Of a sudden Joe was thankful that a war had been declared: Martin would join up and, because of his principles, he wouldn’t then marry Miss Crosbie. That would be one less thing for him to worry about with regards to his mother, for she would still be mistress of the house, at least until the war was over, which might go on for a year, perhaps two.
For most people in England the war hadn’t yet begun. The general opinion was that it had fizzled out; like a spent squib, it hadn’t even given one burst. It was a fortnight now since it had started with such a hullabaloo, but there had been no raids, and no bombs had been dropped; the sirens went and people made for the shelters, but more and more half-heartedly, as days passed and nothing exciting happened. The only thing that seemed to be stirring most people was their scorn of Chamberlain. Of course there was the blackout, and that was enforced, and everybody had to carry gas masks. There were no street lights any more and cars couldn’t use their headlights, and it was being said that more people were being killed this way than if a real war had come upon them.
Joe should have gone back to school the previous week but it was being used as an evacuation centre. The upper school were remaining but it would be at least another week before he’d have to return.
The war hadn’t seemed to touch the house, that is until the morning a lady arrived in a car from Hexham. She asked Ellen how many children she was prepared to take. She got no further than the hall and Ellen’s answer could have been heard in every corner of the house: ‘None!’
‘None?’ said the lady.
‘None,’ repeated Ellen.
‘You might be forced to,’ said the lady quietly.
‘Then you’ll have to go over the heads of the military and Sir Martin, for he’s thinking of using this house as a convalescent base for officers.’
‘Oh,’ said the lady, slightly mollified. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Good morning.’
The lady went out and drove away and Joe, who had witnessed the meeting, went into the kitchen where Mary was saying to Helen, ‘Eeh! The lies rolled off her like butter off a hot griddle.’
‘There’s no truth in it at all then, you don’t think?’ said Helen.
‘Not a word,’ said Mary. Then turning to Joe she asked, ‘You, Master Joe, you’ve heard nothing about officers coming here, have you?’
‘No, Mary,’ he said.
‘No’—Mary turned to her sister—‘no, it’s as I said, the lies.’ Then realising to whom she was referring she stopped and, embarrassed now, she muttered, ‘Well, it was a fib in a good cause; we don’t want bairns scampering around this place, do we?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ he answered.
‘You suppose not? Aye, Master Joe, you’d suppose not if you saw some of them from the towns. Lousy they are, their hair nearly walks by itself. I tell you I know. You can’t help getting a nit or a dickie at school, but some of those town bairns are lousy. Oh, we don’t want any like that here. Your mother was quite right. Do you want a scone?’
‘Yes, please.’
She split open a newly baked scone and thickened it with butter and as she handed it to him she added, ‘There’s rationing comin’, that’s what they say, curtailing the food; well, it won’t affect us, havin’ cows and sheep an’ chickens. But those pigs are more bloomin’ nuisance than the horses. What do you say, Master Joe?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’ He smiled at her, the while thinking, why was it he always sounded inane when talking to any of the Smiths, with the exception of Mick? He didn’t even show up brightly with Carrie.
‘You suppose so? Well, I should think so; you’d grumble if you didn’t get your butter, wouldn’t you?’
He smiled broadly and he turned from her, munching at the buttered scone, and as he walked out of the back door he heard the sound of a car coming onto the gravel in front of the house. By the time he reached the end of the yard Martin was already out of the car and was running up the steps to the house.
Joe paused for a moment. He knew that Martin had seen him and yet he had taken no notice of him. Was something wrong?
Swallowing the last of the scone he ran over the drive and into the house to see Martin disappearing into the study. He did not go towards the study door because his mother, coming down the stairs, called, ‘Who was that…Martin?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘He’s gone into the study.’
She made for the study door and he wanted to say, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you; he’s in a tear about something,’ but he knew that even if he did speak it wouldn’t deter her.
