Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  Tony got up. He yawned.

  “I wish you’d drop it, duckie. We go over this every day. I knew telling you about George and the clothes would bring out the theme song, but you’ve changed the words a bit. It’s the first time I’ve heard the line about complete faith. The real line is that there’s hope that even the likes of me can, by blood and sweat and tears, be turned into home town boy makes good. You know I love you so much that if it made sense I would pop into some police station and give myself up. But it doesn’t. I’m a bad penny and I shan’t change. Going back to Wakefield, or wherever they send me, won’t do the trick. I’ll come out, as you know, a marked man. I might have thought about my past; I might have planned to turn over the new leaf but it wouldn’t happen. Sooner or later I’d pick up with some of the chaps or I’ll run into an old lag from Wakefield and I’ll give up the hard-working straight and narrow and go back to the only life I know—where people live on their wits and nobody minds where the odd fiver comes from as long as it comes. I shan’t get sent inside again unless I’m damned unlucky. I steered clear of trouble before the war and I could now, only having been inside doesn’t help.” He knelt at her feet and put his arms round her. “Don’t kid yourself about me, Mother darling. I don’t believe in your God, and if I did I’d know He’d no time to waste reforming me, and I can’t blame Him. If I’ve a recording angel, as you brought me up to believe, he’s chalked up just this in my favour. He adored his mother. I’d do almost anything to please you, but handing myself over to the police just wouldn’t do any good, and would give you false hopes. Come on, that rabbit will have gone up in steam if we don’t eat it soon.”

  Anna held Tony’s face between her hands.

  “All right, I’ll dish it up. But Tony, I’m not giving up hope. It may be because of the parcels not arriving, but I’m nervous to-night; I’ve a feeling you’ve soon got to leave me. Think of what I’ve said; try and act on it.”

  He got up and pulled her to her feet.

  “Persistent old muggins, aren’t you? One thing I can promise you: if you ever hear I’ve walked into a police station and said, ‘Here I am, boys, I’ll go quietly,’ then the rake has reformed. You can count on me brooding in my cell on my evil ways, and you can plan a nice future for me working in a leper colony or something equally jolly.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, it’ll never happen.”

  Anna followed him to the door.

  “I do not believe that. I shall continue to hope.”

  THE FAMILY

  The manageress showed Jane round the hotel. It was the dull season and she was glad so many rooms were booked, but, as she opened the various doors, she unconsciously stiffened, awaiting unfavourable comment, her experience telling her this Mrs. Betler was the sniffy type.

  Jane was pleasurably surprised. The rooms were quite nice, and exactly as booked. To show approval she told the manageress for whom the rooms were intended. The manageress did not recognise these details as showing approval. She was not in the least interested who slept where, or what their names were; it was obvious from the letters they had received that the party was utterly respectable. As she listened to Jane’s high, authoritative voice she thought, “What’s she telling me all this for? I’ll read their names if I want to in the register.”

  “Very nice,” said Jane. “Oh, yes, and the bathroom reserved as promised. This is for my brother, Sir Henry Caldwell, and his wife. She is an American; Americans expect private bathrooms. Yes, this will do splendidly for my husband and myself. What a very nice view for a little back room; this is for my sister, Doctor Caldwell. Now you have communicating rooms, haven’t you? Ah, yes. Excellent. These are for my sister, Mrs. Wilson and her husband. As I told you, it’s just possible these rooms may not be used.”

  The housekeeper heard the name.

  “Wilson. There is another room booked for Wilson. It was a telephone booking. Would it be for your party?”

  Jane guessed what had happened.

  “Not a Miss Virginia Wilson?”

  “That’s right. I’d meant to put her at the end of the passage but if she’s your party she can have a little single at the back next to the one you booked.”

