Maurice nodded.
“That is what I wished to talk to you about, Clara. I know you wouldn’t dismiss Henry, so we have a suggestion to make.”
Clara had no idea what they were talking about. She knew with certainty, in the matter of Henry at least, that she was carrying out Simon’s wishes, so the opinion of Maurice, Doris or anyone else meant nothing to her. When you knew you were doing right there was no wavering. As well her mind was not with Maurice and Doris. How long were they going to stay? Julie and Andrew must think it curious that they had to sit in a tea-shop instead of coming to the flat. She smiled vaguely at Maurice, while wondering how, without hurting his feelings, to persuade him to go.
“Yes, Maurice dear?”
Maurice, pushed to it by a look from Doris, spoke more firmly.
“We think our girls should live with you. A most suitable arrangement.”
Doris pressed the suggestion.
“They could sleep in Henry’s room.”
Clara’s wandering attention was caught. Oh dear, how tiresome! This was just the sort of plan she had feared one of the family would suggest. It was out of the question of course. It would not be right. The flat was only hers in trust for others. It would not be easy to make the family see this; families felt, quite naturally, they should come first, and so they should when it was personal property, but this was not personal property, it was property belonging rightly not only to the human beings given into her care but to the animals as well.
“It would work splendidly,” Doris said, “for Marjorie wants to train as a masseuse, and Alison to take a secretarial course. They could share the room . . .”
It was on those last words that Clara saw, as if the thought were flashed to her, how, without hurting Maurice and Doris, she could refuse to take in Marjorie and Alison. She had not seen Henry’s room since the time when news came that Peterson had been killed, and she had gone into it to pack his belongings to send to his mother. It had been, at that time, crowded, having both Peterson’s and Henry’s possessions in it, and she distinctly recalled saying to Henry that he must be glad Peterson’s box was being moved out, as there was no room for it. If there was no room for a box there could be no room for a second bed. To-day it would not be an impertinence to go into Henry’s room, for it was at this moment nobody’s room, for Henry had vacated it, and Julie not yet moved in. She got up.
“I’m afraid that plan wouldn’t work. It’s a tiny room, only just room for Henry, dear man.”
Climbing the stairs behind Clara, Maurice and Doris exchanged looks. Doris’s look was encouraging, it said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find space for the second bed.” Maurice’s look was unhappy. He was thankful the talk about Henry was behind him, but he could not feel it had had the effect it should have had. Had Clara followed what he was saying? Of course she was a sister, and sisters were apt to remember only a brother was speaking, and forget they were also listening to a clergyman. Even so she surely should have been a little confused and embarrassed.
Clara opened Henry’s door and, sure that her memory had not failed her, stood back to let Maurice and Doris look in.
Maurice and Doris looked, and as they looked their eyes became glazed. Charles’s decorators had made a charming job of the little room, so charming that though Clara did not know it, Henry had not slept in it since, partly because he felt silly in it, and partly because he was scared of messing it up, and was happier on a camp bed in the drawing-room. The walls were pale duck-egg blue, the ceiling a darker shade of the same colour. The curtains, and the hangings round the bed and dressing-table, were a delicate pink, as were the carpet and the satin eiderdown. By the bed and in front of the low glass-topped, many-mirrored dressing-table were white rugs. As a finishing touch that morning a florist had delivered an egg-shell blue vase filled with pink carnations, which Henry, on Charles’s instructions, had placed on the dressing-table.
Clara, getting no word from Maurice or Doris, looked over their shoulders. She was charmed with what she saw. Dear Henry, how kind to make his room look so nice for Julie. And it was a small room, there was no room for a second bed. Then she saw the flowers and was humbled. What a good man Henry was. Why had she not thought of some welcoming flowers? So nicely arranged too, and such a pretty vase. Without self-consciousness she spoke her thoughts.
“Dear, dear Henry.”
Maurice moved a step so that he came between Clara and Doris. Doris must not be contaminated. His voice trembled.
“The less you say the better, Clara. You have grieved and shocked me more than I can say. We must leave her, Doris.”