He was a little way behind her when she knocked on the study door. When there was no response she slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. Looking to the side of her, he could see Martin standing with his arms folded and resting on the mantelshelf.
‘May I come in?’
It was some seconds before Martin turned towards them and said, ‘Yes, yes; come in.’
Joe followed his mother into the room, and they stood looking at Martin, who had his back to the empty grate now and was staring at them as if he wasn’t seeing them. Then his words came in a mutter so unlike his usual jaunty tones as he announced, ‘They won’t have me.’
Ellen stepped forward now, saying, ‘You mean there’s something wrong?’
‘My eyes.’ He tapped his right eye with his forefinger. ‘Colour blind or some such thing. Damn rubbish. Did you ever hear anything like it? Colour blind. And me who’s been firing a gun from when I was practically able to walk. Colour blind.’
Joe listened to his mother saying flatly, ‘Colour wouldn’t affect your aim.’
‘No, I know. I said that.’ He flung around from them and walked to the end of the room.
‘What did they say? Have they offered you anything at all?’
‘Oh, yes, yes’—he nodded his head at her over his shoulder—‘a desk job somewhere. I’ve been at a desk for years; I want no more of it and I told them. I told Ratler, you know, Colonel Ratler from over at Bellingham. He suggested I stay and farm the land. Farm the land, be damned! Most of it hasn’t been turned over for years. And what do they expect to grow on these hills?’
‘What was decided?’ Ellen’s question was quiet.
‘Nothing, nothing; they’re to let me know, and they’ll likely do that on the day they say the war’s ended.’
Of a sudden he sat down in a chair and Joe, looking at him, had a strange thought, for his mind was saying that if men could cry, Martin would be crying now. He was about to take a step towards him when his mother said, ‘Troubles never come singly. I’d better tell you I’ve had a call from Harry. He’s going into hospital. He says it’s nothing, just a check-up.’
Martin was on his feet. ‘What time was this?’
‘Oh, about ten this morning. He left a number where you can get him. It’s on the pad in the hall.’
As he passed her he stopped and said, ‘He didn’t give you any idea what was wrong?’
‘No, nothing. He sounded quite cheery. Just a check-up, he said. Perhaps…perhaps he’s going abroad; they do have medicals before they’re sent overseas, so I understand.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right, yes.’ He was nodding at her, obviously relieved now, and turning to Joe, he thrust out his hand and rumpled his hair as he said, ‘Such is fate. As I was saying to you the other day, laddie, because I was aiming to be a fighting man I wouldn’t get married. But now there’s nothing to stop me, is there, eh?’ He jerked his chin to the side; then seeming to stretch himself inches upwards, he thrust out his chin and marched from the room.
Joe turned and looked at his mother. She had her eyes on the figure striding across the hall towards the telephone table, and the look on her face caused him to close his own eyes for a moment, for he knew how she had taken what Martin had said: although it had been voiced lightly it was meant to have serious intent, and in her own mind his marrying would mean once again that she would have notice to quit.
Four
‘We
ll, it’s up to you, Aunt Ellen, whether you stay or go. But one thing I won’t tolerate is your continued manner towards Marion. You have shown your dislike of her since she first entered the house.’
‘She dislikes me.’
‘Well, you’ve given her cause from the beginning, haven’t you? And get it into your head, Aunt Ellen, we’re engaged to be married. You know—’ He pulled in his chin as he looked at her before continuing, ‘It’s odd, but none of the other girls I’ve brought to the house over the years have seemed to arouse your animosity. And why? Because you thought I wasn’t serious. But now that I am, you see Marion as a threat to your position. I know I’m speaking plain, but this is a time for plain speaking. Don’t you think so?’
Ellen Jebeau brought her lips tightly together and drew them inwards between her teeth before she said, with deep bitterness, ‘I don’t know about it being a time for plain speaking, I can only say that time has shown your ingratitude for what I’ve done for you over the years.’
‘Done for me!’
