Hungry Hill

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Thank the Lord, thought Fanny-Rosa, that he has decided to live at Lletharrog and not bring her here. It won't affect any of us, and I can do as I please with this place. A mercy she was not a young woman, who would produce a family. Old men were such idiots, and one never knew. .

  It's all very well, thought Eliza, to say I am to have the house at Saunby. There is nothing I should like better, provided he allows me enough money to run it, but he is always so close, and anyway I cannot very well leave Barbara, although I am certain it is only a matter of a month or two now. But I must try to be firm, and get him to allow me sufficient to live in some sort of style in Saunby. After all, I shall be the only one to survive of all his children.

  "If," said Copper John slowly, "no one has anything more to say, I will wish you all a very good night. We will meet at breakfast at eight o'clock.

  I shall be going up to the mines as usual."

  He kissed his daughter and his daughter-in-law, and shook hands with his grandsons, and went from the room.

  Johnnie could hear him walk downstairs and shut the library door behind him. Poor lonely old bastard, thought Johnnie; poor old devil, with no one to give him comfort all these years, his wife some thirty years in her grave, and his sons and his daughters dying off one by one. This is the fellow I've hated and been afraid offor as long as I can remember, and he's human after all. He's like me, he wants the same things, the same comfort. He is not God Almighty, and never has been; he is only a poor, tragic, lonely old man. And good luck to him, thought Johnnie, good luck to him and his cook; mother and the aunts could look as shocked as they liked and say what shame it brought upon the family.

  They did not know what the old man must have suffered, they did not understand…

  "I say, it's pretty awful, isn't it?" said Henry, as the two brothers undressed and got into bed.

  "Rot!" answered Johnnie; "why shouldn't he do what he wants?"

  "It will seem so queer," said Henry, histo come here for the holidays and not to see grandfather. I hate changes. I like things to go on being the same."

  Johnnie did not answer. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, and through his mind, in a turmoil, raced the events of the afternoon. Driving the horses, walking the streets of Slane, seeing Jack Donovan and his friend, going into the public-house, having those drinks, and that girl. And then his grandfather's news on top of it all, seeing his tragic, lonely figure, and the thought of leaving Eton, of going into the Dragoons in a few months' time perhaps, of fighting abroad.

  Henry was soon asleep, but perhaps because he had slept in the carriage coming home, Johnnie tossed and turned on his bed, his mind more wakeful, more disturbed as the hours passed, and always he seemed to see the grinning, ginger-headed Jack Donovan thrusting his offensive face close to his own and asking him to have another drink. When the stable clock struck three Johnnie sat up and threw aside his bed-clothes.

  Henry did not stir, and the house was still and quiet.

  "I wonder," thought Johnnie, "if there is any whisky in the cellar." He went out into the corridor, and crept to the top of the backstairs.

  They felt cold to his bare feet. He listened a moment, and heard no sound. Stealthily, furtively, he felt his way in the darkness to the kitchen regions. Somewhere a clock was ticking.

  He put his hand out and touched the cellar door. And for once in his lifetime Thomas had neglected his duties. The key was in the cellar door', On the second of December, 1856, a cab turned into St. James's Street from Piccadilly, and from thence into Pall Mall, stopping at length before number 17a, which was at that time bachelors' chambers. It was a dark, wet evening, and the driver rang the bell and waited for the janitor to answer it before he opened the door for his passenger to alight. "Dirty night, mum," he said conventionally, holding out his hand for his fare. And as she dropped the silver into it and said "Thank you, my good fellow," with an air like a queen, he grinned, and watched her climb the steps of the building, for she could not have a notion how she looked, with that bright purple velvet cloak round her shoulders and the bonnet that was meant to be the same colour perched sideways on her brilliant hair. Mark you, he said to himself as he whipped up his horse and clattered away down the wet street, I dare say she was a rare good-looker in her day, and there were not many women about who tipped half-a-crown, or men either, for that matter.

  "Captain Brodrick is not yet returned, madam," said the janitor. "He said if you came you was to wait, he would not be very long. He's having a hair-cut, I believe, madam, down in Jermyn Street."

