Honour Thy Father

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Yes,’ I called after her softly. ‘Yes, it’s more than that. But it is that too.’

  After she’d gone, I stood alone in the kitchen for ages. I went to the window and pressed my face against the cool glass. Outside the sky was chaotic as a crumpled bed, black and grey tumbles of cloud, slits of moonlight. I whispered Isaac’s name. I willed the time away until we could be together. And then I went to bed, my feet cold, the smell of the fresh paint in my hair.

  I can hear Aggie’s feet on the stairs, coming down the attic stairs. She is not asleep, I can tell by the jerky way she’s walking. That is good, that she is awake.

  She hesitates on the landing. Is she going down? George is making such a racket. Surely Aggie will not want to hear any more of that than she has to.

  She’s coming to my door. I will be quiet. What could she want at this time of night, in the middle of the night? She is tapping on my door. I do not know what to do. We do not do this, bother each other at night. The time between bedtime and dawn is our own time, private time. It is my only space. And now she comes knocking at my door! Not content to crash about above me, she has to come downstairs to plague me now.

  ‘Milly, please,’ she calls, her voice coarse as a crow’s, her fingers scratching at my door like claws. ‘Please, Milly, let me come in.’

  We wait in silence for a moment to see what I will do.

  ‘Open the door then,’ I say. I am helpless. It is not like Agatha to plead.

  She pushes open my door. ‘The rain is getting in,’ she says. She is shivering. ‘Something must have happened to the roof. I nearly got off to sleep but I was woken by the rain. My bed is wet. Everything is wet.’

  ‘You can have a blanket,’ I say. She wraps it around herself, an old parcel of bones.

  ‘It’s even getting in down here,’ I say. ‘Can you hear it dripping?’ We are quiet, listening to the steady ominous dripping. I can hear Agatha’s knees creaking. And there are the other noises too.

  ‘What are we to do?’ asks Agatha. She sounds as if she is near to tears. What is the matter with her? I will not be able to bear it if she goes all weak and soft. I need her to push against. I need her not to give way before me. Just because she is older does not give her the right. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says. ‘I can’t get to sleep in all that wet. I might just as well be outside and be done with it.’

  ‘There is downstairs.’

  ‘No,’ she says, and her voice is weak and wavery. Despite myself I am feeling sorry for Agatha. Old bitch. Old witch. I must harden myself, remember her meanness; the way she’s never forgiven me for having this room. Is that what this is all about? I wouldn’t put it past her to damage the roof herself just to gain a claim on this room. But I am not sharing it with her. It is mine. It is all that is mine.

  ‘There’s always the cellar,’ I say. She gives a startled whimper. Frightened, I realize that she is actually starting to cry. ‘As if we aren’t wet enough already without you starting up,’ I say. She is really crying now, a hard snivelling. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it.’ I force out the words. I’m almost shouting now. It is so hard to force these damn words out of my throat. They stick like fishbones. They will only come if I shout. ‘I’m sorry, Agatha.’ Once out they hang in the darkness between us, these words, this apology like a curiosity, something to be wondered at.

  ‘Why don’t you get into bed with me,’ I say, for I cannot think of anything else. I am surprised when she does that, climbs beside me into the bed that was Mother and Father’s bed. There is nothing of Agatha. She’s like the folding chair that Father had, the one he used to sit outside in and smoke his pipe. She’s like a rickety folding chair, all sticks and creaking joints, folded to almost nothing. She is cold too and smells like a wet animal. I squeeze myself against the wall. I will share my bed with her just for tonight, but I do not want to touch her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. These words from Agatha are almost as rare as my own apology. But I do not want this. I have hated and needed and needed and hated Agatha for … ever since … oh I cannot be doing with this. I cannot be doing with this change. It is almost like affection.

  ‘Ellenanesther are busy tonight,’ I say, and Agatha grunts. Her breath is still shuddery from her shivers and from her tears. I do not mention the noise that is loudest, the frightful sound of George, howling now like a nightmare. Never before has he made such a din! Not since he first went down. Never.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the painters,’ I say, to keep our minds off it.

  ‘Oh, the painters,’ says Agatha. ‘That was a time!’

