by Julian Gloag
The children gazed at him uncomprehendingly.
“I said we got to get Mother’s watch mended.” That was it. That’s what they had to do. It was so clear that he spoke loudly. He challenged them.
“Why, Hubert?” said Elsa.
“Because we got to.”
“Why?”
“I’m sleepy,” murmured Gerty.
“Why don’t you mend it, then?” said Dunstan.
Hubert frowned. “I don’t know if I could. But we can take it to the watchmaker’s—he’ll do it.”
“I don’t see,” said Dunstan, “why it needs to be mended at all.”
“Tell us, Hu,” Elsa said.
“Because—don’t you see—because …” He thought of all the times he had put the watch to his ear and listened and the times he had held it, staring at it to try to catch the minute hand in motion. Sitting on Mother’s bedside table, broken, always telling the same time—it would be like a lie. It wouldn’t be right. “Because you said everything was the same, Else—yes you did. How can it be the same if Mother’s watch is broke?”
“Don’t be silly, Hu. I didn’t mean that,” answered Elsa.
“But, Else—we got to keep things going. Don’t you see, we got to—”
Diana stood up to interrupt him. “It should stay as it is, Hubert,” she said. She lifted her head so that the fair hair fell away from her face. “Mother wouldn’t want it any other way.” She didn’t look at him, nor at anyone else, but her words were definitive in their very gentleness.
Hubert felt suddenly helpless. “But, Dinah …”
“And besides,” Dunstan said, “if you want to know the time so much, there’s always the clock in the hall and the kitchen clock.”
“Come on, children, it’s time for bed.” Elsa rose and they all followed her example. Only Hubert remained seated. He glanced up at the clock on the wall above the sink. It was an electric one, with a slender red second hand that moved smoothly around the clock face—round and round so steadily that sometimes you wished it would speed up or slow down or just stop. No, thought Hubert, it wasn’t the same as Mother’s watch. That second hand, it didn’t care—it just went on and on.
“Hubert!”
He looked down. “Yes?”
“I said, would you help Jiminee with the washing up? Dinah and me are going to tuck the little ones in.”
“Not little,” said Willy sleepily.
“All right,” said Hubert. “All right, I will.”
Already Jiminee was gathering the mugs. “B-bags I wash,” he said.
Hubert scraped his chair back. “I’ll dry them.”
“Oh, and Hubert,” said Elsa from the door, “don’t forget to turn out the lights when you come up.”
He nodded. “All right.” He took the dish towel from its rack and stood by the sink watching the water spurt from the rubber nozzle on the tap. He thought, even Elsa doesn’t understand really.
5
Jiminee followed him up the stairs. “What was the m-man like, Hu?” he asked.
Hubert paused on the little landing in front of the library and looked down into the hall. “Just a man,” he said.
“What k-k-k- sort of a man?”
“Well,” suddenly Hubert didn’t want to go on up the stairs that led past Mother’s room. “He was a big chap—with a moustache.”
“Like the other man, was he?”
“What other man?” Hubert went over to the small bank of switches in the corner and turned off the hall light.
“The other man that came.”
“What do you mean? When?”
Jiminee grinned, “I d-don’t remember when. The other d-day. He came at night too and …”
“And what?” said Hubert.
“And—and Mother answered the d-door. And sent him away …”
“I don’t remember any man. You’re bats.”
Jiminee’s smile ebbed, then flowed more strongly. “But I heard her, Hu. She said, ‘You g-go away and never c-c-come back.’ I heard it.”
Hubert didn’t feel tired any more. “When?”
“I told you, I dunno, Hu.”
“Try and remember, Jiminee.”
“I c-can’t—you know I c-can’t.” His voice quivered.
Hubert switched off the light on the little landing, so that only the light from the upper landing illuminated where they stood. “How could you have heard anything, Jiminee? You must have been in bed.”
“I dunno, Hu. But I d-did.”
“Were you walking in your sleep again?”
“I expect so.”
