Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  He opened the front door. No, it wasn’t cold.

  There were people in Ipswich Terrace. Two women coming back from early shopping. The milkman further down the road. The gentleman in the brown coat and the black hat who lived at the end house and was always bustling to the post box. A man in his waistcoat cleaning a car. A tiny Hillman—not much of a car, but it always shone.

  Hubert stood at the top of the steps and breathed in the milk-white light of early autumn. Two or three days was forever. He blew out a long frosty breath.

  He decided to buy two different kinds of biscuits. The coloured ones with faces and jam eyes, and chocolate fingers. A treat for Louis.

  24

  He set the wheels against the curb of Monmouth Terrace and heaved. Pounds and pounds. Three stone, perhaps four stone. The basket was filled with ammunition that might go off any moment if it was jolted. Slowly he exerted his strength; it ran down his arms into the handle of the basket, down to the wheels that rose gently. Suddenly the weight was gone. He’d done it!

  The battery would have its ammo now. No more curbs.

  He rested for a moment, looking down the tree-iined terrace. He remembered the summer when he and Elsa had walked down Monmouth to the garden door and found it locked. The summer leaves were brittle and yellow now and filled the gutters and mounted high against the garden walls. It had been years ago.

  Years ago.

  He heard their laughter and glanced up.

  “Look at Ma! What you got there, Ma—milk for de lickle babies?”

  They stood high on the limbs of the tree and yelled down at him. Hubert squinted up at their sun-haloed bodies. Fatty Chance and two others he didn’t know by name—just suckers-up to Fatty. He moved closer to the tree.

  “Mind you don’t spill that milk, Ma!”

  Head craned back, Hubert grinned. They were great birds up there in the magnificent altitude of triumph.

  “Can I come up?” he called.

  “What do you think,” Fatty shouted back. “We don’t want no Mas up here.”

  The giggles of his companions grated on the autumn air like mirthless mating calls.

  “Knees up, Mother Hook!” The branches were filled with their echoless screeches.

  “Please! Let me come up!”

  Fatty leaned over his branch. It wasn’t funny anymore. “Scram, face-ache!”

  “But—”

  Fatty worked his cheeks and suddenly pushed his lips into a fishlike snout. A fat accurate gob of spit splashed heavily at Hubert’s feet. It lay glistening on the pavement. Hubert put his foot on it and smeared the saliva on the stone.

  Fatty was preparing to spit again.

  Hubert gripped the handle of the ammo basket. There were other trees. There were trees in their own garden. But, looking up, waiting for the spit, Hubert found no enticement in the thought of other trees.

  “You and your silly old plane tree,” he called halfheartedly.

  The second blob of spit landed on one of the lower branches.

  Hubert had started to move away. He turned, head up to the boys black against the sun. He wanted to knock them out of the tree—smack, smack—and see them smash like the spit on the pavement. “Missed!” he shouted. “Missed, fat pig!”

  Fatty Chance moved so fast he seemed to slide down the tree. He dropped, one, two, three branches, swung by his hands and fell with his feet planted wide apart, his knees bent. He bounced forward at Hubert.

  “What you call me?” His lips were still wet.

  He is a pig, thought Hubert. He is fat. He nerved himself to utter the word which hardly anyone at school, certainly nobody from Hubert’s form, dared say to the fat boy’s face.

  “Fatty—that’s what I called you. And what’s more—that’s what you are.”

  Far away at the park end of Monmouth, the postman had begun his delivery. His whistle came faint but clear.

  “Why, you little—little insect. I ought to clock you.” Fatty raised his arm.

  Hubert watched the postman halt with a smart military movement. The whistling ceased.

  “I ought to—” Fatty lowered his arm.

  Hubert glanced at him in surprise.

  The fat boy’s face was red and white, and his blue frog eyes added a touch of macabre patriotism to the plump flesh. “But I won’t,” he said. He was smiling.

