by Julian Gloag
“No, no—not now you reminded me. Eleven he’s going to be, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But you haven’t forgotten what you promised?”
“Promised?” Charlie ’ook frowned.
“To take him up to Charing Cross Road—as his birthday treat. To buy books.”
“Faith an’ b’Jasus, and so I did,” said Charlie ’ook, mock-Irish. “Well, and so I will—’ere, wait a minute,” he was serious, “no, I can’t.”
Hubert stood up. He was suddenly cold. “Why not?”
“I got to go to Hurst Park today. Promised I would.”
“But—but you promised Dun!” cried Hubert.
Charlie ’ook looked at him carefully. “Yes, I know I did. But that was a long time ago, see. And—” He stopped. “He’d be upset, wouldn’t he?”
Hubert nodded. “Can’t you put off the Park?”
“Nope. Can’t be done. There’s a sure thing—a dead sure thing in the two o’clock. And I’ve got to be there. Can’t get any more credit, see, but I got a bundle now with the cheque. Hey, Jiminee,” he yelled almost absently. He thought for a moment, rubbing delicately at his upper lip. “Tell you what I might do, though. I could take him with me, eh? That’d be a treat, wouldn’t it?”
Hubert was doubtful.
“I mean, if he’s going to buy books, he’s got to have some cash, ain’t he? Well, if he comes with me, he can win a few quid. He will win a few quid, I’ll make sure of that. Then he’ll have a whole pile to blue on the bleeding books—and I’ll take him up next week. How’s that?”
“Well,” said Hubert, “it’s betting, isn’t it?”
“Betting, my boy—it certainly is! The Races—the Sticks—the Glorious Turf—the Sport of Kings the Universal World Over! What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, Dunstan doesn’t approve of betting.”
“Doesn’t approve?” said Charlie ’ook incredulously.
“Well, he didn’t used to,” Hubert apologised.
“I’ll soon talk him out of that. Nobody ever turned down a sure thing. Don’t you worry,” he was suddenly buoyant again, “everything’s gonna be all right.” He bent down and picked Hubert up and pushed him high in the air. “Have you ever known Charles Ronald Hook to go back on his given word?” he asked sternly.
Hubert laughed despite himself. “No,” he said.
“Well then,” Charlie ’ook let him go and then caught him again before his feet touched the floor. “Well, then,” he grinned down at Hubert. And Hubert grinned back.
“What are we going to do about this letter to old Samuel Halbert Esquire, eh?”
“Oh, I’ll take it,” said Hubert.
“All right then. Off with you. I gotta get dressed.” He clapped the boy on the buttocks.
As Hubert went to the door, Jiminee appeared. “D-d-did you c-c-c—”
“Aha! Yes, I did. ’ere,” Charlie ’ook reached onto the bed for the letter with the cheque in it and tossed it to Jiminee, “do you want to do your stuff on that, eh?”
Jiminee held the envelope up to the light. “It’s the cheque, isn’t it?” he asked.
“That’s correct, absolutely correct. I got to have it in half an hour. Can you manage it?”
Jiminee nodded professionally. “I think s-so.”
Charlie ’ook rubbed his hands briskly. “Cold as a bleeding graveyard in here.”
“Graveyard? My, we are morbid this morning, aren’t we?” Mrs. Stork chuckled from the doorway.
Charlie ’ook made a face. “ ’ow long have you been there, Nosey Parker?”
“Long enough, long enough,” said Mrs. Stork, displaying her wrinkled grin. She turned to the boys. “Now why don’t you run off an’ play, dears, eh? Like good little boys. And let your father get himself dressed. He’s got to be on his toes today—going to make all our fortunes at the races, so I ’ear.”
Charlie ’ook laughed. “Blimey, you must ’ave ears in your little fingers.”
Mrs. Stork nodded knowingly. “I got my spies. My spies. An’ what will the master have for his breakfast this graveyard morning?”
Charlie ’ook glowered melodramatically. “A plate of juicy fat toadstools!”
For a moment all four were caught in the same burst of laughter.
