Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

High above, the silver plane had vanished at last.

  30

  Dunstan squatted on the hearth and watched Hubert scrumple the paper and push it down into the grate. The younger boy worked methodically. Each piece of paper was squashed to the same size. Then he laid the little sticks crosswise, leaving plenty of room for the flames to burst between them.

  Dunstan stood up and took the matches from the mantelpiece and handed them to Hubert. Hubert glanced at him for a moment. “Thanks,” he said. He struck a match and lit the newspaper.

  “Don’t you put any coal on?” asked Dunstan.

  “Not yet,” said Hubert. “It has to get hot first, so the coal will burn.” He reached for the coal scuttle and selected a couple of small lumps of coal. He held them, waiting for the wood to catch. He was uneasy with Dunstan crouching like a frog beside him, and he looked into the fire as though his gaze were needed to keep it going.

  Charlie ’ook wasn’t up yet. He hadn’t come back till long after the children had gone to bed last night. They’d had breakfast without him. Willy had wanted to rush in and wake him up, but Hubert had said no.

  The front room was light and sunny and clean. It was like the old days. Diana and Hubert had washed the net curtains on Saturday afternoon, hanging them out to dry in the sun. This morning they had put them up again and now the windows shone in a brilliant mist of bridal white. It was the first time for ages that Diana had helped around the house.

  Hubert reached forward and dropped a piece of coal into the nest of burning wood. “Do you think we ought to get him a Sunday paper?” he asked Dunstan.

  Dunstan thought. “We don’t know which one he reads,” he said.

  “No.” Hubert dropped the other piece of coal into the fire. “Here, hand me the tongs, Dun.”

  “Of course,” said Dunstan, “we could get a lot of them—could get them all.”

  Hubert looked at him in surprise. “But that’d be awfully expensive.”

  “Well, we’ve got the money, haven’t we?—what was left over from shopping.”

  Digging into the scuttle for a large piece of coal, Hubert frowned. It was true that there had been nearly two pounds over from the ten Charlie ’ook had given them, but that was rainy-day money, like the post office savings. Hubert had six pounds, seven shillings and twopence in the nail box in his workshop drawer. How could he explain to Dun, who’d never handled more than ten bob at a time in his life, that this money wasn’t for idle spending?

  “We’ll wait,” he said finally, “we’ll wait and ask Charlie.”

  Dunstan nodded. He didn’t seem very interested—not in that.

  Hubert settled the large piece of coal onto the fire and put down the tongs. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and stood up. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  Dunstan glanced at him mildly. “Him? I don’t mind him.”

  “We’d—we’d be in a pretty pickle if it wasn’t for him.”

  Dunstan smiled. “We’d always have Mother, wouldn’t we?”

  Hubert sighed. He stepped back from the fireplace. It could be worse, he told himself, it could be—

  “What did he want Jiminee for yesterday?”

  “What?” Hubert jerked his head up.

  “Yesterday afternoon—he and Jiminee were in here by themselves.”

  He temporized. “Were they?” he asked. He observed Dunstan cautiously—the elder boy still squatted, but he was interested now.

  “Yes,” said Dunstan, “they were. Was it about the cheque?”

  “What do you know about the cheque?”

  “Quite a lot.”

  “Who told you?” But he knew the answer already.

  “Elsa.” The reflection of the small flames glinted in Dunstan’s glasses, obscuring his watching eyes. “It was about the cheque, wasn’t it?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t say anything was wrong. I just wanted to know, that’s all.”

  Hubert picked up the poker and pierced the large piece of coal. It split in two and the flames ran up the smooth black walls the break had made and a sudden whirl of smoke blew into the room. Dunstan coughed and turned his head. He took off his glasses and rubbed his right eye with his fist.

  “Got something in your eye?”

  “It’s all right,” said Dunstan.

  Hubert laid the poker down in the fender and moved closer to his brother. “Here, let’s have a look.”

  Dunstan looked up. His eye was red and he kept blinking it.

  “A bit of grit, I expect,” Hubert said. “Here, put your head back.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Dunstan, but obediently he let Hubert lift the eyelid.

  “Dunstan.”

  “Yes?”

