“Perhaps Uncle Hilary won’t notice,” said Lucy, hopefully.
“He notices everything. God knows what he’ll say when he sees how all my seeds failed on the arable. He’ll give me the sack, I hope. Why, when one brush mark showed under the varnish when he had his car repainted, he told me that he intended to make the painter take it all off and do it again. I bet the poor devil lost money on the job.”
Lucy said suddenly, “Here they are.”
Looking through the window, they saw two figures sitting still in the red car. Hastening down, Phillip opened the door and helped out his aunt, who said almost inaudibly, “Well, Boy—how are you?”
“I’m so glad you could come, Aunt Dora.”
He was going round to shake hands when Hilary said, “Take in your Aunt’s bag, will you? You’ll find it in the boot.” Meanwhile Dora was walking slowly towards Lucy, who with Billy was coming down the garden path.
Dora smiled wanly, and managed to say, “Lucy my dear, how well you look. And how your little boy has grown.”
While the two ladies were going into the house, Hilary turned to his nephew and asked if he had such a thing as a wheelbarrow. “I’ve got the very thing for a nursing mother,” he said confidentially. “The crate can go in the larder, on the slate floor.”
Surveying two dozen bottles of Dublin stout, Phillip said, “Well, Lucy isn’t exactly nursing the baby now.”
“It will help build her up, Phillip. Here she comes, not a word. Lucy, my dear,” as she came in. He kissed her. “And how is my godson? … That’s good news.” He drew a deep breath. “Well, it’s good to be back again.” They went into the parlour. Billy was hiding under the table. He came out only when Lucy held out her arms; and when his great-uncle approached to touch his cheek with a podgy finger, Billy retorted by pointing at him and saying, “Bug off, Nuncle.”
Hilary disregarded this remark together with the child, and said to Lucy, “What’s become of Dora?”
“She has a headache, Uncle, and is lying down in her room.”
“She’s not used to motorin’, that’s only part of her trouble. As nervous as a cat, and I came along at a steady thirty. It’s those two old women she insists on lookin’ after. They’re leeches. She ought to get them into a home. Have you seen them?”
“Phillip has told me about them. Are you ready for tea, or would you rather wait a bit?”
“Just as you wish, my dear. I don’t want you to vary your usual routine for me in any way.”
“I’ll get the tea trolley.”
When she had gone to the kitchen Hilary said to Phillip, “Where did Billy pick up that expression?”
“From me, I expect.”
“Oh.”
“He can’t talk properly yet.”
“So I observe. Now fetch me a glass, will you, like a good fellow.”
He opened the corkscrew on a multi-bladed knife, and having held up the glass to the light to see if it were clean, poured out some stout.
“I’ll leave it here, for the barm to settle. Lucy can drink it before her tea.”
Knowing how Lucy hated stout, Phillip said, “I’m forgetting my duties. Let me show you to your room, Uncle. Mind your head on that beam.”
“My dear chap, I knew that beam when I was a boy.”
“I thought you might have forgotten.”
“Why should I forget?”
He followed his nephew upstairs into the larger of the two bedrooms. “Hullo, whatever’s happened to the ceiling? What? But why didn’t you find out before you attempted to do it? ‘No time’? What d’you mean, ‘no time’? You could have asked the oil colourman, he would have told you, surely? Well, you’ll have to take it all off. Rub it with a damp cloth until it’s smooth and clean—but don’t put on too much water, or you’ll have the plaster down, and heaven knows how many starlings’ nests as well.” He turned away. “I must go to the bathroom. I’ll join you downstairs.”
“Right ho.”
Phillip ran down to tell Lucy about the stout. “I took him upstairs to get him out of the way.”
“I can’t drink it. It makes me shudder. Won’t you drink it for me?”
“It’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Cheerio.”
*
After tea, Hilary walked to Fawley House, to see his eldest brother John, who was indoors with one of his attacks of bronchitis. Since the winter his breathing had been uneasy; the warm weather had not, as he had hoped, improved the inflammation; for the past three days he had remained in bed in order to be fit for the christening.
