Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  Nobby whistled softly.

  “You told Miss Clara you’re fixin’ to take ’er to Perce?”

  “Yus. An’ I told ’er Mrs. Perce was plannin’ to give ’er a cuppa and that.”

  Nobby scowled in a worried way at his beer.

  “Does the mouthpiece know anythin’ about dog racin’?”

  “Maybe ’e don’t, but I bet you the first thin’ ’e asks Perce is where does they race, meanin’ The White City, Wembley, or one of them flash tracks.”

  Nobby let out a long-drawn “Ah!” Then he had an idea.

  “If Perce says Botchly Lane as casual as if ’e was sayin’ Wembley, the mouthpiece would just think it was a track what ’e ’adn’t ’eard of, wouldn’t ’e?”

  “Not Mr. Willis, ’e’s all right but ’e’s the busy sort, ’e’d find out.”

  “Could they be raced on an Association track?”

  “Not an’ stop with Perce they couldn’t. ’E’d get thrown off anythin’ but a flappin’ track, ’e’s been fined an’ all, you know, they say ’e did ought to have done a stretch, still ’e’s good to ’is dogs and ’e done well. But on a G.R.A. track you got to fill in papers worse than a census, ’o was the father, ’o was the mother, and there’s a picture Perce says to fill in so you know the colour and every blinkin’ mark. Perce ’as dyed our last lot so often, and changed their names regular, ’e wouldn’t know now what they was like to start with, nor where they come from.”

  Nobby whistled.

  “Can you keep the mouthpiece from wantin’ to see ’em? I mean, ’e knows she’s got ’em, and don’t know nothin’ about dogs.”

  “It’ll be all right if I get ’er there first. All she cares about is to know they’re ’appy, eatin’ well, and that.”

  “Won’t she want to see ’em run?”

  “She might, but Perce says ’e’ll fix it if she does that they ’ave a bit of what’ll do ’em good, and she can watch ’em win, and pat ’em afterwards, and they’ll be waggin’ their blinkin’ rudders, and ’e’ll tell ’er ’ow they enjoys racin’, and she won’t move ’em then, no matter what Mr. Willis says; an’ mind you, though ’e’s a mouthpiece ’e’s not a nark, it’s just ’e wouldn’t understand like.”

  Nobby looked doubtful.

  “It’s rough, you know, Botchly is.”

  “She won’t think so. Perce says ’e’ll fix it so Mrs. Perce brings people along to keep sayin’ isn’t it lovely to see the dogs enjoyin’ of theirselves, and they’ll be ’avin’ cups of tea and actin’ quiet, beside never ’avin’ seen a race track she won’t know any different.”

  “’ow did the old gentleman come to start with Perce?”

  “’e didn’t start with ’im, ’e started with ’orses with Perce’s brother Alfie; sons they was, of one of ’is Jane Shores, proper sweet on ’er ’e must ’ave been, I reckon, for ’e’d never ’ear a word spoke against Alfie, nor Perce neither. Alfie’s dead now, ’e was a bit of all right ’e was, and so’s Perce. I reckon when the old B wrote in ’is wishes that Miss Clara was to see after the racin’ dogs and ’orses ’e meant it, and ’e meant look after Perce and Mrs. Perce. They’re all right, mind you, but it wouldn’t do Perce any good if our dogs was took away, ’e needs the bees and ’oney see. If I can get Miss Clara down to Perce’s place on ’er own, it’ll be all right. Perce’s place isn’t so far from that mission where she works, and she gets on with them down there a treat, lovely to ’er she says they are.”

  It was the mention of the mission that gave Nobby his idea.

  “I got it. Sunday! You tole me she goes to that mission of a Sunday. Well, what’s nicer than you takin’ ’er to Sunday tea after?”

  Henry gazed respectfully at Nobby.

  “You ain’t ’alf a oner. ’Course that’s the ticket, an’ I won’t need to say nothin’ about not tellin’ Mr. Willis, she never tells ’im nothin’ about Sundays. I’ll just say Sunday suits Mrs. Perce better.”

  “That’s right, an’ you get Mrs. Perce to talk to Miss Clara nice about bein’ fond of the dogs an’ that, an’ she won’t talk to no mouthpiece. What about the ’orses? Where do they ’ang out?”

  Henry stubbed out his cigarette in the ash-tray.

