Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  Freda found caring for a new baby, as well as Poppet and Noel, tiring, and was not in the mood to be dictated to by her mother. Basil was never in the mood to be dictated to by his mother-in-law. Why, they questioned angrily, should they ask Uncle Maurice to take the christening? Nobody ever asked Uncle Maurice to take anything. It was their baby who was being baptised and they would have her baptised by somebody they chose, presumably their vicar. Uncle Maurice would spoil the party, and as for the idea of asking Aunt Doris, it was crazy. Uncle Maurice and Aunt Doris were the sort of relations you hid from your friends, you didn’t exhibit them at christenings. Why was there no need to ask Alison and Marjorie? They were the nicest of the cousins in spite of their awful father and mother. They were especially inflamed by Vera’s last paragraph. “By the way, drop that idea of asking Aunt Clara to be a godmother. It is out of the question. I will explain later.” Freda, like all Clara’s nephews and nieces, was fond of her. It was not a fondness which they showed, for unless they met her she was out of their minds. She shared that place in their hearts kept for their childhood books and toys, the plot where they had made a garden, and the trees they had climbed to set up telegraph wires of string. Clara’s cosy rounded figure in roomy dresses of plum, maroon or grey had always appeared in time of need. When that major catastrophe of childhood, the upsetting of the status quo, occurred, Clara’s arrival had comforted and recreated security. When they were ill she had been the centre of their hazy world, wearing a large apron sitting by the bed reading aloud, and in the night her bulky outline, stooping over a coal scuttle, had come and gone as the fire flickered. In the way in which stubborn resistance is met by parents when they attempt to part with their children’s treasures no longer apparently valued, so resistance sprang up at a hint of criticism of Aunt Clara. Drop asking Aunt Clara! They would certainly ask her, bless her. The plans for the christening of Priscilla Annette had, until that moment, hung fire; on the reception of Vera’s letter everything was settled.

  The letter Freda wrote to Clara was carefully worded, for she and Basil were determined Clara should not think she was being asked to be a godmother because of her money. Freda’s letter to her mother was firm. They would not have Uncle Maurice. The date of the christening and who should officiate was fixed. Clara had been asked to be one godmother and Alison the other.

  Clara’s letter from Freda arrived by the morning post. She was breakfasting alone, for Julie was not yet down after a late night, and Andrew had already left for the gymnasium. As she buttered the slice of burnt toast that Henry had made for her she gave the matter of the christening earnest thought. Freda’s letter was charming, and whatever she decided the dear child must know she was pleased that she had been asked. It was particularly sweet of her to say the baby did not want christening presents, but that was nonsense, all babies should have christening presents, she would send the little pearl safety-pin she had been given at her own christening. But should she be a godmother? A godmother made vows on behalf of a baby, and ought to be there to see them carried out, so a great-aunt was not a good choice. It was an admirable idea to choose Alison, who was a splendid girl and would make a fine godmother, but should not Freda choose another of that generation for the second godmother?

  When Henry came in to clear the breakfast he found Clara smiling apparently at nothing. He did not care for that. Too often in his experience too much smiling heralded one of her religious turns.

  “What’s up? Look like you’d won a football pool.”

  Clara continued to smile.

  “That’s naughty, Henry. You know I think gambling of any kind is wrong.” She picked up Freda’s letter. “My niece Freda has written to ask me to be godmother to the new baby.”

  Henry doubted the motives of any relative of Clara’s.

  “Oh! Does she say why?”

  “I shall refuse. She says I’m not to give a christening present, but I shall of course. Miss Alison, my clergyman brother’s girl, is being asked to be the other godmother. I was thinking, instead of posting my present, I should like to see Miss Alison and get her to take it with her, and some cakes and crackers for the christening tea as a treat for Poppet and Noel.”

  Henry paused in his table-clearing.

  “When you say ‘see’ was you thinkin’ she could come ’ere?”

  “Yes. Andrew is sure to be out, and Julie won’t mind going to her room; but I might tell Miss Alison about them. She’s a dear girl and won’t say anything unless I give her permission.”

  Henry looked severe.

  “Before you do that, you’ll ask Mr. Willis. You know ’ow it’ll be, the moment they feels they’re bein’ done out of somethin’, the ’ole boilin’ will be ’ere, same as they was in the old gent’s time. You don’t want to start nothin’ like that.”

