Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  In spite of the family hand washing, the family continued to use Clara, for it was a habit not easily broken. She was no longer sent for in times of illness, for that meant her sleeping in the house, and sleeping in a house could sneak into a permanent arrangement. Instead she was ordered to meet trains, take children to dentists, and to shop. It was on the way back from taking Ann Hind’s Ursula to the station after a visit to the dentist that Clara called on Simon. A little exhausted, for the day was hot, and Ursula had screamed at the dentist, she rang Simon’s bell.

  * * * * *

  Henry was immensely relieved when he saw Clara. As he locked the drawing-room and scurried down the stairs, he thought with bitterness that it could only be one of the relatives who would choose a day like to-day, and he would be lucky if it wasn’t that Mr. and Mrs. George. He grinned thankfully at Clara.

  “Oh! It’s only you, miss.”

  Clara looked Henry up and down.

  “What has happened?”

  Henry had forgotten how he must be looking. He wondered what Clara meant. His dislike of nosiness, especially nosiness from those not given to nosing, was in his voice.

  “Nothin’ special. What should ’ave?”

  “Your clothes! Look at you. Are you spring cleaning?”

  Henry examined those parts of himself that he could see, and understood Clara’s surprise. He shook his coat and brushed his trousers while he considered what explanation he should give. Not easy to fox Miss Clara, she knew he wasn’t the spring-cleaning sort.

  “Just givin’ me kitchen cupboard a turn out.”

  Clara, with years of mission work in south London to guide her, knew that something was going on which Henry did not intend her to know about. She respected Henry; he was in charge, there was no reason why he should tell her what made him look as if he had been travelling in a dust cart. She changed the subject.

  “I have been taking my little great-niece Ursula to the dentist. Mrs. Hind’s little girl, you know, and she told me that there was going to be a family party for Mr. Hilton’s eightieth birthday, I understand not on his birthday but in July. I wondered what you thought about it. Is he fit for it?”

  Henry jerked his head in the direction of Simon’s room.

  “He won’t ’ave it. Created alarmin’ when the letters come.”

  Clara was relieved. She would have tackled her family if Henry thought the party might be too much for Simon, as she tackled anything she knew to be a duty, but it would have been a difficult task if not a fruitless one.

  “Oh, splendid. There’s nothing to worry about then.”

  Henry looked at Clara’s kind blue eyes gazing at him through her pince-nez. Miss Clara was no trouble-maker, she was the busy sort, but not one to run to the old gentleman. It might be she would see a way of putting it to him that the front room was not suitable, without upsetting him. His voice took an inflection which had been much used in his home when there was trouble. It was accompanied by another upward jerk of his head, this time indicating the kitchen.

  “Could you come in for a minute?”

  Clara recognised the inflection. She heard it almost daily in her mission work. It meant that over the kitchen table she was to hear of disgrace, a wayward child, illness or money trouble. She always obeyed that inflection, and always hoped to help, or if that were impossible, to comfort. Without further words she followed Henry upstairs.

  Henry had to put in some strenuous work before it was possible to get the door wide enough open for Clara to get into the drawing-room. While he worked he looked round. This was a nice to-do, this was. He oughtn’t to have showed it to Miss Clara, not till he’d done a bit of tidying. Enough to turn anyone over seeing it like this.

  Clara walked round the drawing-room. She examined the walls, she studied the woodwork, she instructed Henry to force open the shutters of the other windows to give more light, then she looked at the ceiling. Her inspection over, she said:

  “No bugs. Isn’t that splendid!”

  Henry had grown up in a world where bugs were taken for granted, and though it was years since he had lived with them, he still thought no worse of a house for harbouring them.

  “Come to think of it I ’aven’t seen one since I come to the ’ouse.”

  Clara’s years of mission work had taught her what neglect could do to a house. She had come into the drawing-room, not to criticise, but to find out for herself how bad things were, so that she knew what steps to take.

