Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  “Yes,” Louis said. He moved round the table and came towards Charlie ’ook. “We better go up now, hadn’t we?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Charlie ’ook pushed open the door to let the boy go first. Behind them as they mounted the stairs came the other children. Not a word was spoken.

  Miss Deke rose from the black chair and came forward as Louis appeared in the doorway. Her hands seemed to move out from her body, but she caught them back quickly. “Hello, Louis.”

  “Hello, Miss Deke.”

  “Have you got your cap and coat?”

  “They’re in the hall.”

  Miss Deke followed him to the coat cupboard in the hall, the children making way for them. “Thank you, Mr. Hook,” Miss Deke murmured.

  “That’s all right. Anything to obli——” He checked himself quickly. “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble now.”

  “I’m sure not. I’m sure.” She put out her bony hand and he grasped it. “Thank you.”

  Louis had pulled on his overcoat. They watched him—the children, Miss Deke, Charlie ’ook—as he managed the buttons down the front. The light in the hall was dim, and the darkness seemed to rise out of the heavy black table and the panelled walls.

  He finished at last. He put on his cap and brushed his dark hair under the peak. His hands fell to his sides.

  “I’m ready.”

  “You didn’t have anything else?”

  “No.”

  She opened the front door and swung it wide. Louis followed her and then turned on the threshold.

  “Goodbye,” he said.

  “Goodbye … goodbye … goodbye,” the answering murmurs rose and were still, a wind touching a wheatfield.

  “Good luck,” said Charlie ’ook.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hook.”

  For a moment Louis’ dark eyes took in the scene in the hall. And then, arms raised to balance, he was going down the front steps. As they walked down the path, Miss Deke’s hand strayed to Louis, but he did not seem to notice it. They reached the gate.

  Suddenly the children were released. They ran out onto the porch. And they shouted, “Goodbye, Louis, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye …” Long after the gate had closed and Louis was out of sight and had turned from Ipswich Terrace, their shouts continued, dying, dwindling at last, until, like the last shot of the final defender of a fortress already overrun, only an echo struck back from the empty street.

  “Come on,” said Charlie ’ook, suddenly brisk, “let’s get back inside, eh?”

  The children did not resist him. They turned and followed slowly as he strode ahead of them through the melancholy of the hall.

  28

  The smell of stale dust from the old couch was strong. Once the front room had smelled of wax polish and comfort. Everything had been nice and looked after then. In the daytime its darkness had been warm and solacing. But now the lights were meagre against the outside night. The chairs and the table and the piano and the sideboard each stood ugly in isolation, as if whatever had drawn them together had dissolved.

  The children waited, not meeting each other’s eyes. Hubert tried to remember what it had been like when Gerty had gone. He remembered the burial … the mangled lilies … the service … Elsa weeping, not trying to hide it. There had been lots for them to do then. Now they had nothing to do but feel their grief. Nothing—except to watch Charlie ’ook.

  He stood with his back to the fireplace, empty except for the cigarette stubs he had thrown there, gently bumping his shoulder blades against the high marble mantelpiece. He hummed an indistinguishable melody, all the while examining the children as they examined him.

  Suddenly he slapped his hands together. “Well, it’s a bit nippy in here, ain’t it. What about a nice fire, eh?”

  Hubert moved forward. “We—we haven’t got any coal. We ran out.”

  “Logs?”

  Hubert shook his head.

  “Well, that settles that, ’spect the chimney smokes anyhow.” He laughed. “ ’ave to do a bit of P.T. to keep warm.”

  Hubert glanced sidelong at his brothers and sisters, standing in cold unease, and wished just one of them would try to help.

  “Any suggestions?” Charlie ’ook was grinning, as if unaware of their lack of response.

  “Er-er-er,” began Jiminee, “there’s a ’lectric f-f-fire in the s-s-spare room.”

  “Aha—all mod. cons. That’ll take the chill off our livers.”

  “Shall I go an’ get it?” asked Hubert.

  “Let Jiminee get it—he had the bright idea. Okay, Jim?”