Then Mrs. Stork began to bustle. “Come on, come on,” she said, beckoning them from the room, “I ’aven’t got all day. Got to make his breakfast, the lazy thing, and do the shopping and, oh, ever so many things. Your Mrs. Stork is not a one for taking things easy. No, she isn’t.” She let the boys precede her, then shut the door, leaving Charlie ’ook alone. “No, she isn’t.”
Hubert and Jiminee stood on the landing and watched Mrs. Stork hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Hu—d-d-do you think he really l-l-likes her?”
Hubert shook his head emphatically. “Course not. He’s got to keep in her good books, that’s all.”
Jiminee thought for a moment. Then he said, “We’ve all g-got to b-b-be in her g-g-g-good b-books, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
Far below a door slammed. Hubert tapped the letter in his hand against the rail of the banister. “Where’s Dun?”
“I think he’s sw-swinging with Willy,” said Jiminee. “I g-got to go an’ d-do this.” He opened the envelope with his forefinger and drew out the pink cheque.
“Okay.” Hubert started down the stairs. “I’m going to find Dun,” he called over his shoulder.
Mr. Halbert’s letter would have to wait.
34
Hubert and Jiminee climbed the front steps and turned to look at the thin glitter of snow in the neon-lit brightness of Ipswich Terrace. Pulling off his school cap, Hubert felt the icy crust of the fallen flakes on the brim turn to water under the heat of his thumb.
“D-do you think it’ll l-lie?” Jiminee asked anxiously.
Hubert shook his head. It was almost rain even now, and his shoes were wet with the slush they had walked through on their way home from school. And in the momentary hush of the main road traffic you could even hear the gentle mouse feet of the flakes. It would have to get a lot colder before the true snow silence came.
“P’raps it’ll t-turn to ice then?”
“It might,” said Hubert.
They watched quietly.
“I think it’s more icy n-now,” said Jiminee after a while.
Hubert smiled, without looking at his brother. “It won’t happen in a twinkling of an eye,” he answered.
“Well,” Jiminee began doubtfully, then suddenly he brightened. “Look, old Halby’s car.”
The black Daimler drew up slowly in front of number 40, the windscreen wipers moving with opulent lethargy and the tyres sucking at the slush-filled gutters.
“Old Halby’s b-back home from the office.”
“He’s early,” said Hubert. From the window of his workroom he had often seen the Daimler return as late as seven and even eight in the evening.
“I expect it’s because of her,” said Jiminee.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Hubert. The car had stopped now and the windscreen wipers were at rest. Inside the car there was the glow of a match and then the smaller glow of a cigarette.
“She’s w-w-wa-wasting away!” said Jiminee.
“Who says?”
“Joan says—that’s who. I heard her t-talking to the p-p-post-man.”
“Joan’s only the maid—what would she know about it?”
“She d-does. I heard her. She says Mrs. Halb-bert spends all d-day in b-bed and then—and then she screams at n-night. Something t-terrible, that’s what Joan says.”
“I never heard her,” said Hubert.
Jiminee hesitated. “P’raps she screams soft—p’raps she don’t want n-n-no one to hear.”
“Doesn’t,” corrected Hubert.
“Doesn’t.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Hubert halfheartedly. Mr. Halbert had opened the door of the car and was getting out. He was
n’t wearing a coat. He reached into the front seat for his briefcase and umbrella. Then he shut the door and locked it and turned towards the house. He stood for a moment, smoking his cigarette and looking up at the light snow. They could see his white face clearly, the eyes, blinking against the falling moisture which glistened like tears on his cheek.
Instinctively the boys moved a little deeper into the shadow of their own front porch. A moment later there was a loud burst of laughter from the front room. Abruptly Mr. Halbert lowered his head. He dropped his cigarette on the pavement, pushed open the gate of number 40 and walked up to the house. They heard the key in the lock and a few seconds later the slam of the door.
Hubert looked at Jiminee. “Who’s in the front room?”
Jiminee shrugged. “I dunno.”
