A muddy lane led to the entrance to Botchley, and from the side of it Mrs. Perce stepped out and stopped the car. She was wearing an army-surplus mackintosh over her velvet coat. On her head was a triangle of rubber from which, like seaweed, hung dripping hanks of hair. She hung in at the car window.
“Out you get, all of you. You’ll like to get close up, but I know a place where the car can stand and me an’ Miss ’ilton can see the race lovely, without gettin’ our feet wet.”
The smell exuding from Mrs. Perce’s clothes when dry was formidable, but the smell exuding from them when wet was unique in its powerfulness. Clara had her lavender-scented handkerchief out before Mrs. Perce’s head was half inside the car window. The others were less fortunate. As they walked up the lane Nobby remarked to Julie “Pongs a bit, don’t she?”
Mrs. Perce directed the driver to drive into the entrance to the stadium and there to turn.
“You want to face the right way to get off, you may be glad to get away quick.” She felt this might not sound well so added, “On account of it bein’ so wet.”
Clara peered through the rain-splashed windows, and her heart sank. Had dear old Uncle Simon ever seen his dogs race on a wet day? Surely it could not be kind to have them out in such weather. She pretended to blow her nose, for Attar of Mrs. Perce, in the small space of the car, took more getting used to than any scent she had met previously.
“Do you think it’s kind to have the dogs out in such weather?”
Mrs. Perce laid a friendly hand on Clara’s knees.
“Bless your kind ’eart, ducks, but they loves it. There’s a race startin’ any minute, you watch the dogs as they comes round, an’ you’ll soon see whether they’re enjoyin’ of theirselves or not.”
In a few minutes the hare bounced round followed by six greyhounds. It was not a race in which the Perces were interested, but Mrs. Perce, seeing that the dogs seemed well trapped, that there was no accident and no fighting, decided to adopt them.
“What did I tell you? No one couldn’t say they wasn’t ’appy. I was only sayin’ to Perce dinner time, it’s a shame we couldn’t ’ave the fourteen runnin’. It breaks me ’eart to leave any of ’em be’ind, they seems to know where we’re goin’ and they cries like children ‘cause they ain’t comin’ too.”
Clara, finding the presence of Mrs. Perce in spite of her lavender water, overpowering, opened the window. She peered through the rain at the people gathered round the bookmakers. In drab, water-logged clothes, they looked a dismal lot, in contrast the six dogs she had just seen run, seemed gaiety personified.
“The dogs looked as if they were enjoying themselves, but those poor people look wretched; do they have to come?”
Mrs. Perce thought quickly. It had been agreed that, seeing what was planned, if possible Clara’s mind should be kept from the subject of betting.
“Mostly they’ll be here because they’re fond of dogs. You know, it’s funny ’ow you get about ’em, if it’s a dog you got an interest in, you feel like ’e expects you to be there whenever ’e’s runnin’.”
Clara knew from her mission work that people thought nothing of queueing all night, no matter what the weather, to see a football match, and presumed dog racing had the same sort of appeal. Having just seen a race she could not imagine why it should amuse anyone, but she could see for herself that it did, or was it the gambling angle? Too often, across kitchen tables, she had heard of losses on horses and dogs. She turned back to Mrs. Perce.
“There is one point that worries me. I think all gambling wrong. On the other hand my dear old uncle left his dogs in my care, or rather in your care, and it was his wish that they should always have care and consideration. If I could believe these people really came for an afternoon’s enjoyment and not for gambling I should feel happier about owning dogs, but do they?”
Clara had a way of drawing the truth from those to whom she spoke. Mrs. Perce surprised herself by the truthfulness of her answer.
