GOOD DAUGHTERS

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘It’s no use asking that,’ Alice answered with unwonted scepticism, ‘because whatever I say it will happen differently.’

  Chapter Five

  There was always one moment when Alice noticed that the trees had grown tender leaves, and that instead of having a long view from the kitchen window, the garden had closed in on them, and Number 29 was a world on its own. She wrote in her diary that she would always remember these rimes: Daddy in the garden resting on his spade, calling out, ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire!’ and Mummy saying, ‘Alice, come and take your father’s tea out to him.’

  Yet the very fact of appreciating the small, intimate joys of family life, of luxuriating in the slow passage of the lengthening days, seemed to cut Alice off from Claire. Claire, whether lying in the hammock reading, or playing with Badger on the lawn, lived completely in the golden hours as though evening would never come; and Alice was aware of something she had lost. She was also aware of Louise moving away from them all.

  Alice and Louise had spent a weekend together with their uncle and aunt in Sussex. One afternoon they went for a walk on the edge of a wood. Alice had taken an exercise book so that she could record the wild flowers which she saw for later entry in her diary. Louise walked ahead. At every step in the wood you trod flowers. The hedgerows were rampant with Queen Anne’s Lace, stitchwort, celandine, self-heal and more flowers than Louise could have named had she cared about naming; the hawthorns bent beneath their burden of blossom. This, she thought, was more than abundance, it was a madness of praise and affirmation. How it must embarrass the prudish, how they must wonder at God for allowing this unseemly sensual riot! She closed her eyes, quite dizzy with joy as she smelt the hawthorn blossom. Alice, coming up behind her, said, ‘Do you think I should call it May or hawthorn?’ Louise took the book out of her hands and threw it in the hedge. It was the last time they went for a country walk together for some time.

  Alice was also subject to moods at this time. She loved her family passionately, but was finding it much harder to get on with the individual members. She was discovering how complex love is, how it seems to incorporate all other emotions, even hate. She wondered whether she might be able to explain this to her mother, but she doubted whether her mother could be made to understand. It was so very long ago that her mother had been young. When Alice looked at the old pictures in the family album, she saw no break in the continuity until her own time; her mother, wearing dresses down to her ankles, seemed to belong more to the world of her grandparents and great-grandparents than to Alice’s own world.

  So Alice did not tell her mother how impossibly difficult life was just now. She became argumentative, and was increasingly jealous of her small pleasures. She grumbled because she was not allowed to have her friends to play in the evenings. ‘I can’t always be with Claire. Why can’t I have Daphne to tea?’ It mattered so much, every moment of every golden evening mattered, but her mother could not be made to see this.

  ‘Daphne doesn’t have you to tea. I expect she has plenty to do with her own family.’

  ‘She and Cecily don’t get on, and Angus is at Cambridge. It’s ever so dull for her.’

  ‘Alice, I’m not interested in Daphne’s problems. I can’t think what has come over you lately. You used to be such a contented child.’

  At half-term, Alice and Claire were invited to tea at the Drummonds.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to come, do you?’ Alice said to Claire. The Drummond children seldom invited their friends to their home and, apart from the disastrous midnight feast, this would be Alice’s first visit. She did not want to have to contend with Claire’s silliness as well as her own nervousness.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Claire retorted. ‘I sit next to Cecily in class.’

  Claire was adamant. So later in the day Alice announced to her parents that she and Claire were to have tea with the Drummonds the following Monday. Usually, she would have asked permission, and her mother, looking at her, noticed the obstinate set of her mouth, and wondered why Alice was so difficult lately. Stanley Fairley said, ‘What do we know about the Drummonds?’ He had thought of taking the children to Kew Gardens for the day, but as he preferred to work in his own garden he was prepared to regard the Drummonds in a favourable light if no evidence to the contrary was produced.

  Alice said, ‘You know them by sight; we pass them on our way to chapel. They go to St Bartholomew’s.’

