Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  Hubert drew in his head and turned to look at the room.

  There was the usual group of empty beer bottles on the mantelpiece, their labels stained with slopped beer. The marble mantel was ringed beyond cleaning. Matches meant for the fireplace landed there and burned themselves black on the stone. Most of the furniture was scarred now with grooves from cigarettes or matches left to burn their way through wax and varnish. A deep wrinkle cut the carpet and almost in the center was a new stain—beer, whiskey, coffee even. It would never come properly clean.

  Hubert sighed at the crammed ashtrays and the half-empty glasses—witness to Charlie ’ook’s habit of taking a new one before he’d finished the old—and the coffee cup lying crooked in its saucer. He moved away from the window, shutting the lid of the piano automatically and bending to pick up a scrunched cigarette packet.

  “I better clean up, I suppose,” he murmured aloud. If he didn’t do it, no one else would. Mrs. Stork was no more than an irregular visitor these days, dropping in at any time of the day for a cup of tea in the kitchen or a bottle of brown in the front room. Sometimes she put on her apron and took up a duster, but they were merely the badges of her right to open every door and ask any question. She didn’t lift a finger to the dusty corners or the unmade beds. Sometimes she’d pick up the phone and order Spicers’ to send round a couple of dozen eggs and some tins of salmon and baked beans. But that was about all.

  Salmon and baked beans. His mouth went dry with distaste. A year ago, three months ago even, he’d never have believed he’d be tired of salmon or of baked beans. But now it made him sick to think of them, dinner after dinner, tea after tea. He longed for meat suddenly, for roast potatoes and cabbage, big thick leaves of cabbage with “plenty of chew.” That was Mother’s phrase—“plenty of chew.”

  He stood in the centre of the room and looked round slowly, taking in everything. Mother’s phrase. Mother’s time. He recalled without effort how it had been in those days—the black leather chair had gleamed and the net curtains shone white and there had been that always present smell of dust mingled with the faintest scent of soap, of Mother’s soap, and, in the springtime, lilies of the valley.

  Why don’t I cry? thought Hubert. He remembered it all so clearly. He remembered those days and Gerty’s laughter—he’d not thought of Gert for a long time—and the great Sunday dinners and the bustle and the clap-clap of Mother’s hands when a rule was close to being broken. And the rule was that you must eat your greens. And the rule was that you must wash your hands before dinner and put on your galoshes when it rained and remember Jesus and make your bed directly after breakfast. The rule was “enough is enough.”

  He did not think of baked beans or salmon, but his mouth was still dry. He reached out his arms, and he thought of the hymn-singing on Sunday evening and of the piano thumping and Jiminee’s voice rising above all the others and the wisp of hair bobbing on Charlie ’ook’s head—and suddenly the memories were all mixed. He closed his eyes. Why don’t I cry? he demanded fiercely, and he clenched his fists tight.

  “Mother.” He tried the word on the empty room—but the word too was empty. He sighed and opened his eyes. The dead cigarettes and the empty glasses—this was the way it really was. The heaviness was still there, pushing him down, waiting even in the early-morning stillness for something to happen. He did not try to think about that something—you could not lay your finger on it or look at it. No, it was looking at you, pointing its finger at you. And the only thing you could do was to clean up the front room, to wash the glasses and lay the fire. And if you didn’t and if you looked round too fast, you’d see the whole world was—

  There was a noise from upstairs and Hubert ducked quickly. He held his breath, but he heard nothing but the blood in his ears. Perhaps that’s all it had been—the blood in his ears. He straightened up slowly. He took another deep breath and smelled the cool morning air from the window. And far away he heard the milkman call. He pushed away the terror and began to stack the glasses. It would soon be time to take His tea up.

  As he mounted the stairs carrying the cup of tea, he met Elsa coming down. They both stopped.

  “Hello,” said Elsa.

  Hubert kept his eyes on the tea. “Hello,” he answered.

  “Taking the tea up?”

  He nodded and then glanced quickly at his sister. Her hair was braided carefully and her face had a very washed look and her dress was ironed. He tried to think of something to say—and for an instant he realised that she was too.

