GOOD DAUGHTERS

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘How many people in London turned out to support the hunger marchers? Or offered them accommodation for the night? Most people were too busy for that. But on the days when these men were marching, cinema attendances were good. People weren’t too busy for that! And of one thing we can be certain: we shall not find Him in the cinema.’

  Alice felt the hand of God laid on her as her father continued: ‘It is all glitter and glamour and tinsel morality; a world in which, above all else, it is essential to be attractive; where the problems of personality can be solved by a change of lipstick or a new hairstyle. We say it is only entertainment; but there are young people who go to the cinema two, three times a week and, without their knowing it, the values of the silver screen become an integral part of their way of looking at life.’

  A further thumping on the chapel doors jerked Mr Fairley back to his pursuit of God. ‘Our situation today demonstrates that without Him “things fall apart, the centre cannot hold”.’ Miss Dyer nodded, quick to recognize the poetic tone. ‘There is an essential person somewhere within each of us who eludes us. We long for all the fragments of personality to be gathered together so that we are whole. We can’t do this for ourselves. Isn’t this because we are created by God and only He sustains us? Without Him, we cannot sustain our lives; we, too, fall apart and gradually cease to be. The proof of this is all around us.’

  Alice clenched her hands and prayed that he would stop and he did. He had not got very far with the Creed, and would have to deal with such matters as the communion of saints and the forgiveness of sins, to say nothing of the Holy Ghost, on another occasion. He concluded, ‘My friends, we must take Christ out of history, or our religion becomes a long, backward glance. He is here and now always. We have our being in His presence. It is that or nothing. As we walk home tonight, along Acton High Street, past the Globe Cinema and The King’s Head and the Napier Arms Factory, the road leads – as it always has led and will always lead – to Emmaus.’ Dot, the tears streaming down her face, should ‘Hallelujah!’ Mr Fairley concluded sombrely, ‘And now, in the name of the Father and of the Son . . .’

  They bowed their heads and groped for hymn books. The Minister announced the hymn, and they rose to sing:

  ‘Oh Beulah land, sweet Beulah land

  As on thy highest mount I stand

  I look away across the sea

  Where mountains are prepared for me

  And view the shining glory shore

  My Heaven, my home for evermore.’

  They sang loudly and the bare, uncomfortable room was suddenly full of people who had come alive and were briefly happy; the old man’s paper-thin face glowed as though the rosy light of the promised land already fell upon him. This, their voices said to Mr Fairley, is the kind of thing which is needed in these dark days!

  When the service was over, the old man came along the row to Miss Thomas and said, ‘We should have opened the church hall to the hunger marchers; I shall raise it at the next vestry meeting.’

  ‘They were communists, Mr Plumley. It said so in the Morning Post.’

  Miss Dyer said, ‘I was surprised to hear mention of the Virgin Mary. We’ll be having candles on the communion table next.’

  It took several minutes to get out of the chapel, because the Minister and the sidesmen were shaking hands with people at the door. By the time his family had reached the door, Mr Fairley had joined them. The Minister gripped his hand and said, ‘Splendid! We must have a talk some rime about your interpretation of the Ascension . . .’

  ‘I didn’t think that last hymn was very appropriate,’ Mr Fairley said bluntly.

  ‘No, perhaps not, but Mr Plumley particularly asked for it.’

  ‘The reward of the good; I don’t begrudge that, dear old chap,’ Mr Fairley said philosophically as they left the chapel and turned towards the railway arch. ‘I just wish he could have had his reward at morning service.’

  A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall. There was a tram coming when they reached the High Street, and in the hurry to catch it all else was forgotten. They did not speak about the service until they sat down to supper. After he had said grace, Mr Fairley turned to his wife. ‘Startled them, talking about the Creed, I’m afraid. Does them good to be startled every now and again.’

  ‘It’s not the Creed that startled them; it’s the films you see!’

  ‘I haven’t seen them,’ he said irritably.

  ‘That’s what you tell us!’ She smiled at Guy. ‘Do you go to the pictures much?’ She was aware of her husband’s displeasure, but Louise was coming to an age when she would bring young men home, and they must learn to talk about these things. She was relieved, however, when Guy said with obvious sincerity, ‘I agree with Mr Fairley; the cinema’s full of rubbish.’

  Mr Fairley looked approvingly at Guy from under bushy eyebrows; he was about to lead the conversation round to his sermon, when Guy went on, ‘It’s the theatre which interests me.’ Mr Fairley said, ‘Really?’

  ‘In fact, I belong to a rather good dramatic society.’

  ‘You mean you actually . . . perform?’

  Alice was sitting opposite Guy, and the consternation reflected in her face warned him. He said, ‘I have done a bit, yes; at school . . . Shakespeare and that kind of thing . . .’