  Judith said, ‘They are faithful after their fashion, so don’t be so critical, Stanley.’

  Their faith, though a poor thing, was sufficient to justify them in Stanley Fairley’s eyes, and he raised no objection to the acceptance of the invitation.

  ‘It won’t be what you’re used to,’ Alice told Claire as they walked along the Uxbridge Road towards the Drummonds’ large, double¬fronted house. ‘They have a maid and a cook.’

  ‘It’s not what you’re used to, either,’ Claire retorted.

  ‘So long as you don’t giggle when the maid answers the doorbell.’ It was Daphne who opened the door. She looked cool in a sleeveless tennis frock. She and Alice greeted each other with restraint, not yet having experience of each other’s social behaviour. ‘Shall I take your blazers?’ she said politely. She hung the blazers on the coat-stand, a procedure to which they were unused, as they always took friends up to their bedroom when they arrived. She looked at their feet. ‘You’ve worn plimsolls. Good. My father gets mad if we cut up the lawn.’ She led them into a big room at the back of the house which had french windows leading into a garden large enough to accommodate a tennis court, flowerbeds and another, smaller lawn. Mrs Drummond was sitting on a sofa with a book on her lap, which she was not reading. Daphne did not introduce her to Alice and Claire, but walked straight through the room into the garden without glancing at her mother.

  Cecily was standing on the grass surrounded by tennis rackets and balls, and a man was sitting beside her in a deckchair. He said, without turning his head, ‘Don’t make a racket if you’re going to play.’ Claire giggled at the pun, but no one else behaved as though there were any occasion for amusement.

  Daphne said, ‘Suppose we take on Alice and Cecily, Claire?’

  The younger children missed the ball more often than they hit it, and soon Alice and Daphne began to hit the balls to each other. After a few games, Claire and Cecily departed sulkily to play on the far lawn, and Daphne and Alice began to enjoy themselves. They were well matched. Daphne’s reactions were quick and her footwork was good, but Alice hit the ball harder and volleyed better. Neither gave any quarter. By the time the maid came out to say that tea was ready, Alice had won the first set 6-4 and Daphne, who never gave up, led 4-2 in the second.

  Daphne’s brother, Angus, joined them for tea. Although Daphne often talked about him, it was the first time Alice had met him. He was tall and dark, and had the same compact look of being turned out all in a piece that Daphne had. Alice was sorry that no one thought to introduce her to him. She supposed he was on holiday from university, but did not like to ask him.

  The maid placed plates of sandwiches and cakes on a sidetable and departed, leaving the business of pouring out the tea to Mrs Drummond – a task which seemed to present her with such a bewildering number of options that Daphne eventually took over from her. As she handed her father his cup they exchanged an amused glance. Cecily, an ungainly, owlish child, unlike any of the others, began to talk to Claire about the Robert Mayer concert she had recently attended. The remainder of the family made desultory conversation, taking little notice of their guests. Alice ate in silence, unable to think of anything to say. There were no family jokes, and the Drummonds seemed to behave as though they did not know one another very well. Daphne had become a different person, older and less spontaneous. Mrs Drummond asked Alice if she would have liked toast. As there was no toast, Alice said politely that she preferred cucumber sandwiches. This did not reassure Mrs Drummond. She was a tiny, fluttery woman with gossamer hair and pale, worrie
d eyes. She never seemed at rest, and as soon as the people about her had settled she looked uneasily round the room, trying to find a reason to get them moving again. Was Alice in a draught? Would Claire be more comfortable in a lower chair, Angus in a deeper one? Had Daphne got the sun in her eyes? When this attempt at all-change failed, she plucked the pleats of her silk dress. Mr Drummond, a handsome man with a neat moustache, talked with off-hand assurance on any topic which was raised. Although his manner conveyed the impression that the people in the room were barely worthy of his notice, there was that about him which suggested he was aware of the crumb at the corner of your mouth. Mrs Drummond made occasional remarks which did not seem to be connected with anything her husband had said. They were the oddest married couple Alice had ever encountered – seeing them like this, one at each end of the room, it was as though two wrong bits of a film had been joined together.

