Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  Under cover of Slipper’s barks George whispered behind his hand.

  “Damn’ good that. Old Henry to the life. Clever little beggar. Have him on the halls before you know where you are.”

  Simon did not answer. He was leaning forward looking at what Slipper was unearthing.

  Paul, with his nails, was helping Slipper to dig.

  “That’s very good. Now do Mum.”

  Andrew found a bit of slate to use as a spade.

  “Aren’t you just the cutest dog. I must give you a great big hug.”

  Paul giggled. Then broke off.

  “What a swizz! It’s just muck.”

  Andrew made a face.

  “Phew! What a pong! Come on, Slipper. Dirty dog. Come on. Give him a shove, Paul. He mustn’t eat that or he’ll be sick and Virginia will howl again.”

  Simon waited a moment for the boys to be out of hearing. Then he knelt by the hole Slipper had dug. The grave for the remains of Tony’s food and cigarettes was only half open, but enough was displayed for Simon. Like the pieces of a jig-saw his suspicions fell into place to make a picture. He looked round. Nobody was about. He picked up the piece of slate Andrew had dropped and, with great care, began filling in the hole. George found a stick and, using it as a shovel, helped him.

  “Nasty. Suppose they don’t collect refuse in these country places.”

  “They do. We’ve got to think fast. I believe this means the old lady’s hiding Tony.” George acknowledged this by kneeling to his task and using his hands. “I’ve felt there was something queer all day. First you couldn’t go into the garage. Then Margaret can’t have the cot; the nursery is locked. I never did believe the story she’d turned against him. Probably had him here since Christmas.”

  “Good for her. Always admired the old thing.”

  Simon straightened some disturbed bluebells and smoothed dead leaves where the ground looked torn.

  “This could be serious. Harbouring an escaped prisoner is an offence. She could get a two years’ sentence.”

  George stood back to study their work.

  “No judge would send an old lady to prison for sheltering her son, would he?”

  “Probably not, but you can’t bet on it. If he’s here we’ve got to get him to shift. Can’t risk his being caught here.”

  George rubbed his hands on his trousers and lit a cigarette.

  “Used to see quite a lot of Tony. Wrong ‘un, of course, but amusing chap. Very fond of his mother. If he knew she stood to do two years should think he’d beetle off.”

  Simon was walking up and down.

  “If only we knew if he is here—where he is! The garage is locked and so’s the old nursery. Why both?” Suddenly he saw it. “The old nursery, of course. It’s over the garage. I expect you hear in the garage if any one is moving overhead.”

  “Shall I barge along and see if the nursery is locked?”

  “There’s no need. It’s sure to be. Besides, the old lady would hear you go. We must move fast. Andrew and Paul may tell everybody what they found in the garden. That woman Doe will get suspicious. Wonder if you’re right about Tony; if he would skip if he knew he was a risk to his mother. I suppose we better get hold of Henry. He ought to know, and he may know a way into the garage. I’ll stop here and guard the spot in case the kids bring Slipper back. You get hold of Henry.”

  Henry heard Simon’s story in silence. He showed no sign of what he felt. To Simon’s surprise he did not argue. He listened as Simon marshalled the pointers which had led him to form his opinion. After a pause he said, in a surprisingly simple way:

  “Shouldn’t wonder if you were right.” He paused again. Simon and George thought he was planning what best to do. Actually he was disguising a greater feeling of happiness than he had known for years. It was queer the way life turned out. Once his ambition had been to be wanted by Anna. That had never happened; his affection had been rejected and he was pushed to the outskirts of the family circle. Now, though Anna did not know it and probably would never know it, he was wanted; he was going to protect her. He, who had avoided his family because he was made to feel an outsider, was now its centre, the member to whom his brothers-in-law turned.

  George broke the silence.

  “If he’s in the nursery could he hear you if you spoke from the garage?”

  “Every word. But we can’t call to him. Too dangerous, someone might hear us. When we have forced the garage open, Simon had better tell one of us what he suspects, and what could happen to Mother if Tony was caught in her house. Make it sound like an ordinary conversation.”

  “I shan’t say what might happen,” Simon said. “I shall say what will happen. He’s got to be scared enough for her to get out quick.”

  “You can pile the risk on. Make it sound as if the boys are telling everybody about the bones and stuff.”

  George was looking towards the house.

  “To think of her! What guts! Wonder how she fed him without that Doe woman spotting it.”

  Simon pointed his thumb at the recovered trench.

