Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  The start of the parade took Charles’s thoughts off themselves and to the Marquis children: which amongst these riders, stilt walkers, clowns and floor acts were they? The programme said the thirteenth turn would be “The Marquis Duo” in their remarkable aerial novelty, but obviously they were part of the parade in some other capacity. Were they two of the Red Indians on horses? Were they part of the group in fleshings and spangles who marched? Then he saw that the girl in pink riding the rosin-back had turned to have a look at Clara. He pointed this out.

  “Look, Miss Hilton. I bet that girl in pink is Julia Marquis, she’s looking at you.”

  Clara turned, but Julie and her horse had disappeared through the exit.

  “That pretty fair girl on a horse! I don’t think it can be, nobody ever has been a rider in our family.”

  Charles looked round to see if anyone were listening, for Clara’s elderly but still youthfully eager voice had a carrying quality; but only Henry had heard. Henry’s face and tone had the disapproving quality of a shocked headmistress.

  “There you go again. If I told you once I told you a ’undred times you didn’t ought to talk that way.” Henry saw Clara was not listening, her eyes were glued to the clowns who were fooling before the first turn. He spoke to Charles across her. “You see ’ow it is, Mr. Willis, she won’t be told nothin’.”

  Bess had waddled across to the entrance to the big top from which she could see Clara. Bess had been born in a circus. Her father had owned sea lions and her mother had been a trampoline artist. She herself had not been particularly gifted, but had been well trained, and by the time she was twelve had performed regularly with both the sea lions and on the trampoline. Her parents had joined Borthwick’s when she was sixteen, and there she had met Sam, who was eighteen, and had married him a year later. She knew no world but that of the circus. The spot where the circus performed in summer, and where it stood in the winter, was her village. However close to a town the circus ground might be it was as a foreigner, string bag in hand, she visited it to shop, and it was only when she was passing through the gate, and was back on circus ground, that she relaxed, no longer an alien. Sam had rather more dealings with the outside world; he visited public houses and had to talk to local dealers and tradesmen. He had been too, separated from the circus world during the First World War and was, as a result, less uneasy in a non-circus atmosphere; but he too looked upon the spot where his circus stood as his village. In talking together Sam and Bess spoke of “we” and “they,” and to them both the “theys” were a strange, inexplicable lot. Bess, peering at Clara, Henry and Charles, knew nobody with whom to compare them. It took all kinds to make an audience; she was used to the outing and the village bus load, so there was nothing to her odd in the look of Clara’s party. But Clara herself puzzled Bess. Was she the sort to agree to admitting to having known Ruby? Would she take the hint to keep the possibility of her uncle being the children’s father to herself?

  Although the matter was important to her, Bess did not hurry, for acting with caution was part of her, so it was not until the sixth turn was in the ring that she opened the door of Clara’s box.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Borthwick.”

  Clara turned unwillingly from watching a comedy horse.

  “How do you do? Won’t you sit down and watch the horse, he’s so funny.”

  Bess looked at the horse. The two augustes who on that tour were working the horse act were poor. Bess marvelled, as often before, at how easily pleased “they” were, and how indiscriminating.

  Charles stood up and offered Bess his chair.

  “I’m afraid you won’t get Miss Hilton’s attention until the interval, she’s a circus fan.” Bess sat. Clara, having neither eyes nor ears for anything outside the ring, it was Charles’s chance to protect her. “It was kind of you and your husband to give her this box, and to arrange she can meet the Marquis children.”

  Sometimes when he had guests Sam would come and speak to them in the interval, it added lustre to their afternoon to be seen talking to the ring-master in his scarlet coat and top hat; Bess was at no time fond of small talk, and on this occasion, with the interval near, time certainly could not be wasted on it. She paid no attention to Charles, but drew her chair closer to Clara’s and tapped her arm.

  “I’ve told the children it was you who knew their mother.”

  The tap drew Clara’s attention from the horse, Bess’s words held it.

  “Me! Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, it isn’t true.”

  “There are times, Miss Hilton, when a lie is best.”

  Clara gave Bess her full attention.

  “Never. It couldn’t be. I mean, how could what’s wrong ever be best?”

  Bess valued respectability, and in Clara she saw respectability in bulk. It was to this quality she addressed herself.

  “When Mr. Borthwick and I adopted Ruby’s children we never told them she hadn’t her marriage lines.”

  Charles, from Bess’s first words, had jumped to it that for some reason he had an ally in Bess. He tried to prompt her as to the best way to approach Clara.

  “You mean they had no idea that their father was not perhaps somebody called Marquis?”

  The comedy horse turn was coming to an end, the liberty horses would follow and then there would be the interval. Bess had no time to waste on Charles.

  “They’ve been brought up respectable, Miss Hilton, and Mr. Borthwick and I would take it kindly if you wouldn’t upset them by putting ideas in their heads.”

  Clara had never been talked to in that way before. It had been she who had pleaded for the not putting of ideas in the heads of children. She found Bess wholly admirable, but that did not mean she agreed with her.

  “But my uncle wished they should be kept from want, and I think he wanted them to know he wished it. I mean . . .”