“A course they bets. You wouldn’t alter that by not ’avin’ dogs. Bettin’s in the blood, if they didn’t bet on dogs they’d do it on somethin’ else. I seen people bet on which of a coupl’a bed bugs would walk quickest up a wall. Thin’s still isn’t too good, there’s many families livin’ all on top of each other like, and young couples sharin’ a ’ouse with the girl’s people and more often than not the man don’t take no interest in ’is job, an’ you know ’ow it is to-day, you works your guts out and they take ’alf of what you earn out of your pay packet, an’ that with prices risin’ every day. I reckon it’s the bob on the ’orse or the dog what makes life worth livin’ for many.”
“It’s very sad if that’s true.”
“Lots of true thin’s is sad, but that don’t alter thin’s. You can’t stop people ’avin’ a bet, but you can see your dogs lives comfortable, same as Mr. ’ilton wished.” Mrs. Perce lowered her voice so that the chauffeur would not hear what she said. “You’ve seen ’ow Perce and me lives, ’omely, but we’re good to the dogs an’ no one can’t say no different; ’enry wrote us about Andy. Nasty bit of work Andy is, an’ me an’ Perce is glad ’e’s bein’ watched, an’ glad to ’ear ’ow you saved five p’or old crocks from Andy an’ ’is like. But if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, ducks, what ’appened to those ’orses did oughter be a lesson to you. Take the dogs away from me an’ Perce an’ sell ’em, on account of someone riskin’ a coupl’a shillings on ’em, an’ what might ’appen to the dogs?”
“Is it only a couple of shillings? I’m afraid these people may risk more than they can afford.”
Mrs. Perce saw Perce join the group of owners about to lead their dogs round before the next race. She longed to give him all her attention, but it was her business to set Clara’s mind at rest. She pointed to the tote windows, and without a hint of the excitement rising within her, explained that buying a ticket on a dog was not unlike buying a ticket for a seat in a cinema, it was a set price, it cost two shillings. She did not mention higher priced tickets or that anyone bought more than one ticket. Clara was surprised and impressed.
“Only two shillings! Of course that doesn’t affect the principle, but I’m glad they don’t cost more.”
Outside the entrance to the racecourse Henry had divided his forces. He took Andrew with him and put Julie in Nobby’s care. The two parties were not to appear to know each other, and they had never met or heard of Perce. To Nobby Henry whispered that, sad though it was to waste the money, confidence was to be built up by foolish betting on the race before their race; if Nobby stood behind him he would hear which dog could not win, and therefore he and Julie should back it. In answer to Nobby’s anxious query about the chances of their dog in this weather, Henry managed a confident wink, and raised his thumbs.
More money than anyone looking at the shabby down-at-heel crowd would suspect changed hands at Botchley Lane. Everybody who went knew that some dog was probably fixed to win, and their aim, either by eavesdropping or bribery, was to discover which dog it was to be. Perce, because of his reputation, seldom brought off a real coup, any dog of his was watched and backed if there was the faintest chance of a win. That afternoon was the triumph of his career. The rain made it difficult to see clearly, and the dog Perce was supposed to be running was one he usually put into a race only for the purpose of obstructing other dogs, in order that another of his should win. In this race he had only the one runner, which it was understood he had put in to oblige the owner of the track, as the bitch he had intended to run was in season.
The laying of the bets was so simple that, as Henry told Nobby after the race, it was almost a shame to take the money. The dog borrowed for the afternoon had been an open racer, and still was faster than any dog that raced at Botchley Lane. There was much swearing and angry shouting after the race, but there never was an inquiry held at Botchley Lane. If you risked your money there you were supposed to know what you were doing, and to put up with it when you were outsmarted; but Henry, having
seen all the winnings collected, felt it was better they should leave. He gave Nobby a signal and, followed by angry shouts, the four walked towards the car. Henry jerked his head backwards at the shouters.
“You don’t want to pay no attention to that lot,” he told Julie. “Just common they are, an’ can’t take a beatin’.”
Julie gave him a straight look.
“I don’t know how that was worked, but I don’t think the bookmaker who called me a crook was far out. I’m awfully glad Mr. Willis didn’t come. I hope Aunt Clara doesn’t let her dogs race here any more.”
Henry was disappointed in her.