  Clara did not like to hear Henry speak of her family in that way, but he was uneducated so did not appreciate he was being impertinent. She picked up her letter, and said gently but conclusively:

  “I shall write to my niece now. Julie shall post it when she goes out to do the shopping.”

  Clara’s attempts to teach Julie how English should be spoken succeeded by example rather than training. She could hear Julie’s pinched vowels, and Julie could hear Clara’s rounded ones, but there would have been no improvement if Julie had not noticed that, to show her how words should sound, Clara opened her mouth, while she, aiming at the same effect, kept hers half closed. Now that her mind was on educating herself Julie discovered speaking nicely was only a small part of all she needed to know. Spending so much time with Clara she picked up the knowledge that much that Bess had taught her she needed to forget. Words and expressions Bess had carefully instilled into herself and Andrew she now learned they never should have used. When alone she would mutter, “you can’t say serviette, it’s a napkin.” “I mustn’t ask anybody to pass the cruet. I must ask for mustard, pepper or salt.” She had seen pain on Clara’s face when in a teashop she had called the waitress “miss,” and later Clara had said, “I know you would like me to tell you, dear. You say ‘waitress,’ never, never ‘miss.’” Most difficult to overcome was the habit of murmuring “pardon.” Bess had taken such trouble with that word. “Always say ‘pardon,’ nice manners cost nothing.” Now to say pardon was wrong; no matter what happened, even if you knocked somebody over all you said was “sorry,” at least that was all Charles seemed to think necessary. Some things she learnt she loved. She had been brought up to look on baths as luxuries, so it was a joy to discover in Clara’s house they were considered necessities—“when do you like your bath, dear, morning or evening?”—and that it was usual even to have a second one if you were dressing to go out to dance. Each morning as she cooked her breakfast Julie discussed what she was learning with Henry, and usually, though sometimes he had caustic comments to make, especially about baths, which he thought unhealthy, he was interested. On the morning that Freda’s letter arrived he was inattentive. Julie turned round from the stove where she was cooking bacon to look at him.

  “What’s up?”

  Henry closed the door.

  “The relatives is at us again.”

  By now Julie had learnt the names of most of Clara’s family.

  “Which of them?”

  “Mrs. Pickerin’. She’s one of Mr. George ’ilton’s lot.” Henry grinned reminiscently. “You did ought to ’ave ’eard the old gent about ’er kid. All on account of callin’ ’er Poppet, created alarmin’ ’e did. I can ’ear ’im as plain as if ’e was in this kitchen. ‘Poppet! Damn disgustin’.’ Well, now there’s a baby come and Mrs. Pickerin’ wants Miss Clara to be godmother.”

  “Isn’t that nice for her?”

  “Could be, could be not. Smells to me like Mr. George ’ilton and his missus is at the back of it, ’opin for somethin’ for the baby.”

  “Why shouldn’t the baby have something? Aunt Clara’s got no children. Wouldn’t it be nice for her to have a baby to be interested in?”
r />   Henry came over to the stove and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “A baby’d be all right if it stopped there, but it won’t. Miss Clara’s funny about the old gent, I mean ’e wasn’t like she thinks ’e was, she ’asn’t no need to carry on about sacred trusts and that, but you know what she is, thinks a thin’ did oughter be done, an’ you can’t stop ’er. You ’aven’t seen one of ’er religious turns, chronic they are. I don’t like what I’ve seen of the relatives, an’ no more don’t Mr. Willis, but relatives is relatives an’ as’ their rights, but they won’t get rights nor nothin’ else till Miss Clara’s fixed thin’s so everythin’ what the old gent left ’er is satisfactory . . .”

  “Like the horses?”

  “That’s the ticket, though, mind you, they was extra, seein’ they weren’t the ones what ’e left. But it’s the same thin’ to ’er; she’s got to get the ’ole boilin’ settled afore she can ’and out anythin’ to the new baby, nor any of ’em. And that’s why we don’t want ’em nosin’ round. I reckon this christenin’s just a way for ’em to get climbin’ our apples and pears.”

  Julie put her bacon on a plate and sat down at the table to eat it.

  “I wonder if it would help if I told her that her uncle wasn’t our father, or do you think she knows?”

  “She knows, but that don’t alter thin’s, you was part of the trust, so to speak, an’ you two’s sort of fixed stayin’ ’ere an’ all, so we don’t want no Miss Alison comin’ an’ upsettin’ of ’er.”

