He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

by Barbara Arnold

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The evening sun sketched shapes that flitted like phantom birds on the wall of the school room. Had I been coming here for four years?

  Miss Jervlin voiced my thoughts. ‘One day had to be the last time you sat at that desk.’ Her hair may have grown greyer, the skin round her neck a little folded, but Miss Jervlin was as taciturn as when I had first met her that Sunday morning outside the church.

  Four years of scrubbing off the grime of the farm and driving over potholed roads to the old wooden school. Four years doing what all the kids in Blountmere Street had done years earlier. Four years of discovery.

  ‘And now in a few weeks you’ll be off to university. You’ve done well.’ Miss Jervlin smiled at me in what was, for her, the ultimate display of pride.

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Nonsense! Anyone with some tenacity could have got this far.’

  Tenacious wasn’t a word I would have used of myself. There had been so many times when Peg had to chase me from the house. But for Peg, I knew I would have given up long before sitting my bursary.

  Mum never seemed to place much importance on education. If I’d won a place to a university when I lived in Blountmere Street, I would have been ostracized and called “toffee nosed”, and “stuck up”. But, then, in Blountmere Street, I would have been as far away from a university education as I was from the moon. I couldn’t think of one person I’d ever known who had gone to university. Anyway, I was the last one they would have imagined going there.

  Mum once said something about it standing a young man in good stead if he got an apprenticeship and learnt a trade. I thought it was Mum who said it, or was it Mrs Dibble? Anyway, I had no idea what “good stead” meant, and I couldn’t see myself becoming a plumber or a bricklayer, even then.

  It was Peg, too, who had encouraged me to buy a car and to take time off from studying, urging me to go to the township more. ‘Everyone needs some fun from time to time.’ She sighed one of her deep, heartfelt sighs. ‘And why you haven’t taken up with that Merrin Bensdyke is beyond me. The girl’s a looker, and she seems keen enough. You make a lovely couple when you dance together at the community hall dances.’ Peg looked into the distance as if she was seeing herself and Jack at that age.

  I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t “taken up” with Merrin Bensdyke. She was all the things Peg said she was, yet when we drove somewhere or sat on the beach aiming pebbles at the ocean, it was as if her presence created a space in me, rather than fill it.

  Joe said that “hit was hindeed a honour to ‘ave a friend with henough brains to do all this ‘igh-faluting stuff hat one of them there universities”. He smiled expansively, although he was unable to resist looking up at the sign that read, “Epsley and Fisher, Agricultural Machinery” and underneath in smaller gold letters: “Proprietors Bruce Epsley and Joseph Fisher.” ‘Not bad, eh? Part-howning a business hat my hage.’

  As well as being referred to by the Epsleys and their friends as Joseph, and his now entrenched “h” habit, Joe’s face had widened, and his freckles had expanded and contorted into shapes like an orange jigsaw puzzle. Due to Ann Epsley and her mother’s influence, he had taken to wearing a black velvet waistcoat embroidered with a pink floral design. It was the closest Joe got to flowers these days.

  Joe and Ann’s engagement was announced at one of the community hall dances only a few weeks before Bruce Epsley took Joe into partnership. The exact date of the wedding hadn’t yet been fixed, but Ann said she and her Joseph would be married early next year. Already, her “glory box” was full and their wedding would be a grand affair, quite the biggest the township had ever seen. The only time she’d mentioned my impending study at university was to say what a pity it was I wouldn’t be able to attend their nuptials.

  Joe, however, had confided to me that he was in no hurry to get married. “Plenty of time for hall that malarkey. All the time hin the bleedin’ world,” he said.

  I doubted Ann Epsley and her family saw it that way.

  On the day before I left the Millards to study at the University of Canterbury, Fergus gave me his copy of First World War poetry and returned to Dublin. It was yet another change at Downstons’ since the Missus had died a year earlier after suffering a stroke. Peg had been fraught with worry that her attack on Maggie Downston had contributed to her death. She had even consulted old Doctor Marthwaite, who said that he would hardly have thought a slap two years earlier would have resulted in a stroke. It was much more likely to have been due to the Missus’ high blood pressure. Nevertheless, I knew Peg had come to regret her attack. She had gone for the wrong one, she said. It should have been Eleod Downston, especially after he’d brought a girl no more than a youngster to live on the farm less than two months after his wife’s death. It was shameful. SHAMEFUL!

