George knew Vera in a temper too well to make a suggestion while the temper was with her, but when the storm had died down he reintroduced the subject of Clara’s income. Vera was, of course, right, it was an unfair will, but nothing would come of getting angry, anger, even when it was justified, was not an aid to clear thinking. They must play their cards carefully. The children were not the only needy members of the family, there were Alison and Marjorie. If there were a lot of money to come, which there never was nowadays with death duties screwing the last penny out of estates, it would be only fair that after Clara’s death as many as possible of her relatives should benefit. There would not be, however, much money and therefore the long-sighted thing for Clara to do would be to leave what there was in trust for the youngest of her relatives. If the money were left in trust for Pansy, Peter, Derek, Poppet, Noel and Priscilla Annette, and Clara did not live too long beyond her three score years and ten, quite respectable sums would accrue by the time the children came of age. It was unlikely, as things were at present, with that young Willis hanging around, that Clara would come to him for advice, therefore the proper thing to do would be to get Clara’s interest focused on the children. Priscilla Annette was not yet christened. Clara must be asked to be godmother, and at the christening a fuss must be made of her. She had never been made a fuss of, she would enjoy it. They must, too, plan Christmas. All the children together, a Christmas tree, little presents from the children to Clara, that sort of thing. Nothing should be forced, everything should seem perfectly natural, which indeed it was. He would write to Freda to-morrow instructing her to write to Clara about being godmother, and outlining the sort of letter that would go down well.
Frederick was not interrupted as he spoke his mind to Alice, for, with bowed head, she allowed herself to be blamed for having written the letter to Clara—for having brought her daughters up so badly that one had married a wrong-un and the other snivelled around, remembering a husband who had been killed instead of making the best of herself while she still had the looks, and so finding a second man with enough money to look after her and her children—for having most deceitfully led him to understand that she was her uncle’s heir—and for doing nothing, now that Clara had all there was, to make herself so invaluable to her sister that when a will was made what was left went in the right direction. Frederick paused there for Alice to reply, and when instead she stood silent, with meekly drooping head, he shouted, his voice full of temper caused by knowing the blamed is not to blame, “Well, are you doing anything? Do you ever trouble to see your sister?” Alice did not point out that she had but taken down the letter Frederick had dictated, that the upbringing of the girls, as far as schools were concerned, had been his business, that she had begged Ann to delay her marriage to Cyril, whom she had never liked, it was he who had told her to stop croaking, he did not want unmarried daughters on his hands if she did. Instead, she pointed out, in the tone of one who accepts that she is a fool, that Clara was only two years older than she was, very strong, and likely to outlive her. Frederick resented the idea of losing property, especially a wife. Alice was his, there could be no thought of her dying, until he himself had died, and had therefore no further use for her. She was, he told her, an idiot; had he said anything about leaving anything to her? Of course not. When he spoke of the right direction he was naturally referring to Ursula, Gordon and Frank. If Alice were so rotten a mother she could not bring up a couple of daughters to have a bit of horse sense, the least she could do was to see her grandchildren were provided for. There was little enough money on her side of the family, but such as there was it was her duty to see came eventually where it had been promised. He added that she had better keep an eye on her brother George, or the old skinflint would beat her to it. Alice said meekly, “Yes, Frederick,” but when he had gone from the room she looked up with an expression that was not only not meek but defiant. This was an order that need not be obeyed, for the giver of the order was most unlikely to be present when the result was known. She would see Clara, but what they talked about would be her own and Clara’s affair. For Clara was strong and Clara led a quiet, healthy life, whereas Frederick had high blood pressure, and should neither excite himself nor over-work, both of which he did daily.