  "I hope then," said Fanny-Rosa, "that he doesn't let himself be cropped like a convict.

  What's the use, I say to him, of having a head of hair like his, and then shaving it off, as though you were doing time? Pray light the gas. The room is like a morgue. What does Captain Brodrick do with himself in such a poky place, I wonder? But I suppose you won't tell me if I ask?"

  She laughed, and peeled off her gloves.

  The janitor looked uncomfortable. The lady was Captain Brodrick's mother, and though she seemed somewhat unconventional, it would hardly do to discuss the Captain's behaviour. He watched her as she adjusted her bonnet in front of the looking-glass, and, opening a small handbag, flecked some white powder on her face. The result was not very happy.

  Fanny-Rosa caught his eye in the looking-glass.

  "What's the matter?" she said sharply.

  "Nothing at all, madam," replied the janitor, and, bowing, he closed the door behind him.

  "Damn fool," muttered Fanny-Rosa, and smoothed away the excess of powder. She gave a twitch to her cape, and fastened the brooch on the face of it. It was a handsome diamond brooch, Johnnie's regimental badge. The pin was always coming undone. She knew she would lose it one day.

  She began to walk round the room, picking up the objects on the mantelpiece, opening boxes and examining pictures. Johnnie's desk was shut, but the key was in the tobacco jar on top of it.

  Fanny-Rosa opened it, humming a tune to herself as she did so. Papers, and envelopes, and pieces of blotting-paper scattered in all directions.

  "Hopelessly untidy," murmured his mother, "exactly like me." There were several bills, none of them paid apparently, and all to account rendered.

  Fanny-Rosa read them all. There were one or two invitation cards, which she scrutinised, and a letter, obviously written in a feminine hand, accusing him of neglect and signed "your loving little Doodie."

  Fanny-Rosa smiled. Loving little fiddlesticks, she thought. In one drawer she found a doctor's prescription which intrigued her but unfortunately could not be deciphered, and a box of pills that she smelt and tasted but found disagreeable. A step outside startled her for a moment, and she slammed down the desk and began to hum loudly and turn again to the looking-glass. But it must have been the janitor going about his business. The rest of the desk was disappointing.

  The drawers were filled with maps and military text-books and orders. Fanny-Rosa turned her attention to the cupboard. It held clothes.

  Johnnie's great-coat, and his service jacket, and his top boots. Nothing of interest there, although she liked to touch his clothes, and she let her hand rest lovingly a moment on the service jacket, with the ribbon on the breast. Poor darling! he had worn it out in that terrible Crimea; it was a wonder he had not been frozen to death. Idiotic fiasco. Why anyone had ever gone in for the thing was a wonder to her…

  Hullo, what was this? Something in straw stuffed behind the boots. Just what she expected. A bottle of port. And here was another, and another. All empty. She wondered where he kept the full ones.

  She shut the cupboard, and opened the door into the little bedroom beyond. Nothing here, except his bed, and his wash-basin, and a chest-of-drawers. She hesitated a fraction of a second before opening the bedside cupboard. In it she found a bottle of whisky, half full. She shut it again, and went back into the sitting-room.

  "If he must drink," she said to herself, "why doesn't he put it all ou
t on the sideboard?

  There's nobody to see. Besides, I would not mind a glass of port myself."

  She drew her chair close to the meagre fire, and poked at the coals. Men had no idea of comfort, especially army men. They got so used to early hours and iron beds and general dreariness that they never seemed to expect anything else. Edward was just the same now he had entered the regiment too. Henry was different. He was the only one of the boys who really knew how to live. And Herbert, leaving Oxford to go and be a curate in that Liverpool slum, was quite beyond her. He had been such a bright, amusing little boy too. As for Fanny, well, it was exactly like her to marry a clergyman. Not that she had anything against Bill Eyre; he was a most worthy creature, and had some money too, and after all the Eyres were one of the oldest families in the country. But there was something about a clergyman. ' and slaughter that she could not believe him. Here he was though. The door burst open, and the darling boy came into the room.