  Jiminee nodded vigorously and turned and ran out of the room.

  “Now let’s see,” Charlie ’ook felt in his pocket for cigarettes and drew out the empty packet. “ ’ere, someone like to fetch me another packet from my coat in the hall? Dunstan—what about you?”

  Dunstan hesitated visibly. He left the room with reluctance.

  “What about a spot to drink?”

  “Cocoa?” Hubert suggested.

  Charlie ’ook laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of cocoa exactly—something with a bit of alcoholic warmth is more in my line.”

  “We don’t have anything like that here,” Elsa said.

  “What? Not even a little something for medicinal purposes?” He winked. The perfect closing of one eye, while the other remained completely open, made Willy give a little giggle. No one joined him and he shut up at once.

  “Mother,” said Elsa, “disapproved of drinking.”

  “Vi?” Charlie ’ook chuckled. “Come on—I don’t mind betting there ain’t a little something somewhere for when she was feeling a bit down in the mouth.” He glanced at the sideboard. “What about that cupboard, eh? That’s a likely spot.”

  “It’s locked,” said Elsa quickly as Charlie ’ook moved to the sideboard.

  He looked at her speculatively. “I don’t believe you want us to enjoy ourselves, do you? Who’s got the key?”

  Elsa stared at him and said no word. Nobody spoke.

  “All right—we’ll have to do without. The key, I mean.” He smiled. “ ’ere, Hubert, lend us your penknife.”

  He took the knife and opened the thinnest blade. He bent down by the right-hand door of the sideboard and inserted the blade between door and jamb. With a quick twist and a pull he swung the door back. He fumbled inside for a moment and then pulled out two quart bottles and stood up.

  “There we are,” he said triumphantly, “brown ale. Just the job, eh?” He clicked the blade of the knife shut and lobbed it to Hubert. “Now who’s going to get me a glass?”

  “I will,” said Diana suddenly. The children looked at her with surprise and she blushed.

  “That’s my girl,” Charlie ’ook called as Diana left the room. “Now all we got to do is to sit down and wait.” He clinked the two bottles together and lifted them onto the mantelpiece. “Safe from accidents there.” There was an easiness about all Charlie ’ook’s movements that made it difficult to stop watching him. He put the bottles on the marble slab as though that were the only place for them.

  When Dunstan came back and handed over the cigarettes, holding the packet by the corner and stretching out his arm to its full length, Charlie ’ook stripped off the cellophane and pulled out a cigarette almost with one motion. “ ’ere,” he said, holding the cigarette on a level with his waist, “ever seen this?” He flicked it twisting into the air, darted his head forward, and caught the cigarette in his mouth.

  There was an impressed pause, and Hubert noticed that even Elsa looked interested for a moment. “D-d-do it again,” said Jiminee, standing by the door with the electric fire in his hand.

  Charlie ’ook grinned. “Next time. Never do the same trick too often—you might get caught. Let’s plug it in and get a bit of heat.”

  Gradually the grey coils of the fire began to redden, giving up a scent of scorched dust that filled the room with the indoor solace of winter.

  “What I don’t like about these th
ings,” he said, standing with his back to the glowing wire worms, “is your kneecaps freeze, while the backs of your legs are scarred for life with third-degree burns.”

  Hubert struggled for something to say. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say!” Charlie ’ook stepped away from the fire and began to prowl about the room. He had a curious way of touching everything, as though for luck. “The piano work?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Hubert. “Not as well as the one at school, though.”

  “School—blimey. We don’t want to play no hymns on this one.”

  “On Sundays,” Elsa said decisively, “Mother always used to play hymns to us on that piano.”

  Charlie ’ook sat down on the piano stool and swung round to face the children. “Put me foot in it that time good and proper, didn’t I?” He laughed. “I don’t object to a good rousing hymn myself on occasion—upliftin’, definitely.” He pushed up the lid of the piano and struck a couple of high notes. “See what I mean?” He broke into “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” giving it a faintly waltz-time rhythm.

  “Ah, the glass.” He stopped playing and took the glass from Diana. He started to move towards the beer, then he turned back and patted Diana gently on the shoulder. “Thank you, love.”

