by Guy McCrone
As they put on their wraps to go across to Bel’s, Sophia, released from the constraint of the dinner-table and Sir Charles’s presence, expressed herself to Grace.
“Of course, in a way, I think Phœbe and Henry were awfully good, Grace dear, to adopt this little boy. Especially as he has lost both his parents in that dreadful fire. Do you know, I missed reading about it properly. Wasn’t it annoying? My silly maid has used that morning’s newspaper to crumb fish on, and the bit got soaked with egg! And then, of course, with Phœbe losing her own baby and everything—But, as William was just saying this morning, you never know what kind of wild blood these adopted children have in their veins. It’s a terrible risk! And foreign blood too! And I think, in a way, it was foolish of them to give him Henry’s father’s name. They should have kept his own, if they knew it. But, then, I dare say it was too difficult to pronounce. Oh, Grace dear, don’t think I’m being unsympathetic! He’s a lovely wee thing! Margy’s crazy about him! But I just hope he’ll grow up to be a good and righteous man, and be a credit to us all!”
Grace hastened to say that she had no doubt the Hayburn foundling would grow up without flaw. But the jealousy that troubled Sophia had not left even Grace’s gentle heart untouched. As she descended to the carriage she found herself seeking comfort in the fact that her own baby—disappointingly plain at almost a year old—had nothing but good, West of Scotland blood in his veins.
II
It was not a large gathering, by Grosvenor Terrace standards. Bel and Arthur, with Arthur the Second, who was now ten. Mary and her two sons. Phœbe, Henry and old Mrs. Barrowfield. But it had been homely and pleasant, and when the time came for tea to be set out and Mrs. Dermott and her party to arrive, there was no one who did not regret their coming a little. Bel and her guests felt they could have been very happy left to themselves.
But now here they were, filling the room with noise and fussing. Kissing, shaking hands, giving and receiving greetings. Admiring Bel’s decorations, asking how each other did, welcoming Phœbe and Henry home. Insulting already overloaded stomachs with currant bun, and behaving in all things with a Christmas spirit.
Mrs. Barrowfield had found refuge in a corner. She sat with Mary, unobtrusive and apart, drinking tea and looking on. She had no wish to be nearer the formidable Lady Ruanthorpe, who sat holding court by the fire. Still less did she want to be near Mrs. Dermott, whom, for reasons known only to herself, Mrs. Barrowfield detested. Yet, illogically, she was pleased with her own daughter, that she could move among these grand people with so much calm assurance. Tonight Bel’s fairness profited from the simplicity of black satin.
Called now to Lady Ruanthorpe’s side, Henry and Phœbe were crossing the floor. Mrs. Barrowfield watched them with affection. She felt a link with them. She was the only one here, or indeed anywhere, who knew their story. Henry looked tired and older. Tonight he seemed aloof; a little arrogant; as though he didn’t care whether the Moorhouse clan liked him or not. Which, when she came to think, was probably true. But his maturity suited him. He would now, at last, develop, Mrs. Barrowfield hoped fondly, into that paragon of paragons, a successful businessman.
Phœbe was elegant in a dress of unrelieved white. She had bought it in the Kohlmarkt. She looked beautiful, the old woman thought; although there were signs of strain in her face. And a suggestion of that look she had once had as a child, after she had brought young Arthur from the slums. It seemed, almost, as though Phœbe were seeing things that others could not see.
But Mrs. Barrowfield was pleased with her. She had, after all, refused to quit Henry, and thus, once more, their ship was safe in open water.
For a moment Bel’s crowded drawing-room swam before Bel’s mother’s eyes.
Now she heard Phœbe’s voice. “Bel, Lady Ruanthorpe wants me to bring down Robert. Do you think I ought?”
Margy Butter was running forward. “Oh, Aunt Phœbe, let me come, too!”
Bel gave her consent.
III
The child had been inspected and admired. And now, for a moment, they were isolated, all three of them, under the gaselier in Bel’s drawing-room. Phœbe, Henry and the child in Phœbe’s arms.
The new Robert Hayburn had been sleepy, but now he opened his eyes wide and looked about him; as though he, in his turn, were inspecting this strange race of Northerners, with their bland self-satisfaction, their benign importance-seeking, their innocent, provincial shrewdness.
The ghost of a gay little smile passed across the baby’s face—the mere suggestion of a smile; but it was enough to cause Sir Charles to put his hands behind his back, bend forward, scrutinise the infant, and remark: “If you ask me, you won’t have your sorrows to seek with that young man!”
And then, his eyes catching the bright lights above him, the child stretched up one of the small, rosy starfish that served him for hands, and, being a son of Vienna, seemed to be trying to reach their glitter.
Sophia came forward. “Oh, Phœbe dear! I was just saying to Grace tonight, how good we all think it is of you and Henry to take this wee man! And we all think—”
With one of those quick gestures that bewildered even her nearest and most beloved, Phœbe turned, the child still in her arms, and left the room.
On the landing, behind the closed door, she halted. What was it that had stung her? Did she sense Sophia’s insincerity? Had she become intolerant of family judgments?
Good?
Was it because they persisted in measuring goodness and badness with their own smug yardstick? Phœbe now had learnt that there were things that would not let themselves be gauged by cautious Moorhouse standards.
As for this child of Henry’s: she had followed her instinct. That was all. And the family could think what they liked about it! Find out what they liked!
But after a time the flame died down within her. Had she been unjust? Or was she still a little overwrought? She stood now, remembering things that would not let her be.
A young woman lying dead at her feet, lit by the light of a savage fire. The tolling of bells, and a great city bowed in mourning. A Mass said in a suburban chapel for the souls of a departed family, a family that was kind and simple, according to its own, too easy ways. The Mass attended by two young strangers, who knelt in humility, knowing nothing of its ritual.
The same strangers standing by a graveside—the graveside of her child’s mother.
These memories were near, and as yet she could hardly bear them. Later on, perhaps, their outlines would be softened.
But why was she standing here? She looked at the child in her arms. His eyes again were heavy.
Phœbe mounted the stairs, laid him in his cot and turned the gas low. For a time she lingered. Presently she bent forward to assure herself that he was settling to sleep. Then, leaving the room quietly, she went back to join the others in Bel’s drawing-room downstairs.
WAX FRUIT
Guy MCCRONE was born in 1898 in Birkenhead. After his parents’ return to their native Glasgow, he was educated at Glasgow Academy, going on to read modern languages at Pembroke College, Cambridge, and then studying singing in Vienna. On his return to Glasgow, he organised the first British performance of Berlioz’s Les Troyens at the Theatre Royal in 1935. He was also one of the founders of the city’s Citizens’ Theatre.
Glasgow provided the main inspiration for McCrone’s writing, and the novels Antimacassar City, The Philistines and The Puritans, begun in 1940 and published as Wax Fruit in 1947, are widely regarded as his finest work. Two more sequels followed: Aunt Bel (1949) and The Hayburn Family (1952). His other novels include The Striped Umbrella (1937), James and Charlotte (1955) and An Independent Young Man (1961). Guy McCrone retired to the Lake District in 1968, where he died at Windermere in May 1977.
COPYRIGHT
First published 1947
First published 1993
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
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itepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2014
ISBN: 978 1 84502 813 8 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 417 8 in paperback format
Copyright © Guy McCrone 1993
The right of Guy McCrone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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