No Laughing Matter

by Angus Wilson

  Led by Quentin the children wandered across to the great Union Jack made out of geraniums, white candytuft and lobelias, and there, out of the adults ‘hearing, they argued the spending of the money. They hoped for the water chute and the big wheel but prices were against them so, of course, first choice had to be the wheel – the wheel on which, heavenly thought, years and years ago, twenty-four people had been stranded all night. But, delicious though it proved to be, whirled out into the heavens high above the houses and streets of Kensington, faster and faster until Gladys felt that she had frighteningly swallowed a piece of blue sky and Marcus’ laughter had turned to screaming, they were giddy and white faced without luck, for the wheel eventually returned them to the ground. Now there was nothing for it but the shooting ranges or the fortune telling machines, and over these they were divided equally between boys and girls. A decision might never have been reached if Marcus had not been seized with one of his screaming fits. That these were taken for granted at home did not make passers by the less curious at the sight of a young boy in long-trousered sailor suit standing apart and uttering a loud prolonged ‘Aah!’ to the world at large, so that soon a small crowd had gathered and his siblings became aware that Marcus could prove an embarrassment abroad. It was Gladys who thought of the laughing mirrors, but Quentin, the eldest, who agreed rather savagely. ‘It won’t matter if he does scream his head off in there.’

  He gave the money to the boy with no front teeth in the little entrance booth and they filed slowly through a dark corridor, even Marcus silenced by the sudden shocking-soothing chill air after the dust-laden heat outside. They were alone. Sukey, always so determined and practical, was the first to risk seeing her comic image. But the result was generally voted a bore. ‘It’s all fuzz and muzz,’ Marcus said. He hated uncertain lines. ‘She’s all soppy smiles,’ Rupert announced. ‘Oh, Sukey!’ her twin cried, ‘you look like a melting jelly.’ Not a pleasant verdict for the trim, neat, rosy cheeked, flaxen haired girl.

  But she had her own back when her tall sister stood before the next mirror. ‘Oh, look, Mag’s swallowed a lemon.’ ‘Doesn’t she look thin and gawky, like a candle,’ Gladys cried, perhaps in defence of her own bulk. ‘And sour, she’s sourpuss, sourpuss,’ Rupert told them. They all knew Stoker’s word for their great aunt, though none of them had let on before. So ‘Sourpuss! Sourpuss,’ they cried until Quentin tactfully said, ‘Here goes.’ And here he went. ‘It’s the devil!’ Marcus was frightened, but to hide this he repeated in a comic singsong, ‘There’s the devil. There’s the devil.’ ‘Quentin’s ears do look long. And your mouth Quentin, it’s all sneery.’ Margaret’s analysis confirmed young Marcus’ emotions.

  Rupert dawdled up to the further mirror. He knew he’d look rather good, he always did. But the result disappointed all. His face, his body, everything was pulled out at each side like elastic. ‘It’s all wobbly and misty,’ Quentin said, ‘You look jolly soppy.’ ‘And all of a tremble,’ Gladys cried.

  But little Marcus meanwhile had sidled up to a vacant mirror and gave a scream. ‘Oh, Lor. Not again. He can’t be taken out.’ Quentin was decisive. But Margaret, looking at her little brother’s reflection – all flashing black eyes and beaky features, called out, ‘It’s Her. It’s Her.’ And, frightened, they crowded around to confirm.

  There was nothing for it, Gladys thought, but to make them laugh. After all, she’d suggested the mirrors, so she couldn’t let them spoil the afternoon. But when she saw herself she was too disconcerted at first to speak. ‘Look,’ Sukey cried, ‘Gladys is upside down.’ And so it proved – at the top of the glass, white boots in reverse; at the base, a plump face grown red with surprise. They all at last could laugh. To keep the fun going Gladys stood on her head on the shiny, linoleum floor. Sure enough there she was right way up, her flushed, straining face coming out of her tumbled skirts and petticoats and down below a great expanse of knickers and stockings. At that moment a party of common children came in, looked at Gladys’s rude show, and began to jeer. When Quentin showed signs of offering fight, Marcus began to scream and the Matthews children, aghast, fled.

  As they came near to the Japanese Tea Garden with its masses of pink and orange and pistachio green lanterns they all sensed at once that the adult mood had changed. Even Sukey said, ‘Oh bother them. It’s too bad. Let’s not go back yet. Let’s walk down to the boating pool.’

