Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  Henry watched Clara with troubled eyes. What a way to talk! Lived as man and wife! She wasn’t safe to be let out, really she wasn’t. If she wasn’t quoting hymns she was saying things that should never be said. It was all right for him to speak to Perce and Mrs. Perce of the old gent as the old B. They had known him well and knew nothing disrespectful was meant, but for Miss Clara, the old man’s niece, to say that about him wasn’t nice at all.

  It was Clara’s habit to carry a notebook in her bag, for in her mission work it was often needed. She now produced the book, and a pencil.

  “I really must learn my dogs’ names. What did you say this one is called?”

  There was a pause during which Perce’s eyes telegraphed a message to Henry. Henry read the message aright. He laid a finger on Clara’s notebook.

  “You’ve no cause to trouble writin’ their names down, Miss Clara. Time she’s seen ’em once or twice she’ll know ’em as if they was livin’ with ’er, that’s right, isn’t it, Perce?”

  Mrs. Perce edged nearer to Clara.

  “That’s right what ’enery says.”

  Clara peered through her pince-nez at the kennels, in each of which were four dogs, and Perce was holding several more by leads.

  “I’m afraid I shall be rather slow at learning their names. I know you’ll think this very ignorant of me, Mr. Perce, but to me many of them look alike.”

  Perce forgot that Clara had shocked him, and saw why Henry was fond of her. Nicely spoken lady she was. He had a reputation second to none for altering a dog’s appearance. It was said in his world that when he had the job of making one dog look the image of another he could even alter the colour of the eyes. Pride in his craft, and a wish to make Henry’s Miss Clara feel one of the family, made him forget his instructions and speak ta her as Simon’s niece.

  “They are alike. When I done with ’em their own mother wouldn’t know ’em.”

  Clara had written “Number one pale yellowish dog” in her book, and was waiting, pencil poised, for the name. Now she stared in bewilderment at Perce.

  “How do you mean, when you’ve done with them?”

  Mrs. Perce dug her elbow fiercely into Perce’s back. Henry cleared his throat while he thought what to reply. Perce realised he had blundered and laboriously, his eyes shifting from Clara to Mrs. Perce, attempted to fumble back to safety.

  “A’course they likes you to send the dog what you’ve entered to run in a race, but s’posin’ that dog was ill, or that, you sends another what looks like it . . .”

  Mrs. Perce gave Henry a glance describing what she would later say to Perce. Then she turned to Clara.

  “’e’s only ’avin’ you on, Miss ’ilton. Perce wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. There’s not a more regular man, nor more respected in the business, is there, ’enery?”

  Clara saw the Perces were nervous, and that this was caused by something to do with the dogs. Henry had impressed on her that the Perces were not only fond of the dogs but needed them for their livelihood. It might not be that she could feel it right to keep racing dogs on which people gambled, that must wait until she had seen them racing, but at once she must make it clear to the Perces that they would be looked after.

  “Please don’t think I have come to-day to interfere in any way. I feel convinced everything you do for the dogs is right, Mr. Perce. Apart from the fact that I’m sure that is how you would treat them in any case, it’s certain my dear old uncle would allow nothing else. He left wishes, you know, and one of them was that his racing dogs and his four race horses should have consideration and kindness and be well looked after for the remainder of their lives.”

  Perce and Mrs. Perce looked at each other. What had she said? It was certain her dear old uncle would allow nothing else! She couldn’t be talking about Mr. Hilton. Mrs. Perce was the first to see how needless all the worrying they had done had been. This lady would make no trouble. You could take her to a hundred tracks and no matter what was going on she wouldn’t notice anything funny. It was likely they could get her to carry on just as the old man had carried on, even to buying a new dog when needed. She put her arm through Clara’s.

  “You come in to tea now, ducks, and Perce’ll show you photos what he’s had took of the dogs. And you’ll want to know what they ’as to eat; it’ll surprise you, shouldn’t wonder if you’d fancy a plate of what they ’as yourself.”