* * * * *
Over cups of tea and buns in an A.B.C. the root of a friendship between Henry and the children was planted. Henry saw the children were bewildered. “P’or little B’s” he thought, “why wouldn’t they be? Miss Clara tellin’ them she can’t wait to ’ave ’em in the flat, and the moment they gets near the place, round goes the taxi, off Miss Clara ’ops, and they finds theirselves sittin’ in ’ere along of me.” While ordering the tea and buns, Henry came to the conclusion there was no reason why the children should not hear about the Hilton family, and, with the exception of the reference to themselves, about the old B’s will.
Henry’s talk soothed Andrew. Often on the circus ground he listened to the tent hands talking. They were a mixed lot, the uptilted lilt of Wales, the burred warmth of Scotland, the lovely cadences of Ireland, broken by the nasal twang of cockney England. Listening to Henry he felt less afraid and less of an alien, for Henry brought the circus into the A.B.C., it was a sound link, almost as home-like as a roar from Popeye. Henry, with the unconscious sensitiveness of his type, had been aware that Andrew was scared, and knew when he felt easier. Not until he was sure of this did he speak to him directly.
“You’re kippin’ along of me. Julie’s sleepin’ in my room, done up posh it’s been, so of a night time we’re puttin’ a coupl’a beds for us in the front room.”
Henry did not know what this statement would mean to Andrew. When Andrew had been too young for the ring there had been nights when he had been allowed to travel ahead with the tentmen, and had joined in the discussion of where they should “kip.” There would be, of course, the days to live through, but to hear his nights were to be spent kipping with this Henry, with whom he already felt easy, was such a relief it freed his mind from the present, and it drifted like a homing pigeon to his work. There was that dive, he still was not satisfied with his line, there was a stiffening of his muscles.
Julie saw that Andrew had left them. She was resigned to this habit, but Henry was not and might think it rude. She nudged his elbow and directed his eyes to Andrew.
“It’s a thing he does. Do you think this Miss Clara Hilton will understand? It’s his work, he works in his head.”
“She did oughter. She does it ’erself. I tells ’er something we did oughter do, and it seems all right like, and the nex’ thin’ she’s ’ad a look at the old gentleman’s photo and she takes a religious turn. Shockin’ religious turns she ’as, quotin’ ’ymns and that, and it all starts inside of ’er ’ead. Then down she comes to me and whatever it is we fixed she wants to change. ‘I sees it different now ’enry,’ she says. I reckon young Andrew sees thin’s but ’is is work, which is more ’ealthy like.”
“What sort of things does this Miss Clara Hilton do?”
Henry, with the slightest jerk of his head indicated to Julie that he was taking her into his confidence.
“She’s got silly ideas about what was left ’er, always wantin’ to do good instead of leavin’ thin’s be. I was wantin’ you and young Andrew to ’elp me over somethin’. The old man left ’er some bees and ’oney in a thin’ called ‘Gamblers’ Luck Limited.’ It’s one of them games they ’ave at fairs. Would you know where she could see it workin’?”
Julie kicked Andrew’s ankle to bring him back to the table.
“This Miss Clara Hilton has a thing called ‘Gamblers’ Luck Limited.’ Do
we know anyone who works that?”
There were few circuses on the road, but many fairs, the same grounds were rented by both. Often when Borthwick’s pulled in on a Sunday the caravans of the showmen owning last week’s fair had not moved off, and in this way circus artists had friends amongst fair people. Naturally talk turned on the amount of money there seemed to be about, and in this way the children knew the names of many fair attractions. Andrew turned these over in his mind.
“Is it a ball game?”
Henry explained about the revolving wheels, and the pictures of birds and flowers.
“People buys tickets with the name of a bird and a flower wrote on. When the wheels stop the one what ’as the right bird and flower did oughter get a prize. But from what I see the thin’ weren’t on the level. It was fixed where the wheels stopped an’ no one ’ad the ticket.”
The children were shocked. In their experience showmen were honest to a degree, not only by inclination, but of necessity, returning as they did to the same grounds year after year.
“This Mr. Simon Hilton took you to bad places,” said Andrew, “no showman we know would allow that. It’s cheating.”
Julie backed Andrew.
“It’s true. Showmen mostly belong to a guild. They sometimes have a novelty with them that isn’t theirs, and perhaps there’s a sharing of profits, but even so everything is under control of the showman, and he wouldn’t allow that kind of thing.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“I can only speak as I find. The old . . .” he corrected himself, “Mr. Simon ’ilton I should say, was part owner of this thin’ and we goes all over lookin’ at it, and what I told you I see with me own ‘meat pies.’”
