Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  “The words are ‘Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works . . .’ I think those words are true of Aunt Clara, almost you can see a gold light shining from her. I should hate to think what coloured lights would shine out of all of you with your filthy minds.”

  George, Vera, Maurice and Doris were for a moment silenced. George was the first to rally. He told Alison she was talking a lot of nonsense, and, linking himself with Maurice, reminded them that, as Clara’s brothers, it was their duty to see her nephews and nieces were treated fairly. Any money that Clara had inherited belonged after her death to her own family and not to any fly-by-nights mentioned in the will.

  He was interrupted by Freda. She had been carried away by Alison and Marjorie’s rage, and was determined to take her stand with them.

  “Shut up, Father. If you bother Aunt Clara about her wretched money I shall go straight to her solicitors and tell them what you have been thinking about her. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  Clara, knowing nothing of what had taken place at the christening, was touched to the point of tears when two days later she received a large piece of christening cake, together with flowers sent with fondest love, from those of her nephews and nieces who were present.

  Henry eyed the flowers and the cake with the deepest suspicion.

  “They’re up to something, that lot,” he confided to Julie. “Cake and flowers don’t come up our apples and pears unless something’s expected.”

  * * * * *

  Whenever Charles tried to persuade Clara to make a final decision about the disposal of her property he found her evasive. She agreed that she should get her affairs settled, but said she must not be hurried, she must be clear in her mind what was right. When Charles tried to pin her down to when she would get things settled, she avoided the question, saying gently, “Soon, Charles dear,” and then with some vague excuse would wander away.

  It was easy at Christmas to find excuses for delay. Clara might not be going to the mission, but she had many old friends to visit there, and many parcels to pack and take to them. There was the excitement of the opening of the circus. Seeing Andrew and Julie with Borthwick’s had been wonderful, but now that she really knew Andrew, that he was living in her flat, she felt the pride of an aunt in a brilliant nephew. Charles had bought the seats, and arranged they should be in twos, not near enough to make them one party but near enough for them to meet in the interval. Clara and Henry were across a gangway from Charles and Julie. Clara almost spoilt the performance for Henry. Wrapped in her sealskin coat, her eyes gleaming with childlike excitement from behind her pince-nez, she gazed round the arena, and in no time was in conversation with those in the seats next to her, those in front and those behind. She pointed out The Flying Fishes on the programme and more or less explained Andrew. “My dear uncle asked me to take an interest in the children, I don’t really think he’s related, you know, but that makes no difference. They are such dears. It’s been so nice for me having them. If you lean forward you can see Julie.” In vain Henry looked disapproving, and tried to draw Clara’s attention to the ring. “That’ll be where they comes on, Miss Clara. Look, you can see a ’orse waitin’.” “Lovely pattern of sawdust, isn’t it?” Clara was adding to the pleasure of her neighbours and, thinking only of this, refused to be silenced. “Such a treat for me. I’ve always been such an old stick-in-the-mud. I can hardly believe that I’m sitting in this lovely seat, and that one of the performers is my dear Andrew.”

  On another day the Borthwicks came up to see the circus and had high tea in the flat beforehand. There was the Christmas visit with Henry to the cemetery to put a wreath of holly on Simon’s grave. There was Christmas Day itself. Since she was a child Clara had given all of Christmas Day, not spent in church, to seeing that others enjoyed themselves. This year Julie, Andrew, Charles and Henry planned that she should have a happy day. When tired and cold, she puffed up the stairs on her return from early service, she was greeted by a lighted Christmas tree, parcels and cries of “A happy Christmas.” It was, as Clara told Charles, such a surprise. “I’m not used to being made a fuss of. You must give me time to get over Christmas before I can put my mind to business.”

  There was a reason for Clara’s dilatoriness that Charles did not know; Clara had tried several times to get Henry to take her to visit Mrs. Gladys Smith.

  “I really must see her, Henry. After all, she ought to know that Mr. Hilton left a wish she should be adequately provided for.”

  Henry’s comment was always the same.

  “You don’t want to go botherin’ ’er. She’s ’ad ’er ’undred pounds, I told you she’s all right.”

  Clara knew there was some worry in Henry’s mind in connection with Mrs. Gladys Smith. He said she was a person who did things her own way, but Clara felt he must know she did not wish to interfere. It might be there had been intimacy between Mrs. Gladys Smith and Uncle Simon, but even so it was past history now, and Henry should know her better than to think she would mention it, or even in her mind criticise the poor woman. In her bedroom she searched Simon’s face in the family group. What would he wish? Henry was such a dear man, it was unlike him not to help; was it faithfulness to the old man’s memory? In the end, after much thought, she decided to visit Mrs. Gladys Smith alone.

  Clara did not write to advise Mrs. Gladys Smith she was calling, for Henry’s statement that she was a woman who did things her own way suggested a door shut to visitors. Having decided that the visit must be paid, without a word to anybody, on a bitter afternoon in February, Clara went to Paddington.