The tick of the clock in the hall sounded very loud in the darkness. Hubert knew it was no use asking Jiminee any more questions—he would just get flustered and then he’d start to lie. It wasn’t ever any good asking Jiminee questions.
“I’m sorry I said you were bats, Jiminee.”
“That’s all right.”
Jiminee never bore any malice. Hubert sighed. “I suppose we better go up,” he said. But he didn’t want to move. He wished he shared a bedroom with Jiminee—not Dunstan—even if he did talk in his sleep and walk about the room.
“Hu?”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you afraid of the dark, Hu?”
“No, not much.”
“N-no, I’m not either. I like it.” It’s true, thought Hubert. Jiminee never switched on the lights if he had to go upstairs to fetch something. He seemed almost to be able to see in the dark too.
“Dinah is, though,” Jiminee said. “She’s always frightened of the d-dark.”
“I know, poor old Dinah.”
“Yes, poor Dinah. It’s a shame. There’s such a lot of d-dark, isn’t there, Hu?”
Hubert reached out for the other boy’s arm. “Come on, we better go to bed.”
The oak staircase was broad enough to take three abreast and they went arm in arm. At the main landing it narrowed and the steps became steeper up to the top floor, where the children’s rooms were. Off the main landing was Mother’s room and Hubert’s workshop and a spare room with an upright piano in it. Neither of the boys looked in the direction of Mother’s room and, as they climbed to the upper landing, Hubert found himself hurrying, as though it were not Jiminee following him, but some ominous silent creature from the darkness.
“What you run for, Hu?” said Jiminee as they reached the top of the stairs.
Hubert stopped under the landing light and the presence of the other children in their rooms filled him with a sense of relief. “I wasn’t running,” he said. “We better get to bed quickly. There’s a lot to do tomorrow.”
“G-good night then.”
“Good night, Jiminee.”
As Hubert went into the room he shared with Dunstan, his hurried excuse for running to Jiminee—“there’s a lot to do tomorrow”—bore down on him with the return of the oppression he’d felt in the kitchen. What were they going to do?
The moonlight struck full across the room and Hubert saw a piece of paper resting on his pillow. He opened it. The moon was strong enough to read by. The note said: “Meet me in Mother’s room at 7—Elsa.”
As he undressed and got into bed, he comforted himself by thinking that what they would do could be decided in the morning. Elsa was good at making decisions. He put his hand up to his face and just before he went to sleep smelled the lavender scent of Mother’s soap on his fingers.
6
She had been up before him. She was standing by the window when he entered. They greeted each other quietly. She had tidied up. Mother lay flat on the bed now; her head was covered by the sheet and her arm no longer protruded. A lance of yellow sunlight touched the wall above the bed. Hubert looked away. The summery scent of early morning filled the room.
“Well?” he said at last.
“I was waiting till you came. I found the key of the desk.” She displayed it in the palm of her hand.
“Where’d you find it?”
Elsa shook her h
ead. “I’m going to open the desk.”
“But Elsa—” he hesitated; no one had ever seen inside the desk.
“But what?”
“Hadn’t we better wait … I mean, do you think we should?”
Elsa turned to the desk and fitted the key in the lock. “Why not? We’ve got to know, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but … I think we should leave it for … for whoever …”
“Whoever what, Hu?”
“Whoever we tell—about Mother.”
Elsa’s lips were firm. “We’re not going to tell anyone about Mother.”
Hubert opened his mouth. He glanced round the room. None of the children ever dared argue with Elsa when she wore her tight face. Then he looked at the white form on the bed, and suddenly he gathered himself. “We must tell the doctor. That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone dies. We must tell the doctor.”
“The doctor,” said Elsa contemptuously—but still she did not turn the key. “What doctor?”
“I dunno.” Hubert frowned. “Yes I do. The one down the road on the corner, with the brass sign. ‘Joshua Meadows, M.D.’ it says. That means he’s a doctor, doesn’t it? We’ll tell him.”