  “Well,” she said. Then the moment was gone and she went on down. Hubert waited until he heard the hall door open and close, then he continued.

  Charlie ’ook was asleep. Hubert put the cup down on the bedside table and looked around. Charlie ’ook’s trousers and jacket lay tumbled on the floor, a shoe with laces still tied on top of them. The other shoe was on the chest of drawers. Hubert went across the room and picked it up and put it softly on the floor.

  He fingered the chest of drawers. It had suffered badly in the damp of the tabernacle; the whole of the top was peeling and parched. He ran his hand across the roughness. Then he stopped. Just visible under Charlie ’ook’s old handkerchief was the tip of the savings book. Slowly Hubert withdrew it. He held it for a moment while he glanced back at the sleeper, then he turned the pages. There were a lot of entries and even more withdrawals. He looked at the balance on the last page: 15-0d Fifteen shillings—a measly fifteen bob. Hubert tried the next page, but it was blank. It was unbelievable—and yet, somehow it did not shock him as much as it should have done. He knew Charlie ’ook had hit a streak of bad luck, the Lagonda sold, Mrs. Stork not paid, the lack of treats—but fifteen shillings.

  He slipped the book back under the handkerchief. As he touched the linen and looked closer, he saw that it wasn’t Charlie ’ook’s handkerchief after all. He raised it slowly. It was lacy and small. He lifted it to his nose. That was the smell downstairs. He sniffed—it was the same, only more sickly, stronger than … He looked down and there, until now concealed by the handkerchief, was a lipstick case and a powder compact. He knew at once what they were. Elsa had pointed out just such the same as these in Woolworth’s window—oh, ages ago.

  He turned to see Charlie ’ook sitting up in bed, staring at him.

  “Blimey,” said Charlie ’ook hoarsely, “you don’t half make a shindy. Want to wake the dead or something?” Then he saw what it was that Hubert was holding and he laughed. “Always leaving her bleeding paraphernalia about, she is.” He yawned. “ ’ere, why don’t you run off, eh? I need a bit more kip.” He lay back and shut his eyes, wincing as he did so.

  Hubert returned to the front room. It was passable now. The fresh air filled the room. The net curtains trailed and swam in the breeze. He closed the window.

  The glasses and empties were gone and the mat straightened and ashtrays emptied. Tomorrow it would be just the same. And tomorrow and tomorrow.

  Fifteen bob, only fifteen bob! And Mother’s cheque wasn’t due for nearly three weeks yet. Hubert thought of the money in the drawer in his workshop and was glad that some instinct had warned him against telling anyone about it. He’d saved it for a rainy day, and now here was the rainy day. Of course, perhaps Charlie ’ook had some other money somewhere, perhaps—but he was quite aware that it was a false hope. If Charlie ’ook had any money, they always knew about it.

  The abrupt sound of the doorbell jerked Hubert as if he were a marionette. He went to the doorway of the front room and looked down the hall. The ringing came again. Since Charlie ’ook had installed the doorbell, every caller sounded petulant.

  Hubert wondered whether he ought to answer it. He didn’t want to. Most likely it would be one of Charlie ’ook’s friends—the well-worn overcoat, the small hole in a finger of one glove, the eyes that always seemed to be looking for the bar and the breezy, “Charlie ’ook up and about yet? No, ah, well—think I’ll come in and make meself at home, okay?”

  He
walked slowly to the front door and laid his hand on the latch. As he swung the door open, there was a burst of activity from upstairs. He stared at the caller, aware of hurrying footsteps on the stairs behind him.

  It was Mr. Halbert.

  “Hello,” said Hubert.

  “Good morning—er—Hubert, isn’t it?” He was wearing a blue-tinted tweed suit with plus fours. He was bareheaded and his bald scalp was without its usual gloss. Hubert remembered that Mrs. Halbert was ill; perhaps she was too ill to polish it.

  “I’d like a word with your father, if he’s up.”

  Hubert was aware of a mild disappointment. He would have liked to have talked with Mr. Halbert. He imagined for a moment sitting on the front seat beside Mr. Halbert in the big Daimler and driving slowly through the park. But Mr. Halbert made no offer.

