Our Mother's House

by Julian Gloag

  “It would really be quite convenient for us to come some other time,” said the wife with a sniff.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Moley almost shouted, “absolute nonsense.” With an effort he controlled himself. “I haven’t been an estate agent for thirty years for nothing,” he said. “We have a perfectly good right to view this house, and we’re not going to be stopped by the whim of some child.” He gave a strong push and forced the door open. “There now, step in please.”

  “What do you want?” asked Hubert desperately.

  Mollified by effecting his entrance at last, Mr. Moley spoke calmly. “We are just going to have a look at the house. You want to have nice people to live here after you’ve gone, don’t you?” He even tried a smile.

  “We’re not leaving!”

  “Well, you’re not staying—not after I dispose of the lease for your father. When that’ll be,” he said, glancing round the hall with a disapproving air, “I don’t know.”

  “You mean sell the house?” The bird within Hubert was doing terrible things.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes—the lease, you know, only the lease. Mr. Hook wants to make a fast deal. I’m willing.” Moley rubbed his fat hands together.

  “But he can’t sell the house!” cried Hubert.

  “What, what? Why can’t he? Of course he can.”

  “It doesn’t belong to him!”

  “Eh, what?” Mr. Moley was suddenly alert. “Who does it belong to then?”

  “It belongs to us!”

  “Us? Who’s us?”

  “All of us—the family. My brothers and sisters and me.”

  Mr. Moley relaxed. “That’s a good one.” He turned to his unsmiling clients. “Well,” he said, businesslike at once, “let’s look it over.”

  “But it does!” cried Hubert. “It does, it does—Mother left …” He could have bitten his tongue out. But nobody seemed to have grasped what he was saying.

  “Oh, Jim,” murmured the white-faced girl to the man, “the poor little boy—they didn’t tell him they were selling the house.”

  The man coughed. “Yes, well,” he raised his hand vaguely at Hubert, “jolly bad luck, old boy.” He coughed again.

  “Come on, come on,” said Mr. Moley impatiently.

  “Here, son,” said the policeman, “why don’t you stay here with me, while they have a look round—they won’t be long.”

  But Hubert was gone.

  He ran frantically up the stairs. The shape of the banisters, the colour of the wallpaper, the pattern on the worn piece of landing carpet flashed upon him with lightning familiarity, and was past. He was conscious of his knees bobbing up and up, and up and up, white and white, but in his mind was only the thought of Elsa.

  “Elsa!” He stood, panting, the backs of his legs pounding with ache. She looked up from her book.

  “Elsa, he’s selling the house—they’re here, the people what’s going to buy it. They’re downstairs.”

  Elsa laid the book down on the bed and stood up. She looked at him calmly. “Get the others,” she said.

  “But,” said Hubert, his hand shaking, as he brushed the hair from his eyes, “but…”

  “Pull yourself together. And get the others. Hurry.”

  She stood like a poker, unyielding, strong as iron. His hand stopped trembling. He turned and ran back down the stairs.

  The six of them stood by the banisters on the first landing. They could just see the face of the clock in the hall. Below them came the occasional sound of a shutting door.

  Mr. Moley and his clients were down in the kitchen. Soon the children heard their feet on the kitchen steps and as the hall door opened, a snatch of words. “… lovely workroom, or a nursery for the kids. That’s what a lot of people have done with these houses. Easy access to the garden, see. Don’t have to worry.”

  They were coming up the stairs now.

  Elsa spoke softly. “Be absolutely still, children. I don’t want anyone to say a word.”

  “Why—” began Willy.

  “Shh—shut up!”

  They reached the little landing by the library. They glanced up and saw the children. Mr. Moley frowned and turned to the library.

  “In here,” he said, twisting the handle, “is a nice little spare bedroom. Do for a maid—if you had one.”

  But the couple was not listening to him. The woman was whispering into her husband’s ear. He nodded and coughed.

  “Mr. Moley,” his voice was almost inaudible, “seen enough … very nice … not necessary … fair idea …”

  “But that’s not the half of it,” Mr. Moley answered loudly. “Why, you haven’t seen the master bedroom yet, and—”

  The white-faced man murmured again.

