Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  Charles noticed that Clara’s kind blue eyes had for a second a hunted look. He had always had an affection for her, but now when, because of Julie, he was burgeoning with love for the whole world, he felt a son’s fondness for her. He took one of her hands.

  “Don’t let your relations bother you. I’m here to look after your affairs, you know.”

  Clara had been slightly low-hearted. What did Maurice want? It was unkind not to help people, especially a brother, but the possessions dear Uncle Simon had given her were only hers in trust; she must try and be firm, and not mind if her family were cross with her. She looked up gratefully at Charles, dear boy, what a comfort he was.

  “They don’t worry me. It’s just that I’m an old muddler, and there seem so many things to see to, and I do want to da what is right for everybody. I’m afraid my brothers and sisters may not quite understand. But I’m in the wrong, you know, Mr. Willis, I ought to remember ‘that if you trust you don’t worry, and if you worry you don’t trust.’”

  Charles gave her hand a pat.

  “Of course you should. I do wish you would call me Charles.”

  “May I? I should like that very much. As a matter of fact I had begun to think of you as Charles. Would you perhaps call me Aunt Clara, as my nephews and nieces and their children do?”

  Charles, still holding Clara’s hand, said he would be delighted. Then, seeing Clara looked less flustered, he turned to Henry.

  “Now, let’s have it. Who was it came this afternoon after ‘The Goat in Gaiters?’”

  “Wasn’t about ‘The Goat in Gaiters.’ It was Mr. Levin’ton come.”

  Charles looked questioningly at Clara, trying to put a face to Paul, whom he had only seen on the day of the funeral.

  “Your sister Sybil’s husband?” Clara nodded. Charles turned back to Henry. “What did he want?”

  To Henry Paul was funny, but he was a relative of Clara’s and therefore before her must be spoken of with some politeness. Had Charles not talked of nothing but Julie and painting the room for her, he would have given him an imitation of Paul, and used vivid words to paint in the picture.

  “’e come ’ere all casual like. ‘I was jus’ passin’,’ ’e says, you know ’ow ’e speaks, Miss Clara, as if ’is voice ’ad been oiled like, ’e says, ’e was wonderin’, seein’ what good port we ’ad at the will readin’, if Mr. ’ilton ’ad left any wines and that. ’e said if there was, knowin’ it would be no good to you like, ’e would take it off of you; ’e says ’e wouldn’t think there was need to trouble Mr. Willis about it, that maybe I could fix it.”

  Charles was furious.

  “The dirty dog.”

  Clara smiled.

  “Nonsense, Charles dear. I’m sure he meant to be kind.”

  “So kind,” said Henry, “’e offered me five nicker if I could fix it.”

  “What did you tell him?” Charles asked.

  “Where ’e could put ’is five nicker.” Seeing Clara was not looking Henry illustrated his statement.

  Charles had explained to Clara about her wine; it was a subject about which now and again she had pondered.

  “I certainly couldn’t sell the wine, for that would be taking money for something I think wrong. I might give it away, after all it’s no good to me, and if my brother-in-law would like it . . .” Clara broke off looking confused, “or perhaps it should be destroyed . . .”

  Henry and Charles exchanged looks. Charles said:

  “If I were you, Aunt Clara, I wouldn’t do anything for the moment. Wait until you’ve gone into everything before you make up your mind to part with a thing. You see, there’s no hurry and you might be sorry if you rush things.”

  Clara got up.

  “I think you’re right. Dear Charles, what would I do without you? I am so glad I have not to come to a decision about ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ on Thursday for, as you say, there’s no hurry. I shall go and take my things off. I feel so much better for seeing you.”

  Charles watched Clara climb the stairs. He came back to the kitchen and made a face at Henry.

  “Blast the relations! Looks properly upset, poor old lady. I’ll see if I can persuade her to let me write to Mr. Hilton and Lady Cole, saying there’s nothing doing about the pub.”

  Henry was back at the stove.

  “Be a bit of all right if you could, and to the Reverend too. It’s keepin’ from ’em all that the Marquis kids is comin’ that’s upsettin’ of ’er. If the Reverend comes ’ere she’ll tell ’im, and then we’ll ’ave the ’ole boilin’ creatin’.”