  I heard from Murray that Gaylene rarely went back to the farm these days, and who could blame her. She had got herself engaged to a banker in Auckland. I wondered if he ever read her poetry.

  Apparently, Paul Downston got himself into a spot of trouble and ended up in gaol. ‘Not that I’m surprised, my word I’m not,’ Murray said. ‘Nasty bit of work. Kicked that horse of his into such a bloody mess, the poor animal had to be put down.’

  Murray, too, was considering leaving Downston’s to work with his brother over on the Coast. As soon as he got things straightened out, he was off, too right he was. He had been bought so many farewell jugs by his fellow drinkers at The Travellers, they began to think his talk of leaving was a catch on Murray’s part to get free grog. Crafty old bugger.

  I closed the lid of my orphanage suitcase, smoothed my bedcover and tweaked the curtains straight.

  In the yard, Peg wedged herself into the front seat of my Morris Minor.

  ‘I don’t know if I should be going, Jack. It seemed a good idea to get a lift with Tony to see our Roger and Jenny and the kids, and to make sure Tony gets settled into his lodgings, but now I’m not so certain.’ Peg looked as if she might be about to cry.

  ‘Of course it’s the right idea. I’d come myself if it wasn’t for the farm.’ Jack bent and kissed Peg. She clung to his arm. ‘It gets more difficult to leave you the older we get.’ She looked into his face.

  All I had managed to say to Merrin was a stilted goodbye, without even the promise of a letter.

  ‘I’ve put a couple of cans of petrol in the boot. It’s a long way.’ Jack disentangled himself from Peg and walked round to the driver’s door, beginning to extend his hand before abandoning his reserve and embracing me. ‘Take care, boy. We know you’ll give it your best.’ He laughed a half-laugh to cover his awkwardness. ‘Be careful of those Christchurch girls. I hear they eat blokes like you for breakfast.’

  ‘Come on, Jack, let the bloke get in the car. It’s not as if you won’t see him again. He’ll be back in the holidays. He’s part of the family.’

  How different it was from when Joe and I had left Downston’s. Then, we had sneaked away, dispirited, willing ourselves not to look back. We hadn’t wanted to be reminded of our years of incarceration.

  Peg and I drove first to Epsley and Fisher’s and waited while Joe, looking very Bavarian in his floral waistcoat, stood by a tractor. He patted it as if it was a dog, while he explained its features to an entranced farmer.

  ‘Hanother ‘appy cocky,’ Joe rubbed his hands together as the farmer left. ‘Just spent a packet and given Hepsley and Fisher a tidy profit hinto the bargain. Come hinto my hoffice, I’ve got somethink for you.’

  I left Peg sitting in the Morrie and followed Joe into his office.

  He took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the drawer of a desk in the corner. He took out a package and extended it to me. ‘Cop ‘old of this, and don’t go hopening it now.’

  ‘How will I know what it is if I can’t open it?’

  ‘Cos it’s a bit of dough to ‘elp you out with your university heducation. It should see you through for a while.
I’ve been keeping it ‘ere for you. Don’t altogether trust them there banks.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘’aven’t I hallways said what I ‘ad was ‘alf yours? I’m doing hall right ‘ere, what with a few private deals. So ‘ere’s your share. Just between the two of us, now. You can tell Peg it’s a pair of socks.’

  ‘Look, Joe, I can’t … ’

  ‘Don’t go getting all sentimental. Just take it and do what-hever it is you do at university, you blinkin’ brainbox. Who would’ve guessed it when we was in the orphanage. A right dunce you were back then.’

  I looked at the splodged freckles, framed by spiky marmalade hair. ‘I’m sorry if we haven’t been, well, if we haven’t been so … I suppose … close lately.’