  * * * * *

  On the journey to London Julie and Andrew felt trapped. They were wild creatures visiting the tamed. How did the tamed behave? Had they their own code of manners? How did you find out how they lived? The children’s discomfort was accentuated because Bess, stolidly disregarding their apathy, had insisted that they should be properly dressed for their visit. Andrew’s wardrobe had been easy; those men attached to Borthwick’s whose opinion Bess considered worth listening to had agreed that you could go anywhere in a nice blue suit, tidy overcoat and a hat. Julie’s clothes had been more difficult. Bess had struggled to recall what the smarter women in their audiences wore, but could remember only much the same clothes she wore herself, but looking different, due, she supposed, to her size. There was, that season with Borthwick’s, a lady high school rider universally considered a classy, yet refined dresser, and it was on her advice that Julie’s wardrobe was planned. Bess had insisted on Julie drawing out of the Post Office what seemed an extravagant sum. When Julie had tried to point this out Bess had silenced her with an imperious hand. “This is money well laid out. I am not saying it will ever be called for, but if anything should go wrong this Miss Hilton would stand by you. Staying in her house you should be dressed so that she can take a pride in you.” As a result, for the London journey, the children wore new clothes. Actually they were not so different from the clothes they usually wore, but, because they had been bought to wear in the world of the tamed, they felt more like casings than clothes.

  Andrew, never truly alive except when on a trapeze, felt right when dressed for the ring, and the grey flannel or corduroy slacks, and the pullovers or shirts with which he covered his body between practices or performances, were to him no more than dressing-gowns, put on when not working. The blue suit, the new shirt and tie, and the blue overcoat—he had no intention of wearing the hat—would not have bothered him unduly had he worn them on the circus lot; he would have thought them cumbersome, but they would still have been to him but a covering worn when not in his ring clothes. It was having no practice dress in his luggage, and the feeling that he was being carried away, not only from his practice clothes but from his trapezes, that made the new suit and overcoat so terrifying. What did you do when there was no place in which to work? He hid it, but he was quivering with fright; would this land of the “theys” disembowel him?

  At any other time new clothes gave Julie pleasure, but on this occasion she disliked them. She had never stayed as a visitor, and neither had the lady high school rider. That old Miss Hilton would not know about clothes, but Mr. Charles Willis would. Between Julie’s small breasts was a letter. Nobody, not even Andrew, knew she had received it. It had happened that she was in charge of the office when the postman brought it. It was a most surprising letter; Julie had not known what to make of it, but had hurriedly tucked it out of sight for, funny sort of letter though it might be, it was for her, and that other eyes should read it, and that it should be passed round, and commented on, was unthinkable. Charles had written in gay spirits. He told her that she must not think she was coming to London to do what she liked, she was coming to do what he liked, and he would be round to see her the night she arrived with arrangements in triplicate for Operation Julie Marquis. He hoped that Aunt Clara would let him take her out the night she arrived, they would have a bite somewhere and they might dance a bit afterwards. Would she please answer and say she would like to spend her first evening with him, for himself he thought it a good idea. He signed himself “Charles.” Julie had not answered the letter, for she had no idea how to. Was he really plannin
g to take her out to dinner, or was he making fun of her? Why did he sign himself “Charles?” When she moved the letter felt stiff and made the faintest crackle. The feel of the letter and the crackle had given Julie the queerest sensation, the sort of feeling she had just before she and Andrew went into the ring for their act, a mixture of being uplifted yet scared. Now that the train was rushing her towards the writer the uplifted feeling was gone and only fear remained. Suppose Mr. Charles Willis meant what was in the letter, how did a girl like herself know what to wear and how to behave? She knew nothing, she was sure to make terrible mistakes, and then Mr. Charles Willis would be ashamed. How did you learn how people like Mr. Charles Willis behaved? No girl in any magazine she had read, or film she had seen, was as ignorant as she was. She had seen one film where the heroine was a circus girl like herself, even a trapeze artist, but she had not been like any circus artist she had met. After the show the girl in the film had gone to restaurants and out dancing with the hero, wearing beautiful frocks, furs and jewels. The film had not shown where the girl lived, but it must have been a big place or there would have been no room for her wardrobe, and her life must have been quite different from the life of ordinary circus people, for she never seemed to have to wash, iron, cook and do the shopping, as well as repair clothes for the act. Could it be that Mr. Charles Willis had seen that film, and thought she was like that girl? Was that why he wrote about taking her out? Was he supposing she was arriving with smart clothes, furs and jewels? Was that why he, a gentleman like he was, signed himself just “Charles” to a circus girl he had met the once?

