Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  The beam of the torch swung slowly away from him and came to rest on Gerty’s tear-bruised face.

  “Why did the garage man give you the ten bob, Gerty?” Dunstan asked quietly.

  Gerty did not stir. She had stopped crying, but her eyes, afraid and watching, glistened with tears.

  “He took you in the back room, didn’t he?” Dunstan coaxed. “We know he did, Gerty—Jiminee just said so. You might as well admit it. He took you into the back room by yourself, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Gerty’s whisper was as small as the rustle of an autumn leaf.

  Dunstan cut off the light. At once the darkness seemed physically to touch them. The mild dry sobs of Jiminee ceased and in the sudden silence they heard the reluctant drip of the last of the raindrops outside.

  “Ah!” It was hard to know who made the noise—soft and gentle, it made Hubert shiver for a second in the heat of the tabernacle.

  “Ah!” Dunstan. He paused. “What did you do in the back room, Gerty?” His voice was low-toned—stealthy.

  There was no answer.

  Sitting straight up on his patch of damp carpet, Hubert felt the blood beat on each side of his forehead. His fingers found the sore place on his knuckles. He dug his nails in and pressed hard.

  “What did you do in the back room, Gerty?”

  Hubert shut his eyes tight. The stars moved dashingly behind his eyelids, slowed, merged, separated and were still. They were bright marks on the dark surface—scars on a polished floor board.

  “Stop it!” he cried. “Stop it!”

  “But, Hu,” murmured Diana, “Mother wants to—”

  “Stop it! stop it! stop it!”

  “Yes—why don’t you leave her alone?” It was Elsa.

  “Leave her alone?” Dunstan was incredulous. He waited a moment, and then the light flashed out at Gerty. “Did the garage man leave you alone, Gerty?”

  The little girl gasped.

  “Did he leave you alone?”

  “You must answer,” said Diana.

  “He didn’t—did he?”

  Mouth open, Gerty drew a long trembling breath.

  “He touched you—didn’t he? Didn’t he, Gerty? Didn’t he?”

  “Oh shut up, shut up!” Hubert wrenched his coiled legs apart and stood up—his head met the boarded roof with a crack. Half-stunned, he fell back.

  “You all right, Hu?” whispered Elsa.

  He touched the top of his head and it was wet. Water? Blood? All he was aware of was the agony of pins and needles in his legs. The stars were whirling and exploding in his knees and thighs. “Oh,” he said, “oh—you don’t understand!”

  “I understand!” said Dunstan fiercely. “Diana and I understand—even if you don’t. We know Gerty was vulgar!”

  “I wasn’t vulgar—I wasn’t!” Gerty wailed.

  “Prove it!”

  “I wasn’t, I wasn’t.”

  “Why did he give you the ten bob then? It was a reward, wasn’t it? What was it a reward for? What did he make you do? Answer, Gerty, answer!”

  “I …”

  “What did you do?”

  Gertie began to cry with choking sobs.

  “What did you do?”

  “It … was only … pretend,” she heaved the words between her sobs. “He said … to pretend he was … my daddy.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I—I took off my clothes.”

  The whispered words fell. There was a stillness as if everyone had ceased to breathe. The beam of light travelled slowly down Gerty’s body, onto the carpet, and settled on the white purse.

  Then Dunstan uttered one word. “Harlot!”

  “Oh, Mother,” mourned Diana, “Mother!”

  “Harlot!” Dunstan burst out into passion. “Vulgar beast! Whore of Babylon! Filthy little guttersnipe!”

  “How could she be so wicked?” cried Diana.

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by Gerty’s fearful sniffle. Dunstan cut off the light.

  “She must be punished,” he said.

  There was a long pause. Outside it had begun to rain once more.

  “Punishment is pain.” Diana’s voice had gone into a singsong chant. Hubert gripped his knee.

  “Punishment is pain,” Dunstan repeated.

  “Pain is punishment.”

  “Pain is punishment.”

  Hubert gripped tighter. “Mother doesn’t say that,” he whispered out of a dry mouth.

  The light flicked on full in his face.

  “Pain is punishment,” came Dunstan’s voice hard and flat.

  “Punishment is pain.”