They entered the house. In the hall they took off their satchels and hung their damp coats and caps in the cupboard. “The others are home,” said Hubert. Above each peg was a label with the names of the children written in Mother’s neat and curling hand. All the pegs were full, even the one marked Gertrude. The labels were faded and peeling now, and long ago the children had ceased to hang their coats on their own name pegs. I’ll make new ones tomorrow, thought Hubert, then we can all hang our things in the proper place.
“I expect they’re making tea,” said Jiminee.
“Yes.”
They walked down the hall. Hubert stopped beside the door to the front room. It was closed. The voices from inside were indistinct.
“I ’spect Charlie’s got some of his friends in,” murmured Hubert.
In the last few weeks there had been a lot of them—of the friends. They hardly ever seemed to be the same ones. Some were fat and smelled of whiskey and others were thin and bony and always came without coats. Sometimes they came back with Charlie ’ook from the races. Sometimes they just knocked on the door and always looked surprised when one of the children opened the door. “Must ’ave come to the wrong ’ouse,” one or two of them had muttered. But Hubert knew they hadn’t—there was no tingle of excitement or fear now when he went to open the front door. Once or twice there had been women—ladies? When they went away, the front room smelled for a long time of their scent.
There was more laughter. Hubert listened anxiously.
“Sounds like old T-Talk-Stork,” said Jiminee.
It did. Hubert wanted to push open the door and walk in but—
“Shall I knock?” asked Jiminee.
—but somehow he didn’t think Charlie ’ook liked to be interrupted when he was with his friends. Yet, if it was only old Mrs. Stork …
“Perhaps we b-better go an’ have t-tea first?”
“Yes.” Hubert made up his mind. “Yes. All right.”
As they went down the stairs to the kitchen, Hubert wished he’d had enough courage just to barge in on them upstairs. After all, they couldn’t bite your head off.
He pushed open the kitchen door.
“We been waiting for you.” It was Elsa who spoke. They were all standing. Hubert saw that the tea things were not laid, and there was no kettle on the stove.
“What’s the matter?” he asked cautiously.
“You tell him, Dun,” said Elsa.
Dunstan looked around uneasily and Hubert knew at once that he didn’t want to speak up. Hubert drew an inward sigh of relief—his constant fear was that Elsa would persuade Dunstan to side with her completely and then try to destroy everything.
“What’s up?” repeated Hubert.
“The tabernacle’s gone,” said Dunstan, getting rid of the words quickly, as if they didn’t really belong to him.
“The tabernacle’s gone?” It was half question, half statement. He felt hardly any sense of shock; somewhere at the back of his mind he had been expecting this, or rather he thought of it as already having happened. But, watching the faces of his brothers and sisters, he realised that such a thing had not entered their heads. Even Diana seemed somehow dazed—waiting for a word from him to clear it all up.
“Have a look for yourself,” said Elsa.
Hubert nodded. He opened the back door and went outside. To his left the light from the kitchen windows shone on the wet leaves of the lilies of the valley that looked like dark exhausted tongues. On the right, the hump of blackness where the tabernacle should have been was missing. There was no light from the Halberts’ beyond. He thought of Mrs. Halbert hidden behind the curtains in one of the rooms, and he remembered suddenly the face that had looked out at him when he’d been playing in the garden weeks ago. He touched his hair, damp with snow, and shivered. It was cold. He should go in. He turned and went back slowly.
“Well,” Elsa said, “are you any the wiser?”
“It’s not there,” Hubert said simply. He felt languid—what did it matter if it was gone?
“It must’ve b-been t-took away,” suggested Jiminee.
“They took it away,” said Elsa.
“Who’s they?” Hubert asked it automatically. He knew.
“Charlie ’ook—and the Storks. They’re upstairs now. Celebrating.”
Hubert smiled.
“What are you grinning at?” Elsa made it sound like murder.
Hubert rubbed his finger under his nose. “You’re not afraid of the Storks, are you?”
“Afraid?” Elsa was astonished.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” he said, before she had time to assert her indignation. There wasn’t going to be a row if he could help it. He didn’t look away from Elsa, but he sensed that both Dunstan and Diana were relieved.