  “Who’s she?”

  Henry repeated what Clara had told him.

  “When you’re with Mr. Willis to-night you ’ave a talk to ’im, ’e told me ’e expected me to keep the relatives off of ’er, but she ’as stubborn fits. Proper sarky she sounded when she was tellin’ me about the letter. Put me in mind of the old gent when ’e was tellin’ me to mind me own bloody business.”

  That evening Julie made Charles listen while she repeated what Henry had told her. It was not easy, for Charles never wanted to talk to her of anything that did not concern themselves. He liked to erect a screen of personal jokes and memories which shut them away from other diners and dancers. Since she had defended the old horses he often called her Saint Julia, and amused himself and her with supposed stories of her latest rescues. Her mantelpiece was full of china and glass animals, birds and insects, whose lives he pretended she had saved. To tear him from the intimate world that he treasured she had to show him that side of herself which Borthwick’s Circus knew. The Julie who saw to it that she and Andrew had their full rights, from which no artist, however hard they tried, could push them.

  “I want to hear how I rescued the sea-lion, Charles, but I won’t listen until you’ve heard what I’ve got to tell you. Aunt Clara’s being very good to us, and if we can help her it’s up to Andrew and me to do it.”

  Charles reluctantly put a purple china sea-lion back in his pocket.

  “All right. Let’s have it.”

  In explaining Henry’s fears and reporting that she had posted the letter to Alison, Julie told Charles more than she realised. He had not visualised her life in Gorpas Road. He saw her only as she appeared when he called to fetch her, and he had only known those parts of her day of which she told him. How she had visited the gymnasium to watch Andrew work, or something funny that a bus conductor had said. She had talked of “when I was ironing,” or “I was mending something.” He liked to think of her in the drawing-room or her pretty little bedroom, occupied making herself ready to go out with him. Now a new pattern was shaped. “I was cooking my breakfast when Henry said . . .” “Aunt Clara asked me to post the letter when I was out doing the shopping.”

  “Aunt Clara really means to see Alison Hilton, she showed me the little brooch she wants her to take . . .” “I think she’d be glad if this Alison Hilton knew about Andrew and me, she thinks hiding things is wrong, but Henry says she wants to get everything settled.”

  When she stopped talking Charles said:

  “I thought Aunt Clara went to that comic mission every day. Doesn’t she go any more?”

  Julie tried not to sound as if there was anything to hide.

  “Not for a bit she isn’t. I think she’s tired.”

  “What’s the secrecy stuff? Is the old girl ill?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Julie felt she must tell a half truth, or he would drag the whole truth from her. “It’s something she does for me. It’s my secret, please don’t try and find it out.”

  Charles was silent, his mind hunting for any possible service Clara could do Julie. It certainly could not be to do with clothes, the poor old girl did not know the first thing about them. It could not be housework or cooking, for he had long ago discovered that Clara was not fond of either. Julie’s secret! Something she did not want him to know. Then he guessed. Subconsciously he had noticed her correcting herself. “Pard . . . I mean sorry.” A struggle to remember there was an “a” in “really.” That friends should not be described as ladies and gentlemen. He was deeply touched. He could see Clara and Julie working together. Nothing would have been said, but the labour would be for him. It humbled him to think of Julie struggling to fit herself for his world, while he did nothing towards making his world fit for her. He had been wallowing in his happiness, and to keep the bloom on it had avoided a family row. He leant across the table and laid a hand on Julie’s.

  “You’re a darling, and I’m a lazy brute.”

  Julie was puzzled.

  “Lazy about what?”

  “Aunt Clara’s doings. Poor old lady, everything ought to have been tidied up weeks ago. We can’t see the road until it is.”

  Julie did not move her hand, but her fingers twitched with slight impatience.

  “I don’t see how clearing up her business is going to help, the relations will still bother her. If she tells this Miss Alison about Andrew and me, Henry says they’ll all pounce on her. It’s a shame she should be worried, because she’s getting old and she’s so sweet.”

  Resolution was growing in Charles. Clara must see all her property and come to a clear decision what she would keep and what she would sell, then, those things settled, he could face his father and the uncles without any repercussions there might be, affecting the old lady. As far as he was concerned he could go on advising her, if not as part of the firm, as one who hoped to be a new kind of relation.