  Hubert tried to unlock his cramped knees, but Elsa’s hand slipped into his and pressed him down firmly. “Mother …” he tried again, but his voice wasn’t working properly.

  Dunstan shone the torch steadily.

  “Punishment is pain,” chanted Diana. “Gerty is wicked. Mother is hurt.”

  “Gerty must pay.”

  “She must pay for her wickedness,” Diana’s voice rose high.

  “She must pay with pain.”

  “She must pay with pain,” chanted Diana, “for the pain she has given to you, Mother.”

  Gerty gave a single whimper of fear.

  “What shall be her punishment?” cried Dunstan.

  Diana did not answer at once. Instead, there came an odd gurgling sound from where she sat. Hubert stared hard into the darkness, but the bright eye of the torch protected her from all sight. In his stomach he grew suddenly afraid. The gurgling rose to a higher note as though his sister was being strangled.

  And then, it seemed to be from the corner where no one was, the basket chair creaked. It was the creak of somebody sitting down. From the same corner there was a little yelp—and silence.

  The torch went out; but the image of light still blocked the children’s sight.

  Then it came out of nowhere—tiny and high-pitched, the tinkle of an ancient gramophone: “Take away the comb.”

  There was a rasping breath. “Take away the comb and cut off her hair. Cut off her hair and destroy her vainglory. She must be punished.”

  The voice wheezed. Then it started again: “Punish her with silence. Leave her alone. None must be touched by her vainglory and her deceit. Punish her.” It paused, and then, in pain of a great tiredness, it went on. “Do not speak to her, nor touch her—until her hair is grown long again and she has repented of her wickedness. Punish the sinful daughter … daughter. Daughter of sin.”

  The voice deepened and faded, as if running down at last, “of sin … sin … sin.”

  No one spoke or thought of speaking. Outside the wind blew a gust of rain against the roof. Hubert listened to it, trying to forget the voice that had not come from Diana nor from any one of them sitting still in the tabernacle of fear.

  After a while Dunstan spoke. “Thank you, Mother.”

  It began to rain harder.

  14

  Dunstan watched from the stairs as Elsa gave them a last inspection. “Turn them over, Jiminee,” she said. She lifted his hands and looked at the fingernails. “Passed.” Jiminee, Hubert, Diana, Willy—they all passed.

  “Well, I think we’re ready now,” she said, and she gave Willy’s head a light pat. “Come on, children.”

  As they walked down the path and out onto the street, Hubert caught up with his eldest sister. “What d’you think he asked us for?” he said.

  “Who?” Elsa asked curtly.

  “Old Halby—why’d he ask us to tea?”

  “I expect he’s trying to be kind.”

  Hubert was troubled. “You don’t think he suspects anything?”

  Elsa glanced down at him as they climbed the steps to the Halberts’ front door. “Don’t be a silly,” she said. She reached up and pulled the bell. Inside the bells rang—one, two, three-four—each on a different note.

  “Chimes,” Hubert announced.

  Willy smiled. “Do it again, Elsa.”

 
; Elsa shook her head. “It’s not polite to ring more than once.”

  Suddenly Hubert thought of Flight-Sergeant Millard—he’d rung more than once. He’d rung again and again and again. He wasn’t polite, but then, the phrase fell into Hubert’s mind, he wasn’t a gentleman. He started to speak when the door was opened by a small mouse-brown woman in an apron and cap.

  “Hello,” she said, “you must be the Hook children. Will you come in?” She held the door wide and one by one the children stepped inside. It was cool in the house and dark when the maid shut the door. “My name’s Joan,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Halbert are expecting you in the garden. Would you like to wash your hands before I show you the way?”

  “No, thank you,” Elsa said.

  “We’re all quite clean, thank you very much,” added Willy.

  Joan grinned. “Well, you look lovely.” She put out her hand to touch Willy, but he ducked quickly. Joan’s grin broadened. “Would you follow me, please,” she said, suddenly solemn again.

