The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  What was he to think about it? He didn’t know. He simply had no idea. He would have to consider a great deal. He was not in love with her. He had never been in love with anybody, really. He was in his fortieth year, and he supposed he had forgotten to fall in love.

  And yet—No, he must think about it. Of course, a man was all right up to forty, but after that it was a dreich kind of life with no woman and no bairns about. Why hadn’t he thought about it before? Why had he let things go? Now the laird’s daughter! And what would the laird think? And would he, Mungo, have to change his way of life? He couldn’t do that at his age. No. He would have to think about it. He would have to think about it a great deal—give the matter great consideration!

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT had taken Bel some time to take stock of things. Arthur the Second, and, even more, Phœbe, had given the household in Ure Place much anxiety and much to think about. By the time the little boy had been nursed back to his cheerful, baby normal, and Phœbe had been dispatched to Mungo at the Laigh Farm, Christmas and New Year were upon her. Presents, black bun, plum-pudding and the pantomime with Sophia’s and Mary’s children, who were now of an age to enjoy it, had put an end, for a time, to her favourite hobby of planning.

  Bel, ever the most advanced, announced that this year the Christmas dinner would be given by herself. Mary McNairn claimed the New Year dinner, after the weakest of protests from Sophia, who remonstrated feebly that her emotionless husband, William, would be terribly disappointed that the family weren’t coming to Grafton Square.

  This arrangement pleased everybody. It was more fashionable to entertain at Christmas—that pleased Bel. It was old-fashioned and kindly to entertain at the New Year—that pleased Mary. It was nice after having protested suitably to have the trouble and expense of neither—that pleased Sophia.

  At this point Bel, determined to have everything up to date, had called in her ally David, who was becoming familiar with the uses of society. He had been to two or three more dances in the intervening weeks—and, most impressive of all, he had been to an evening dinner-party. They had actually dined at seven o’clock! In matters of decoration and dress, David was of the greatest use. For such detail his memory was a dry sponge. Though for business detail—as Arthur had pointed out more than once tartly—his memory was much less absorbent.

  And so it came about that Arthur took the head of a restrained and elegant dinner-table on Christmas afternoon, while George presided over an old-fashioned and lavish one at the New Year. And at each Sophia, a little guilty at having got out of everything so easily, privately told the hostess that her dinner was the only one to which she had been looking forward.

  It was well into the New Year, then, before Bel could really take time to think. But having at last done so, she found herself perfectly clear about one thing—that the Arthur Moorhouses could not go on living in Ure Place. Her motives this time, she told herself, were altogether reasonable, and had nothing to do with worldly ambition. In other words, it came to this: Ure Place was becoming much too near the slum quarter of the city. The children simply must not again be exposed to the dangers through which little Arthur and Phœbe had passed. Arthur, her husband, must think at once of buying a house out West. She said so to Mary, to Sophia and to her mother; and they, all of them, having no responsibility in the matter, and no reason to contradict her, agreed with her heartily.

  She decided, therefore, to open the campaign. The best thing she could do, she felt, would be to make an expedition or two out to Hillhead and Kelvinside, where new terraces were going up steadily; and, having found a suitable house, insist that Arthur should go to see it. He would then be unable to retort—as he had already done—that she would have to find a house first.

  But it was to be four years more before Bel succeeded with her stubborn husband. One warm day in February she and old Mrs. Barrowfield made a first expedition Westwards. On the journey out she had felt stuffy and overloaded with clothes, and the familiar enough, horsy smells in the tramcar had made her feel sick. Once arrived, she and her mother had trudged about in the sunshine of the early year, noting the clusters of crocus and snowdrops growing before the high terraces above the Great Western Road; had heard the birds chirping in the Botanic Gardens, the cawing of the rooks in its high trees, seen the sparkle of the sun on the glass of the Kibble Palace, which was one of the newest additions to this fashionable private park. But Bel had felt limp and enthusiasm was lacking. On the way home she was overcome again with nausea, and, once arrived at the tram terminus in St. Vincent Place, she had found herself strangely feeble and had been forced to sit on while they changed the horses to the other end of the tram. When at last she had had to leave, her mother had sent an urchin for a cab, and thus had got her back to Ure Place.

