Clara read the letters. Each was an acceptance from the nieces and nephews on behalf of their children, and where there were any, of the grandchildren. Each described the sacrifice of plans that was entailed in the acceptance, and each stated how gladly the sacrifice had been made for such an occasion. Each stated how much they looked forward to lunching with their uncle and how their children were looking forward to lunching with their great-uncle, and Vera and Alice wrote of their grandchildren’s excitement at the thought of lunching with their great-great-uncle. No one mentioned the pleasure of meeting the other members of their family. Clara folded the letters.
“It’s going to be a real family occasion, isn’t it?”
Simon’s eyes were twinkling.
“You weren’t told and I know why. They haven’t told each other they’re comin’. They all think they’re the only ones puttin’ off their holidays. I shall dress as soon as Henry’s back. I wouldn’t miss the look on their faces when they see each other for a winnin’ ticket in the Irish Sweep.”
Clara put the letters back in the drawer.
“But why should there be any secrecy? It’s such fun all being together.”
Simon looked at Clara’s rounded behind, and shook his head reprovingly at it. She was simple, this niece of his. Funny one of the family turning out so different from the rest of the batch.
“Where d’you live since your father died?”
Clara was delighted he had got away from the family. She did not like having thoughts lacking in charity, but after reading the letters she had a feeling that Uncle Simon was right, that her not being told of the party had been deliberate, and that perhaps the others were hoping that only their immediate families would be present. It was very unpleasant if it was true, for it meant they were thinking, as Henry had hinted, of the poor old man’s money. She drew up a chair by the bed, and eagerly and happily described the mission and those who worked in it.
Simon listened in amazement. His life had been a full one; he had met most types of person in his time, but never before had he bothered with a Clara. It was news to him that anybody could enjoy living the life she described. It was news to him that you could be happy when you were as poor as a rat. It was news that anybody could enjoy visiting a lot of dirty homes in back streets. It was news that anyone except a parson like Maurice actually liked going to church, psalm-singing, and all that. Yet he had to accept that Clara did like these things, for as she talked her eyes beamed at him contentedly through her pince-nez, and he could feel a glow of happiness emanating from her.
“Bless me soul!” Simon said when Clara paused for breath. “And you enjoy it! It beats me.”
“Oh, but it shouldn’t, Uncle Simon. I think the only really happy people are people with so much work to do they haven’t a dull moment. There’s a hymn we often sing at the mission which says exactly what I mean, but so much more beautifully than I can say it. ‘Work, for the night is coming, Work through the morning hours, Work while the dew is sparkling, Work ’mid springing flowers; Work when the day grows brighter, Work in the glowing sun; Work, for the night is coming, When man’s work is done.’”
It was during Clara’s recitation of this hymn that Henry arrived home with the hired clothes.
* * * * *
It was always a slow job dressing Simon. In hired clothes, especially clothes that to Henry were fancy dress, it was, as he told Clara later, “a proper picnic.” It would have been more of a picnic if the old man had not been in an exceptionally mellow mood.
“You wait, Henry me boy, you’ll see more sour looks than ever you saw on a race course when an outsider came home. That niece of mine, Miss Clara, hadn’t been told about me party, and take that surprised look off your face, for it was you who told her about it, she told me so.”
Henry passed Simon a soaped flannel.
“Give your neck a nice wash. What if I did tell ’er, it’s no secret, is it?”
“Didn’t know you knew Miss Clara. Extraordinary woman! “
Henry was annoyed on Clara’s behalf.
“If you ask me, she’s a bitta all right, she is. She comes ’ere now and again, same as they all do, but when she comes it’s to do us a bitta good, not to sit up ’ere moanin’ and groanin’ about ’ow bad times is. As you’re so nosy I don’t mind tellin’ you she ’eard about the party because one of the kids told ’er it was goin’ to ’appen in July, and she wanted to know from me if you ought to ’ave a party.”
“What’s she doin’ here at this time? The luncheon’s not till one.”
Henry did not intend to break faith with Clara, but there was no harm in the old B knowing a little of what she had done.