On his return to the farmhouse, Hilary fixed up his wireless set, watched by Billy, who remembered how Nuncle had trapped him between his big, big legs when Nuncle had come a long, long time ago; so Billy went into his hide under the table, and watched what was going on by the movements of boots and trousers. He cried when he was carried away to his play pen by Mummy, and became hysterical when he heard that she was going away in the car-car with Nuncle.
“I’ll be back soon, Billy. Uncle Hilary is only taking me for a little ride.”
He managed to get out, between sobs, the words, “Daddy—going—away—too?”
“No, darling, Daddy’s staying here, to look after you and Peter. Be a good boy, and play with Teddy and Jacko”—the child’s woolly bear and monkey with moveable limbs—and real monkey skin and almost human glass eyes—gift of Hetty and Richard in a parcel for his second birthday in January.
“Where—be—Daddy—to, Mummie?”
“He’s working in the garden, my pet.”
“No—goin’—away?”
“Daddy will be in the garden, Billy. Riggy is in the kitchen, she’ll look after you.” She put him back in the play pen.
The garden was neglected. Phillip had begun to dig in weeds when he heard a sudden roar from the loudspeaker, which continued shatteringly. He hurried into the house as the noise subsided. Billy, having climbed out of the play pen, had pushed a chair forward to get up to the cabinet, and was now fiddling with the knobs, delighted that he had, by this simple method, sent away the noise. Phillip carried him into the garden and gave him a trowel and some seed potatoes, which had long pale stalks growing from shrunken skins.
When he returned, Hilary went to see how Phillip was getting on in the garden. Billy escaped back to Lucy. Phillip found himself, willy-nilly, in the role of rear-guard, awaiting the inevitable attack. This time he told himself that he would be tactful.
“You should be trenching that weed, you know. Have you got a line? If you bring it here, I’ll show you how it should be done.”
Phillip got the line.
“The first thing is to get the line really straight. That’s it. Now give me the spade. Push it in deep, cut clean, like this. Try it. No, keep the blade upright, not slanting. Here, let me show you once more. Now finish along the line.”
Hilary asked for the mattock. He had made Phillip a present of a new set of tools, which had had very little use, by the look of them.
“Skin the rubbish like this—short, clean strokes. We’ll put the weeds in a heap—they’ll be carried, last of all, to the final trench, with the soil you take out, and so heap beside the weeds, well apart. Try it.”
Presently he said, “What do you propose to use this ground for?”
“I thought of putting out potatoes.”
“Your main crop? Rather late, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re my first earlies—Sharp’s Express.”
“You’ll get them about September. Anyway, don’t let’s waste the seed. Carry on with the shovel. No, that’s a spade. You need the long-handled shovel I gave you to save bending your back. A spade is too tiring, also it’s inefficient. Oh, give it to me—now watch—this is the way to use it.”
After another lesson, he told Phillip to carry on, and went away to look at the rest of the garden. The first thing he saw was a heap of green weeds in a corner, unnaturally wilted.
“Did you put paraffin
on this pile of weeds?”
“I tried to burn them.”
“But why? They’re valuable dressing. And in any case, oil poured on damp weeds is useless. They can’t burn.”
“Oh, I was just mucking about.”
He had known it was impracticable to light a fire like that. His act had been that of a personality scattered—‘scatty’ as boys had said of him in his early days in a London suburb—by too many things on his mind.
“Well, you shouldn’t ‘muck about’, as you call it, at your age.”
I haven’t used that expression since I was a boy, thought Phillip. “Well, I haven’t given it much thought, to be truthful.”
“The proper way to deal with these weeds is to let them rot, either in a compost heap or trenched under. When you’ve trenched this bit, we can put them in.”
There was an old eschalot growing among the grass and weeds. Phillip pulled it up and tossed it in the trench.
“Don’t waste that, it’s a perfectly good shallot.”
“What shall I do with it?”
“Eat it, of course.”