  Gradually, as she listened, Alice found herself paying more attention to Mr Drummond than to anyone else. Something about him was beginning to disturb her. He was, for one thing, quite different from her own father, and she suspected her parents might have regarded him as ‘suave’. But it was not her parents’ possible disapproval which concerned her most; it was an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. As his eyes swivelled indifferently from one person to another, she had the sensation of taking part in a kindergarten game (which she had always found frightening) where someone sent a top spinning and, if you were the nearest person to it when it stopped, you had to pay a forfeit. It didn’t matter whether you had done anything to deserve it; there was no escape if the top chose you. Now, as she nibbled her sandwich, she was afraid that, however inconspicuous she might make herself, Mr Drummond’s attention would suddenly spin her way, and he would engage her in a conversation as meaningless and hostile as her namesake’s conversation with the Red Queen.

  ‘Well, where is it to be, then?’ he was saying. ‘We have to make our minds up soon, though I appreciate that mind-making doesn’t come easily to us.’ He looked at his wife in amusement, and then his gaze transferred itself to Daphne. He looked at Daphne as though there was an understanding between them which did not exist between his wife and himself. Daphne responded – not in her usual unconsidered, forthright way, but carefully.

  ‘What shall it be, Mother?’ she said. ‘The South of France?’

  ‘It’s such a long journey.’ The corners of Mrs Drummond’s mouth turned down.

  ‘Germany, then?’ Mr Drummond said. ‘Curt tells me he knows just the place in Bavaria.’

  ‘I don’t think we want to go to Germany, do we?’ Mrs Drummond looked nervously round the room, as though seeking the support of unseen witnesses. ‘They were throwing stones at people the other day.’

  ‘Only at Jews.’

  ‘Oh, Alan!’ For the first time she looked directly at Alice, saying rather inappropriately, ‘It’s a good thing we all know you.’

  ‘My dear girl, let’s be reasonable about this, shall we?’

  As he spoke these words, there came vividly to Alice’s eyes a picture quite at variance with the debonair image now presented by Mr Drummond. She saw him reaching forward – not for a cucumber sandwich, but for an article of attire of which he stood in total need. From that moment onwards, it became quite impossible, despite the services of an expensive tailor, for Alice to see Mr Drummond clothed.

  Mr Drummond, unperturbed, went on. ‘They segregate themselves, they never integrate, never give anything to the country in which they live – although they take a hell of a lot. It invites persecution – always has, always will. I’m sorry about that, but they lave no one to blame but themselves.’ The voice went on, just as it had when Alice first heard it – saying one thing and meaning another – and all the time he was looking at his wife, his lips curled in amusement, making sure she was aware that he was needling her. Cecily had stopped talking to Claire, and was looking unhappily at her mother. Mr Drummond said, ‘Extortioners and usurers.’ Angus said, ‘Isn’t that because historically they were debarred from taking up other professions?’ He had something of his father’s manner, for – although he spoke civilly enough – he was not really asking a question.

  ‘Oh, nonsense, old chap, nonsense! You’ve got Jews at Cambridge, so has Daphne at school. They’ll be competing with you in whatever profession you take up – provided there’s money in it!’

  Angus said, leaving space between the words, ‘I said “historically”.’

  Mr Drummond went on as if his son had not spoken. ‘Hitler is a bit strident, I’ll allow that; but it’s not all nonsense that he talks. There are too many Jews in controlling positions. Banks, for example . . . You’ll allow me to know a little about banking, old chap.’

  Mrs Drummond, who had been looking at her son’s face, was moved to a flurry of activity. She crossed the room and rang for the maid. ‘I think we’ll have toast,’ she said. ‘I’m sure these girls want toast.’