  A fortnight later Bel knew that she was going to have another child. During most of the time of the child’s coming she was ill, and, indeed, for nearly a year afterwards. Thus her hopes had suffered, if not eclipse, at least delay while she established her own health and the health of the newly arrived Thomas Moorhouse.

  Then Arthur struck a bad patch in his business. Not a very bad patch, but bad enough to plunge a solid Victorian household into deep gloom. The book-keeper of Arthur Moorhouse and Company had pocketed the money of a few accounts paid to him and disappeared. Arthur said it was a disaster. It would take years to repair. The household must save in every way possible. And therefore his loyal wife had held her tongue and saved.

  But, as time went on, Bel began to notice that Arthur himself was in no way cutting down. He was giving freely to charity. He had joined the Traders’ Club. He did not carp at bills. It was difficult to assess Arthur’s prosperity for he was anything but personally extravagant. That he should frankly tell the wife of his bosom how they stood for money was, of course, quite unheard of. Yet there seemed always to be money to help outside things.

  At last Bel asked David. David replied that Arthur Moorhouse and Company were booming. Even discounting David’s congenital optimism she must believe him.

  And so once more the push Westwards began.

  II

  Bel had hoped to enlist Phœbe’s help as she grew up—she was nearly eighteen now—but Phœbe continued in her strange detachment. She was, indeed, ready to believe that Phœbe had come to like herself and the family at Ure Place. Had she not—well over three years ago—shown amazing devotion in rescuing little Arthur? And had she not in return been overwhelmed with the family’s affection and consideration, to an extent that would have drawn love from a stone? But—well, you just had to take Phœbe’s affections on trust, and that must be the end of it.

  The girl went about quietly, living her own life. Her schooldays had come to an end, but she had some small talent for drawing, and embroidery. She studied music with a master, but made little of it. For the rest, her days were spent learning to dressmake, to cook, to dust—to learn, in short, to be the head of that household of her own which every young lady was then taught to expect. When Bel had tried to fire her with enthusiasm over the prospect of a new home in a fashionable quarter, Phœbe had gone no further than saying that it would be very nice, then seemed immediately to lose interest. Bel sighed and decided to fight the battle alone.

  At first Arthur confronted her with all the usual retorts. Had she been unhappy here she was?

  No. She could not say she had been. But the character of the locality was now changing.

  Did she not realise that a man had to be near his work?

  There were endless trams running West now. He could come and go in no time.

  Did she not realise that everything would be more expensive out there—schools, and shops and everything else?

  She replied that if they were dearer they would be better. And in any case such things, when a man could afford them, were not to be set against the benefit to his family.

  And so it went on. Such bouts usually being wound up by Arthur declaring with finality that at any r
ate he could not afford it, so not to worry him.

  Bel had to be content with promising herself that she would return to the attack later.

  III

  But suddenly, on the same day, two things happened. One sent Bel into a fit of hot rebellion. The other she did not even hear about. But both combined to be decisive.

  It was again a bright, early spring morning when Sophia bounced in upon her.

  “Good morning, Bel dear. What do you think has happened?”

  “Good morning, Sophia. What?”

  “I’ve suddenly decided to move out West!”

  “I’ve been decided for a long time, Sophia; that hasn’t helped me much, but—”

  “Oh, but we’ve got a house!”

  “You, what?” This was really too much!

  “Yes, North Woodside Road! The first terrace there, Rosebery Terrace. Overlooking the Kelvin at the bridge. Facing west and everything! They’re talking of rebuilding Kelvin Bridge. And I wondered if that would make dust and mess, but both Wil and Margy insist it would be so interesting. Just like children, isn’t it? And then it’s splendid for the children getting to school. Nothing for Margy to go to the Park School in Lyndoch Street. And the new Glasgow Academy is to be across the bridge, just opposite, for Wil!”