Seeing Billy looking out of the nursery window, Phillip waved to him; and picking up the shallot held it above his head, dangling it until the white roots were ready to drop into his open mouth.
Without further words Hilary left the garden. Phillip put the tools away and followed him into the house.
“I only meant it as a joke.”
Hilary appeared to be reading his newspaper.
“I’ve been doing a fair amount of writing,” went on Phillip. “In my own time, of course—and after writing one is inclined to do idiotic things.”
Hilary continued to hold the paper before him before lowering it to ask what the men were doing.
“Cutting hay. The hoeing is done.”
“Have you been writing during the day?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t the men work better if you were with them?”
“I shall be with them during the hay carting.”
“Don’t you think that one should learn to do a job oneself before one can understand what the men have to do?”
“But there’s really nothing to do at the moment. Ned sits on the cutter, and drives, while the other chap scythes the laid patches and sharpens the knives. That’s all. After the cutting, Ned turns the swathes with the tedder.”
“Couldn’t you do that, and free him for something else?”
“I could, yes, but then he’d find nothing to do.”
“There’s always something to do on a farm. What happened to your small-seed sowings on the arable?”
“I’m afraid most of them have failed in the drought.”
Hilary changed the subject. “What are you writing about this time? Not another novel, I hope?”
“I’ve had an advance of fifty pounds from a publisher. The book is due for publication in the autumn. It’s not a novel.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Oh, the elements, generally speaking.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“It’s hard to describe, Uncle Hilary.”
“You’re a rum chap, ’pon my soul. You don’t help to make conversation, do you?”
“I don’t quite know what to say, to be frank.”
“You told me you were going to shave your beard. A small thing, but a straw shows the wind’s direction, Phillip. Isn’t your word your bond?”
“I did shave that beard. This is another one.”
“Anyway, I must say I’m glad you’ve chucked your novels. D’you remember I gave you your Aunt Viccy’s opinion about them——”
“Really, Uncle Hilary, is there any need to worry about my writing? I quite realise that it isn’t of the least interest to anyone in the family.”
“All I’m trying to bring home to you is that no-one can do two jobs properly, at the same time. I know what I’m talking about. I tried it once, and it didn’t work. Now sit down and listen to me, I’ve had more experience than you’ve had. My career as a sailor clashed with my fruit farming interests in Australia. My partner was an easy-going sort of chap, and it wasn’t good enough, leaving matters to him. So I chucked the farm, before it chucked me. All I’m trying to do is to give you the benefit of my experience.” He looked at his watch. “Nearly time for the six o’clock news.” He saw Billy standing by the table. “Come here, little man; come and switch on the news. Just turn this knob.”
The child moved to be just out of arm’s length. Phillip, who had little interest in the news, considering it to be unrealistic, went into the kitchen, where Lucy was giving the baby his bottle.
“This is 2 LO calling, 2 LO calling. Here is the news.”
During the broadcast Billy came silently into the kitchen. He looked at his father, then walked past him, to stand against the far wall. Phillip went to him and picked him up. The child struggled. Phillip put him down, feeling rebuffed; at that moment Lucy came into the parlour with the baby.
“Billy, darling, you’re tired,” she said. “Here’s a barley sugar. I’ve only got to put the joint into the oven, then I’ll give you your bath.” She looked at Phillip, her head held uncertainly on one side. “You mustn’t mind my saying it, but if you could, when I’m nursing baby, find time to play with Billy—any little game would do——” Seeing his face she went on, “There now, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But I think a young child can often feel out of it when the second child comes. The damage can be done so quickly, without one realising it.”
“Don’t I know it. My father always showed that he preferred Mavis to me. Not that I minded that so much as the way he was always criticising my mother, much as I do you. Well, I must go up and write.”
He left the kitchen with a slight feeling of self-destruction, as often he had felt during his boyhood.