  Hubert waited for the others to go first. He peeped quickly into the drawing room as they went past. It was a beautiful house. The carpet in the hall was rich and so thick he couldn’t hear anything, even when he surreptitiously stamped. And the floor boards were bright as mirrors. As they went by the window at the end of the hall, he reached out to touch the heavy curtains—they were dark red, with a leaf pattern in gold thread, but so fine that he wouldn’t have noticed it unless he’d looked closely. As they stepped out onto the terrace, he wondered what the point was of having something beautiful that you couldn’t even see.

  Mr. Halbert rose slowly from his deck chair, but Mrs. Halbert was already darting forward to greet them. “How nice of you to come. Dear me now, you must introduce yourselves—we’ve never been properly introduced, have we?” She drew in a quick, gasping breath—Hubert noticed at once that she never seemed to breathe out—only in. He wondered what she did with all that air. “I’m Lily Halbert—Mrs. Halbert, that is—and this is my husband—Mr. Halbert.”

  Mr. Halbert nodded. “Samuel,” he said—as if he liked to have everything straight. “You’re Hubert, aren’t you? I know you—you’re the chap who opened the door to me yesterday.”

  Mrs. Halbert laughed on an indrawn breath. “And I know Elsie, don’t I, Elsie?”

  “Elsa.”

  “Elsa—oh, dear, I am sorry. Well now, Elsa, you must introduce us to the others. Now you’re the pretty one, so you must be—”

  Hubert caught the frown that passed quickly across old Halby’s forehead. He made up his mind to try and sit next to Halby at tea. He was suddenly quite sure that Mrs. Halbert had nasty-smelling breath. Lily—what a silly name. Silly Lily. But, more than that, he had to find out if Halby suspected anything.

  The introductions were over, but Mrs. Halbert was hurrying on, “—waited so long for this moment. And now it’s come. It does seem so silly for us to have been neighbours all this time and never to have said two words to each other—well, except ‘good morning’—I suppose that’s two words.” She breathed in a giggle that sounded as though she was about to burst into tears. Elsa was trying to speak, but Mrs. Halbert went straight on, “How sweet of your mother to let you come. But I thought perhaps she might be a teeny-weeny bit relieved to have an hour or two of peace and quiet on a hot Sunday afternoon?” She arched her eyebrows. “Not that, of course—oh, dear, no—we didn’t want you to come. Oh, we’re delighted, aren’t we, Sammy?”

  Halby made an indistinct noise in his throat. “Why don’t we all sit down and get on with the real business—tea, eh?”

  “I’m sorry,” Elsa began almost desperately.

  “What is it, my dear?” Mrs. Halbert looked suddenly pained.

  “I’m sorry the others couldn’t come. Only Gerty isn’t feeling very well, and Dunstan stayed to look after her.”

  Mrs. Halbert’s pain was somewhat less. “I hope it’s nothing serious?”

  “No, just a tummy ache.”

  “Oh, well then—we must remember to send her a piece of cake, as a token of good will, mustn’t we? And Dunstan too, of course. How sweet of him to stay to look after her. What little dears children are. Now, you will remind me, won’t you?”

  Elsa nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Halbert.”

  “Well then—” Mrs. Halbert drew in a big breath and was off again.

  Mr. Halbert led them over to the large teak table in the middle of the garden. It was covered with a white cloth on which were endless arrays of dishes with silver hats over them. Mr. Halbert sat at the end of the table, with Hubert on one side of him and Jiminee on the other.

  Hubert found his hands sticky with the sweat of apprehension. Halby didn’t seem very talkative, so he realised that conversation was up to him. “Your garden is much nicer than ours,” he said abruptly.

  Halby glanced at him, then held out a plate. “Have a sandwich—sardine, I think.” He took one himself and pushed the plate towards Jiminee. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s neater, perhaps. But sometimes I think it looks a bit handmade.” He stared at the neatly trimmed hedges and the perfectly aligned rose bushes. “A garden’s a place to have fun in. You have fun in your garden by—well, messing it up. I mean, you wouldn’t get any kick out of it if you have to keep worrying about keeping off the borders and that sort of thing, would you? No. Well, my sort of garden—that’s different. I get my fun out of keeping it all in order, worrying about the blight and the frost and the birds eating the sweet peas. I like order, that’s what it boils down to—and you don’t. There’s no reason why you should—plenty of time for that later.”