  Charles spoke firmly.

  “That wish is covered if you keep an eye on them.” He turned to Bess. “From the look of everything here nobody is likely to be in want, are they, Mrs. Borthwick?”

  Bess was nobody’s fool. It was unlikely Julie and Andrew would need help, and they were the last to ask for it, but it was always nice to know there was something behind you. In their work there could be an accident any day. She addressed Charles for the first time.

  “We none of us know what’s coming to us.”

  Clara came to a decision.

  “I needn’t lie. I shall say they must look upon me as somebody they can come to whenever they need anything and I won’t say why.” She turned to beam at Charles. “That will do splendidly, won’t it?”

  Charles had not liked the tone in which Bess had spoken of a possibly gloomy future.

  “I think you should explain to Mrs. Borthwick there’s very little you could do. You see, Mrs. Borthwick, although Mr. Hilton left his property to Miss Hilton there’s not much . . .”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Clara interrupted, “all I had was one little room at a mission, and now I’ve got a beautiful flat full of furniture, and racing dogs and horses, and a public house, though that distresses me rather because I’m teetotal, and there’s some shares in something, and some Church property in Paddington; Mr. Willis is a lawyer, and lawyers are used to people with money, so I don’t seem rich to him, but to me what Uncle Simon left is a fortune.”

  Bess gazed at Clara in wonderment. She had met many simple and generous people in the circus world, where the hint of a hard luck story opened every purse; but even the simplest had either known how to guard their own interests, or had someone to guard them for them; this Miss Hilton needed looking after. She got up.

  “I’ll be going now to prepare tea. We’re having it outside our caravan.” She looked at Charles. “There’s no need for Miss Hilton to worry about Julie and Andrew, they’re not the sort to go asking favours.” Clara was about to say she wanted favours asked but Bess, with an imperiously-lifted hand, stopped her. “If Mr. Borthwick should come to s
peak to you in the interval I would be glad if nothing was said about Mr. Simon Hilton. You never know who’s listening and we don’t want talk.”

  Charles had moved to open the box door for Bess. With amusement he watched her enormous back fade, with immense dignity, out of sight. As he sat down again he said to Clara:

  “That was an order, Miss Hilton, and don’t you forget it.”

  Bess had filled Henry with awe.

  “S’trewth, I wouldn’t like to get the wrong side of ’er.”

  Clara had decided what it would be right to say to the Marquis children. As was her way, once she had decided what was right, she let the subject slip from her mind until the need arose to act on that decision. She had liked Bess, but was no longer thinking of her for the liberty horses had all her attention.

  “Oh, look, Mr. Willis, aren’t they clever? Every one of them is putting up the same hoof at the same moment.”

  Sam did not have time to go to Clara’s box in the interval, but instructed by Bess, he collected her and the two men after the show, and conducted them to his caravan. Although she often described herself as an old muddler Clara was not muddled when it came to remembering what had been said. Much of her time at the mission had been spent standing on doorsteps, or sitting at kitchen tables listening, sorting out what she was being told, picking fact from fiction, and, where action was needed, reporting later what had been said. Her brain recorded that Mrs. Borthwick did not wish her to mention to Mr. Borthwick that her Uncle Simon had stated he was alleged to be the Marquis children’s father. It had noted that the reason Mrs. Borthwick had given for this was that what was said might be overheard by somebody, and she did not want talk; it had also noted that this did not appear to be the true reason, but that since it was the wish of Mrs. Borthwick, who seemed a very nice woman, and did not affect what she was intending to say to the children, it would be right to do as Mrs. Borthwick asked. So, as they walked across the show ground, to the amazement of Charles and Henry, Clara said nothing about the reason for her visit, but talked enthusiastically of the circus, and in particular of the aerial act performed by the Marquis children.

  “Quite extraordinary! Right up there. I can’t think how they learned to do it. You know, when Julie swung that thing for Andrew to catch hold of and he left go of the one he was holding, well in that moment he stopped looking like a boy and was like a bird.”

  Mr. Borthwick was used to the fact that “they” were ignorant, and used strange, awkward words to describe circus apparatus. As Clara spoke he mentally translated what she was saying, and knew the exact moment of which she was speaking. He liked her simile.

  “That’s right, he does look like a bird. Wonderful good artist that boy’s turning out. It’s in the blood, of course. His mother, as maybe you remember, worked a wonderful flying trapeze act.”

  Charles felt they were touching unsafe ground.

  “The girl does less, but she’s good too, isn’t she?”

  It was not Sam’s way to discuss Julie’s work, not even with Bess. Julie and Andrew had never been separated but he could see it happening. He took his time before answering; it was doubtful, even if he explained things, Miss Hilton and her friends would know what he was talking about, how ignorant they were stood out a mile from what Mr. Willis had just said, but he felt bound to try and make them understand, for Miss Hilton seemed really interested in the kids; why else would she come all the way from London to have a look at them?

  “Julie’s a fine girl, and very useful tenting, can turn her hand to most things, but she’s not up to Andrew. Rightly speaking he ought to be teamed up with an act in his own class. He’s had offers but he won’t leave Julie; you see, they’ve always been together, right from a child Julie was a mother to him, it’s hard for her to know what’s best for him.”

