“She’s all right, she is.”
“But you never know, she might get ill and need looking after.”
“She’s all right,” Henry repeated stubbornly.
“Perhaps, but I must keep her in mind; then there are the people at ‘The Goat in Gaiters,’ I thought I would go there this week. In spite of my uncle’s wishes I might find my conscience won’t let me keep it, and if so there are the people living there to be thought of. Anyway, I have decided it’s my duty until I have seen everybody, including the animals, that my uncle left in my care, to keep the flat ready. I am sure my family would understand if I could explain to each of them how I feel, but I can’t and I would so hate them to feel hurt, so if you don’t mind, Henry, if any of them should telephone or call we won’t mention the Marquis children. It sounds rather deceitful, I know, but I’m sure you understand.”
Henry could barely hold back a grin. He wished the old B was alive, so he could have heard that. It wouldn’t half have made him laugh, to know the rest of the family were being kept out and why.
In the cemetery Henry regretted that wish. Both were standing quietly by Simon’s grave, when Clara, who had been saying a prayer, opened her eyes and with pleasure announced that her uncle had himself selected a text for his tombstone. Henry was at that moment re-living an immensely successful afternoon he and Simon had spent at Goodwood. With a jump he returned to the present, for Clara’s statement had sent a shudder down his spine.
“That ’e never.” Clara raised her face towards the sky where she knew Heaven, and her uncle, to be. Henry anxiously touched her arm. “Better be shiftin’, Miss Clara, it’s gettin’ cold, you can’t ’elp gettin’ fanciful of a late afternoon in a cemetery.”
Clara continued to look Heavenwards. She quoted softly, as if memorising what she was being told.
“ ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works . . .’ ”
Henry was shocked. It wasn’t nice carrying on like that. He knew the old man, he would never have chosen any text, let alone that one. Good works! He gave Clara’s arm another pull.
“If that’s what you think ’e’s picked, Miss Clara, you put it, but come ’ome now, no good standin’ ’ere.”
Clara’s eyes glistened behind her pince-nez.
“I heard something else too. It’s pleased me very much. I’m such an old muddler, but it’s true, I do my best.”
Henry took hold of Clara’s elbow, and pushed her towards the path.
“It’s the nip in the air what does it, and the smell of the chrysanths and that. Before we go ’ome you’ll ’ave a nice cuppa, soon put you right that will.”
* * * * *
The shock of discovering Clara to be their uncle’s heir having faded, and the news, handed round to families, having passed from being news to being an accepted fact, schemes were considered.
George had felt from the beginning that Charles would be hard to handle. He was, as he told Vera, seldom wrong when it came to sizing up, and he had sensed right away the young Jackanapes was the officious, know-all type, likely to be offensive at small notice. But on thinking over the list of Clara’s possessions his mind kept returning to “The Goat in Gaiters,” and ten days after Simon’s funeral he sent a clerk down to Ashford to look at the place, and make discreet inquiries. The clerk’s report was satisfactory. “The Goat in Gaiters” was doing well, and moreover, as a free house, was being angled for by the big breweries. George, after brooding over the matter for two days, revealed his thoughts to Vera. It was not the sort of property he would touch as a rule, but it looked as if there was a good chance to make money. Clara had been teetotal all her life, hadn’t even touched her port at the will reading, it was not likely, whatever she might have said at the time about a sacred trust, that her conscience would allow her to own a public house. It was no good underrating young Willis, he was not likely to miss that there might be a good sale for “The Goat in Gaiters,” but a letter to Clara suggesting, if it was to be sold, Uncle Simon would have preferred it to remain in the family, might influence her.
