Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  “Does it ring?” said Willy.

  “Of course it rings,” said Charlie ’ook with mock indignation. “Ah, sweet music to the ears.” He intoned solemnly, “Mr. Hook? We are happy to inform you that you are the lucky winner of two hundred nicker on the four o’clock!”

  “What do we need a telephone for?” asked Dunstan.

  “What do we need a telephone for?” Charlie ’ook took a deep breath as if calming himself. He glanced down at his empty glass and made to get up, then changed his mind. “ ’ere, Hubert, give us a refill all round, eh?” There was silence as Hubert expertly took the bottle and filled the glasses.

  Charlie ’ook sipped. “This ’ere telephone,” he began slowly, “is the greatest blooming invention there ever was—with the possible exception of the French letter,” he cleared his throat. “With this telephone I can talk to anyone in the whole world. Kings and emperors and presidents and prime ministers—and the off-licence. Why, I can have a cosy chat with Ava Gardner right from this chair!” He put down his glass and lifted the instrument into his lap. “I can ring up the Seceshay-Gen——the Secretary-General of the United Nations!”

  “G-go on!” said Jiminee disbelievingly.

  “Go on? Right, I will. I’ll do just that.” He picked the receiver from its cradle and dialled once with a dramatic flourish. “ ’ere, operator? Operator—get me the United Nations. UNO. The United Nations! U for—up, as in ‘up yours,’ n for—nipple. No, no, no, no—not cripple, that’s a c ain’t it? Nipple, them things you—that’s right.” He took the phone away from his ear. “They ain’t half dumb. United Nations, that’s right.” He held the base of the phone firmly with his free hand. “UNO? I want to speak to the big man—the Secretary-General.” He winked at the children and the snickers of the Storks went up a note. “No, it don’t matter who I am. Yes. Hullo, that you—I mean, him? Well, listen, cock, what you going to do about it? What do you mean about what? The whole bleeding mess, of course! The problem of unmarried fathers!”

  Mrs. Stork’s shrewd cackle rose high, while Charlie ’ook’s big body palpitated with laughter. He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting his hand fall away from the base of the phone. The hook sprang up, released from the pressure of his finger, and the children clearly heard the urgent tone from the receiver.

  “B-but you weren’t t-talking at all!” said Jiminee.

  “That’s right—I wasn’t t-t-t-t-talking at all,” mimicked Charlie ’ook. He dropped the receiver into its cradle and reached for his glass.

  “Mr. ’ook,” said Tiger Stork, nodding quickly, “you’re a real comic. That’s what you are—a comic.”

  Jiminee looked away. The hand by his side had begun to clutch convulsively.

  “I don’t see what’s funny,” said Elsa.

  “You don’t, eh?” He leaned forward and the drops of sweat gleamed on his upper lip. “Ah, but then,” he said winningly, “you wouldn’t. You ain’t got no sense of humour. Just like your sainted mum, you are. But it don’t do to take life too serious. Ain’t that so? Dunstan will tell you. A bit of fun at the races is a lot better than all them books and things, ain’t it, Dun?”

  Dunstan kept his face turned away from Elsa. “Yes,” he murmured almost inaudibly, blushing as though he had uttered a blasphemy.

  “But life ain’t all a bed of roses,” sighed Mrs. Stork. “Ain’t that so, Tiger?”

  Tiger Stork nodded delightedly. “The wages of sin is death,” he said and at once began to giggle.

  Charlie ’ook started to laugh and was caught in a fit of choking. Immediately Diana was at his side, bending over the chair and patting his back.

  Calmed, Charlie ’ook put his arm around the girl’s waist. “Well,” he said, “and how’s the love of my life?” He grinned at the Storks. “Takes care of her old man, don’t she?” Abruptly he seemed to notice the other children standing watching him. “ ’ere,” he said with a frown, “why don’t you sit down? You look like a bleeding deputation of undertakers.”

  Hubert was conscious of the others moving to sit, but he remained where he was. “Charlie,” he said, “Charlie—what’s happened to the tabernacle?”

  “Tabernacle?”

  “He means that old shed in the garden.” Mrs. Stork’s laugh rose shrill, but not as shrill as Tiger’s.

  “It’s not an old shed,” Hubert shot at her.

