Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  “Miss Deke!”

  “Yes—Miss Deke.” This time she did not wait to be invited, but stepped inside at once and closed the door herself.

  “I want to speak to your mother, Hubert.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother’s asleep, Miss Deke.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wake her up.” She patted her gloved hands together with a gesture that meant she would stand for no delays.

  “Won’t you come and sit down?”

  “No, thank you. I came to see your mother and that’s what I intend to do.” She was completely the crisp-worded, cold-faced Miss Deke of the schoolroom who spoke from the winter within her.

  “The doctor says—”

  “Never mind what the doctor says. What I have to say to your mother can’t wait.” She looked away from him for the first time and saw Dunstan, Diana and Elsa at the foot of the stairs. She gazed at them, then nodded and made a little throaty noise, as if to indicate that this was exactly what she’d expected.

  Hubert looked at them too, but the sight of their wavering smiles did not make him angry against them now—he was angry for them. Himself, he was no longer afraid.

  “Miss Deke!”

  She glanced back at him.

  “Miss Deke. Mother is ill. The doctor says she is not to see anybody. So I think you better go.”

  The blood of outrage rushed to Miss Deke’s white face. “You dare to speak to me like that?”

  Hubert lifted his chin. “This is our house, not yours.”

  “It’s your mother’s house, young man, and it’s her I have come—and am going—to see, even if I have to find her room myself.”

  “That won’t do you any good—it’s locked!”

  Miss Deke put her head to one side. She examined Hubert with her wily bird look, as if listening to his inmost thoughts. “It’s locked,” she repeated softly.

  Something had gone wrong. He searched desperately for words to repair the damage.

  “You say the door of your mother’s room is locked?” The sudden gentleness of her voice did not conceal her incredulity.

  “I mean …” He looked down, catching a glimpse of the boot prints, of Miss Deke’s large outward-turning feet, of Diana and Elsa and Dunstan, waiting in petrified whiteness for the contest to end. “I mean …”

  “I think I’ll accept your invitation to sit down now, Hubert.” She struck a brief tattoo from her gloves and walked swiftly to the door of the front room. She paused for a moment and glanced to the end of the hall. “Come along, children.”

  As Hubert led the others into the room, Miss Deke had already turned on the lights and sat down. Her thin, knifelike body seemed to cut into the heavy black leather of the chair.

  “Sit down, children.”

  “It’s no good, Miss—”

  “Sit down,” she commanded. She watched them as they reluctantly placed themselves around the room. She let the silence increase, focussing her attention on stripping off her gloves. She folded them neatly in her lap and looked up.

  “Now, children—where is Mrs. Hook?”

  Hubert touched his bare knees, rough with goose flesh. Cold emanated from Miss Deke and the room was chilly. The constant tick of the hall clock was just audible, but, try as he would, he could fit it to no rhythm now. He gazed at the empty gloves on Miss Deke’s lap, taking a comfort in the concentration as if it made him invisible or, at least, untouchable by her words.

  “Where is Mrs. Hook?”

  He roused himself. “She’s upstairs in her room.”

  He was aware of Miss Deke’s movement towards him. “Do you really expect me to believe that, Hubert?”

  She leant towards him, her interrogatory bird head tilted. “Why not?” he said.

  Miss Deke smiled faintly at this last feeble retort to defiance she knew so well. “What about you, Elsa, don’t you want to say anything? Diana? Dunstan?”

  Diana cleared her throat.

  “Yes?”

  Diana managed a trembling whisper, “Mother is with us.” Miss Deke smiled briefly. “Won’t we tell the truth?” she enquired.

  Hubert blinked. He grappled with the knowledge that what Miss Deke—or any grownup—called the truth was only what she wanted to hear. He said, “We are telling the truth.”