  “I fixed that, leastways I ’ope I ’ave. Alfie was all right. Mr. ’ilton ’ad four ’orses with ’im to start with, an’ ’e always ’ad four ’orses right up to the time Alfie died. Mind you, they wasn’t always the same ’orses, Alfie was always buyin’ and sellin’, but there was always four ’orses in the old B’s name, and sometimes when Alfie’d done hisself a bitta good he passed a bit on, but mostly it was tips Alfie ’anded out. Wonderful tips ’e ’ad. I reckon the old B lost a lotta bees and honey when Alfie ’ooked it.”

  “But there are still four ’orses.”

  “Did oughter be. Alfie ’ad a son, proper shocker ’e is, you ought to ’ear ’is Uncle Perce on ’im. It’s funny like, Nobby, when I was runnin’ for the bookies, ’orses weren’t nothin’ to me but names wrote on bits of paper. After the war when the old geezer took me racin’ it’s all different like. You see the real ’orses, shinin’ coats an’ that, an’ you wants ’em to win. You know ’ow it is outside the classics, if you know somethin’ you can always make a bit; well, I got so that if I was at a race I didn’t fancy winnin’ when I knew there was a ’orse in the race could ’ave beaten mine if ’e’d been on ’is own.”

  Nobby made a reproving face.

  “You don’t want to get fanciful. Next time you ’ear somethin’ good, if you can’t bring yourself to ’ave a bit, you ring me, my conscience’ll take it.”

  Henry grinned, but his mind was with Simon’s horses.

  “This son of Alfie’s, Andy they calls ’im, was supposed to carry on same as ’is Dad. Alfie mighta done some funny thin’s but ’e treated ’orses right, an’ ’ad a proper place where they could muck around when they was finished with.” Nobby raised his eyebrows. Henry nodded. “That’s the short of it. You can get a fistful of long-tailed ’uns, now there’s no meat, for some poor old ’orse what done you all right when ’e ’ad ’is health and strength. If I can work it we’re goin’ up to Andy’s place when the kids come to stay, and Mr. Willis too. I’ll give a lot to see Andy’s face when ’e’s asked where the four ’orses is.”

  Nobby had a horse he used for his log cart. He was fond of his horse, and treated him with the respect due to a loyal hard-working partner.

  “Wouldn’t mind bein’ a fly on the wall when that so-an’-so knows Mr. Willis is Miss Clara’s mouthpiece.”

  Henry nodded.

  “Be a bit of all right that will. I tried to get the old B to do somethin’, but ’e was old when Alfie went, and you know ’ow old people are. You know me, Nobby, I ’aven’t often got it in for no one, but when I ’ave, I got it in proper.”

  “So you did ought to. ’e ought to ’ave the cat. You tippin’ the mouthpiece off?”

  Henry was shocked.

  “Me a grass! Come off it! I reckon there won’t be no need. Andy wrote to the old B soon after ’is father was took, sayin’ ’e thought the four ’orses did oughter retire, that it was a lovely place what ’is father ’ad, where they could ’ave a beautiful old age. ’e wrote wonderful, I will say that, good enough for a Christmas card.”

  “Maybe, ’e’ll say they’re dead.”

  Henry swallowed some beer.

  “Nor ’e can’t neither, for I’ve the receipts all paid regular, the last one dated two days before the old geezer was took, an’ they’ll be in me pocket.”

  “What you told Miss Clara?”

  “Showed ’er Andy’s letter, she swallowed it ‘a course, ’ook line and sinker, an’ said it was jus’ like ’er uncle to pay for old ’orses to ’ave a lovely old age an’ didn’t I think so, an’ we mus’ go an’ see ’em some time an’ thank the man for bein’ so kind to ’em.”

  “You told ’er yet when you want ’er to go?”

  Henry shook his head.

&
nbsp; “No. I’ve enough on me plate right off. First there’s fixin’ Perce an’ Mrs. Perce for Sunday. I’ll take a chance on that, so Miss Clara can telephone Mr. Willis right off about takin’ us to ‘The Goat in Gaiters.’ Then we’ve beds to buy for when the kids come, an’ I’ll ’ave to tidy me bedroom a bit, ’asn’t ’ad a real turn out since I ’ad it. Then Miss Clara’s got to be kep’ out of the way, I’m sendin’ ’er down to ’er mission, seein’ Mr. George ’ilton, Lady Cole, an’ the Reverend all wrote they would be comin’ up.”