They had been seated each side of the blazing fire in the drawing room, but now Martin had sprung to his feet, his voice raised as he repeated, ‘Done for me! Oh, come on, come on, Aunt Ellen, think. Father took you and the youngster in twelve…no, thirteen years ago; he made it possible for you not only to live comfortably but well, and to educate the laddie. I took on where he left off…what have you done for me? Now, now, let’s put matters straight! Besides being allowed to play mistress of this house for years, you’ve been given a good allowance. And, if I remember rightly, Father was not only going to continue that allowance but had bought a house for you, hadn’t he? Well, I can’t promise that if you leave I’ll be as generous as he was; I’ll continue your allowance certainly, but as for a house, no; for as you are well aware, because you know the books as well as I do, it takes us all our time, even with my salary, to continue living here as we have done of yore. So don’t speak to me of ingratitude. And just in case I may say things I’ll be sorry for, I’d better not go on, except for one last word. My wedding is set for April; whether I’m called up or not, it’s going through. It could have been different if I had been accepted for the Forces, but this way I mean to make Marion my wife and I hope…well…well’—he jerked his head upwards—‘I may as well say it, that if I have a son, or for second best, a daughter, to carry on here. It may seem that I’ve never taken my title seriously, but below the skin I have great respect for it, and for this house too and the men who have gone before me who made it. So having said that, I advise you, Aunt Ellen, to see to your own plans.’ He moved a step or two from her. Then, turning and looking into her tight, white countenance, he added and quietly, ‘On second thoughts, I think it would be better if you decided definitely to make arrangements to live elsewhere. In fact, as things stand I see it as the only course for you to take…But,’ he added kindly, ‘there is no immediate hurry until April.’
As he made for the door he heard the phone ringing in the hall and when he entered he saw Joe turn from the telephone table towards him, saying, ‘It’s for you, Martin. It’s…it’s from the hospital, I think.’
Martin strode quickly towards him, picked up the phone, said, ‘Yes?’ then listened; and as he did so his head began to move in small jerks as he looked from side to side.
When at last he placed the phone down he turned and gazed at Joe, saying in a bewildered tone, ‘It’s Harry; they…they want me to go at once.’
Joe moved towards him, asking now, ‘Is he bad?’
‘Apparently so.’ Before he finished speaking he had sprung towards the stairs and up them, shouting now, ‘It’ll be a longish drive; ask Mary to put something up for me; soup or something.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Joe ran to the kitchen, and was still giving Mary the order when his mother appeared in the doorway, saying, ‘What is it?’
He turned to her: ‘A message from the hospital, Harry’s ill. They’ve…they’ve asked Martin to go straight away.’
He watched her walk away without speaking and enter the hall again; he had expected her to come to the table to supervise Mary packing up the food. Mary had already pushed the soup pan onto the heart of the fire, and she said to him now, ‘Get me the thermos, will you, Master Joe, and the picnic basket out of the bottom cupboard.’
Within a few minutes the basket was more than half full of food, and Mary was pouring the soup into the thermos.
She was screwing the top on when Martin entered the kitchen. ‘Is he so bad, Mr Martin?’ she said.
‘I don’t really know, Mary, but it would appear so. Oh’—he looked into the basket—‘I’m not going for a week; I just wanted a sandwich or two. But thanks.’
Joe picked up the picnic basket and the thermos flask from the table, and together he and Martin went out and across the dark courtyard towards the garage.
Martin took his seat in the car and was about to start her up when Joe leant towards him and asked, ‘Would you like me to come with you, Martin?’
Martin looked at him for a moment and smiled softly at him as he said, ‘I would, laddie, but you’d better not; I think your mother needs you tonight. She’s had a bit of a blow. I’m sorry I had to deliver it, but there it is.’
The message in the words sounded ominous to Joe’s ears, and he straightened up and said, ‘Tell Harry I’ll be thinking of him and I hope he’ll be home soon.’
