It was with thankfulness, coffee finished, that the party dispersed, waiting for the photographer. Common suffering drew the women together. Sybil murmured:
“Oh, dear, I don’t know when I’ve been so bored.”
Vera replied:
“You didn’t sit next to him, dear. He did nothing but laugh, and there was nothing to laugh at.”
“Poor Maurice was hurt I’m afraid,” sighed Doris, “he’s very sensitive.”
Alice kept her thoughts about her brother Maurice’s sensitivity to herself. She had received a look from Frederick which had deepened her gloom.
“Frederick feels it has been a wasted day I’m afraid. If only it hadn’t been August.”
Clara, hurrying by with children to be washed and brushed up before the photograph, paused to say:
“Wasn’t it fun? I think it’s the nicest party I was ever at.”
The eyes of Vera, Alice, Doris and Sybil followed Clara’s loaf-shaped figure to the door. Alice spoke for them all.
“Poor Clara. But I suppose she’s happy in her own way.”
An hour later when Simon, back in his room, was being divested of his hired finery, Henry said much the same thing.
“Reckon Miss Clara was the only one what ’ad a really good time, but she’s easily pleased she is.”
Simon chuckled.
“I made ’em come. July indeed! It’s me birthday, and I had it kept on the right day. Did you see my nephew George’s face? That’s the damn fellow who got me to me brother’s on a trick.”
“I saw all their faces, proper disgusted they was and no wonder. ’old up your arms so I can get off your dicky dirt. They was proper browned off with you, sittin’ at the cain and abel laughin’ fit to bust yourself about nothin’.”
Simon waited until the shirt was off, then he poked Henry with his forefinger.
“How d’you know it was about nothin’? You wait and see, me boy.”
* * * * *
Simon died two weeks after his party. Excitement, lobster and champagne proved too much for his digestion. The night after the party he was very ill. Henry looked after him efficiently and kindly; to him, if you chose to be ill after a blow-out, it was your own affair; the silly old B knew he couldn’t digest shellfish. The morning light showed a blue tint in Simon’s cheeks and that his nostrils seemed pinched, as well he was short of breath. Henry believed it did a patient good to hear they were causing anxiety.
“You do look rough and no mistake. Now don’t you move until I come back. I’m sendin’ for the doctor.”
The doctor with treatment and care got Simon almost to the condition he was in before his party. He told Henry that the old fellow had put paid to trips outside his bedroom, and that really, with a heart in the condition his was in, he ought not to leave his bed, which would mean, of course, nurses. He laughed when he saw Henry’s reaction to this. It was all right, for the present he was not suggesting nurses. He thought the effort of getting out of bed and going to his bathroom was at the moment less likely to kill the old man than the temper into which he would fly if nurses were suggested. He must not, of course, be left alone, and he must be humoured. He was not to see people likely to irritate him. The doctor held the highest opinion of Henry and this was in his voice.
“Nobody knows better than you do how to look after him. I’ll drop in every day, and of course telephone at once if you see anything to worry you.”
Simon was exceptionally easy to look after in the last weeks of his life. Although it had nearly killed him he was still proud of his party and could ruminate happily on it for hours, chuckling at especially pleasing memories. Now and then he shared a joke with Henry, but mostly he kept them to himself. He was as happy as a child with a first watch with the photographs when they came. He pointed out the figures to Henry.
“Look at me nephew George. Got a face on him like a judge passin’ the death sentence. Look at me parson-nephew; must have had a glass of champagne and is afraid it’s goin’ to keep him out of Heaven. That’s a very stupid-lookin’ child, wonder which that is.”
Henry at the luncheon had familiarised himself with the children’s names and to whom they belonged.
“Reckon that’s young Poppet Pickerin’. I remember Miss Clara speakin’ of ’er curls.”
“Poppet! No wonder she looks stupid with a name like that. She was christened Constance after me sister-in-law. I never cared for me sister-in-law, but it’s damn disrespectful turnin’ it into Poppet. Look at me nieces, Henry. What a collection! Mrs. Levin’ton looks the best of a bad bunch, and she had to pick that shockin’ fellow for a husband.” Simon tapped Vera’s photograph. “It was her idea to have this picture taken.” He looked up at Henry with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I’d give a lot to be there when she sees the thin’.”
Henry thought the photograph a very nice souvenir. Everybody had not come out well, but you couldn’t expect that in a big group, and where the likeness was bad, as in the case of Mrs. George, who seemed to have moved, it would hand everybody a good laugh; there was one portrait nobody could speak against. His old gent looked a bit of all right.
“You’ve no call to come the acid, you’ve come out a treat.”
Simon studied his portrait, and as he looked at it he began to chuckle. The chuckle grew to a roar. He spoke between gusts of laughter.
“So I have . . . I do look a treat, don’t I, Henry? . . . If you looked at that you’d think it was me lookin’ at you, wouldn’t you . . . ?”
Later that day Henry had orders to send for the photographer, as Simon wished to see him.
“And you can keep to your kitchen while he’s here, I don’t want you hangin’ around. You tell him it will be worth his while to come at once, I’m goin’ to give him a damn fine order. I wouldn’t like any of me family to miss the pleasure of lookin’ at this picture.”