  "Forgive me, I've kept you waiting," he said, going to her at once and taking her in his arms.

  "Have they cropped you now?" she said, turning him about, and he laughed, showing his dark head, and bent it for her to kiss.

  "If you had your way, mother, you'd have my hair on my shoulders still," he said.

  Johnnie at twenty-six was much the same as he had been at seventeen, but taller, broad-shouldered, though not as tall or as broad as his brother Henry, who outstripped him by two inches. His face had coarsened somewhat, his mouth had become more obstinate, and the expression in his eyes a little arrogant, a little watchful, as though he expected criticism and would squash it before it came.

  "Well, what's all the excitement?" he said.

  "Why am I to take everybody out to dinner?"

  "A celebration," said Fanny-Rosa. "It's really rather an honour. Henry has been made high sheriff for Slane, and he's only twenty-four."

  "Good heavens!" said Johnnie. He was silent a moment, and then he laughed. "I always did know Henry had the talent of the family," he said. "He won all the honours he could at Eton, and I did not achieve any. By all means let's celebrate. I don't grudge him his success.

  High sheriff of Slane, is it? We must pull his leg about it."

  Fanny-Rosa was relieved. Sometimes she was just the smallest bit anxious that darling Johnnie might be jealous of his younger brother's triumphs.

  Everyone seemed to be so fond of Henry, in this country as well as across the water. He had hosts of friends. And wherever she went, "whether it was over there, or to stay with Eliza in Saunby, or here in London, people would seem interested when they heard her name, and say, "Are you the mother of Henry Brodrick? But how delightful to meet you! We are so devoted to your son." She was glad and proud of course, and Henry was a dear no doubt, and very charming and good-looking, but she wished sometimes that it would be the other way about and someone would say, "I met your eldest son, Captain Brodrick, last week.

  What a splendid fellow he is!" But no one ever did say that. Only once, in London, had she come across a man who knew Johnnie, and he had been very non-committal. "Oh, yes," he said, "I did serve with him at one time, before the war… Haven't seen him since," and then changed the subject. Once she had asked Edward, soon after her younger son had joined the regiment, whether there was any unfair feeling against his eldest brother. Edward had looked most uncomfortable.

  "I don't think so exactly," he said, "but you see, poor old Johnnie has such a deuce of a temper, and he rubs fellows up the wrong way sometimes. They don't mind him being as wild as a hawk, but they do object when he has too much port after dinner and calls everyone he sees a swine and a bastard."

  "Yes," said Fanny-Rosa, "yes, I see."

  And yet, she thought, looking at this eldest son of hers as he brushed his hair before the mirror in his bedroom, how charming he could be when he wanted to, how affectionate, how lovable, and she was certain that his brains were the equal of Henry's, but he did not bother to use them, any more than his father had done. As for his temper, well, that was her legacy, and anyway it showed spirit, a determination not to be beaten.

  "We had better be going, Johnnie," she said.

  "I told the others seven-thirty."

  "Very well," he answered. "There is a cab waiting, Dobson will see you into it. I shan't be a moment."

  She went out into the hall, and, glancing back over her shoulder, she saw through the chink of the door that her son had opened the cupboard against the wall.

  He's going to have a glass of port, she thought.

  I wonder how much he gets through in the day.

  The janitor held the carriage umbrella over her head, and she stepped into the cab. Johnnie joined her in a few minutes. He was flourishing a handkerchief, and a wave of eau-de-Cologne filled the cab.

  "What does this party consist of?" he asked, stretching his legs on the seat opposite.

  "Only ourselves," she said, "and Henry, and Edward, and Fanny, and Bill, and Bill's sister Katherine, whom I think you have not met."

  "Is she as dull as Bill?"

  "Don't be unkind about your brother-in-law; I'm devoted to him, Katherine is most charming. I rather fancy Henry has an eye on her Be civil and charming to everyone, for my sake. And don't make any remark about Fanny's appearance. She is very sensitive."

  "Why the devil does she go out in public then?"

