There must be more money

As this picture flashed past on my screen, I suddenly remembered one of my favorite childhood stories – The Rocking Horse Winner by D.H. Lawrence.

That house that never stopped whispering, “There must be more money.” From beneath the velvety cushions, from behind the satin furnishings it went on whispering, “There must be more money.”

…so the story goes..

There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.

Although they lived in style, The mother used to moan, ” There is never enough money. Your father is so unlucky.”

The boy felt always an anxiety plastered on the walls of the house. “Children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money.” The mother would say.
And then the house would whisper: “There must be more money! There must be more money!”
It came whispering from the expensive toys in the nursery, from the luxurious cutlery on the dining table and from the king sized chandelier hanging from the roof.
….
Then there was a windfall of money by luck. As Paul’s mother touched the whole five thousand, then something very curious happened. The voices in the house suddenly went mad.

There were costly new furnishings now, and Paul had a tutor. He was really going to Eton. There were flowers in the winter, and a blossoming of the luxury.
Yet from behind the sprays of mimosa and almond-blossom, and from under the piles of velvety cushions the sound screamed back, “there should be more money”.
… …
The Derby was drawing near, and the boy grew more and more tense. He hardly listened to any one and his eyes were really uncanny.
Late one night as the mother returned from a status party (because of the boy, now she can afford to be part of the rich and powerful) She could hear a strange sound coming from the boy’s room. It was dark.

…

Suddenly the mother switched on the light, and saw her son, in his green pyjamas, madly surging on the rocking-horse.

“It’s Malabar!” he screamed in a powerful, strange voice. “It’s Malabar!”

His eyes blazed at her for one strange and senseless second. Then he fell with a crash to the ground. He had a fever and he became unconscious. For the next two days, he neither slept nor regained consciousness, and his eyes were like blue stones.
… …
After the Derby was over, the gardener tiptoed into the room. He was a short fellow with brown moustache and used to be the partner of the boy in these activities.

“Master Paul!” he whispered. “Malabar came in first all right, a clean win. You’ve made over seventy thousand pounds.”

“Malabar! Malabar! Did I say Malabar, mother?” Cried the boy. “Do you think I’m lucky, mother? I knew Malabar, didn’t I?”

But the boy died in the night.

And even as he lay dead, his mother heard her brother’s voice saying to her, “My God, Hester, What a luck! You’re today eighty-odd thousand to the good and unfortunately one child bad.”
… …
I don’t remember whether the house stopped whispering after that. Because the boy died. How can the whispers disturb him after that ?
But the ‘Hester’s and her brother ‘Oscar’s of this world would never allow this room in pic to stop whispering, “There must be more money.” The more money, the louder is the whisper.