  Charles turned to go.

  “Too right we will, but if I’ve got the relations right, letters won’t stop them, the thing to do is to prevent her seeing them.”

  Henry sighed.

  “Seems ’ard with ’er ’avin’ a nice ’ome an’ all but it’ll ’ave to be the mission, every bloomin’ day. Nothin’ else for it.”

  * * * * *

  Orlando Lane proved to be off the Folkestone Road on the outskirts of Ashford. “The Goat in Gaiters” stood flush with the lane, bounded on one side by a garden surrounded by a holly hedge, and on the other by a field in which were chickens, two cows, a goat, and well-kept coops and sheds. It was a spicy morning with a nip of frost in the air; as Clara got out of the car she raised a pleased nose to the walnut-ish scent of decaying leaves, mixed with the tang of chrysanthemums from the garden. The inn was early Georgian; with the years not only had the brickwork mellowed but the building exuded contentment from the many who had found pleasure inside it. Clara peered over the hedge at the chickens and cows, then up at the holly berries glistening in the sunlight, then down at the solid worn bench under the window, and turned a puzzled face to Charles.

  “This doesn’t look a sinful place. If I didn’t know what went on inside I would have said it was good; that bench seems asking old folk to come and rest in the sun.”

  Charles looked at the bench. In his mind’s eye he could see Clara’s old folk, mug in hand, enjoying their drinks, and breaking long contented pauses with a word on local affairs or politics. This little inn would not attract passing traffic. It would be mainly local people who used it; it probably had seldom seen the dismal sight on which the law insisted, of waiting children in the wet and wind, gazing at the well-lit windows through which came a burr of talk, broken by cascades of laughter. He wondered how old Simon had come by the property, and why anyone was after it; for all it was on the outskirts of Ashford it was a real little country pub off the beaten track, it was hard to imagine it doing much business, but this was an illusion for he was sure George Hilton was no fool, and Sir Frederick Cole was an exceedingly successful man. He took Clara’s arm.

  “Let’s go inside and see what it’s all about.”

  It wanted a few minutes to opening time. Bert Frossart, the licensee, was in his bar cleaning glasses, it was his wife Millie Frossart who let them in. Charles had warned the Frossarts to expect Clara, but there was no need for a warning, there had never been a moment in her married life, save when her children were being born and she had been forced to allow relations or strangers to see to her home, when it had not been ready for inspection day or night. Millie was nearly seventy and her eyes did not see as clearly as they had done, but they saw clearly enough to sum up Clara. She sent Charles and Henry to the bar, and after Clara had washed and tidied settled her down in her parlour to drink tea.

  Clara looked round the parlour. The window looked out on to the garden, where a large ginger cat lay in a patch of sunlight, sheltered from the wind by bronze chrysanthemums. The room was plushily furnished but cosy, the firelight glinting on family photographs, vases of pampas grass, a black marble clock, china and glass collected over the years, and, on a table in the window, a large Bible lying on a crocheted mat. She felt at ease with Millie Frossart and knew she would not be misunderstood if she spoke what came into her mind.

  “How nice this is. Do you know, I’m so surprised. You see, I’ve signed the
pledge, and I thought all public-houses were horrid. I’ve never been in one before.”

  Millie was not surprised at this. She was the daughter of a publican, as well as the wife and business partner of one, and knew that the Clara type, teetotal or not, never came into inns. They might have a drink in the lounge of an hotel, but if they looked like Clara, even there they were self-conscious, and asked nervously whether the glass of sherry, or small gin and lime, would go to their heads.

  “There’s publics and publics, very nice house this is, Bert wouldn’t allow nothing else. We’ve worked here fifty years, you know, my father was here before Bert; we were married from here, we’ll be sorry to leave.”

  Clara was troubled. Charles had made her promise to make no hurried decision to sell, but sell she had been convinced she must; yet fifty years was a long time; could it be right to turn old people out of their home even if it was a home where, regrettably, drink was sold?

