by Julian Gloag
“Just once more, Mrs. Stork. When did you first begin to suspect something was wrong?”
“Oh, right off. First thing—as soon as I come in this mornin’ I knew at once. Smelled it, you might say. They was quiet, see. Unnatural for kids to be quiet on a nice bright sunny morning, I said to myself. And then when I asked ’ow Mr. ’ook was,” she hushed her voice, “God forgive the poor man—well, when I asked that, you should ’ave seen their faces! I knew then, right off. Something fishy ’ere, I thought. Definitely.” She paused to touch her forehead delicately with her fingertips. She went on solemnly, “My suspicions began to increase when I saw ’is bed had not been slept in. Then when I took a look out of the winder—then I knew. Wot they been digging up the garden for? I asked myself. Before I even asked myself the question, I felt the chills up my spine. Then I ’eard that voice behind me—‘Wot are you doing ’ere, Mrs. Stork?’ I can tell you, I jumped clean out of me skin. It was Berty—he said it. But they was all there, just looking at me—like I was, like I was a—”
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Stork,” the inspector interrupted, “we’ve heard all that. My question didn’t refer to what happened this morning. I want to know when you first began to notice something wrong in the Hook household.”
Mrs. Stork leaned forward, clutching her handbag. “Wrong?” she said somberly. “There was nothing ever right in this ’ousehold—and that’s the truth.”
The inspector sighed. “When did you last see Mrs. Hook?”
She ignored the question. “I could tell you a thing or two about this ’ouse, I could. It’s cursed, that’s what it is. Whenever I come in the door, I get the shivers. An’ it’s not just me. My Tiger, he feels just the same. He’d always dread coming to work ’ere. Dread it. He’s sensitive, my Tiger is. He’s that—”
“Mrs. Stork, when do you recall last seeing Mrs. Hook?”
“When do I recall last seeing Mrs. ’ook? Ah—that’s a long story, that is. Depends what you mean by ‘see’, don’t it?”
The inspector said nothing.
“Well,” said Mrs. Stork, sitting upright again, “I suppose—a year ago, maybe?”
“And why didn’t you do anything at that time, Mrs. Stork?”
“Why didn’t I do anything? Why? Well, I couldn’t be sure, could I? It might ’ave all been in my head?” she said in a tone of evident disbelief. “Mightn’t it? And besides, it’s not my place to go poking my nose in where—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stork, that will be all.” The inspector stood up.
“All?” cried Mrs. Stork, aghast. “But I ain’t ’ardly begun yet!”
“Perhaps we’ll want to ask you some questions later on, but that’s all for now. Thank you, Mrs. Stork.”
“No it jolly well ain’t.” Mrs. Stork’s mouth grew stubborn.
“I think if you go out through the garden, it would be preferable,” the inspector was saying.
“I said it ain’t all!”
The inspector looked down at her. “You have a question you wish to ask?” he enquired.
“What about me wages?”
For the first time the inspector’s face moved in human surprise. “Your wages?”
“I’m a working woman, ain’t I? I’m owed me wages. Who’s going to pay? That’s what I’d like to know.”
The inspector stared at this plump, thin-faced woman sitting angrily rigid on the hard chair. “I think—” he began, but he was forestalled.
“How much are you owed, Mrs. Stork?” Mr. Halbert had moved from the window and stood over her, wallet in hand.
“Well…” said Mrs. Stork uncertainly.
“This enough?” Mr. Halbert slipped a five-pound note from the wallet.
“Let me see now,” said Mrs. Stork, all at once amiable, ‘there’s three weeks due, or is it four?”
Mr. Halbert added another fiver and held out the notes to her.
“That’ll be quite satisfactory. Quite satisfactory. Much obliged, I’m sure.” She took the notes and tucked them leisurely into her handbag. She snapped the fastener shut. “There!” She dusted her skirt and rose to her feet. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“There’s a constable in the kitchen who’ll show you through the garden,” said the inspector.
Mrs. Stork turned at the door and surveyed the room. “I’m a workin’ woman, I am, but I got my feelings too—you mustn’t think Mrs. Stork don’t have feelings. I love those kids like they was my own, I do.” She opened the door. “I been like a mother to them all these years. Just like a mother.”
There were several moments of silence after she’d left. Mr. Halbert took out his silver cigarette case and lit a cigarette.
The man in the blue blazer cleared his throat. “I say,” he began.
“Yes?”
He got up and came across to the table. “I say, you know. I can’t manage all of them in my little car. Six of them aren’t there?”