  Simon, having parked the car and seen the cases carried in, was wandering contentedly round the garden smoking. It had been an unexpectedly pleasant ride down. Jane had driven most of the way; she was an admirable driver and driving seemed to soothe her. Someone had once said, “If you put your hands on Jane Betler I should think a quiver would run up your arms as if you had laid them on the casing over an engine.” Simon had overheard the remark and had never forgotten it, for it was extraordinarily true. She had looked relaxed enough driving but he could feel the quiver all right, and jets of conversation shot out of her like sparks from an electric railway. But they had not for once argued. Jane had always been argumentative, but since Alistair died argument seemed to have become a pleasure to her. She had moods when not to be argued with infuriated her. Simon, stooping to finger affectionately a clump of blue primroses, thought sadly that much of the peacefulness of their drive had been due to himself, for he had not had his what-on-earth-shall-we-do-about-Anthea conversation. If this family gathering turned out well, Jane might be in an easy mood this evening. While they were tidying for dinner or undressing for bed might be a safer moment to tackle it. His not having broached the subject in the car had not been cowardice but because, while Jane talked, he was giving his mind to Anthea. This Jim Bury. He must try and see more of him without making it obvious what he was after. Hell of a business having no legs. A salesman wasn’t much of a job, but it was hard to know what to do with all these lads with physical disabilities. If Jane was in a good mood at any time over the week-end he might sound her about the Burys. Not to give away little Anthea’s secret. Jane might be splendid over a love affair, but she might equally be heavy-handed. He judged Anthea’s feelings for young Jim to be as delicate as a flower petal and as easily bruised.

  As a result of experience Simon knew how to let his mind drift while Jane talked, and yet keep sufficient track on what she was saying to be able to reply if she insisted on it. Her first spark of talk had, of course, been Anthea. Had Simon heard about Anthea? It must be nonsense; of course, any girl could master shorthand and typing if she put her mind to it. Anthea was slow; her reports at school had prepared her for that, but it was ridiculous of that Miss Burdock to suggest she could not make a secretary of her. A secretary! Surely that wasn’t flying high! If she didn’t become a secretary what was she to become? How extraordinary it was that they should have slow-minded children. They would have to be thinking seriously about Peter next. Simon ought to be looking round for someone to give him a job. It would be a waste of money thinking of a university. They would be lucky if he scraped through his school certificate examination. It was hard to see the sort of job he could get where he would be sufficiently useful to keep himself. If only Anthea would try harder with her appearance that might help. Goodness knows what she did with her dress allowance but she still looked a schoolgirl. Helen, at fourteen, looked twice as sophisticated, but then, when you had a grandmother like Mrs. Cussac you could dress well. If she could get Carol alone she would have a word with her about Lucia. American girls never seemed to bulge or get podgy. But Carol would probably be tiresome and talk about the Finkelstein method; as if anybody could make a girl like Lucia go in for deep breathing when you couldn’t even trust her to keep her nails clean. She hoped Peter would not be so silly as to hang about the railway station when he saw Andrew off. Just the way to start an attack of asthma and he had been so much better lately, didn’t Simon think so? Tiresome Andrew being sick like that after gas, but much, much the best plan was to send him back to school as arranged where the matron could look after him. She hoped she had remembered to tell Annie if any one rang up about the film première committee to say she had posted all the invitations. Would Simon remind her to ask Felicity, if she ca
me, if she would ask Nannie if there were any old clothes of Virginia’s that would do for Mrs. Miggs’ Ursula. Mrs. Miggs was the best worker they had ever had and Mary liked her, but she expected Lucia’s cast off clothes, and Lucia had nothing to cast off at the moment. It was extraordinary the way all the in-laws were coming for this purely family week-end, didn’t Simon think so? It was a good thing, in a way, Carol was coming, because she was bringing the food for lunch to-morrow. She always had a mass of tins—but George . . . What on earth good would George be except to bore everybody? It was only too likely that George would turn up and not Felicity. If that happened she was going to be perfectly frank, she would say, “George, there is no point in you being here, you had better go back to London.” They simply must make some sort of plan about Tony. He was bound to be caught some day, and she did hope the prison people weren’t so careless with him next time but kept him properly locked up. They had got to see what wires they could all pull to get him abroad after he’d served his sentence. They didn’t want the worry they had before the war; besides, it wasn’t right to have him around with the children growing up. She expected it would cost them all something but it would be worth it. Simon must help to see that Henry took his share in planning for Tony. He’d got more pull than any of them, but was dead scared of getting mixed up in the scandal, pompous old idiot. If Margaret arrived in time she would send her down to see Miss Doe. If it could be arranged they would have her up at Mother’s to-morrow to help generally. Besides, she wanted to be sure it was true that Mother never wandered on Sundays. Felicity said her Constance said so, she still wrote to the Robinsons; Simon must remember them, they worked for that common little Mr. Pickering with all those comic things in his garden. She thought the best plan was for them to get the Tony talk over to-night, which meant Simon must be there in case any legal stuff cropped up—all that nonsense about ticket of leave or whatever it was called. To-morrow, after they got back from Mother’s, Simon could take Carol and George off somewhere. Jane wouldn’t discuss her Mother in front of Carol—she was sure Mrs. Cussac was the sort of mother nobody ever had to do things about. She did hope they would not have to move Mother, but of course, they would have to if she would not be reasonable.