  Which of Shakespeare’s plays?’ Mr Fairley was not the man to be silenced by the magic of a great name.

  ‘The historical plays – Henry the Fifth and . . . er . . . Julius Caesar.’

  Mr Fairley nodded. The danger had passed. Claire, who did not like to be left out of a conversation, said, ‘And The House with the Twisty Windows.’

  ‘The WHAT?’

  ‘The House with the . . .’ Claire, aware of the angry looks of her sisters, went scarlet; her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘What is all this about?’ Mr Fairley looked at his wife as though she were involved in a conspiracy against him.

  ‘I’ve no idea. What are you being so silly about, Claire? Is this house-with-whatever-it-was something you’ve heard on the wireless?’

  Claire began to cry.

  Louise said, ‘It’s a one-act play. The St Bartholomew’s Dramatic Society are putting it on with two other one-acts.’

  Mr Fairley said, ‘St Bartholomew’s?’

  ‘It’s not a church dramatic society. Daddy; it broke away from the Church of England five years ago because the vicar kept interfering with the plays they put on.’

  ‘Why didn’t the vicar like the plays they put on?’ Judith Fairley asked, watching her daughter closely.

  ‘It was all right as long as they did things like Quality Street and Cranford, but if they did anything in modern dress he found it wicked.’

  ‘I am not at all clear,’ Mr Fairley said, ‘why we are talking about this.’

  Judith caught her daughter’s eye and shook her head, but Louise had recognized her moment. ‘They want me to play a part in The House with the Twisty Windows.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘There’s nothing surprising about it. Daddy.’ Louise remained calm in the face of something rather stronger than surprise. ‘Several people we know belong. Jacov produces for them.’

  Judith said sharply, ‘Louise, be quiet. What Jacov does or does not do is of no interest to your father.’ She turned to Claire. ‘If you’re not going to eat any more, you had better go upstairs. It’s past your bedtime, anyway.’

  Claire got up; on her way to the door she paused behind Louise’s chair. ‘Lou . . .’

  ‘Oh, go and eat sour apples!’

  Claire went out of the room crying.

  Mr Fairley said to Louise, ‘We will say no more about this, you understand? We will say no more about it.’

  Alice clenched her hands on the sides of her chair and prayed. ‘Oh God, please don’t let Louise argue with him, please don’t let her argue.’

  Louise looked at her father. This was an occasion which demanded lowered eyes and trembling lips, and to Alice it seeme
d there was something alarming about the very steadiness of Louise’s gaze.

  ‘I see now that no one was listening to me this evening,’ Mr Fairley said. This hurt him and deflected his anger. ‘While I was castigating the congregation about superficiality, and making that good old man, Plumley, feel guilty about the hunger marchers, my own family was racked with concern about a one-act play called The House with the Twisty Windows!’

  ‘I thought your sermon was splendid, sir,’ Guy said.

  For a young man who hoped to make a career on the stage he had a poor sense of timing.

  When Guy left, Alice feared hostilities would break out, but neither protagonist appeared to relish a confrontation. Mr Fairley retired to his study and Louise followed Alice and her mother into the kitchen.

  ‘Mummy, why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I’ve no sympathy with you. I warned you and you took no notice. You always think you know best, my lady, and it will lead you into trouble.’

  ‘But Daddy doesn’t even know the play. If that isn’t an example of knowing best, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘Don’t be pert, Louise. He knows you deceived us.’

  ‘It wasn’t deception, it was you who assumed it was the school play I was talking about.’

  ‘And you encouraged Claire and Alice to deceive us.’

  ‘As soon as Claire got involved, I told Daddy about it.’

  ‘Only because Claire had given the game away. You see everything from your own point of view, Louise; if you want a thing, it is right, and people who don’t agree with you are wrong.’ She went into the dining room to clear the table.

  ‘I know someone else who suffers from that complaint.’ Louise waited until her mother had passed out of earshot before she said this.

  ‘Who do you mean, Lou?’ Alice asked, feeling, as she so often did when an oblique remark was made, that she must be the person at fault.

  ‘Why, Daddy, of course.’

  Louise was showing more of herself than she usually revealed to Alice. This made Alice feel elevated. ‘What do you mean about Daddy, Lou?’ She managed to say this in a sensible, interested tone, just as she would have talked in class about the character of Darcy or Mr Collins.

  ‘If he wants a thing, he talks about it as though it had happened – like me going to university; so it becomes an accepted fact. We can argue about which university and what course, but the fact of my going is incontrovertible.’

  ‘I thought you were going.’

  ‘You see how well it works!’

  Aren’t you?’

  ‘No; I’m going to be an actress.’