“Miss Clara’s the busy sort. From what I can ’ear she’s been runnin’ after ’er relatives whenever there’s illness or that for years. For all she’s livin’ at that mission, she’s still at it, takin’ the kids about, meetin’ trains and that. When she knows you’re ’avin’ this do for your birthday it come natural for ’er to pop along and lend an ’and.”
Simon seemed to accept that. At intervals as he dressed he murmured “Extraordinary creature,” but he asked no more questions. Now and again he shook with laughter. When Henry asked what the joke was he refused to say.
“You wait. You’ll find out when the time comes.”
Shaved, washed and dressed in his hired clothes, Simon looked impressive. Henry felt a creator’s pride in his work. The relatives, whatever else they might say, couldn’t say the old gent was not nicely kept. As a final touch he had a present for him, a pink carnation for his buttonhole. He fixed it in place and stood back to study the effect as a whole.
“You look a bitta all right, and ’ere’s ’opin’ you be’ave nice to go with it. Your relatives may be what we won’t put a name to, but they are your relatives and as such should be respected. You don’t want they should feel awkward-like because you keep laughin’ about nothin’ at all.”
Simon examined himself in the glass and approved what he saw.
“You stop talkin’ and get me chair and someone to help you take me down.”
Henry looked at the clock.
“No ’urry for ’alf an hour. You don’t want to be longer on your plates than you must be.”
Simon rapped on the dressing-table.
“I said I’d go down now and I’m goin’ down now.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“All right, all right, don’t create; if you want to kill yourself it’s not my business. And talkin’ of dyin’ you eat reasonable; I don’t want to spend me night rushin’ round with a basin.”
A low, rumbling laugh shook Simon. When it was over, his eyes were still twinkling at his private joke.
“It’s me birthday and I’ll go downstairs when I like, and I’ll eat what I like, and I’ll drink what I like, and if I want to laugh and share the joke with no one, that’s me business too. Now get me chair.”
* * * * *
On a hot day in August when, at great inconvenience, a sacrifice has been made for an old man’s birthday, it is hard when the sacrifice loses its splendour by its universality. As the family converged on Simon’s front door, and the contents of cars and taxis drifted and poured out on his doorstep, voices cried, disguising their surprise with difficulty, “Fancy seeing you, dear” to be answered by “Fancy seeing you.” Vera had arranged that her family should meet herself and George on the doorstep at five minutes to one. The arrangements had worked. Ronnie’s old Morris, with Ethel in the back with Peter on her knee and Pansy beside her, had drawn up at the front door, Freda and Basil, with Poppet and Noel, were already on the doorstep, and Tim’s Ministry of Pensions’ car, driven by Rita with little Derek hanging out of the window, was turning into the street as she and George arrived. How aggravating, in fact how infuriating then, to see on the doorstep with Freda and her family, Alice, and, as far as a quick glance could gauge, all of her family. How maddening to have the door opened, not by Henry, but by Claud,
who had apparently arrived a few seconds earlier together with Sybil and Paul. How it caused the soul to suffer to see walking briskly up the square Maurice and his family. Alice was not incensed but nervous. Frederick was not a man who liked his plans upset. There was not time to say much before he was involved in greetings, but he had managed, out of the corner of his mouth, to whisper “You’re a damned fool, Alice, you ought to have known this would happen.” Maurice was hurt. He felt God had let him down. He would pray for understanding later, but his immediate reaction to the sight of his entire family on his uncle’s doorstep was a mutter in the direction of Heaven, “You promised it should be only us.” Sybil’s dismay at the sight of her family came from fear that Claud would be cross with her. Only too well she knew what her family and friends said about her Claudie; but the very fact that so much that was unkind was said bound her to him the more closely. He was Mumsie’s boy, Mumsie understood him, Mumsie was proud of her original, amusing son. He filled all her heart, which was comforting for Paul’s demands on her, though many, were not for her heart. As she was swept up Simon’s stairs on a tide of family, Claud, though he said nothing in words, said clearly with his expressive brown eyes “I’m utterly furious. When I gave up going to Spain with Freddie you promised there was to be none of this family nonsense.”
