Julie and Charles might have been alone in the car. Julie was not yet in love with Charles, but trembling on the rim of love. Her exceptionally strict upbringing under Bess had kept her from exploring the qualities with which her mother’s blood had endowed her. From somewhere she had inherited a puritanical strain, which, backed by Bess’s training, had kept her from even mild adventurings in sensual matters. Now Charles’s love, though he had not yet kissed her properly, was surging over her in waves, each wave seeming to uncover a new unexplored Julie. Sitting beside him in the car she was as conscious of his nearness as he of hers; desire ran between them so strongly it could almost be seen. The difference between the two was that Charles knew what he wanted, and Julie did not. Charles had not yet sorted out his thoughts, but it was growing on him that he wanted Julie not for occasional love but for always. He knew there must be difficulties, but he was too bemused to list them, they must wait until later. There was the trouble of his being the only boy in the family, some day he supposed he would be head of the firm. There would probably be a lot of cackle from the uncles and his father, but none of that mattered in the present, where all he could concentrate on was Julie.
Henry’s mind darted to and fro like a bird picking up crumbs. He knew what the two in front were feeling, and they had his sympathy. Shame to feel like that when you had three people with you, one of them Miss Clara. To Henry the days were passing too quickly. Even with the two extra days which had been arranged that the children should stay there seemed little time left, and, as he put it to himself, he wouldn’t half feel a draught when young Andrew had gone. It had taken Andrew’s visit to make Henry conscious that his life was dull. It was not that there had been much doing towards the end of the old man’s life, but he had not noticed it; there were still tips coming in, with the chance they gave of winning a bit, and the old man had needed so much looking after there was no time to think of anything but him. But Miss Clara was different. He was fond of her, you couldn’t help it somehow, but now that he had been given a taste of a fuller life he wondered if he could stick going on with her. There was Gamblers’ Luck, which he and Andrew were taking her to see, there was Botchley to fix for her to watch the dogs race, but that was the lot, unless you counted Mrs. Smith. It looked as if in a week or two he would have nothing to do but wait for Miss Clara to come home from her mission. During Andrew’s stay he had met people and seen things that were new to him. That afternoon at the hospital had been something to remember. He had kept out of it at first, just giving Andrew a push to join the party round the bed. All three Flying Fishes had been there, for Alicia and Albert were visiting Anton. It had been odd to Henry to see Andrew, such a shy lad, suddenly full of talk, and to watch the way The Flying Fishes listened to him. When it came to making an appointment for Andrew to go to the gymnasium where they practised they had called Henry in. It was to him Anton gave directions, explaining the time and the place, taking it for granted he would have Andrew on the spot at the right minute. It had been something different talking to acrobats, and seeing them practise had been a real treat. Watching Andrew and Julie in the ring had been nothing to it. In the gymnasium the trapezes were not so far away, and though he did not understand a word he heard, he had felt he belonged. The two Flying Fishes and Andrew wore practice clothes, and while they were working Henry stood by, holding towels and dressing-gowns, and between work-outs they joined him, and discussed the programme they would do at Christmas. Henry appreciated that if Andrew joined The Flying Fishes there was nothing for him to worry about, he would be sure to live in the flat, and Henry could see himself going a lot to the circus, maybe taking old Nobby along. But would Andrew join The Flying Fishes? It was funny how stubborn he could be. If only he would talk it over with Julie; it was only fair to give her a chance to speak for herself. From what Henry had seen of her, which was not much, she was fond of Andrew, and would be the last one to stand in his way. He might have fought against his belief in keeping yourself to yourself, and not poking your nose in where it was not wanted, and spoken to Julie himself, had he not arranged this trip to see Andy. He kept reminding himself if he was right about Andy, Andy would deserve anything that might come to him. He was not going to tell Mr. Willis anything, but if Mr. Willis saw things for himself it was not his fault. But telling himself things did not silence Henry’s conscience, which nagged at him. He was defying the code of behaviour by which he lived. If Andy thought he was a grass he was not so far out. He was uncomfortable enough as it was, and had no intention of making himself feel worse by putting his nose into Andrew’s business.