  Joe made a dismissive gesture. ‘Now didn’t I say you weren’t to go getting sentimental on me. That’s ‘ow it is with brothers. Can’t hallways be in each other’s back pocket.’ He cuffed me round the head. ‘Don’t go getting too big for your boots, that’s hall.’

  ‘That was nice of Joe to buy you some socks,’ Peg remarked, as we drove from Epsley & Fisher’s. ‘Being the skinflint you are, he knows you probably won’t buy any for yourself. Do you want me to open the parcel for you?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll open it later.’

  The road rose and fell, snaking between thick bush and the ocean.

  ‘I always love this journey with the sea at your elbow.’ Peg wound down her window and breathed deeply. ‘We must be surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Though, I suppose if a place is someone’s home, wherever it is must seem lovely to them.’

  Even a bombsite. Especially a bombsite, awash with dandelions and fresh spring growth shining with dew.

  ‘That older couple, you know, the parents of our Roger’s business partner. They’ve never been able to settle properly in New Zealand. Jenny says sometimes she catches them sitting in the garden holding hands, looking into space as if they’re seeing something no-one else can.’

  We drove on a little longer, then parked and watched seals sunning themselves on shiny outcrops before they flopped back, satiated, into the water.

  From sea to sea.

  I’d sung the hymn a lifetime ago at Mum’s church. Then, the words had struck the stone pillars and bounced back.

  From sea to sea to sea to sea.

  There had been a time when my only idea of what the sea looked like was in the book on Devon that Paula had got from the library. I never did get to Bognor with the Cubs. Perhaps Dennis and Herbie went. They might even have thought of me now and then while they were there. Fred and Lori promised to take Ang and me to the seaside, but they never got round to it before they emigrated.

  Another seal plopped into the water.

  From sea to sea.

  I had to find Fred and Lori.

  Peg said Christchurch was like an English city, but I didn’t think it was. Not that I’d seen much of England, except for the bits closest to Blountmere Street. Most Christchurch streets were unwaveringly straight and bordered by wooden bungalows. And I was perfectly sure it wasn’t the same ‘Up West’ when we had gone to Lyons Corner House with Fred and Lori. I could still remember it clearly. I didn’t think Devon had wide roads, either. In Paula’s library book, the streets had looked narrow, some of them no more than a strip. If anything, it was the gardens that were reminiscent of England, or at least of the Dibble’s, with their precision-planted regiments of red, white and blue.

  Yipsley Street, which was where I was going to board, was identical to all the streets around it, but Peg approved. ‘Nice and quiet. Everyone keeps their gardens well which is always a good sign.’ Peg squinted at the numbers on the post boxes. ‘Number twenty-three’s here.’ She opened her window and leant out. ‘Yes, this is it, the one painted yellow.’ She appraised it as if she was thinking of buying it. ‘It looks tidy enough and the windows seem clean. Nicely painted, though I would have preferred cream myself. Should be a good indication of what’s inside.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ I couldn’t understand the need for such speculation when we were just about to see inside the house. Anyway, Miss Jervlin had said that the place belonged to her cousin’s friend, and she could vouch for it.

  ‘Best to be prepared, and make a bit of an assessment,’ Peg counselled.

  Like many of its neighbours, number twenty-three had a fretwork butterfly hung at an angle next to the front door.

  ‘Nice, very nice,’ Peg observed.

  The door-knocker was highly polished. The door was opened by a woman so straight and fleshless, she reminded me of a pencil. Peg immediately sniffed her disapproval. In Peg’s opinion, anyone that thin didn’t have a mere flaw in their make-up, but a deep sinful chasm.

  ‘You must be Tony. I’m Mrs Munn.’ The woman extended a bony hand. ‘Come on in.’ She lead us along a wood-panelled hall into the front room. It smelt of lavender polish. While it wasn’t as cozily haphazard as the Millard’s lounge room, it wasn’t the mausoleum the Downston’s had been. Above the red-brick fireplace was a painting of pink roses, their petals dropping into a silver bowl. Under it, but with no apparent relevance to the picture, were the words, As for me and my house we will serve the Lord.