  Nobby finished his beer.

  “I know ’e left you a ’undred nicker, but I reckon you’ll earn it ‘fore you’re through, ’enry boy.”

  Henry also finished his beer. He looked thoughtfully into his empty glass.

  “You said it, an’ we ’aven’t got properly started yet, you might say. When I know she means to ’ave a look at the lot I don’t mind tellin’ you, Nobby, I think of turnin’ the job up.”

  Nobby signalled to the woman behind the bar.

  “Nor I wouldn’t blame you. Same again, Rosie.”

  * * * * *

  Charles called on the Tuesday evening to make final arrangements for the trip to Ashford. Clara was out at the mission, but Henry, who had reached the front door expecting to see George, Alice or Maurice, greeted him rapturously.

  “Only you! I made sure it was one of the relatives.”

  Charles had been looking for a chance to catch Henry alone. He followed him up to the kitchen.

  “Don’t let any of them in before she’s seen the pub. She’ll promise it to the lot and then there’ll be hell to pay getting her out of it. If she decides to sell I’ll write to Mr. Hilton and Sir Frederick, and I hope the price I ask shakes them. Couple of foxes trying to kid Miss Hilton they are trying to help. She needs a bodyguard, you know.”

  Henry was peeling potatoes for supper.

  “Too right she does. I keep tellin’ ’er she didn’t ought to be allowed out. You know she can’t get her tongue round a decent lie. That’s why I pushed ’er off to ’er mission. We’re expectin’ the Reverend; ’e ’asn’t wrote straight out what ’e wants, but I bet you a tanner ’e’s got ’is eye on this place for ’is God-forbids to ’ang out in, ‘cause ’e did say it was on account of them ’e wanted to see ’er. Well, you know Miss Clara don’t want any of ’em knowin’ the Marquis kids is comin’, on account she thinks if anyone comes Mr. ’ilton meant it should be one of them in the will, which of course ’e never; but you mark my words, an’ not wishin’ to speak disrespectful, if ’is long nose gets in ’ere in two shakes of a duck’s tail she’ll ’ave told ’im all about the Marquis kids, she can’t ’elp ’erself, tell anybody anythin’ she would, fair gives me the sick it does.”

  Charles gave a sympathetic grunt, but his mind was not on Clara. Henry’s mention of the Marquis children was the opening he had hoped for to raise a delicate subject. He sat on the kitchen table and lit a cigarette, while he pondered over a problem. What should he call Julie when speaking of her to Henry? It would be a good idea to establish something, he did not like to hear her lumped with Andrew as “The Marquis kids.” Miss Marquis was right, but Henry might think it too formal. He would probably call her “miss” to her face, and Julie when speaking of her. He could not very well tell Henry what to call her, it was not as though she was a relation of Miss Hilton’s. He decided to give Henry a lead and hope he would follow it.

  “Letting Miss Julie have your room for a week is one thing, having relations park in it is another.”

  Henry did not pause in his potato peeling, but his mind was at the alert. What was this? Miss Julie. Mr. Willis could not have decided they were the old B’s kids, could he?

  “Miss Clara was willin’ to ’ave ’er in along of ’er, but at her age you get set in your ways. Of course Julie,” Henry corrected himself, “Miss Julie will share Miss Clara’s bathroom an’ that, Andrew can wash in ’ere an’ use the stairs lavatory, same as I do. ’Course my room isn’t much . . .”

  Charles could not believe his luck. Henry was saying the very words he wanted to hear.

  “Does your room want doing up?”

  Henry could not believe his luck. He gazed stolidly at the potato in his hand. Not by the flick of an eyelash did he show the relief he felt at that question. His remark to Nobby about his room needing a turn-out was gross understatement. Daily he was expecting Clara to ask if she could look at it, and it was only reasonable that she should with the girl expected, and her knowing what the front room had been like. If Simon had been alive he would have asked for the money and had it cleaned and painted, but since his death money had been tight. He had not dreamt of Charles coming to the rescue.

  “’asn’t ’ad nothin’ done for years, the paint an’ that is a bit off.”

