Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

“Can Louis c-come?” asked Jiminee.

  “No,” said Dunstan. “He must stay here, till Mother decides.”

  Jiminee blinked. “You won’t run away—w-will you, Louis?”

  Almost imperceptibly Louis shook his head. It was the first sign that he understood what was happening to him. The children had been talking about him as though he were not there. As though he were a piece of property. But the tiny shake of the head had shown that he was among them. The children were more startled than by Hubert’s shout.

  There was a long pause. Then Diana said, “We shan’t be long.”

  Hubert kept his head down.

  “Come on, Hubert.”

  “I’m not coming.”

  Without looking, he knew that Dunstan was the last one, waiting at the kitchen door.

  “Hubert!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “All right then,” sharp and crisp, the night air and Dunstan’s words came into the room together. “I shall remember this, Hu.”

  The door shut and the glass shivered in the frames.

  The two boys were alone.

  Hubert raised his head, without looking at Louis. By holding himself quite still, he hoped to stop time and the thoughts that ticked in his head. But the clock hummed just the same. The smell of cooling milk was just the same. Hubert sniffed at it. Perhaps it would be for the last time. “I shall remember this,” Dunstan had said. Didn’t he know that if they kept Louis they would be found out, didn’t he realise that then all they’d have would be just to remember because—because …

  He faced the clock. It wasn’t forever they could hide.

  Suddenly he knew there wasn’t much time at all. He knew now that there never would be any letter, and he wished he’d gone with the others. He wanted the watch. He wanted to take it out of the tabernacle and keep it for his own. It didn’t matter if it didn’t work. It didn’t matter if it never worked.

  Turning slowly to Louis, he realised too that it didn’t matter if he stayed or not. Reluctantly he tried to smile.

  The little boy made no response.

  Hubert grated his chair back and walked carefully round the table. He picked up the teaspoon beside the cup and inserted it under the white skin on the milk. Steadying the mug with his other hand, he skillfully twisted the spoon, gathering the skin, turning it and lifting it clear in one piece.

  “There,” he said. “You’ll be able to drink it now.”

  He went over to the sink and put the spoon under the tap. The cold water gripped the milky flesh and pulled it free. He turned off the tap and put the spoon on the wooden draining board. He leant his back against the sink. Louis’ profile was towards him.

  “Do you have a dad?” he asked. He paused to give Louis a chance to answer. Louis gripped the yellow mug a little tighter, but that was all.

  “We don’t,” went on Hubert. “At least, I don’t think we do. But I ’spect you do. Don’t you?”

  Louis just looked steadily in front of him.

  “You can drink your milk now. It’s quite all right.”

  The clock hummed.

  “They won’t be long now. At least I don’t think they will. They’ve just gone to the tabernacle, you see, to ask … about you. I’m sure it’ll be all right. I could warm that milk up for you again, if you like?”

  It would be almost over now. In a minute they’d be coming in. It wasn’t a proper, full-length Mothertime.

  “That’s Gerty’s mug you’ve got. The yellow mug. Gerty was five. She was the second youngest next to Willy. She died. She got ill, then she died. Now there are only six of us. Gerty wasn’t like you. She was fat. She talked an awful lot.”

  Louis was staring at the mug now. Hesitantly his right hand came up and closed round the other side of the mug. He pulled it a little closer to him.

  “It’s yours now,” said Hubert.

  Before the door opened, he could hear them talking. But they were silent as they entered.

  It was all right, he knew that at once.

  Jiminee danced across the room, his smile coming and going, and stood close over Louis. Willy strode, his chest out. All of them had grins at the edge of their mouths.

  “G-guess what?” said Jiminee.

  “Shhhh!” Dunstan held up his hand. “Let Diana say.”

  Frowning slightly, she waited for them to be quiet. Her Mothertime face had not worn off yet, and though she was looking at Louis, she hardly seemed to see him. Louis turned his eyes to her and held her gaze.

  “Mother,” she began. She shook her head, as if to make the words fall together in her mind. “Mother says—you can stay.”

