Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  Together Clara and Henry decided what redecorating the room required. The floor under the carpet was found to be parquet. To Henry parquet was bare boards, fancy boards but nevertheless bare. Bare boards were something to be ashamed of in any home and certainly you hid them when you had company. Clara appreciated Henry’s view. Naturally he did not know parquet when he saw it, why should he? She understood exactly what drew from him “Even a bit of cheap lino would be better’n nothin’.” She was sure Henry would not believe that parquet should not be covered up if she told him so. He knew she had little money, and her home was one small bedroom at the mission. He had never seen the house in Somerset in which she had been brought up, and though, with the flawless seventh sense of his class, he would know exactly to which stratum of society she belonged, that would not mean he trusted her judgment about floorings, and indeed why should he? Instead she said that now the place was clean a caterer should be asked to call, it might be he would have a suggestion to make about the floor.

  Neither Henry nor Clara had the faintest idea where you found the sort of caterer required for a grand luncheon. Clara had never employed a caterer at all; parties at the mission were managed by the workers because it was cheaper, and the food supplied was of the sandwiches and buns order. Henry had attended a victory dinner of wardens and he knew a caterer had been used, but he doubted if it was the sort of catering his old gentleman had in mind.

  “Soup we ’ad, miss, tasty but tinned, sausage and that with a salad, and for afters there was jellies and the like. Very nice, but I think ’e’s lookin’ for somethin’ a bit more posh.”

  Clara could picture the meal, and knew that Simon was expecting something more posh.

  “I’m such a silly ignorant woman, Henry, when it comes to anything grand. I ought to know who to go to; my sisters and sister-in-law would know in a minute, but . . .”

  No word was spoken; both Clara and Henry accepted that the other knew no sister nor sister-in-law could be asked to help. Clara was aware of the fuss there had been when the July party was suggested, and how it had led to this luncheon; but when Henry tried to tell her how the old man was gloating over the replies to his invitation, how he laughed every time he thought of the plans he had upset, she refused to understand. “Dear old man, of course he was upset, after all, a birthday is a birthday. I’ve always thought it very good of the King to allow his birthday to be kept on the wrong day.” And over the family: “It was natural they should suggest July, Henry. August is the children’s holiday month, isn’t it? But when they knew dear old Mr. Hilton was determined to have his party on the right day I’m sure they changed their plans gladly.” In spite of this talk Henry knew that Clara knew how furious the old man would be if one word were said to his family about his party; hadn’t she spotted that straight away when she had told him he must not mention that she was helping?

  The “but” hung in the air answered only by their eyes. Clara’s eyes looked so distressed that Henry felt upset. It was a shame she should look like that after all she had done, bringing those scrubbing women along, and never a word of thanks from anybody. He would have liked to give the old gent a piece of his mind, upsetting everybody just to hand himself a good laugh. Thinking of Simon gave him an idea. He jerked his head towards his bedroom.

  “’e’d know the way to go about it.”

  Clara considered this.

  “He would, but doesn’t he think we already have a caterer? I thought you had allowed him to believe it was the caterer who had sent the women to clean the place. I’m afraid, Henry, our sins have found us out. We’ve been deceitful, and that never pays.”

  Henry was by now accustomed to Clara’s queer views. It was obvious the cleaning of the front room had to be done on the Q.T. and a very nice job they had made of it between them; it was downright silly to talk of deceit never paying, it had paid this time all right.

  “’e does, but I reckon I could put it to him so it would sound on the level. I could let ’im think it was two jobs, ‘iring tables, china and that for one, and the grub was another.”

  Clara sighed. It was a pity that so much had to be done behind Uncle Simon’s back. It felt unpleasantly as though she and Henry were conspiring together. Of course God understood she was doing the best she could in a difficult situation, but was God restraining Henry from telling actual lies?