“We’ve taken care of that. Mr. Halbert’s kindly volunteered to take them along in his car.” The inspector raise his voice a little and looked towards Miss Deke. “But expect you can give Miss Deke a lift. She bought to see them safely installed.”
“Oh, quite. Delighted.” The man smiled back at Miss Deke. He turned to the inspector. “You know, uh—where are the children now?”
“Upstairs. In what they call the workshop.”
“Well, I was thinking. You know, I really ought to see them first—give them the once-over, if you know what mean.” He smiled nervously.
The inspector regarded him. “I’m not quite sure I do know what you mean, Mr. Bolton.”
“Well, ah—I’m thinking of the other kids, you know. Then ones we’ve got already. Ah—these children, well, I mean-quite an experience. Just what sort of children are they?”
“They’re quite ordinary children, Mr. Bolton,” said Mis Deke suddenly.
Mr. Bolton flashed a smile. “Ah, but are they? We’ve go an awfully jolly little bunch, you know. Don’t want to rock the boat or anything, but, I mean, well—disruptive influence, shocking experience, criminal tendencies, all that—”
“As Miss Deke said,” cut in the inspector, “I’m sure you’ll find they’re quite ordinary children, Mr. Bolton. I don’t think it’s necessary to disturb them in their last hour in this house.”
“An hour?” Mr. Halbert glanced at his watch.
“Yes,” said the inspector briskly, “we ought to have the garden all cleared up by then.”
“Well,” persisted Mr. Bolton, “I expect you’re right. But ah, I mean what about this chap Herbert—he’s the ring leader, isn’t he?”
“Hubert,” said Mr. Halbert. He took a puff of his cigarette. “Sensible little fellow, I thought.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bolton,” said the inspector, “you’ll see them before you go.”
“Yes,” began Mr. Bolton, but he was cut off by the knock at the door of the room.
“Come in,” called the inspector.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the constable who opened the door. “It’s the children.” He was trying to hold back the thrusting bodies behind him. “They want to go outside and—”
Jiminee slipped under the constable’s arm and pushed into the room.
“It’s L-Louis,” he said. He looked round for a familiar ace and settled on Miss Deke. “Louis’s outside. C-c-can we go and s-see him?”
The inspector rose and glanced questioningly at Miss Deke.
“Louis is a friend of theirs,” said Miss Deke gently.
“Well,” said the inspector to Jiminee, “I’m sorry, sonny, but we can’t let you go out there.”
“Please, oh, p-please.” Jiminee began to quiver. “We promise to c-come back. We promise.”
The inspector shook his head apologetically.
“Wouldn’t it be all right, inspector,” said Mr. Halbert, “to ask the little boy into the house?”
The inspector looked at Miss Deke.
Miss Deke smiled. “I really don’t
see that it could possibly do any harm, inspector. Just for a few moments, to say goodbye.”
“Well,” the inspector considered. “All right. Just for a minute or two.”
“I will go and fetch Louis,” said Miss Deke. “You are to wait in the hall, Jiminee, with the others.” She got up. “Thank you, inspector.”
The constable closed the door behind her.
44
“Hello, Louis.”
He looked at them gravely. “Hello,” he answered.
Miss Deke had left them alone in the hall.
They gathered slowly around Louis.
He watched them. Then he noticed the suitcases and the big trunk by the clock. “You’re going away,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jiminee.
“Will you be gone for a long time?”
The children looked at each other. “Yes,” Elsa answered “I think so.”
In the silence the hall clock ticked loudly.
“My mum’s going to have the baby next month,” said Louis.
“What sort will it be?” Hubert asked.
“A little girl. We’re going to call her Hilda.”
“Hilda’s a jolly n-nice name,” Jiminee said.
“Do you really like it?”
“Yes.” The children murmured their approval.
Louis was silent for a moment. “My dad says it’s an unspoiled name,” he offered.
“It’s a nice name.”
“It’s a very nice name,” said Willy emphatically.
Louis blushed a little. “I still got your pomegranate, Dinah.”
Diana smiled.
“My dad’s varnished it. It doesn’t half shine now,” he said earnestly, “and it’ll last forever.”
“Have you got my penny?” Willy demanded.
“Oh, yes. I got it. I got all your presents. I got the hanky and the little blue box and the pomegranate and the History of Manchester and Its En-en-”
“Environs,” said Dunstan.