  Lipton Grove took a lot of finding. It was one of the maze of streets radiating from Paddington Station. No street could look pleasant that February afternoon, the sky was leaden with snow clouds, and a two days’ old fall of snow mixed with soot was frozen over everything. Lipton Grove looked particularly depressing. The houses were Victorian, of the period when atrocious stained-glass was inserted over the front doors. When new the houses might have possessed an air of solidarity and respectability, but for years they had been neglected, and had come down, and now exuded a shady shabbiness. Clara, accustomed to shady shabbiness of streets and houses, recognised the quality, and felt a little anxious as she rang the bell of number one.

  In the window on the left of the front door there were yellow lace curtains. As the bell jangled through the house these moved, and though Clara could see nobody, she felt eyes fixed on her. Presently steps came down the passage and the front door opened.

  Gladys Smith must have been a blonde. Now, at seventy-odd her hair was yellow white, her wrinkled skin heavily made up, and she filled to bursting point the dusty velvet dress into which she was upholstered. Two points struck Clara. Mrs. Gladys Smith’s eyes, which were the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and the behaviour of the front door, which appeared to have no fastenings, but merely swung open when touched. Mrs. Smith was clearly puzzled by Clara, so there was caution in her “Yes. What is it?”

  Clara was too experienced an uninvited caller to move, that would give the effect of one intending to force their way in, and could lead to a foot being placed against the door. Quietly she stated her business.

  “I’m Miss Clara Hilton. He left everything he had to me . . .”

  Clara had to stop there, for Gladys let out a yelp, then, leaning against the wall for support, let out roar after roar of laughter. Between laughs she managed to gasp, “Excuse me, dearie.” “You must think me rude, but I can’t help myself.” Each time she attempted to pull herself together another look at Clara’s earnest face, rather blue with cold, at her pince-nez, her sealskin coat, and her loaf-shaped figure, and she was off again. “Oh, I am sorry, but you’ll be the death of me, straight you will.” At last she got control of herself, and taking Clara by the arm led her into her sitting-room, and settled her in an armchair by a blazing fire.

  Gladys’s life had been a fight to obtain and hold comfort, security and what to her were l
uxuries. Relations had whined and begged. Always there were grasping fingers trying to snatch. Often there were hands out for bribes. As a result her room bulged with what she had managed to obtain and hold. Cushions of worn velvet and taffetas, dolls on the divan, pictures festooned on the walls, with, in many cases, fans stuck over their frames, too many chairs, too many tables, too many rugs, too many mirrors, and too many ornaments.

  “Forgive me, dearie. I was always one for a good laugh, and knowing your uncle as I knew him you can see it struck me all of heap when you said you were his niece.”

  Clara had not resented the laughter. It was regrettable that Mrs. Gladys Smith was what she was, or rather what she had been to Uncle Simon, but she had an infectious gaiety, which made it possible to imagine how, as a young woman, she might have charmed him.

  “I don’t wonder you laughed. Up to the end he was such a smart old man, and I’m such a dowdy creature.” Clara held out an envelope. “I’ve brought the family group with me. It was taken on his eightieth birthday.”

  Gladys Smith looked at the photograph and made clucking noises.

  “Proper old rip, wasn’t he? Never think he was eighty, would you? Look at those eyes. You’d swear he was just going to laugh. ’Course I hadn’t seen him for some years, but he hadn’t changed much, it’s a speaking likeness.”

  “Isn’t it. I find that photograph a great help. You see, although he left everything to me, except legacies to you and Henry and other friends, it was only to take care of tilings for him. He scarcely knew me, I think he chose me because I was the unmarried one, and would have time to carry out his wishes. When I’m in doubt what he would have liked I look at that photograph and I seem to find the answer.”

  Gladys gave Clara a quick, thoughtful look. Then she jumped up.

  “Whatever must you think of me? What’ll you have, dearie, a cup of tea, or would you like something stronger? You’ve only got to put a name to it, it’s all here.”

  Over cups of tea, and fancy biscuits out of an ornate tin, Clara told Gladys about the will. Henry should have been there to share Gladys’s reaction. On first hearing what the property had consisted of, it had been all she could do not to laugh, but as Clara talked she ceased to be amused, and instead wished that Simon was not dead, so that she could give him a piece of her mind. He was a cruel old beast wanting his joke even when he was in his coffin.

  “I think,” Clara said, “I’ve got everything settled now. I’ve seen everything and everybody mentioned in the will. I’ve left you to the last I’m afraid. Very lazy it sounds, but I’d hoped Henry would bring me to call, as you knew him.”

  Gladys answered that only with a nod. She refilled Clara’s cup, and lit a cigarette for herself.

  “Let’s hear how you’ve settled everything first, we’ll come to me later. Your uncle was fond of Ruby Marquis, but there were so many. He never thought he was their father, you know.”

  Clara’s eyes shone as she spoke of Julie and Andrew. She explained as best she was able how gifted Andrew was, and of his present position with The Flying Fishes. Gladys’s interest was practical.

