Noel Streatfeild
AUNT CLARA
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Also by Noel Streatfeild
and available from Bello
The Whicharts
Parson’s Nine
A Shepherdess of Sheep
It Pays to be Good
Caroline England
Luke
The Winter is Past
I Ordered a Table for Six
Myra Carrol
Grass in Piccadilly
Mothering Sunday
Aunt Clara
Judith
The Silent Speaker
ebreak
AUNT CLARA
ebreak
SIMON HILTON lay in bed. He felt in good humour. It was a pleasant day. It was June, his favourite month. He had done well recently on the horses. He gave a mental satisfied nod. Done remarkably well especially at Ascot. There was something to be said for being too old to attend race meetings. Taking the round he had done better since he had betted off the course. That was partly due to Henry, the fellow had a wonderful nose for smelling out winners. Thinking of Henry made Simon turn his head to look at the clock. Eight ten! No breakfast! No papers! Damn the fellow, he was late. He put a finger on the bell and held it there.
* * * * *
It was nearing eleven years since Henry, in the course of his duty as an air-raid warden, had broken into a house he believed to be empty, to look for an unexploded bomb, and had met Simon. Simon, wrapped in a brown check dressing-gown which once had fitted but, as he had aged, had become several sizes too large, was blazing with indignation. What the devil did Henry think he was doin’ breakin’ into a gentleman’s house in the middle of the night! Henry’s ex-planation did nothing to soothe. Wasn’t there a bell? Simon didn’t know what things were comin’ to when a feller could break into a house on a trumped-up excuse of an unexploded bomb.
Back at his post, describing the scene to his fellow wardens, Henry had said, “Nice old gentleman though. You couldn’t ’elp likin’ ’im, p’or old geezer.” Later he had repeated the same remarks to his post-warden and had thereupon been detailed to visit in the morning to try and discover what was happening. The house was scheduled as empty, what was the old gentleman doing there? Was he alone? Who was looking after him? Could he be persuaded to sleep in a shelter?
Henry had visited Simon, this time ringing the door-bell in a proper manner. Simon, still wearing his dressing-gown, had been grumpy and suspicious, but the genuine warmth and friendliness shining from Henry’s cockney soul won him over, and with a gesture of his head he had beckoned him to follow him upstairs.
Simon rented the first and second floor of a five-story house, but all Henry saw on that first visit was the bedroom and bathroom. Henry was not tidy himself but he did think the bedroom a shocking mess. The bed was unmade but he thought nothing of that, it was more the mixture of things on the floor which bothered him. There were several dust-sheets, many packing cases, some half prised open, some shut, a pile of sheets and towels, a quantity of books, some dirty plates and glasses, and oddments of clothing. Simon seemed unmoved by the muddle in which he lived. He rummaged in a cupboard, and brought out a bottle of whisky and a siphon.
“Sit down.” He looked round. “Push whatever’s on that chair off it. Can you see any clean glasses anywhere?”
There were no clean glasses, but Henry took the used ones to the bathroom and washed them, and while drinking whisky heard something of Simon’s history.
“My man Peterson, naval reservist, wonderful fellow, did everythin’ for me, gettin’ on or he would have been called up before. Pity.”
Later, as a second whisky mellowed him, Simon told Henry why he was inhabiting a house scheduled as evacuated.
“My eldest nephew George got me out of here. Dirty business. I hate crooked dealin’s. He said to me, ‘I’ll run you down to stay with Father for a day or two while I look round for someone to replace Peterson.’ His father, my only brother William, lives in Somerset, damn wet barrack of a place. Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go, nothin’ to drink, no race meetin’s within miles. My brother William’s failin’, been failin’ for years. I soon got on to George’s little game, and I smelt his wife Vera’s hand in the business. Thought his father needed company, been lonely since his wife died. God knows why, fussy type of woman Constance was. My niece Clara’s there, of course, but she’s a proper old maid, no company for William. George thought he’d landed me there for the duration. Silly chump, can’t catch an old ’un that way. Two days ago I upped and came back here.”