Clara’s mind had been with her fellow workers at the mission. They had been glad she had not taken the week’s holiday, there were so many little jobs which she enjoyed doing, but which when she was away others seemed to find a burden. There was a great shortage of money at the mission. As soon as she had seen everything and everybody she must have a talk with Charles, and see what could be spared without those entrusted to her suffering. Thinking of the important talk she must have with Charles, Clara looked at him. He had half turned to smile at Julie. Henry was sitting next to her, she touched his arm, and, because Andrew was on his other side, spoke in a whisper.
“Henry, do you know, I think Mr. Willis likes our little Julie.”
Henry glanced at Andrew. His red head lolled against the car window, he was completely cut off from them, absorbed by his aerial world, he and Miss Clara could talk of anything and he would not hear one word. As for the two in front, they would not notice if everybody fell out of the car. His difficulty was how to answer. It was not safe saying much to Miss Clara, or the next thing would be she would sing a hymn about love to Mr. Willis. He wore what, had Simon been there, he would have called his “damn disobligin’” expression.
“Mr. Willis is ever so nice a gentleman.”
Clara missed Henry’s expression and his tone of voice, for her eyes were on Julie. It was not her custom to discuss unannounced love affairs, she considered it both impertinent and ill-bred, but to her Julie was a child, and the thought which had come to her, though pleasure-giving, had no more substance than a fairy tale.
“Oh, Henry, wouldn’t it be delightful if those two could grow fond of each other? It’s just what dear old Mr. Hilton would have wished, isn’t it?”
Henry could hear a ghostly rolling chuckle, from which was wheezed out Simon’s comment on that. The comment, though only heard in his imagination, made him damp under the collar. His tone was both embarrassed and full of disapproval.
“That’s as may be, we don’t want to go fillin’ our loafs with what aren’t none of our business. As for the old gent, there’s no sayin’ what ’e might ’ave thought for ’e never set ’is pies on Miss Julie, not since she was a baby, that is, if then.”
Clara accepted without query that the subject of Charles and Julie was closed. It had been very silly of her to have spoken of it. After all, the children had only known each other a day or two, Henry could not realise she had been speaking of what was no more than a silly old woman’s daydream, so she had probably offended his taste. She should have remembered that courtships in his world, if they occurred at all, followed complicated but well understood rules, walking-out becoming in course of time steady-company, a state which she feared too often did not become marriage until a baby was expected. It was very stupid of her to have forgotten this and Henry had every right to feel shocked. She really was becoming a very blundering old thing. Pondering on herself in this way brought back to Clara other blunderings. She remembered last week, when she had so selfishly felt out of things because she saw so little of the children. There had been too many days recently when she forgot to count her blessings. And what blessings they were. Her comfortable home. The companionship of dear Henry, and splendid Charles. These drives in a car; why a few months ago riding in a motor-car was such a treat, and now it was always happening. So much arranged for her, the lovely day at Ashford, and the day at the circus, and now th
is beautiful day. She looked out of the window; the red berries in the hedges, the white trails of traveller’s joy, the bare trees against the delicate winter sky, and suddenly it seemed her cup was too full. She turned to Henry, her eyes behind her pince-nez swimming with tears.
“Henry, I have so very much to be thankful for. Do you know, I believe the dear old man knows that.” Clara paused, and it seemed to her that glory filled the car. “He does know, Henry. He’s here in the car with us.”
From the moment he saw the tears Henry, as later he told Nobby, knew Miss Clara was working up for one of her religious turns; but what she said he was not prepared for. The old B in the car! Going where they were going, and seeing what he guessed Andy was up to, as he described to Nobby, “properly turned him over.” To throw off the feeling of awe, accompanied by a cold sensation down his spine, Henry joked.
“Don’t know where ’e’d sit. Like sardines as it is.”
Clara was by now sure Simon was with her. She was uplifted beyond hurt from a joke.