  “Really this is a job for the local authority’s public cleansing department.” Henry gave a low, dismayed whistle, which Clara interpreted correctly. “But we won’t send for them. Their coming to the house would be bound to be noticed, and there might be unpleasantness which might reach Mr. Hilton, and of course that must be avoided. I can find a team of women to clean and scrub, but what is worrying me is how to get rid of all this.” She swept a gloved hand over the decayed rubbish. “Do you know any men you could trust?”

  Henry’s mind went back to his warden’s post. There was Nobby, he was in the log business, he had a cart and he would know how to get someone to help and where to dump the stuff.

  “There was a chappie was a warden with me, ’e might do it. ’e’s workin’ in the daytime but . . .”

  Clara recognised the caution in Henry’s voice. It did not mean he was doubtful if he could get the help of his warden friend, but merely that it was against his upbringing to commit himself.

  “Good.” Clara lowered her voice. “The best time would be when everybody’s in bed, if it could be done quietly, and it would be so much easier to dispose of everything at night. It should be burned, but that is so difficult in London; perhaps in the middle of a large bomb site it couldn’t do any harm, I doubt if moths fly far.”

  Back in the kitchen, over a cup of tea to lay the dust, Henry and Clara discussed ways and means. Clara explained that though her little income was ample for her needs it could not be stretched to pay for Henry’s warden friend or for the army of cleaners that would be needed before a caterer could be brought to see the room.

  “I don’t like doing things behind Mr. Hilton’s back, dear old man, but if he insists, as you say he does, on this luncheon in the drawing-room in August, we must deceive him, I’m afraid. Is it possible to get him to spend a quite considerable sum of money without knowing what it is for?”

  “No. ’e leaves most of ’is business to me if it means goin’ to see anyone, but ’e goes through ’is books like a dose of salts. Wonderful spry ’e is for ’is age. No flies on ’im. If I was to ’old back a bit to pay for this ’ow d’you do ’e’d spot it in a minute.”

  Clara spoke gently but reprovingly.

  “I did not mean that, Henry, and you should have known it. Taking money, even for his good, would be dishonest. I am glad to hear he still has a grasp on his affairs. I find that old people are apt to rust away and become senile, unless they use their brains.”

  Henry jerked his head in the direction of Simon.

  “No fear of that for ’im. ’e’s as bright to-day as when I first set me pies on ’im, September 1940 that was.”

  Clara’s mind was searching for an answer to their problem.

  “It will have to be part of the caterer’s bill. You must find out what your warden friend will charge, and I will find out what women I can get to clean. There are some old friends who come to the mission who would do it for nothing, but I couldn’t allow that, and then, of course, there will be their expenses in getting here. I think it might be as well to prepare Mr. Hilton for considerable expense.”

  Henry thought of Simon lying comfortably in his bed laughing his inside out at the thought of his party, while he and Miss Clara got themselves all over dirt fixing things for him. He answered with a glint in his eyes.

  “You leave that to me, miss. I’ll see ’e coughs up the needful.”

  Clara got up and dusted herself. She took a card from her bag and wrote on it.

  “That’s the mis
sion telephone number. You can get me there between nine and ten any morning. Let me know when your friend will have finished removing the rubbish and I’ll bring my cleaners up.” Clara was turning to go when a thought struck her. “And Henry, don’t tell my uncle I’ve been here. I don’t think he would like it if he knew I was interfering in his domestic arrangements. It must be a secret between you and me.”

  Henry looked at Clara. Funny how different brothers and sisters could be. If any of the others had popped in and seen the front room they couldn’t have waited to run to their uncle and, supposing they were doing as much to put it right as Miss Clara was doing, which they wouldn’t, they couldn’t have waited to tell him that either. Any chance of putting themselves forward and they weren’t backward; never took an eye off the old man’s little bit hoping to be in on the share-out. It was a shame Miss Clara was so simple; she’d more right than most to anything there might be when the old fellow kicked it.