“Do you think Mother would want us to tell a doctor?”
“I—” No, he knew she wouldn’t. Into his head came words he’d heard so often: Doctors—if you can’t keep alive without all that stuff and nonsense, you’re better off dead.
“We’ve got to tell someone, Elsa. What about the funeral?”
“There isn’t going to be any funeral, Hubert.”
“There must be a funeral. There must be.”
Elsa took a deep breath. “There’s not going to be any funeral an’ we’re not going to tell any old doctor. No one’s going to know except us.”
“We can’t keep it a secret,” Hubert whispered.
“Yes we can. I’ve thought it all out. All the time Mother was ill we managed, didn’t we? We’ll manage now. Don’t you have any faith, Hu?”
Hubert lowered his eyes. Slowly he traced the faded pattern of the rug with the toe of his shoe. “Yes,” he muttered, “of course I do.” For a few moments, the ordered convolutions of the carpet absorbed him completely. Then he straightened up and gazed at his sister. “All right, open it then.”
Elsa twisted the key and lowered the lid of the desk. They both stared at the array of drawers and pigeonholes.
“There’s the savings book,” said Hubert.
Elsa nodded; she reached into the pigeonhole and took it out. She turned the pages until she came to the last entry. “Balance,” she read, “four hundred and thirty-three pounds, six shillings, and threepence.”
“That’s an awful lot of money,” said Hubert.
“No it isn’t,” Elsa said. “That wouldn’t last long. That’s savings. It’s money for a rainy day. I knew it was there. I saw it when Mother sent me to get the money from the post office.”
“Is it—is it a rainy day now, Else?”
She made no answer but reached into the desk and drew out a bundle of papers. She slipped off the rubber band and took the top paper and spread it out on the desk so they could read it. “Mrs. Violet E. Hook, 38 Ipswich Terrace,” Elsa read aloud. “Please find enclosed cheque for forty-one pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence, representing the payment on your annuity held with us for the month of April.”
“What’s it mean?” asked Hubert.
“Well, it means every month Mother gets this money.”
“What’s a cheque?”
“It’s a little piece of paper, only really it’s money. You put your name on the back and you take it to the red bank in Marlowe Street and they give you money for it. Real money. Last month—and the month before—Mother let me do it. So I know.”
“I see,” said Hubert. But he didn’t really. Forty-one pounds—that was an awful lot of money too. He’d never seen that much money. It was different from the sums they made you do at school. This was real. He thought of his weekly pocket money: he and Dunstan got a shilling, Elsa two shillings, Diana one and six, Jiminee ninepence, and Gerty and Willy sixpence each. If you added all that up, it wasn’t even a pound—and here was forty-one pounds. “We’re rich!” he burst out.
Elsa looked up from a bunch of letters tied with string that she’d just pulled out. “No we’re not. We’re not rich. We’re poor—Mother said we were. That’s why we go to the council school. Mother said we shouldn’t have to go there really—her father wouldn’t have liked it, that’s what she said. Only we have to ’cause we’re poor. We aren’t rich—don’t you go getting that idea, Hubert.” She turned the bundle of letters over in her hand. “Look at these.”
Hubert glanced over her shoulder. A portion of the top letter was visible. He spelled it out—“ … going to knock them for a six. So we are all cheering loud and preparing to run. Forward, naturally. The girls here drape big brown blankets over themselves—even their clocks. You can’t tell top from base. No wonder you never see any kids round here. It makes me glum, but you needn’t worry about your ever-faithful …” The writing was large, but neat and easy to read. Elsa started to pull out the sheet from the bundle. Then she hesitated. “Perhaps we oughtn’t to read any more.”
“No,” said Hubert, “it’s private, isn’t it?”
Elsa looked at the package. “Yes, it must be private. Anyway, it doesn’t make much sense.” With one finger she bent over the protruding letter so that they could see the other side. All that was visible was the right-hand head, which carried the notation: “89216 L/C Hook C. R.”
