by Julian Gloag
Mrs. Stork had a fat and jolly manner that her thin, but heavily dewlapped, face belied. She was always sweating—she smelt of cheese—and in off moments would wipe it away with anything handy; Hubert had seen her do it once on the lace curtains in the front room. He’d investigated afterwards and found the curtain covered with little black streaks.
“Elsa wants to speak to you.”
“She does, does she? Well, it’s nice to know there’s somebody round here who don’t lock themselves in their room and won’t come out even to talk to an old—” She caught the expression on Hubert’s face and flapped her duster at him. “Oh, don’t mind me, love, I don’t mean no ’arm. Just this weather. I wouldn’t want to disturb no one if they’re sick. If they’re sick.”
Hubert said. “I’ll tell Elsa you’re here.”
“That’s right. Save my old bones. Berty—” she called out as he left the room, “you might ask her to bring me a cup if the kettle’s on the boil. I could do with a sit down.” She gazed round the room and spotted Jiminee. “Hello, there’s a quiet one. What are you up to, Jimmy?” She came up behind him and peered at his drawing. “Artistic. What is it?”
Jiminee put down his pencil. “It’s the seaside.”
“Loverly. Is that supposed to be a man there?”
“He’s fishing.”
Mrs. Stork breathed out. “Well, I never seen the seaside with just one man fishin’. You want to put some more people in there, Jimmy—there’s always a lot of people at the seaside, I should have thought you’d know that.”
“This is a l-lonely seaside.”
“Lonely! Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to go there for a holiday—go there for a holiday. No. What’s them yellow patches in the water?”
“D-don’t you know how the sun shines on the w-water in the summer?”
“I expect I seen the sea a good bit more than you. I never seen it look yellow like that. A yellow sea. Meant to be China or something, I suppose?” Mrs. Stork laughed. “Chinese seaside.”
Jiminee reached out and picked up his pencil. He held it, not attempting to draw, not saying anything.
Mrs. Stork’s chuckles diminished to a mellow wheeze. “It’s a lovely painting, ducks, all the same.” She sighed. “My John used to like to sit and draw like you. Anything he’d draw—snakes and birds and—” Mrs. Stork gestured vaguely, “and trees. I always said he’d have ’ad a wonderful way with a paint brush. If he’d lived. A wonderful way. But he was taken from us—me and my Tiger. He was younger than you. Five he was. He was five.” She shifted so that she could see Jiminee’s face. “In the midst of life we are in death.”
Mrs. Stork pressed the duster to her forehead. For a moment red pressure marks showed along the frown lines. “Tell old Mrs. Stork, Jimmy,” she said, “is your ma real bad?”
Jiminee raised his eyes. He began to shake and a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “I think Elsa’s c-coming n-now.”
Mrs. Stork turned quickly as Elsa and Hubert came into the room. “Oh, Elsa love, I was wonderin’ where you’d got to. Have you brought me my tea?”
“I put the kettle on. It’ll be ready in a little while.”
Mrs. Stork’s face drew together at the mouth like a string purse. “Oh, dear, I was looking forward to a nice cup.”
“Well, it won’t be long. Mother asked me to tell you we won’t be needing you for the next fortnight.”
“Well, I suppose I can wait. Been waiting all my life I ’ave—waitin’ to get ’ooked, waiting up nights for my Tiger, waiting by my little Johnny’s bedside when he was sick. I ought to be used to it. What d’you say, ducks?”
Elsa hesitated, and Hubert moved a little closer to her. “I said we shan’t be needing you for the next fortnight, Mrs. Stork. So could I have your key?”
Mrs. Stork blew out a quantity of air. “That’s what I thought you said. Well, you will have your little joke, I suppose. I always said you kids had funny ways. But it ain’t nice to tease a body my age—”
“But I’m not teasing, Mrs. Stork. We just shan’t be needing you for a little bit, that’s all.”
“That’s all. You come in ’ere and just ask me ever so calm to leave! And—”
“It’s just for a fortnight.”
“Fortnight—don’t give me that one. I know this ‘just a fortnight, Mrs. Stork’—don’t you think nobody ever tried to give me the sack before? Just a fortnight! An’ who are you to tell me, eh? That’s what I’d like to know. Why don’t Mrs. Hook see me herself? Why don’t she tell me?”