  “Good. Then you’ve nothing to worry about where he’s concerned. What about the girl?”

  Clara looked into the fire. She was drawn to Gladys, should she confide in her?

  “It’s too early yet to be sure, but I think she’s fond of young Charles Willis, the lawyer, and he of her.”

  “Would that work? They come out of different drawers, don’t they?”

  Clara looked embarrassed.

  “I know, but I think if they really love each other it will be all right. Of course, Charles doesn’t know this, but I went to see his father.”

  Gladys nearly let out a surprised whistle.

  “You did! And told him, you mean?”

  Clara nodded.

  “Everything. He was charming, just the father I should expect Charles to have. He wouldn’t stand in his son’s way, I mean if he loves Julie.”

  The more Clara told her the more protective Gladys felt.

  “What’s Julie like? I mean, I remember Ruby, she was a good sort, but not the kind to marry a gentleman.”

  Clara struggled to describe Julie.

  “She had dyed hair, but she’s had it cut short now, and she’s letting it go back to its natural brown. There were little faults of speech to correct, but they’re getting better. You’d like her very much, she’s straightforward, and I think she should make a splendid wife and mother.”

  Gladys dismissed Julie. She saw she would never get a true picture of her from Clara.

  “What about the horses and dogs? I knew Marie, Alfie and Perce’s mother. Poor thing, she was a terror at the end. But she must have been lovely once. You know, there was never anyone else your uncle loved but her; sometimes he’d talk to me about her, it changed him even to speak of her.”

  Clara gave Gladys a grateful smile.

  “I’m glad you told me that. Henry had given me to under-stand he was fond of her, but what you’ve told me convinces me I’m right in leaving the greyhounds with Mr. and Mrs. Perce. They’re very happy there; I think gambling wrong, but, as Mrs. Perce pointed out, I can’t stop people betting by selling the dogs, but I can know they’re happy if I leave them with the Perces, and I’ve seen them race and I know they enjoy that.”

  “Where do they race?”

  “Botchley Lane it’s called.”

  A startled “Botch . . .” slipped out before Gladys could hold it back. She hurriedly changed the subject.

  “What about the horses?”

  Clara explained about Andy.

  “Of course I didn’t think of anything at the time, except the old horses, but sending them to the Frossarts at ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ has helped me to decide about that. You see, I think drinking wrong, but ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ is a charming place, and the Frossarts are dears. We’ve had some old stables rebuilt and there’s a field, and the horses seem happy and rested.” Clara caught her breath. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to say that. If you see Henry don’t tell him I went down to call on the Frossarts. Nobody knows. I went all by myself, just after Christmas. I let them think I was at a party at the mission where I used to live.”

  “Why shouldn’t you go if you want to? It’s none of Henry’s business.”

  “He worries about me, dear man, and there was a little scheme that I had to discuss with the Frossarts privately.”

  Gladys, seeing Clara had finished her tea, moved the tea tray to another table.

  “What about Gamblers’ Luck?”

  “I’m keeping that. It seems a harmless game, and it brings in a little money which will be a help.”

  “That’s the lot then.”

  “Yes. Except you.”

  Gladys went to the window and drew the curtains.

  “I’m all right.”

  “That’s what Henry says. But Uncle Simon wished you should be adequately provided for. Do you pay rent for this place?”

  Gladys finished with the curtains and crossed to the divan and beat up the cushions.

  “Now and again I did, but it went back into the house, so to speak, repairs and that. I wrote about things to your uncle and Henry came along and we fixed things together.”

  It was obvious Gladys did not want to discuss business. Clara wished it was not her duty to force her to.

  “Do you use all the house, or let part of it?”

  “There are four rooms let.”

  The warm-hearted Gladys of a few minutes before was gone, there was no friendliness left in the room. Clara did not know what the trouble was, but she could feel she was upsetting Gladys, whom it was her duty to see adequately provided for.

  “Don’t think I’ve come to interfere. I just want to know how things are. Please come back to your chair. I want to tell you something. Nobody else knows.”

  Suddenly Gladys knew what Clara was going to tell her, and knew she had known it subconsciously since she came into the house. She mo
ved towards her, full of warmth and kindness.

  “That you’ve got to get things settled. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But nobody knows. I’m so fortunate, I suffer very little and it’s so much pleasanter to live your ordinary life as long as possible. I was told I should have an operation, but it was just the time of Uncle Simon’s eightieth birthday, so of course I had to wait for that, and then just as I was planning to go to hospital he died. I’ve been much too busy since for anything like that.”

  “Are you going to have it now?”

  “Soon. I’ve told Mr. and Mrs. Borthwick, and they’re asking Julie to come down for a day or two to help them. I shouldn’t like her to be bothered.”

  “It might be all right.”

  “That’s not the impression I get from the doctors. I wouldn’t be operated on, but it may allow me to live normally for a time, I understand without it I shall shortly be a complete invalid. That’s why I have to bother you. If I should die I thought of leaving you this house for your lifetime.”

  The door opened and a shrill voice shouted from the passage.