Vera could not recall the reading of the will, especially the part about everyone who was present at the eightieth birthday luncheon receiving a copy of the family group, without an uprising of rage which brought a red; blotchy look to her cheeks; but she too had been turning over ideas by which she and her children and grandchildren might gain something in the end. She turned her mind to George’s plan; it sounded all right, and they could do with some extra money, especially if it could be arranged that the government didn’t get the lot, but she saw a difficulty. There had been that nonsense about things going on as before, life and sociability or something; that was the kind of wish that might make Clara hold on to her pub even if it did sell drink. Could George so word a letter that Clara would think he meant to keep the place going as it was? The question of selling need not be mentioned, need it? George did not reply to that. It was a mistake, even to Vera, to commit himself, but he exchanged a look with her which said clearly that selling need not be mentioned. “Good,” said Vera, “and write nicely to the old thing, and suggest that if she would like to discuss business we’ll come up. It’s nonsense her keeping that enormous front room as it is. She ought to turn half of it into a spare bedroom, it would be so useful. Freda says Poppet may have to have remedial excercises for her spine, and that means London at least once a week. It will be fun for Clara to put them up.”
Frederick had soon ceased to find the will funny. Only too often Alice heard mutters of “monkey business” and “double-crossed.” But time does heal and moreover Frederick had a retentive memory. Before George’s clerk had received instructions to go to Ashford, Frederick had been to Ashford and was home again. He was so pleased with what he learned in Ashford that on his return he startled Alice by giving her a slapping kiss. There was, he told her, a chance she might get something after all. She was to write to Clara and ask to see her. She was to learn what to say to Clara by heart, he didn’t want that young lawyer getting inquisitive, so Alice was to watch her step, if she said one word too much she would ruin everything. Trembling at the thought of her responsibilities, and sinking inside at the thought of failure, Alice went to her desk, and, notepaper before her, waited pen in hand to be told what to write.
Maurice had spent much of the week following the will reading and wrestling in prayer. It was no good starting off by feeling hurt, that matter had first to be cleared up. It took time, for Maurice had understood clearly that God, knowing about the smallness of his stipend, had intended righting matters through that unlikely instrument Uncle Simon. At last however, rather worn from the struggle, Maurice told Doris he understood; God had not felt he should be burdened with such unsuitable property as his uncle had to leave, but had thought it better he should receive help indirectly. Doris had been feeling offended with Clara since the day of the funeral. She had not got over the way Clara, because she worked in a mission, had dared to behave as though she were Maurice’s spiritual equal. That Clara came into everything, even an undesirable everything, was more than Doris felt she should be asked to bear. At least before the will reading there had been Clara to share the position of being the poor members of the family, and now there she was with a flat in London, and probably quite a lot of money. It was therefore in rather a soured voice that Doris asked how the indirect help was to come. Maurice said it had not been vouchsafed to him the exact means that were to be used, but he understood that God, though disliking gambling on principle, felt that if money were made by gambling it had better be put to good use. Doris looked sorrowfully at Maurice, and wished, as often before, that he would get more decisive answers to his prayers, and repeated her question. They were in Maurice’s study. It was a small crowded room unsuited to pacings, but Maurice paced. As he paced he told Doris that it had come to him that what was intended was help for Alison and Marjorie. Alison’s work at the cottage hospital was useful and splendid, but if she were properly tr
ained as a secretary she might take a really good position anywhere. Marjorie, dear child, had been so good working as assistant to the doctor, but now she ought to have her chance. She had always wished to be a masseuse, and with free board in London it should be possible, the fees would not be much and surely Clara would see her duty. Doris thought of Simon’s flat, and asked, in a tone which showed impatience, free board where? Pointing out that the flat had no spare room. It was then that the speed of Maurice’s pacings increased, and his words grew involved, and he became unable to look Doris in the face. Gradually, however, Doris discovered that Maurice, apparently together with God, though that was left a little vague, felt it was not nice Clara living alone with Henry. It might be that up till now they had been inclined to look upon Clara as past the lusts of the flesh, but nevertheless she was a woman, and Henry was a man. Maurice suggested, rather than stated, that he had been given a celestial hint that he should tell Clara how things looked, and that would ensure Henry’s departure. Doris, who had never thought of Clara from an attraction angle, took a moment to adjust her ideas, but adjusted they were, and when Maurice finished pacing and speaking she had seen two beds in Henry’s room, with Alison in one and Marjorie in the other. So clearly did she see this that all she asked when the pacing and speaking ceased was, “Will you write to Clara, or go and see her?”
