05 Whiteoak Heritage

by Mazo de La Roche

  Now it was very pretty with its sharp spears bristling thick and green, tiny clover leaves dotted among it, the insect and worm life again active. It must be fun for the earthworms when they first slid their rears up into the sun, began to eat the earth, pass it through their bodies into neat little piles. But they spoiled the looks of the grass. There was one now, just beside her footstool! She carefully took her foot from the stool and planted it on the tiny mound, flattening it. That was better. The feel of the earth under her foot was good. She took a long look at her foot before replacing it on the stool. She turned it this way and that, marvelling how foot and ankle had kept their contours, as though still ready to run or dance. This was the same foot that had sped across the daisied grass in County Meath, supple and swift.

  She peered down at it, wriggling her toes. They felt stiff, a little rheumatic inside the soft shoe. As she looked, a small curly head appeared from under her chair, bent inquisitively to see what she was looking at. It was the head of her youngest grandson and she remembered with a pang that she had promised Meg to keep an eye on him. Why, he might have got into all sorts of mischief while she sat contemplating the contours of her foot! She peered down at him.

  On the supple pivot of his neck he turned his face up to hers. His mouth was open and she could see right into the moist rosy cavern. She noticed the young animal brightness of his eyes, the shadow of delicacy beneath them, the inquisitive nostrils.

  “Stay just as you are,” she commanded, “and I’ll give you something.”

  She opened a small velvet bag, extracted a peppermint lozenge and popped it into his mouth. His eyes beamed his thanks.

  She was unprepared for what followed — the beam in his eyes turning to a goggling stare. He began to choke. The peppermint had stuck in his throat. She caught him by the shoulder and began to beat him on the back. His face grew scarlet. His eyes rolled at her in distress. She grasped him and tried to stand him on his head. Her chair toppled. She all but fell on him.

  “Help!” she shouted in her vigorous voice. “Help!”

  Meg heard her and came running across the grass.

  “The baby’s choking! Put him upside-down!” In an instant Meg had reversed him. The peppermint lay on the grass. Wakefield screamed against her shoulder.

  “There, there,” she soothed him. “Oh, Gran, how dangerous to give him a small hard sweet! I never do! If I hadn’t heard you — but I can’t bear to think of it!”

  “Bless me, I was all but overturned! You don’t speak of what might have happened to me!”

  “If I ever leave him — he’s always in some danger. Poor darling!”

  “Want the candy,” said Wakefield, blinking down at it through his tears. “Want the peppymint.”

  “No, no, darling! Meggie’ll get you something nice and soft.”

  Old Adeline did not like this ignoring of her own narrow escape.

  “Almost on my head,” she muttered, “and nobody cares.”

  “But Granny, you should have called before — not after.”

  The old lady peered truculently up at Meg from under the edge of the “fascinator.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before you tried to put him on his head.”

  “He’d have choked to death if I’d hesitated. I saved his life.”

  “But the peppermint didn’t come up till I arrived.”

  “Perhaps not. But it was me that brought it up.”

  “Why, Granny, when I picked him up he was choking.”

  “Nothing of the sort. By the time you got here the peppermint was on the grass.”

  “It was not.”

  “It was.”

  They glared at each other. It was not the first time they had had words over Wakefield.

  Adeline was silent for a moment, then said:

  “I’m going to have some sort of spell.”

  Instantly Meg was alarmed for her. She set the child on his feet and bent over her.

  “Are you feeling ill? Shall I fetch Uncle Ernest?”

  “No, no, don’t leave me. There’s that man — Wragge — what’s his name? Tell him to bring me a glass of sherry.” She leant back breathing heavily. The strong hairs on her chin quivered.

  “Will you please bring a glass of sherry quickly,” Meg called to the man. He wheeled as though he had been waiting for the order and ran into the house. He was wearing an old morning coat of Ernest’s and the tails of it flapped behind his knees.

  “Some biscuits too,” called Adeline after him. “I feel faint.”