  “My guess is that was what the story of wandering was about. Buying food for Tony. Which of you is coming in the garage with me?”

  Henry tried to put himself in Tony’s place. If he were hiding and had been on the run for months and heard Simon saying his piece, whose voice would impress him most?

  George cleared his throat. He spoke with diffidence.

  “Matter of fact, the old boy knows I’d help him if I could. Too long a story for now, but if he heard me say he ought to cut and run . . .”

  Simon’s head shot up.

  “You’ve helped him before?” George nodded. “Then it had better be you. That leaves you, Henry, to keep all the family away from the garage. The kids will soon be having tea, could you round everybody up to watch them eat it? That will give us time to break in the garage and do our stuff.”

  Henry could hear Jane’s, “What are you fussing about, Henry?” and Felicity’s “Of course, I’ll come,” which meant the was going in the opposite direction. Carol would be all right; she would be where the children were.

  “I’ll need help. I’ll tell Margaret what’s happening.”

  Tea was laid in the dining-room. Margaret had rounded up her sisters and Anna and assembled them to wait on the children. It had not been easy. Jane resented Margaret’s interference with her arrangements. “What nonsense! The children don’t need waiting on.” Margaret had laughed. “It’s not the children. It’s Miss Doe, she’s taken no end of trouble to prepare a slap-up tea. She won’t value our admiration as she’ll value yours.” Felicity was no difficulty. Engrossed though Margaret was her trained eye registered that she looked strange. She wore an expression she had seen sometimes on the face of a patient a couple of days after an operation. A sort of awakening pleasure in knowing the operation over and feeling their strength coming back and danger passed. Henry fetched Anna.

  “The children are just going to have their tea. I was asked to bring you along.” Anna realised she had been alone resting longer than she had thought. She asked—disguising that the question was important—where everybody was. Henry, without being conscious it was totally unlike him, put an arm round her and spoke as if to comfort a child. “Everybody’s in the dining-room, except Simon and George who’ve gone off somewhere.”

  Anna felt deeply thankful. The day was nearly over and nobody had become suspicious. Tony would have had a nervous, jumpy day; a day to make him think. And, tiring though the day had been, good had come out of it. She was glad of the talk with Virginia: the child would be happier. Things should be changed for her at home. Unless she was very much mistaken Felicity would be quite different with George. She would write to Nannie and tell her that later on she would try and persuade them to send Virginia to school, but very likely there would be no need; there could be ju
st the home life Nannie wanted coming into that house. Now, here was Henry, no longer stiff and aloof, no longer “Sir.” Gentle and kind. She smiled up at him.

  “Dear Henry. Everybody’s spoiling me to-day.”

  The children’s tea was a noisy meal. Paul and Andrew had reached the silly stage of a day’s holiday. They were in a knocking about, throwing things at each other mood. Carol could not bear to scold Paul just as he was leaving her, but she did say at intervals, “Quietly. Quietly,” especially when she saw that the silliness was affecting the girls. She hated to hear her pretty Helen shouting jokes across the table.

  Miss Doe thought the noise showed what a good time the children were having. She tried to urge the two quiet ones on to join in the fun. “He’s a funny boy that Peter, Emma. He sat there, half smiling to himself and saying nothing, and that poor Anthea is a dull girl. Not much to look at, though her eyes are beautiful with no end of a shine in them, but she seems a bit stupid. I offered her sandwiches three times, sardines too, before she knew I was speaking to her.”

  Jane was the last to come into the dining-room. She liked nothing that she saw. Lucia, such a plain lump against Helen and Virginia. It was time she tried to make something of herself. Andrew was behaving badly and Paul abominably. Anthea might be a mental defective and Peter looked flushed. How tiresome if he had caught a chill! Henry, for some unexplained reason, had his arm round Anna. What was Henry doing on those terms with his mother? He had never in all his life been on those terms with her. If her mother was going to cling to any one it had better be to her; she had arranged the day, though, to look at Miss Doe and Margaret running round like hostesses, you would think everything had been planned by them. She raised her voice to cut across the noise.

  “Sit up, Lucia, and don’t stuff. Your figure’s bad enough as it is.”

  Lucia stopped laughing and cringed. It was silly to be so pleased because her father was going to ask Aunt Carol to buy her teen-age frocks. She would never look nice in anything. A shamed flush crept over her cheeks.

  Carol took a deep Finkelstein breath to fortify herself against irretrievable rudeness. She stooped and kissed Lucia.