  Hearing Jane’s step coming up the garden Simon left the blue primroses.

  “Rooms all right?”

  “You can’t imagine, Simon, what’s happened. Virginia’s coming!”

  “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “You know it isn’t. We decided it must be all the children or none. Now everything will have to be rearranged.”

  Simon thought of Anthea. Her evening at the pictures must be defended.

  “I don’t see that.’

  “You wouldn’t. You don’t understand about Carol. She wanted to bring Helen and Paul. She said they didn’t see enough of their relations. If they came ours would have to—anyway, I decided it should be a no-children week-end. Now she’ll be hurt.”

  “I always think Carol’s a very reasonable woman.”

  “Not about her children. I think the best thing is to get them all along for the day. Paul and Andrew can connect up with Helen by taxi; the schools aren’t far apart, you know. Anthea, Peter and Lucia can catch that ten something. You’ll have to meet the train.”

  Simon did not answer. When Jane was organising it was hopeless to attempt to check her however unnecessary the plans might appear. Dragging children from their schools and homes to spend a day with their grandmother who had not invited them, and probably did not want them, merely because one child was turning up, seemed to him ludicrous. He was not looking forward to the week-end in any case—a lot of heavily underlined family goodwill. To-morrow, at his mother-in-law’s, they would all be continually on top of each other and there would be a scrappy picnic meal out of tins. His thoughts carried him to the ultimate horror.

  “It’ll probably rain to-morrow.”

  “Nonsense! The weather forecast said it would be fine.”

  “Then it’s almost certain to rain.”

  Jane was not listening. Her mind was wandering amongst time-tables and railways stations.

  “I wonder if Anthea will be in. I’d like to get the whole plan cut and dried before Carol gets here.”

  Simon heard Anthea’s voice: “You wouldn’t know when he’s driving he wasn’t just like everybody else.” If Jane had to organise the children’s day it could perhaps be turned to good account. Peter could bring Lucia down. Maybe young Bury was already fixed up for Sunday, but there was no harm in giving Anthea the chance to find out. It would be nice for them motoring down and he could fix something for young Jim while the family doings was going on, and perhaps get a chance to talk to him.

  “Not a hope on an afternoon like this.”

  “I can’t leave it too late. I must arrange what Lucia wears. Don’t want her looking more of a fright than she need.”

  Simon touched her shoulder.

  “Hold your horses. That sounds like George’s Jaguar. Let’s see who’s in it before we do anything drastic.”

