Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  “Not bad for a first try,” said Charlie ’ook. “Anyone else want a go?” He was half turning away already.

  “I’d like a shot, please.” Dunstan stretched out his hand to take the gun.

  “Fancy yourself as a marksman, do you?” asked Charlie ’ook, and then, as if suddenly conscious of his sarcastic tone, he put his arm around Dunstan’s shoulder. “I thought you was the studious one.” He smiled.

  Dunstan looked up at Charlie ’ook. “I’ve got a good eye,” he said quietly. “I’m going to win a rabbit.”

  “Oh, ho!”

  The man in the white coat sniffed briefly, loaded the gun and handed it to Dunstan.

  The dark-haired boy was precise in his movements. He crouched over the gun for an age before he pulled the trigger. With his first shot he knocked down a duck. He didn’t take his eyes from the sights. He hit another duck with his second shot.

  “Go on, Dun, go on, you’re going to do it,” cried Hubert as Dunstan’s eighth shot demolished a duck. “Eight out of eight!”

  Dunstan looked up and smiled with restraint.

  “Damn good,” said Charlie ’ook, “damn good!”

  Even the attendant stopped examining his nails and con centrated his attention on the ducks, as if his gaze would keep them up.

  Dunstan fired again. Clang! A duck jerked, but remained steady.

  “Nine!” shouted Hubert.

  “Doesn’t count,” said the attendant.

  “What do you mean doesn’t count?” said Charlie ’ook loudly.

  “Didn’t score a knockdown.”

  “He hit it, didn’t he? It went clang, didn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  “Of course it bloody well counts. Just ’cause you glue half your blasted ducks up—’ere,” Charlie ’ook leaned far over the counter and showed his fist, “if I was to hit you with this—you’d count that as a knockdown, wouldn’t you?”

  The man in the white coat was quite still. He stared at Charlie ’ook without expression. Suddenly his eyes shifted to the small crowd that had drifted to the shooting gallery at the sound of raised voices.

  “All right,” he said, all at once brisk and loud, “fair’s fair. I’ll give ’im an extra shot. This one won’t count, but he can have an extra shot for the same money—’ow’s that?”

  “Well…” began Charlie ’ook.

  “That’s all right, Charlie,” said Dunstan. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the next two.”

  A couple of women in the crowd tittered.

  “All right,” said Charlie ’ook, “fair enough.”

  The attendant put an extra shot in Dunstan’s gun. “This lad,” he said loudly, “is trying for the big rabbit.”

  Dunstan raised the gun and fired almost immediately. Clang!

  “Nine!” shouted Jiminee.

  “One more to go,” said the attendant.

  Clang! The tenth duck flipped back.

  “You done it, you done it!”

  “Ten dead ducks!” Charlie ’ook laughed jovially.

  “And the young gentleman has won himself one of these ’ere handsome rabbits.” The man in the white coat took down the huge tartan-clad rabbit. He held it high for a moment and then presented it to Dunstan with a swooping flourish. “Why don’t you have a try for a magnificent rabbit, ladies and gentlemen?”

  “Can’t afford the lettuce,” said someone from the crowd. The attendant’s face flicked into a twitch of a smile.

  The children closed around Dunstan. They put out their hands to touch the rabbit which the boy held fast in his arms.

  “It’s a lovely rabbit.”

  “It looks like Mrs. S-S-St-Stork,” said Jiminee and they all laughed.

  “We’ll have to send you to Bisley,” said Charlie ’ook, rubbing his hand through the boy’s hair. “Dead-eye Dunstan the duck-shooting devil, eh?”

  They moved away from the shooting gallery.

  “What are you going to do with it, Dun?” asked Willy.

  Dunstan stopped smiling. “I’m going to give it to Elsa,” he said gravely.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Charlie ’ook quickly before the children’s surprise turned to disapproval. “We ought to take her back some sweets, too. What about a nice stick of rock, eh? Where’s the rock man?” Charlie ’ook looked around. “Saw ’im here a minute ago.”

  “Rock!” Diana’s voice was hard and furious.

  “What?” said Charlie ’ook.

  “What you want to take her rock for?” Diana asked fiercely.