  “I won’t say nothin’ now, but when the room’s spruced-up it’d be only right ’e should know. I’ll tell ’im you ’elped me over the caterer and that.”

  Clara put on her gloves which she had taken off for the tea drinking.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Old folk are apt to get strange ideas, and I’m afraid my uncle might think I was hoping to be remembered in his will. Dear old man, as if I cared what happens to his money; all that matters is that he should enjoy it while he’s alive.”

  Henry thought for a moment Clara was pulling his leg. She couldn’t really be as simple as that. She must know what the others were up to. Then a look at Clara and the idea melted as if it were snow. Miss Clara had said what she meant, she was good all through. Poor thing, she didn’t ought to be let loose, bound to be done in the eye her sort was.

  “He did ought to know. Others would tell ’im, if they took the trouble you’re takin’; after all, what ’e’s got ’as to go to someone.”

  “Nonsense, Henry. In any case I want nothing. I’ve more than sufficient for my needs.”

  Henry felt an urge to guard and protect.

  “Still, if anythin’s to come you did ought to ’ave your cut.”

  Clara could feel that Henry was trying to be helpful, so, though talking of dividing Simon’s money while he was still alive was distasteful to her, she answered kindly.

  “You remind me of a dear old hymn we sing nearly every week at the mission. ‘Lord I hear a shower of blessing—Thou art scattering full and free—Showers the thirsty land refreshing; Let some droppings fall on me—Even me!’” Henry only knew one meaning of the word droppings and was surprised it should be mentioned in a hymn. While he was thinking this Clara added: “You understand, Henry, any help I may give is not to be mentioned. If I find it has been I shall cease to help.”

  * * * * *

  “DEAR NIECE,

  “Thank you for your letter. It was kind of you all to plan a party for the occasion of my eightieth birthday in July. I was, however, born on August the fifteenth and shall not therefore be eighty until that day. I had not thought of a celebration but since you suggest it, I have decided to give a luncheon party here, at which I hope my family will be present, including my five great-great-nephews and my three great-great-nieces. The luncheon on August 15th will be at one o’clock. You will perhaps be good enough to pass this information round the family.

  Your affectionate uncle,

  SIMON HILTON”

  This letter, telephoned round the family, caused first anger and then dismay. As Vera read Simon’s words telephones snorted as if fire-breathing dragons lived in them. “August!” screamed Ethel. “But Ronnie’s taking us to the sea. Pansy and Peter are so ’cited about it. I couldn’t disappoint them. Ronnie must write to Uncle Simon and say we can’t be there.” “But, Aunt Vera,” Ann Hind whined, “I can’t change my plans now, I’ve not been a bit well, my nerves are all to pieces, and anyway I’ve promised Ursula and Gordon they’re going and I couldn’t disappoint them now. I do feel, as their Daddy has deserted them, their Mummie must be extra careful not to let them down.” “Oh, Vera, how tiresome!” said Sybil. “We shan’t be there, you know. We’re going to Spain with Claudie; well, not with him exactly, because he has a friend going with him, but near him. It’s all arranged.” “It will be impossible for Marjorie and Alison,” Maurice explained. “They’ve promised to help with the harvest, and I think they will consider that promise a sacred trust.” Myrtle sounded grieved. “August! But, Aunt Vera, he can’t have read my letter. I told him I was taking little Frank to visit his daddy’s grave.” “Let him hold his old party,” Freda said. “I simply can’t come to London in August; if he’d ever had a baby he wouldn’t suggest it. Anyway, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing Poppet and Noel. They’re already playing sandcastles in the nursery.” Rita lost her temper. “Inconsiderate old beast! I’ve fixed fishing and everything for Tim, and I’m not upsetting my plans for him and Derek for a selfish old man.”