  Jane had always found Felicity irritating. As they grew older the irritation grew stronger. They met seldom, but when they did, she had to keep a grip on herself to prevent herself from being rude and snappy. Not that Felicity either noticed or cared if she snapped. That was what had always been so aggravating about Felicity. She had never at any time cared what Jane thought of her. In those first three years after their father died, when Jane had taken control of the household and had meant so much to Henry and was everything to Margaret, she had no particular place in Felicity’s life. If any one meant much to her at that time it was Nannie who, in Jane’s opinion, had spoilt her. When Henry had joined up and their mother had come out of the trance in which she seemed to have been living, and had snatched, without a word of gratitude, the running of the household out of her hands, and had packed herself and Margaret off to boarding-school, she had taken Felicity over from Nannie only to exaggerate the spoiling process. How it had grated on Jane to come home on holidays to find a contented household with Felicity and Tony as its centre pieces, having everything they asked for, and, though there was a welcome for herself and Margaret, their places in the home were like holes dug in wet sand; when they went back to school it would be as if the tide had come in for there would be no mark to show where had been the holes which were Jane and Margaret. She knew what had happened. It was her father’s story all over again. Felicity and Tony had taken his place. Jane was not going to endure being unwanted twice; she would make a life outside the family; she would be wanted by the community. How irritating Felicity had been at that time! So unco-operative, promising to help at fêtes and bazaars and then failing to turn up. Never ashamed of her defalcations; opening her blue eyes and saying, “Was it to-day? Why didn’t somebody tell me?” Maddeningly nobody except Jane had minded this vagueness. Anna had merely laughed and said “Dear Felicity!” and, at the fête or whatever it was, there were everlasting inquiries for her. “Is Felicity coming?” “Where’s that pretty little sister of yours to-day?” She would not forget the time she made Felicity act the part of Titania. She never knew her lines and didn’t care that she didn’t know them; she thought it funny to ask Margaret, who was her prompter, what came next. When she came off the stage the words of rage with which Jane hoped to scald her were drowned in enormous applause, far greater applause than anybody received except, of course, Tony, who was superb—and knew it—as Puck. Even on Jane’s wedding day Felicity had been irritating. She had gone out riding in the morning and had missed the bridesmaid’s rehearsal in the church, and had rushed home breathless, with only time, if half the household helped her, to bath and change, and no bride could be expected to like the attention of the household focused on a bridesmaid. When Felicity reached the church she stole the day. She was enchanting at sixteen and pink was her colour. Jane, after her marriage, had not seen much of Felici
ty for a few years. She knew she was having a wonderful time and was enormously popular with men and never did a thing but amuse herself. Then came the startling news of her engagement. Who would have thought Felicity would decide to marry dull George Wilson, rich though he undoubtedly was? Jane was certain, and was convinced that Anna was too, that Felicity was not in love with George. Then why was she marrying him? Anna refused to discuss the question. Henry, as usual, kept aloof from everything to do with his family. Margaret who, in Jane’s opinion, was a fluffy, sentimental thinker, glowed and said, “Isn’t it lovely about Felicity?” Jane did not see Tony to ask what he thought. Simon said he supposed Felicity knew her own business best, George seemed a damned nice chap and changed the subject; so Jane was left to fret and fume because she could not get at what was going on, and was sure a mistake was being made which a little clear thinking and organisation could put right. George himself was such a puzzle. He was not a fool; he must have seen that Felicity did not love him; she was not with him much and only gave him casual affection such as she gave every one, and yet he seemed dazed with happiness. Jane felt this to be indecent seeing how little there was for him to be happy about. Everybody should have said “Poor George,” but it was impossible while George went his way unheeding of the outside world, shut in an armour of unutterable content. At least, Jane had supposed that Felicity’s marriage would separate her from her mother. That queer, close bond that, though she did not want it for herself, she envied; but it did not. If anything, marriage made the bond closer and George did not interfere or seem to mind. Jane was so immersed in war work that when the separation between her mother and Felicity occurred, her eye was not on them. She learned of what had happened from, of all people, Tony. He wrote, and a letter from him was indeed a rarity, would Jane try and pop down sometimes to see how Mother was getting along. Somebody ought to look in and see the old faggot didn’t starve now that Felicity never visited her. Jane rang up first Henry and then Margaret. She found that they both knew that something had gone wrong; that Felicity had broken entirely with Anna but that Virginia practically lived with her. Busy as she was Jane got things organised. Not one of them could spare the time or get the petrol to see Anna often, but responsibility must be equally shared. They must all go when they could and telephone frequently. In the meantime she would see Felicity. That interview with Felicity had been the most frustrating affair. Felicity was always vague but that afternoon she was more than vague. She was charming to Jane but would discuss nothing. “Darling Mummie. Yes, of course, they must all see her as often as they could.” She opened her eyes to their widest extent when Jane told her bluntly that as she was the only member of the family with any leisure—for nobody could call her canteen work full time—she must not stop her visits. “But why should she stop her visits? Darling Mummie! She was always popping down, didn’t Jane know?” If Jane had not been forced to cut that interview short because she was due at a very important meeting she might have let herself go and given Felicity the shaking she had for years been longing to give her.