In the last days of Simon’s life Henry scarcely left the house. The doctor was most considerate; whenever he called he told him to pop out and get a breather, for he would stay with the old man for ten minutes, and one afternoon when he and Simon’s solicitor were there together, he told him he could go out for an hour, he would distract the old man’s attention if he asked for him. In the evenings, if he went out for a few minutes for a drink, he bribed the caretakers from downstairs to listen for Simon’s bell. Often, as he looked at the telephone, he thought longingly of Clara; she would be the one to help, and glad to do it; what stopped him from ringing her up was the way Simon looked at him. The old man would never admit to being dependent on anyone, but since the night after his luncheon, when Henry had nursed him, he seemed to like to be sure he was at hand. It showed in little things: a worried glance as he left the room, a query as to where he was going, usually followed by:
“And you can leave the door open, I like to hear you workin’, you lazy devil.”
On the last day of his life he was in especially good form. He was in reminiscent mood and kept Henry constantly in the room.
“’member Sheila’s Cottage? That was a good pick, that was. Cold weather though, that’s the worst of the National. Remember that time you heard about that screwy-lookin’ beast? Where were we? Kempton, was it? You couldn’t get hold of me, so you put a fiver on for me with me bookmaker.”
Henry grinned at the memory.
“I won’t forget your face in a ’urry when you opened the envelope Monday, expecting to ’ave somethin’ to pay and out drops a cheque for close on fifty nicker.”
In the evening once again Simon re-lived the incidents attached to his birthday luncheon. He made Henry read the letters from his family telling of the original plan for a lunch party in July, and also the letters accepting his invitation to his party in August.
“I diddled ’em, Henry. July! Damned impertinence! I noticed they all managed to turn up all right, I wonder why?” He lay chuckling as he recalled each point. George’s face when he saw his morning dress. Vera’s suggestion of a photograph. He was in the
middle of a chuckle when he murmured, “Get out, you bastard,” and fell asleep. Henry turned out the light, and tiptoed from the room.
It was a tremendous shock to Henry next morning when he came in with the papers and letters to find the old man dead. For a moment or two he could not believe what his eyes and touch told him. He whispered:
“’opped it, the old B.”
Downstairs he found it difficult to telephone the doctor; he could not see the letters on the dial, for his eyes were blinded by tears. When at last he got through his voice was unsteady.
“’e’s gone, doctor. I reckon it was while ’e was sleepin’. It was a beautiful end. ‘Get out, you bastard,’ he says to me. I reckon ’e never moved after that.”
* * * * *
Simon, when fighting in South Africa against the Boers, had known a brother officer called Tom Willis, who in civilian life was a solicitor. Simon had made something of a friend of Willis, so when shortly after his return to England his father died, leaving a will, which would have meant his taking an interest in various family business concerns, he put his affairs in the hands of Willis, instructing him to find out how to liberate him from boring ties, and what could be sold to whom, in order to leave him free to lead a life of his own choosing. This Willis had done to admiration, leaving Simon with a feeling of extreme confidence in him; so, though their tastes differed widely as they grew older, and they saw little of each other as friends, any business Simon had which required legal advice went as a matter of course to Willis and Willis. Both Tom Willis’s sons were killed in the 1914 war, and soon afterwards he himself died. Simon read of Tom Willis’s death in The Times, wrote to sympathise with his widow, and attended his funeral, but since there were still Willises in the firm he retained his feeling of confidence in his solicitors.
With the passing of the years Simon had become something of a legend in the firm of Willis and Willis; nobody ever saw him and any business they transacted for him was as a rule of an unusual nature, and when he wanted advice it was frequently on matters on which advice was not asked in the ordinary way of Willis and Willis. So when in the week following Simon’s birthday luncheon his secretary told young Charles Willis, a great-nephew of the original Tom, that there was a doctor on the telephone, who said he had a message from Mr. Simon Hilton, Charles picked up the receiver with interest. Charles was holding the fort in August while his father and uncles were away, for it was not a time of year when much cropped up, but after the doctor’s telephone call he rang his father in St. Jean de Luz and asked, since he had never set eyes on Simon and knew little of his affairs, to be put in the picture, for Simon wished to make a will. Charles’s father was not very helpful; they had advised and occasionally negotiated, but he had no knowledge of Simon’s money affairs. Charles had better look carefully through the documents and letters concerning him, which went back to the beginning of the century, and he should try and get access to Simon’s pass-book, for the old boy must be quite eighty and might not know exactly what he had to leave. As far as Charles’s father knew there was no previous will, certainly they had never drawn one up. It was tiresome the business cropping up while he was away, Charles must do the best he could; it was to be hoped the doctor was right and the old man might last for some time yet, which would give an opportunity for either himself or one of Charles’s uncles to go into the matter in September, for if, as was likely, they were appointed executors, they did not want a muddled will on their hands.
