Aunt Clara

by Noel Streatfeild

  George pursed his lips. If that were the trouble, and he was not prepared to accept that it was, something must be done. Anyway, whatever it was that Clara was up to, it must be looked into, they could not have her disgracing the family. The question was how best to handle the matter; he must find an excuse to go and see her. It was then Vera thought of the telephone. If people drank she believed they usually did it in the evening. They would put a call through to Clara that night and see how she sounded.

  Clara, Henry and Andrew were having supper of bread and cheese round the drawing-room fire. It was a miserable night, and they had settled down in the pleased apathy which follows heat and food after being out in the cold. Clara, her cup of tea in one hand and a plate of bread and cheese on her knee, beamed at Henry.

  “A splendid evening. It’s like passing milestones. You were quite right, Henry, in spite of its name it’s a delightful game, everybody was enjoying themselves.”

  Andrew’s friend, the showman, had discovered a fair to be held in an agricultural hall in aid of a Christmas charity, and that one of the attractions engaged was “Gamblers’ Luck Limited.” Henry had arranged with Andrew to drop a hint to the showman as to Clara’s interest in the game, but that proved unnecessary, for Clara at once announced who she was. First she shook the showman by the hand, then, having explained about her shares, identified herself with “Gamblers’ Luck Limited.” When the barker tried to draw a crowd by warning them there were only a few tickets left to sell, though she shook her head at him, she beckoned the showman over and, while whispering it was wrong to tell lies, opened her purse and bought several tickets and distributed them amongst children, explaining to the crowd that it was only right she should do so as a dear old uncle had left her shares in the game. Only three times while she was there was a big enough crowd collected for the game to be played, but on each occasion she took a personal interest in the prize winner, and what was selected as a prize. Henry, at first nervous and embarrassed for her, was, before they left, reconciled for once to Clara’s outspokenness. Of course she was making a bit of a show of herself, he could see people nudging and smiling, but there was no spitefulness in it. Anyone could see Miss Clara was a lady born, and thought having shares meant she was a partner in the whole outfit, prizes and all. Anyway no one could say she did not make things go, and the showman certainly thought so, for when they left he presented her with a shopping bag which she had pointed out to the prizewinners as an exceptionally good prize. It lay now on the table beside her. He eyed it admiringly.

  “That bag’s a smashin’ job, isn’t it, Andrew?”

  The bag was a plastic affair in pale blue with a design of roses on it. Andrew, who for once was attending, grinned at it.

  “Just the thing for you when you do the shopping.”

  Henry laughed. He knew Andrew was having a dig at the joke attached to his bedroom. Clara joined in the laugh, not because she knew what the joke was but because she was happy. It was so pleasant by the fire with Henry and Andrew, almost like having a family of her own. Thinking this she remembered what was happening in the morning.

  “Oh, dear! We shall miss you and Julie to-morrow, shan’t we, Henry?”

  There was the faintest pause while the query passed between Andrew and Henry as to whether this was the moment to drop a hint. Henry decided it was.

  “I don’t s’pose we seen the last of ’em, not by a long chalk, do you, Andrew-boy?” It was at this moment the telephone bell rang. Henry looked in surprise at the clock. What an hour to ring up! Then a thought struck him. Maybe, seeing it was Julie’s last night, Mr. Willis had thought up something, in which case it was better he took the message than Miss Clara.

  George, hearing Henry’s voice, demanded in his most legal manner that Clara be brought to the phone. Henry, surprised at hearing George and not Charles, hesitated before answering that he would fetch her, which made George put his hand over the receiver and whisper to Vera, “May be something in it. Fellow didn’t want to bring her.”

  Clara, who had been pulled from her warm contentment with a jolt by Henry’s awed “It’s the relatives, Miss Clara, Mr. ’ilton,” arrived rather flustered to pick up the telephone.

  “Well, George? This is a surprise. Where are you?”

  George, his ear strained for slurred words or thickness in Clara’s speech, said he was at home, where else should he be? That he and Vera had been thinking it was a long time since they had heard from her, and how was she?

