The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  “Besides,” Mrs. Hayburn added, “it’s just the sort of marriage your father would have hated.” This was quite untrue. For her husband had been in temperament very like his son Henry—a quick, eager man, over-trusting, uncritical and affectionate. But his widow had a way of dotting her i’s and stroking her t’s by invoking his memory.

  Even Stephen saw this last remark a little ridiculous, and said, “Oh, I don’t suppose he would. Father wasn’t like that.”

  She did not, however, bother to reply. Instead, she sat gazing into the fire. At last, the gradual twilight of the north was beginning to make itself felt. The room was growing dim. A flame found glossy reflections in this elderly woman’s plain-parted hair. It lit up her prosperous, wrinkled face and the innumerable transparent frills of her snowy cap.

  “What do you advise me to do?” she asked him at last.

  Stephen considered. Damned handsome girl. He wouldn’t mind seeing her about. The old lady was being unduly fussy. And it was not at all likely that Henry would ever be attracted to anyone so presentable again. If she came into the family, at least she would be something to look at.

  “Better ask her with David to dinner, Mother,” he said. “Then you can have a look at her.”

  “I can’t do that. At any rate, I hope, for her sake, that she’s not the kind of young woman who would accept such an invitation. No, I’ll have to call on Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse first, and I suppose Mrs. Moorhouse will have to call here. That means beginning with the Moorhouse family, whether I want to or not.”

  II

  At this moment Henry came into the room looking as self-conscious as possible. His mother came to the point at once. “Stephen is suggesting I should call on Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse, Henry. He has told me you want to see more of Miss Moorhouse.”

  Henry’s face flamed. He tugged his unfledged moustache and plunged his hands wildly into his pockets, then took them out again. “I say, Mother, it would be awfully kind if you would,” he said.

  “I don’t know whether I am going to or not, Henry. There’s a lot of things to think about. I wish your father was here to advise me. I’m sure Miss Moorhouse is a delightful young lady, but, after all, you haven’t seen much of her, have you?”

  “Twice.”

  “Twice is nothing at all.”

  “Oh yes it is, Mother. I’ve quite made up my mind.”

  Mrs. Hayburn laughed. “Nonsense. How can you have made up your mind? My dear boy, you’re only twenty-three. You’ll meet a great many more young ladies before you really have to decide.”

  Henry, who was leaning his back against the heavily draped mantelshelf, shuffled with embarrassment, kicked the hassock upon which his brother’s embroidered feet were disposed, was reprimanded, apologised, then finally said, “Well, anyway, you will call on Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse, won’t you, Mother?”

  Mrs. Hayburn was not inhuman. And there were moments when her younger son reminded her sharply of her husband whom, on the whole, she had loved. He was reminding her of his father now—the young, vivid engineer she had married, not the platitudinous ogre it was her pleasure at moments to invoke.

  “Do you really want me to, Henry?” she asked, softened.

  “Please, Mother.”

  “And have you any idea if”—how was she to understate her question tactfully—“if Miss Moorhouse wants me to leave cards with her sister-in-law?”

  If it was possible, Henry turned a brighter scarlet. “Oh, no, I don’t know anything about that, Mother. How can I?” And then, as his mother did not reply immediately, he added anxiously, “but you will call, won’t you, Mother?”

  After all, Miss Moorhouse might not be so interested in Henry as he was in her. The affair might be quite one-sided. Though she could hardly hope for that considering the obvious advantages of the young man. Still, her heart might be given elsewhere for all any of them knew. That would be best, perhaps. At any rate, unless she were going to estrange him, she must do as he asked.

  “All right, Henry, I’ll go.”

  “Will you really, Mother? That’s splendid.” And her youngest son bent down and gave his rather forbidding mother a gawky, embarrassed kiss.