“Fuss?” She was unsure of herself. “They’ve destroyed the tabernacle. Don’t you understand what that means?” She glanced at the others, but there was no response. “It means—it means we can’t have Mothertime!”
“Well,” said Hubert, “we haven’t had Mothertime for ages anyway. Not since Charlie ’ook came.”
“Dunstan!” She was pleading. “Dunstan, you understand what they’ve done, don’t you? You mind, don’t you, Dun?”
Dunstan frowned. He moved his hands awkwardly. “They should have asked us,” he said.
“Perhaps,” said Jiminee, “they’re going to b-build us a sunk g-garden, like Mother p-promised.”
“Super!” said Willy delightedly.
Elsa looked around at their suddenly grinning faces. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. And then Hubert was sorry for her—more sorry than he had ever been. Once her authority had been second only to Mother’s, and now … now he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes and the false firmness of her lip. “Look, Else,” he said, “we’ll ask Charlie why he did it. He must have had a good reason. We’ll ask him to explain—how’s that?”
It sounded silly, futile to him as he said it, but the children murmured their approval. Elsa nodded without a word, but he knew it wasn’t that she agreed—she just wanted them to look away, not to notice her.
“Let’s have tea then. We’ll go up after. Let’s have tea first.”
“Let’s g-get tea in a record!” said Jiminee.
They were all caught in the activity of excited relief. They banged the plates down on the table, noisily scaring away the vestigial ghost that hovered somewhere in each of them. The water was poured at the first tentative scream of the kettle and the bread was buttered rough with hasty lumps.
Throughout tea, Hubert tried to put away the thought of going upstairs. Always let well alone, Mother had said. It was funny how he remembered that. But he’d promised Elsa, he’d promised and he didn’t really know why he didn’t want to do it.
The door of the front room had been opened a crack. Standing before it, Hubert plucked at his determination. Behind him the children formed in line, and he was at once struck with the remembrance of a night long ago, when again they had all waited in front of a door, but it was not he, but Elsa who had entered first.
Snatches of talk from inside came to them as they waited.
“… full of rot
from top to bottom—they all are …”
“Bleeding white elephant …” That was Tiger Stork’s voice.
“White elephant with athlete’s foot.” There was a cackle of laughter.
Hubert gave the door a quick push. It swung open slowly. The room was filled with smoke of cigarettes and stuffy with the heat of the huge orange-bright fire around which the three of them sat.
Charlie ’ook turned as the draught from the open door touched him.
“Well, if it ain’t the kids,” he smiled and Hubert drew a breath of instant relief.
Hubert stepped into the room and the others followed him.
“ ’ave you had a nice tea?” enquired Mrs. Stork with smiling tenderness.
“Yes, thank you.”
Tiger Stork said nothing. He still wore his working clothes, thick with earth, and his flat cap. He held his whiskey glass directly below his chin in both hands. His small tongue whipped like a sun lizard’s, and the head twisted one way, then the other—alert for invisible prey.
“Well, come on, shut the door—Mrs. Stork’s old blood is thin as cheesecloth these days.”
Somebody closed the door. The children were ill at ease. The adults were still, waiting for something perhaps. Hubert tried to meet Charlie ’ook’s eyes, but Charlie ’ook turned his head, as if afraid of giving something away.
“Well, I told you. That’s five bob you owe me, Mr. Charlie ’ook.” Mrs. Stork was triumphant. “I told you they wouldn’t notice. I know kids—wrapped up in their own world, that’s what they are. Wrapped. No eyes for nothink else.” She chuckled.
Charlie ’ook grimaced and passed two half-crowns across to her waiting hand. He stared at the children. “I’m disappointed—I really am. To think that any kids of my wife—” a giggle from Tiger Stork broke his words—“shouldn’t see what’s before their very eyes. Don’t none of you notice anything new?” He raised his whiskey glass and drank, looking at the children across the top of his glass.
“That!” Jiminee moved forward and pointed.
“A telephone,” breathed Diana.
“I saw it! I saw it!” cried Willy. He ran over to the table and put his hand protectively on the black instrument. He grinned at the laughter of the adults.