  ‘It was only a short time,’ I remind her. ‘Only two days.’

  ‘Two and a half. They came back the next day to clear up.’

  ‘Two and a bit,’ I concede. ‘They only stayed an hour or two that day. Strange that they bothered really. You’d think they’d have cleared up once they’d finished, the night before.’

  ‘Not strange really, dear,’ says Agatha. Over her tears now, and warmer, her old bitch of a voice strains to sound mysterious. ‘Not strange at all if there was some other reason.’

  I do not answer although I know what she means. She thinks the dark one was in love with her. Poor pathetic Agatha making over her memories to suit her dreams.

  ‘Oh he was a one!’ she cackles.

  ‘I preferred the fair one,’ I say, ‘though even he was nothing compared with Isaac. He spoke to me, you know, the fair one did, when Father wasn’t there.’

  ‘When was Father not there?’ she demands. We’ve had this out so many times.

  ‘He went to the privy,’ I say, ‘and while he was gone, the fair one spoke to me.’

  ‘What did he say then? Go on, tell me what he said.’

  ‘I really can’t remember exactly,’ I say as if I couldn’t care less. It is true that I cannot quite remember although I have tried. Oh yes. ‘It was something like, “What do you call yourself?” and when I said “Milly,” he repeated it, “Milly,” slowly as if tasting it in his mouth and then he paused and said, “That’s a pretty name, a sweet name. That suits you, a pretty girl like you.”’

  ‘Liar!’ spits Agatha. But it’s not a lie. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘the dark one spoke to me. He said more to me than that.’

  ‘What then?’ I challenge.

  ‘I remember every word,’ she says. She settles herself down and her cold shinbone brushes mine. I withdraw my leg sharply.

  ‘You’re squashing me,’ I say.

  She moves away a bit, but it is difficult, the bed slopes so steeply to the middle. ‘It was the second day. It was about three o’clock. Father was there, but he’d nodded off in his chair.’ I consider the possibility of this. It was hot weather, so perhaps … I let it go. ‘He was painting the frame of this window, Father’s window. I just happened to be in here for some reason. Perhaps I was dusting …’ Preposterous! Dusting wasn’t her job! Just like Agatha to do that, pretend she had some business to be in here, pretend she didn’t know he was there. ‘Of course I had my blue dress on,’ she says. Of course. ‘And I walked towards the window. I didn’t see him at first. I was quite unaware that he was there. I stopped in front of the mirror and I lifted my hair up, just to see how I looked, and in the mirror I saw myself and I saw him too, I saw that he was watching me.’ Even in the dark, even so many years after I blush at Agatha’s obviousness. If it was true. Which, of course, it isn’t. ‘I felt very foolish,’ she continues, ‘and I suppose I might have flushed a little, which always looks – well with a dark complexion. The window was open. “Beautiful,” he said, just breathed it so quietly I could scarcely hear. “I wish I could come inside and speak to you,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” I put my finger to my lips, so,’ in the dark she performs, ‘but he pointed down at Father and smiled. I walked toward the window and looked down and saw that Father was asleep in his chair. His papers had slipped to the ground. And then,’ she pauses dramatic
ally, ‘he put his fingers to his lips, the first two fingers, the index and the middle, and he kissed them. He pressed his lips against them for a full moment like so … and then he reached round the open edge of the window and he grasped my hand, my hand with the fingers that he had touched against his lips!’ she sighs with pleasure and nestles her disgusting old greasy wet head into my pillow. ‘Yes, that was a time,’ she says.

  Of course it is all lies. What an imagination she has! Why can’t she keep them to herself, her lies? She interferes with my memories when she talks such codswallop. She throws something in, something new in like that, after all this time and it sets it all askew. The past. I close my eyes tightly and squeeze out her nonsense. I will pretend to be asleep. Perhaps she will believe that I am asleep, that I did not hear that story. And then she will feel foolish.

  When the painters had cleared up and gone, Father began to make preparations for his own departure. There was an unusual air of gaiety. It was September of, I think, 1916 or 1917. The house felt clean and smart with its new coat of glossy paint. The smell of the paint hung in the air, pervaded every corner. What a wonderful, exciting smell!

