by Julian Gloag
Dunstan and Elsa. Hubert and Diana. But they’d all give presents to Louis at supper. They’d all be together then. And …
He stepped back into the room. He’d better start thinking about lunch.
25
“Oh, Mother, you are always with us,” murmured Diana.
“Oh, Mother, you are always with us,” the six voices echoed.
“indoors and outdoors,”
“indoors and outdoors,”
“when we are awake and when we are asleep,”
“when we are awake and when we are asleep,”
“to protect us and guard us,”
“protect us and guard us,”
“to watch us and love us,”
“to watch us and love us,”
“at school and in the streets,”
“at school and in the streets,”
“but most of all in your house,”
“but most of all in your house,”
“and in the tabernacle,”
“and in the tabernacle,”
“look after us, Mother,”
“look after us, Mother,”
“and make us good,”
“make us good,”
“and strong,”
“and strong,”
“and obedient.”
“and obedient.”
Dunstan turned the torch on. He covered the naked light with his handkerchief, so that only a dim glow filled the tabernacle. Diana leaned forward to the table and began to comb Mother’s wig. The half-darkness blurred all detail. The children’s attention was fixed upon the priestly motion of the combing and the rustle of comb against hair.
“We comb your hair,” said Diana. “And bring you lilies in the spring,” her voice quivered momentarily, but held. “We love you.”
“We love you,” they answered.
“We have been …” she stumbled again. “We have been …”
“Wicked,” said Dunstan.
“We have been wicked. Please help us to be good.”
The tabernacle had never dried out since the summer rains. The dampness permeated the rug on which the children sat and the mould greened the corners of the chest of drawers. Even in the heat of their closeness, Hubert shivered.
“Are there any questions for Mother?” Willy said quickly, “Ask Mother if she’s glad to have Louis.”
There was a moment of silence. “But we know Mother wants Louis,” said Diana. “We asked her last night.”
“I want to hear it again,” Willy persisted.
Hubert drew in his breath. “Go on,” he said, “ask her again.”
He waited, wondering if she could do it. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself far away. But, turn where he would, the far away became tomorrow’s school. It was the last lesson in the late afternoon, and the blackness of the windows and the brightness of the light bared the room of any comfort. There were no giggles, only the sound of the pens scratching at the silence. And in the doorway stood Miss Deke, tall and severe, looking at each child in turn, searching for Hubert, searching for the truth.
“Louis …”
Hubert opened his eyes at the authentic voice of Mother.
“Louis is one of the family.”
He breathed carefully so no one would hear his sigh of relief.
“Mother loves Louis.”
She had done it!
“We must all love Louis.”
There was a stirring and a movement of feet in the tabernacle. The shadows were set to dance.
But Diana had not quite finished. “Louis,” the voice was struggling at the top of an immense slope, “Louis … loves us.”
She had mounted and triumphed. The bird in Hubert’s chest was a big eagle flying straight and magnificent, up towards the sun.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
It was over.
One by one they crawled out of the tabernacle.
Hubert stooped as he entered the kitchen to brush the earth from his knees. He put his hands under the tap and let the cold water run over them, washing away the dirt and the stickiness of his fear in the tabernacle. His hands were small and cool as he dried them on the dish towel. He lit the gas under the saucepan of milk and water and turned the light low.
The table was laid, a spoon and a plate at every place and a dish of the biscuits left over from tea in the middle of the table. The coloured mugs were lined up on the draining board ready for cocoa.
All the children sat down. There was complete silence—this was the moment. As Louis glanced round, perplexed at the lack of talk, the children could no longer contain their smiles.
“It’s time,” said Elsa, grinning, “it’s time to give Louis his presents.”
Louis’ look of dismay was tinged with the expectation of trickery—the silver paper wrapping round a stone. His hands tightened.
“It’s all r-right, Louis,” said Jiminee quickly.
Elsa had already opened the drawer in the sideboard where the presents were stored. She lifted out a flat parcel and brought it over to Louis and laid it in front of him.
“For Louis,” she said, “with my love.”
Louis watched the small tissue-paper package as though it might suddenly leap up at him.
“Go on, it’s for you. Open it.”
He raised his hand and touched it gingerly. Looking up at her, he asked, “What’s in it?”
“It’s a surprise. A present.” She smiled.
Reluctantly he unwrapped it. He turned the last fold of tissue paper and exposed the plain white handkerchief.
“It’s a hanky,” he said wonderingly. So simple a thing could be no trap.
“Turn it over,” said Elsa.
On the other side, carefully placed slantwise in the corner, were the initials L. G., the L in brown, the G in orange.
“It’s mine!” he cried.
“L. G. Louis G-G-Grossiter,” said Jiminee beaming.
Louis touched the threads delicately. He raised his head. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
And Elsa blushed.
“It’s the best present I’ve ever had.”
Slowly she went back to her seat and sat down. She touched her cheek with her hand. “I’m glad you like it,” she murmured quietly.