  “To cheer her up, of course. Sitting there at home all on her lonely-own.”

  “She could have come if she wanted to, couldn’t she?”

  Hubert put his hand on his sister’s arm, but she shook it off.

  “Well, yes,” said Charlie ’ook, “but I expect she wasn’t feeling up to it.”

  “Huh!” said Diana contemptuously. “A lot you know.” For a moment her tone was pitying. Then she was hard again. “She didn’t come because she hates you.”

  “That’s not true,” Dunstan flashed out.

  “No, it’s not,” said Hubert, half turning to Dunstan in surprise at their agreement.

  “ ’ere, ’ere, ’ere,” Charlie ’ook’s lower lip trembled momentarily as he took in a breath, “calm down there. We can’t have this. Brothers and sisters squabbling. We all love each other, don’t we?” None of the children answered his smile. “Look,” he said, trying again, “perhaps she don’t like me as much—as much as you do. But we’re not all made the same—not by a long chalk.” He paused to rub his upper lip. “If Elsa’s a bit stand-offish, we got to make allowances. Haven’t we now?” He directed his question at Diana.

  “Giving her presents isn’t making allowances.”

  “Oh, yes it is. Definitely. If she don’t like us, we’ve got to like her.” He surveyed the children with regained aplomb. “Do unto others as you would be done by. Right, Dun?”

  Dunstan nodded. But it wasn’t right, thought Hubert. It wasn’t her brothers and sisters that she didn’t like—it was Charlie ’ook.

  “But,” began Diana without confidence, “but—”

  “Let’s drop it, shall we?” said Charlie ’ook briskly.

  For a moment they stood in silence. Hubert didn’t know what to do with his hands. He felt the deadweight of change in his pocket. He glanced up at the switchback, but somehow the excitement had been stolen away. The sea roar of the funfair swooped and then receded so that they heard the fierce swinging drone of the death riders’ motorbikes rising to a sudden menace.

  “What about a go on the big wheel?” said Charlie ’ook, putting his arm around Diana. Abruptly she turned to him and burst into sobs.

  “That’s all right, that’s all right.” He touched her hair. Tightly she hugged him. He crouched down and took out his handkerchief. “There’s nothing to cry about, Di,” he said gently, drying her cheeks.

  “You love us. You do love us, don’t you, Charlie?”

  “Of course I love you.” He put his cheek next to hers.

  Her golden hair and his thinning locks intermingled. Then he drew back.

  “Cheer up, ducks.” He smiled. “Feel better now?”

  She nodded. Taking hold of her hand, he stood up. They returned from their momentary privacy to the others.

  They rode the big wheel. They went on the switchback and plunged down the water chute. They watched the riders of death. And yet despite the excitement, Hubert was somehow uneasy.

  At one moment a small fox-faced man, pulling two little girls by the hand, had stopped dead as he was about to pass them. “Hello, Charlie ’ook,” the man had called with a grin of yellow teeth. Charlie ’ook had hesitated and then just nodded and turned the other way. When Hubert looked back, the man was still grinning. He paid no attention to one of the little girls who had started to cry.

  Hubert wished they hadn’t met the man. As he paid out sixpences and shillings, he wanted more and more for his
trouser pocket to be empty and for them to be on their way home. He remembered a day when Elsa had been with them on an expedition—the day in the park with old Halby. He had not wanted to go home then. But now … now he wanted to see Elsa’s face when she got the rabbit.

  And when at last they were home, he and Dunstan—with the rabbit tucked under his arm—raced up the stairs as quick as the wind.

  The door of Elsa’s room was shut. They pushed it open.

  “Here we are,” said Hubert.

  She sat on the bed with her hands in her lap.

  “Hello,” said Dunstan.

  “Hello,” she answered, almost inaudibly.

  “I’ve—I’ve brought you a present.” He stepped forward and held out the huge fur animal. For a moment Elsa didn’t move; then she stretched out her hands and took it.

  “It’s a rabbit,” said Dunstan.

  She let the rabbit rest in her lap. “Yes,” she said.

  “I won it.”

  She raised her head. “Did you?” She looked down again and touched the floppy pink-lined ears. “It’s nice,” she murmured.