  Henry had no difficulty with Simon. Simon had enjoyed hearing the noise made by Clara’s women. It was natural the room needed turning out, it hadn’t been used for years. Provided Henry reported nothing but progress he could do what he liked. He was quite happy that the contractors who were turning the drawing-room into a dining-room should not be the firm to handle the catering. He wrote a note to the secretary of his club, explaining what was in the wind and asking who were the best people to get hold of. The secretary, who had supposed Simon, if not actually dead, long past entertaining, sent the name of the most august caterers he knew.

  From that moment the party took shape. The caterer looked at the drawing-room and approved it.

  “Lovely bit of parquet,” he said of the floor. “Nothing to touch it for entertaining. I never like a carpet, things get stamped in no matter what care is taken.” He dismissed the gas stove as beneath contempt. “We shall make our own arrangements. You cannot cater for twenty-nine with this equipment.” He even seemed pleased there were no curtains. “Quite unnecessary in August. I shall place flowers on the balcony.” He refused to discuss food or wine with Henry. “Explain to Mr. Hilton I must see him personally.”

  Henry reported all this to Clara.

  “Funny, ’e says the floor should be left; I didn’t say anythin’, no need, ’e should know we was ignorant, ’e’s not usin’ me gas stove, bringin’ ’is own fixin’s. ’e’s seein’ Mr. Hilton about the grub. I’ve warned ’im to try and keep the old gentleman’s mind off shellfish, death to ’im, that is. I’ve told ’im there’s eight children, the youngest bein’ a baby. ’e says ’e’ll put a special table for them, and bring girls to look after’m.”

  Clara was most relieved to hear how well everything was progressing. It was heart-warming to think that in spite of all difficulties the dear old man was having his party just as he wanted it.

  “Splendid! I shall be here early on the 15th. I don’t suppose there will be anything for me to do, but I shall be about if I’m wanted, for you’ll be busy dressing Mr. Hilton, won’t you?”

  Henry grinned in the direction of Simon’s room.

  “Too right I will. If we ’ave anythin’ like the trouble we ’ad the last time ’e come down, it’ll be quite a mornin’.”

  * * * * *

  Awake in the early hours of his birthday, Simon made the decision that the occasion should be honoured by his wearing morning dress. A dream decided him, for it remained with him after waking, and he was confused between it and reality. In his dream he had attended some long past festivity which called for smart dressing, and had been shocked at the slovenly appearance of some fellow guest. He awoke murmuring “Disgustin’! Fellow shouldn’t have come at all if he couldn’t come properly turned out.” Then he preened himself, admiring his young, slim figure in its sartorial perfection. Gradually he came back to the present; he was no longer young and beautiful to look at, he was not wearing a frock coat and striped trousers, he was wearing flannel pyjamas. From there it came to him what day it was, and Simon groaned. It would be tiring, it would be boring, he never had liked his family, he couldn’t imagine what had made him do such a damn stupid thing as invite them all to the house. Then the morning dress of his dream floated back to him, and he chuckled. He could see his nephew George’s face when he realised he had made a gaffe, and come in the wrong togs. Some hours later, when Henry called him, he remembered his early morning decision.

  “Get out me striped trousers, me frock coat, and me grey waistcoat.”

  Henry knew that Simon was sometimes confused, when he woke, between the past of which he had dreamed, and t
he present.

  “You lean forward and let me give a shake to your weepin’ willows. ’appy birthday and all the best. ’ere’s your papers and the post. No cards nor nothin’, reckon they’ll bring the presents with them.”

  Simon poked Henry with his first finger.

  “Did you hear what I said? Get out me striped trousers, me grey waistcoat and me tail coat.”