  Miss Deke worked the joint of her thumb between her fingers. She glanced rapidly round the room, the dust everywhere proclaiming its lack of care. “Very well,” she said, suddenly decisive, “if you will not answer me, I shall have to report you.” She paused, waiting for a response. “I mean—report you to the police.” A slight indrawing of breath from the children was the only acknowledgement of Miss Deke’s words. “You cannot,” she went on, “keep your mother incommun——without communication from the outside world. If she is as seriously ill as you say, it is not to be hidden. She must have expert medical attention. I happen to know she is not getting it. I was forced to take it upon myself to make enquiries of Dr. Meadows and he tells me that Mrs. Hook has never been a patient of his. I am sorry you lied about that…”

  Hubert made a supreme effort. “It wasn’t Dr. Meadows. It was another doctor. We made a mis——”

  “No, no, Hubert, please.” Miss Deke swiftly waved his words away. “Let it be. It was, as a matter of fact, quite another matter I called about. One which I should like to have raised with your mother. However, as she is—not available, I shall have to put it straight to you.” Her head straightened and her hands lay still in her lap. “Where is Louis Grossiter?”

  Hubert stood up, clenching his fists. Miss Deke opened her mouth as if to command him to be seated, but she thought better of it.

  “I have it on the best authority that Louis is in this house.”

  “Fatty Chance!” said Hubert contemptuously.

  Miss Deke gave him a curious look. “Yes,” she admitted, “Billy Chance came to me after school and told me that you had Louis here.”

  “He’s a fat liar!”

  “No, Hubert,” she shook her head, “I’m afraid not. Not this time. You must give Louis up at once. Perhaps you do not realise what a serious offence it is to keep someone against their will—” Something in Hubert’s face caused her to hesitate. “Or even with their consent. It’s kidnapping, and I do not have to tell you—”

  “Fatty’s a liar!”

  “Hubert!” Her voice struck hard at him, slipping the gentle tether she had imposed upon it.

  Deliberately he took a step forward. “Fatty’s a liar!”

  Miss Deke rose, her hand gripping tight to her gloves. “Stop it!”

  “Fatty’s a liar—and what’s more you’ve no right to come here.” He sensed that behind him the other children had risen too. “Why don’t—”

  “Stop it at once!” Dekey Bird twitched her head in the manner that had earned her nickname. “This minute!”

  “Go away!” said Hubert.

  “Go away … go away,” the voices behind him rose.

  “… quiet this instant …”

  “Go away, go away, go away.” They made it into a chant of violence that swept Miss Deke’s words away.

  Straight as a sword, she watched the four faces of hate that cried out against her. She did not attempt to silence them. She had lost. They would drive her from the house. But it was not her defeat—she had known a thousand in her time—nor the children’s resistance to her words that caused Miss Deke to feel an intense and melancholy unease. She was afraid—not for her own safety in that dark, drab room—but of the cause of their murderous fury. Whatever it was, and her mind skirted it quickly, it had given them a power of confident rage that made them—she murmured the word to herself—unnatural.

  “Go away—go away—go away!”

  She had started to move, when the children’s chant was interrupted by another sound. Someone was knocking at the door with a confident briskness that made Miss Deke’s knocks seem like delicate taps—bam-bam, bam-bam, bam-bam.

  “… awaaaay …” Their
cries dwindled.

  There was a long silence in the room.

  Miss Deke singled out Hubert. “Well?” she said, pulling on one of her gloves.

  “I’ll … I’ll answer it,” he said. He walked to the door; his knees were so weak he felt at every step he must fall down. He was thirsty too. He stepped into the hall and looked for a moment at the door that opened down the steps to the kitchen. He could rush down there and drink water forever at the sink.

  But he turned towards the front door. Briefly the thoughts he’d had before Miss Deke’s entrance slipped through his mind. Now they did not deter him. It didn’t matter who it was. The temporarily engulfing rage of the front room had washed him clean of fear or expectation. “It’s over now,” he repeated to himself under his breath. “It’s over now.”

  Reaching up, he twisted back the latch and pulled open the heavy door.

  27

  He was a big man. The porch light shining behind his head and the hat resting low on his forehead made it difficult to see his face. He stood quite still. His hands were thrust in the square pockets of his camel’s-hair coat, so that only the thumbs protruded.

  “Yes?” said Hubert.

  The stranger did not move for a moment—it was as if he did not have to hurry. Then slowly he lifted a hand to his face and rubbed his upper lip caressingly with his index finger.