“Not as we remember him, just his soul.” Clara clasped her hands. “Help me to remember this day, Henry. I’m getting spoilt by kindness and comfort. I forget that except when we drove to the funeral I never went even in a taxi, I mean, why should I? The whole point of asking me to meet the children and take them across London was that it saved taxis, for we could go by bus.”
Henry had no idea what Clara was talking about, but he was convinced, whatever it was, she should not be allowed to go on. This was the worst turn he had seen her have, even worse than the attack she had that time in the cemetery, when she had told him the old man had picked his own text for his tombstone. He considered telling Charles to stop somewhere, so they could give her a cup of tea, but he turned the idea down, no need for everyone to know she was not herself. He spoke firmly.
“You ’ave a nice bit of shut-eye. We’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and after we’ll ’ave our dinners.”
Clara closed her eyes; it was good to hold the glory to her, the certainty of being guided, of Simon being pleased. Henry, thankful to have quietened her, returned to his uneasy conscience. Andrew, who had heard nothing, flew from a trapeze to be caught by Albert. Charles’s left hand was off the wheel, his fingers had found Julie’s, both fell into a trancelike state. Then suddenly they turned a corner and ahead of them was the lane leading to Andy’s stables.
At first sight the place was much as Henry remembered it, it was when they came in sight of the house that he had his first surprise. In Alfie’s day the house, which had once been a farm, had been shabby; it was usual to see broken hinges on the doors, and it was years since it had been painted. The garden, or what had been a garden, was a tangle of weeds, shrubs and rubbish. Now the house had been done up, there was vivid green paint everywhere, muslin curtains in the windows, and the garden was evidently looked after for it was tidy, and though at that minute there was little to see, there were wintry remains of what, a few weeks before, must have been a fine show of flowers. Henry, his eyes goggling, directed Charles.
“The stables is at the back like.”
Now they had arrived Charles managed partially to detach his mind from Julie.
“Thought you said it was a bit rough and ready. Looks like a stately home to me.”
A lorry stood in the stable yard. In it, trembling, stood four old horses, a fifth, squealing with terror, was being whipped into finding standing space where no reasonable standing space existed. Andy, very smart in what he took to be a country gentleman’s clothes, was shouting:
“Get in, you brute.” Crack went his whip. He roared at the driver. “Come on, you, give us a ’and.” The driver joined Andy, together they tried to force the horses forward so that they could close the lorry. Neither man had seen the car, so Julie took them by surprise. For a moment she had been too horrified to move, then she was out of the car. Andy had thrown down his whip to have both hands free. Julie picked it up and cracked the handle down on Andy’s head.
“You beast you! You filthy beast! You louse!”
Charles soon convinced Andy who they were, and had him first blustering, then shilly-shallying, and finally cringing. Charles demanded to see Clara’s horses, and when it was clear there were no horses, asked where the telephone was, as he wished to ring the Police Station. Andy, seeing the game was up, was about to lead the way to the house, when Clara stopped him.
“Do I understand my horses aren’t here?” Andy growled that he had said so, hadn’t he? “Then where are they?”
Andy looked at Charles who half shook his head, there was no need for Clara to know the details. Julie, however, was not so squeamish.
“They’ve been killed, Aunt Clara.”
“Killed!” Clara’s voice trembled. “On purpose, do you mean, Julie?”
Julie nodded.
“He buys up horses and sells them to slaughter-houses. Men like him make lots of money doing that.”
Clara looked again at Andy. She was used to sinful people, it was understanding them which was difficult. This man had killed her uncle’s horses, horses entrusted to her care. But why? Then a horrid thought struck her.
“When did you kill them? I mean, was it recently?”
Henry saw what was in Clara’s mind.
I reckon Andy killed ’em off just as soon as ’is Dad was took, knowin’ the old gent was gettin’ on like and wouldn’t be down to see ’em. They was done for long afore ’e thought of givin’ ’em to you.”
Andy scowled at Henry.