  Charlie ’ook held up his hand. “Mustn’t be rude to Mrs. Stork,” he said solemnly, “our jewel.” His glass was empty again. “Hubert—another round.”

  Hubert did not move. “The tabernacle,” he repeated.

  “Oh, that.” Charlie ’ook waved impatiently. “Me and Tiger took it down this af’ernoon—didn’t we, Tiger?”

  “Why?”

  “Why—why? What d’you mean why? ’Cause it was a bleeding eyesore, that’s why.” He reached for the bottle and poured whiskey sloppily into his glass. “My house is a respectable house, that’s what it is!”

  Mrs. Stork started on a cackle.

  “Shut up,” Charlie ’ook shouted. He stood up, pushing aside Diana’s arm. “You kids better get that into your heads. What d’you think this is—a bloody circus or something?” He stared at Mrs. Stork, but she kept her eyes low. “What I say goes—goes. See? An’ there’s one thing ’as gone and that’s that mucking taber——shed. Good riddance.”

  He waited for a challenge, but none came. “Besides,” he said, relapsing into geniality, “we’ll be able to grow more of them lilies now, eh?”

  He sat down in the silence broken only by his own pleased laughter.

  Hubert was cold and white. If he tried to speak, he knew the muscles in his cheeks would be stiff. To himself he murmured, “It’s not the end.” Only the fierceness of that thought prevented tears. It’s not the end.

  He turned and left the room slowly—he was not running away. As he reached the door he heard the voice of Charlie ’ook, mellow as it ever was: “Don’t pay no attention to me, kid—I’m pissed.”

  He crossed the hall and started down the stairs to the basement.

  In the kitchen he stared out of the window, deliberately allowing his eyes to lose focus, so that all he saw was the blurred white and yellow reflection of the kitchen. There need be no outside in such dark.

  He was not surprised at Jiminee’s voice behind him.

  “What’s wrong w-w-with Charlie?”

  It’s not the end, he told himself harshly. Aloud he said, “It’ll be all right in the morning.”

  “Well …” Jiminee began.

  “It’ll be all right in the morning,” he repeated patiently, “you’ll see.”

  He screwed up his eyes and the white and yellow reflection shimmered and danced. In the quiet he was distantly aware of the hum of the electric clock.

  “Is it still sn-snowing?” asked Jiminee.

  “No,” answered Hubert. “No. It’s stopped now.”

  35

  The white glare woke him early.

  He lay for a while wondering at the strange brightness of the ceiling. And then abruptly he knew. He kicked his legs out of the bedclothes and darted to the window.

  It had lain. After all, it had lain. The joy leapt to his throat at the sight of the snow, deep and smooth and soot-less. The branches of the trees were moulded with snow, as neat as the icing on a slice of cake. The garden was white, and the Halberts’ garden and, beyond that, the Fin-negans’ garden. Where the sun touched, the snow shone and the sky was blue.

  Hubert turned to wake Dunstan, and then, at a thought, turned back. With care for the broken sashcord, he opened the window and leaned out. Below, the lilies were invisible and the snow covered the wound of the uprooted tabernacle. Hubert gathered a handful of snow from the windowsill.

  “Dun, Dun,” he shook his brother hard. “Look!” he held the ball of snow in his hand. “It snowed, Dun, it snowed.”

  Dunstan blinked and reached out to touch the snow. He smiled and sat up and started to say something, but H
ubert was rushing to tell the others.

  “Snow, snow, snow!”

  “Come on, get dressed.”

  “It doesn’t matter about washing your face!”

  Dressed and half-dressed, one after the other they pushed down the stairs, thumping their feet, obsessed with laughter.

  They flung open the back door and ran out into the snow. The thin crust broke and their feet sank to the ankles. They paused, dazzled for a moment, turning their happy faces upwards, watching the mist of their breaths, taking in the changed forms of familiar things.

  “Coo, it’s d-deep,” murmured Jiminee. He squatted down and picked up a handful of snow. He pressed it into a snowball and stood up slowly. Then suddenly he flung it into the air with a shout.

  In a moment snowballs were flying into the air all over the garden. Gurgling with laugher, Willy scooped up the snow and threw it in a white shower over his head.

  “Look at Willy!”