  “Well,” he said at last. Then he laughed. It was the laugh of a man who enjoyed himself, and immediately it dispersed the shadows of menace that had floated into the hall with the evening mist. “Well.” With a quick movement of thumb and finger the stranger flicked back the brim of his hat so that the dim hall light fell on his features.

  He grinned. “I’ll bet you’re Hubert the letter-writer.” His laugh burst out again.

  “Who—” Hubert began, “what…”

  The man reached out and tilted Hubert’s face. “The dead spit of Vi.”

  Hubert caught the whiff of nicotine on the man’s fingers—the scent of comfortable manliness filled him with a sudden, surprised confidence, like flowers caught unawares by a burst of artificial sunlight. “You’re, you’re—you must be—”

  “That’s right.” The man bent his knees so that he was on a level with Hubert. “Sorry I’m a bit on the late side—had a spot of … unfinished business to clear up.”

  “Dad! Oh, Dad!” He flung his arms round the man’s neck. He felt the stubble on the cheek and the warmth of the coat against his face. The smell of tobacco and tweed and man was strong.

  “Quiet down, old boy, quiet down.”

  “Dad, Dad!” Clasped in those arms, his eyes pressed tight gainst the shoulder, Hubert knew that he never wanted to nove. He began to sob.

  “Hey, it can’t be as bad as all that.” There was a hint of question in the gentleness of his tone.

  But Hubert could not be quieted for a while. The birds of disaster that had soared and trembled within him for so long were struggling out at last. And the pain and the cries as hey left him were nothing but joy. The strong hand lifted his face again.

  “I’m all right,” murmured Hubert, his eyes filled with the diamond light of his tears, “really I’m all right, Dad.”

  “ ’Ere—not so much of that ‘Dad’ stuff. Dad—makes me eel like an institution.” He chuckled. “Call me Charlie—Charlie ’ook. Nobody ever called me anything else. Least, hot my friends.”

  “But—but you’re—”

  “Charlie ’ook.”

  Tentatively, Hubert tried. “Charlie ’ook?”

  “That’s it.” They grinned at each other.

  “Well,” said Charlie ’ook, standing up, “and how’s Vi—your mother?”

  “But, but—” Hubert was bewildered, “she’s dead. I told you in my letter!”

  “Ah—yes,” Charlie ’ook rubbed his upper lip. “I forgot. who looks after you then?”

  “No one. We do.”

  Charlie ’ook listened without interruption until Hubert glanced into the hall. “Well, let’s make ourselves at home, feh?” He started to move forward, but Hubert grabbed his hand quickly.

  “No,” Hubert whispered hurriedly, “we can’t go in yet. Miss Deke’s there.” He pulled Charlie ’ook out onto the front step and drew the door almost shut behind them. The urgency of what he had to tell Charlie ’ook overcame him for a moment; then, in a rush, he told him: about Miss Deke, her suspicions about Mother, about Louis, about Gerty …

  Charlie ’ook listened without interruption until Hubert had finished. Then he was silent for a little, as if waiting for the echoes of Hubert’s news to diminish.

  “What do you live on?”

  The question startled Hubert. “Well—we live on … I don’t—”

  “I mean where does the money come from?”

  Hubert almost laughed with relief. “The cheque. Mother’s cheque—it comes every month.”

  “But she’s—ah, I see.” Charlie ’ook removed his hat and ran his hand over his thin blond hair. “How do you cash the cheque?”

  “We take it to the bank.”

  “And they cash it, do they?” He spoke slowly. “What about the endorsement—the signature on the back?”

  “Oh, that! Jiminee does that—he’s very good at drawing, you see. He can copy almost anything.”

  “Pretty sharp.” Charlie ’ook stretched out his hand to rumple Hubert’s hair. “Pretty damned sharp.” He laughed again. As Hubert realised that what they had done was, in some inexplicable way, rather clever, he laughed too.

  “And nobody knows, eh? About Vi—or Gerty?”

  “No.”

  “Blimey! Except this Miss Deke—she suspects?”

  Hubert nodded. “She said she’d report us to the police—for not letting her see Mother.”