“Proper nark you are. What you want to bring ’im ’ere for?” He jerked his head towards Charles. “Dad was always good to you. Anyway, people’ve got to eat, ’aven’t they?”
“Eat!” The word came from Clara in a gasp. It was not that she did not know that horse meat was for sale, but it had not struck her that anyone could be so wicked as to sell Simon’s horses for food. “Do you mean you sold Mr. Hilton’s horses to eat?”
Andy could see no point in being cross-examined.
“I said so, ’aven’t I?” He turned to Charles. “If you want to telephone, come on.”
Clara pointed to the horses which Henry, Julie and Andrew were fondling.
“Are you selling those to be eaten?” Andy gave an assenting growl. Clara turned to Charles. “I don’t want you to call the police, dear. If I can have these five poor dears instead of my four I shall be quite satisfied.”
* * * * *
Doris discovered swelling with righteous anger was wasted swelling, unless there were those to watch the swelling, and, on hearing what caused it, start to swell too. Maurice, in the matter of swelling, was not a satisfactory companion, too soon righteous anger was swamped by fear. He spent much time on his knees pointing out that though he had been disappointed by the will, he had not complained, which, considering what he had understood was to happen to make up for the smallness of his stipend, he well might have done. That he was in no way responsible for Clara’s actions. It was of course disgraceful that she should have a man in her flat, and that she should keep him in such a bedroom suggested unspeakable things, but it was not right that he should suffer for his sister’s sins. He implored that these points would be kept in the forefront of the celestial mind, otherwise a faithful servant might be ruined by gossip reaching, first his rural dean, then his archdeacon, and finally his bishop. It was after many days, during which Maurice wore continually the look of one wrestling, that Doris decided to take action, and to take it without Maurice. It would be delightful to be, for once, sought after. The merest hint and she would have the family begging to see her. Doris knew Maurice’s family too well to rush her fences, the opportunity would come if she waited. It came in a letter from Vera, which asked if it were true that Marjorie’s job was coming to an end, for if so she knew Freda would love to have her stay. It would be a nice change for Marjorie and a help to Freda, who found her hands rather full with baby Priscilla Annette, Poppet and Noel. Vera added that it was such
a help in the family when there was someone free who enjoyed lending a hand in busy times, didn’t Doris remember what a help Clara had been? In the ordinary way that letter would have infuriated Doris, with its suggestion that her Marjorie was to be the family drudge, but on this occasion it pleased her. She answered by return; it was a long letter describing the many offers of work Marjorie had received, and the possibility of her training in London, it finished with “in any case I don’t think Maurice would care to risk Marjorie living the same sort of life as Clara, we don’t want that sort of thing to happen twice, do we?” “That sort of thing” was underlined.
Vera received Doris’s letter at the breakfast table. She skimmed through it in a bored way. The final sentence she read twice. She passed the letter to George.
“It’s from Doris. Don’t bother with it all. Read that last sentence.”
George read and frowned. What the devil did Doris mean? What sort of thing? Vera half-heard George’s fussy ruminatings. She had never thought anything of Doris, she was suburban and dreary, but she was shrewd. If she gossiped she had never done so about the family, for she would know she would soon be snubbed if she attempted it. That sentence suggested that she took it for granted she was merely remarking on something already known. What behaviour would seem to Doris so unseemly that Maurice would fear it breaking out again in Marjorie? It could not be anything to do with morals at Clara’s age, so what? The answer came in a flash. Her crisp voice interrupted George’s monologue.
“Drink.” Vera was only interested in other Hiltons than her own if they could be of service in some way to her children. She brushed aside George’s careful sentences about not jumping to hasty conclusions. “I’m not jumping to anything. But Clara’s always been teetotal and when they take to it they’re the worst. I suppose Henry started her off. I never trusted him from the first time we met him. If Clara’s only drinking any odd bottle Uncle Simon left I don’t think it matters, but if she’s buying stuff she must be stopped. It’s expensive and she should be made to think of the children, and I don’t mind telling her so, I think it’s my duty.”
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