  In silence the children watched him pour the brown ale into the carefully tilted glass. He filled it frothless to the top. “Well,” he said, holding the glass up so that the liquid gleamed redly in the light, “and what shall we drink to, eh?” He looked enquiringly at each of the children, but none of them responded. “Got to be careful,” he murmured. “Let’s see—what about … ‘a new start’?” It struck him suddenly as amusing, and he began to laugh so that his hand shook and drips of brown ran down the side of the glass. “That’s it—a new start!” He lifted the glass, “God bless,” and drank.

  He had drunk most of the beer to the toast. He refilled the glass and put the bottle back on the mantelpiece. The room was a little warmer now from the fire, and the faint odour of cigarette smoke and beer seemed to disperse a little of the melancholy.

  Charlie ’ook went back to the piano. He stood, playing scales with a couple of fingers and taking an occasional sip of beer. Now and again he looked at the children, hesitated and then continued the scales. At last he put his glass on the top of the piano and sat down. “Now,” he said, “what about a song, eh?”

  “That would be nice—”

  “Yes, please …”

  Diana and Hubert spoke at once and stopped, aware of the silence of the others.

  “What shall we ’ave then? Elsa, what do you say?” “I don’t mind.”

  “A hymn, perhaps,” Charlie ’ook grinned. “What about it, Dunstan?”

  Dunstan frowned. “You can’t sing hymns and drink at the same time.”

  “Ah, you see, but I won’t do the singing. Now, which one of you’s got the voice?”

  “Jiminee’s got the best voice,” said Hubert.

  “Okay, Jiminee, what d’you want to sing?”

  Jiminee quivered—he tried to speak but the words got tangled before they reached his mouth, “I-I-I-I-I …”

  Hubert moved close to him. “It’s all right, Jiminee,” he whispered. Then to Charlie ’ook he said, “I think he’d like to do ‘There Is a Green Hill.’”

  “My word, I ’aven’t heard that in a hundred years. How’s it go—something like this, eh?” He began to play. “Ah, that’s it. Okay, Jiminee, ready?”

  Jiminee nodded and took a deep breath.

  “One, two, three …”

  There is a green hill far away

  Without a city wall

  Without a trace of hesitation, Jiminee’s voice cut cool and untroubled into the heavy, already smoky atmosphere —moving the children into the memory of a Sunday world of lightness and clarity that had so long been absent. There had been no hymns in the tabernacle.

  Where our dear Lord was crucified

  Who died to save us all…

  Hubert knew that he was crying. But this time it didn’t matter. The others probably were weeping too. As the simplicity of the singing and the barrel-organ striving of the piano together penetrated from basement to attic of the house, Hubert felt that he was back again.

  O dearly, dearly has he loved

  And we must love him too,

  And trust in his redeeming blood

  And try his works to do.

  As it ended, Hubert came slowly down from a great height. They were absolutely silent.

  Charlie ’ook had taken his hands from the keys and was gently rubbing his upper lip. He reached up for his beer and took a long swallow. “Well,” he said, swivelling the stool so he faced the children, “if you can all sing like that, we can start a blooming choir and make a mint.”

  Suddenly Jiminee was by his side, and Charlie ’ook lifted his arm and put it round the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll have to call you ‘the lark.’” He smiled and looked up to the others. “Come on in close by the piano—we’ll all have a go. What about—”

  “ ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic,’” said Willy.

  “All right. Teddy Bear it shall be. All know the words? Right.” He banged his fingers down on the keys and forced the old piano into a fortissimo it had long forgotten. “One, two, three …”

  Charlie ’ook’s head moved vigorously in time to the music, and, standing directly behind him, Hubert could see the thin strips of hair that stretched from one side of his head to the other gradually becoming dislodged. “Today’s the day the teddy bears have their pic-NIC!” A long thread shook loose and flopped over to the other side of Charlie ’ook’s head, where it wavered and danced to every beat of the tune. Hubert began to giggle, and one by one the others noticed it and began to giggle too. A second piece of hair joined the first one, and then, like a mass rout, a third and fourth and fifth. As the song ended, the dam of the singing was broken, and the children let go their laughter in a great burst—even Dunstan was shaken uncontrollably.