  Clara was puzzled. Many months passed as a rule when nobody asked after her, and then it was not asking after but a postcard hoping she could render some little service. Then a premonition came to her which made her search for something to talk about. It was one of the children. Vera wanted a bed for the night. She could so easily put up a bed in her bedroom. It would be unkind to refuse, but Henry had just suggested that Julie and Andrew would be coming again, so splendid if they were to look upon the flat as their own, just what Uncle Simon would wish. Because she felt her thoughts were unkind she spoke with extra warmth and eagerness. George and Vera must not know she did not want the family in her home, perhaps if she talked of other things the three minutes would be up and they would ring off.

  “Oh, George, you remember ‘The Goat in Gaiters’? You said you’d buy it, I may still sell it. I haven’t decided anything but it’s so lucky I hadn’t sold it or else I wouldn’t have had anywhere to put the horses.”

  At the other end of the phone George shook his head at Vera, to show he did not like what he was hearing.

  “Horses! What horses?”

  “The racehorses, only there aren’t any. I mean there never were. Imagine, poor old things, they had been eaten. Uncle Simon would have been very angry, I’m glad he never knew. I believe Andy’s father was a dear, good man very like Mr. Perce, his brother, who has the dogs, but though of course no one is wholly bad I’m afraid Andy is not satisfactory.”

  Henry, at the first mention of “The Goat in Gaiters,” had got up and gestured to Andrew to join him. They tiptoed into the hall. At the other end of the line George’s face was very grave. He signalled to Vera to listen in, and held the receiver so that she could do so.

  “Could you speak more slowly, Clara. I am having difficulty in following.”

  “Are you! Well, I was saying it was lucky I hadn’t sold ‘The Goat in Gaiters’ for now the Frossarts, dear good people, are making a home for the five horses, in the field.”

  George spoke in the voice he used to quell excitement or hysteria in a client.

  “If I understood you aright and Uncle Simon’s four horses have been sent to a slaughter-house, then how can they be in the field of ‘The Goat in Gaiters,’ and how can there be five of them?”

  Clara, thankful that George seemed interested, laughed.

  “Not the first four of course. These are five new ones. There were five poor old things just going to a slaughter-house. Charles Willis wanted to send for the police, but I said ‘no’ I’d take those five instead. He was very cross with me, and made Andy pay me some money, not, of course, to me, Charles took it, and he has told The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals about him, and he’s told the police and he thinks Andy won’t dare travel horses in a cruel way again.”

  “Are you and Mr. Willis on such terms that you call him Charles?”

  “Yes, and he calls me Aunt Clara, he’s such a dear, and so kind. There is a hymn the children sing at the mission and I never hear it without thinking of him. ‘Help the feeble ones along, cheer the faint and weak;’ he does just that, dear boy.”

  Henry put his hand over his mouth to hold back his laughter. She was off again, but it was all right this time, he wished he could see Mr. George Hilton’s face.

  George’s face was growing graver and graver. Clara’s rambling story seemed to him to show clearly that she was breaking up in some way, and it might be that she was drinking. But what he disliked more were the references to Charles. Willis and Wil
lis were a sound firm, but did they know what their young man was up to? Money was tight these days, and standards slipping, it was a possibility the young jackanapes was getting himself in with Clara so that he could skin her of anything there was. He felt there was no purpose in prolonging the conversation, some far more drastic action than a telephone conversation was needed. He said, much meaning in his voice:

  “Good-night, Clara. Vera and I will be coming to see you.”

  Clara looked upon visits from her relatives as a permanent possibility. She feared them not because they would turn her from what she knew to be right, but because she disliked seeming unkind. Her family were so used to her being glad to be of service when she could, they could not be expected to understand she now had a family of her own who must come first. She told Henry and Andrew of George’s final words, unconsciously imitating his emphasis, but she was not especially disturbed by them herself, it was to be hoped that when he and Vera did come it would be at a time Julie and Andrew were not there. Soon after the telephone conversation had finished she had put it from her mind, and, full of gratitude for a happy and successful evening, had gone to her room.

  Henry watched her loaf-shaped back climb the stairs then he rejoined Andrew.