When Clara, a little out of breath, arrived at her front door, she was received with relief by Maurice and Doris. They had especially chosen a morning visit, having decided Henry would be at home doing the housework, and if Clara were out, they would insist on coming in and waiting. Clara had answered Maurice’s letter with a vague rambling one in which she said she was busy at the moment, but later it would be lovely to see Maurice. Doris would have ignored that letter, but there was one also from Charles. It was a carefully-worded affair suggesting it was written in friendliness, so that Miss Hilton’s family need not be anxious about her affairs. It stated that on his advice Miss Hilton was coming to no quick decision about selling any of her property. Although it did not say so there was a hint that Clara’s welfare in every direction was being guarded by Willis and Willis. Doris was slightly awed by lawyers. She and Maurice had few dealings with them. She read and re-read Charles’s letter, wondering what was behind it. Maurice’s letter to Clara had not mentioned property. He had said he had something to discuss. There was not a hint he wanted Henry out of the flat and Alison and Marjorie in it. In any case was Henry property? Because of Charles’s letter the visit to Clara was put off, not that Maurice and Doris admitted it was put off, it was being too busy that prevented them going to London. They would have waited for some real excuse for their visit to Clara had their hands not been forced. Marjorie’s job was coming to an end. The doctor she was assisting had married, and his wife was to take over her work. This would not have mattered, for Marjorie had immediately had an offer to do the same work at an increased wage for another doctor, but Marjorie had become difficult. She said she had no intention of spending her life drifting from doctor to doctor, it was a dead-end occupation; when times were hard she would be dispensed with and a sister, elderly cousin or wife would fill her place in exchange for food and a bed. She did not want her parents to do anything, she would in fact far rather they did not. She would find work, no matter what, which made it possible for her to train to be a masseuse. Maurice was pained. Daughters, until they married, should remain in the nest, or in nests borrowed for them by their parents. When he mentioned this to Marjorie he had said, “I am sure you will leave this to Mummie and me to decide,” and then gently, “We know our fifth commandment, don’t we?” Marjorie had replied, “Well, if you are going to start on The Bible how about Ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath?” Maurice was too pained to answer that, and instead wrestled on his knees with the problem of daughters who were undutiful. “I wouldn’t mind for myself, God, but I am a priest. Because of that my words should be heeded by all daughters, especially my own.” When Maurice emerged subdued and creased from wrestling, Doris for once was impatient when he told her what, he understood, the line he should take should be, and refused to listen to much of his disjointed statement, breaking in finally with “Nonsense.” Though Maurice’s face showed him to be shocked and grieved at the use of such a word during so solemn a conversation, Doris paid no heed. If Maurice thought it was vouchsafed to him that he was to change Marjorie’s mind by showing how deep his love was, and how much a daughter had power to hurt her father, she was afraid the vouchsafing was coming from below instead of above. Marjorie, as he ought to know, was the last type of girl to be influenced by that sort of treatment, it was in fact likely to drive her out of the house. There was only one way to deal with Marjorie and that was to present a sensible alternative. Marjorie was singularly lacking in social sense, as surely Maurice had noticed. Had he not heard both she and Alison say they did not care what work they did, provided it was honest and well paid? Marjorie would do exactly as she threatened if they could not suggest a better plan. Maurice must face the possibility of Marjorie taking on the job of a
charlady if the hours left her free for her training as a masseuse, and there was sufficient money in it to keep her. How would he feel when it got round the family his daughter was a charlady? Nor would it stop at Marjorie, he could be sure of that, the next minute Alison would join her. They would lose both girls, and Maurice would be surprised to find what that meant to him. She would like to know who else was going to run the youth groups and the scouts and all the rest of it. If, however, he succeeded in making Clara see how improper it looked her having Henry in her house, and how much more suitable two nieces would be, and as well he talked her into paying the fees for Marjorie’s massage lessons, and Alison’s secretarial training, everything could come right. They need not lose the girls entirely, Clara could send them home for week-ends and that would mean they could keep an eye on their parish work.
Maurice liked support for his actions. He disliked feeling responsible for what he might say or do. The fear of being pounced on by his rural dean, or, worse still, reprimanded by his bishop, of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of his parishioners, of being sneered at by his family, was lessened when he felt he was acting on advice from on high. It was therefore an unwilling Maurice that Doris brought to Clara’s doorstep, in fact he would have refused to visit Clara until he had received at least a celestial hint that this was the right moment, but Doris, with an urge to do something, was not a Doris to be gainsaid. She came from a suburban home where everything was sacrificed on a fire built of what the neighbours would think. Since her marriage to Maurice she had worried less what the neighbours thought, for the neighbours were parishioners and should pattern their behaviour on what was done in the vicarage; but she cared terribly what Maurice’s family thought. Her own family’s views mattered nothing, for she had married into a higher class, and it was theirs only to listen humbly when told how life was lived in the Hilton world. Every inflection was guarded, every word chosen so that they never knew that Maurice’s relations actually looked down on Maurice because he was poor; it was a fear that stalked her that one day her family would learn the truth, and the glossy picture she had painted of Maurice the family counsellor, Maurice to whom all turned, would dissolve never to be repainted. Her upbringing had taught her that eyes were always peering from behind curtains, so nothing you did was unobserved. If Marjorie carried out her threat of finding work in London, and, as was only too likely, it was demeaning work, somebody would see, somebody would whisper, and then the dreaded moment would arrive, her family would find out what the Hiltons, so wickedly, thought of Maurice.
Maurice was delighted when repeated rings produced no Henry. It seemed that without his interference the visit was not to take place. Gratefully he glanced skywards. It was when mentally he was framing thanks for unexpected ill-deserved help, that Clara arrived.
Because she knew she had tried to avoid meeting Maurice and Doris, and because there was something to hide, Clara tried to feel exceptionally affectionate.