  Hubert hesitated. He thought again how much Dunstan with his glasses off resembled Louis. “Dun, you’re not going to spoil anything, are you?”

  Dunstan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean about Charlie ’ook. You said you didn’t mind him. You’re not—you’re not going to do anything, are you?”

  Dunstan gazed at him steadily. “What could I do?” he said. Unguarded by glasses, his eyes had none of their usual menace. “What could I do?” he repeated. He turned his head and looked into the fire.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You know what he said?” Dunstan didn’t look at his brother.

  “What?”

  “He said that he’d take me up the Charing Cross Road on my birthday and buy me some books.”

  “Why, that’s super, Dun, that’s—” he was puzzled at the detachment in his brother’s voice—“wonderful.”

  “Do you believe he will?”

  “Why—why, of course he will. If he says so.” Hubert frowned. It wasn’t his idea of a birthday treat, but for a bookworm … Yet he couldn’t understand why Dun should doubt so. Couldn’t he ever trust anyone?

  Dunstan stood up abruptly and put on his glasses. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

  Hubert watched his brother walk to the door. “But,” he began, “but—”

  Dunstan looked back. “But what?”

  “It’s all right, isn’t it? It is all right?”

  Dunstan seemed to examine the fire for a long time. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps it will be.” He was gone.

  Hubert went back to building the fire. It could be worse, he thought—worse for Dunstan. At least his brother wanted something.

  He piled the coal on now, watching the brief crackle as the coal dust was consumed. The rise of the flames and their delicate tremble roused in Hubert a remembrance of the Sunday fires they used to have in the front room. There had been another smell then, besides the smoke and the polish and the warm dust—the scent of Mother’s soap. He sniffed, thinking momentarily that the smell might come with the memory. In that moment, it was suddenly inconceivable that yesterday they had been pounding on the roof of the tabernacle. He glanced up.

  Charlie ’ook stood in the centre of the room, regarding him.

  “Morning, Hu.” He looked tired still. “Nothing like a fire on a cold morning.” He glanced round the room. “Posh. Like a blooming funeral parlour—only one thing missing. Flowers!” He laughed and then grimaced.

  “Do you want some breakfast, Charlie?”

  “I could do with a cup of tea. Unless …” He opened his jacket and took a fob watch out of his waistcoat pocket. He snapped it open. “A bleeding hour till opening.” He groaned melodramatically.

  “Charlie!”

  “What?”

  “That watch—can I have a look?” He sucked in a breath and held it tight.

  Charlie ’ook grinned. “Recognize it, eh?” He held it out and Hubert took it gingerly from his outstretched hand.

  “It is!” He turned it over and stared at the burnished inscription—C.R.H. “It works!”

  “Of course—what’s the good of a watch that don’t work?”

  It was alive in his hand, and
warm from Charlie ’ook’s pocket. He lifted it to his ear and listened to the tick. It had been months ago that it had stopped, but the tick was just the same as always.

  “Had to put a new mainspring in. Must have had a hell of a bang.”

  “Yes.” Hubert nodded. He looked at the face again, with its old-fashioned Roman numerals. There was no second hand to bother with. “It’s yours, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ve got it.”

  “The only thing the old lady ever give me—well, the only proper present.”

  “The old lady?”

  “Your mother. Gave it me when we got married. Only secondhand, of course, but we weren’t rich in those days—never could afford a chain.”

  Hubert passed it gently back to Charlie ’ook. “It needs a chain, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “I suppose it does really.” He stared at the watch, rubbing the case with his thumb. “But she ain’t here to give it me now, is she?”

  “Well—well,” unaccountably Hubert’s voice trembled, “we could give you a chain—I mean all of us—for your birthday.”

  Charlie ’ook looked at him. “You wouldn’t want to waste your—”

  “It wouldn’t be wasting.”

  They were silent for a moment, and then both smiled.

  “Here,” said Charlie ’ook, going back to the watch, “see the initials?”

  “C.R.H.”

  “Ah, you’re sharp. Coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “What you mean?”

  “You think they’re mine, don’t you? Charles Ronald Hook?”