  Simon’s morning dress had been in poor condition in Peterson’s day. It was only worn at Ascot, and a good thing too, Peterson had said, for the Lord knew how old it was. It would not have surprised him if it had been made for Mr. Hilton when he was first up at Cambridge. It had been good in its day all right, but clothes could not be expected to stay good for fifty years, especially when they had been let out to fit middle-aged expansion, and taken in to fit shrivelled old age. Peterson, because it was worn so seldom, and was therefore a nuisance to look after, had disliked the outfit and when war was declared had packed it away thinking to himself “He’s never likely to wear that again, praise be.” When Henry had taken over, Simon’s morning suit had been an early discard into the front room. The old man never wore it, was never likely to wear it, and it cluttered up the bedroom. Now, hearing it mentioned, Henry, while placing an extra pillow at Simon’s back, racked his brains to think if he had seen any part of the outfit when the rubbish was carried out. All he could remember was Nobby and Sid having a bit of fun with what once had been a grey topper. Now he came to think of it he seemed to remember he had thrown away that grey topper at the same time as the frock coat, and the rest of the fancy clobber. He supposed the moths had eaten everything except the grey topper for he couldn’t remember seeing anything else. He made a face at Simon’s back. “You old B,” he thought, “you would create about that lot this morning seein’ I’ve ’ad your blue suit steamed and pressed special.”

  To Simon he said:

  “There’s no striped trousers, frock coat nor grey waistcoat in this room, nor never ’as been since I been ’ere.”

  The battle raged. Cupboards were opened. Henry was called every name Simon could lay his tongue to. When it was proved beyond doubt no morning dress existed, Simon, his eyes sultry and his lips pursed like the lips of a small, spoilt boy, refused to accept defeat.

  “I said I’d wear mornin’ dress, and I’ll wear mornin’ dress. I don’t know who is to blame, you or Peterson, but I have a feelin’ it’s you. Now you’ll take a taxi-cab and get along to Moss Brothers and hire the thin’s. You know me measurements. If you’re back without the doin’s I’ll stop your wages.”

  When Henry had left on his mission Simon, thoroughly pleased with himself, lay back against his pillows. He was fond of Henry, knew in fact that he couldn’t get on without the fellow, but that did not mean he could do what he liked. Laying down the law about what he should wear for his luncheon party! Who did he think he was? Why, the fellow had never had more than one suit to his name, didn’t know what morning dress looked like; probably cut it up to clean the silver or some damn thing. Simon slipped for a few minutes into a doze, from which he was awoken by sounds from the catering staff, at work in the drawing-room. He listened a moment, slowly taking in what the sounds meant, who was making them and what the occasion was. He looked round his room. He ought to be dressed. Been talking about clothes to Henry only a few minutes before. Where was Henry? Gossiping with those fellows downstairs most likely, wasting time! Angrily he put his finger on his bell and kept it there.

  Henry, running downstairs to get a taxi, had run into Clara. He had been thankful to see her and, watching for a taxi, had explained to her what had happened.

  “What put it into ’is ’ead to think of that lot this mornin’ beats me. ’e was quite ’appy with ’is blue suit yesterday.”

  Clara had not lived for many years with an ageing father without gaining understanding.

  “It may have been a dream. Old people get mixed up, you know, and Mr. Hilton was what was known as a dandy in his younger days; I often heard my father say so.”

  Henry sighted a taxi.

  “I shouldn’t think he’ll want anythin’, ’e never does of a mornin’, but bein’ to-day with the noise and that, ’e might. If ’e does would you go up, miss, and tell ’im I’ll be back with ’is clothes in a coupl’a shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Clara caught Henry’s arm as he was climbing into the taxi.

  “What did happen to the clothes, just in case he asks me? Was it moths?”

  Henry lifted his shoulders.

  “I don’t know, reckon it must ’a been. All I know is I put ’em in the front room, and when we comes to turn the place out there wasn’t a sign of ’em.”

  The caterer was a competent man. He hurried to and fro supervising and directing. This luncheon was the type of business he liked, an almost free hand and no expense spared. All that was missing was that member of the household that most homes who engaged caterers possessed: the one who stood about ready at the lift of a hand to hurry forward, prepared to admire. Clara had no sooner reached the first floor than the caterer accepted her as this missing fixture. She was, for she told him so, a niece of Mr. Hilton’s. She was there, for she told him so, just in case she was needed. Immediately she was needed. The balcony under the caterer’s instructions had been massed with hydrangeas. He knew they looked beautiful, but he needed to hear some member of the family exclaim at their beauty, and his taste in choosing just that shade of hydrangea. Clara loved flowers, and needed no pressing to admire. They were lovely; she had planned to sit at the children’s table because, she had thought, it might give their mothers a rest, and now she was so glad she had, for the children’s table was laid in front of one of the windows; why, it would be almost like eating lunch in a garden! From the hydrangeas Clara was led to see the flowers being arranged for the table, and from there to the table appointments. The caterer recognised, in spite of her appearance, she knew what was what, and could appreciate that everything was being done in the best taste. He had planned a little surprise for the children’s table, an arrangement of dolls sitting round a cake which had “eighty” on the top in pink sugar. Clara was charmed, but asked what the cake was made of; the eldest children were nine and six, but the others were babies, and ought not to eat anything too rich.