  “I won’t. You want to know why?” He relished the question with his lips. “ ’Cause you’re going to get something that’s far worse than what I could do.”

  Hubert stared at the eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Fatty chuckled. “Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re just pretending!”

  Fatty was unmoved by the accusation. “I know what I know. You’re going to get it! You and all them meat Hooks!”

  “You’re lying, you’re just—”

  “You’re going to catch it!” Fatty was suddenly fierce. “I seen! I got eyes in the back of me head! I seen! I know!” He pushed Hubert in the chest. “And I’m going to tell!”

  “You don’t know nothing!”

  “No?”

  “No!”

  The postman was closer now. His old army boots were lustrously black even from a distance. Snap, snap! he halted metallically.

  “All right,” said Fatty, “now scram.” He gave Hubert a final shove.

  Hubert examined the invulnerably confident Fatty. He turned away with as much dignity as possible. He felt silly with the basket of shopping. Shopping! He lugged at it fiercely.

  “And don’t forget,” the fat voice called, “you’re going to get it!”

  He turned the corner of Monmouth, then Ipswich. Sweating with effort, he concentrated on pulling the basket. It wouldn’t do any good to think about what Fatty Chance said.

  Threats were always idle, that’s what Mother used to say.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.

  Pulling the basket up the front steps, through the hall, and easing it down the kitchen stairs, controlling the wheels so the basket would not jolt, Hubert thought there must be an easier way. The muscles of his arms trembled with tension as he pushed into the kitchen. It wasn’t enough that he had to do all the shopping himself, but they wouldn’t even leave the garden door unlocked for him.

  He emptied the basket with precision, trying not to let his anger burst. Lux, butter, a tin of salmon. They never even said thank you! Sardines, marmite, baked beans. What would happen if he got ill? What would happen if he sat in the dark like Elsa? Or prayed all the time? Or read books?

  He picked out the packet of chocolate fingers. He screwed up his eyes and the blue and silver foil glimmered with lashes. Inside were layers and layers of deep chocolate fingers, separated by strips of crinkly red paper. Closing his eyes completely, he saw the crushed red paper, discarded on the table, the heap of biscuits pouring over the plate, spinning and twisting, and the laughter and Gerty’s voice—“One more for Gerty!”

  He smashed the packet on the table. I won’t cry, I won’t. He was in his own eyes, fighting with the big beads of water that wanted to get out.

  He knew he would win. He knew he wouldn’t cry.

  The packet wasn’t too badly dented. Inside, some of the fingers would be broken, but that could have happened anyway if he hadn’t been so careful with the basket.

  He touched the top of the table. It was smooth and soft with scrubbing—velvet wood. He stroked it for a moment, gaining an obscure comfort.

  He lifted his head as he heard the shout from the garden. He dashed to the door, expecting … But as he gripped the handle, he saw through the glass the group by the swing. It had been Louis’ voice. He was high in the swing, his body pushed forward, his head twisted back to look at Elsa and Jiminee. His mouth was shaped with delight.

  Hubert started to pull at the door and then slowly he let his hand fall away.

  They were laughing. He hadn’t seen Elsa like that for … They hadn’t
seen him. They weren’t looking at the house. Louis’ cry came again.

  He would just be an interruption. If he opened the door, he would see that look of children in the playground disturbed in their absorption. A million times he’d seen those closed faces stare up from marbles at other children. And now he knew it would be him. He didn’t have the heart to pretend not to notice. Not to Elsa, whom he’d never pretended to before. Not to himself. Not today.

  Behind him the clock hummed and he turned back to the half-filled basket. He emptied methodically, unwrapping each packet and putting it away. He left the bag of potatoes till last. Opening the bag, he lifted out the orange-purple fruit that lay on top.

  His hands were not big enough to go all the way round the pomegranate, but he held it close. Just one. It had been impossible to resist buying it. He tapped it and it sounded hollow. He polished it on his sweater. It had tiny purple veins all over its surface, like an old man’s nose. Hubert smiled and rubbed it backwards and forwards against his cheek.