  Hubert was puzzled. “Well…”

  “They aren’t, you know. They were on there when she bought it. That’s why she bought it. Told you it was secondhand, didn’t I?”

  “You mean they’re not yours at all?”

  “Well—yes and no. They wasn’t meant for me. This ticker’s a good hundred years old, see.”

  “Whose are they then?” asked Hubert. Somehow his elation at the recovery of the watch had dwindled.

  Charlie ’ook brushed his upper lip. “You’re like your mother, you are. She used to spend hours puzzling over that. I remember she used to rather fancy Cyril Rupert Haverford. See me a Cyril!” He laughed.

  “But it’s yours now.”

  “Yes. It’s mine now.” He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and patted it. “Sounds like a bomb ticking away in there.” He stretched his neck and yawned.

  “I’ll get you that cup of tea, if you like,” Hubert said.

  Charlie ’ook moved his head from side to side, easing the stiffness from his neck. “I got a better idea,” he said. “A drop of Guinness.” He went slowly to the black chair and sat down, sticking his legs straight out. “You can get it for me, if you like—in the cupboard. I brought in a new stock last night.” He took out a cigarette and lit it, watching Hubert fetch the bottle and glass. “Here, pour it onto the side of the glass—otherwise all you get is half a pint of froth.” He reached out and took the glass and drank.

  Hubert sat on the hearth, the heat of the fire on his back. He pulled up his knees and rested his chin on them; his breath made small damp patches of warmth on his kneecaps. The blue smoke from Charlie ’ook’s cigarette rose into the sunlight, wavered as it was touched by the draught, dipped, bobbed, and then was twisted tempestuously into oblivion.

  “Where are the others?” asked Charlie ’ook lazily.

  “Jiminee’s drawing, I expect, and Dun’s probably reading in the library an’ Elsa’ll be in her room, and Willy’s playing, I expect.”

  “What about Di?”

  “Di?”

  “Diana.”

  “Well, I expect she’s in … I expect she’s playing too.” He had been going to say she’d be in the tabernacle, but she didn’t go there anymore, he realized suddenly. “Perhaps,” he said tentatively, “she’s swinging in the garden with Willy.”

  “Swinging,” Charlie ’ook murmured. “That’s nice.” He drank more Guinness, then held out the glass to Hubert. “Here, like to try some?”

  Hubert nodded and took the glass. He sniffed and looked up. “It smells burnt,” he said. He tried a sip. “It’s bitter!”

  Charlie ’ook smiled and reached for the glass. “The more of that sort of bitterness, the better.” He poured himself some more.

  Hubert licked the traces of Guinness from his lips. “Charlie,” he said, “what was Mother like—when you got married?”

  Charlie ’ook flicked his cigarette into the fire with a snap of thumb and forefinger. “Learned that from a Yank in the army.” He lit another. “She was pretty. Not just pretty. What’s the word in the Bible? ‘Comely,’ that’s it. Comely.” He watched the smoke from his cigarette. “Good to look upon—that’s from the Bible too.” He laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Oh, a thought—a passing thought. She was healthy—loved it. Loved all of it.” He half closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t have thought it, would you?—a vicar’s daughter.” He opened his eyes and looked at Hubert. “But you’re a bit young to know about all that, aren’t you?”

  Hubert shifted away from the heat. “All what?” he asked.

  “Women—men. Being married. Or not being married—’ere you’ll have me spilling the beans if I’m not careful.” He sat up a little and grinned.

  “I don’t …”

  “Ah—forget it. She was a great girl, old Vi.”

  Hubert moved again. He touched the back of his sweater—it was almost scorching. “Why—why did you go away?”

  Charlie ’ook blew smoke into the sunlight. “The war. Had to go an’ fight.”

  “But afterwards,” Hubert persisted, “couldn’t you—”

  “Afterwards?” Charlie ’ook spoke abruptly. All at once he was very still and thinking, and he didn’t smile. He held his glass stiffly. “Afterwards.” The smoke drew up to his eyes and he blinked. “I’d rather not talk about that.” He waited for a moment and then took a long drink.

  He looked round. “No Sunday papers?” His face relaxed again.

  “We didn’t know which one you wanted.”