  “You do like it, don’t you?” Dunstan asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” Suddenly Elsa smiled.

  They were silent. Hubert looked from Elsa to Dunstan and back again. They weren’t noticing him. “You should have come, Else,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t as Elsa’s smile vanished.

  “Why didn’t you come?” he persisted in spite of himself. He didn’t want to give way to the feeling that somehow he was being left out.

  “She didn’t come because she didn’t want to come,” said Dunstan reasonably.

  “But—”

  “No—that’s wrong,” said Elsa. “I didn’t come ’cause I didn’t want to be anywhere near him”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Hubert asked loudly.

  “He isn’t as bad as all that,” said Dunstan.

  “Isn’t he? Isn’t he?” Elsa’s hand rested on the furry head of the rabbit. “He took the savings book,” she announced calmly.

  Dunstan frowned. “Well, I don’t see …”

  “Don’t you? Hubert does, though—don’t you, Hu?—although I expect you won’t admit it.”

  “Admit what? See what?” Hubert was angry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Elsa said carefully, “Mrs. Stork told him about the savings book. That’s why she came back. That’s why she’s going to stay. Do you think she’d come back for nothing? She’s going to get her share. Her share of our money. And he’ll draw out the rest and spend it.”

  “What’d he want to do that for?” asked Hubert, but Elsa just turned her head away.

  After a while she began to stroke the rabbit. Watching her, Dunstan smiled. Then he went across the room and drew the curtains. He came back and sat on the floor and watched Elsa.

  “She’ll betray us,” murmured Elsa.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Stork—she’ll betray us.”

  Hubert took a deep breath. “But Charlie explained all that—why she’s got to come back. She won’t tell if she comes back. She’d only split if she didn’t come back. She won’t find anything out.”

  Elsa sighed. “She’ll betray us when the money runs out. And he will too—that’s when he’ll betray us.”

  Dunstan frowned. “You can’t say that, Else. You don’t know. How can you know?”

  “Besides,” said Hubert, “there’ll always be the cheque.”

  She shrugged impatiently at Hubert’s interruption. “The cheque won’t be enough. Not with his—style of life. You wait and see.”

  “You’re wrong,” Hubert said angrily. “He’d never do that. You’re just making it up. It’s just because you hate him. Diana was right—you—”

  “Hubert!” Dunstan’s glasses flashed. “Be quiet.”

  “It’s all right, Hu,” said Elsa coldly, without looking at him. “You needn’t worry. I’m not going to make a fuss.”

  He could think of no answer. He shut his lips tight. Somewhere far down within him something jerked—a cord, a flutter of distant wings.

  “Tea-eee! Tea-eee!” The cry from the hall reached them faintly.

  “You coming, Else?” Dunstan asked.

  “I don’t mind.” She put the rabbit on the pillow and stood up. “Thank you for the rabbit, Dun.”

  Dunstan blushed. “Perhaps,” he said, “there’ll be hymns after tea. You’ll join in, won’t you, Else?” He got to his feet.

  Elsa reached up and switched off the light. “I expect so,” she said.

  Dunstan and Elsa went ahead down the stairs. Hubert followed slowly.

  Elsa was wrong. She was dead wrong.

  33

  Weak with winter, the nine-o’clock daylight filtered dimly through the dusty panes of the transome above the front door. Hubert placed the cup of tea carefully on the hall table and picked up the letters from the mat. He held the envelopes close to his eyes. The first was addressed Captain Charles Hook. Hubert turned it over curiously. On the back was the printed inscription, C. Bodger & Co., Turf Accountants. Turf—he smiled suddenly; it could be a surprise. Perhaps Charlie ’ook was going to have the back lawn done over with new grass—he thought of the slabs of rich green grass backed with chocolate-brown earth that he’d seen last year stacked outside the Halberts’, waiting to be put down. He slipped the letter beneath the other two before he had time for doubts.

  The next one was familiar—Mrs. Violet Edna Hook, neatly typed—it was the monthly cheque. He was glad he didn’t have to bother with that anymore.

  The third letter was addressed to Samuel Halbert, Esq., 40 Ipswich Terrace. Hubert started to reach up to open the front door and call back the postman. The letter felt heavy and important. But the postman would be gone by now. I’ll deliver it myself, thought Hubert. There was plenty of time on Saturdays now. That was one good thing about the return of Mrs. Stork—the only good thing, thought Hubert.