‘I’ll do that.’
The car gave a roar, then slowly moved out of the garage; the dim side-lights showed a pale flicker on the back of the house, then swung around for an instant onto the gardens. The next second the light was gone and Martin with it, and Joe stood in the yard oblivious of the fact that he was without a coat and that the cold was seeping through his pullover, for his outer self was no colder than the feeling within him that had been evoked by Martin’s last words concerning his mother. He drew in a deep icy breath, then straightened his shoulders, a habit he was forcing upon himself a lot of late, then made his way towards the kitchen, to be greeted by Mary with, ‘He’s gone then?’
‘Yes, Mary, he’s gone.’
That was all he said, and he surprised her somewhat by walking quickly up the kitchen and into the hall. He would generally stop and have a word or two or listen to her. He was a good listener; he was about the only one in the house that was these days. Everybody seemed to be in a rush. It was the war, she supposed. She got a bit lonely when she was on by herself at nights. Things were changing in the house—you could feel it—and there was trouble brewing. She had only to look at Mrs Jebeau’s face to see it; in fact, she could smell trouble in that direction. She was a funny woman, was Mrs Jebeau, nervy; what they called neurotic, she would think. ‘Yes’—she nodded to herself—‘that was the word, neurotic, which accounted for her nerves and her funny temper too.’
Going through Joe’s mind as he mounted the stairs were thoughts which were very similar, except that he expressed his in a slightly different way. His mother, he knew, was in for another of her bouts, and he would have to bear the brunt of it. He should be used to them by now because they had become a frequent occurrence during the past few months, particularly since Martin had been bringing Miss Crosbie to the house. He had to think of her as Miss Crosbie so he wouldn’t again make the mistake that had aroused his mother’s anger when he had spoken of her as Marion. As if he were a child of five she had reprimanded him, saying, ‘Don’t be so personal; she is Miss Crosbie. And don’t address her by any other name.’
It was almost a running dive he made across the gallery and to his bedroom, but he did it on tiptoe. He had no doubt that his mother was in her bedroom and that if she heard him she would come into his room and it would start, he knew it would: the upbraiding of Martin, and he wouldn’t be able to stand it without checking her.
It came to him that he could lock the door, there was a bolt on it, but this conjured up the vision of her battering on it, for she certainly wouldn’t be deterred by the fact that she was raisin
g the house; she would know that Mary was the only one in it at the moment.
In his room he pulled on a dressing gown and sat down and waited. He waited fifteen minutes, which seemed like hours, and still she didn’t come. And he knew she was next door because he had heard her moving about.
Half an hour later he took off the dressing gown and decided to go downstairs. He was puzzled: he could not understand this new tactic. Why was she leaving him alone?
Martin returned the following evening. Harry had died of pneumonia after an operation on his kidneys.
Joe, looking dumbly at him as he stood in the hall, saw a man whose youth seemed to have fled from him. He was standing well apart from them as he gave Joe and his mother the details, and as the tears rolled down his cheeks Joe sensed a great loneliness in his cousin that seemed to link up with a similar feeling within himself, and he was drawn to Martin to put his arms about him, and when their faces touched both were wet.
Five
‘Where’s your gas mask?’
‘In its box.’
‘You’ll say that once too often.’ Carrie slanted her eyes and nodded her head at Joe as she added, ‘And you can get into trouble for not carrying it.’
‘That’ll be light to the trouble I’ll be in soon.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They say it could come any time—calling-up.’
‘Oh, that.’
They stopped and faced each other. Then Carrie jumped aside as a passing bus threw up some slush from the gutter, and as she brushed her hands down over the bottom of her coat, she said, ‘You’d think they did it on purpose,’ and as he went to assist her she stayed his hands, saying, ‘It’ll only make it worse. Anyway, what does it matter? You were saying about being called up.’ They were walking on again.
‘Yes, I was saying…’
‘You want to go?’
My Beloved Son Page 10