“I love it,” he answered.
He hushed them all.
“Next,” said Willy. “Dinah’s next.”
She brought the pomegranate carefully in her two hands. The polished hide shone orange against the white-scrubbed wood of the table.
“It’s a pomegranate,” said Hubert.
Louis nodded. He traced the veins on the fruit with his finger, and then he looked up at Diana and smiled.
A book from Dunstan—A History of the City of Manchester and Its Environs by the Reverend T. Shand. Hubert’s box. From Jiminee, a drawing of a deep green valley, filled with strange animals and surmounted by purple mountains skirted with snow. A strong blue river ran through the centre.
And Willy presented his best possession—an 1842 bun penny, which he had spent all morning polishing.
Louis’ plate and spoon had been pushed to one side to make room for the gifts. Louis put out his hand and touched each one in turn.
“I’ve never had so many presents,” he said at last. “Never ever.”
He picked up Hubert’s box and held it in his hand. “I’m going to put it in here,” he said slowly.
“What are you going to put in there?” asked Hubert.
“My ammonite.” Louis opened the box.
“He’s g-got a f-f-fossil,” Jiminee said. “That’s what he m-means.”
“An ammonite. Not just any old sort of fossil.” He smiled at Jiminee. “It’s a little sea animal that died millions and millions of years ago. A special one. It’s stone now—like marble, only it’s orange-coloured.”
“How can it be stone, if it’s an animal?” said Willy.
“Th
at’s what happens. It dies, then slowly it becomes pet-pet-”
“Petrified,” Dunstan said.
“Petrified. It’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw.”
“Let’s have a look,” said Willy.
“I haven’t got it here. It’s at my mum’s place.” Louis frowned. “But it’s quite safe. She’ll never find it.”
“How are you going to get it back?” Elsa asked.
“I’m going to fetch it.”
Hubert said quickly, “But they’ll catch you if you go back.”
“No they won’t. I’ll go on Friday night—Mum’s always out on Friday night. She gets paid on Fridays.”
“But somebody’s bound to be there—maybe the police. They’ll be expecting you to come back, Louis.”
“Yes,” said Dunstan, “Hubert’s right. You’re a missing person, Louis.”
Louis looked from Hubert to Dunstan and back again. For a moment they thought he was going to cry. “All right,” he said, “I won’t go back then. I’ll go back when I’m grown up and nobody’ll be able to hurt me then, will they?”
“No,” said Hubert, “everything will be okay when you’re grown up.”
“Besides,” Louis said, “it’s quite safe—she’ll never find it.”
The milk and water began to fizz in the pan and Hubert got up to attend to it.
“Anyway,” said Louis—and Hubert half turned from the stove to listen—“Anyway, even if she does find it—I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here.”
Hubert mixed the cocoa and poured it into the mugs with a steady hand. He paid no attention to the wave of chatter that had swept the children behind him. Louis really wanted to stay. Now they were all together, just as he’d thought they would be this afternoon when he’d looked down into the garden. Nothing else mattered.
The hot steam of the cocoa rose to his face. The talk of the children and the gurgle of the liquid as it swirled into the earthenware and, somewhere underneath it all, the soft purr of the electric clock swelled inside him into a pure sense of contentment. The rising smell of the cocoa reminded him suddenly of the perfume of the lilies of the valley and of the scent that they had always called Mothersmell—but this was not a hurtful memory. For a moment it seemed to him that Mother was more alive than ever.
He filled the last mug. He took the empty pan to the sink and put it under the cold tap.
He turned to the children. “It’s ready,” he said.
26
Hubert pried open the lid of the tin with a sixpence.
“It’s a funny-looking colour,” said Louis.
Hubert heard the disappointment in his voice. “That’s all right. It’s light-blue enamel, like it says on the tin. It’s just got to be mixed first.” He opened the drawer of his worktable and selected a clean stick. “All the colour goes to the bottom, see—but it comes back when you mix it.”
He dipped the stick into the paint and stirred in slow circles. Swirls of colour appeared in the liquid and gradually integrated until the whole surface was blue. “There,” said Hubert, “you’ll want to give it a stir every so often.”
Louis smiled. “It’s just right, isn’t it? Can I start now?” He held the brush poised.
“Okay,” Hubert nodded. “Don’t take quite so much or it’ll drip. Wipe some off on the edge.”
Louis drew the brush across the lid of the little box.
“Do it all in the same direction,” said Hubert.
For a while Louis painted steadily. He picks it up fast, thought Hubert, as he lowered the brim of the lamp to keep the light out of Louis’ eyes. “That’s right,” he said. The little boy was quite absorbed. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He’d been a little shy again at first when they’d all come home from school and found him and Willy playing in the kitchen. But the shyness had worn off at teatime.
“It’s going to look nice, don’t you think?” Louis asked.
“Yes—smashing.” Nobody had said anything at tea about Mrs. Grossiter’s visit to the school that Monday morning. It had seemed better not to. But Hubert wondered again whether he should tell Louis.