  He sighed and pushed the letters into his trouser pocket. Gingerly he picked up the cup of tea. For a moment he balanced it, making sure the cup was firm in the saucer. He dipped his finger quickly into the milky tea—it was tepid, but that was the way Charlie ’ook liked it. Shoulders hunched and eyes fixed, he started forward.

  “Hello, Berty. Brought a cup of tea for your old Mrs. Stork—well, isn’t that nice.” Mrs. Stork stretched out a skinny hand.

  Hubert put his foot on the last step. “It isn’t for you,” he said, without looking up. “It’s for him.” He moved his head in the direction of Mother’s room.

  The hand dropped away. “My,” she said in a voice of eggshell tenderness, “aren’t you the thoughtful one!”

  He gained the landing. Her distinctive odour of dust and dripping and furniture polish and old starch wafted over him. “It’s his morning tea. I always fetch it on Saturdays and Sundays.”

  Mrs. Stork unexpectedly cracked a finger. Her face lifted to a smile. “Well, ducks, you don’t have to bother. Mrs. Stork can take care of all that. A woman’s touch. A woman’s touch.” She reached out again for the cup. “I’ll take it in to ’im.”

  “No, thank you very much.” Hubert pulled the cup away and the tea slopped into the saucer. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  “Oh, I’m ever so sorry.” But, looking at the wrinkle of her smile, Hubert knew that she wasn’t sorry at all.

  “Silly old Talk-Stork,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What did you say, dearie?”

  “Nothing.” Grasping the banister in one hand, he brushed by her and knocked on the door of Mother’s room.

  “Manners maketh man. Manners maketh man.” Behind him he heard her short twittering cackle.

  He pushed open the door and went in.

  Charlie ’ook was half awake. He rolled over, eyeing Hubert. “What’s that noise?” he asked.

  “It’s Mrs. Stork,” said Hubert, loudly enough, he hoped, for her to hear. “She’s laug
hing.”

  “Silly old bag,” murmured Charlie ’ook.

  Hubert grinned and sat down on the bed. He liked to watch Charlie ’ook drink his tea. It was the best part of Saturdays and Sundays almost. There was a smell of man and warm bedclothes, and he liked the way Charlie ’ook would rub at his itching beard.

  “Ah, nice and tepid—just right. Never could see this steaming ’ot stuff.”

  Hubert smiled at him happily—he always said that about “steaming hot stuff.”

  “You got some post, Charlie.” He pulled the letters out of his pocket and handed them over.

  “Christ!” said Charlie ’ook, dropping the letter from the turf accountants as though it were hot. “Ah,” he held the second letter up to the light, “this’ll be the cheque, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, we’ll have to get Jiminee on to this.” He clattered the cup onto the floor, pushed back the blankets and swung his legs out of bed. “Here, Jiminee,” he yelled.

  He glanced briefly at the third letter. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, it was delivered wrong,” said Hubert, “it’s meant to be next door.”

  “Samuel Halbert. Samuel—I should think so, almost as bad as Cyril, eh?” He stood up and stretched, his unbuttoned pyjamas revealing a smooth, strangely feminine chest.

  “Charlie?”

  “What?” He yawned.

  “You know what day it is today, don’t you?”

  “Pay day, old pal—pay day!” He chuckled. “Reminds me of when I was in the army. There was this Tynesider in the next bed to me, see. He had a mate called Dai. Every Friday, he used to wake up and then shout out at the top of his bleeding lungs to his mate, ‘Wake oop, it’s pie die t’die, die!’ It was the accent, see. What he meant was ‘It’s pay day, today, Dai.’ Only he couldn’t say it like that.” He rubbed the bristles on his upper lip and smiled. “Lot of uneducated bastards, up north.”

  “No, but I mean there’s something else,” said Hubert anxiously.

  “There is? Let’s have it!”

  “It’s Dun’s birthday.”

  “Dun’s birthday!” Charlie ’ook opened his eyes in exaggerated surprise. “Blimey, I almost forgot.”

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”