  “You know what that means, young feller? That Mr. Mr. George ’ilton smells somethin’, or ’is missus does and she’s worse than ’e is.” While they put up their beds Henry explained the dangers of the situation to Andrew. “You see what’ll ’appen if they gets a foot in. Next thin’ we know they’ll be usin’ us regular, and that puts the lid on your kippin’ ’ere if you gets fixed with The Flying Fishes.”

  Andrew, accustomed to being planned for, had taken it for granted that if his working in the Christmas circus could be arranged, he would, as now, kip with Henry while Julie slept in Henry’s room. The mere thought of living with strangers brought back the terrors which had haunted him before he had got used to Henry. Henry saw how Andrew felt, and now, knowing him, rightly interpreted his expression.

  “No need to act up, it’ ’asn’t ’appened yet.” He took a wheedling tone. “You know what I’d do? I’d catch Julie soon as she comes in. Fix it with ’er, and tell Miss Clara first thin’, and then it’s all okey doke. Mr. George ’ilton and ’is old strife and all the rest of the relatives can try all they knows, but it won’t do no good, ‘cause there won’t be no room, see?”

  Andrew saw, but persuading him was not so easy. He was sure he would not be able to get out of tenting with The Flying Fishes, and he knew there could be no job with them for Julie. There was a chance she could join the circus for the tenting season, but it would be to live with him only and do odd jobs, and for that she might as well be with Borthwick’s; but Henry beat down his objections. He had learnt from Andrew what an advance professionally working with The Flying Fishes would be to him. Then there were Charles and Julie. He could see Charles’s face when he heard Julie might be coming to live in the flat. Then there was Miss Clara. She would be no end pleased, and, though she would not see it that way, it would be one in the eye for the relatives. Lastly there was himself. It would make all the difference having the kids around, he could hardly wait to go up to old Nobby, show him a couple of passes for the circus, and watch his face when young Andrew got on his trapeze.

  “Nark it. You go to sleep. I’ll ’ave a smoke in me kitchen and wake you when Julie comes ’ome.”

  It was three in the morning before Julie came home. She had the translucent look of a fumbler in the mystery of love. The lady high school rider had stated that blue was sweetly pretty as well as classy for a young girl’s first evening dress. So Julie had bought a utility frock in taffeta, the original model of which, though this was not known to the lady high school rider, had been outstanding for its simplicity of line. Julie had accessories which the lady high school rider had made her buy to disguise she had only one evening dress. She had not worn the disguises, for the first time she had put on the frock Charles had implored her to wear it every evening for the rest of her stay. The next time she wore it, because she was easier with Charles and had begun to grasp his ecstatic laughter was not at her, but at what she said, she told him about the lady high school rider. They were dancing at The Café de Paris at the time, and Charles’s laughter rose above the orchestra and made the dancers turn to look at them. Henry had not seen the blue frock properly before, and now, watching Julie climb the stairs, he thought it a smashing job. Then his eyes left it and came to her face. She was standing on the top stair, half facing the kitchen, but she did not see him. She was trailing her coat in one hand; suddenly she dragged it to her face, while from her came hiccupping sobs. Henry forgot why he was waiting for her; he put his arm round her, led her to the kitchen, sat her down and closed the door.

  “Now then. Now then. No need to create, ’enry’s ’ere. Come on, ducks, cheer up. I won’t ’alf give you a rollickin’ if you don’t stop it. Tell you what. I’ll put on a drop of milk to ’ot. When you got that in you you’ll feel better.”

  Still half crying, Julie drank her milk and, because Henry was so comforting a person, attempted to explain her tears. She and Charles had just said good-bye. Charles had said it wasn’t really good-bye because he would be coming down to see her at the winter quarters, but it wouldn’t be any good if he did, Aunt Bess and Uncle Sam wouldn’t mean to but they’d spoil things. Charles had said it wasn’t good-bye because she could come up to London often. But that wasn’t true, Charles didn’t know what a lot there was to do, he thought you could just go away when you liked and nobody would think it odd, but it wasn’t like that at all.

  Henry waited for a pause. Then he patted the shoulder nearest to him.

  “You stop it, there ain’t nothin’ to cry about. You wait until you ’ear what I’ve got to tell you. Ever ’ear of The Flyin’ Fishes?”