Had an elder member of the Willis firm been available when Simon made his will, there would have been remonstrances and efforts made to change certain arrangements, but they were not available and Charles was. Charles had spent the larger portion of his adult years as a commando. He liked legal work, it was in his blood, but there were times when he found it tedious. He was captivated by Simon, and Simon was captivated by Charles. Simon wanted his will enjoyed, and Charles enjoyed it. Simon did not want curbing, and Charles saw no reason to curb. The old boy might be eighty, but he was certainly of sound mind, and if his will was unusual, it was perfectly clear and would give no trouble to his executors. He listened enthralled to Simon’s word pictures of his relations, while studying their likenesses in the family group, and promised to embody all Simon’s instructions in the will, and to send the will to him with the least possible delay. As well he agreed to act as one of the executors. As he left he gave Simon his word that when news reached him of his death he would be responsible for seeing that letters were sent to the nephews and nieces worded as Simon wished.
Amongst Simon’s wishes which Charles had been ordered to see carried out, was that the will should be formally read by Charles to the relatives after the funeral, and that everybody concerned should be given a glass of port before the reading. Never had Charles been asked to read a will to assembled relations. Port and reading a will made him feel as if he belonged to the reign of Queen Victoria; he would have liked to have hired clothes for the occasion and to have worn side-whiskers. He had only to close his eyes to hear the chuckle before the old man had said: “It’s one way of usin’ up the port. Put quite a bit down at one time, very nice, too, but this feller,” he had pointed to the doctor, “stopped me drinkin’ it years ago.” Simon had evidently seen an inward vision of his family drinking port, for later he had added, “See they all drink it, even me damn parson-nephew Maurice; one glass won’t keep him out of Heaven, and he’ll need consolin’ for not havin’ been allowed to do his psalm-singin’ at me funeral.”
Charles looked in on Henry before the funeral, to see the port-drinking arrangements were in order. Henry was in the kitchen dusting some glasses. He had a black band round his arm and wore a black tie. To him funerals called for respect, even if you were not interested in the person who had died. Mourning should be worn, faces look solemn, and voices lowered. For Simon’s funeral these things came naturally, outward display to show a sad heart. Charles saw this was how Henry felt, and exchanged a few friendly remarks about Simon and funerals before getting down to business.
“You got the port Mr. Hilton wanted served?”
Henry looked worried.
“Four bottles come yesterday. They was kep’ at a wine merchant’s. I didn’t know where to put ’em. ‘Lay ’em on their sides’ was the message what come with ’em.” Henry jerked his head in the direction of Simon’s room and lowered his voice. “I put ’em on ’is bed. Seems disrespectful like, but the old gent wouldn’t mind; fond of port ’e was, though it served him cruel.”
Charles did not say what he thought about a bed as the place to lay good port, but suggested it had better be decanted before the funeral, and he and Henry went up to Simon’s room. It looked noticeably empty. When Charles had seen it with Simon in the bed it had seemed a crowded room, now it was probably just as crowded, though tidier, but bleak was the word it brought to mind. Charles looked round and made a face.
“Looks a bit dim without the old boy.”
Henry picked up a bottle of port.
“You’ve said it. I don’t mind tellin’ you I can’t get out quick enough to please meself. It’s been somethin’ chronic ’ere since they took ’im to the mortuary.”
Charles nodded understandingly.
“Not a bad innings though, and life goes on and all that, you know. You wait until after they’ve downed this port before making any plans, and don’t shake that bottle, the old boy would turn in his grave if he saw you at it.”
Henry cautiously picked up another bottle.
“It’s not so much missin’ ’im. I know we’ve all got to go and ’e made a lovely end; it’s all of them,” Henry jerked his head towards the window. “’Course I know they’re relatives, and relatives ’ave their rights, but if I ’adn’t promised the doctor I’d stay till to-morrow I’d ’ave gone the day the corpse was took out, straight I would. You see I’ve been ’ere a long time, and though perhaps everythin’ ’asn’t been done as nice as some could wish, I suited ’im and no one can say different.
Ever since ’e was took it’s been jaw, jaw, jaw. Mr. George Hilton is a grief and pain and ’is missus is worse. You tell me nothin’s to be touched nor taken from the ’ouse, but to ’ear the way they carried on you’d ’ave thought it was me ’o fixed it. They created alarmin’. ‘My good fellow,’ ’e calls me, and goes pokin’ ’is big nose where it wasn’t wanted, and she runs her finger over everythin’, and when she sees it’s dusty, which is only natural in London, she says nothin’ but shows ’er finger to ’im with ever such a sarky look.”
Charles gently picked up the other two bottles and carrying them reverently followed Henry back to the kitchen.
“I’ve only talked to him on the telephone. Sounds a bit of a blimp.”
Henry got out four decanters.
“I’ve ’ad the Reverend round tryin’ to make me say the old gentleman ’ad said ’e wanted ’im to take ’is funeral, which ’e never. You can’t speak plain to a Reverend, but when ’e says don’t I remember the old gent sayin’ so, when I was bringin’ the tea one day, I near as possible said you ’oly friar you, you know ’e never.”
Charles looked with a pleased eye at the decanters. He saw in his mind Henry gravely pouring out port, and himself accepting a glass as he opened his papers, and increasingly felt as if he were playing the lead in a Victorian drama.
Aunt Clara Page 7
