WHAT DOES IT?

Nicholas, almost six and given to moods of deep speculation, said wonderingly after gazing for some moments intently at his Grandma’s face, "You’re pretty old, aren’t you Grandma?" and Grandma, smiling gamely, agreed that she supposed she was getting on. Yes.

"Like Fred," continued Nicholas perseveringly. Seeing that Fred was Nicholas’ ancient Teddy Bear and now almost moribund, having lost a leg, an eye, and much of his stuffing, this remark did little for Grandma’s morale.

Nevertheless keeping one’s end up was the name of the game where Nicholas was concerned, so she replied that certainly they were both old, she and Fred -- "Each in our different ways," she added brightly, meanwhile hoping that now perhaps the subject might be decently dropped.

Not so. Nicholas obviously had more on his mind to pursue and like the Ancient Mariner with his glittering eye he continued gazing intently at his Granma. "What does it, Grandma?" he said eventually, "What DOES it?"

Whether Grandma ever got round to answering this loaded question is doubtful. Already she felt her mind had been stretched almost to breaking point by a spate of similar searching queries such as, "Where were you and Grandpa when I was a seed?" and "What tells the puppies when it’s time to come out of Jill’s tummy?" for example, and she found herself thinking that to deal adequately with an afternoon of Nicholas one needed good A levels, and a degree in biology wouldn’t come amiss either.

"What does it?" says Nicholas. "What does it?" say I, or words to that effect, when I watch a tiny insect scuttle across the page of the book I am reading, all of its minute machinery functioning perfectly. "What does it?" that closes the daisy heads, petal by petal on the scrap of grass beneath my window each night? That sustains the migrant bird on its perilous journey over deserts and seas? That regulates the complex curriculum of our bodies? That causes us to sleep, to dream, to wake and to swing in our wakings mysteriously from mood to mood?

All these manifestations and countless others go on quietly and secretly about their own business. Behind our backs so to speak. No wonder Nicholas is puzzled. What he would like, is to see it all happening. To see the daisy petals actually move into their nightly position. To see what the unborn puppies are doing behind the furry warm skin of Jill’s body. To see a fresh wrinkle fold itself into his

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Grandma’s face. To catch them all at it, in fact. Why is one person’s face so smooth and pink and another face, with all the same things on it -- eyes, nose, mouth -- so different? Why do things grow and change and wear out? Be there and then not there? "What does it?" cries Nicholas.

Poor Nicholas, you and your questions. If you go on like this, as I’m sure you will, there will be conundrums mightier yet in front of you as you grow up. They’ll be the conundrums of your own kind, if you observe human behaviour as intently as you are observing Gran’s wrinkles and Fred’s bursting seams, and your "What does it?" will change to "Why do they?" After which, being that sort of an analytical animal, no doubt you will direct your attention in due course to your own behaviour and then Heaven help you!

It’ll be a question then of "What am I?" and "Why do I?" and the more you try to resolve this question the more puzzled you’ll become because you’ll find yourself immersed in a whole mish-mash of motives, and the things you’ve prided yourself on may turn out to be worthless and the things you’ve scorned to be of value. Contradictions and affirmations, denials and desires all jumbled together, in which case you may be tempted to give it all up as a bad job, but if so, pause and think again.

In fact hang on by the skin of your teeth if needs be, for who knows what you may find among the debris? "Turn but a stone and start a wing . . ." for instance? And if you tell me that far from finding wings under stones the odds are that you are more likely to disturb a beetle, well, so what? There’s still room for wonder surely? Furthermore I’ll remind you that beetles sometimes grow wings too.