George, already hot, cross and out of humour, had his day further ruined by his first sight of Simon. He had come by train from Brighton and had spent the journey deviating between outbursts on the idiocy of going to London in August, and pompous statements about giving pleasure to a dear old uncle. The least that Simon should have done in return for sacrifices, was to have looked frail, and like somebody worth upsetting your summer holidays to please; it was inconsiderate, to put it mildly, that he should not only appear in admirable physical condition, but dressed like a prize poodle in a dog show, and should greet his eldest nephew, not with the pathetic air of one getting old and glad to lean, but with a tiresome air of levity, as though the occasion was in some way funny, and no one could have looked less like one wishing to lean. It was when George saw the arrangements made for the luncheon that his day was ruined finally. A quick glance round at silver, napery, flowers and, a pride of waiters, and he had made a rough estimate of what was being spent, and it was clear it worked out at a pretty penny. What right had an uncle with a bad heart to be spending pretty pennies on his eightieth birthday? Frugality would have been fitting, so that pennies were hoarded for those who inherited.
Vera and George, though surprised to see Clara, felt, since all the family had turned up, it was as well someone had invited her for she could be of use. The rest of the family took her presence for granted and were relieved to see her. In no time she was bustling about, running children upstairs to tidy for lunch, carrying little Peter’s food to the imported chef to be heated, changing the seating at the table so that Freda, whose baby was expected in two months could get out easily: “You’ve never had a baby, Aunt Clara, the pressure’s awful”; pausing as she ran to hear complaints about journeys, heat and postponed holidays, and, though she had no time for many words, managing with understanding smiles and pats to show sympathy.
The luncheon, in spite of its excellent, if indigestible food, flowing champagne and admirable service, was enjoyed only by Simon, Maurice’s girls, the children and Clara. The seating at a long narrow table had been arranged by the caterer and was correct as regards precedence. Simon was seated in the centre; on his right was Vera, on his left Alice, and the husbands were reversed so that Alice had George and Vera Frederick. Maurice, with Sybil on his right and Ann on his left, faced Simon; the rest of the family were carefully arranged so that the sprigs from the various branches were as far as possible mixed. “So much more fun for them,” Clara had said to the caterer, “to sit next to relations they don’t often see.” The caterer had accepted this; his only quibble with Clara’s plan had been her own place at the table. He had wished her to sit facing her uncle, in the seat she had given to Ann. Clara had brushed this suggestion away. “It will be nice for my niece, Mrs. Hind, to sit there, she’s had rather an unhappy life . . .” Her voice had trailed away on these words, for she was not, of course, telling the caterer that Ann’s husband had left her, nor, as she spoke the words, could she see why sitting opposite a great-uncle was to be nice for Ann. She came back to herself. “I want to sit at the children’s table, near your beautiful hydrangeas.”
What prevented gaiety at the table, or indeed much conversation, was not the seating, but that plans had been laid for certain things to be said and certain conditions drawn attention to. When it was accepted by all that the day had changed form, for all the other branches of the family unfortunately were present, wordless understandings were arrived at. Husbands, by lifted eyebrows, said to wives, “There may not be a chance in this crowd,” and wives, putting their answer into their eyes, replied, “You watch out that the others don’t push themselves forward.” The result was the conversation sounded rather like a conversation on an ill-working telephone: a spate of words, silence, and then a sudden effort to pick up words that had been missed. As the party sat down there was a babble of talk which died as it was seen that Alice, prompted by a look from Frederick, was speaking quietly to Simon. The silence was followed by a relieved burbling, as it was seen that Alice had been drawn from Simon’s ear by George, who, to attract her attention, had given her a sharp tap on the arm. Immediately Vera, in a voice which by its clipped, clear precision, reproved whisperers, said to Simon:
“We ought to have a photograph taken of you, George, Ronnie and wee Peter. It would be a unique photograph of four generations all males.”
George snapped off the laboured conversation he had started with Alice to account for snatching her from Simon, and added:
“And all Hiltons.”
Frederick never stood for what he called “being shoved around.” He was, moreover, given to making after-dinner speeches.