  When they went out to continue their game. Daphne said to Alice, ‘I didn’t know you were so bothered about meeting my father.’ Alice’s stomach lurched. Daphne went on, ‘Don’t look so stricken! He thought it was very funny. He has a marvellous sense of humour.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have liked it if it had been the morning room, but he didn’t mind about the kitchen. Mother doesn’t know, of course. She still thinks it was burglars.’

  Alice said slowly, ‘You mean, you told your father about our feast?’

  ‘Well, I had to,’ Daphne said reasonably. ‘Suppose the police had picked up some tramp or other? What would we have done? Luckily my father knows the police superintendent. He thought it was funny, too.’ She tossed a ball to Alice and said, ‘You can stop worrying about your fingerprints now.’

  How unfair life was, Alice thought as she served into the net: when one worry is removed, a greater one takes its place! And added to this was the realization that even one’s very best friend is not to be trusted.

  Claire was unusually silent on their way home.

  ‘Didn’t you enjoy yourself?’ Alice asked.

  Claire shook her head.

  ‘I told you you shouldn’t have come.’

  They walked in silence until they reached the end of their road, then Claire said, ‘Mr Drummond has . . .’ She looked down at the pavement, scarcely knowing how to say it. ‘. . . another woman.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Cecily told me.’

  ‘But how does she know?’

  ‘Daphne told her. He goes away at weekends. Mrs Drummond knows all about it. Cecily says Daphne says they are staying together for the children’s sake.’

  ‘How does she know?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Claire stamped her foot. ‘You ask her; she’s your friend.’

  Alice thought; the more she thought, the worse it seemed. ‘Claire,’ she said eventually, ‘you mustn’t tell Mummy and Daddy about this. If they find out, we won’t be allowed to play with the Drummonds.’

  ‘I don’t want to play with them.’

  ‘You are not to tell!’ Alice said angrily. ‘You told about Louise and the play. You can’t tell any more tales, or neither of us will have anything to do with you.’

  They began to walk towards their home. ‘I shall feel so awful not telling them,’ Claire pleaded.

  ‘It’s kinder for them not to know,’ Alice answered. ‘It would upset them so much.’

  But even for her it was not easy to keep quiet.

  ‘Grandma will be disappointed if you don’t go to see her,’ Judith Fairley said the following week. ‘She looks forward to your visits.’

  ‘I’ll take her to Pontings for tea.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? Other girls do.’ She had not, in fact, encountered anyone who took their grandmother to tea at Pontings or anywhere else, but she did not want to go to her grandmother’s house for fear of meeting Mr Drummond and the auburn-haired woman.

&n
bsp; ‘I thought you were saving your pocket money for a bicycle.’

  ‘I’d rather spend it this way,’ Alice said miserably.

  Chapter Six

  Miss Blaize gazed out of the window of her study and was afflicted by melancholy. It was her fear that the old balance between man and his world had already been destroyed. Man thought of himself as master now; madness was abroad. What could one do about it? A generation was growing up which had no instinctive sense of the natural order. For this reason, she always laid great emphasis on the importance of the children understanding the cycle of the seasons, and their own part in it. At this moment the third-formers were working on the flower border. One child had just pushed another into a rose bush; while a third, having dug a small hole, appeared to be drowning a plant in it. Miss Blaize could not believe that their activities were doing much to increase the third-formers’ awareness of themselves as part of the woof and warp of creation.

  There were times when Miss Blaize looked at her pupils and wondered whether the school really had any effect on them at all. The rules and regulations which they found so irksome were not imposed for their own sake, but because Miss Blaize believed that life was not easy, and unless the habits of self-discipline and respect for the rights of others were inculcated at an early age, it would be hard indeed for either the individual or society to survive. But how much did they absorb? Children were as unpredictable as a whirlwind: once in motion, there was no knowing what course they would take.

  Miss Blaize moved away from the window and sat at her desk. She looked at the notes which she had prepared for this morning’s scripture lesson. When she thought of the young faces which would soon be staring up at her, she felt a profound sadness. She believed, that hope was essential to the survival of the human spirit, but there were times when she herself almost ceased to hope.