  “Of course I can’t say yet what I shall decide, but I hope, even if I sell, you will be able to stay, that’s what my uncle intended, it was in his wishes; he said he hoped I would arrange that the even tenor of life and sociability at ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ would go on, not only during my lifetime but after I’m dead, and he was such a dear, kind old man that, even though I think drinking is wrong, I should not like to disappoint him.”

  Millie, as she picked up her teacup, looked thoughtfully at Clara. Until the war Simon had frequently stayed in Ashford, and had spent his evenings at “The Goat in Gaiters.” Millie had, when talking of their landlord with Bert, used many words to describe him, but dear, and kind, had not been two of them. If, however, Clara felt he had been these things, Millie was not going to spoil the picture by speaking ill of the dead.

  “Whether you sell or not Bert and me will be giving up soon. You see, we’ve been disappointed. We had four boys. Our eldest, Percy,” she pointed to where an enlarged photograph of a sailor was hanging, “he was drowned in 1916. Then Albert,” with a quiet nod as though to a living son Millie pointed out a photograph of a boy dressed in army uniform, “he was in the army. Gassed he was. He lived with us after the war, and we thought maybe he would marry and settle with us, but the gas ate his lungs away, he died in 1921. Cyril,” she smiled at a photograph on the mantelpiece, “he wasn’t the settling sort. He went to Australia in 1920, he’s married now, farming he is, but he never does the same thing for long.” Millie got up and fetched a photograph in a silver frame from the table on which was the Bible. It was of a choirboy. “That’s my Tom. He was what they call an afterthought. That’s the photo I like best of him, lovely voice he had.”

  The room was now, for Clara, full of Millie’s sons. She asked simply, but with pity shining from her:

  “What happened to Tom?”

  Millie took the photograph from Clara and put it back beside the Bible.

  “With our other boys gone, Bert and me set a lot of store by Tom. He was always on about aeroplanes. Funny really, when you think of all the places he could have been killed, his bomber came down not far from here. Coming back from Germany it was, must have been hit, for it went to pieces sudden-like over a wood. The gentleman that owns the wood has put up ever such a lovely cross. When Tom went Bert said that settled it, we’d give up, it was no good going on with no one to follow-like. We reckoned old Mr. Hilton wouldn’t last long and we’d finish when he died.”

  “Where will you go? This place has always been your home, it must have such memories for you.”

  Millie nodded, no need to answer that. The rooms still rang with the shouts of her boys. Each object she touched was alive with memories.

  “We are still trying for a place near here. You see we’re known and it’s easy to get over to where Tom was killed, and put flowers by the cross.”

  Clara longed to say “Don’t hurry. I shan’t sell until you have found a home.” But there were her temperance vows, she had not yet seen the place where drinking took place. She got up, and asked to be shown the bar.

  Bert, Charles, and Henry had a round of beer on the house before the bar opened. Bert had a face on which wrinkles had been deeply scored by laughter and sorrow. In a few moments Charles had pulled from him his intention to leave and the reason, and had learned that at the moment the right cottage had not turned up. Looking round, Charles could see how well everything, in spite of Bert’s age, was kept.

  “Could you stay on for a time if things worked that way?”

  Bert’s eyes glowed.

  “Glad to, sir. You see, it’s not only me and the missus, there’s Gert and Daisy, the cows, we’ve chickens, a goat, and Ginger my wife’s cat, and all our stuff. You know I’m seventy-four in June, and the missus is near seventy, and of course we’re slowin’ up. We’d never have left if we could have helped it. We always said, when Tom was alive that was, that they’d only get us out feet first. I shouldn’t wonder if it won’t be near enough true. I don’t reckon we’ll go on long when we leave, nor we wouldn’t wish it.”

  Charles accepted this, Bert was not the sort who retired. He gestured with his glass in the direction in which he had seen Millie lead Clara.

  “Miss Hilton may sell, because she’s teetotal, but the old boy left a wish this place should go on as it is, and she looks upon any wish of his as sacred.”

  Henry saw Bert found this hard to believe.

  “That’s right, that is. Looks at ’is photo two or three times a day, she does, and says, ‘’enery, ’is wishes is a sacred trust.’”

  Bert laughed until his laughter wrinkles became valleys. With a sweep of his tankard he drew Charles and Henry closer to him.

  “Sacred trust! You ought to have seen him before the war. We hadn’t a double room, so . . .”