  But already their mother’s voice was projected sharply upon them, ‘Children, come here! Why have you been so long?’

  ‘We haven’t really,’ Quentin tried to remember his prep school prefect’s voice. His Father’s memory seemed more up-to-date; he spoke as to a Westminster Under-School squirt. ‘Shut up, Quentin. Don’t contradict your mother. She doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t think he meant to contradict, Will dear. He’s always such a polite helpful boy at home, aren’t you, Quintus?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Granny. But you must not interfere with our discipline in front of our faces. You will do what you like, of course, behind our backs. We can’t stop you. You’ve taken Quentin from us …’

  ‘Taken him from you? He lives with his old Granny only at your request, Clara.’

  ‘Only at the request of my poor Billy’s bank balance, shall we say?’

  ‘To have sold out those Australian shares. I don’t know what your father would have said, Will.’

  ‘If we come back to those shares again this afternoon I shall scream.’

  Miss Rickard turned for a moment from the parrot she had preferred to involvement. ‘You have done little else for the last ten minutes, Clara. You might as well have married a fishmonger for all the effect it’s had on your deportment.’ She looked at Mr Matthews but he was not to be drawn. He addressed himself exclusively to his mother.

  ‘The Guvnor, Mother, with all due respect, is where there is no selling or buying of shares. Though how he passes his time without those activities, I confess to be beyond my comprehension.’

  His wife let her laughter gush forth and then dammed it.

  ‘Now, Billy, you must apologize. You’ve hurt your Mother’s feelings. Talking like that about the dead! How vulgar you can be.’

  ‘I’m sure Will is never vulgar, Clara. He’s often very naughty. But I suppose that as his mother I understand that as well as anyone. Once when a Sister of Mercy came to the house she said,’ What a little angel.’ And of course you looked it, Will, with your golden curls. But all you did was to cry, “To Hell with the Pope! To Hell with the Pope!” I remember it so clearly. It must have been her black veil. A naughty child you were but everyone loved you. Your own children are far better behaved, Will.’

  She turned smiling to the children – Gladys was leaning on a nearby unoccupied table and straining her muscles so that her cheeks had turned scarlet with the rush of blood to her head. The other children all stood watching her with evident fascinated delight.

  ‘Doesn’t Gladys strain beautifully?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘If she goes on longer she sometimes goes purple,’ Marcus told them.

  ‘She’s the purple limit, that’s what she is,’ Rupert showed his delight at pinning down this modish adult phrase by dancing up and down.

  ‘If she went on for ever, she would burst, wouldn’t she?’ Sukey demanded. Only Quentin said nothing, but he stood by his sister’s exhibition of skill with a ringmaster’s pride copied from that afternoon’s performance by Buffalo Bill. Their grandmother’s smile became a little uncertain, but their mother had no doubts.

  ‘Stop it at once, you disgusting girl. Horrible little creatures all of you. What a way to repay us for giving you the afternoon of your lives.’

  ‘We didn’t know we were meant to repay you,’ Margaret made comment.

  ‘I’m afraid the gel’s made an excellent point, Clara. Repayment of kindness. What a sordid idea, worthier of a stockbroker than an artist.’ Miss Rickard met a silence. ‘I suppose we should welcome any idea of repayment really.’

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nbsp; ‘Oh, Mouse, you are the absolute limit. Do stop needling Billy about that wretched loan. If you were a little more generous about it, he wouldn’t have to give his mind all the time to shillings and pence.’

  ‘I’d hoped so much when Will married you, Clara, that you would take over all that side of things. You married an artist, you know, my dear.’

  ‘My niece thought she’d married a man and found that she’d married a spoilt baby, Mrs Matthews. As I could have told her.’

  ‘As you did, Mouse, as you did. Don’t be modest. Nothing became your guardianship of Clara so well as your taking leave of it. Having neglected an orphan for most of her childhood except when it happened to suit your travelling fancy, as soon as she showed an inclination to choose for herself you did everything you could to stifle her with a lot of warnings against men. Cassandra on the perils of marriage! But then Cassandra was an old maid. How the human comedy does repeat itself. Thank God for its wonderful humours. What Walter Scott would have made of you, Mouse.’