“That’s just it. Mother’s sick. She’s very ill and she’s got to go away. That’s what the doctor says—she’s got to go away to the seaside and—and we’re all going with her so you see there won’t be anyone here and—”
“Doctor! Doctor!” Mrs. Stork rose a pitch. “Since when ’as your mum taken to seeing doctors?”
“Since just the other day,” Hubert said. “Dr. Meadows came to see her.”
“That’s a lot of tarrydiddle! That’s a fine tale! You can’t tell me Mrs. ’ook would ever ask a doctor to come round! She hates ’em—the whole breed of ’em. I know. Don’t I just. You standing there as bold as brass, ’oo d’you think brought you into the world, eh? ’oo do you think nursed ’er and looked after ’er and run up an’ down stairs for ’er and gave her the comfort the poor soul cried out for in ’er pain and sorrow? Me—Mrs. Stork. These ’ere hands held you when none of you weren’t more ’an a second old, when you was crying and screaming for the breath you breathe so lordly now. Wasn’t it these hands that boiled the water to wash you and clean you, that wrapped you and made you comfy? And wasn’t it these ’ere you sucked on when you weren’t ’ardly old enough to open your eyes and when she hadn’t the milk left in ’er poor body? And wasn’t it these eyes of mine that saw her groaning and screaming in agony and shame for ’er sin? For ’er sin? Yes, that’s what you are, bastards—the ’ole pack of you! Did I ever blame ’er, did these lips ever remind ’er of her shame, did I ever let on? Never! Mother—she ain’t so pure, she’s ’uman like the rest of us an’ the sooner you learn it the better. An’ you, so proud and fancy now, you’ll find out—”
With her full strength Elsa slapped Mrs. Stork across the face.
Mrs. Stork’s mouth remained open. The mark on her cheek slowly filled with blood, until the outline of Elsa’s hand showed bright on the sallow skin. Mrs. Stork glanced swiftly at the tense faces of the children. She looked down at her feet and after a while her fingers gently started to knead the blue duster. She began to speak again, in a low, expressionless tone.
“I’m not used to being hit. Fancy you ’itting me. I nursed you when you was a baby an’ now you ’it me. My Tiger—’e don’t never hit me, my Tiger don’t. Once—just once he ’it me, a long time ago, when we was first married. We hadn’t been married more ’an three months. It was at breakfast one mornin’, suddenly he ups and give me a clout, just like you did—right on the face. Just like you did. An’ he says, ‘you ugly old bag, you,’ that’s what he says, ‘you ugly old bag you, what do you think I married you for if you can’t even fry an egg proper.’ He never hit me again, not after that. My Tiger. We’re a lovin’ couple now we are. He’s a kind man, he is; he’d do anything for anybody. But people don’t want help nowdays.” She lifted her head a fraction. “Nobody wants help, ’e liked to work at the garden ’ere—on the days he’d come ’ere, ‘well, old girl,’ he’d say to me, ‘well, old girl, this is the best day in the week for me this is.’ He liked to dig at that sunk garden—he always likes to do a proper job, ’e does. He was lookin’ forward to putting all those bricks in, yes, he was. But Mrs. ’ook, she don’t want ’im no more. An’ now you gone an’ builded that silly little shed. It don’t ’alf look silly sitting there in the lily bed. But it ain’t none of my business. I know that. Nothing ain’t none of my business anymore. I been livin’ in a foolish paradise. I thought I was welcome ’ere. A foolish paradise. Well, if she thinks
she can get on without Mrs. Stork, good luck to ’er. If she thinks she can get on without Mrs. Stork.” She sighed.
“Mrs. Stork,” Elsa began, “it’s only for a fort—”
“No. Don’t say no more, love. What’s done’s done. I know when I’m not wanted. I’ve felt it coming. Just because I’m always cheery, doesn’t mean I haven’t been upset these last weeks with your mum shutting ’erself up in ’er room. I don’t expect she even wants to see me now. I don’t ’spect she wants to see anyone much—except the doctor.’
Hubert said, “It’s true about the doctor, Mrs. Stork.”
“If you say so, love. If you say so. Well, I’ll be going down now. I’ll put the key on the kitchen table for you. I don’t—I don’t suppose you’d mind if I had a cuppa before I leave? No—well, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Stork sighed and the hand with the blue duster hovered towards her eyes. “I won’t say no more. I won’t say no more.”
