After chapel, supper. After supper the real get-together in the drawing-room, where father told stories of his early adventures, and replied as best he might to questions such as: “Is it true the Navy’s going to build a submarine like the one in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea? How big will it be? How fast will it go?” And: “Mr. W. said that soon they’ll be able to telegraph without wires. Is he right?” In those days it was never: “Hey, Dad, what about a drive in the car?” Cars were something of a wonder; catapults could be more easily acquired.
There was a well in the centre of the building, based on a skylight over a portion of the main shop. The boys were playing marbles in the yard when father appeared from the rear door. He wore a small black imperial beard. His eyes were dark, and they could stare or laugh, hold you like the point of a sword, or encompass you with a warming glow.
At this moment his eyes were masked. He held in his hand a glass marble. To Arthur he said:
“You see this marble? Some wretched boy must have fired it up into the air, because it dropped down through the skylight and almost hit a lady customer. Did you fire it with a catapult?”
“No, Dad.”
“Well now, would you do something for me?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Take this marble to Inspector Smith at the police station. Tell him I sent you, and tell him how it must have been fired into the air by a boy with a catapult, and would he try to find the culprit.”
“All right, Dad.”
Wide-eyed concern in the eyes of the brothers. Off went Arthur to the police station, where one had to pass through iron gates in a high stone wall, along a wide stone-paved space bordered by prison cells, the court, the quarters for unmarried constables, the officers’ quarters, and the charge office.
Inspector Smith was seated at his desk. He was large and red, and sported a handle-bar moustache. Like the constable at the charge desk known by young Upfield, Inspector Smith was a familiar figure. He sat back and listened to the tale, nodding his head gravely, and uttering noises expressive of horror.
“Bad, young man. Very bad,” he said. “We’ll have to investigate this affair. My word, that customer in your father’s shop could easily have been killed, couldn’t she?”
Solemnly Arthur agreed. The interview was going off quite well, until:
“I wonder, now.” The inspector stood and held the marble against the light. “This tells me a story.” He rummaged in a drawer and produced a magnifying glass with which he gave long attention to the marble. “Looks like you fired this. Did you?”
“No, Inspector,” replied Arthur.
“Turn out your pockets on to the desk.”
A whistle, marbles, odds and ends. Finally the catapult, a real beauty. “Ah!” breathed the big man, leaning forward to glare at the weapon.
“So you did fire it, didn’t you, young feller?”
The stubborn liar: “No, Inspector.”
The inspector pounded a bell and a constable appeared. He roared: “Lock him up.”
Bawling, the criminal was gripped by an iron vice shaped like a hand, and was conducted to the cells. Bawling, the criminal was locked in, and between yells he heard the slow and ponderous feet march along the corridor. An hour passed, and he still snivelled, and then the lesson was spoiled by a woman. The bolt was shot back and there appeared Mrs. Inspector Smith, as large as her spouse and as red of face.
“You poor mite! I never heard of such a thing! Locking you up like this. You come along with me. Dry your tears. Come along.”
A softer hand this time, a hand holding a hand. Out of the cell, along the corridor and into the early evening sunshine, across the police yard and into a private door, and thence to a kitchen where the table was laden with buttery muffins. At the table, the large Inspector Smith in his shirt-sleeves.
He waited until the snivelling ended and the guest was eating. “Just tell me the truth, Arthur. That’s all.”
“Yes, I shot the ally.”
The inspector’s eyes widened, his face widened, he was the picture of astonishment.
“Then why ever didn’t you say so?”
“Say so!” echoed his wife. “How could he when you frightened the life out of him? Never you mind, Arthur. But listen to me. Never tell fibs. If you do wrong, own up to it.”
“Of course,” supported the inspector. “By the way, how high did you shoot that marble?”
“Out of sight, Inspector Smith. I’m sorry. I won’t…”
He was going to say ‘do it again’, but the policeman cut in with:
“Good! Don’t ever tell lies again. And never fire a shot up into the air. You know, what goes up gotta come down. And never fire without a target. So easy to hurt someone.”
The weapon appeared from thin air. “You promise to be very careful in future?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“I mean about telling lies.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Good. Take your cat. and be off home.”
They smiled at him, and the grandmother and the blessed aunts came through so that he thanked Mrs. Smith for the tea and muffins before clearing out fast. It was a good lesson, but not to be learned for many a year. What was learned was never to lie unless the cover-up was especially good.
But they were good times, sensible times. . . . The police were able to co-operate with parents and when a policeman took an obstreperous boy home, the father dealt it out, instead of stupidly complaining of assault and battery. The schoolteacher dealt it out as and when required, and if the victim whined at home, the parents added their contribution, instead of raving about poor little Freddie being tortured by a cane in the hand of a fiend.
4
Perhaps no man did more than Alfred Harmsworth to prepare the mind of young Upfield’s generation to accept the ever accelerating changes, as well as the preparation for the trials even then looming beyond the North Sea.
Down the street was the shop of the newsagent, a shop which became ever more important during Upfield’s steps into the reading age. It was at the time that Answers drew attention, and what attention! Answers, in its brown cover, sold for tuppence, and it arrived in Gosport late on Monday evenings for sale on Tuesday. On the Monday evening there gathered outside this shop many people waiting for Answers, their main interest being the current instalment of ‘Money’. This serial was followed by another entitled ‘Convict Ninety- Nine’.
Among the crowd were boys who were not interested in Answers but in a paper called The Boys’ Friend, a tuppenny paper printed on green paper, which swiftly came to the fore over the Boy’s Own and Chums. Later, The Boys’ Friend published three tremendous serials entitled ‘Britain Invaded’, ‘Britain at Bay’ and ‘Britain’s Revenge’. These stories dealt with the invasion by Germany of the British Isles.
Another paper issued by the Harmsworth Press, called The Boys’ Realm, was printed on pink paper. It was published on Saturdays, and devoted to sports. Later still, a third paper appeared, printed on white and called The Boys’ Herald. This came out on Thursdays. All matter published in these papers was reasonably well written, straightforward and clean, and hard-pedalled