  He’d never had a pomegranate before.

  It was too big for his pocket. He tucked it under his sweater and pushed the bottom of the sweater into his trousers, so the pomegranate was held safe.

  Hubert mounted to the hall, dragging the basket behind him. As he put the basket away in the cupboard and straightened the silver tray on the hall table and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he was filled with stealthy delight. He had forgotten the garden and the trees and Fat Chance. He had no eyes for noticing the house or the tarnished brass handle of Mother’s room.

  He went silently, step by step, purpose and pomegranate safe together under his sweater.

  The top of the house was his.

  The noise was so tiny it could have been the scratch of a mouse. There were mice in the house, perhaps more now that there were many corners untouched by broom or sweeper. But they didn’t come out in the day.

  He waited by the door of his room. It came again. From Diana’s room. And then Hubert knew what it was and he frowned. Diana was up here. Diana was crying.

  He didn’t want to see her. He pushed the door of his own room and then halted. He could tell by the sound that they were not just ordinary Diana tears. Something was badly wrong. Reluctantly he turned and went down the passage to her room.

  “You haven’t made the beds!”

  It was somehow the most important thing about the room. More important, at first, than Diana’s figure, lying head turned into the pillow with sobs. Of all the children’s rooms, Elsa’s and Diana’s was always the tidiest. He gazed at sheets and blankets crumpled from last night, from many nights, he knew suddenly. And he felt again the preliminary shiver of wings in his chest.

  Outside Elsa was playing and here—here was untouched disorder, the smell of nights between dirty sheets, a pair of knickers over the brass bedstead. They hadn’t even drawn the curtains properly.

  He almost turned from the room of despair then, where the battle he fought for the regular and the orderly and the normal and the ordinary was so obviously lost.

  “It won’t do, it just won’t do,” he seemed to hear the anonymous schoolteacher’s voice judiciously blighting hope. He gritted his teeth against it.

  The sound of his grating teeth turned Diana’s head to the door. Her cap of hair was matted and it shone no longer.

  “What’s up, Dinah?” he tried.

  She did not answer.

  He moved into the room and knelt down close to the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” But as they stared at each other he knew that he would have to be exact in his questions if she were ever to tell him.

  “Is it about Mother?”

  She just looked at him steadily, but all the while increasing the bat wing beats. It had been directly after last night’s Mothertime that she had changed and started to stare at him. But the others had not been upset. So it must…

  “Is it about Mother and Louis?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Didn’t … didn’t Mother really want Louis after all?”

  The tears mounted in her eyes and fell of their own free will, as if she had nothing to do with it. “No,” she whispered.

  But it was nearly right. “It is about Mother and Louis, isn’t it?”

  He gripped her hand gently.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What did Mother say about Louis?” he asked.

  Diana turned her face into the pillow. He let her lie there for a little. Then he reached down and turned her head back to him. “Don’t be so sad, Dinah. Tell me.”

  She didn’t resist him. Her lips moved and, as she spoke, he realised that the bird was inside her too.

  “Mother wouldn’t answer!”

  Mother wouldn’t answer. The words and her fear flew up at him so that he was almost stunned for a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wouldn’t answer!” Her voice rose.

  “But she—”

  “No! No—she didn’t say anything. I made it up.” She held his hand tight so as not to let him retreat before her vehemence.

  “But—” Hubert shook his head. He could not believe it.

  “I did.” She was excited. “I asked and asked and nothing came. It wouldn’t work. And they were all waiting and waiting. So I lied, Hu. I put on Mother’s voice and I told them a lie.”

  He knew she was telling the truth—the rush of it smothered his mind.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Do?” He tried to focus beyond her immediate entreaty. “Do?” But there was a more urgent question that must be answered first.

  “Have you told Dun?”

  Her grip on his hand tightened again. “No,” she whispered.

  Hubert breathed with relief. “Don’t,” he said.