She went quickly to the door, then paused and turned round. Carefully she looked from one to the other. “Though I well could,” she snapped, “though I well could.” She stepped into the passage and pulled the door to behind her.
Hubert’s knees were weak. He wished they hadn’t had to tell her here—not in his workshop. To have to listen to her say all that about Mother …
“Isn’t she awful?” Jiminee said suddenly.
Hubert nodded seriously. That was just it. She was awful—the most awful thing on earth.
“Sssh!” said Elsa, “she may be just outside.”
Hubert moved quickly to the door and yanked it open. He looked straight across the landing to Mother’s room. Mrs. Stork was at Mother’s door, slowly turning the handle this way and that. Hubert thought, bending over that door handle she looks just like a big rat. Then she glanced up and saw him. At once her lips tightened—it was a smile. She cleared her throat as Elsa joined Hubert.
“I was just—just wanting to say goodbye to your mum.” She straightened up and smoothed her skirt with her hands. “That’s all,” she smiled again, “just to say goodbye. But I ’spect she’s asleep now, eh? Well, that’s all right then, I won’t trouble her. I’ll be running along now.”
The three children came out onto the landing. There was barely room for Mrs. Stork to get past to the stairs. Still smiling, she sidled by them.
They looked over the banisters and watched her go down the stairs. She was agile for a large woman. Almost at the bottom, she stopped and raised her eyes to where the children observed her. There was no expression in her face at all as she stared.
Then she disappeared. They heard her footsteps in the hall, and the sound of the door down to the basement. After that, silence.
“Well,” said Jiminee at last, “w-what I say is—g-good riddance to b-b-bad rub-b-b-bbish.” He grinned.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Hubert murmured. He grinned back.
After a moment’s hesitation, Elsa grinned too. And they stood there smiling at each other, thinking of old Talk-Stork—gone at last.
12
Hubert stood close to the tabernacle. Diana was inside, he knew, for every so often he heard the small sounds she made. They were like gentle, low laughter.
He hesitated to call to her—“Tea’s ready, Dinah!” It would be a kind of—a kind of insubordination. No, that wasn’t the right word. It would be like what Jesus said about those money men in the temple. He touched the rough yellow brick of the tabernacle. The cement had never dried properly. He pressed his hand hard against the wall and drew it downwards. He examined the grazes—little specks of blood were growing in the white trackmarks the bricks had made on his skin.
He heard the noise from inside again. He sighed.
The garden was hot and close. The trees whispered. It would rain before long. Already there was a jungle gloom at the bottom of the garden where the yew and myrtle grew.
Last summer, down there, they had played the jungle game all summer long. “I’ll be the lion—I’ll be the tiger—I’ll be the wolf—I’ll be the elephant—and I’ll be the hunter, the hunter, the hunter.” They hadn’t played jungles once this year yet.
Hubert raised his fist to his mouth and sucked at the beads of blood. Perhaps they’d play it tomorrow—now that Mrs. Stork had gone and the holidays had come so there was no need to fear Miss Deke with her eyes that could tell at once if you lied. Of course they wouldn’t do it while Diana was there. Diana wouldn’t want to play anyway. Nor would Dunstan.
Hubert felt a spasm of anger at the thought of Dunstan. It was all right for Diana—she’d always been different, dreamy. She didn’t interfere really; all she wanted to do was to spend hours and hours in the tabernacle. With Mother. She got all excited when she read the words of the Bible to the children, but that was the only time she was what you’d call funny. Dunstan, though—always bossing everyone around and making up new rules. He never paid any attention to the rules himself. It was hard enough to get Gerty and Willy to obey, without having them always chant, “But Dunstan doesn’t—Dinah never does.” You could never talk to Dun either. He always knew best—he always made you look like a fool.
Hubert clenched his fist in memory of the blow he’d struck Dunstan that morning—it was the first bit of satisfaction he’d had in a long time.
But it wasn’t any good really. Elsa was right. He knew that.
He moved away from the tabernacle into the bed of lilies of the valley. The cool leaves caressed his sandaled feet. The lilies were long over. He sniffed for a trace of lily perfume, but all he smelled was the dusty scent of the apple-tree bark. The swing hung from the branch as stiff as if the ropes were made of iron. The tiny breeze had stopped altogether, but it would be a little time yet before the rain started.