  “Well, I don’t see much sense in coming all the way from Haslemere and then not making a proper inspection.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But it’s up to you.”

  More murmuring and then the little party turned and began to descend. As they reached the bottom, the woman looked up at the children. Her face was blurred in the dim light of the hall, but she might have been smiling.

  Their footsteps echoed in the hall and then the door slammed and they were gone.

  Hubert broke the silence. “I wonder if the policeman’s still there.”

  “What policeman?” asked Elsa.

  “He came to see Charlie—he’s going to come back again,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter about the policeman,” Elsa said after a moment’s thought. “Tell the others what you told me.”

  Slowly, trying to get it in order, Hubert told them what he had heard, what Charlie ’ook was going to do.

  “But there must be some mistake,” said Diana.

  “No, there isn’t,” Elsa answered decisively.

  “Perhaps,” said Jiminee, “perhaps Charlie is b-b-buying us a house in the c-c-country.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell us?” said Elsa.

  Jiminee’s face twitched and he began to quiver.

  “It’s all right,” said Hubert quickly and he took his brother’s hand and held it tight.

  “We’ll all go down to the front room,” Elsa announced.

  “What for?” asked Willy.

  “To wait for him,” Elsa replied.

  The front room was chilly, but none of them thought of lighting the fire that was carefully laid and waiting.

  “Elsa,” said Hubert, “he can’t sell the house. It’s ours. The will says so.”

  “There isn’t a will,” said Elsa.

  “But—”

  “He tore it up. I found the bits in the wastepaper basket.”

  “But why didn’t you tell us?” asked Hubert, aghast.

  She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she lifted her head and spoke with great calm. “Because, Hubert—because what could you have done about it if I had told you? And if you’d believed me? You’re blind—all of you’s blind. You haven’t seen what’s under your noses. You’ve never seen that Charlie—Charlie ’ook,” there was a sudden fierceness of contempt in her voice, “doesn’t care about anything but himself. He lies, he’s always lying. He says he loves you—but he doesn’t. He doesn’t love no one. He’s nice enough on the outside, but inside he’s vile, he’s—”

  “Shut up!” It was Diana, her voice queerly high.

  And Elsa nodded. “All right. I will. You just see. Wait and see.”

  Dunstan spoke. “I agree. I think we should wait and see what Charlie has to say too.”

  Elsa smiled faintly.

  “What’s funny?” asked Dunstan, frowning.

  “You,” said Elsa. “You’re funny—that’s what. You didn’t wait and see with Gerty, did you? You weren’t so keen on Charlie neither till he bribed you with books and things.”

  Dunstan’s face flushed red. “That’s not fair—that’s not…”

  He looked around at the others, but none of them looked at him. “Mother would have …” he let the sentence trail into nothing.
/>
  “I love Charlie,” said Willy suddenly.

  There was a tiny murmur of frightened agreement from the children.

  “I never said you didn’t,” said Elsa. “It’s just that he doesn’t love us.”

  “He does, he does.” Diana rose from the chair she’d been sitting on. Her golden hair shook as she said it again and again. “He does, he does, he does!” She burst into tears. She sank to the floor and bowed down, holding her hands in front of her face. Her words became sobs that went on and on. It seemed a long while before she quietened.

  The children were silent, watching her, looking round the room, but not at each other.

  At length Jiminee spoke. “What’s g-going t-t-t-to—”

  Elsa shook her head. “Wait and see. It won’t be long. He’ll be back soon.” She folded her hands in her lap.

  40

  Closing time came and went. The clock in the hall chimed three, four. The rainy daylight slowly changed into darkness.

  Elsa moved once to switch on a single lamp. Once Hubert got up and drew the curtains across the windows.

  Otherwise, they sat, hardly shifting, not speaking—waiting.

  The light reflected from the leather surface of the black chair. It was empty, waiting for Charlie ’ook. The rest of the room was dim, the faces of the children a white circle looking into the pool of light.