  She watched Wragge’s hurrying figure as though she were drowning and he in quest of a life-belt. Wakefield picked up the peppermint and put it into his mouth.

  All three waited for Wragge’s return. He brought two glasses of sherry on a small silver tray and a plate of arrowroot biscuits. He was only thirty-five but his face was wizened and cynical. He produced a harmless, benign expression on it, as though it were another biscuit. He was determined to make himself indispensible in this house.

  Old Adeline stretched out a handsome wrinkled hand toward the sherry. She also took a biscuit.

  Wragge addressed Meg. “I thought,” he said “as ’ow you might like a little somefink too, miss, seeing as you took almost no breakfast.”

  Meg was pleased that her delicate appetite had been noted but she was puzzled. He explained.

  “I was ’elping Eliza to clear away the breakfast things. I worried when I saw your plite.”

  Adeline stretched out her hand for another biscuit. “I was just shaping for a bout of something,” she said, “but it’s passed.” She beamed at Wragge. “You were just in time. I may be old and weak but I saved this child’s life. It was a terrible effort.” Again she put the sherry to her lips.

  “It fairly took me breath away, ma’am. It was wonderful.” Then he caught Meg’s look of irritation and hastened to give her one of understanding.

  “Baby have a biscuit,” said Meg, offering him one.

  “No, Baby has the peppymint.”

  “Look out!” cried his grandmother. “He will choke again! Reverse him!”

  Meg, in trepidation, caught him up. Her wineglass was upset. “Spit it out this instant!” she commanded.

  Wakefield began to choke.

  “What did I tell you!”

  “Put it out, darling!”

  “Perhaps I could ’elp,” said Wragge.

  Meg surrendered the little one and closed her eyes against the sight of Wragge’s joggling him by the ankles.

  “Stop!” cried Adeline. “It’s up!”

  Sitting on Wragge’s arm Wakefield shrieked joyfully — “Do it again!

  Do it again!”

  “Put him here,” said Adeline, spreading her lap. “I will give him a biscuit soaked in sherry.”

  In the kitchen Wragge said to Maggie, the cook — “That there old lidy is making a spoilt kid of that there, if ever there was one.”

  “They all are,” she returned. “Him being posthumourous and knowing as a monkey.”

  “Some cooks won’t stay where there’s spoilt children and old folk to be waited on. Some won’t stay where there’s a basement kitchen.”

  She was preparing the vegetables. Now she deeply dug out the eyes of a potato and said:

  “No — and some won’t stay where there’s a useless man hanging about.”

  He grinned, his jutting chin giving him an impudent look that was not displeasing to her. He watched her plump red hands that looked so clean in the murky water. “I’m going to be a lot of ’elp to you,” he said.”

  She glared at him. “Well, I’d like to know how.”

  “Wait and see.”

  “I’ll bet I wait a long time.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  Masterfully he took the knife from her hand and set about peeling the potatoes. “I can’t ’ave you doing dirty work like this,” he said.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and watched him skeptically. “If you
keep on like that you’ll pare it all away.”

  They compared the wet brown parings.

  Eliza came down the stairs from above, carrying a tray. She gave them a look of hate. Maggie had been a year in the house and Eliza had liked her less every day, even though she had to admit that she was an excellent cook. Now the addition of this cheeky Cockney to the kitchen made her feel that she was being forcibly pushed out. She had been going anyway but hers was still the will that ruled the housework. She was teaching Wragge how to wait at table, trying to make him understand that his nails should not be broken and dirty, brushing the dandruff from his shoulders before he carried in the tea. She looked down from the height of her long ears of perfect service at this worm, pushing himself in — pushing her out. She was going anyway, worn out in the service of this family, she repeated to herself, but she hated the sight of Wragge.

  His very politeness was an insult. Now he sprang forward and took the tray from her hands.

  “Allow me,” he said, at the same time giving Maggie a wink. “I can’t bear to see you carrying that there load. You ain’t fit for it.”