  “You can stay!”

  “You can stay!”

  “You’re going to stay!”

  Jiminee and Willy, even Elsa, burst with cries. Dunstan was smiling, and suddenly he laughed.

  But Hubert watched Diana. Her face was whiter than ever and as she brushed her hair back with a small, trembling gesture, she shivered suddenly. She must have felt him looking at her, for she turned. For a second they stared at each other. As he opened his mouth to speak, Diana looked quickly away.

  Hubert forced himself not to move. Something had happened. Diana was frightened. The hubbub of the children around Louis did not touch him. Something must have happened in the tabernacle.

  The others weren’t scared. Only Diana. The fear that a little while ago he had put aside returned to Hubert’s stomach. He felt the wings moving, gentle as caresses. He took a deep breath and the bird poised. In a long gliding stream he let it out, until his lungs were dry and his head dizzy. In his trouser pockets his clenched fists felt the tremulous warmth of his thighs.

  “Aren’t you glad, Louis?” Willy leaned forward. “Aren’t you glad?”

  Hubert took his hand out of his pocket and touched the cold stone of the sink.

  “Of c-course he’s g-glad,” said Jiminee.

  Still the boy did not move except to turn his head from speaker to speaker.

  “I think he can’t talk. I think he’s dumb.”

  “Willy!” Elsa admonished quickly. “You must drink your milk, Louis. It’s good for you.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like milk,” Willy said.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Lemonade!”

  “Cocoa!”

  “Bovril!” Willy shouted triumphantly.

  “Oh, yes, bovril!”

  But Louis gave no indication—it was as if there were an invisible curtain separating him from all that was going on.

  “Do you think he’d like bovril, Jiminee?” asked Elsa.

  Jiminee screwed up his face, and somewhere the smile hovered. “I-I-I …” His eyelids fluttered. “Um-um-um …” The sound stopped, though his lips still opened and closed. His whole body quivered.

  Then slowly Louis’ hand left the mug and reached up and gripped Jiminee’s. Jiminee stopped shaking at once. His face cleared. “I d-don’t know,” he said, with a wide smile.

  There was silence.

  Dunstan stirred. He nodded to himself and went over to the sink. He took a glass from the draining board and filled it with cold water. Standing close to him, Hubert could hear Dunstan’s breath. Their bodies almost touched. As he looked, Hubert suddenly knew why Louis seemed familiar—he was like Dunstan, Dunstan without his glasses. The same dark-brown, almost black eyes; the same color hair; the same look—as though each had something special which no one else could ever share.

  Dunstan went back to the table. Carefully he put the glass down in front of Louis. Cold beads of water trickled down the sides of the glass. Almost reluctantly, Louis let go of Jiminee and raised his hands to the glass. He gripped it tight and lifted it to his mouth.

  He drank.

  In the stillness, each gulp in his throat was loud. He drank all the water.

  He returned the glass to the table, looking at it as if to make sure that every drop was drunk. He took his hands away and looked up at Dunstan.

  �
��Thank you,” he said. He smiled.

  There was a soft rustle of sighs from the children.

  “He does talk, after all,” said Willy. And they all laughed.

  Dunstan was the first to stop. “You’ll stay then, Louis, won’t you?” he said quietly.

  Louis looked shyly down. “Yes, I’d like to stay very much.”

  “And you ought to go to bed, too,” Elsa said. “We all ought to go to bed. It’s late.” She hesitated. “You can sleep in my room, if you like, Louis.”

  “No!” said Willy. “Louis’s going to sleep in my bed.”

  “But, Willy,” Elsa said, “there wouldn’t be any room for your black wife.”

  “I don’t care about her!”

  Elsa smiled. “Let’s ask Louis who he wants to sleep with.”

  Louis glanced at each one in turn.

  “I’d like to sleep with Jiminee, please.”

  “That’s right,” said Dunstan, “Jiminee’s the one who found him”

  Hubert moved into the circle round Louis. “You don’t know any of our names yet, Louis—except Jiminee.”