  ‘My dear man, you’re welcome to make as much of me as you like, if it will persuade you to get down to some work. Though I can’t see you killing yourself paying off your debts like Scott. Smoking a pipe in public and wearing that velvet jacket of yours are more your idea of being an author. But Meerschaum pipes and velvet jackets won’t keep a family of six, William, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Will’s family have done all they can, Miss Rickard. I was only too happy to take on dear Quintus’s fees at Westminster, of course. No one looks smarter in his topper, I’m sure. Though I do wish we still had Hopkins, Will. What a sheen he used to put on your father’s hats. But there we are, we can’t talk of valets on an annuity, can we? I’m lucky enough to have Edith and Cook and Colyer. Though I do all I can for everyone, I must say.’

  ‘Nobody questioned it, Mrs Matthews. It’s a matter of their trying to do something for themselves. As it is I am forever supplementing Clara’s allowance. As well as taking on the expense of the gels’ clothes and, of course, I’m only too glad to do so …’

  ‘Now Gladys, say thank you to your great aunt for your winter coat. And Margaret you’d better curtsy for your party dress. Will that satisfy you, Mouse?’ Young Mrs Matthews pulled her tall daughter to her feet. ‘Go on. Curtsy. Show your Aunt Mouse you haven’t wasted her kind dancing class fees.’

  ‘Clara, that sort of play-acting’s unforgivable. To involve your children!’

  ‘I suppose we were involved anyway, Aunt Mouse. Not being invisible or fairies or anything.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent to your elders, Margaret.’

  ‘That’s all right, Clara. The gel isn’t the worse for having a sharp tongue in her head.’ She beckoned Margaret to her side and gave her a peck on her cheek. ‘Whatever your disappointments, always try to get your own back, my dear. It’s woman’s compensation.’

  Old Mrs Matthews looked bewildered. ‘I’m sure the children are all as good as fairies. And you’re a real little Mother, Margaret. A little Wendy.’

  Marcus looked up and his eyes flickered for a moment over his grandmother’s words, but like a snake’s tongue the flicker disappeared as quickly.

  Rupert did not so restrain his delight. He leaned towards his tall sister and, adopting a special drawl, repeated, ‘Wendy, our little Wendy, a little Wendy’ closer and closer into Margaret’s face. Margaret blushed a deep rose all down her long neck, but,’ Gladys is the little mother,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I suppose so, dear, being the eldest,’ their grandmother agreed.

  But it was the unmentioned Sukey who was suddenly in tears.

  ‘Oh, Lord above.’ cried Mr Matthews, ‘how right was that godly man John Knox when he inveighed against the monstrous regiment of women. What’s wrong with Sukey?’

  ‘I think,’ said Marcus, ‘that she feels hurt. After all she’s the one who does all the little mothering things for us. Her and Stoker.’

  Marcus’s words diverted his mother from her crying daughter. She turned, seized his wrist, wrenching and twisting his arm. ‘Will you keep your tongue quiet! Little boys of your age should be seen and not heard. Though who’d want to see you I can’t think. Look at the way you wear your sailor suit, all falling out of your trousers. Just like a girl’s blouse. Why can’t you look like a normal boy? Little girly boy. Apparently you don’t even know your own mother. Little mother here, and little mother there. I’m your mother, do you understand that? Though I can hardly believe such a little molly coddle can be my son.’ She shook him to and fro by the arm. His face turned white and he stared at her fixedly with his large black eyes, but he did not cry. The other adults protested.

  ‘Oh, Clara, such a little boy.’

  ‘Little boy. You don’t know him, Granny. He can be a little beast.’

  But Mr Matthews leaned back and blew a smoke ring. His soft face set in a contemplative smile as he stared back at his wife. ‘Oh, cool off, Countess. You don’t know your own depths of vulgarity.’ His wife seemed suddenly all fierce black gipsy eyes but before she could answer back, ‘No, no, my dear. I mean it. Temper makes you look a raddled hag. So much, Mouse, for breeding. Of course we can only offer stocks and shares.’

  ‘I am not going to be drawn into your quarrels with Clara, William. It’s been a very pleasant day, but we’re tired now. I suggest we all make our different ways home. I shall certainly take myself off to find a cab. I shall be at my club until the boat leaves on the fourteenth. Perhaps the twins could take luncheon with me there one day. We’ve a good number of freaks among the members for Margaret to sharpen her pleasant wit upon.’ She patted her great niece’s neck. Mr Matthews rose from his chair.