  I was so excited I could barely keep the foolish grin from my face, could barely suppress a song. Agatha too was unnaturally cheerful, fussing round Father, showing just how useful she could be. Every September I think of that time. It was a warm morning, warm as summer, but with a definite edge of autumn. The angle of the sun was different. It had risen later through a pale grey mist, discovering a spangle of diamond cobwebs in the grass, the rich gleam of ripening apples on the trees.

  I could not wait for Father to go. I knew exactly what I would do the minute he was safely gone. Exactly. I would set off for the Howgegos’. If Isaac wasn’t there I would demand to know where he was. I needed to see him. I needed to exorcize the fair painter with his strong brown wrists and his golden hairs from my mind. Oh how I longed to see Isaac. The time was right. We were free! We could either go now, straight away, or else we could wait. There was no rush. I could invite Isaac to tea and make a cake just like his mother’s, better than his mother’s, and I would get Aggie and Ellenanesther used to the idea of our marriage. I could hardly believe that we had come to the end of all that furtiveness, all our fear. We need no longer live with one ear cocked for the sound of Father’s arrival. When Mrs Howgego called we would be free to relax in her company, no longer afraid of the risk we were all taking.

  At last Father was ready. We sat down to lunch with him before he departed. We ate plates of cold hard-boiled eggs, cold potatoes and sliced tomatoes. It all tasted of paint and pipe-smoke, but we ate with relish. When we had finished we sat waiting for a sign from Father that the meal was over, that we might get up and speed him on his way.

  ‘We’ll just have some tea, I think,’ he said at last, getting his pipe from his pocket. ‘I’d enjoy a last cup before I go. And then there are just a few extra details to discuss.’ He filled his pipe with maddening care while Aggie brewed the tea, and I began to feel anxious. What details? A wasp, a sleepy late wasp crawled across the table. What details? Father reached over and squashed the wasp with the back of a spoon upon the tablecloth. Ellenanesther gave a little cry.

  ‘Surely you don’t want to be stung?’ said Father. They looked down. ‘Wasps are horrible dangerous things. No use to anyone. They deserve to die if you ask me.’

  Aggie poured out the tea and Father lit his pipe and sat back with a contented sigh.

  ‘I want to be able to think of things carrying on, while I’m away, just as they have all along. I want you big girls to mind the little ones. There will be no need for you to go anywhere. Your groceries will be delivered every fortnight by Mrs Gotobed. You can write a list when she comes. Payment is all taken care of, of course. There will be no need for you to worry about money and so on. Indeed, while you’re all here you need never worry your heads about money at all.’

  We scarcely knew what money was. If he knew how I longed to handle it! What a luxury, what a treat it would be to simply walk into a shop and choose something and pay for it myself.

  ‘As you are well aware,’ he continued, ‘I do not wish you to have any contact with that Howgego woman or her …’ he paused, searching for a suitable word, ‘tribe. So stay away. She knows and you know, so stay away. Can I trust you?’ He looked each of us in the eyes in turn.

  Aggie nodded, innocent as anything, but I could not prevent myself flushing. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Just as well that I’m not leaving it all to trust. No doubt you wouldn’t dream,’ he looked hard at me, ‘of disobeying my orders, of going against the express wishes of your father …’ My cheeks were burning now. ‘But, just in case, I want to keep you from temptation, from the badness that there is in the world. The sordid world. You’ve all got your mother’s blood in your veins and I’m not risking …’ he paused. Aggie and I exchanged glances. ‘I’ve only got your interests at heart,’ he continued. ‘I’ve asked Mr Whitton to keep an eye. He’ll help with the livestock of course, and he’ll keep an eye out too. He’s a trustworthy chap but all the same there is no need to notice him. I’m paying him a pretty penny, I’ll tell you, to look out for you. It’s an expensive business keeping a houseful of girls but never let it be said that I shirked my responsibilities.’

  He looked hard at me. A new anxiety began swelling in my chest. ‘All right, Milly?’ he said. ‘Have I said something to disturb you? Surely you’ll feel safer having an eye kept on you?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ I mumbled.