  Louis nodded gravely. “Yes, I do. Jiminee told me. You’re Hubert.”

  “Yes, I …” Hubert faltered. He raised his eyes and saw Diana staring at him.

  “Louis,” said Dunstan. “I’ll lend you my pyjamas.”

  “Bed.”

  “Yes, bed.”

  “Tomorrow,” Dunstan said, “we’ll show you the house. And the tabernacle.” He went over to the door and held it open.

  “I’ll tell you a story when we’re in b-bed,” whispered Jiminee, as he and Louis and Dunstan left the room.

  Elsa stood at the door. “You coming, Diana? Hubert?”

  “In a minute,” said Hubert. “I’ve got to lock up, you know.”

  Elsa stared somewhere above his head. “Oh, yes.” She stepped into the passage and the swing door closed softly behind her, hissing for a moment and then relaxing.

  “You want to help, Dinah?”

  He knew she was still looking at him, but he kept his own eyes averted. Idly, he saw that the skin had formed once more on Louis’ milk. “You want to help lock up?” The wings had begun to beat again in his heart.

  “Yes.”

  She moved. Across the kitchen to the back door. She stared out into the garden. Hubert knew that she couldn’t see anything; the reflection of the kitchen light would blind her to the dark world outside. But she went on staring. He watched her, waiting for her to swing round, yet knowing that he did not want to face her. He wanted to think of tomorrow—Saturday happy with Louis. Just tomorrow. One tomorrow.

  Diana turned the key in the lock.

  As she did so, Hubert reached out for the mug and turned swiftly to the sink. The milk slopped, falling cold onto the piece of flesh joining his forefinger and thumb.

  He knew that she had turned too.

  “What’s wrong, Dinah?”

  She was leaning against the locked door and staring at the back of his head.

  He put his hand on the tap.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Hubert dear.”

  In a spout of anger the cold water dashed from the tap, sweeping the milk from his hand, plunging into the mug, discharging milk and water and skin into the stained floor of the sink. In a swinging rush it sunk itself, gobbling the holes in the brass drainer.

  He let the water run for a good while after the mug was clean.

  23

  Hubert put the sandpaper down on his worktable and blew the dust from the side of the little box. The tiny motes of wood shot out of the shadow of his body into the dancing sunlight that filled the room. Hubert smiled. Behind him the voices of Louis and Jiminee were hushed in the concentration of drawing.

  He ran his thumb along the wood. It was smooth and handsome. Now only the lid remained to be done, and then he would oil the whole thing.

  He was proud of the box. The corners were perfectly dovetailed and the lid fitted exactly. It was the best thing he’d ever done. He twisted the tiny key, backwards and forwards—no trace of obstruction.

  Originally it had been intended for Mother’s birthday. Three-quarters finished, it had lain on his worktable for months. Now it was for Louis. Everyone was going to give Louis a present.

  Hubert picked up the sandpaper and started on the lid. He’d have to stop at half-past ten to do the shopping. But he’d have the box finished by suppertime, except for the oiling. That would take two or three days, but he was sure Louis wouldn’t mind waiting. He paused in his sandpapering. Two or three days did not seem so ominous as it had last night. Two or three days was safe. And besides … he had promised himself last night just before he went to sleep that he would not think of the future—as if there were no God. As if there were no Mother. Anything beyond two or three days was their job.

  Into his mind spun the last-night face of Dinah. He closed his eyes and opened them again quick. Don’t think of her. He gave a preliminary scrape with the sandpaper as if to erase the memory. And then he heard Jiminee’s voice.

  “What’s it like to have a d-d-dad?”

  Hubert held his breath.

  “Well. I don’t see him much.” Hubert noticed for the first time the funny way of saying things that Louis had. It wasn’t “much,” it was “mooch.”

  “Where’s he away?”

  “Well, all over the place. He’s a traveller.”

  “At-traveller? Like M-M-M-Marco P-P-P-Polo?”

  “No. He sells things. He has a big case. It’s called a sample case. He takes it wherever he goes and people look at it and then they buy things.”

