No Laughing Matter Read Online Free

Quentin quite forgetful, despite his school top hat and tails, of Ladbroke Grove proprieties. ‘Oh! We’ll chase the buffalo, yes we’ll chase the buffalo, in the wilds of West Kensington, we’ll chase the buffalo.’ Many in the large crowd turned with amusement or surprise to see these posh youngsters singing so loudly in public. Mr Matthews, by now conscious of the public gaze, smiled and swung his walking stick a little at the attentions of the passers-by; his wife smiled, too, to see him smiling. ‘Billy loves public notice, don’t you, darling?’ She put her gloved hand on his white linen sleeve – in the intense heat of that summer day he had got out his tropical suit, relict of their Madeirahoneymoon. Herself, she twirled her cream lace parasol a little. Old Mrs Matthews smiled, a trifle askance, and kept her eyes intent upon the asphalt; ‘The conventions weren’t made for Will. And never have been.’ Miss Rickards, as usual, seemed to see nothing. Turning her head, she made kissing noises with her lips at the knowing green parrot that perched on her shoulder. But young Mrs Matthews knew her aunt too well to be deceived. ‘Don’t hide your face in Mr Polly, Mouse. She doesn’t want to admit that you’ve made her smile, Billy. Eccentric Mouse is the really conventional one.’ She turned to look behind her for Stoker. ‘And Stoker’s singing too.’ And so the quaint cockney was, if you could call the tuneless drone singing.
    Marcus, the youngest, spoke. ‘But there weren’t any buffaloes, were there?’
    His father smiled, ‘Trust His Nibs to have noticed that deficiency.’ He bent down and putting his face close to his small son’s, ‘No, Markie, and a very good thing too. Performing animals can only be trained by cruelty. Jack London proved that. Not that I should wish to criticize circuses. A wonderful people, the circus folk. But wild animals should be of the wild. I’ve often thought of writing the story of the last great bull buffalo roaring out his defiance of the Paleface on the prairies.’
    â€˜Oh, you should write it, Will,’ said his mother, ‘shouldn’t he, children?’
    â€˜I hope,’ said Miss Rickard, ‘that if you do, you’ll remember that they’re bison, William. Buffalo’s an entirely Yankee word for bison. The true buffaloes are only to be found in Asia and Africa. You see them wherever rice grows. Great patient creatures with huge sad eyes. What the school text books of my day called “friends to man”.’
    Once again young Mrs Matthews put out her small gloved hand. This time she turned and placed it on Miss Rickard’s grey shantung arm. ‘Darling Mouse.’
    Old Mrs Matthews blew a little under her veil. ‘Will’s always had the power to bring places to life, no matter whether he’s seen them or not. Do you remember, dear boy, how you startled them all at Joppins with your tales of life in Peking! Peking! And he was only six and a half. You couldn’t have been more because Porter was still with us. Oh dear! Such happy days! Major Cayley said then you would be a writer. You must have travelled everywhere, Miss Rickards.’
    â€˜Enough to have a number of the usual tedious travellers’ tales. Though they are true.’
    â€˜The places you sent me postcards from, Mouse, when I was little! There was one of cowboys, children, I perfectly remember it. You must tell them all about that, Mouse. But not till we’ve found somewhere for tea. I’m dying for a cup of tea. The dust and the heat!’ Young Mrs Matthews let her whole hour-glass figure wilt and even the grey ostrich plumes in her hat seemed suddenly bedraggled. ‘Find us tea, Billy. You’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you, Stoker?’
    â€˜Yes, Mum.’
    â€˜And you enjoyed the cowboys?’
    â€˜Yes,