“Light blue—that’s my favourite colour. Cambridge.” Louis paused in his painting. “I’m Cambridge. What are you?”
“Oxford,” said Hubert. It was bound to upset Louis to know that his mother was looking for him. Standing on the platform in front of the whole form, Mrs. Grossiter had been a monstrous figure—fat, but fat-nasty. She had sweaty skin and smallish eyes; it was difficult to think of her as Louis’ mother. Will anyone who saw Louis Grossiter at any time after school on Friday night please stand up. Mrs. Grossiter had muttered something. That is, any time since Friday—any time over the weekend or today. Nobody? Nobody.
Louis was saying something. “What?” said Hubert.
“I said perhaps Oxford will win next year,” he smiled up at Hubert.
Hubert grinned. “I bet you sixpence they’ll win!”
“All right.” Louis laughed.
No, he couldn’t tell Louis—it wouldn’t do any good. It would make him afraid again, threatened. Like Fatty Chance’s threat, you’ll catch it.
“What’s Elsa?”
“Cambridge.”
“I bet Dunstan’s Cambridge, too.”
“Yes.”
“And Diana—no, let me guess.” He half closed his eyes. “She’s Oxford.”
Hubert nodded. It had always seemed odd that Diana and Dunstan weren’t the same.
“I know Jiminee’s Oxford. I’ll bet Willy is Oxford too.”
“Yes.”
“That makes us three and four—four on one side and three on the other.”
“It takes eight to make a boat,” said Hubert, but Louis had gone back to his painting and didn’t hear.
Hubert wandered to the window and peeped between the drawn curtains. The front garden was a dark hole. Robbers or anything could lurk there easily undetected. He made sure the window catch was fastened and let the curtains fall back into place.
He wondered what all the others were doing. He was restless. Perhaps it would be good to make sure all the doors and windows were locked.
It was very quiet in the house. He held his breath but heard nothing but the tick of the hall clock—backwards and forwards it went, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. You could make the clock follow almost any rhythm if you wanted to.
The front door first. He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the hall. He went past the front room and stopped at the table. He ran his finger lightly along the edge. Dusty and a little damp. Nobody’d had time over the weekend to do any cleaning. But now Louis was here all week, they could have the place spick-and-span in no time. It would be like old times, except for Mrs. Stork.
He walked slowly towards the front door. The catch looked fast. He raised his hand to test it, and then suddenly held still. He had heard a scraping sound outside, as though someone were mounting the steps. His instinct was to turn off the hall light and run. It was too late for that. He held firm.
It seemed to him then that he heard someone breathing on the other side of the door. His startled imagination puffed the stranger into a figure of unknown menace—Mrs. Grossiter gigantic with rage, Mrs. Stork, Flight-Sergeant Millard … No visitor was welcome—unless it was Him, unless it was Charles Ronald Hook.
The unknown hand struck two sharp blows on the knocker.
Hubert’s stomach moved convulsively. He did not look down, but it seemed to him that the prints of the boot on the floor had become individual glinting eyes that stared up at him. They challenged him to look down and observe the triumph of their threats.
Fighting, he told himself that it was not Millard, that it was the postman, or the coalman come to deliver at last … or Him. Yes, it was Him. But he did not move to open the door, for in his inward heart he knew that He was not the caller. That would be a miracle. There were no miracles.
It was years since the sounding of the first knock. The se
cond would come at any moment. He prayed, go away, please go away. He shut his eyes and suddenly he was on the end of a long plank. The sea below him was cold and green, not the azure inviting ocean of the pirate picture books. The wood trembled under his feet. The next knock was the signal for execution. It would seal his doom.
Hubert turned to run. At the same moment the knocker sounded crash-crash.
“Who is it, Hu?”
He almost lost his balance as the rug slid on the hall floor.
“Who d’you think it is?”
All of them stood at the bottom of the stairs—and their questions of fear pushed at him, thrusting him away. He clutched at the table to steady himself.
“The police?”
“Miss Deke?”
“Louis’ mum?”
The whispers trembled towards him for an answer. The shame that he had been going to run away was replaced by anger that they did not see he was afraid too.
“Are you going to answer, Hu?”
Once again the knock came.
“Wait,” Hubert called over his shoulder. The sound of his unhushed voice made the children flinch. He was angry with them for their fear and then he was angry at himself for being angry. He was the one they depended on, he was their shield—that’s what they were telling him. But he had known it himself—oh, for ages. Without him the house would collapse.
It wasn’t Dunstan.
It wasn’t Mother. Mother was dead.
It wasn’t Elsa anymore.
It was him—Hubert Hook.
He took his hand from the table. “Jiminee, take Louis to the tabernacle. Willy, you go with them. The rest of you stay where you are.”
He waited until the three youngest had disappeared down the kitchen steps. “All right,” he said, “I’m going to open it.”
He turned and walked resolutely to the door. He tugged it open and the autumnal night rushed in.