  Clara answered with shining belief.

  “Oh, but it shouldn’t be. If she prays she will be given the answer. You know, like in the hymn. ‘O Brother, life’s journey beginning, With courage and firmness arise . . . Look well to the course thou art chosing; Be earnest, be watchful, and wise! Remember . . . two paths are before thee, And both thy attention invite; But one leadeth on to destruction, The other to joy and delight.’”

  Charles was enchanted. Who else but Clara Hilton would choose to recite a hymn to a circus owner she had only just met, and who else, in that confident way, would talk about the power of prayer? He glanced at Sam; what was he going to reply to that?

  Sam, like many of his kind, was not a church-goer, but a great respecter of churches. Once or twice while tenting, their arrival in a town had synchronised with a civic occasion, and he had been asked if a service could be held in his big top. He had been delighted and had taken an infinity of trouble over the arrangements. It did him good to hear hymns rising to his canvas roof, it was proper that prayer should be said. If a service could have been held every week he would have liked it, a nice sensible service with good hymns, and prayers for the King and the Royal Family, and a bit of a sermon about doing what was right. It was going out to a church that did not appeal to him; he felt any praying and hymn singing that he took part in should take place amongst the things he knew, with the scent of sawdust in his nose, and the roar of old Popeye, his lion, as accompaniment. From the manner in which Clara spoke of the power of prayer, and in the way she quoted a hymn, he recognised a faith simple as his own, and so answered without embarrassment.

  “That’s right, that is. But I don’t think Julie gets wind of what’s being offered to Andrew before he’s turned it down. He keeps it from her.”

  Henry felt responsible for Clara. His views on the laity praying or hymn quoting in public were those of Maurice and Doris. They were nearly at Mr. Borthwick’s caravan, for he could see Bess putting the finishing touches to her tea table. He did not want Miss Clara making a show of herself when those young Marquis kids were around, maybe sniggering.

  “If you must pick on a ‘ymn, Miss Clara, you didn’t oughter ’ave picked that one; those words about leadin’ on to destruction aren’t lucky seeing what they do.”

  Charles, listening to Sam and Clara, had forgotten Henry. He had been knocked off his usual perch by what they had said. He never thought much about himself. He supposed in a dim way that a mixture of public school ethics, commando standards, legal codes of behaviour, and the words dropped about life by an exceedingly successful father and uncles had fixed him up all right as to what was what. Listening to Sam and Clara he began to wonder. Funny the way they both used the word “right.” He was damned if he was sure anything was “right” in the way they meant it. Henry’s remark snapped him out of what to him was surprising thinking. There was no time to answer, for they were within hailing distance of Bess, but he grinned at Henry. Old comic, he was, proper watch-dog, but he would have his work cut out if he hoped to make Clara obey his bark.

  Julie and Andrew, nervous as colts, sidled up to the tea table. They had changed; Julie was wearing a plain flowered cotton frock and white sandals on her bare brown legs. Andrew had put on a clean shirt and grey flannel trousers. The usual summer clothes of the young of any walk of life gave anonymity to the children. The glamour of the circus was gone, and they became any shy sixteen-and-eighteen-year-olds. Sam introduced them.

  “These are our boy and girl, Julie and Andrew Marquis.”

  The seats on either side of Clara had been left vacant. She pointed to them.

  “Mrs. Borthwick has put you next to me. I have been so looking forward to meeting you.”

  Passing round the table Julie was able to give Andrew a nudge, a reminder to be cautious and keep off savings; there could be no reason why this Mrs. Hilton was looking forward to meeting them, unless she wanted something.

  Julie and Andrew sat, but it was clear from their expressions that they were only doing what they were ordered to do, if they had their way they would not be there at all. Bess and Sam exchanged the gloomy glance of parents burdened with inexplicably sullen
children. Sam cleared his throat while he thought of something to say. Bess was quicker. She told Clara she hoped she liked a meat tea; she had planned it because they would need something in them before their long drive back to London.

  Clara’s mission life had taught her how to behave when faced with large meals at the wrong hours. She had been, she thought, “guided” when she had refused Charles’s offer of lunch on the road, and had said she would rather have an early lunch at home. She was aware that Bess had only mentioned the tea to cover the hostile attitude of the children. She was sorry for Bess and Sam, but sympathetic with Julie and Andrew. They probably thought she was an old busybody come to ask questions and meddle with their affairs. She beamed at Julie as well as at Bess before she answered.

  “It looks lovely, and we’re all very hungry.” She nodded to Henry who was seated opposite her. “This will save you cooking our supper when we get home.”

  During the performance Julie and Andrew had examined Clara and her party. While they were standing on the swing waiting to start their act they had discussed them. Andrew had thought Charles might be Clara’s son, but Julie said no, Charles, she thought, was too smart and different to be the son of the dowdy old lady. Both agreed that Henry, in spite of wearing no uniform, must be the chauffeur. Clara’s remark to Henry surprised Julie so much that she stopped feeling on the defensive. It was unusual in her experience for husbands to cook, but obviously this one did.