  Hubert finished his sandwich. “I like order, too,” he said. Halby sounded all right to him.

  “Help yourself to the sandwiches,” said Halby. “Those over there are chicken and ham.” He passed the plate. “Take a couple. Besides,” he said, “I’m not sure I agree with you anyway. I’ve got nothing as exciting in my garden as that little house you’ve built in yours.”

  Hubert’s sandwich dried up in his throat. So Halby did suspect, after all. He waited for the next inevitable question.

  But it didn’t come. Halby ate his sandwich very slowly, as if he didn’t care for it much, then he said, “Tell me what you like to keep in order.”

  “Things,” said Hubert, accepting a cup of tea from Diana on his left. “I mean—things like the wireless. I mended the wireless when it broke and I wanted to have a shot at Mother’s watch that broke, but…”

  “But?”

  “Well, I …”

  Halby took a sip of tea. “Too difficult, I expect. Watch repairing is a specialised business. Needs years of training.”

  At the other end of the table, Elsa and Willy were being subjected to Mrs. Halbert’s rush of solicitude. Hubert saw Willy wasn’t paying any attention. He was just eating. How Gerty would have enjoyed herself. Seven different sorts of sandwiches and scones too.

  Mr. Halbert turned towards Jiminee. “Jiminee,” he said, “that’s a curious name—how did you come by that?”

  Jiminee blushed scarlet.

  “It was when he was small,” said Hubert. “He couldn’t say his name properly—Mother used to call him Jimmy. All he could say was ‘Jim-im-im-eee,’ so we called him ‘Jiminee.’ Jiminee stutters, you see.”

  “What a nuisance.” Halby stroked his polished forehead. “Still, you mustn’t let it stop you talking, you know.” He smiled at Jiminee—and Jiminee’s face broke into hurried and convulsive grins.

  “Oh, he doesn’t,” Hubert said quickly. “He talks a lot really—don’t you, Jiminee?”

  Jiminee nodded. He opened his mouth to speak. For a long time it seemed as if nothing would come out, and then it came in a rush. “At home,” he said, earnestly leaning forward, “we drink out of m-mugs!”

  Halby looked grave. “There’s a lot to be said for that. I often wonder what the use of saucers is. After all, we don’t drink wine out of glasses with saucers—or beer, for that matter. And
, looking at it logically, I should have thought one was much more apt to spill wine than tea. Odd, really—just one of those conventions, I suppose.” He gazed thoughtfully at his cup of tea.

  “I think saucers are very nice,” Hurbert said, “for a change.”

  Halby nodded. He was watching his wife at the other end of the table. He’s always looking at her, Hubert thought, and she isn’t much to look at really.

  It was later, after Mr. Halbert had made several unsuccessful efforts to get Diana to talk, that Hubert plucked up courage to ask about the car.

  “Interested in cars, are you?” said Mr. Halbert. “Tell you the truth, I don’t use it much. Try to give it a run at the weekends—but there’s not much point in having a car in town, you know.”

  “Have you driven your car this weekend?” Hubert enquired.

  “No.” Halby rubbed the top of his head reflectively. “I say, would you like to go for a drive after tea?”

  Hubert grinned. “Yes, please.”

  “You too, eh?” said Halby, glancing at Jiminee, who nodded his head vigorously.

  “Well, we’ll all go.” Halby got to his feet.

  “Where are you going, dear?” called Mrs. Halbert from the other end of the table.

  “I thought we’d all go for a drive after tea. I’m just going to have the car brought round.”

  “But there won’t be anyone at the garage on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “George’ll be there. You’ll come, won’t you, my dear?”

  Hubert hoped she’d say no.

  She took a quick sip of tea. “A drive on Sunday afternoon? There’ll be so much traffic, Sammy. I thought we’d all have a nice talk after tea. Wouldn’t,” brightly bleak, she smiled at them, “wouldn’t you like that, children?”

  Watching Halby, Hubert caught the momentary frown that wrinkled his placid, gleaming head. “I think they’d probably rather it was a drive—just a little jaunt round the park.”

  “Oh, well,” Mrs. Halbert murmured. “I don’t think I’ll come, dear, if you don’t mind.”