  “I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said. “Won’t—won’t you come in?”

  “No thanks—ah.”

  Hubert glanced round to see Charlie ’ook standing behind him.

  “Ah,” repeated Mr. Halbert. “Mr. Hook?” “That’s right. Who are you?”

  Hubert moved surreptitiously to one side. Charlie ’ook was in a bad mood.

  “I’m Halbert. I’m next door—number forty.”

  “Number forty, eh?” Charlie ’ook interrupted smoothly. “Well, number forty, do you usually go about ringing doorbells at the crack of dawn?”

  Mr. Halbert’s face showed no reaction. “It’s after nine, Hook,” he said steadily. “I wanted to have a word with you about the rather considerable noise coming from this house last night.”

  “You did, did you?”

  “You may recall I telephoned you last night several times.”

  Charlie ’ook grinned. “There was some silly bastard that kept ringing up.”

  There was an edge of hardness about Mr. Halbert’s composure. “It’s not the first time the noise from this house has disturbed a number of people, Hook.”

  Charlie ’ook leaned forward. “Mr. Hook to you. And while you’re about it why don’t you run off home and mind your own bloody business?”

  “Very well.” Mr. Halbert nodded. “I warned you last night that I should be forced to make a complaint.”

  “You can do what you bloody well like.”

  Mr. Halbert, hesitating, glanced at Hubert. “There’s just one thing, Hook. My wife is a very sick woman—every moment of sleep is precious to her. I’m afraid you woke her up several times last night.”

  “Get ’er a couple of ear plugs then,” said Charlie ’ook, “they’re cheap.”

  Mr. Halbert regarded him for a moment. “You really are a nasty piece of work, aren’t you, Hook?” His tone was conversational.

  Charlie ’ook jerked back as if he’d been hit. For a second, Hubert was sure he was going to strike Mr. Halbert. But he didn’t. He gripped the edge of the front door to steady himself. “Why you … why you …”

  But Mr. Halbert was already down the front steps and walking towards the gate. Charlie ’ook watched him go. Abruptly he stepped inside and slammed the front door with all his force. “Cocky bastard!”

  Then he noticed Hubert. “Well, and what are you staring at?”

  “Nothing,” said Hubert—he was surprised he had a voice.

  Charlie ’ook turned his head this way and that, as if he were searching for something to fix his rage on. Suddenly he looked hard at Hubert. “Shocked at me having a tart in, is that it?”

  Hubert shook his head.

  “No?” He twisted his body restlessly. Then he smiled and was still. “I expect you got used to Vi ’aving her men in, eh?”

  The hall clock ticked loud in the morning silence.

  “Well, she did, didn’t she?” Charlie ’ook pushed his face close to the boy’s. “I knew old Vi—never could do without it for long.” He waited and Hubert felt his breath upon his cheek.

  Slowly Charlie ’ook straightened up. “Lucky for you that, eh? Otherwise you wouldn’t be ’ere. None of you would.” He laughed, then touched his hand to his forehead. “Christ, I need a hair of the dog.”

  He hitched at his trousers and moved off into the front room.

  Hubert stayed quite still where Charlie ’ook had left him. He stared down at the patch of polished board by the thresh-hold. It was fainter now, but the boot mark was still there. It was funny how he hadn’t noticed it for so long.

  Hubert blinked, concentrating on the boot marks, trying to remember something, something important.

  From the front room Charlie ’ook called, his voice remote and faraway, “Where the hell are the mucking glasses?”

  39

  “Morning, son.”

  “Hello.”

  “Your dad in?”

  “No—he’s out.”

  The policeman was immobile. His cape glistened with the morning rain. “Be back soon though, I expect?”

  Hubert stared up at him. The eyes were concealed by the shadow of the helmet’s brim and the mouth moved only to speak.

  “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  The policeman was patient. He would look like this if he were helping an old lady across a street or if he were arresting a murderer.

  Something took a plunge within Hubert. “What …” he started to say; he glanced at the street—but there was no Black Maria waiting, no police car.