  Thus it was that Mrs. Hayburn came to call on Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse. And really she couldn’t have done it on a more awkward day. For having got the impression somehow that Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse was settled in Grosvenor Terrace much longer than she actually had been, she decided to call at once. Besides, a burning curiosity to know what kind of young woman had succeeded in attracting so violently her callow recluse of a son had begun to take hold of her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT was three o’clock in the afternoon. Bel was standing in the middle of her new kitchen wearing one of Bessie the cook’s aprons and conducting operations with the decision of a general. For on this night she had decided to have her first real dinner-party. Her mother, Mary and George, Sophia and William, and, of course, David, were all to be invited—all the Glasgow clan. She had even made Arthur write to invite Mungo, but they had received no reply. It was to be a gesture. She intended, when she saw fit, to entertain formally after this. She was not going to stand free-and-easiness from the others any longer. None of those terrible droppings in of the wrong relatives that can so effectively ruin the pattern of carefully planned hospitality. And it was to be a dinner-party. No high-teaing or nonsense. The better people out here were going over to evening dinner now. And Bel—so help her God (and her brother-in-law David)—was not going to be left behind. In addition, the house was at last to be thrown open for show—to be the envy of everybody.

  But at the moment it was three o’clock, and she was in the kitchen directing a nervous but intensely loyal Bessie in the opening preparations. A young and yet more nervous housemaid, specially engaged for Grosvenor Terrace, was standing beating together much flour and many eggs. Sarah, the reinstated criminal of Hughie’s Yeard, now a stout, dignified person well into her thirties, was not to be seen.

  One of the long line of bells above the kitchen dresser began to jangle and dance on its spring. It was the bell belonging to the front door.

  “Who’s that?” Cook said, bending over her work.

  “I wish the message boys would learn to come to the back door,” Bel said.

  At this moment Sarah, who had been dressing in a maid’s room facing the front area, and didn’t know that Bel was in the kitchen, burst in, “Losh, Bessie, it’s a cerrige-an’-pair!”

  Bel’s heart stood still. But she let none of her maids know it. She clung frantically to a show of firmness. “Go up at once, please, and see who it is. If it’s anyone calling, then I’m not at home.”

  Sarah started. “Not at home?”

  Bel coloured, but stood her ground. “Yes. Please. It’s what you say if you’re not ready to see people.”

  Sarah turned and went. After all, who was she that she should question the morality of the best mistress in the world? The memory of a pardon, amazingly granted less than four years ago, made a constant background to Sarah’s devoted service.

  When she had gone up, Bel left the kitchen and, tiptoeing into a maid’s bedroom, stood on a chair behind the net curtain, thus managing to get her line of vision on a level with the pavement.

  And there, sure enough, the sparkling wheels of a carriage, and eight shining, well-groomed hoofs!

  Sarah, more than realising that the full pride of the Arthur Moorhouse household was, for the moment, in her hands, opened the front door and presented to the critical old woman peering from her carriage the picture of a crisp, sedate and thoroughly superior maid. She regretted that Mrs. Moorhouse was not at home, received cards and closed the door. And her mistress, perched on the chair, saw the polished top-boots of a lackey re-cross the pavement, go round to the other side of the carriage, and climb up out of view by the side of, presumably, the coachman.

  Bel was standing in her kitchen again, a smothered fire of curiosity, when Sarah came down.

  “Wh
o was at the door, Sarah?” Her voice was a model of casualness.

  “A Mrs. Hayburn, Mam. She left me her cards for ye.”

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  David’s Mrs. Hayburn! What did this mean? She had always understood that Mrs. Hayburn was a stiff, exclusive old woman. And yet she had called upon her before anyone else had done so! Were her sons pushing her into a friendship? Was Phœbe the reason? Phœbe! David had hinted that perhaps—! That would be very exciting for everyone! And such a splendid connection. She would take Phœbe with her when she returned Mrs. Hayburn’s call. She must find out from David which was the exactly correct day.

  “Are ye just havin’ the potatoes boilt plain, Mam?”

  Was it possible that Cook was putting this question to her for the second time? First things first. She must carry through this dinner-party successfully. Mrs. Hayburn must be dealt with in her proper order.

