter, better-behaved little boys in front of grown-ups. In fact, Mrs. Spears' visitors often said that you would never know there was a child in the house. There wasn't — very often.

In the hall, under a large picture of fat, old men fishing by the river, there was a thick, dark whip that had belonged to Mr. Spears' father. And for some reason the boys preferred to play out of sight of this, round by the dustbin.

"It's such a mistake," said Mrs. Spears, "to be weak with children when they are little. It's such a sad mistake and one so easy to make. It's so unfair to the child. That's what you must remember. Now Dicky's little adventure this afternoon seemed to me like he'd done it on purpose."

"Do you really think so?" Mrs. Bendall was a weak little thing, and this made her think very much.

"I do; I feel sure of it," cried Mrs. Spears in quite a professional manner, "It will save you so much trouble in the future. Believe me, my dear." She put her dry, cold hand over Mrs. Bendall's.

"I shall speak to Edward the moment he comes in," said Dicky's mother firmly.

The children had gone to bed before the garden gate closed and Dicky's father walked slowly up the steps carrying his bicycle. It had been a bad day at the office. He was hot, dusty, tired out.

But by this time Mrs. Bendall had become quite excited over the new plan.

"Oh, Edward, I'm so grateful you have come home," she cried.

"Why, what's happened?" Edward put down the bicycle. "What's up?"

"Come — come into the living room," said Mrs. Bendall, speaking very fast. "I just can't tell you how bad Dicky has been. You have no idea — you can't have at the office all day — how a child of that age can behave. He's been terrible. I have no control over him — none. I've tried everything, Edward, but it's no use. The only thing to do," she finished without pausing for breath, "is to hit him — is for you to hit him, Edward."

In the corner of the living room there was a cupboard, and on the top shelf stood a brown bear with a painted tongue. In the shadow it seemed to laugh at Dickey’s father and to say, "This is what you’ve come home to."

"Because," said his wife, "don't you see, it's the only thing to do. I can't control the child..." Her words flew from her lips direct to his tired head. "We can't pay for someone to look after the children. The servant girl has more than enough to do. You don’t understand, Edward; you can’t, you’re at the office all day."

The bear put out his tongue. The loud voice went on. Edward fell in a chair.

"What am I to hit him with?" he said weakly.

"Your slipper, of course," said his wife.

"Oh, Edward," she screamed, "you've still got your dirty shoes on in the living room. No, really..."

"Here, that's enough," Edward nearly pushed her away. "Give me that slipper." He went up the stairs. He felt like a man in a dark cloud. And now he wanted to hit Dicky. Yes, he felt now he wanted to hit something. What a life, he thought. The dust was still in his hot eyes, his arms felt heavy.

He pushed open the door of Dicky's small room. Dicky was standing in the middle of the floor in his pyjamas. Edward's heart went faster.

"Well, Dicky, you know what I've come for," said Edward.

Dicky made no reply.

"I’ve come to hit you."

No answer.

"Pull down your pyjama trousers."

Dicky looked up. His face turned red. "Must I?" he whispered.

"Come on, now. Be quick," said Edward and, picking up the slipper, he hit Dicky hard three times.

"That’ll teach you to be good to your mother."

Dicky stood there, his head down.

"Be quick and get into bed," said his father.

Still he did not move. But a shaking voice said, "I’ve not brushed my teeth yet, Daddy."

"What’s that?"

Dicky looked up. His lips were shaking, but his eyes were dry. He hadn't made a sound or cried. He only said, "I haven’t done my teeth, Daddy."

But at the sight of that little face Edward turned and, not knowing what he was doing, he walked quickly from the room, down the stairs and out into the garden. What had he done? He walked along and hid in the shadow of the pear tree in the garden.

Hit Dicky – hit his little man with a slipper – and what for? He didn't even know. And he didn't cry. If only he'd cried or got angry. But that "Daddy"! And again he heard the shaking whisper. Forgiving his father like that without a word. But he'd never forgive himself — never. Coward! Fool! Bully! And suddenly he remembered the time when Dicky had fallen off his bicycle and injured his wrist while they were playing together. He hadn't cried then, either. And that was the little hero he had just hit.

Something must be done about this, thought Edward. He walked back to the house, up the stairs, into Dicky's room. The little boy was lying in bed. In the half light his dark head showed clearly against the pillow. He was lying still and even now he wasn't crying. Edward shut the door. What he wanted to do was to sit down by Dicky's bed and cry and ask to be forgiven. But, of course, he couldn't do that sort of thing. It was difficult for him.

"Not asleep yet, Dicky?" he said lightly.

"No, Daddy."

Edward came over and sat on his boy's bed and Dicky looked at him.

"Nothing the matter, little man, is there?" said Edward, half whispering.

"No-o, Daddy," came from Dicky.

Edward put out his hand, and carefully he took Dicky's hot little one.

"You — you mustn't think any more about what happened just now, little man," he said. "See? That's all over now. That's forgotten. That's never going to happen again. See?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"So the thing to do now is to cheer up, little man," said Edward, "and to smile." And he tried to make a smile for Dicky. "To forget all about it. Little man.. Old boy..."

Dicky never moved. This was terrible. Dicky's father jumped up and went over to the window. It was nearly dark in the garden. The servant girl had run out and she was taking some white clothes off the washing line and putting them over her arm. An evening star shone in the bright sky and a big tree moved its long leaves softly. He saw all this while he felt in his pocket for his money.

Bringing it out, he chose a new sixpence and went back to Dicky.

"Here you are, little man. Buy yourself something," said Edward softly, laying the coin on Dicky's pillow.

But could even that bright, new sixpence — and all the things he could buy — change what had happened?