“Now don’t take on. That race might ’ave been a bit off the straight, but all dog racin’s that way, isn’t it, Nobby? An’ don’t you go suggestin’ Miss Clara takes ’er dogs away from Perce, for they’re ’appy where they is. You don’t want ’im sendin’ ’em somewhere where they might be treated cruel, like Andy did the ’orses, do you?”
Clara had seen nothing unusual in the race. She smiled happily when they reached the car.
“Have you seen enough? I don’t wonder, it’s so very wet. That last dog that won is one of mine, didn’t he seem well and happy?”
Mrs. Perce clambered out of the car, and while the children and Nobby got in, she opened her large shabby bag, into which Henry pushed a bundle of notes. Clara leant out of the car window to say good-bye.
“Please remember me to dear Mr. Perce, and thank him for arranging the car and tell him that I’ve so enjoyed myself in spite of the rain. I’m glad I had that talk with you. It will certainly help me to make up my mind.”
As the car drove away from Botchley Lane, Clara looked at her damp family.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t much fun for you, dears.”
Julie, pretending to settle more comfortably in her seat, managed to nudge Henry, who was sitting on the tip-up seat in front of her.
“You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you, Henry? He had a little bet on that dog of yours, Aunt Clara, that won the last race.”
Clara knew Henry betted now and again.
“Very naughty of him. I hear you buy a two shilling ticket. How much can you win for two shillings, Henry?”
In Henry’s breast pocket was more money than he had ever owned before, but from his tone he might have won nothing.
“It all depends whether a dog’s fancied or not, Miss Clara.”
* * * * *
Freda, like all Vera and George’s children, had a strong family feeling, so she disliked quarrelling with her mother. Vera, after she had got over Freda’s firm letter, met her daughter half-way by partially explaining why she wished to meet Doris, and why she did not think Clara should be a godmother. She admitted that she had no real reason for saying there was no need to ask Alison and Marjorie, it was only that she had tried to arrange that Marjorie should help with the children and Priscilla Annette, and Doris had written rather a rude reply. Freda and Basil, apart from Freda’s wish to put things right with her mother, were so charmed with the hints dropped they would not for anything have missed finding out what the fuss was about. They laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks at Vera’s “We are rather troubled about your Aunt Clara, something not very nice may be happening there, and we have reason to think Aunt Doris knows something. You will understand we don’t want to make too much of the affair and so, if we could meet Aunt Doris in the ordinary way at the christening, it would be such a help.” Basil had an inventive mind, and described for Freda Clara street-walking in Cork Street, as proprietress of a night club which sold drugs as a side-line, and as a receiver of stolen goods. The joke of the parents suspecting dear, solid Aunt Clara of anything, and saying that Aunt Doris knew something, was too good to keep to themselves so Rita, Tim, Ronnie and Ethel were invited to the christening, and warned if they did not come they would miss a good laugh.
There was to be a party after the christening, so Vera asked Freda to arrange that Maurice and Doris came to the house well beforehand, so that they could have their talk. Freda, in return for a promise from her mother that she should be told everything, did as she was requested, and after the smallest exchange of greetings shut the four into the drawing-room.