Over a third whisky Simon’s original feeling of liking for Henry ripened. He liked the look of him. The sparrow-like eyes. The sturdy, though rather stunted body. The heavy thatch of nondescript hair.
“Tell me about yourself. What you doin’ in that comic uniform? Why aren’t you soldierin’?”
It took some time to drag Henry’s story out of him, and much of it Simon only picked up in later years. The childhood in which enough to eat was a rarity, Dad’s wages as a casual dock labourer being uncertain, and made more uncertain by strikes, lock-outs and patches when he tried to make easy money and was caught and sent “inside.” Henry, at the age of ten had been found to suffer from a rheumatic heart, a complaint all too common amongst the children in the low-lying, damp area in which he lived. He had enjoyed the next years, first in hospital, then in a convalescent home, finally at an open-air school, and at fourteen he came out into the world with reasonable health, provided he chose a career which would not mean weight-lifting. Simon learned that in Henry’s family you did not choose careers, you took on whatever was going at the time, the word “lad wanted” being the pointer. Henry did not tell Simon all the jobs he had held, it was likely he had forgotten half of them; he had worked in a tea factory, “but they was water machines and the damp was chronic.” He had spent some months rag sorting, but it had made him cough; he had been errand boy to various firms. Finally he had worked as a van boy. That, Henry said, had been a smashin’ job. Apart from his work on the van he had helped look after the two horses. Bit of all right that had been. Then the slump came. The firm for which Henry worked was small, so Henry was laid off. For a time he had joined the other men and boys, loafing outside the labour exchange, but it had “given him the sick,” so he had “done jobs” for a chap he knew who was in the street betting line.
It was when he came to this part of his history that the friendship between Henry and old Simon began to bud. Simon had never made a bet at a street corner in his life, but as Henry told him in his flat, under-stated way, of the men and lads whose days were dead of hope, who hung about outside the labour exchange, and shoved pence squeezed out of their dole, wrapped in a scrap of paper, surreptitiously into his hand, he grew angry.
“Why shouldn’t the poor devils have a bet if they wanted to? Lot of nonsense the police interferin’.”
Henry, after years of police-dodging, was surprised and a little shocked.
“It’s not legal, see, doin’ it that way. You got to put it on proper with a bookie what knows you, or one on the course.”
“But the fellers you’re talkin’ of wouldn’t be on a bookmaker’s books.”
“Too right they wouldn’t, nor ’ave the coppers to telephone ’im, that’s where we come in, see; but it’s not legal, we’d ’ave been for it if we’d been caught.”
Simon was unaccustomed to whisky for breakfast, and Henry, who was a beer drinker, unaccustomed to it at all. The effect was therefore potent. It was not long before Simon was holding out an unsteady hand, saying:
“Like you, Henry me boy. Dir’ shame ’bout the bettin’. Ought to do somethin’ ’bout it.”
And Henry, who was almost incapable of replying at all, was murmuring:
“Said strai’ away, like the p’or ole geezer.”
By mid-morning both Simon and Henry were asleep, Simon sprawled on the bed, Henry in his chair, and they did not wake until the wail of the siren at sunset. Almost nothing else would have woken Henry, but by then his life was built round what he called the sireen, and its note practically would have called him back from the dead. He looked round and recalled where he was. He went to the bathroom for a quick wash and brush up, then he was fit for duty. As he was leaving the bedroom Simon sat up. He turned inflamed, angry eyes on Henry.
“You here again?”
Henry beat up the pillows; it was no good bothering with the bed, which by that time needed very considerable attention.
“Can’t stop now, sir, the guns is starting up, but I’ll be back later with a bit of supper for you. Where’s the key?”