Paul Levington kept his friends in a roar for days describing the reading of Simon’s will. He was a good raconteur, and therefore many people, repeating his story, said, “But you must hear Paul tell it.” The result was that he found himself in great demand to drop in and drink here, and eat dinner there. It was while dining with one of the clients of his advertising firm that an idea was handed to Paul. He had wound up his story of the will reading, as had become his custom, by a superficially brilliant imitation of Clara, in which he even succeeded in looking her shape, saying, “But of course I know what I’m going to do. Uncle Simon’s wishes are a sacred trust.” As usual his friends were enraptured, a roar of laughter rose round the table, eyes had to be mopped and voices weakened by laughter murmured “a sacred trust!” As generally happened, Paul had to repeat parts of his story, his host was especially tickled at the set-up for the will reading. “You don’t mean to tell me you really sat round drinking port. I bet it was terrible stuff.” Paul had not been asked about the port before. He recalled now that it was far from being terrible stuff. It had not been treated properly, that queer fellow Henry had probably shaken the bottle before decanting it, but it had been good port; now he came to think of it no reason why it shouldn’t be, old Simon, from all accounts, would know good wine when he tasted it, probably had quite a cellar before the war. It was strange he had not thought of a cellar sooner, for part of his imitation was Clara refusing her glass of port while explaining to Henry that she had been teetotal all her life. Paul could not explore the wine idea at the time, but later he thought deeply about it. It was a lovely night and he was not far from his home so he decided to walk. As he minced along he wore a pleased but cruel smile. It would be amusing to get hold of some of the old man’s property, which Sybil had so wanted for Claud. He could see his dinner table, and a carefully planted conversation: “Yes, it is good, isn’t it? I bought some wine recently, belonged to an old uncle of my wife’s.” Sybil would give no indication that others could see that she minded that he had got something out of her family, when Claud had nothing, but he would see that he had hurt her. The little flinch, the sudden eager conversation to hide her feelings. The thought of that moment gave him great pleasure. He must, too, let Sybil’s family know. He had always aggravated them, but if they knew he had bought their uncle’s wine cheap, and that it was good stuff and that he enjoyed it, they would be more than aggravated, they would be angry. Delicious thought. He must be careful how he approached Clara. Paul never overrated his chances. Having seen Charles he was convinced he would do everything in his power to guard Clara’s interests, therefore the deal must be kept from him. A picture of Henry’s funereal expression as he handed round the port came to him. Henry would be the one to deal with. He had been with the old man, and would know all his business. Wine had not been mentioned in the will, the chances were Clara, being teetotal, would not know she owned any. He must find an excuse to go along and have a word with Henry. Perhaps for a fiver the fellow would tell Clara he had a good offer for her wine, might even say who had bought it, and make out he had been generous about the price; the old girl wouldn’t know if she was being done or not. Paul paused at the bottom of the steps to his front door to get out his latchkey. He had a methodical mind; before he went to bed he always considered outstanding things to be seen to. In that pause he wrote on the tablets of his memory, “See Henry.”
* * * * *
Nobby, his left ear directed to Henry’s mouth, leant on the bar, drinking mild and bitter. Henry had come to rely increasingly on Nobby. Nobby had been in the house, he knew what he meant by “the front room,” “me kitchen,” or “them in the basement.” He could be talked to frankly. There was no need to hold anything back, either what was in his mind, or the words which came naturally to his tongue. Not holding anything back had, since Clara entered his life, become an immense relief to Henry.
“You see, Nobby, Miss Clara don’t want the relatives knowin’ the Marquis kids is comin’, on account of ’er feelin’ ’e meant ’er to ’ave room for them as is in the will, which of course ’e never.”
Nobby enjoyed both hearing the Hilton saga, and advising Henry. He nodded portentously.
“Too right ’e never.”
Henry refreshed himself with a gulp of mild and bitter.
“So when I goes down an’ sees what the postman brought us, ‘Oh, ho,’ I says, ‘’enery boy watch out for trouble.’”
Nobby moved his head so that he could speak into Henry’s ear.