“I think we must in fairness add the situation is only unique because so many fine lads have shed their blood for their country. You take my Myrtle, if her Frank . . .”
Sybil felt somebody should draw attention to Claud.
“I think it would be fun to have a photograph of all the men and boys, don’t you, Uncle Simon? You’ve got two great nephews, Ronnie and Claud . . .”
Vera was not having her plan for a Hilton male descendants’ group forgotten because Frederick had dragged Myrtle’s widowhood across the trail. She spoke to Frederick, but her words were intended for the whole table.
“Even had Frank lived that would not have made little Frank a Hilton.”
Simon had not spoken. He had turned his blue, twinkling eyes from speaker to speaker, with the eagerness of one watching players at a tournament. Now he silenced the table by first a low rumble, and finally a roar of laughter. Henry, who had been watching the old man from the doorway, hurried over to him. He was ashamed of him, he felt he was letting the household down roaring with laughter at nothing at all. His voice had the crossness heard in the voice of an adult whose charge has committed a solecism at a children’s party.
“Is somethin’ the matter, sir?” The “sir” was jerked out a little late; it would not have been there at all if the family and the waiters had not been listening.
Simon wheezed through his laughter.
“Nothin’s the matter. What should be the matter? I suppose I can laugh on me birthday without askin’ your permission.”
Henry looked at Simon’s glass.
“You didn’t oughter drink that champagne.”
Simon had difficulty in controlling his laughter. This was a day of days. No sooner was one glorious joke conceived than another more stupendous eclipsed it. He made a gesture to Vera.
“Mrs. Hilton here wants a photograph taken.” Another rumble of laughter shook him.
Henry was disgusted and showed it.
“And very nice too, a picture should be took. I’ll ask ’o should be teleph
oned to, and see to it right away.”
As Henry hurried off on his errand a spate of chatter arose, relative asking relative what was funny in the idea of a photograph. Maurice, who had decided to be guided from above as to what, if anything, he should say to Simon about his personal affairs, felt at that moment not merely guided but almost a celestial shove. He leant over the table.
“So fortunate the birthday fell to-day, for we could get cheap day returns. They make a great difference to us clergy, for you know our stipends have not been increased, so the high cost of living . . .”
Frederick boomed across Vera.
“I think we shall all agree that though the high cost of living hits everybody, the worst hit are the housewives, especially those housewives who are left alone to struggle along without a man to support them . . .”
This produced another spate of conversation, this time on the subject of Cyril Hind, and how understandable it was that he had left Ann. Vera made another effort to hold Simon’s attention. This time she kept her voice lowered, for she was drawing attention to Freda. How splendid girls were nowadays, didn’t Uncle Simon think so? Such courage to have big families in spite of the difficult times.
It was not until they were all served with cold lobster, and were engrossed removing meat from shells and claws, that it was generally realised that Simon had no intention of bothering himself to talk. It was as if he were a rock against which waves of words washed, merely to sink back, leaving no impression behind. It was clear he was enjoying himself, he ate and drank with gusto, and acknowledged that he was being spoken to by turning his twinkling eyes on the speaker, but his only contribution, if it could be called a contribution, was chuckles and deep laughter. As the room grew hotter, indigestible food mixed with champagne caused gloom to descend on the elder members of the party. Eyes of wives caught eyes of husbands. “He’s so aggravating,” Vera’s eyes said to George, “and there was so much I could have said.” “Don’t be angry with me,” Alice’s eyes pleaded with Frederick, “he won’t listen to Vera either.” Sybil’s eyes tried to be amused as they held Claud’s. “Don’t blame Mumsie, Claudie.” Doris did not try to catch Maurice’s eyes, for though bodily he was still at the table, mentally he was on his knees wrestling, she knew the look. Slowly efforts at conversation died. It was hard work making conversation intended for, but not actually addressed to, somebody. It was especially hard since it had to be general, and general conversation had not been intended when the luncheon invitation was accepted. As the elders gave up the struggle they caught the eyes of their offspring, and made it clear that all further efforts were to come from the younger generation.
Aunt Clara Page 6