The next day Henry moved in. He had been working for a Kensington bookmaker when war was declared, and had lodged with a married brother in North Kensington. Turned down for the Services because of his heart he had signed on as a warden at the post nearest to his work. Officially he was still lodging with his relatives in North Kensington, actually the distance from his post made that impossible, so he boxed and coxed with a day worker, a system which even his not very fastidious code found unpleasant.
Henry came into Simon’s life at a crucial moment. He had never married, but his brother William had not only married but produced five children, all of whom save one had married, and the marriages had resulted in progeny. In time most of the progeny had married and had produced between them eight great-great-nieces and nephews for Simon. As far as Simon was concerned his family could do what they liked so long as they left him alone, but that was not how his family viewed the situation. Simon was old and Simon was believed to be rich; times were hard and children expensive; Simon must be watched, guarded, cherished. When his escape from Somerset became known, and it was discovered he had returned to London, his nephew George with his wife Vera came up to London prepared to take Simon back to Somerset, if necessary by force.
Both George and Vera were busy, they had already once packed and despatched old Simon. It was asking a good deal of nephews and nieces to pack and despatch an aged uncle twice. On the journey up they reminded each other how good they were being, with the result that the nearer they got to London the more they inwardly swelled. By the time they reached London the inward swelling was coming out in expressed self-satisfaction. They were being wonderfully tolerant and splendid . . . no harm in knowing it.
“Poor old thing,” said Vera, pressing Simon’s doorbell, “alone in this place without a soul to look after him, and air-raids and all. He may pretend he’s not glad to see us, that’s his way, but really he’ll be thankful.”
It is annoying when you arrive bursting with good intentions to rescue one in dire straits to find the straits non-existent. George and Vera’s visit was in the morning; Henry was home from night duty but not yet in bed. The previous night’s raid had not affected the area looked after by Henry’s post, so his uniform was free of dust and rubble, in fact, for him, Henry looked spruce. He had never seen either George or Vera before, and had no idea who they were. He behaved as he would have behaved in his own home. He opened the door about a foot, and used the resentful, upward inflected “Yes?” of his world, designed to give nothing away, discourage salesmen, and prevent those demanding money from learning there was money in the house.
George and Vera took an immediate dislike to Henry. Who was this daring to stand in that possessive manner on their uncle’s doorstep? Who was daring to be there at all, upsetting their plans for rescuing a lonely, frightened old man? George explained who they were, then he pushed the door, intending that he and Vera, without discussion, should go up to Simon. Henry had been trained since birth to keep a foot behind a door when opening it, so the door did not move, but Henry’s eyes had grown thoughtful. This must be the eldest nephew George, the one who had got the poor old gentleman down to that nasty damp Somerset by a trick, just to keep his old father company. Still, he was a relative and as such had a right to be let in. Unwillingly he drew away his foot and held the door open.
Henry was in no sense a valet, but he had strong views on how the elderly should be treated. You did what you could to make them comfortable. Gave them a share of anything that was going, and when possible let them have their little comforts. Simon was different in many ways from the other old persons Henry had met, but in one way he acted as he expected. Simon might talk in as independent a manner as he liked, he might have money and need no one to earn for him, but he was lonely and counted on Henry’s company. He tried to disguise it but Henry was not fooled. When he came home in the mornings he might be greeted with “Damn noisy feller you are. Must you slam the front door?” But he knew from the look on Simon’s face that he had been listening for the front door, and had thought up something “sarky” to say to hide his real feelings. From the day Henry moved in he had taken charge, not obtrusively, Simon would have resented that, but casually. “Don’t see what we want with all this on the floor. What say I take it down the apples and pears and put it in the front room?” “One of our wardens has a trouble and strife does washin’. Reckon I’ll take a bundle along to ’er when I go on duty to-night.” “Where d’you keep your shavin’ things? If you don’t ’ave a shave soon I’ll ’ire you out for Father Christmas when the time comes.” “Give me the sick seein’ you in that old dressin’-gown; seems a bit off wearin’ that with a ’ouse full of posh suits.”