  ‘Good words, some of Uncle Rewi’s favourites.’ Peg nodded towards the painting, appearing to be getting over the shock of Mrs Munn’s shapelessness. ‘I’m Peg Millard, by the way.’

  ‘I gathered you were. How d’you do?’

  Mrs Munn escorted us through into another wood panelled room, with a red velvet seat built into a lead-lighted bay window. Above a fireplace, identical to the one in the front room, hung a picture of The Last Supper, under which the words announced: The Lord is the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation’.

  ‘This is the dining room. We eat all our meals here,’ Mrs Munn informed us.

  ‘Very nice,’ Peg surveyed the place. She was always impressed by people who ate in their dining rooms, on the assumption that if they went to the trouble of eating in a special room, then surely they would have cooked plenty of good wholesome food to go with it, as it were.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mrs Munn asked.

  ‘We’d love one.’ Peg edged her way to the door. ‘The kitchen’s through here, is it? We’ll come and wait while you make it.’ This was the crucial part of Peg’s assessment. I followed, hoping Peg’s son would soon arrive to pick her up and take her the rest of the way to his place. Personally, the only room I was interested in was the one that was going to be my bedroom. All I wanted was for this to be a base, not only for my university studies, but for my search for Fred and Lori. Christchurch was just the sort of place they would live. I had to find them.

  In the kitchen, we sat at a table covered with red oilcloth in the middle of a scrupulously tidy kitchen. I wasn’t sure if Peg would view it as commendable. She certainly appeared to be impressed by the row of preserves on the bench under the window. Not as many as she herself would have made, but preserves nonetheless. Mrs Munn busied herself with cups and saucers before opening a larder to reveal a tower of tins. ‘You like cakes, Tony?’ she asked.

  ‘I love them.’ I knew I dare not answer otherwise, with Peg sitting opposite me.

  ‘I always fill my tins every Tuesday. Monday’s washing day, Tuesday’s baking.’ Mrs Munn began extracting various dainties and placing them onto a cake plate with a chrome handle, much the same as the one Peg had.

  ‘I wash on a Monday as well. Same routine. Monday’s washing, Tuesday’s baking. It’s the only way to do things, in my opinion.’ Peg sat forward on her chair and winked at me, as if to inform me that anyone who filled their tins every Tuesday had to be all right.

  ‘Ginger gems,’ Peg observed.

  ‘Oh yes. I wouldn’t be without my gem iron.’

  Peg beamed. Even if Mrs Munn’s ginger gems weren’t as plump or cream-laden as hers, Mrs Munn had passed the test. Peg would personally
vouch for anyone who filled their tins every Tuesday and had a gem iron.

  ‘I think you’re going to be very happy here, Tony,’ she proclaimed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘You’re certainly conscientious, I’ll give you that. I can’t keep up with the number of times you been to one or other of the city’s libraries in the last couple of weeks.’ Mrs Munn rubbed at her dining room table with a polish-laden duster. ‘But, I suppose that’s what you have to do when you read English literature at university.’ She turned to me with a look that might have been one of admiration. On the other hand, it could have been one of suspicion. It was difficult to tell. Her eyes seemed to be as thin as the rest of her. Either way, she made me feel uneasy.

  Yes, ‘I do have to read a lot of books,’ I said. The smell of lavender polish was almost heady. It caught in my throat and I gave a lame cough to clear it.

  ‘You’re obviously a young man who doesn’t like to leave any stone unturned. I’ve never heard of anyone trying out a different church every Sunday. Very devout.’ I shifted from foot to foot.

  ‘I … I … just like to check out their theology.’ I was the biggest, most pompous hypocrite in Yipsley Street, in Christchurch, in the world. It wasn’t my zealousness that drove me to visit them all, but in case, by the merest chance I found Fred and Lori in one of them. They could well be kneeling on a hassock, unaware I was there to bring my search for them to an end.

  Mrs Munn gave her table another massage. ‘I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with my church’s theology. It’s as sound, as sound as … ’ She searched for the right words. ‘As sound as the docks at Gibraltar.’