“You dear things. I had no idea you were coming. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Doris, because it was urgent she should feel so, tried to sound fond in her greeting, but she had not forgiven Clara for her behaviour to Maurice on the drive back from Simon’s funeral, nor for having left herself and Maurice to hold the position of the poor members of the family on their own, so her effort was not successful.
“Good-morning, Clara. We had hoped to find you in. Maurice and I are naturally unused to standing on doorsteps.”
Clara had been fiddling with her key in the lock. She stopped in surprise.
“Aren’t you? How very odd. I really do the same sort of work as Maurice and I spend hours on doorsteps.”
The door was open and they climbed the stairs. Doris’s lips were pressed in a thin line. What impertinence! The same sort of work as Maurice! Had the business they were on not been so important she would have spoken her mind. To keep herself from that temptation she changed the subject.
“Where’s Henry?”
Clara made the steepness of the stairs an excuse for not answering immediately. Where indeed was Henry? There could never be an occasion when it was right to lie.
“Such steep stairs, aren’t they? You’re both thin, but I’m such a fat old thing, they make me out of breath. Where is Henry? Oh, he’s out doing something for me.” She reached the top of the stairs and, with a feeling of triumph, threw open the drawing-room door. That was a good answer. It was perfectly true; if she was careful they need not feel she was hiding anything, the children’s luggage was not here, Henry’s and Andrew’s camp beds were not yet put up, there should be nothing to give away her little secret.
Doris looked round the drawing-room. Henry had built up the fire before he left for the station, and it was now blazing behind the guard. The room had not much furniture for there had not been much worth keeping after moth and mice had been nourished on it. There were still no curtains, and to many the room would have seemed empty and bleak. But to Doris a huge room with a parquet floor, and a vast, though dusty, chandelier, were grand, and the blazing fire looked rich. She managed to stifle the upsurging of jealousy that it was Clara who had been given such luxury and looked round for something to start the conversation rolling in the right direction. Her eye caught sight of a long cobweb in a corner.
“This room must make a lot of work.”
Clara’s eyes beamed happily from behind her pince-nez. It was a pity so much had rotted away, but how fortunate there was nothing left to attract moths, for Henry, dear man though he was, would be unlikely to keep them at bay.
“Not really, there’s not much furniture now so Henry can manage nicely.”
Doris looked at Maurice. Henry had been brought not only into the conversation, he was now the centre of it. This was the moment for Maurice to say what he had come to say. Maurice accepted the message, and tried to send one back asking Doris to be patient, these things could not be rushed. It was a difficult message to send without words, and Doris did not receive it. All she saw was Maurice looking depressed, almost, only it was not a description to be applied to a husband, especially a husband who was a clergyman, hang-dog. She saw she must keep the conversation hovering round Henry.
“Don’t you wish Henry was a woman? Men are never as thorough as we are, are they?”
Clara thought fondly of Henry.
“I wouldn’t change Henry for anybody. I can so understand what he meant to Uncle Simon. Henry’s not a servant, he’s a dear friend.”
Doris gave Maurice a prodding look. He really must say something now. Maurice licked his lips. How he longed for advice, just the faintest hint; he felt incompetent to handle this situation without guidance.
“The position has changed, Clara. Uncle Simon was a man, you are a woman.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes. He was a wonderful friend to the dear old man, and now he’s being a wonderful friend to me.”
Maurice used a tone he found effective when he wished to make parishioners consider their actions.
“Are you quite happy with only yourself and Henry in the flat?”
Clara paused before she answered. She must be careful to speak generally, for this week she and Henry would not be alone, and it would be lying to pretend that they were.
“Very happy. I think I may say happier than I have ever been. It was delightful at the mission, and of course I was glad to do all I could for Father and Mother, but having a place of your own is a great treat. I often look at the group taken at the birthday luncheon, and I hope the dear old man is able to see how happy he has made me.”
Maurice and Doris thought of their copies of the family group, and felt a need to see the contented smile leave Clara’s face. Maurice leant forward.
“Clara, Henry should not live here. It is not a suitable arrangement.”
Clara was puzzled. Why had Maurice said that? Henry’s was quite a nice little room, she believed. She never went into it, it was his property, willed to him by Simon. Mau
rice could not know she had allowed him to lend it to Julie, and that all he had this week was a camp bed, which of course would not be a suitable arrangement for long.
“I think Henry’s quite happy. As a matter of fact the room has been done up recently. You were thinking that perhaps he should have Uncle Simon’s room?”
Doris saw that Maurice was going to shilly-shally.
“Maurice thinks, and so do I, that you should have a woman or women in the flat. Henry could come in every day of course to do the work, but he should live out.”
Aunt Clara Page 18