  “Just wanted a word with your dad.” The policeman reached up and lifted the helmet from his head. He took out a handkerchief, folded it into a neat pad and wiped his forehead. He suddenly looked ordinary—with brown hair receding at the temples. “Quite sure you don’t know when he’ll be back, eh?”

  Hubert shook his head. He hesitated. “He’s gone round to the pub,” he brought out.

  “Ah.” The policeman replaced his helmet and put away his handkerchief. “I don’t suppose your mother would be in, would she?”

  “No—no.” Hubert’s voice wavered for a second. He’d been in the garden this morning for the first time for—for weeks. Still tired with winter it had been. The grass was overdue for its first mowing—but Tiger Stork didn’t come these days. The jumble of bricks, once Mother’s tabernacle, lay beside the half-dug hole that was to be the sunken garden. The lilies of the valley had almost entirely covered the raw scar of earth where Mother was buried, but they were late this year and had not yet begun to bloom.

  “What?” said Hubert quickly.

  “All alone, eh?”

  “Oh, no—there’s my brothers and sisters.” Why doesn’t he go? thought Hubert. But he found the presence of the policeman somehow comforting.

  “You been crying, haven’t you, sonny?”

  Hubert’s lips tightened. “Of course not.” Now he wished the policeman would go—go, go, go.

  But he didn’t. “What’s up, son? You can tell me.”

  And suddenly Hubert recognized that tone of voice—the gentle assurance that there was nothing, nothing at all, that couldn’t be quietly and decently solved. He’d heard it before—in another place, at some other time. Then he remembered—he remembered—he remembered running down Hatton Alley pursued by the whispers of the leaves. He remembered the sudden collision with the policeman under the lights, and the strong hands and the voice, the same voice—“What’s after you, son?”

  “Nothing,” he said violently, “nothing!”

  The policeman paused. “All right,” he said. “You can tell your dad that I was round. I’ll come—” he turned as he heard the voices at the gate.

  There were three of them. A small, plump man—not a loose, jolly plumpness, but as if tightly wedged under the skin was all the food he’d ever eaten—with a black hat and a fussy manner, and a youngish man and woman, both blond, white-faced and with an air of forever combatting colds in the nose.

  The small man hurried up the path and climbed the steps rapidly.

  “Morning, Mr. Moley,” said the policeman.

  “Oh, oh—good morning, officer, good morning, officer.” He glanced
quickly from the policeman to Hubert and back again. “Nothing amiss, I hope?”

  “No, sir—except we could do with a bit of sun.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mr. Moley directed his attention at Hubert. “Tell Mr. Hook Mr. Moley’s here, please, with some clients.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find he’s not in, sir,” said the policeman.

  Mr. Moley turned impatiently. “Not in? They never are, they never are. Most irritating.” He puffed his cheeks. “Well, we’ll just have to have a look round without him. I don’t suppose it matters much,” he inclined his head to his clients, “I pride myself I know all these houses inside out.” He took a step forward.

  Hubert didn’t move. He kept his hand firmly on the front door. “I’m afraid you can’t come in,” he said. “My father will be back soon—you can come round then if you want to see him.”

  Mr. Moley opened his small eyes to their fullest extent. “No—absolutely not. Don’t be ridiculous, boy, of course we’re coming in.” He pushed against the front door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Moley, I take it you have an order to view?”

  Mr. Moley pursed his lips. “Of course I have, of course, of course.” He felt in his overcoat pocket and produced a slip of paper. He held it out to the policeman, who glanced at it and nodded. Mr. Moley thrust it at Hubert. “I hope that satisfies you too, young man.”

  Hubert didn’t look at it. “You can’t come in,” he repeated.

  “Can’t I, can’t I just—you see.” He stepped across the threshold—at the same moment Hubert tried to slam the door. But Mr. Moley had wedged his foot firmly between jamb and door.

  “I don’t think—” began the white-faced wife.

  “Open up, open up,” cried Mr. Moley angrily.

  “Excuse me, sir,” intervened the policeman, “don’t you think it might be wiser to come back at some time Mr. Hook is available?”

  Mr. Moley lost his temper. “I do not, I certainly do not. My clients have come up from the country especially to view this house—especially. And I’m a very busy man, officer, exceedingly busy—”