  Eliza surrendered it without thanks and stalked to a window level with the grassy verge above. She rested her knuckles on the table that stood below the window and stared out into the sunny yard. There were clotheslines there and Ernest Whiteoak had hung his spring overcoat on one and was refreshing it with a good brushing on preparation for the season’s wear. What did he mean, Eliza thought, by brushing his own coat? That had always been her job. Probably he thought she was too weak. Probably he thought she would fall down if she wielded a brush. A chill rage welled up inside her. Her knuckles grew white on the table.

  “You better go,” she said to Wragge, “and help Mr. Ernest with his coat.”

  “Right — o!” sang out Wragge, and he darted through the kitchen door, up the three steps to the yard and bent his solicitous head before Ernest.

  “Can I ’elp you, sir?” He got the brush into his own hand.

  Ernest was glad because he was standing on the wrong side of the line and the breeze was blowing bits of fluff into his eyes.

  “If you would put the coat on, sir,” suggested Wragge.

  Ernest, with his help, donned the coat.

  “Not many gentlemen,” said Wragge, brushing furiously, “’ave such a figger as you ’ave, sir, at fifty.”

  Ernest smiled delightedly. “Fifty! I’m sixty-five!”

  “Noa, noa, sir — I can’t believe it!”

  Eliza could not hear what was being said but she could imagine. “Go on,” she sneered, between her clenched teeth, “flatter him — worm your way in!”

  Ernest kept on the coat and joined his mother on the lawn. He had given Wragge a silk muffler he had found in the pocket of his coat. The day before he had seen Nicholas give him something. It was not well to let his brother get in ahead of him. He strode out, feeling that he looked well in the coat. His shadow lay on the grass, showing the elegant waistline.

  The old lady sat tranquil, Wakefield sunk in the delicious depth of her lap. She dipped bits of biscuit into her glass of sherry and put them into his mouth. He kept his eyes on her face with the unquestioning pleasure of a little animal. Meg sat in a wicker chair reading one of Jane Austen’s novels, not because she was trying to be modern or because she thought her books “delicious” or “delightful,” but because Jane Austen had always been her favourite author.

  Ernest turned round in front of them.

  “How do you think it looks? That man of Renny’s gave it a good brushing.”

  “Why don’t you buy a new one?” asked his mother. “Your father always bought a new one.”

  “You must know by this time, Mamma, that my financial position is not what my father’s was.”

  “What’s the use of having a good shape if you don’t dress it properly?”

  “Do you think I should have a new coat, my dear?”

  Meg pursed her lips. “This one looks very nice, but in the spring sunshine —”

  “That settles it,” said Ernest. “I shall go to my tailor today and order a new one.” He turned suddenly to his mother. “Do you think that Renny is a bit close?”

  She peered about her “Nearby d’ye mean? I want to see him.”

  “No, no. I mean close. ”

  “Close by?” She peered around the edge of her fascinator. “I’ve a bone to pick with him. Where is he?”

  Ernest sighed. “Mamma, I mean close-fisted.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I do. He’s like my father, I’m sorry to say. My father, old Dennis Court, he’d skin a flea for its hide and tallow. There was nothing he wouldn’t do.”

  “But you are always saying, Granny, how many servants he kept,” said Meg.

  “He kept them because they couldn’t leave him, he owed them so much.”

  “But I don’t think Renny’s close. He only has asked questions. Like about the pigs.”

  “He has been gong over the accounts, reckoning the vet’s bill, the feed bill, wondering why there isn’t feed enough raised on the place for horses and stock.”

  “And he home only a week!” cried Adeline. “And with a medal! That ought to be enough for him.”

  It made Meg unhappy to hear her best-loved brother criticized. Her face flushed as she defended him. “But he must understand the place. After all, it’s his. He’s got three boys to educate. And Baby coming on.”

  “Baby wants more sops,” said Wakefield.

  “Yes, my pet,” said Adeline. “This child would never live if I hadn’t an eye to him.” She filled his little mouth.