  "She only does so tonight because of Henry. Then she and Bill are going off to Clifton, to await the arrival."

  "What a confounded wet night it is!" said Johnnie, peering through the glass, and rubbing it with his handkerchief, "and where in hell's name does this fellow think he's going? I swear he's taken the wrong street. Here, you blithering idiot…"

  He lowered the window, and began shouting at the driver.

  Fanny-Rosa leant back and said nothing. This always happened, driving with Johnnie. Never yet had any cabman taken the right route. By the time they reached their destination he had cast doubt on the cabman's parentage, his personal morals, his cleanliness, the fidelity of his wife, and all to the unfortunate fellow's face. She began to wonder whether there would be a fight when they reached Port-man Square. But Johnnie suddenly changed his tone, gave the man an enormous tip and said he would not have his job for anything in the world, and giving his arm to his mother, he conducted her into the hotel, leaving the cabman red in the face, stupefied, and dumb.

  Henry and Edward were waiting for them.

  "The others will be down directly," said Henry; "the girls arc titivating, as usual. How are you, old fellow? I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you."

  He shook hands with Johnnie, and kissed his mother.

  The two brothers had not met for nearly a year.

  "Greetings to the sheriff of Slane," said Johnnie. "And how's the law going, and the politics, and all your other interests?"

  "Pretty well," smiled Henry. "I believe in dabbling in as many things as possible. They want me to contest the seat at the next election, but I think I'll wait a few years before I do that."

  Enterprising chap, thought Johnnie. Always a finger in somebody's pie, but never being irritating about it. Here came Fanny, poor girl, looking grotesque, and the worthy Bill, and '

  "This is Katherine Eyre," said Henry. "My brother Johnnie."

  Charming, his mother had said, Johnnie remembered, but she had not told him she was beautiful. The smooth, dark hair, gathered in a low knot on the nape of her neck, the serene brown eyes, the cream-white texture of her skin, the whole impression of her, he thought, suggesting repose and quiet, someone withdrawn into herself who brought peace to the beholder. He found himself at a loss for words, and because he was not used to feeling shy before women he began to bluster, to give orders to the waiter in a loud voice, and when they came into the dining-room he complained about the position of the table; it was cramped against the wall, they must have the one in the opposite corner instead. Henry took charge and mollified the waiter. He gently teased his brother and changed the c
onversation, and soon they were all seated, Johnnie on the left of Katherine Eyre, and, rather than that she should think him a dullard and a boor, he at once plunged into a fantastic tale about the Crimea-she had asked some question on the war-hoping to impress her with its extravagance.

  "I should like," she said, "to have been out there and helped Miss Nightingale. Not so much because of the nursing-I hardly think I could have stood it-but because so many of the men must have felt lonely and unhappy and would want comfort."

  She looked at him and smiled, and he turned away, crumbling a piece of bread, because he was reminded suddenly of himself in that appalling shambles at Sevastopol, taking a very different sort of comfort in the arms of a slant-eyed, rather dirty little refugee, and how he had gone without whisky for five days and nearly died in consequence.

  "I don't think," he said, "you could have done much good…"

  And then he saw Henry staring at Katherine Eyre across the table, with such tenderness and adoration that Johnnie felt a strange despair come upon him, a feeling that he was an outcast, a pariah dog, who had no business to be sitting here with his brother and Katherine Eyre. They belonged to another world, a world where people were normal and happy, and had faith and confidence in the future. And above all faith and confidence in themselves.

  "Here," he said loudly, "no one's drinking anything. Aren't we going to toast the sheriff of Slane?"

  And he thumped on the table for the waiter to attend them. The other people dining in the room turned round at the sound of his voice.

  "Henry," he said to Katherine Eyre, "gets his way by being polite to people. I get mine by doing the opposite?

  She did not answer, and once again he felt depressed and lost, not because there was any sign of disapproval in her eyes, or condemnation, but because the sight of her sitting there beside him made him wish to be different, someone who was quiet and peaceful like her* self. He felt that very possibly she considered it unimportant whether people got their own way or not, and that in any case to shout and to bluster was something she would never do.