“Hook?” said Hubert. “That must be a relation of Mother’s.”
Elsa slipped the letter back under the string without answering and put the bundle back in the pigeonhole.
“Wait a mo, Else,” Hubert said. “Let’s have another look.”
“It’s private, Hu, you said so yourself.”
“But—but it might be important. Hook—L/C, I know what that is. It means lance-corporal, and C. R., that’s initials. C. R. Hook. C.R.H. Why,” he said breathlessly, “that’s what’s on the watch, Else—that’s what’s on the watch!”
“What watch?”
“Mother’s watch, of course. Don’t say you never seen it.” He ran to the bedside table and came back with the watch. “There.” He displayed the inscription on the case to Elsa.
She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know it was there, Hu?”
“You don’t notice things much, do you, Else?”
“I do notice things. How can you say that? I noticed the savings book, didn’t I, and the letters and the cheque, all about that cheque—I noticed them, didn’t I?” She challenged him, almost ready to be angry.
Hubert realised he wasn’t afraid. Instead there was an odd feeling he had, a feeling which somehow he always connected with Jiminee. He hesitated in wonder, then he said, “Of course you did, Elsa. I didn’t mean that … of course you notice things.”
“Well then!” Elsa said, still mounted on her high horse.
“But don’t you see? C.R.H.—it must be a relation of Mother’s—of ours. It must be Mother’s brother.”
“Mother didn’t have any brothers.”
“Well then, an uncle—or a cousin. It means we got someone, Elsa—don’t you see that?”
“Oh, don’t make such a fuss, Hu,” Elsa said in a voice tinged with superiority. “It isn’t an uncle or a cousin or anything like that at all. If you really want to know who it is—it’s Mother’s husband!”
“Husband!” whispered Hubert. He stood very still, his head cocked slightly to one side. “Husband,” he repeated. He looked up; out in the garden the tops of the apple trees were stirred by the faintest breeze. “But, Else—that means we got a father!” A great surge of excitement bubbled into his chest and rose and burst out. “A father! A father! We’ve got someone, Else. We got a father!”
Elsa spoke abruptly. “No, we ain’t. We haven’t.”
Hubert was
chilled. “You mean, he’s—he’s dead too?”
She pulled her lips together. “Better dead!”
“What do you mean?’”
“What I say. That’s what Mother said. She told me when she was ill. Mother wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He never came near her. He ran away. Mother said he was a bad lot. He wasn’t a gentleman.”
“But he’s our dad—he must want to see us now! He must love us, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he, Else?”
“It’s no good, Hubert. Mother said he never loved anyone but Charlie Hook. He’s never even seen us—so how could he love us?”
“But he must, he must!”
“Hubert! You’re building castles in the air. He doesn’t love us and he doesn’t want to see us. And that’s that. I knew I shouldn’t have told you. I thought you were supposed to be the practical one.”
Hubert went slowly over to the basket chair by the table and sat down. He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. After a while he felt Elsa’s arms come round his shoulders and her cheek rest against the top of his head. “Don’t cry, Hu,” she said softly. He pressed his fists hard into his eyes. “I love you, Hu. Don’t cry. We’ve got each other. We’ve all got each other.”
Gradually it dwindled, the hard feeling in his throat—as if there were a lot of heavy diamonds wanting to choke him. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes, waiting for the flickering stars to diminish.
“I’m okay,” he said at last.
He got up, Elsa’s arm still on his shoulder. “Why don’t we get on with it?”
They began to turn out scraps of paper, receipts mostly, haphazardly stuffed into drawers amidst bits of string and paper clips and old penny stamps. The only letters were from tradesmen. One package, tied as carefully as Charlie Hook’s letters, was labelled “Father’s Sermons” and contained yellowing half-sheets covered with handwriting so tiny as to be indecipherable. The centre pigeonhole was empty except for one long envelope, which Mother had inscribed simply “My Will.” Elsa turned it over. It was not sealed.