  Bel was thankful that Sophia babbled on. It gave her time to hide her intense chagrin. She had had no idea that William and Sophia had wanted to go Westward too. Probably she herself, with all her talk, had put it into their heads! Bel looked at Sophia’s thick, rather untidy, forty-year-old figure—and hated her.

  The other thing happened to Arthur. That same morning he stepped over from the Candleriggs to the Traders’ Club where he had an appointment with an important business acquaintance. Their affair finished, they remained to smoke and talk, for Arthur felt he could not, at once, leave anyone of such consequence. And presently someone of yet greater consequence hailed them, and asked permission to smoke his pipe beside them.

  “You know Moorhouse, Sir William?”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  Sir William was genial. He set his tall hat, upside down, on the carpet beside him, sat down heavily with his feet stuck out in front of him, his fat hands with the gold signet ring folded over his stomach, his bland face and several layers of clean-shaven chin framed all round by grey bushy hair, and began to suck his carved Viennese meerschaum steadily.

  He talked at them continuously, waiting for no replies. Of business. Of the Stock Exchange. Of City Improvements. Of Lord Beaconsfield. Of Russia and the Turks. Then he talked of his garden in Kelvinside, and what his gardener was doing about spring planting. Finally, having sucked his pipe to the end, he got up, lifted his top hat, and put his meerschaum back into his pocket.

  “Well, I’ve enjoyed my crack. Good-day. Where are ye staying now, Moorhouse?”

  Arthur actually felt a little ashamed to have to say Ure Place.

  “Tuts! Get out o’ there. Bring yer missis and the bairns out my way. The centre of the town’s no place to bring up a family. It’s time a solid young man like you had a house that gave you some standing.”

  And following on these words, Sir William’s fat legs and square feet tripped their way among spittoons and leather chairs across the Turkey carpet and out through the double doors.

  IV

  As he made his way up the hill for his midday meal, Arthur was given over to reflection. When Sir William had called him solid he had referred to his bank account, not to his body. And as for being young, well, he was now forty-one—and though he sometimes felt less, he usually felt much more. At all events, Arthur was flattered by the attentions of the great and the rich, as embodied in the square figure of Sir William. And he was respectfully impressed by his advice. This might, then, be just the time for him to move. It would not be overstretching prudence—and it would vastly please Bel. He thought of his wife now with affection. Indeed, he had seldom done anything else, in spite of having opposed her dearest wish for many years. Yes. She was a fine girl, Bel. At thirty-two she was a grand, upstanding woman fit to grace any fine house. He must think of some way of hauling down his flag over this business of moving out West—of some way which would be dignified and not look too much like capitulation.

  But Bel made the matter easy for him. For he found her in their bedroom weeping bitterly, face down on the bed.

  This was terrible. Arthur had not the faintest idea what to do about it. He was quite unused to Bel making him scenes. This was something quite new. His wife, he had often said with pride, was the steadier of the two of them. Her nature was strong and dependable. He jumped to the worst conclusions. Disaster might have befallen the household. Was it one of the children? Phœbe?

  He went over and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Bel! What’s wrong with ye, my dear?”

  He received no reply. Bel continued to sob bitterly.

  He tried to force her to turn her head, but instead she sat up and looked at him. Suddenly it was borne in upon him that his pleasant, even-tempered wife had become, for once, a flaming fury.

  The story of Sophia’s visit and her new house out West was flung at Arthur with a force that took him quite by surprise. So the Butters were to have a new house? It had even got through their thick heads that they were living in a ridiculous part of the town. It had been all very well living here, even eight years ago. Glasgow was smaller. But now there were modern tramcars running in every direction with the speed of the wind! You could get to the pleasant outlying parts in no time. And now the Butters! Where would Sophia Butter have been if Arthur hadn’t brought her to Glasgow and turned her into a lady? Washing out milkpans in the Laigh Farm milk-house. And Mary too? And David—who was for that matter already in lodgings near the University. Arthur seemed willing enough to do everything for his brother and sisters. It was time he thought about his wife and children.