  Julie had been so absorbed in what she supposed were feelings unique to herself, that Henry’s words had the effect of cold water on an hysteric. She came back to the kitchen breathless but entirely herself.

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t oughter tell you this meself. I promised young Andrew ’e should, but ’e’s ’avin’ ’is bo-peep, and I reckon you wouldn’t want ’im to see you all swelled up like that, would you? What you and me know is one thin’, an’ you don’t need to say nothin’ about we-know-what to young Andrew.”

  Julie took her handkerchief from her bag and scrubbed at her face.

  “I can’t think why I told you. Andrew mustn’t know anything and, anyway, there’s nothing to know. Do I look awful?”

  “’nough to scare the crows. Now listen ’ere . . .”

  When Henry had told her Andrew’s news Julie’s first reaction was sisterly irritation.

  “Oh, he is stupid! Imagine him thinking I’d let him turn down a chance like that.”

  “’e thought there wouldn’t be nothin’ for you at Borthwick’s if you didn’t ’ave the act.”

  “There wouldn’t, but that wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t go on working with me for ever. I’m not much good, you know. What made Andrew change his mind about telling me?”

  Henry grinned. This was the pith of the story, the defeat of the relatives, and Julie had not yet taken in what Andrew’s working in London would mean. When she did happiness shone out of her as from a torch in a street without lights.

  “Henry! Why we’ll be here for months and months.”

  “Too right you will.” Henry jerked his thumb towards the door. “Up you go now and get your loaf on your weepin’ willows, and in the mornin’ you let young Andrew tell you what I jus’ told you. And don’t you let on you’ve ’eard anythin’ previous. Then after, you an’ ’im can go and tell Miss Clara.”

  Julie picked up her coat and bag and moved towards the door. She had so much happiness she wanted to give some of it away. On a thought she turned back to Henry.

  “You won’t have to defend her from those Hiltons all alone now. You’ll have Andrew and m
e to help you. Anyway, if we’re here they can’t be, can they?”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled.

  “Not unless we turn the front room into a kip ’ouse, which isn’t goin’ to ’appen. You wait till I tell Mr. Willis what’s fixed, ’e won’t ’alf be pleased.”

  * * * * *

  Henry was alone in the flat when Perce telephoned.

  “That you, ’enry boy?”

  Henry had been feeling a little hurt with Perce. It had seemed to him that since he was trying his best to fix things so that Perce kept the dogs, he might have sent him a tip or two in exchange. His feelings showed in his reply.

  “’ullo, stranger.”

  Perce’s voice was reproving.

  “Now then, now then, ’enry boy, that’s not like you, that isn’t, you never been one to get sarky. I know ’ow you feels, you says to yourself I might ’ave put you on to somethin’.” Henry was going to answer, but Perce went on. “An’ I would ’ave, but thin’s ’as been shockin’ lately.”

  “Miss Clara sent your September bill straight to Mr. Willis.”

  “True enough, ’e sent a kite straight off. I’m on to somethin’. You told me the old gent left you a ’undred long-tailed uns.” Henry made a cautious agreeing grunt. “Could you bring Miss ’ilton to Botchley second Saturday in December, and bring two or three classy-lookin’ friends of ’ers?”

  Henry got the scent. If Perce talked of bringing friends he was on to something very hot. There would not only be his hundred pounds to slip on.

  “There’s a coupl’a kids livin’ ’ere . . . Reckon I could fix to bring ’em.”

  Perce’s voice was doubtful.

  “Kids! Got to be sharp to get this on. Can’t do it till just afore the off, an’ even then if they was to know you an’ the kids was friends of mine it would be all U.P.”

  “’ave you forgotten Miss Clara? You can’t keep ’er quiet. When she gets to Botchley the first thin’ she does is to look for you and Mrs. Perce, an’ when she sees you she says, ‘’ow are you, Mr. and Mrs. Perce, ‘an ’ow are the dear dogs?’ An’ don’t think nobody’ll ’ear for she speaks ever so plain, an’ don’t think nobody’ll notice ’er, for she’ll stand out at Botchley like a sore thumb.”