  Clara and Henry were on the platform. A look at them both should have set Julie’s and Andrew’s minds at rest. It was a cold morning and Clara had on the sealskin coat which at any other time they would have recognised as a relic, which Bess would scorn. Henry would not have dressed up to meet the children, for he had placed them rightly, but since he was escorting Clara he wore Simon’s old bowler. Had they crossed the ring with the clowns and augustes the audience would have seen them as figures of fun, and they would have laughed, and in the ordinary way Julie and Andrew would have smiled, but to-day there was nothing remotely funny about them, they were keepers opening the door of a cage.

  As the taxi drove towards Gorpas Road only Henry was completely happy. To him the children’s scared eyes, and monosyllabic replies to Miss Clara’s questions were wholly understandable. “Poor little B’s,” he thought, “they aren’t ’alf in a state comin’ to stay, nor I don’t wonder neither, I wouldn’t care for stayin’ with strangers meself.” He eyed Julie thoughtfully. Nice little bit she looked, maybe Mr. Willis was on to something good. But if Mr. Willis thought she was a brass, he had got another think coming. That dyed hair could fool you for a moment, but if you looked at those brown eyes you could see she was innocent as a baby. “Shame re’lly, somebody did ought to tip her off.”

  Clara had been looking forward to the arrival of the children. She felt that at last she was carrying out a part of a wish of Simon’s. She had hoped the children were looking forward to a week in London, most children would, but she could see that this was not the case with Julie and Andrew. She noticed their frightened eyes and nervous, hesitant replies, and as she told them that they must treat her home as their own, and do anything they fancied while they were with her, her mind was seeking a reason for their fear, and, thanks to her mission training, she came near to finding it. She had seen that same scared, almost furtive look, before; it meant that there was uncertainty as to the reason for her visit, and anxiety lest she pried into things that were not her concern. Julie and Andrew had not been told the wording of the will, and she had been advised they should not know it, but, not knowing it, they must be wondering why a silly old thing like herself wished them to visit her, if perhaps she had some demand to make of them. Visiting for the mission, when she came across those who were scared of her, she had found it best to talk of trivialities until fear of her abated, so she tried this method with Julie and Andrew.

  “Such kind people Mr. and Mrs. Perce; quite soon some of the dogs will be racing and Henry is going to take me to see them do it. My uncle wanted me to look after them but racing is gambling and I feel gambling wrong. I shall decide what to do after I have seen them race. Quite a problem, my old uncle was such a dear man, and would have had nothing to do with anything wrong, but, of course, people hold different views about gambling . . .”

  Clara’s monologue came to an abrupt end when the taxi turned into Gorpas Road. Henry, riding with his back to the driver, had turned to make sure he found the house. At sight of the house he tapped on the glass and stopped the taxi.

  “Miss Clara, the Reverend and his missus are on our doorstep.” On Henry’s order the taxi turned and drove into the next street, where it again stopped. Henry felt some explanation should be given to the children. “The Reverend is Miss Clara’s brother.”

  Clara tried to feel what it was right she should do. Since Maurice and Doris were there ought she not to be honest, and drive up to the house and introduce Julie and Andrew to them? Was that not what God would wish? Was that not why at this moment He had sent Maurice and Doris to the house?

  “I think, Henry, we should go home. I know I had thought it better my brother should not know about our visitors, but as he and my sister-in-law have come to-day I think I must accept they were guided to do so.”

  Henry thought quickly. Miss Clara was a shocker to move when she started on her guidance talk. But his orders had been clear. Mr. Willis had said he would write himself to all the relatives, but letters would not keep them off, and it was up to Henry to see that Clara and the relatives did not meet until she had decided what to do with her property, Mr. Willis wouldn’t half create if he found out he had not only let the Reverend meet Miss Clara but the Marquis kids. There was only one way to talk to Miss Clara when she was taken religious.

  “You couldn’t be guided to go there now, Miss Clara, not seein’ the promise you give Mr. Willis.”

  On hearing Charles’s name Julie moved, so that she could feel the letter between her breasts. Clara felt the movement and turned to Julie.