  He came at last, just as the clock struck five.

  They heard the key in the lock—Hubert’s heart moved to that sound of homecoming and then tightened, overridden by the terrified wings of the bird within. The front door clicked half-shut and then was pulled back and slammed hard.

  They heard him grunt. There was silence and then the scratch of a match. And then his feet came towards the front room.

  He just walked in and sat in the black chair and rubbed his hand over his face several times.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. The smoke from the cigarette between his fingers wavered slightly, then continued straight up to the invisible realms beyond the reach of the lamp.

  Charlie ’ook opened his eyes and for a moment stared intensely at the children. He shut them again.

  “What’s this—a bloody reception committee?” He mumbled. His voice was without vitality.

  “Get me a Guinness, Hu.” He sighed. He lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. The smoke drifted reluctantly from his mouth, his nose.

  The children did not move.

  “I said get me a Guinness, Hu.”

  He stretched out his legs and put the toe of one shoe under the heel of the other and pushed. The shoes loosened, he shook them off and kicked them aside. For a few moments he flexed his toes rhythmically.

  He sat up abruptly. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” His face was red and violent.

  Hubert didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

  “We want to talk to you, Charlie.” Elsa’s cold voice.

  Charlie ’ook grimaced. “Natter, natter, natter—bunch of bloody old women,” he said with contemptuous mildness. He stood up. “Get it myself—said the little red hen.” He let out a single chuckle.

  The bottles clinked as he fumbled in the sideboard. He came back and rested against the mantelpiece. He tilted the glass and let the dark brown liquid trickle gently to the bottom. When it was full, he put the bottle on the mantelpiece and took a drink.

  “Bloody Arctic in ’ere,” he murmured. He shivered. “Light the fire.” He knelt down gingerly and bent over the fire. He found a matchbox in his trouser pocket and shook it and opened it and struck a match. The draught from the chimney blew it out. He tried another and it caught. His hand trembled as he offered the flame to the ends of newspaper under the kindling.

  “Bugger!” The match had burned his thumb. He reached for the mantelpiece and pulled himself up. He was breathing hard when he sat down. “There.” He lit another cigarette and shut his eyes again.

  “We want to talk to you, Charlie.”

  “Talk away,” he answered in a distant voice.

  “Why are you selling the house?”

  “Who said I’m selling the house?” His eyes were still closed, but he was a little alert. “Mr. Moley, the estate agent.”

  He was listening now all right. His head came down and he watched the children carefully. “Lots of balls,” he said. “Moley’s got it all mixed up.”

  “It isn’t true, is it, Charlie?” said Diana urgently.

  “Of course not, love,” Charlie ’ook answered, giving her a quick smiling glance and turning back to Elsa.

  Elsa spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Some people came today—with Mr. Moley. They want to buy the house.”

  “They do, eh? Well, I tell you, Moley’s got it mixed up, like I said.”

  “What has he got mixed up?” Elsa asked quickly.

  Charlie ’ook hesitated for a half-second. “It’s like this, see. We’re broke, see. I’ll admit that—we’re broke. So what am I going to do, eh? Get a mortgage, that’s what I’m going to do—on this house.” He winked at them. “That’s like a loan, see—with the house as security. That’s where old Moley comes in. He gets a good offer from some bloke who wants to buy it—and that price, see, that’s the valuation. The higher it is, the more money we get. Easy as winking.” He smiled round at them.

  “I don’t believe it,” Elsa said coolly.

  “Hark at ’er! What are you, a financial genius or something?”

  She waited for a moment, then she said slowly, thinking it out, “Even if what you said was true, you’ve got no right to do anything with this house. It’s our house, not yours.”

  “ ’ow d’you make that out?” He still grinned.

  “Mother left it to us—in her will, she left it to us.”

  Charlie ’ook chuckled. He took a swig of Guinness. He brought the glass away from his lips too quickly and the dark liquid splashed down onto his waistcoat. He looked down, hesitating, then wiped his hand on the wet patch on his dark green waistcoat. He spread his fingers and stared at his wet hand. “Bugger,” he murmured. He rubbed his hand on his trousers and looked up again at Elsa. “What makes you think the old girl made a will?”