  Arthur bore the storm with a very good show of patience and lordly toleration. He was grateful to his wife. For he saw that she had put him into the exactly right position in relation to herself.

  “Calm yourself, Bel. Calm yourself. And listen to what I’ve got to say to ye.”

  For a reply Bel threw herself down on the bed again, and went on howling.

  Arthur contemplated her back for a few moments, then addressed her once more: “It may surprise ye to know that I was just thinking about a new house as I was coming up the brae.”

  The sobbing diminished a little.

  “Ye see, I was looking at the books this morning, and I find that the last year has not been so very bad. I know ye’ve had the idea in your head for some time, my dear, but I haven’t been just able to see my way.”

  Bel sat up again, still weeping, and asked her husband if he really meant that. Her husband assured her that he did. After all, the little story about the books wasn’t much—even for an elder of the Ramshorn. Besides, if it came to that, he was an excellent merchant, and knew fairly well the position of his business from day to day.

  Bel sobbed a little longer. Indeed the impetus was such that she had to have time to let it die down. But now her husband was sitting on the bed beside her, his arm lovingly about her as though they weren’t married at all. And she was going to have her new house. And she was feeling very happy. And surely it would be bigger and grander than anything William Butter could afford. And she might even be into it before Sophia was into hers. And, anyway, it would be very much prettier, for Sophia had terribly bad taste.

  Thus Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse sat together on the edge of their humdrum marriage bed, enjoying the amazing tranquillity of a quarrel just made up. Tender and gentle towards each other, as they had been when they had sat together on the edge of another bed, some nine years before, a newly married pair, come to spend their honeymoon at the Bridge of Allan.

  It was Sarah who, all unwittingly, brought these raptures to an end by ringing the dinner-bell loudly in the hall downstairs, and thereafter coming upstairs to the middle landing and shouting o
n Arthur the Second and Isabel to hurry down, while she looked to the baby.

  V

  But Bel’s day of pleasure was by no means ended. For after the meal, her husband, having looked out of the dining-room window, and having seen that it was going to be a fine afternoon, told his wife to get on her things, because—since he would not have much business to do this afternoon—they might as well take the green car out Hillhead and Kelvinside way and have a look round.

  And so the part of the town that was to know them for so many years to come took note, perhaps for the first time, of a lean, distinguished man, clean-shaven but for his greying side-whiskers, discreetly dressed, with his black frock-coat, his grey waistcoat, his black bow tie and his shining tall hat. And on his arm a handsome woman in her early thirties, with a good, maturing figure in a well-fitting bodice and flowing skirt. A smart hat with a piece of white veiling falling elegantly behind set on a fine, fair head. A mouth whose continual smile betrayed dazzling white teeth, and fine eyes that looked steadily about her.

  They had come, these two, to find their new home, and they found it in Grosvenor Terrace. A Victorian row, “commanding a beautiful view of the brilliant parterres of the Botanic Gardens, with the umbrageous woods of Kelvinside beyond”, set back from the placid, easy-going traffic of a Great Western Road, where once in a while a green car rattled past on its way to and from Kirklee; where handsome equipages with their freights of silks and parasols glittered by on fine afternoons; the solemn, liveried flunkies, sitting high above the spanking horses as they flew past brave, new terraces, built of the famous Giffnock stone—cream coloured, and not yet blackened by the smoke of the encroaching city; where milk-carts jingled in the early morning, as they came from the country or passed back in the forenoons out to the green farmlands that lay so near at hand. A Great Western Road, where there was a good deal of mud in winter; and where—in the autumn—fallen leaves lay thick.