  “Look at Willy!”

  The little boy’s hair was white and matted. He accepted their laughter with beaming triumph. “Watch,” he cried, “watch me!” He closed his eyes and, stiff as a pole, allowed himself to fall face down in the snow. He wriggled quickly onto all fours. “I’m a polar bear,” he growled, and, to his indignation, Hubert tossed a snowball at him.

  The fight began. The snow was light and feathery and powdered at once when it hit. In the circle of the children there was a wild rain of whiteness and shrieks. Hubert ran quickly to an untouched patch and made half a dozen snowballs. Gathering them in his arms, he charged back into the circle, tossing them fiercely. Caught in momentary surprise, the other children turned on him together.

  “All on Hu, all on Hu,” they cried, and he stood in the centre as the snow hurtled at him from all sides. Smiling, not attempting to retaliate, he tasted the brittle wetness on his lips. He shut his eyes and lifted his head and the snow poured onto him like a blessing.

  “Hu’s a snowman!”

  He looked down at his whitened jacket. His wrists were sore with damp where the sleeves rubbed and he could feel the moistness of his shirt sticking to his skin. He grinned.

  “Let’s b-b-build a snowman!” Jiminee shouted.

  “What about a snow woman,” said Diana and they burst into giggles that shook them and twisted them and flung them down into the snow.

  “After breakfast,” said Hubert, still standing. “Let’s build a snow woman after breakfast.” He glanced up at the windows of Mother’s room and was surprised to see the curtains drawn back. That meant Charlie ’ook would be down any minute. The memory of last night had been temporarily washed away by the snow, but now it returned and his mirth stiffened inside him. “Come on,” he said. “Breakfast.”

  Nobody argued and they trooped back into the kitchen. Hubert pulled out the damper of the stove and filled its mouth with coke.

  Upstairs the front door slammed. The children stopped what they were doing and looked up questioningly. Fear swept into Hubert. He’s gone, he thought, he’s left and he’ll never come back. And at that moment he knew beyond all doubt that it didn’t matter what Charlie ’ook said or did or was, he was the most important thing in the world to them all. The only disaster was that he should leave them. “Charlie!” he cried.

  As if in answer, they heard the quick footsteps coming down the kitchen stairs.

  Charlie ’ook pushed open the swing door and stood looking at them.

  “Oh, you haven’t gone after all,” said Hubert.

  Charlie ’ook smiled with one side of his mouth. “No—I come back.” He was wearing his feathered hat and his camel’s-hair coat. His shoes were crusty with snow. The children watched him silently as he unbuckled his coat and took out a packet of cigarettes. His fingers shook a little as he lit the cigarette. He took a deep breath of smoke and stepped aside so that the door swung back, shivered for a moment, and was still.

  “I been an early bird this morning.” He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. Looking at the children, his grin kept coming and going, as if he had some secret smiling knowledge that could not be kept down.

  “We were just going to make breakfast,” said Hubert stolidly, but inside he was consumed with an unthought incantation: thank you God, thank you God, thank you God.

  “Oh, Charlie,” cried Diana suddenly, running forward and embracing him round the neck, “we thought you’d gone.” She stood on tiptoe and raised her head.

  He put his arm lightly round her. “Ah, come on, kid.” He said it gently, so that it was an endearment, not a dismissal.

  “Breakfast,” said Hubert.

  “Hold on a minute, Hu.” Charlie ’ook frowned and cleared his throat. He lowered his eyes as he addressed them. “I want to say something. I want to—well, I want to explain something. That tabernacle, see, well—”

  “We don’t care about the tabernacle,” Diana interrupted, “we don’t care, Charlie!”

  Charlie ’ook shook his head. “I want to explain, all the same. See, why we took it down was ’cause we wanted them bricks—we want the bricks to build a sunken garden, like you was promised.” He looked up quickly, then down again.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by Dunstan. “Thank you for telling us, Charlie,” he said. “A sunken garden will be very nice. We’ve always wanted one, haven’t we?” He stared hard at the other children.

  “Yes,” they murmured. “Thank you.” “Thank you very much.”

  “Well, that’s all right then, eh?” He was cheerful. “Now I got a surprise for you.” He beamed at their sudden excitement. “But after breakfast.”