Julie and Andrew stared at each other. It was Julie who saw a possible explanation.
“It must have been amusement arcades you went to. We don’t know those, but I believe at such places sometimes you rent space for your amusement, anything could happen where there’s no boss.”
Henry understood that.
“That’s more the ticket. I daresay it’s run regular with a proper show, but it’s one of those affairs you can twist when you want to. Do you know a regular fair comin’ near enough to London you could write to, and see if they ’ad it workin’ for Miss Clara to see?”
Julie and Andrew found it hard to believe there could be such ignorance. Born to the world of travelling circuses, the seasons when they travelled were as clearly indicated as the seasons of the year. You did not hunt the hedges for nuts in April, and you did not look for fairs on showgrounds in November. They tried, in putting Henry right, not to sound scornful, but Henry knew they thought him a fool.
“All right, all right. So I didn’t know. So what? Keep your ’air on, it’s the first time I knew there was ’arm in askin’.” Henry saw the children were ashamed. “That’s all right. No need to get in a state. But you see I was reckonin’ on your ’elp. We got to find this ‘Gamblers’ Luck Limited’ and we got to find it workin’ nice, so she doesn’t get thinkin’ she didn’t oughter keep the shares, see?”
Julie felt the letter between her breasts.
“Wouldn’t this Mr. Charles Willis find where it’s to be seen?”
Henry lit a cigarette before he answered. It was funny about these kids. He didn’t know quite where to place them. His inclination was to class them with himself. Living the way they did they probably felt as he did about the law. You had to keep the right side of it, but that didn’t mean you pushed things under its nose. He answered with caution.
“Mr. Willis is a very nice gent, couldn’t want nicer, but a course in a way ’e’s the same as a busy . . .”
Sam had sent Julie and Andrew to school regularly, as the law required. Sam was strict and neither had appeared in the ring, nor even walked in the parade until they were twelve; but only Julie and Andrew were his immediate concern. If a family travelled with them, he did not always demand to see certificates to show the children were old enough for a licence, nor was he constantly nagging at parents if a week or so’s schooling was missed. He prided himself that police were more than welcome to visit his circus, and they could look into everything for they would find nothing wrong with Borthwick’s. Nevertheless there was uneasiness when police were looking round, and relief when they were gone. Julie’s pleasure in her letter was dimmed.
“Is that what he is?”
“Not a real busy, nor a flatty, ’e’s a mouthpiece.”
“Why did he come to visit us with this Miss Clara Hilton?” Julie demanded.
“’cause it’s ’im what sees to what was left Miss Clara by the old gent.”
Andrew saw what was troubling Henry.
“You wouldn’t like him to find ‘Gamblers’ Luck Limited’ in case it was played wrong, and then there’s trouble for the showman.”
Henry nodded.
“I ’ate a grass.”
On the matter of informers the three were in complete agreement. Sam and Bess might know or suspect a great deal wrong with some other showman’s set-up, or something about one of their own staff or artists, but provided it was not cruelty to a child or animal, they avoided where possible going to the police. Understanding Henry’s reluctance to call in Charles Willis they turned their minds to their friends amongst the showmen, and soon remembered one who wintered at Mitcham. It was when they told Henry this that the week in London almost ceased to frighten Andrew and became a week brimming with possibilities. “Mitcham,” Henry said, “you an’ me might pop along there tomorrer, young Andrew, and if there’s anythin’ goin’ or comin’ you might fancy to do, you only got to put a name to it. Miss Clara wants you to do what you like.”
Might fancy to do. Andrew had a press cutting in his breast pocket. It was not a cutting he had thought anyone must see but himself. Above all Julie must not read it. He had only brought it on the chance of a miracle, of escaping for a few hours, and now there was no need for a miracle. This Henry could see the cutting and he would understand and arrange everything.
Henry looked at the clock.
“Reckon Miss Clara did oughter ’ave got rid of the Reverend. You take one case Andrew, and I’ll take the other, and we’ll find a telephone box.”
Clara’s voice was full of happiness as she told how splendidly the visit had passed off. Once Henry stopped her and made her repeat a sentence. When he came out of the box he was grinning.