  “It’s quite true,” went on Meg, “that the boy’s clothes have cost a lot. Their tennis rackets, their skates, their camping trips all mount up. Renny says why can’t we give them more stews and fewer cutlets.”

  “Has he been into all that?” cried Ernest.

  “By the time he’s middle-aged,” said Adeline, “he’ll be a skinflint.”

  “Here he comes,” said Meg.

  Adeline watched the approach of the tall figure of the Master of Jalna with some uneasiness. She hoped he would not suggest that she might contribute to the family exchequer. She had no intention of doing any such thing. She had her own private fortune and she meant to hang on to it. Her husband had left her a third of his money. The remaining two-thirds he had divided among her three sons, also bequeathing house and land to the youngest and least extravagant. Nicholas and Ernest had made their shares last for twenty years and thought they had done well with it, considering that they had lived in England among people of expensive tastes. They had gone into several ventures to increase their incomes but these had always failed. At the time of their younger brother’s death they had come home to Jalna and were settled down quite happily. They had felt that their presence was more or less necessary there. Now that Renny had come home they had, mingled with their sense of relief at his preservation, a stirring of resentment at his obvious desire to take over the reins.

  “Renny has ridden too much,” observed Ernest, “he’s a bit bow-legged.”

  “Uncle!” cried Meg, “What nonsense! Renny has beautiful legs.”

  “He has the rider’s gait. Back a little bent. Legs slightly bowed. Hard and wiry.”

  “He’ll have his hands full,” said Adeline, “if he tries to domineer over this household.”

  She pushed out her underlip and watched the approach of her eldest grandson. She bent and whispered into Wakefield’s ear — “Granny’s pet. Mustn’t go to soldier man.”

  “What’s he do?” whispered Wakefield.

  “Kills people.” Her long arm pressed the little body protectively. “Stay with Granny.”

  Renny came, slapping his hands together. “Hello, Wake! Come and have a ride on my shoulder.”

  Wakefield burrowed his curly head into his grandmother’s side. She hastily finished the sherry lest it should be spilt.

  “Go along, darling,” urged Meg, drawing him upright. �
��Go to Renny.”

  “No. No.” He squirmed and burrowed. Renny’s eyes hardened. He showed his chagrin. He took Wakefield from Adeline’s lap and held him at arm’s length. No one was prepared for the shrieks that came from his squared mouth, as though without his volition. His face turned white. Renny set him down. At once he was quiet.

  “What in thunder is the matter with him?”

  “He’s shy,” said Meg.

  “Shy! He’s utterly spoilt.”

  “He thinks you’ll hurt him.”

  “So I shall — if he doesn’t behave himself.”

  He had been home a fortnight, and to speak so peremptorily! Meg flushed.

  “I’m worn out,” said Adeline. “I want to go into the house. Give me your arm, Ernest.” But she was really amused and exhilarated.

  “It hasn’t been very restful for you, Mamma,” remarked Ernest as he helped her to her feet.

  Piers came round the side of the house wheeling his bicycle. A small case was on the carrier behind.

  “I’m off,” he said, kissing Meg.

  “Where are you going?” asked Renny.

  Piers returned his look with nonchalance.

  “With Tom Fennel — camping over the weekend.”

  “Who said you might?”

  “I told Meg I was going.” There was almost effrontery in his tone, and he fourteen. Now was the time for a lesson.

  “You told Meg you were going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well — put that bicycle away and next time you want to go off for the weekend, ask me.”

  Their eyes, bright blue and fiery brown, held their antagonism in mid-air for a space. Then Piers turned, wheeled his bicycle back to the house, went behind it, out of sight, somehow containing the fury that was in him for that space. The he hurled the bicycle to the ground. The case fell off and he kicked it. It flew open. He kicked it till the clothes inside were scattered on the grass. In his blind anger he kicked the pedal of the bicycle and hurt his toes. He kicked the bicycle in its spokes. Just as he did this Renny came round the corner of the house. They stared at each other, neither wishing that the situation might be different. There was a triumphant light in both faces.