  The bar was open by the time Clara saw it. It was, she noticed, a surprisingly pleasant place, copper mugs and copper pans were hung round the walls. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on the bar, and the bottles, which surely should have had an evil look, caught by the sun, reminded her of a toy kaleidoscope she had loved as a child. Those who frequented public-houses should surely, as temperance hymns had taught her, look fallen: “Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin,” but nothing could have looked less fallen than the drinkers. There was Henry, his beer forgotten, staring out of a window up the lane. There was Charles, in spite of the mug in his hand, looking not only not-fallen, but almost uplifted in the way people looked uplifted in a church. There were two old men telling Sam some story, from which she gathered, though she could not entirely follow the story, that both were church bell-ringers. The only other visitor in the bar was a quiet, well-dressed man drinking what seemed to Clara water out of a small wine glass. Bert broke off his conversation to greet Clara, and to ask her what she would drink.

  Charles came to the rescue.

  “I don’t expect you want anything just now, do you, Aunt Clara?”

  Clara explained she had just had a cup of tea. The man drinking out of the small wine-glass moved up the bar to stand beside her.

  “You’re like my wife, she says there’s nothing to touch tea.”

  Clara beamed. This was really very pleasant, and so unlike what she had been led to expect. She had to share her pleasure.

  “It is so nice here, Mr. Frossart.” Clara turned to her next-door neighbour. “I have never been in a public-house before, I’m teetotal, but a dear old uncle has left this one to me, so of course I had to see what it was like. I thought I should be a real fish out of water, you know, like ‘Dare to be a Daniel! Dare to stand alone! Dare to have a purpose firm! Dare to make it known,’ but it’s not a bit like that, is it? Why, look at you drinking water. Now you really are being a Daniel, right in the lion’s den, so to speak.”

  Henry had swung round at Clara’s first words. There she went again. Quoting hymns in a public-house! She wasn’t fit to be trusted for a minute.

  “You come over ’ere, an’ ’ave a nice sit down, Miss Clara, it’s ever so pretty lookin’ out.�
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  Only Henry was disconcerted by Clara. Charles regarded her with amusement and affection. Mr. Frossart beamed and said it was the first time he had ever heard The Old Goat called a lion’s den. The bell-ringers stopped talking and gazed at Clara with respect. The man with the small wine-glass told Clara that quotation put him in mind of his boyhood, it was fine to hear the old words again, for his poor old Dad had been a great chapel-goer.

  Clara leaned against the bar and heard about the chapel, every detail of poor old Dad’s end, and of his funeral, and the words carved on the marble slab covering his grave. At the end of the recital she felt almost like a relation of Dad’s.

  “And what do you do?”

  The man knew his answer would please. He produced it proudly.

  “Sell Bibles.”

  Clara could have sung.

  “Do you! How splendid of you! I am sure I was guided to choose to-day to come here, so that I should meet you. You know, I was sure it was my duty to sell this place, but now I am less certain. If you who give your life to Bibles, can come here, it can’t be a wicked place. I’m such a muddled old thing . . .”

  Henry had been hovering behind Clara. He had seen the man’s glass pushed forward twice, and twice seen it refilled. He knew at a glance Clara had landed on a real soaker. A few more people had come into the bar, and all were listening, and to him it seemed Miss Clara was making a show of herself. He took her firmly by the elbow.

  “You come along of me, your dinner’s ready.”

  Mr. Frossart waited until Clara was out of earshot, then he voiced the opinion of all in the bar.

  “A real nice lady.”

  * * * * *

  Henry, wearing one of Simon’s overcoats and his old bowler, collected Clara outside her mission. The weather had turned bitterly cold, so Clara had decided it was time to wear her fur coat. This was of sealskin, it had belonged to her mother and had been bought at the beginning of the century so had a period air; but it was warm, and it was comfortable and so it had not crossed her mind to have it re-modelled. Henry and Clara might look to some an unusual couple, but as they walked towards their tram stop for the “Dog and Pigeon” there were neither smiles nor giggles; round the mission Clara’s clothes had long since been accepted as part of “Miss Clara,” “Lady Clara” or “our lady.”