  Bel drew herself up. “Yes. Yes, Bessie. I heard you the first time. I was thinking about it. No. I think you’ll have to do potatoes in two ways for tonight.”

  But having saved her face by giving Cook further minute instructions, human flesh and blood could not wait any longer. So she took herself up the kitchen stairs into the hall, and hanging over her brand-new card-tray she allowed herself to gaze in ecstasy at Mrs. Hayburn’s cards.

  II

  By quarter past seven, Bel, in a fashionable and most becoming dress, was to be found serenely, if a little purposefully, putting the finishing touches to the card-tables in her drawing-room. For she had decided that after their meal her guests should play whist. She had thrown embroidered cloths over two tables of suitable size, and was arranging at their corners packs of cards—new, their wrappers still unbroken—and little dishes of sweets, very special ones bought down town, and also, for those who preferred something not quite so fancy, a special make of Russian toffee.

  Phœbe and Arthur, severely cautioned not to be late, and consequently unnecessarily early, were standing before the fire watching her. Arthur was looking grave and dignified in his tail-coat, and Phœbe, in white as became a young girl, was looking like a lily.

  “Man, Bel, ye think of everything,” Arthur said, stretching out his hands behind him towards the fire.

  Bel looked up at the brother and sister for a moment, then went on with her arranging. She wondered if she had detected a glint of amusement passing between them. Members of the same family often possess a telepathy which comes, perhaps, from having the same blood in their veins—a telepathy that even beloved wives do not share. Bel felt that now and resented it a little. For a moment she felt a wave of defiance. Very well. If they were laughing, let them. She was doing her duty by her husband and her children. What did Arthur want them all to be? A family of nobodies? And Phœbe? Who had looked after her and mothered her for the last eight years?

  There was the sound of horses’ hoofs.

  “See who that is, Phœbe,” she said, a little tartly.

  It was Mary and George. Both looking more portly than ever, Phœbe thought, as she watched them descend carefully from their cab. And her opinion was not altered when, announced some minutes later, Mrs. George McNairn, clad in regal red velvet, came in followed by the baillie.

  “Bel, I think your house is very nice,” Mary was saying in her flat, unemotional tones. Then having greeted the others and looked about her she went on, “You know, I once had to go to a committee meeting held in a drawing-room in this terrace. It was just the same shape as this. Of course it would be, wouldn’t it? Now what were the people called? Anyway, they must have been very well-off. It was a wonderful room. Still I do think you’ve got this awfully nice, really. Hasn’t she, George?”

  Mary was prevented from saying more by the arrival of Sophia and William.

  “Bel dear! This is fun! Do you know it’s my first real dinner-party in the West End? William’s been so excited about it that you would hardly have known him.” (Bel reflected that she certainly would not have known an excited William.) “And as for the children, they’ve been perfect little abominations! Do you know they wanted to drive out here in the cab with us and walk back! I said it wouldn’t do at all, and their father had to give them a good scolding. How do you like my dress? It’s the one I had last year, with new lace and cut lower. Margy says I’m to be careful it doesn’t fall off my shoulders altogether. Isn’t she awful? William was just saying the other day he didn’t know what present-day children were coming to. Didn’t you, William?”

  Mr. Butter said nothing.

  Sophia rattled on. “Oh, here’s Mrs. Barrowfield coming in. How are you? Aren’t you proud of Bel living in all this grandeur? We could never attempt this kind of thing. As William was just saying the other day—‘It’s plain Jane for us, Mother. We’re not fashionable people, and it’s no good pretending to be. We’ll leave that sort of thing to Bel.’ Didn’t you, William?”

  Again William said nothing.

  As David appeared in the doorway at this moment Sophia went on, “David! How are you? Looking as if he lived in his tail-coat. Of course, so you do. I always forget you’re such a social light! And here you are coming to have dinner with all your old dowdy relations!”