  “Why not now?”

  “What is it? Tell us!”

  “Now, now.”

  Charlie ’ook laughed. “Come on, you can wait ten minutes. Gotta have a cuppa to prepare yourselves for the shock!”

  Breakfast became a race, so that by the time Charlie ’ook was only half finished, the other dishes were washed and stacked. “All right, all right.” Charlie ’ook took a final sip of tea and stood up. “Follow me!” he commanded.

  He pushed open the front gate and let the children run out onto the pavement. “There, what d’you think of it?”

  They halted, not knowing at first where to look.

  “The car,” called Charlie ’ook, “the blooming car!”

  In their awe, there was nothing they could say. It was huge and grey, like an immense lean greyhound. The doors were high up and tiny, like a racing car, thought Hubert, and the bonnet was the longest he had ever seen.

  “Is it a B-B-B-Bentley?” whispered Jiminee.

  “No, lad,” said Charlie ’ook complacently, “it’s a Lagonda—the finest car on the road.”

  “How fast can it go?”

  “Hundred easy,” Charlie ’ook chuckled.

  Diana reached out and touched the polished paintwork. “Is it really ours?”

  “Yes.”

  Reassured, the others moved closer and stretched out their hands to feel the reality. Willy stood on the running board and looked through the cracked windows. “It’s red inside,” he said.

  Dunstan looked up doubtfully at Charlie ’ook. “Can we—can we have a—”

  “Of course you can, that’s the whole idea.” Charlie ’ook clapped his hands briskly. “But none of you’s had a look at the back.”

  They rushed to look. Strapped to the iron grill at the back was a large wooden sledge, with red metal runners. The wood shone with fresh varnish and the paint gleamed.

  “A sledge!” shouted Jiminee.

  “Takes three at a time,” said Charlie ’ook’s voice behind them.

  “Three!”

  “It steers, see, with this here rope.”

  Hubert took a deep cold breath. If there was one thing the children had never even hoped for in their brightest dreams, it was a sledge. In the park, in other winters, they’d watched the fur-mittened children, of the private schools and the moneyed parents, skidding down the littl
e hills on oners and two-ers, and they’d laughed at the flying snow and gone home to talk excitedly about the sledges and the speed, but no more hoped to have one themselves than to ride the lions at the circus.

  “A sledge!” said Hubert softly.

  “Don’t you like it?” Charlie ’ook’s voice was touched with anxiety at their absorbed silence.

  “Like it?” Diana turned to him. “Oh, Charlie, it’s better than anything, anything in the whole world.”

  Charlie ’ook regarded her; he rubbed his upper lip gently and a faint blush touched his face. “Yes—well,” he cleared his throat, “well, I thought it might make a sorta nice change, eh?”

  And then they were all laughing together—even Elsa grinned. Charlie ’ook dusted some of the snow off the canvas top of the car onto Jiminee’s head. Jiminee brushed it off onto his hand. He put some in his mouth and smiled. “It t-tastes n-nice,” he said.

  “Can we have a go on the sledge soon?” asked Dunstan seriously.

  “You’re going to have a go this morning,” Charlie ’ook answered, the grin of secret knowledge blossoming on his face. “We’re going to drive out to the park—not this tiddly one ’ere,” he waved his hand at the park that began at the end of the road, “the Big Park.”

  “The Big Park!” They’d never been there—even Mr. Halbert hadn’t taken them that far. The Big Park was just like country, they’d heard, and you could go anywhere you wanted, and climb the trees, and there were no notices saying KEEP OFF THE GRASS, DO NOT PICK THE FLOWERS.

  “Will there be a band?” asked Hubert impulsively.

  “A band?” said Charlie ’ook, puzzled.

  “On a bandstand.”

  It was Elsa who answered, smiling indulgently, “Not in winter, Hu. The band only plays in the summer.”

  “Oh.” Hubert looked down at his feet.

  “ ’ere,” said Charlie ’ook, concerned, “we don’t need a band, not with the sledge. We wouldn’t have time for a band.” He rubbed Hubert’s hair. “Tell you what, we’ll go an’ hear the band in the summer—how’s that?”

  “Will we really?”

  “Of course we will, of course.… Well, who’s ready for the park?”