  “Like the l-lady who sells M-M-M-Mansion polish?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  There was a pause, and Hubert heard the scratching of Jiminee’s pencil.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a b-bear.”

  “It’s not a very big bear.”

  “N-no!”

  “It’s a baby bear!”

  “N-no!” There was a note of triumph in Jiminee’s voice. “It’s a b-baby b-b-b-b-bearess!”

  They were struck with instant giggles.

  “Bearess,” said Louis.

  “B-bearess!”

  The pencil scratched again. “There!”

  Downstairs the clock struck half-past ten. Hubert lowered the sandpaper and started to open the drawer where he kept the box.

  “Still,” said Jiminee, “you got your m-mother.”

  “My mum. Yes.”

  “I seen your m-mum. Rem’ber?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the g-gate. Old Fatty Chance was b-b-b—hitting you. It was your first d-d-day. Your m-mum come to c-c-collect you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I d-don’t like your m-mum.”

  Hubert gripped hard on the box.

  “No,” came the answer at last, “nobody does very much.”

  “D-d-do you?”

  There was a long pause. The pencil stopped its travels.

  “No.”

  Almost at once Jiminee was drawing again. “Well,” he said, “you don’t have to worry ab-b-bout that n-n-now.”

  “No,” said Louis. “No. I don’t.”

  Hubert dropped the box into the drawer and shut it quietly. He slid the old sandpaper among the other pieces in the packet and let the elastic band holding them snap slightly.

  When he turned round, Jiminee and Louis were entirely absorbed in the drawing. Hubert walked softly out of the room, so as not to disturb them.

  He hesitated for a second and then went down the stairs. He knew he would most likely find Elsa in the front room. That’s where she spent most of her time these days. At night sometimes she’d sit there without any lights on at all.

  In the hall he glanced at the table. The silver tray lay bright and shining. He’d polished it before breakfast this morning. But there was no post. Not even a circular.

  Hubert pushed open the door of the front room and stepped in.<
br />
  She was there. He saw a quick movement as she covered something white in her lap with her spread hands.

  “Coming shopping, Else?” Perhaps he should have knocked, he thought.

  The room was sunny, but Elsa sat in the shadows. Beside her on the table was her workbox. She’s sewing, thought Hubert, sewing something for Louis, I expect. She wouldn’t be darning—she hadn’t done any of that for weeks. He wriggled his toe in his shoe and felt the big hole in his sock. They were all like that, and so were Jiminee’s and Dunstan’s and Willy’s. He sighed.

  “Else?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Oh, come on, Else.”

  This time she didn’t even bother to shake her head. He stood watching her for a moment. He had hoped the coming of Louis would change her somehow back into the old Elsa. He sighed—he couldn’t really be cross with Elsa. He turned back to the hall.

  He took his coat out of the hall cupboard and buttoned it methodically. Then he lifted out the big basket with wheels and a walking stick attached. He had bought it two weeks ago, because he couldn’t manage all the shopping by himself otherwise. Once he’d had to make three trips—and it took so long there was hardly any time left to do cleaning. But the big new basket took everything easily. Seventeen and six—for many weeks the price had frightened him, but there was plenty of money. He cashed the cheques in Marlowe Street now and there was always some over at the end of the month. More than four pounds at the end of September. He kept it at the bottom of the nail box in the drawer in his worktable. No one would ever look there without asking his permission.

  He took the latest cheque and the shopping list out of his pocket. He turned the cheque over and saw Jiminee’s endorsement on the back—Violet E. Hook in Mother’s exact writing. Hubert thought, not even an expert could tell the difference. In the dim light that filtered through the dusty transom he read over the shopping list. It was almost the same every week, and he knew it by heart by now. But there was one thing added this week—lavatory paper. He’d wondered for a long time how he could ask for lavatory paper. At last he’d solved it by handing the list to the grocer with everything crossed out but that.

  And coal! He ought to ask Elsa how to order coal. He looked back down the hall. No, he didn’t want to disturb her again. There was plenty of time anyway. It wasn’t what you’d call cold yet.