Doris was triumphant. This was what she had waited for. Maurice was at last being treated as he deserved. The whole parish had been told that he was taking a family christening, and her parents that Maurice had been asked to select the day, because it was unthinkable he should not take the service. Maurice, though glad that his family were at last being guided to treat him with proper respect, was not happy about the guidance given to his daughters. He had told Alison clearly it was not his wish that she should see her Aunt Clara, and he had added, “Mummie and I have our reasons.” Alison had stared at him and then laughed and said, “Don’t be so silly,” and that evening had told him that she had written to Aunt Clara to say she would call before the christening, and that Marjorie would be with her. Maurice, on his knees, repeated this conversation. He explained that though of course he realised it had been overheard on high, he thought it might have been overlooked. He drew attention to endless service given without reward, for nobody could describe his stipend as a reward, and also often without proper encouragement, for those put in authority over him, though perhaps gifted in other ways, were brusque and lacking in sympathy. He implored that as a sign that his work was properly noted in Heaven, Alison and Marjorie should become meek, and should show meekness by humbly begging forgiveness for having disobeyed his wishes, and Alison for the words, “Don’t be so silly.” But the day of the christening arrived, and though Maurice was pale from wrestling and his trouser legs creased with kneeling, the sign was not given, and Alison and Marjorie, refusing to notice that he was pained, ate a large breakfast, and immediately afterwards dashed off to catch a train, merely shouting, “See you at the church.” So it was a subdued Maurice who sat beside Doris in the train, and Doris, aware of this, could have shaken him. Here, for the first time, they were important to the family, they had knowledge George and Vera wanted, this was the moment to assert themselves, to refuse to be snubbed and treated as poor relations, and Maurice had to choose this day of all days to look hang-dog. “Do forget what Alison said,” Doris implored, “and give your mind to what we have to say about Clara.” But Maurice looked more hang-dog than ever, and asked how that was possible when his darlings were in that polluted place.
Vera had to change her tone from kindly condescension to warm fondness for a favourite sister-in-law, before Doris allowed Maurice, with much prompting from herself, to speak of Henry’s bedroom. When at last the story was told it was met with incredulity. “You can’t mean you think Clara’s silly about him in that way?” said Vera. “Redecorating a bedroom is not proof of undue affection,” George explained. Doris, her cheeks aflame with the excitement of holding the floor, said that Maurice had not accurately described the room; it was all pink and blue, that a great deal of satin had been used, it was in fact the sort of room you would connect with a film star, rather than with a man servant.
Slowly George and Vera accepted what they were told. Neither mentioned drink, but both wondered if drink had its part in the story. George was unwilling to make a definite decision right away as to what should be done. It was, he said, unfortunately a not uncommon story. The world was full of men waiting to get hold of the money of silly ageing women, who were perhaps lonely. Obviously Henry must be got rid of, but it might not be easy. He would take advice and let them know what was decided.
On the excuse that they must come and see Poppet and Noel enjoying Aunt Clara’s cake and crackers, Freda drew Basil, Ronnie, Ethel, Rita, Tim, Alison and Marjorie out of the party, and beckoned them into her bedroom. There, choking with laughter, she told them what she had learnt from her mother their elders suspected. She was made to repeat the story four times; by the end of the fourth none of them were standing, aching with laughter they were sprawled on the bed or the floor; at intervals one of them would gas
p, “Aunt Clara and Henry!” and another spasm of laughter overcame them. It was in the middle of one of these spasms that the bedroom door opened and Vera came in, followed by George, Maurice and Doris. Vera struggled not to sound cross. The laughter had been heard by the guests, they had tried to say it was the children, but Poppet had spoilt that by coming in to show off a paper hat from a cracker. Really, they must pull themselves together and think of the guests. Maurice, looking more pained than ever, added that Alison should remember she was a godmother and this was a day to be treated seriously.
The arrival of the older generation killed the laughter, and gave Alison and Marjorie a chance to think about what they had been laughing, and to discover it was not funny. They told the truth together, scorn and revulsion growing with each word. They had met Julie, and described her. They told of Clara’s gratitude that by looking after the Marquis children she was able to carry out at least one of Uncle Simon’s requests. Of Henry, who had gladly given up his room to Julie, seeming to think nothing of taking to a camp bed in the drawing-room. They recounted what Clara had told them about the five old horses she had sent to the Frossarts. They repeated what she had said about dog racing, that gambling was wrong, but selling Uncle Simon’s dogs to strangers seemed worse, and, though she was finding it hard to decide what was right, she had more or less decided they should stay with the Perces. They told of the design they had seen for Uncle Simon’s gravestone, and how she believed Uncle Simon had chosen the words to be put on it. Finally, so carried away by indignation she was almost crying, Alison said:
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