  ‘And I’ll tell you now, just to save you the trouble of finding out for yourself, that the third Howgego lad, the lanky one, the one I fancy used to be some sort of playmate of yours …’

  ‘Yes?’ I said coldly.

  ‘I’ve made arrangements for him to be conscripted into my regiment.’

  ‘What?’ My mind was closing down. Father’s face bloated with triumph.

  ‘He’s to join the army with me, my dear. I don’t know how he’s avoided it for so long. Some sort of cowardly conchie no doubt he took a fancy to be, but oh no …’

  ‘He’s not a coward,’ I said. ‘He had to stay at home to support his mam and his brothers.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot about the domestic arrangements of complete strangers. Peasants,’ he said. ‘And just listen to yourself! “Mam” indeed!’ He continued to open and close his mouth and sounds continued to stream out with the blue of the smoke. I held on to the edge of the table, squashing my thumbs until they were white. I watched his smug mouth talking and talking and puffing on his pipe and sipping his tea. I watched the brown beads of tea wobble on his moustaches as he talked. Oh so clever. Yes. He’d got the better of me. No wonder he seemed so pleased with himself. He’d tied up all the ends all right. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the belly. It was difficult for me to breathe. I looked down at the squashed mess of wasp on the tablecloth and then I looked back at him. He smiled at me and I smiled back, wishing him dead, wishing him a slow, agonizing death.

  I went to the Howgegos’ house after Father had gone. It was all true. Mrs Howgego hugged me when I cried, but her eyes were cold. She blamed me. ‘I don’t see as how we can stay here now,’ she said. ‘We were struggling with what Isaac brought in, but now …’ She opened her arms in despair. The house was cold. There was no smell of baking or soapsuds. Bobby and Davey looked pale and pinched. They all looked poor. ‘There’s a cottage in the village we can have for half this rent,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be able to work every day. Laundry and that.’

  ‘So you’re leaving?’

  ‘We are.’

  I said goodbye and I walked away. That was that. That was the best things in my life done away with. I walked the long way home, past Mother’s Dyke. I stood on the top and looked into the water. Tea-coloured today, it flowed smoothly, innocently, between its muddy banks. Father had driven Mother to this. It was crystal clear to me now. He was the one. I swayed on the edge considering how it would feel
if I followed her, if I simply let myself fall into the water, not jump, just fall. After all I am my mother’s daughter. Her blood runs in my veins. I thought how my dress and my jacket would become heavy and soaked and would pull me under; how cold it would be; how it would fill my ears, my nose, my throat, my lungs. Then nothing would matter any more. It would all rinse away in the brown of the water.

  But no. I am not Mother, and Father was not having that power over me. I would go home and I would get on with it. Life. I would wait. Isaac would be back, of course he would. It simply meant a wait. Simply more patience. It simply meant putting off my plans for … for how long? A few months? That was nothing after all these years.

  She is sleeping now, her breath rasping drily in her throat, her mouth open. It feels strange to be so close to her. It is irritating and disturbing when we touch. I am actually afraid that her leg will rest against me. Perhaps it is just that I have lost the habit of touching? I’ve had so little of it really. There was Mother, of course, but I was only ten when she left me. I can’t remember Father touching me apart from the odd pat on the head. There was Roger – or Roderick? – and there was Isaac. He was the only one to touch me completely. Aggie’s toenails are long and yellow and horny and scaly and hooked. I pray that they will not scratch against my leg. I could not bear that.

  Was it Roger – or was it Roderick – or was it true at all?

  Oh the rain is streaming down. There are no longer separate drops, it just falls in sheets, folds and folds of sheets just falling, falling, as if the sky is caving in. The moonlight has been drenched. All light is gone now. There is a treble drip from my ceiling: plipplipplop, plipplipplop, plipplipplop. And there is Aggie’s breathing. And there are the other sounds. If only I could sleep, just for half an hour, just for a minute or two – but how can I? I have to lie so stiff and tense to prevent myself rolling towards Agatha. Witch. It’s like being, in bed with a broomstick, a creaking broomstick. What if the roof gave way altogether? What then?