  That was all Charles needed. In a moment he was pouring out to Henry what was in his mind. There was not much money of Miss Hilton’s about, but Henry would understand there was no need to bother her about cost. He knew a man who would fix everything, paints, carpets, the whole boiling. Feeling he was holding Henry’s interest, Charles forgot that he had been planning the decorations for Julie’s room for days, whereas Henry had only just heard of the scheme.

  “I’ve a feeling for pink and blue, duck-egg blue they call it. What d’you think of the idea?”

  Henry could not hold back a startled “S’trewth.” Pink and duck-egg blue! He could hear Nobby on that: “Never knew you was one of those, ’enry boy.” Then thoughts of himself were swept away by thoughts of Charles. Pink and blue! No need to bother Miss Hilton about the cost! What was Mr. Willis up to? Julie better look out for herself, proper bird in a gilded cage she was going to be. No one could hide his thoughts better than Henry.

  “Pink an’ blue would be cheerful like.”

  Julie had not been out of Charles’s mind since he had met her. She had been so much a part of his thoughts that he did not realise that while to him she had become a close friend, to Clara and Henry she was still a girl with whom on one occasion they had eaten tea. Charles was not given to analysing his feelings; he had come across introspective types in the army, and had thought them unhealthy. He appreciated, without sorting things out, that Julie was not the kind of girl he usually fell for. His choice, until he met her, had been for the sophisticated and smart, who knew their way around. He did not look further ahead than Julie’s stay in London, and then only in terms of the restaurants where she would eat, the plays he would take her to see, the room in which she would sleep; it was never his way to plan ahead, he had found that for him love affairs came about naturally, or not at all; no plotting, just an urge on both sides at the right moment. With so much of his time spent mentally with her, the Julie he saw himself escorting around London was mainly invented. He remembered certain things about her which delighted him: her gauche way of blurting out what came into her head, her fingers, like some frightened bird he had caught, her brown eyes. He forgot her dyed hair, her probably limited wardrobe, her lack of knowledge of the world outside the circus, and, giving life to the creature he had invented, shepherded an outspoken, still timid, but well-dressed, sophisticated Julie around the most amusing London he knew.

  Henry, who during tea at the circus had said little, had the more time to register impressions. He had taken a fancy to both Julie and Andrew, but he had seen them as they were, and the more Charles talked the more puzzled he became. Charles, after so many days of thinking of Julie, was delighted to speak of her, and who better to talk about her to than Henry, who had met her and knew what a charmer she was. Henry, to hide his thoughts, shuttered his face and stared with a disobliging expression at the potato he was peeling. Poor Mr. Willis, he had got it badly. Pink and blue bedroom! Night clubs! Theatres! Dancing at the Savoy! The poor kid wouldn’t have the clothes for going to the sort of places Mr. Willis liked. It was a shame really, somebody ought to tell him. It never crossed Henry’s mind that the somebody might be himself, that would mean poking his
nose into something which was not his business, one of the deadly sins. He was glad when he heard Clara at the front door, for it bothered him to hear Charles, whom he liked, talking so foolishly.

  “There’s Miss Clara. You’ll ’ave to say somethin’ about the painter comin’ an’ that, but I’ll send ’er to ’er mission on the days ’e’s workin’.”

  Clara came slowly and rather wearily up the stairs. She was finding visiting the mission and keeping up with her friends there, while living in Kensington, tiring, but her eyes beamed through her pince-nez when she saw Charles.

  “How very nice of you to call. Is it all right about Thursday?”

  Charles gently pushed Clara into the chair by the kitchen table.

  “What’s Henry been doing to you? Starving you? You look terribly tired, you shouldn’t flog up and down to that dreary mission.”

  Henry had moved to the stove. He turned to have a look at Clara.

  “She does look a bit rough.”

  Clara smiled at them both.

  “What nonsense! I’m not a bit tired, and my mission is not dreary.”

  Charles sat on the table beside her.

  “If you weren’t teetotal I should order you a drink.”

  “But I am. This afternoon at our mothers’ meeting we were singing one of the dear old temperance hymns. ‘Hark! The temperance bells are ringing. Joyous music fills the air; Strength and hope their tones are bringing—To the homes where dwelt despair.’”

  Henry left the stove and came across to Clara.

  “You wouldn’t ’ave been singin’ about no temperance bells if you’d ’eard what was bein’ said on this doorstep not an hour before Mr. Willis come.”