  ‘Help your great aunt to get a cab, Quentin.’

  ‘Good heavens! If I can cross the Kalahari, I suppose I can cross the Earl’s Court Road on my own.’

  Her nephew-in-law made her a little bow, ‘My apologies to you and Mrs Pankhurst, Mouse.’

  ‘I shan’t say good-bye to everyone,’ Miss Rickard announced, but she added, ‘Good-bye, Stoker, I’m glad to see you look so well. Say good-bye to everyone, Mr Polly.’ But the parrot had fallen asleep.

  Old Mrs Matthews indulged herself with only one comment when Miss Rickard was out of sight. ‘I wonder at her having that creature on her shoulder. Nasty high-smellin’ thing, I should think.’

  ‘Now we have no need for pets, Auntie’s joined the suffragettes,’ Rupert recited.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said his grandmother, ‘what a wicked thing to say,’ but she couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘He didn’t say it,’ Quentin informed her, ‘it’s out of a book.’

  ‘Quintus knows all the books,’ she told them. ‘Well, Will my dear, I expect Clara would like to have the boy at home now. So if you’ll just help me to find the North Entrance. Colyer said he would bring the motor car to the North Entrance. We can talk about Quintus’ trunks and things on the telephone later.’

  ‘My dear Mother, if you’re going to take up every word Clara says …’

  ‘Quintus wants to be with, his mother, don’t you, dear? You’ve had quite enough of being with an old woman.’

  ‘I’m sure Quentin doesn’t want to be with his mother. Being with me would mean helping in the home for once. That wouldn’t suit his lordship at all. No Edith to wait on him hand and foot. No Colyer to drive him to school. Number fifty-two certainly wouldn’t be good enough for him, would it children?’

  ‘Clara, the boy’s not like that at all. You’d like to help at home, wouldn’t you, Quintus?’

  Quentin was gripping the back of Gladys’s chair so that his knuckles gleamed white in the sunshine. It was difficult to hear what he said.

  ‘There you are,’ his grandmother told them.

  ‘A very eager answer!’ his mother commented. ‘In any case, it doesn’t matter what his lordship wants, there’s no room for him unless his father and I are to give up our dressing-room. I suppose even a beggarly author’s wife can have somewhere
to dress herself, though she’s no maid to help her.’

  Mrs Matthews had raised her voice, but she found that she had to shout louder, for the children had turned away from Quentin’s embarrassment and were singing, ‘I’ve got a little cat and I’m very fond of that, but I’d rather have a bow-wow-wow.’

  ‘Stop that noise at once! It’s like a pack of street arabs. I suppose you’d rather not hear how your father and I have to pinch and scrape.’

  ‘We thought you would rather we didn’t hear,’ Rupert said.

  ‘We didn’t want to interfere with what was not our business,’ Gladys said.

  ‘We thought it was private to you and grandmother,’ Sukey said.

  ‘We thought it was too public for Quentin,’ Margaret said.

  ‘We’ve heard it all before anyway,’ Marcus ended.

  His mother walked over to where he was sitting on Stoker’s lap and smacked his face. Then she turned on Stoker. ‘I wish you wouldn’t make such a baby of him, Stoker. A boy of eight years old sitting on his nurse’s lap. We bring you out for a nice outing, Stoker, I think in return you could keep some control over the children. If Stoker’s going to encourage you to behave like a baby, Marcus, she’ll have to go. And you won’t like that. Get down from there at once.’

  She pulled her son’s arm. Immediately he began to scream loudly so that such other visitors to the tea room as had not yet noticed the family party turned towards their table.

  ‘Never mind, Marcus, never mind,’ his grandmother said. ‘Try not to cry like that, dear, you’re making such an exhibition of yourself.’

  ‘Which is exactly what he wants.’

  ‘I don’t think he does, Mum. He’s tired, aren’t you, Markie?’

  ‘I think I know about my own child best, Stoker. And please don’t call him by that vulgar name.’

  Mr Matthews came over and lifted Marcus in his arms. ‘You’d like to come with me, wouldn’t you, old sonnykins? Turbot and lobster sauce and a nice meringue, how about that? And perhaps Mr Paul will have some petits fours for a stout little fellow.’