  The caterer was leading Clara to where boxes were being unpacked in order that she should sample a small cake made of the same ingredients, when Simon’s bell not only rang but pealed. Clara made a distressed sound.

  “Oh, dear! That must be my uncle ringing, I didn’t want him to know I was here. He might resent it. You know what old people are, they dislike being interfered with, but I must go to him for Henry is out.”

  Simon peered at Clara.

  “Who the devil are you, ma’am?”

  Clara came to the bedside.

  “Your niece Clara. It’s quite a while since we met. It was in 1940 when you came to stay with Father.”

  Nineteen forty still rankled. Simon scowled.

  “Damn disgrace! George got me there on a trick.”

  Clara understood how he felt.

  “I told him you wouldn’t stay. I was afraid you’d hate the country.”

  Simon pushed his spectacles up his nose, the better to look at Clara.

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  Clara spoke in the slow, comforting voice she had found soothed the old.

  “Henry’s fetching your clothes. He said he would be back in the shake of a lamb’s tail.”

  Simon had already recalled where Henry was. He did not like it suggested his memory was faulty.

  “I know where Henry is. I sent him. Can’t think what the fellow’s done with me clothes. Damned rogue, that’s what he is.”

  “Never mind, there’s plenty of time, it isn’t eleven yet. What time are you expecting everybody?”

  Simon frowned. What time? His letter to Vera was as clear to him as the day he wrote it. He had often thought it over, chuckling at his choice of words. He
had given his orders. There could be no mistake. “The luncheon on August 15th will be at one o’clock. You will perhaps be good enough to pass this information round the family.” A horrid suspicion came to him.

  “Didn’t Vera pass on me invitation to everybody?”

  Clara saw the idea of Vera not having passed on the invitation was upsetting Simon.

  “I’m sure she did. She’s most particular about such things.”

  Simon pointed to the table he used as a desk.

  “There’s some letters in the drawer, bring ’em here.” Clara found the letters and brought them to him. Simon, his lips pursed, muttering under his breath, went through them. “Here’s Alice’s, all her gang’s comin’. Here’s Sybil’s, they’re all turnin’ up. Maurice is bringing his lot. Here’s Vera’s, they’re all comin’. Funny I never noticed that.” He looked up at Clara. “I never had a letter from you. Why not?”

  Clara had been so busy scheming with Henry for the success of the party that she had overlooked the fact that she had only known of it through Henry. What a foolish woman she was! She should, of course, have written. It would fidget the old man if he thought some of the family did not know about his party.

  “It was very rude of me I’m afraid.”

  Simon was following a thought.

  “What did you think of the first idea?”

  “The July party, you mean . . . I think a birthday should be kept on a birthday . . . don’t you?”

  Simon saw Clara was flustered. She looked a silly woman, and God knew she was plain, poor creature, but she seemed a damned sight pleasanter than that tiresome wife of George’s. He wouldn’t put it past George’s wife to have got up to some jiggery-pokery.

  “Did Vera give you me invitation?”

  Clara was torn. Nobody should tell lies, but equally nobody should upset an old person on their eightieth birthday.

  “I’m so forgetful . . . I feel sure . . . actually I knew through Henry . . .”

  Simon wagged a finger at Clara.

  “She didn’t. Why not?” A thought came to him, a gorgeous, glowing thought, which, if true, would turn the day into a sublime joke, a joke to outdo all jokes. He tossed his letters to Clara. “Read those.”