  Charlie ’ook grinned at them, puzzled. Then he became aware of the threads of hair hanging over his left ear. For a moment he was serious and then, without attempting to put the hair back in place, he was seized with their laughter.

  The main force had gone and their stomachs were weak, shaken with the pain of a renewed burst that gradually subsided.

  “That was good, eh?” said Charlie ’ook. He drank some more beer. “ ’ere, Else old girl, get us the bottle, will you? You know what that song reminds me of? The army. Bleeding Forces’ Favourites—all the time we were in the desert, it was ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ and, what was the other one? Oh, yes, ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’ First one, then the other. Didn’t seem to have no other records in the whole B.B.C.”

  “What d-d-did you d-do in the army?” Jiminee said.

  “Me? Captain, R.A.S.C,” he half laughed, half coughed. “Can’t all be in the Guards.”

  “But on the letters it said lance-corporal,” Hubert blurted.

  Charlie ’ook glanced at him quickly. “Oh, yes—that was after my bit of trouble. Can’t have it cushy forever.” He filled his glass from the bottle Elsa brought him.

  Jiminee said slowly, “Are—are you really g-g-going to st-uh st-uh st-stay?”

  “Yes—I’m gonna stay.” He drank a little from his glass.

  “You haven’t got any luggage,” said Elsa.

  “Like to travel light, see. Saves all that trouble—with porters and things.”

  “Are you,” began Jiminee again, “are you r-r-r-r- …”

  “ Hubert interrupted, “He means, are you really our dad, don’t you, Jiminee?”

  The boy nodded, his body trembling.

  “Well,” said Charlie ’ook, “in a manner of speaking—yes. Let’s see, what they call it? Putative? Yes, that’s it.” He laughed. “Only don’t you go calling me Dad.” He looked momentarily fierce. “Charlie ’ook’s my name. Charlie at a pinch.”

  “Charlie,” said Jiminee.
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br />   “Charlie—that’s a funny name for a dad,” Willy said.

  “Charlie … Charlie … Charlie …” The murmur spread in the room and died.

  “That’s right—Charlie. Come on—let’s have another song.”

  They went through “The Minstrel Boy,” “Old Black Joe,” “The Bay of Biscay,” “Tom Bowling,” and then Charlie ’ook taught them the words of “The Quartermaster’s Stores,” “A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts,” “My Old Man Said Follow the Van,” and finally “The Spanish Onion.”

  Charlie ’ook sang the solo parts himself in a high strong tenor, keeping the children in tune in the choruses by his powerful lead, and thumping the tunes out into the neon-lit night of Ipswich Terrace that lay resting in mirthless and disdainful gentility.

  “He shall die, he shall die, he shall

  die-diddly-i-diddly-i-die-die-die-die-die-die-die-die-die,

  He shall die—he shall di———ie.…”

  He stopped at last, the sweat glittering in white beads on his pink forehead and his hair dangling in abandon. He poured the last few drops of brown from the second bottle. “Well,” he said, “that’s it, eh?” He sighed.

  The children stood close about the piano. They were tired but wanting desperately to continue.

  “There’s one thing,” said Charlie ’ook seriously, “one thing I don’t understand. What’d you do with the old lady—I mean, Mother—when she died, that is?”

  The children looked away from him and were silent.

  “Come on, I’m not going to tell on you.”

  Hubert took a breath. “We buried—”

  “Hubert!” Dunstan warned sharply.

  “He’s got to know—hasn’t he?” Hubert turned directly to his older brother and challenged. “He’s going to find out, isn’t he?”

  Dunstan stared. He opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  Hubert relaxed. “We buried Mother in the garden—Gerty too. We did it at night, so’s nobody would see us.”

  Charlie ’ook’s hand tightened round the glass he held. Slowly he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed the last of the brown. He put the glass down with extreme care.