“’ow did you know ’o the letters come from?”
“Easy. I’d know ’em in the dark by the feel. Mr. George ’ilton sends a envelope with the address wrote on a typewriter and the name of ’is firm sort of pressed in like, on the back. The Reverend, ’e uses old envelopes with one of them labels stuck on. Lady Cole ’as lovely paper, big white envelopes so sharp and stiff you could cut yourself on ’em. Well, I thinks, may as well tip Miss Clara off so she don’t get a shock like, so as I gives ’em to ’er I says, ‘They’ve all wrote savin’ Mrs. Levin’ton.’”
“What she say?”
Henry took a cigarette out of a packet in front of him, then, with his elbow, moved the packet towards Nobby.
“I didn’t see ’er read ’em, but when I comes back for the breakfas’ thin’s she says, ‘ ’enery, I have had an answer to me prayers.’ Then she tells me ’er brother George ’as written ever so nice a letter, sayin’ ’e’s been thinkin’ ’er bein’ tee-total and that, she wouldn’t want to own a public, but wouldn’t care for it to leave the family like, and ’ow ’e’s willin’ to take it off of ’er.”
Nobby took a cigarette from Henry’s packet.
“You think ’e’s up to somethin’?”
“I’d take me oath ’e is. The old B ’ad ’im sized up, you ought to ’ave ’eard ’im lead off whenever ’e spoke of ’im. Created alarmin’ ’e did.”
Nobby lit his cigarette and smoked in silence for a while.
“If ’e’s up to any funny business the ole lady did oughter tell the mouthpiece.”
Henry pressed his elbow against Nobby’s to show he was approaching the crux of the conversation.
“Mr. George ’ilton’s not the only one what’s after it. Lady Cole wrote that ’er old pot an’ pan was wonderin’ if ’e could ’elp, and she had said to ’im why not buy ‘The Goat in Gaiters,’ as she reckoned Miss Clara wouldn’t be wantin’ it, bein’ ’as ’ow she was teetotal. She said ’as ’ow a public wasn’t in ’er pot an’ pan’s line, but to ’elp Miss Clara ’e might take it on.”
Nobby winked.
“Very nice of ’im I’m sure.”
>
Henry returned the wink.
“Lovely of ’im. ’Course Miss Clara, she can’t see ’arm in anythin’, so it’s no good me tellin’ ’er, but Lady Cole never wrote that letter, she ’asn’t the spirit to post a football coupon not without ’e told ’er she could,”
Nobby slapped the bar with the palm of his hand.
“I got it, ’enry boy. Someone’s after it. No matter what they’ve wrote, they mean to sell it. Is the Reverend after it too?”
Henry dismissed Maurice’s financial position with a jerk of his head.
“’im! ’e couldn’t raise the price of a lick of paint on ’is front door.”
Nobby felt he had got a grip on the situation.
“You tell Miss Clara to show them letters to the mouthpiece before she does anythin’. Don’t let ’er as much as ’ave a look at ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ without ’e knows about it. It’s a free ’ouse, you say, aren’t so many of those goin’. I bet one of the big breweries wants it an’ that Mr. ’ilton and Sir Cole know about it.”
Henry ordered more mild and bitter for them both. He did not answer until they had both had a swallow from their refilled glasses. When he spoke it was in so low a voice that Nobby had to lean his ear almost against Henry’s lips to hear.
“It’s this way, Nobby. She’s on about the dogs now. Do they like racin’? Do they live comfortable? Do they ’ave plenty to eat? Well, you know ’ow thin’s are, so I’d fixed it with Perce we’d go on the Green Line to ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ first thin’ Thursday, gettin’ there round about openin’ time, be quiet then, bars aren’t never crowded openin’ time of a mornin’. We could ’ave a bit of dinner there like as not, then we was takin’ the Green Line back to ‘The Dog and Pigeon,’ that’s no more than a step from where Perce ’angs out, an ’ave a cuppa with them and see the dogs, all as nice as nice. But if Mr. Willis knows about them letters I bet you ’e wants to drive us to Ashford.”
Aunt Clara Page 13