  By the next morning second thoughts prevailed. The general home talk put the subject on a high plane. Simon was very old, and relations should be good to the very old. The telephone calls were from parents to children. George rang his three. He had not seen his uncle’s will, but it was likely that, as the eldest nephew, the money would pass to him. That being so, he thought it would be a suitable gesture if they were all present at this luncheon, and there was no need to tell the rest of the family they intended to attend. Maurice came down to breakfast wearing the face his daughters recognised as the one worn after wrestling in prayer. It was not Maurice’s way to make a clear statement about anything, but as the porridge was cleared off the table and fishcakes took its place, it did emerge that God had hinted that if two duties conflicted then the duty of eating lunch with an aged uncle superseded the country’s need for help with the crops. God also seemed to have hinted that His advice was to Maurice and family only, and not to be passed on. Sybil had trouble with Claud. “But, Mumsie, you know how cross Freddie gets at the weest change in his plans. He’ll be mad with rage if I put him off. He’s been so Spanish lately, he uses castanets instead of ringing his bell. Still, I suppose I could fly back for one day, but don’t yatter about it. Let’s be the only ones to make the supreme sacrifice.” Alice left the telephoning of her brood to her husband. Sir Frederick Cole never minced his words. “Don’t be daft,” he told Ann and Myrtle, “put off anything, and bring the children. I reckon you two are well in the running. A widow, and a deserted wife ought to be remembered. It’s only right. And keep the fact that you and the children will be there to yourselves, no harm in out-smarting the family for once.”

  It was not until July that Vera remembered Clara. She was cleaning her face before getting into bed, when George whistled a bar of a hymn which brought her to mind.

  “Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten to tell Clara about Uncle Simon’s lunch. I’ll write to-morrow.”

  George got into his bed. If Clara knew of the luncheon she was sure to come to it. She could not be going away, for she had no money. Since the frantic telephone messages after the reception of Simon’s letter the luncheon had not been mentioned in an inter-family way. It was to be hoped none of the others were upsetting their plans for it. It was likely, and much to be desired, that he, Vera, their children and grandchildren would be the only guests. It would be a mistake to have Clara there.

  “As she’s been forgotten until now, I should leave Clara out. It might hurt her feelings if she knew it was planned in June and she did not hear of it until July.”

  Vera finished cleaning her face, while she considered the implications of what George had said.

  “I daresay you’re right, it would be an expense for her to come up and I’m sure she’s nothing fit to put on, poor dear. It will be kinder not to mention it.”

  * * * * *

  In the weeks before Simon’s party Clara and Henry saw a lot of each other. The money needed for cleansing and doing up the room had, as Henry expected, been easy to acqui
re.

  Simon, gloating at the thought of the effect of his letter, would have paid far more than Henry asked to feel his plans were going ahead.

  “Here’s a cheque. Take it to the bank and cash it. If there’s any over after the party you can keep it. But, mind you, I want a slap-up affair; flowers, champagne, the whole boilin’.”

  While Clara’s flock of women cleaners scrubbed and cleaned Henry and Clara conferred in the kitchen. Clara learned of the skilful way in which Nobby and his friend Sid had disposed of the rubbish.

  “Proper scream it was. They comes of a night-time, after eleven, it was, and seein’ we don’t want anyone gettin’ nosey, they leaves their boots in the ’all. I told Nobby to bring somethin’ to park the stuff in, and what ’e brings is a coupl’ a long wooden cases for all the world like coffins. When they was packed and ’e an’ Sid was carrying the first one out, he laid a bit of pampas, what I’d put in the front room, on the top of the box, and ’e says to me, ‘Where’s yer manners ’enery, get yer tit-for and ’old it with your ’ead bowed; weren’t you taught no proper respec’ for the dead?’ Laugh! Do you know, miss, Sid laughed so much that as near as possible ’e tripped at the bottom of the old apples, and if ’e ’ad it would ’ave brought Mrs. What-not up from the basement; she’s a woman ’o screams at sight of a mouse, so what she’d a done at seein’ a coffin creepin’ by at midnight, Gawd knows.”