  “Why, Jane, what a thing to say! Most girls go through a fat stage.” She strained for a lie to comfort. “Why, I was only saying to Henry to-day that I thought Lucia was going to grow up a very pretty girl.”

  Henry did not catch what Carol said but, used to agreeing with the last speaker, he called out “Hear, Hear.”

  Lucia gaped at Carol. It was unbelievable.

  “Pretty! Me!”

  Carol stroked the mouse-coloured hair.

  “Very pretty.”

  Jane laughed.

  “Don’t be silly, Carol. Andrew, behave yourself. Because Paul behaves badly that’s no reason why you should.”

  Carol had no time for a Finkelstein breath. Her Paul had been attacked.

  “Why, Jane . . .”

  Anna came to the head of the table.

  “I don’t think anybody’s behaving badly, Jane, especially not dear Paul. What a wonderful tea, Miss Doe. You have been good, and as for you, Carol, we owe you so much. I do not think any woman was ever more fortunate in her daughter-in-law.”

  The conversation rose again. Above it came Andrew’s voice, in imitation of how he supposed Slipper would speak.

  “Could I have a cup of tea? I’ve had a very thirsty afternoon . . .”

  Margaret leant over Andrew’s shoulder.

  “I’ll give Slipper his tea. You eat up. Don’t want you to starve on the way home.”

  Jane looked at her watch.

  “Yes, hurry up, children. You haven’t long. Now, where’s George, Felicity? I want him to drive them all to the station.”

  Henry answered.

  “George and Simon are out. I said Margaret and I would act as chauffeurs if they were not back in time.”

  Andrew nudged Paul.

  “You’ll have to shift the parcel from Uncle George’s car into your car.”

  Paul shook his head.

  “No. Put it in Aunt Margaret’s. She won’t ask questions.”

  The family was gathered in the drawing-room. With shouts and excitement the children had been put on their train. Virginia and Slipper had returned from their visit to Fred Pickering. It was dusk in the garden. Simon looked at his watch. It was half an hour now since he had seen the nursery window open and a figure slide down the garage roof and disappear amongst the trees. He caught Margaret’s eye. She got up.

  “I think this has been a long enough day for Mother. Are you and Slipper coming with me, Virginia, or are you going in your own car?”

  Henry heard his cue.

  “Quite right, Margaret. Come along, Carol.”

  Felicity surprised them all. She came to George and put a hand through his arm.

  “Let Margaret take Virginia.”

  George looked at her hand as though it could not really be there. He jerked his head at Virginia.

  “Beetle off.”

  Anna came to the gate to say good-bye to them all. She was thankful to see them go but was not going to let them know it. She had last words for them all.

  “Good-bye, Margaret dear. Buy a cot for that poor girl. I’ll pay for it. Good-bye, Virginia, my darling. You’ll be hearing from me. Good-bye, Carol. We must try and meet more often. I don’t see enough of you. Good-bye, Henry dear. Bless you, Felicity. Bless you, George.”

  Simon tried not to be restless. It was better they should not be about if a message came. He was trying to urge Jane into the car when the telephone bell rang. He had to stop Miss Doe from taking that call. He hurried into the house: “I’ll answer that, Mother.” When he came back Anna was thanking Jane for the day. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Mother dear. That was the local police station. Tony has given himself up.”

  Anna could not keep the rapture from her voice.

  “He has! Thank God! Thank you, Simon.”

  Jane was appalled.

  “Mother! You are pleased.”

  Anna turned her eyes on Jane in pity for her blindness.

  “I am, dear. I am.”

  THE END

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  Noel Streatfeild

  Mary Noel Streatfeild was born in Sussex in 1895. She was one of five children born to the Anglican Bishop of Lewes and found vicarage life very restricting. During World War One, Noel and her siblings volunteered in hospital kitchens and put on plays to support war charities, which is where she discovered her talent on stage. She studied at RADA to pursue a career in the theatre and after ten years as an actress turned her attention to writing adult and children’s fiction. Her experiences in the arts heavily influenced her writing, most notably her famous children’s story Ballet Shoes which won a Carnegie Medal and was awarded an OBE in 1983. Noel Streatfeild died in 1986.

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  Bello

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  First published 1950 by Collins

  This edition first published 2018 by Bello

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

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  ISBN 978-1-5098-7678-5 EPUB

  Copyright © Noel Strea
tfeild 1950

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