*
After the news, followed by his favourite Flotsam and Jetsam programme, Hilary went into the kitchen, leading Billy—who had successfully switched off—by the hand. With the air of one performing a rite he took the silver-handled knife from his pocket—blades, tweezers, spike for killing trout, scissors for nipping off ends of gut after tying a fly, corkscrew, hook for getting stone out of horse’s frog—and letting Billy hold the half-empty stout bottle, twisted the screw back in the original hole. Billy was allowed to turn it before Hilary drew the cork. Billy insisted on filling the glass.
“Now then, Lucy, let me see you put this down like a good ’n.”
She coloured as she took a sip, and laughed. “I’ll keep it until Billy has had his bath, I think.”
Hilary went away with his new friend Billy; and almost immediately jazzy music, of a softened, sweet variety, filled the parlour. It stopped abruptly. “We don’t want that dreadful stuff, Billy my lad, do we?”
“Ning-a-ning!” cried Billy. “More ning-a-ning, please, Nuncle!”
“All in good time, young fellow. And don’t call me ‘Nuncle’. I’m ‘Uncle’.”
Hilary turned a knob; orchestral music filled the parlour. Hilary disliked all music and turned the switch. “More! More ning-a-ning, please, Uncle!”
“I’ll allow you to switch it on yourself when you’ve had your tub, if you’re a good boy, and do what your Mamma tells you.”
“Mummy dead,” said Billy, having overheard Mrs. Rigg say this to Miss Priddle when she was staying in the house.
Phillip ran down the stairs. “That’s the New World Symphony. May he have it, please, Uncle?”
“Oh, you don’t want that sort of thing, surely? Also too much noise isn’t good for children. I’ve told Billy he can switch on when he’s had his bath, if he’s a good boy.”
The usual Victorian mixture of bribe and threat, thought Phillip. Did Nuncle ever think? A good boy was the result of good, natural treatment, of good leadership which allowed freedom. His next thought was that in criticising Nuncle he was criticising himself.
Feeling almost entirely in disintegration, he
went into the kitchen. Lucy was holding the glass of stout. “Ugh, I can’t drink it,” she whispered.
He was drinking the stout when Hilary walked in, to stop abruptly at the sight, and without a word return to the parlour.
Would Lucy explain to Nuncle why he had drunk it? He waited while she went on with her work and at last, thinking how like Pa she was, he went through the kitchen door to the garden, to dig without interest and momentarily without hope.
*
Within the parlour, in pyjamas and blue dressing-gown made by Lucy, Billy listened to the Stock Exchange Summary, which he enjoyed enormously by means of his own mental pictures of dust-bin lids blown off by gusts of wind (Contango, Rio Tinto) fairies (‘Imps eased a little’) ploughing (Broken Hill Silver) washing clothes in the outhouse and breaking sticks for Riggy’s fire (Furness, Withy) his own recent birthday party (Tea, Sugar, Coffee). Uruguay (soap in eyes) reminded him of Miss Priddle and getting up he switched off, remarking cheerfully to Uncle Hilary, “All gone. All gone now,” before clasping his hot-water bottle and going upstairs before he could be held within ha-ha legs.
*
For two days Dora lay in bed, with aspirin and a hot-water bottle. Just before the others left for the junction to meet Hetty and Irene, who were travelling down together, Lucy went into her room, to be told by Dora that she was quite happy to be left alone, but would Lucy make her excuses.
“It’s my stupid migraine, Lucy dear, it always lasts for forty-eight hours. I’ll be better by this evening.”
“We won’t be long. Mrs. Rigg will be downstairs, to see to everything, including the children.”
Billy, in bed in the next room, heard this; and the party was about to leave when he appeared in his pyjamas, bear and monkey under one arm and dragging his blue dressing-gown by hand.
“Let him come,” said Phillip, at once. “I’ll tell Mrs. Rigg,” and he ran into the house.
It was a fine evening, a warm scented air lingered below the downs; bee after bee from flowers of thyme and bird’s-foot trefoil lost honey and life against the windscreen. Phillip, in the backseat, saw that the speedometer needle was 35. When a pair of turtle doves, picking up grit, flew away before them just in time, he leaned over the leather seat and said, “I don’t think many cars come this way, Uncle.”
The Power of the Dead Page 17