“Environs,” Louis smiled. “And I got your picture,” he said to Jiminee, “hanging up in my room.”
“You have really?” said Jiminee softly.
“Yes, really. I got all your presents. They’re the nicest presents I ever had in my whole life.”
“What about your penknife?” Hubert asked.
“Oh, that’s just an old penknife. Everybody’s got a penknife.”
Somewhere downstairs in the basement a door slammed and there was the sound of movement.
“You got a lot of policemen here, haven’t you?” Louis enquired.
Hubert nodded. “An’ there are two police cars outside as well,” he said.
“Yes. I saw them.”
Hubert thought it didn’t seem so bad somehow—saying it; to Louis like this.
“Louis, I want to whisper you something.” Willy came to Louis and pulled his head down.
Louis listened. “All right,” he said, nodding. “All right, I will.”
He straightened up and took the hand Willy held out.
“You will what?” asked Jiminee.
Louis looked doubtfully down at Willy. “Can I tell?”
Willy nodded his head vigorously.
“He wants me to take care of his black wife while you’re away.”
“Oh, Willy,” said Elsa, with a grin.
“Well, why not?” said Willy. “They won’t allow wives, I’ll bet.”
Suddenly all the children were grinning too.
“Well they won’t, will they?” Willy challenged.
“No,” said Louis seriously, “I don’t think they will. Anyhow, I’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry.” He tightened his grip on the little boy’s hand.
Willy smiled. “She likes crumpets,” he said.
“I won’t forget.” He looked around the dim hall. “I’ve got to go now,” he said. “I promised Mum I wouldn’t be, long.”
“Oh, don’t go yet”
“Not yet.”
“Please not yet.”
Louis hesitated. He let go Willy’s hand and fished in his pocket.
“I got something for you,” he said.
He held out his hand. Resting on Louis’s palm, it looked just like a piece of stone at first. Then Jiminee picked it up.
“It’s your fossil,” he said.
“Ammonite,” corrected Louis. “It’s yours now. I brought it for you.”
The children crowded round and touched the amber coils that ran around the stone.
“It’s beautiful,” murmured Diana.
“Is it really very old?” Hubert asked.
“It’s millions of years old. Millions and millions and millions.”
“A million million?” whispered Willy.
“More,” said Louis. “It’s older than anything.”
“And it’s still h-h-here,” said Jiminee.
“Can we really have it?” said Willy.
Louis nodded. “Yes. I brought it for you.”
“But,” said Elsa, “it’s your most precious possession—you told us.”
“That’s why I want you to have it,” answered Louis.
“Oh, Louis!”
“Can you really spare it?” Hubert asked.
Louis nodded.
“It’s the loveliest present of all,” said Diana.
“Thank you, Louis.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you very much indeed” said Willy.
Louis blushed. “I’m glad you like it,” he said.
“We do.” “We do.” They looked round at each other and smiled.
Louis blinked his large brown eyes. “I must go now—Mum will be ever so cross if I don’t.”
He hesitated. “I expect it’ll be all right, you know—where you’re going.”
The children stood mutely around him.
“Well, goodbye, then,” he said.
“Goodbye, Louis.” “Goodbye.”
He went to the front door, but Hubert was there before him and twisted the latch and pulled the door wide. The uninformed constable guarding the door stepped aside, and the fellow spring sunshine filled the old hall.
“Goodbye,” said Louis from the doorway. He turned and an down the steps.
Suddenly the children pushed forward, out of the door, onto the front porch.
As he shut the gate behind him, Louis turned and waved. Then the little crowd moved aside for him and he was gone.
The children burst out with their farewells.
“Goodbye …” “Goodbye, Louis …” “Goodbye!” “Goodbye!”
Their clear shouts rang out into the sunlight of Ipswich Terrace, over the heads of the group at the gate.
At last the children fell silent. They turned back slowly to he hall.
Miss Deke was waiting for them, putting on her gloves, by the hall table.
“Come along, children,” she said. “Get your hats and coats on. It’s time to go now.”
A Note on the Author
Julian Gloag was born and brought up largely in London. After graduating from Cambridge University, he spent several years in New York publishing. Following the publication of Our Mother’s House in 1963, he began to devote his full time to writing leading with the critically acclaimed A Sentence of Life (1966).
Discover books by Julian Gloag published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/JulianGloag
A Sentence of Life
Our Mother’s House
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1963 by Simon & Schuster
Copyright © 1963 Julian Gloag
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ISBN 9781448208500
eISBN: 9781448208517
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