  “Because,” said Elsa quietly, “I saw it. And so did Hubert. And so did you.”

  “You lost your bleeding marbles—there never was no will.”

  “Yes there was. You tore it up. I found the bits in the wastepaper basket.”

  Charlie ’ook began to laugh. “That’s rich,” he said. “Very. You got a bleeding good imagination—just like your mum.”

  “I thought you might say that, so I took a precaution. I stuck all the little bits together. They’re all there—not one missing.” She drew a folded sheet of note paper from the pocket of her dress and held it up. “You can read every word, if you like.” She bent her head and flattened the paper so it caught the light. She read: “I, Violet Edna Hook, of 38 Ipswich Terrace, being of sound mind, hereby bequeath: the lease on 38 Ipswich Terrace; all the furniture and contents of the house; the money in my post office savings bank; and all my personal effects to my dear children, Elsa Rosemary, Diana Amelia, Dunstan Charles, Hubert George, James McFee, Gertrude Harriet, and William John Winston, to be divided equally among them as they shall decide.…”

  Elsa folded the will in her lap and raised her eyes. “So you see?”

  Charlie ’ook sat absolutely rigid, staring at her, his hand clasped tight round the glass. “That won’t get you very far,” he said at last, his voice strained. “That don’t mean a bloody thing.”

  “It means what it says: the house is ours—Diana’s and Dunstan’s and Hubert’s and Jiminee’s and Willy’s and mine.”

  “It doesn’t mean a bloody—”

  “Charlie,” cried Diana, “Charlie—”

  “Shut up!” he said viciously. “I’ll tell you why it doesn’t mean anything. You’re minors—the bleeding lot of you. Minors—know what that means? It means you can’t own anything. Nothing at all, not till you’re
twenty-one. See? Not a sausage. The house is mine. I own it and I can do what I bloody well like with it. Get it? This damn great white elephant is mine, every bit of it—and it’s about all I bloody well have got.”

  “You g-g-got us,” said Jiminee tremulously.

  “Got you?” Charlie ’ook seemed to spit the words. “I’ve bloody well had you!”

  He rose to his feet. He staggered and clutched at the mantelpiece to steady himself. At the same second Diana ran to him and tried to put her arms around him. He put a hand on her chest and gave her a shove. “Leave me alone!” he shouted furiously.

  Diana stumbled back and half fell, half let herself fall to the floor. She stayed there, crouched, staring up at him.

  Charlie ’ook poured himself another glass of Guinness. He replaced the bottle on the mantelpiece and turned to survey the children. He raised a finger and gently massaged his upper lip. His face was red and a long piece of hair dangled over his left ear. But it wasn’t funny.

  The nightmare stirred deep in Hubert. “Charlie,” he said, hearing his own voice as though it came from another, “you’ve been joking, haven’t you?”

  “Joking?” He took a long drink of stout. “Yeah—I been joking. Joking about a hell of a damn sight too long.” He put his elbow on the mantelpiece and leaned back. Already there was a faint smell of scorching flannel from the backs of his trousers that were too close to the gleaming fire. The children watched him now, none of them capable of movement.

  “I’m going to tell you kids something,” he started, confidentially. “Some home truths. The facts of life.” He chuckled. “That’s a giggle—the ‘facts of life.’ You know what? I been bum-sucking to you kids too damn long. You’re getting on my wick. Now you’re going to listen, see? Listen to me. Your prig of an oldest sister is right for once in a way—I am going to sell this house. This mucking motheaten old mausoleum.” His voice was strong and hard and he seemed to delight in every word. “I’m getting out. Quick. I’ve had it—up to here,” he lifted his hand to his throat and sliced. “Chocker. So I’m getting out—and so are you. Out—that’s where you’re going. Out! Into the bleeding orphanage—and we’ll see how you square up to that! You won’t be pampered there—not on your bleeding whining little lives, you won’t.