  “Sunday Pic, News of the World, The Dispatch—the lot. Why don’t you pop out an’ get ’em for me?” He reached in his pocket and gave Hubert a half-crown. “Keep the change.”

  Hubert stood up—his legs were stiff and for a moment his head throbbed. “All right,” he said, “it won’t take me a mo.” He walked to the door and looked back. “Charlie,” he said, “you didn’t mind me asking all those questions, did you?”

  “Who me? Nah—that’s all right, kid. It’s only natural.” He yawned. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Roast beef—Dinah’s doing it today.”

  “Well, look, I’ve got to pop out for half an hour in a little while, but I’ll be back before half-past one—so we can have it then, okay?”

  “All right, I’ll tell Dinah.”

  “You do that.” He turned away and shifted his chair so it faced the fire more directly. Watching, Hubert saw him shiver. He closed the door gently.

  31

  He was gone only ten minutes. He ran all the way back—counting each of the mournful plane trees as a marking post for the record marathon. The sacred Olympic fire was hidden in the thick wad of folded papers. Triumphantly he leapt up the steps to the platform where the fire would burst into perpetual flame. Home and victorious.

  Only half-aware that the front door was open, Hubert ran across the threshold and down the hall into the front room. “Here we are,” he called, “I’ve got them. I’ve got the pap—”

  He stopped dead.

  Mrs. Stork turned her lips towards him. “Well, if it isn’t Berty. Mother’s little helper, I see—as always.” She stretched her mouth into a smile and the heavy dewlaps obediently rose and flattened. “Or perhaps I should say Father’s little helper?” She chuckled and glanced at Charlie ’ook. The dewlaps slumped,

  Charlie ’ook was silent.

  Mrs. Stork raised her voice a l
ittle. “I just got here myself. Look,” she raised a paper-wrapped bunch of tired chrysanthemums, “I brought you some ’mums to brighten the place up.”

  All the children were there, but she had been talking only to Hubert. Now she turned to the others. “Well, I must say, you’re a cheerful lot. What you staring at? Ain’t you glad to see your Mrs. Stork again?”

  Elsa spoke abruptly. “No.”

  “No? Well, well,” said Mrs. Stork in a cheerful nothing-can-put-me-out tone of voice, “you was always such a polite little girl. Times change, eh? Times change. Don’t they, Mr. Hook?”

  Charlie ’ook cleared his throat. “Mrs. Stork—”

  Hubert stepped forward, the papers poised as a weapon. He was conscious only of this old intruder in her threadbare, malice-black Sunday best. “What are you doing here?”

  “Me? Old Mrs. Stork? I’m making a call.” She coyly brandished floral evidence of her good intentions. “I come to ask after your mum. I do hope she ain’t still poorly, Mr. Hook?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she is.” Charlie ’ook came up to Hubert and took the papers. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” murmured Mrs. Stork. “I don’t see little Gert—is she ill too?”

  Charlie ’ook laid the papers down on the table, turning his back on Mrs. Stork. When he faced her, he was smiling. “Yes—she’s ill too. I sent them both off to Folkestone for a bit of sea air.”

  “Oh, that’s ever so nice.” She paused and shifted the flowers in her arms. “Expensive, though—ever so expensive them seaside resorts.”

  “Off-season rates this time of year.” He rubbed his lip of invisible moisture. “But I don’t have to worry about that. My sister Molly got a little place of her own down there.”

  “My, that’s handy.” Mrs. Stork moved the flowers to her other arm, but Charlie ’ook did not offer to take them from her. “Close to the sea, I hope.”

  “Stone’s throw, as they say. Just a stone’s throw.” Suddenly he was confiding. “Molly runs a little fish and chip shop, see. Right off the esplanade. Two floors above, all her own. ‘Tea room’ she likes to call it—you get your cod and chips on a plate. None of this grease and old newspaper stuff. Half a dollar a time. Calls it ‘plaice.’ Tea, bread and butter, ‘plaice and fried potatoes,’ and a slab of Dundee cake. Nice little business—verrry nice little business.” He screwed up his eyes to a seaside horizon filled with a silver rain of half-dollars.