Simon’s bedroom, bathroom and what had been Peterson’s room and had now become Henry’s, were on the second floor. What Henry called the front room, the enormous stuccoed Victorian drawing-room, and the kitchen, were on the first floor. Henry never had thought much of front rooms, and Simon’s shuttered, dust-sheeted sample was, he felt, no concern of his, except that it made a fine dumping ground for everything not wanted elsewhere. Henry, after night duty, had more than enough to do tidying Simon’s room and the kitchen, and it seemed to him, seeing Simon appeared to be in good health, ridiculous that he did nothing to help.
“Can’t peel a potato, the p’or old B,” he told his fellow wardens, “and if you ask ’im to do somethin’ he doesn’t ’alf give you a funny look, as if ’e was wonderin’ if you’d a brick loose suggestin’ such a thin’.”
On the day of George’s and Vera’s visit, Simon, thanks to Henry, had eaten a good breakfast, and was shaved and dressed. Henry had made the bed, slightly tidied the room and lit the electric fire, and Simon was sitting beside it reading The Times. That there had been stormy words between himself and Henry, and that he was still bristling with annoyance, was not apparent. Henry was glad of a roof and Peterson’s room, but there were limits to what he would do to pay for them. He was willing to cook breakfast, for he was fond of a good breakfast. He was willing to cook a meal about five, for he needed something to eat before he went on night duty, and he was willing to tidy up the place, but he was not willing to do the shopping. Simon must do that. Before he went to bed he gave Simon the shopping list.
“You put on your tit-for, it’ll do you good to get out.”
Simon, although he paid him no wages, considered Henry had taken the place of Peterson. He forgot that Peterson had used the help of a daily woman, and that in the days before the war shopping was done over the telephone, and goods delivered, so he was bitterly resentful of what he considered “damned impertinence.” “Funny thing,” he told himself, “when your man sends you out to do the shoppin’ for him.”
It was by accident that Henry discovered the way to force Simon into the shops. The newsagent that Simon had dealt with had been called up, so Simon, who loved reading the papers over his breakfast, was dependent on Henry buying them on his return from night work. He took The Winner, The Sporting Life, The Greyhound Express and The Times. On Henry’s third morning in the house he was early leaving his warden’s post, and Simon’s newsagent w
as not open, and the only paper on Simon’s list he could buy was The Times. Simon was furious.
“I don’t read this thing till the afternoon and you know it. How d’you think I’m goin’ to lay me bets?”
Henry saw the answer in a flash.
“If I find you done the shoppin’ when I get up, I’ll fix it so you ’ave your papers breakfast time.”
It took two more days without sporting papers before Simon gave in, and the second morning without them was the morning when George and Vera called. Simon looked at them, his eyes flinty with bad temper.
“What d’you want?”
George and Vera did not know what to answer. Their carefully-planned arguments faded as they looked at him. They could not say you can’t stay here with no one to look after you when clearly someone was looking after him. George had heard before how little Simon bothered about air-raids, and knew his words on that subject included asp-like remarks on the impossibility of everyone living in safe spots, by which he meant George’s cottage on the Sussex Downs, so George was unwilling to re-open that subject. He could not say the truth, which was that if he could know for certain that his uncle had made a will, leaving, as was surely right, everything of which he died possessed to his eldest nephew George, and later to George’s children, he could stay in London risking death from a bomb, or indeed risk dying anywhere he fancied for all he cared. Rather winded by the sudden transition from guardian angels of the old to interfering relatives, which was what Simon obviously considered them, George and Vera, after making attempts to start a conversation, slunk out of the room. Slunk was not the word either would have used, but both knew it described their departure. But then who wouldn’t slink when, after a tiring journey, you had to try and talk to somebody who refused to answer, in fact never took their eyes from The Times.
Aunt Clara Page 1