  “All right,” she said eagerly. He was surprised. She was so close to him, so different from the grave, cool Diana of the tabernacle. Her hand was heavy in his, but he did not think of moving it. She was waiting for him to tell her what to do.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone.”

  “But—but at Mothertime tonight?”

  “You must pretend again,” he said.

  “But I can’t, Hu, I can’t!”

  He looked up, blinking his eyes from the closeness of watching her. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be there.” He paused. “If you don’t pretend—if you don’t go on pretending, Dun will know something’s gone wrong. Then Louis—”

  Louis would have to go. But it was more than that. The children would be lost; without Mother, there would be no controlling them. Anything could happen. “Besides,” he said, “Mother might answer tonight.”

  “She won’t, I know she won’t.”

  Hubert knew too. “Perhaps she was just—asleep last night.”

  “She never sleeps. You know that, Hu. No, she just didn’t answer.”

  Why hadn’t she answered? She could have said no. “Do you think she doesn’t want Louis?”

  Diana shook her head doubtfully.

  “You want Louis, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s why you lied—pretended Mother did too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we must keep on pretending.” Perhaps, he thought, perhaps Mother didn’t understand. It was almost inconceivable. He thought of Elsa’s wanting a doctor for Gerty, despite Mother’s contempt for doctors. He knew, beyond doubt, that Elsa had been right. Perhaps Diana was too. Perhaps Mother didn’t—didn’t know.

  “Do you think she’s gone away for good?” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Mother.”

  He looked down at the horror in Diana’s face. “Oh, no, no,” she said, “how could you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I just wondered. Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps what?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Because it did not matter anymore. They had to keep Louis, that’s what mattered. That was the only thing th
at mattered. At once the wings stopped. It didn’t really matter what happened tomorrow, or the next tomorrow, or the day after. He felt full of calm and he smiled at Diana.

  “It’s all right,” he said. He still had to finish the sandpapering of Louis’ box. There might just be time before lunch. “What are you going to give Louis?” he said.

  Diana had smiled back at him hesitantly, but at his question she seemed about to cry again.

  “Haven’t you got anything?”

  “No,” and he felt her hand tremble in his.

  “Well,” he said, “well, I’ve got something you can give him.” He pulled his sweater up and brought out the pomegranate. “There,” he said. It was as beautiful as ever. “It’s a pomegranate.”

  “A pomegranate.” She let go of his hand and took the fruit from him. “A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe …”

  “You remember!”

  “Yes,” she looked up at him smiling, “I remember. It’s a lovely present. Can I really have it?”

  “For Louis.”

  “For Louis.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be the very best present of all!” She sat up.

  “Yes,” said Hubert. “Yes, it will.”

  “Thank you, Hu.”

  “That’s all right.” Her tears were forgotten. It seemed to Hubert a very long time since he had seen Diana smile like that. He stood up, watching her. He put out his hand and brushed her hair back a little. Then he went to the door.

  “Dinah,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Dinah, why don’t you make the beds.”

  She looked vaguely round the room and then back at him. “Oh, I will. Of course I will.”

  He left her and went slowly along the passage to his own bedroom. He was glad he’d given her the pomegranate. It was much better really than hiding it away in his drawer.

  He entered the room and crossed to the window and looked down. In the garden they were still swinging. It was almost no surprise to Hubert to see that Dunstan had joined them. A few days ago, hours, minutes even, how strange that would have seemed: Dunstan swinging. But now …

  He looked over to the Halberts’ garden. Luckily there was no one there. Just rose bushes rising out of the hard earth and the lawn still white with dew where the shadow of the house shut out the sun. The Halberts wouldn’t come out in winter. Old Halby would be safely inside in front of the fire. Instinctively Hubert knew that the Halberts wouldn’t wait till November to have fires. It was still a nice garden though. But not, he thought, glancing down again at Dunstan and Elsa, who were now both pushing Louis on the swing, not as nice as ours.