Hubert decided not to call Diana—it wouldn’t be the first time she had missed tea. And besides, it seemed wrong to break the absolute silence and stillness of the garden where Diana communed with Mother in the tabernacle.
He turned and walked quickly to the back door.
“Can we have biscuits today, Elsa?” asked Gerty.
Hubert grinned as he took his place. Elsa grinned too—Dunstan was missing and there was a noticeable feeling of relief in the air.
“It’s not really biscuit day.”
“I know there’s biscuits in the cupboard. There’s lots of biscuits. I know there is.”
“Well …”
“Oh, let’s,” said Willy.
“They’re choc biscuits too,” added Gerty.
“Go on, Else,” Hubert said, “why not? After all, it’s the first day of the holidays.”
Elsa laughed. “All right then. We’ll have biscuits. And as a special treat, Gerty can open them.”
Gerty took triumphant possession of the packet. It was long and thin. Reverently her small plump hands removed the yellow wrapping, and then a layer of red corrugated paper, which she crunched in her fist to hear the crisp paper sound. Hubert thought, watching Gerty with food made everything taste better somehow. One by one she picked the biscuits out of their wrapping and laid them on the plate. “One for Gerty … one for Elsa … one for Hubert … one for Jiminee … one for Willy.” She paused. “And another one for Gerty,” she said, putting a sixth biscuit on the plate, “ ’cause she’s good.” She looked up, grinning broadly.
Covertly they all looked at Elsa. Elsa was stern—one each was the rule—but her mouth wouldn’t obey properly and, suddenly, she gave up the struggle and grinned back. Jiminee began to giggle, then Willy, then Hubert—taken with a froth of giggles and, above their noise, Gerty’s crow of delight.
“Oooh, Gerty!” And they laughed the more.
“One for my black wife!” cried Willy.
“You and your black wife!”
“Two for everyone!” yelled Jiminee. And Gerty lifted the end of the packet and let all the biscuits pour out with a great whoosh. They mounted on the plate and toppled and fell off the edge and rolled across the table. The children put their heads
back and bowed their heads and held their bellies and rocked and gurgled. Big rich tears rolled from their eyes.
The biscuits spun and tottered and fell. “Oh,” said Elsa, “ooooh!”
Willy snatched at a biscuit rolling towards him and put it to his lips to lick the chocolate off. His mouth became a grinning chocolate smear, and the mirth gathered the children together and shook them until gradually they were exhausted.
The biscuits were passed round—one for everybody. Hubert began to eat. He looked down at his plate, watching the way the blue lines on the plate pranced and winced through the water in his eyes. If he breathed regularly and not too deeply, he wouldn’t disturb that tremulous bell of laughter that hung poised somewhere in his chest.
“D-do you know this one?” asked Jiminee. “What’s the d-difference between a t-tree in autumn and an aeroplane that’s going to t-t-take off?”
Nobody trusted himself to answer. Already suppressed bursts of laughter surrounded Jiminee—old Jiminee with his stale riddles that everyone knew weeks ago.
“G-give up?” Jiminee enquired with triumph. “Well, a t-tree in autumn sheds its leaves and an aeroplane that’s going to t-take off—c-c-c-comes out of its hangar!”
A shout of laughter burst out. “Jiminee, oh, Jiminee.” Their tired stomach muscles could hardly bear it. Only Jiminee was not convulsed—what an audience! He sat admiring the laughter he had made; nobody ever laughed like that at his jokes. Nobody, nobody. He was dizzy, but calm—and he smiled steadily, without a flicker.
“Oh, Jiminee—you got it wrong again!”
“Comes out of its hangar!” The laughter blossomed and burst again.
Gerty held on to a deep breath long enough to gabble, “It doesn’t come out of its hangar, silly, it leaves its shed!”
Jiminee’s grin ebbed. “D-did I say it wrong?”
“It doesn’t matter, Jiminee, it doesn’t matter,” Hubert managed to call out of the giggles that swept him.
Jiminee hesitated—for a moment he did not smile at all—but the looks the others gave him were not tormenting and the laughter did not hurt. He laughed too—embracing their happiness.