  “It’s so difficult, dear, Alison and Marjorie are nieces, but you and Andrew are a sacred trust.”

  Julie had expected not to understand the world of the “theys,” but what was now going on was more confusing than even her worst fears. She and Andrew a sacred trust! What talk was that? She was spared the trouble of even a monosyllabic reply. The taxi driver, who, having assessed his fares as the sort who would tip poorly, turned and asked in a surly voice if they had made up their minds where they wanted to go.

  “What’s your ’urry, mate? Someone after you?” Henry leaned across to Clara. “You take the kids to a nice little place and ’ave a cuppa till the Reverend’s gone. I’ll ’ang around and let you know when you can come ’ome.”

  If Henry had only advised tea and not mentioned hanging about, Clara might have agreed, but his last words settled the matter, Maurice was a brother. How horrid to allow somebody to hang about in order to warn you when a brother had left your doorstep.

  “No, Henry, that would be very unkind. Tell the driver to go back to the house.”

  Henry tapped Clara’s knee with a firm first finger.

  “No, you don’t. I got me orders from Mr. Willis, ’e said nothin’ was to be told to the relatives until you ’ad decided what was right.”

  It was by accident that Henry landed on the word “right” but it changed Clara’s mind.

  “Dear Mr. Willis, he’s so considerate, perhaps I should do as he advised.” She opened the taxi door and got out. She beamed at Julie, Andrew and Henry. “You dear people have something to eat and, when you have finished, telephone to me and I will let you know if you can come home.” She saw Henry rising to get out. “No, stay where you are, Henry. You needn’t be anxious about me, I shall say nothing about the spare room.”

  Henry gave the driver instructions, then spoke gl
oomily towards Clara’s loaf-like shape disappearing round the corner.

  “Don’t be anxious! Don’t make me laugh! By the time you’re ’alf-way up the stairs you’ll ’ave told ’em ’o’s ’ere, and the next thin’ we knows we’ll ’ave the ’ole boilin’ scratchin’ round like cats round a dustbin.”

  Charles’s letters had prevented George and Frederick making further moves to acquire “The Goat in Gaiters.” George might call Charles a young jackanapes, but he knew and respected the firm of Willis and Willis. Any property they were keeping an eye on would not be sold cheaply. Frederick might talk to Alice about monkey business, but he never underrated an opponent or wasted his valuable time. Willis and Willis were formidable opponents, and it would be time wasted trying to fool them as to the value of “The Goat in Gaiters.” Both men were secretly annoyed that the letters they had caused to be sent to Clara should have been seen by the firm of Willis and Willis, and both, since they could not speak their minds to Willis and Willis, spoke them to their wives. When it came to mind-speaking Vera could do as well, and better, than George, who was hindered from letting himself go by his legal training, which had taught him to use words with caution. He had not said half what he intended to say when Vera broke in. She was surprised George should have been such an idiot as to underrate young Willis. She had seen at a glance that he was the sort to keep his talons on Clara’s possessions, and if there were any pickings to be had, it was certain Willis and Willis would get them. As she thought of pickings going to the already prosperous Willis family, while none came to the needy children and grandchildren of Simon’s eldest nephew, Vera felt such an uprush of rage that her face became bloated and blotched. George might accept such a state of affairs, but she was not going to. Old Clara was not to wallow in comfort while Ronnie and Ethel, Rita and poor Tim, Freda and Basil, not to mention little Pansy, Peter, Derek, Poppet, Noel and now baby Priscilla Annette, had to manage, not only without luxuries, but, too often, without what really amounted to necessities. It was not as if George was a rich and successful man like Frederick, able, even if he didn’t do it, to give his family everything they wanted. George’s family knew there was little help possible because he was incapable of earning more than he was doing. If it were the last thing she arranged she would see old Clara did something to help the children during her lifetime, though it would not be much, for she must live frugally so that, after her death, there would be a comfortable sum to divide. George might believe that nonsense about dogs, horses and that gambling thing not bringing in much, but she was not fooled. Uncle Simon had lived very cosily, hadn’t he? Was there any reason why less income should be pouring in on old Clara? George interrupted there to murmur the words “death duties.” Vera, carried away by rage, brushed death duties aside as if they did not exist. If George were weak enough to lie down under what had happened she was not, she would see justice done.