  “But she hasn’t got anything concrete to go on.” He thought for a moment. “Schoolmarm. What about Louis—she knows you got him?”

  “Yes—Fatty Chance sneaked. He saw Jiminee and Louis coming here.”

  “What’s Miss Deke want to do about it?”

  “She wants to take Louis back to Mrs. Grossiter, I think.”

  Charlie ’ook half turned to the neon glare of the street. His profile was outlined against the light. Hubert had a sudden fear that he was going to leave. Then Charlie ’ook said, as if to the deserted street, “We’ll ’ave to let her take Louis.”

  “But you can’t. Louis—we’ve adopted Louis. This is his home now!”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” said Charlie ’ook, still to the street; then he glanced down at Hubert. “Look—it doesn’t matter what you want or what Louis wants. Louis belongs to his mum. That’s the law. There’s nothing we can do about that. If we go against the law, you know what happens? Prison! Prison—not for you. For me, because I’m responsible for you, see? And if I go to jug, that’s the end of the game. The police’ll find out about everything—Vi, Gerty, the lot! We’d be done for then.”

  “But we can’t give up Louis—we can’t!”

  Charlie ’ook twisted his hat in his hand. Hubert watched the orange-coloured feather in the hatband come round and round. “We got to,” said Charlie ’ook earnestly. “Look, he can come and play with you, can’t he? And if he’s really unhappy, perhaps we can adopt him—legally—who knows? But if we hold onto him now, we’ll be in the soup. All of us. There won’t be no home for any of us here, let alone Louis.”

  “Yes but …” The force of Hubert’s logic was muted. Charlie ’ook had arrived. The miracle had happened. He didn’t meet Charlie ’ook’s eyes as he asked, “Can he take his presents with him?”

  “His presents?”

  “We gave him presents. I gave him a box. If he can take the presents, then—then he’ll have something to remember us by.”

  “Of course he can take the presents. Of course he can. But you’ll see him again.”

  They stood quietly. Charlie ’ook stopped turning his hat.

  “It’s settled then?”

  Hub
ert nodded. It was worse than sneaking, he knew that. Worse than anything Fatty Chance had ever done. But there was nothing else to do. Nothing.

  “Well—now we better go and deal with this Miss Deke, eh?” He laid his hand gently on Hubert’s shoulder and pushed open the front door. They stepped together into the hall.

  Charlie ’ook dropped his hat on the table. With deliberate motions he unbuckled his camel’s-hair overcoat and took it off. “Where is she?” he asked in a low voice.

  “In there,” Hubert indicated the front room.

  Charlie ’ook started to fold his overcoat, then, changing his mind, tossed it carelessly onto the hall chair. “By herself?”

  “No—Dinah and Elsa and Dun are in there too.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. He was patting his pockets with little delicate taps. All the while he was looking around the hall. He seemed unwilling to move. He glanced at the clock and then at his watch. “Well,” he said, “well.” He drew a packet of Players half out of his pocket, then slipped it back again.

  A murmur of voices came from the front room.

  “They’re talking,” Hubert whispered.

  Charlie ’ook’s movements ceased as he listened. “Not a good sign, eh?” He hesitated one moment more, then, “Come on,” he said, “we got to break that up.” He walked to the front room and pushed the door wide.

  They were standing in exactly the same position as when Hubert had left them—such ages ago, he thought. They were silent now, watching Charlie ’ook as he stood in the doorway. Miss Deke, thin and white-faced, was small beside him, almost insignificant. The old house, with its high ceilings and wide doorways and heavy furniture, had someone to fit it at last.

  “Well,” said Charlie ’ook, “this is a nice surprise.” He surveyed the children benignly, but quickly switched his glance to the schoolmistress. He smiled. “And you must be Miss Deke.” He came into the room and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you—always wanted to.”

  Miss Deke wavered for a second.

  “Anything wrong?” said Charlie ’ook.

  “No,” she extended her hand. “Yes, I am Miss Deke. And—”

  “Just a goose walking over your grave, eh?” He chuckled and grasped her hand firmly. “How do you do?”