“Come on, kids. Miss Clara ’asn’t ’alf put her foot in it. She’s not fit to be on her own, straight she isn’t. The Reverend wants ’is God-forbids to stay along of us same as I thought ’e did, and what does Miss Clara do? Instead of sayin’ ‘no’ sharp and plain, she shows ’em my bedroom.”
“Why was that putting her foot in it?” Julie asked.
Henry looked at her, laughter in his eyes.
“Of course you ’aven’t seen it. Mr. Willis ’ad it fixed special for you. All pale blue and pink it is. An’ there’s flowers for you on the dressing-table. What d’you suppose the Reverend and his missus thinks when they’re shown a room fixed that way, and is told it’s been fixed special for me?”
Henry’s description of Maurice and Doris had been racy but accurate. Neither Julie nor Andrew could visualise the bedroom, but they belonged to the circus world, where most augustes had in their wardrobes, clothes, usually underclothes, which when seen would raise the easy laugh the public always gave the suggestion, that a man was a homosexual. What Maurice and Doris must have thought hung unspoken between them. Then they looked at Henry and began to laugh. The suitcases were put down on the pavement and the three leant against an area railing tears dripping down their cheeks. As the gust of laughter died a newer and funnier possibility struck Henry, and a new gale of merriment shook him. At last he mopped his eyes and picked up Julie’s suitcase.
“Come on. We must get ’ome or Gawd knows what else Miss Clara may ’ave got up to. I can’t wait to tell my friend Nobby this one, ’e’ll die laughin’, straight ’e wil
l.”
Full of the warmth of the shared joke the three hurried towards Gorpas Road.
* * * * *
To Clara it seemed that to the children their visit slipped quietly and happily by. She wished she could feel that they were growing to know her better, so that they were certain that she was a friend to whom they could always turn. It was, however, understandable that they were shy with her. Hesitatingly they managed to call her Aunt Clara, as the nieces and nephews did, but it was merely a change of words, it did not mean they felt less formal with her. Indeed why should they? The nieces and nephews had known her since they were babies, and were used to her being a frumpy round-about aunt, to Julie and Andrew she must seem a dull, silly old thing, whom the name Miss Hilton fitted better than Aunt Clara. She wished the children were at home more than they were, but considered it natural that they were always out. Did she not say to them whenever she saw them, that her home was their home and they must use it as they liked, she ought to be glad she told herself, that they took her at her word. Dear Charles was being so kind, giving Julie such a nice time, and Henry was splendid about taking Andrew out, it was very naughty of her to feel lonely. It was seeing them so full of plans, often running out without remembering to say goodbye, or coming in without telling her what they had been up to, that made her feel what a dull old thing she was. She had planned not to go to the mission while Julie and Andrew were with her, but after two days spent almost entirely alone, without saying anything, she returned to her mission work.
To Andrew the visit to Clara seemed the opposite of quiet. Each day shimmered as if every hour exploded excitements like fireworks against a night sky. The trip to Mitcham and the easy “kipping” in the front room gave him a friend. Henry had admired Andrew on a trapeze, and was as proud of him as if he were a young relative. He had never had anyone to be proud of before. He had been proud of the old B in his way, but that was pride in his carryings-on rather than in his achievements. Henry looked forward to telling Nobby about Andrew, and at some time taking him to see him perform. The boy was not a bit like he had been at his age, nor like any boy he had ever known. In his tolerant way Henry accepted him exactly as he was, dreaming, full of startling knowledge, or innocent as a baby. He made Henry feel protective, he would have laughed at himself if he had known that was how he felt, but it was the truth. It was on the way back from Mitcham that Henry saw the press cutting. It had been a successful visit. The showman had never had anyone working “Gamblers’ Luck Limited” for him, it was a nice job, he said, but it needed to draw a big crowd, and so was unsuited to small fair grounds. He had an idea where it might be working, he would let Andrew know in a couple of days. He had then told Andrew to go and find his wife, and had taken Henry to a nearby pub where, over glasses of mild and bitter, they discussed horse racing. Henry had never met show people before, and he was impressed. He had not missed the respect shown the showman by the girl in the bar, nor by those who dropped in, nor the air of authority which exuded from him. It was on the top of a homeward-bound bus, while ruminating over these things, and shaping the way he would speak of them to Nobby, that Henry saw Andrew take the press cutting from his pocket.
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