  “It’ll help. You do what you can to get her to make up her mind about things. Get her to decide whether her conscience will let her keep the pub, and what she wants done with her greyhounds . . .”

  “She’s seeing them. Henry’s arranging it.”

  “Good. Until she makes up her mind about things I can’t arrange a sale or have any idea of her income.”

  “She’s awfully glad to have you. She’s always talking about it. If you weren’t looking after her I don’t know what she’d do.”

  Charles saw the not far distant blaze of a family row. He saw the uncles and his father in conference behind a closed door. He could imagine how quickly it would be decided that somebody else had better look after Miss Hilton’s affairs to keep him from “that girl.” None of it would matter. He would do exactly as he thought fit, but there was always the danger of a whiff of the conflagration reaching poor old Clara’s nose; he wouldn’t put it past one of the uncles writing to her. He squeezed Julie’s hand before letting it go.

  “Stop looking like a spaniel. I shall be around to look after her.” He brought the sea-lion out of his pocket. “Now, Saint Julia, let me tell you how you saved the life of Sugar-Daddy the sea-lion.”

  * * * * *

  Botchley Lane lay off the road to Tilbury. The Saturday of the race meeting turned out a wretched day, lowering skies, drifting rain, and an east wind. Perce, when he telephoned Henry about final arrangements, was jubilant.

  “Couldn’t ’ave ’ad a better day if I’d fixed it meself, ’enry boy. The bookies’ll be so froze they won’t think fast, an’ it
ain’t fit for Miss ’ilton to get out of the car, an’ so Mrs. Perce’ll tell ’er. Couldn’t want anythin’ nicer, could you?”

  The race track called itself Botchley Lane Stadium. It consisted of a soggy field round which ran a cinder track, a tottering building of rotting wood, from which peered blue faces selling totalisator tickets, a temporary counter made of beer cases, from behind which a trollop served tea in chipped cups which had first been rinsed in a bucket of dirty water, six traps, a winning post, a rickety loud speaker and a hare perched on a wire fan-shaped contraption, which was drawn by a hand winder.

  All outings were treats to Clara so, in spite of the weather, she meant to enjoy herself. She had been told by Henry that the Perces had provided the car, which she thought extraordinarily thoughtful of them, and she was particularly touched when she learnt that Perce had telephoned to arrange that she should see the racing without leaving the car. She was delighted that Henry had included his friend Nobby in the party; she had not before met him, but she had not forgotten how helpful he had been in getting rid of the rubbish in the drawing-room. She had hoped since Julie was coming that Charles would be with them, but accepted Julie’s explanation that Henry thought Charles would not mix well with Nobby and the Perces, and so she had not told him where they were going. On the way down Clara was the only talkative member of the party, everyone else had their minds on other things and answered her only in monosyllables. Henry kept touching the bulge in his pocket, which was his hundred pounds. It was all right having a gamble, but wasn’t he a fool risking all he had on a dog? Perce was all right, but the weather was shocking, easy enough for any dog to skid at a bend. If he left off living with Miss Clara, that hundred would keep him going until he got fixed up in a new job. Julie was silent because she hated deceiving Charles. She had told him that she was going to watch Andrew working, and he had behaved like a sulky child because she had not allowed him to come too. She wished she knew what he was doing, so that she could imagine him doing it. Six o’clock, when he was fetching her to see a film and have dinner, seemed hours away. She hoped Aunt Clara would be pleased when she had seen the races, and decide definitely that she would not sell her dogs. Then she could tell Charles where they had been, he would still be cross he had not been allowed to come, but less cross when he knew she had helped Aunt Clara to make up her mind about one part of her property. Nobby sat beside the chauffeur, very conscious of his wad of notes. He hoped he would get a chance of a word with Henry before the race. It was awkward they couldn’t speak to Perce, still, if Perce was up to what Henry thought he was up to, it was obvious they couldn’t, it would spoil their chances of getting a good price if they were seen with him before the race. He must try and find out if Henry was still going the limit in spite of the weather. Andrew was silent from anxiety. For once he was not mentally on a trapeze, but going over in his head the instructions Henry had given him. Knowing how vague he was, Henry had been careful to impress on him how important the bet laying was. “Don’t let me catch you dreamin’, you keep your mind on the fac’ you’re seein’ after a quarter of all old ’enry ’as in the world.”