  Bel was glad that Sarah came up to announce dinner at this point. For she was feeling a little ruffled. First, Mary had struck a wrong note by assuring her how much grander a neighbour’s drawing-room was than her own; then next, Sophia had struck so many wrong and unnecessary notes that her performance, even for her, might almost be classed as a virtuoso one.

  It was altogether too much. She gave up her original idea of pairing them off in the drawing-room, and allowed them to huddle downstairs to the dining-room as best they might.

  III

  As she came down the staircase she could hear the front-door bell ringing. Against the frosted panels, with its key-pattern border and its design of an urn of ferns, she could see the vague shape of a man. Who could it be? Anyway, Sarah and the new housemaid, now starched and waiting in the dining-room, couldn’t possibly go to find out until the party was arranged and seated.

  Arthur being a business-like man said a long, business-like grace. His wife might be getting grand but he was damned if he was going to let her get irreligious. And so, in quiet, authoritative tones, he pointed out to his Maker at some length that what they were about to partake of would be eaten to His glory, and with humble feelings of thankfulness. Scarcely was the Amen out of his mouth than Sarah swooped down upon the lid of the large and handsome soup tureen, which was standing, ready, in front of her mistress. Clouds of savoury steam ascended, and for a time nothing was seen of Bel but a capable, elegant hand wielding the soup-ladle.

  Gradually through their chatter the party became aware of frenzied ringings and knockings.

  “There’s somebody at the door,” Arthur said to the new housemaid, who happened to pass near him. “Go and see who it is.”

  “The girls can’t do everything at once, Arthur,” Bel said, through her cloud of steam. “It can’t be anything important.”

  Arthur, as he was at the head of the table and near the dining-room door, got up and went to the front door himself. To his wife’s intense annoyance. She must stop Arthur doing this. It was all very well when it was just the family. But this—in her mind—was a dress rehearsal for other, and more important, dinners, when such casual conduct would never do.

  The next happening did not serve to soothe her rising irritation. For the party heard loud, brotherly helloings in the hall, and the voices of Arthur and Mungo could be heard greeting each other. In another moment Mungo was ushered in smiling; grubby from his journey, and delighted to see all his relatives, who showed equal pleasure at seeing him. This was really too bad! It smashed the careful formality of this entertainment that Bel had been planning for weeks! The table which, in great measure, she had decorated herself, had to be pushed about and rearranged, to allow another place to be laid. Mungo, who was looking rougher and more tweedy than ever aga
inst the evening clothes of the others, went out again with Arthur to have a wash. They took what seemed an eternity to come back. The carefully timed courses were all at sixes and sevens. She could hear them gossiping and laughing, quite forgetful that they were keeping a roomful of people waiting.

  Bel, behind a set smile, felt very much like bursting into tears. Everyone was saying what a lucky chance for Mungo to find them all together like this.

  It was Sarah who saved the situation.

  “Will I set Mr. Mungo’s place beside you, Mam?”

  Bel raised troubled eyes to Sarah. Suddenly she realised that Sarah was just as upset as she was. There had been sympathy and a full understanding in the woman’s honest Glasgow voice. It gave Bel back control of herself—re-established her common sense.

  “Yes, of course, Sarah. I must have Mr. Mungo beside me. You won’t mind pushing round, will you, David?” No. Tonight it seemed she must do with things as things did with her. Formality, for the time, must go.

  And when Mungo came back and took his place she was able to welcome him warmly.

  IV

  But after his first burst of greeting, Mungo, it seemed, was even for him—surprisingly tongue-tied. Bel, David, his sisters plied him with questions. How was he? What of the Laigh Farm? What was the Ayrshire news?

  At last, Arthur, looking down the table, said: “If I were you, Mungo, I would just tell them and be done.”

  “Tell us what?” Sophia cried. And all eyes were on Mungo’s face, turned many shades redder than his country life warranted.

  But Mungo, who was contritely hurrying through his soup, shook his head.

  “Go on, man, they’ll have to know sooner or later.”

  “You can’t refuse now,” Bel said.

  “Oh, well then, you can tell them, Arthur.”

  Eyes went to the head of the table.