  ‘Lou!’

  Alice looked at her sister in awe. This was not the Louise of childhood, but a new person. And such a marvellous person, so brave and resolute, yet so cheerful with it. Alice had the same feeling of fear and exultation she experienced when her father and his friends talked about going over the top; but Louise’s non-combatant bravery seemed more splendid than the vision of men charging with bayonets. It was also more real, something she might come to herself one day.

  ‘But that’s some way off.’ Louise became active at the sink, souring hot water into the bowl and grabbing a handful of soda. She lad shaken herself and felt some compunction about the effect she must have had on Alice. ‘I’m just as fond of Daddy as you are. Don’t take what I say to heart.’ She looked at her sister quizzically, then she put a finger on the tip of Alice’s nose and pressed. Mrs Fairley came in with a loaded tray and the two girls laughed conspiratorially.

  Claire was in an agitated state when her father came in to say goodnight to her.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened,’ he told her.

  It seemed, however, that it was something she had overheard in chapel which was now upsetting her. ‘Mummy wouldn’t ever send us away, would she?’

  He tracked this down to Miss Thomas’s comments about the Bligh family, and comforted Claire by pointing out the unfortunate fact that not every family was as loving and united as her own. He then read her a ‘William’ story (a great concession, as this was Sunday), after which he returned to his study and his own distress.

  When Alice came into the bedroom there was a ridge of snow several inches deep on the windowsill. She put the stone hot water jar in her bed, and began to undress. Claire said, ‘Is Louise still cross with me?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it; it just came out.’

  Alice went to the washstand.

  The windows were blotchy with snow. ‘The pipes will freeze,’ Claire said mournfully. She hunched down in the bed, contemplating the misery which would befall them when the boiler had to be put out, and the cold established its iron grip on the whole house. The paraffin lamp would be placed on the landing but would be found to smoke, or there would be a strong draught from the landing window which would make it dangerous to keep it alight. Louise would make an awful fuss about the state of the lavatory. Daddy would go up in the attic with a blow-lamp and Mummy would say, ‘Now we shall have a burst.’

  There was a place just above the lavatory window where a waterpipe curved outwards, inviting the attention of the east wind. It was only a small length of pipe, but the plumber informed the Fairleys on each of his more than occasional winter visits that they could save themselves the bother of lagging the pipes because the water would always freeze at this point. Although it was such a small length of pipe, there were reasons – which he could not bring himself to divulge – why to bring it into the house would involve a major alteration of the whole water system.

  The burst, when it came, was always a source of excitement to the children. First, it must be located, and the house would echo to cries of ‘Not in here!’ until eventually damp patches were discovered (not infrequently in the linen cupboard); then there would be much rushing about with buckets and cries of ‘Ahoy down below!’ from Mr Fairley in the attic. But enjoyable though all this undoubtedly was, it did not compensate for the misery which had gone before; and the long, cold spells gave rise to constant grumbling on the part of the children, by no means muted by their parents’ recollection of greater hardships endured in their youth.

  Claire’s discomfort differed from that of her sisters. It was not just that she could not stand the cold and inconvenience; there was something sinister in the failed apparatus itself. She went in dread of the first sight of a damp patch, and at night the thought of the burst pipe dripping somewhere unknown in the house filled her with terror. While diphtheria had not permanently undermined Claire’s health, banishment to the isolation hospital had left her subject to unspecified fears which she could not fight, because they never confronted her in the open, but engaged in a kind of shadow- boxing just beyond the range of sight and sound.

  Claire sniffled, thinking that this time she would have to bear Louise’s anger as well as the malignity of leaking pipes and smoking oil stoves. ‘Badger’s the only one who understands,’ she mourned.

  Alice, who had finished washing, went to the window to draw the curtains. ‘It’s all white, Claire. I expect Kashmir looks lovely.’

  Mr Fairley sat alone in the sitting-room, his book unopened. Judith was putting washing in to soak in case the water had frozen by the morning. Mr Fairley poked the fire and sighed. The very idea that his daughter had deceived him was scarcely credible, conflicting as it did with his cherished impression of his family as a united one in which each person could speak freely to the other. Mr Fairley made a number of assumptions about his life which usually worked out very well. On the occasions when an assumption was proved false, he had a long journey to make back to the reality of his situation. He took such setbacks badly; they disrupted him, and he often had a bad turn. He was feeling sick now.

  He gazed into the fire. If the freezing of water was one of the miseries of the winter, firelight was surely its greatest joy, offering such homely pleasures as roasting chestnuts and toasting crumpets. Best of all was watching the faces in
the fire. At first barely discernible, so that there was much discussion as to how it would emerge (Mr Fairley tended to see men like Jack Hulbert with long chins, while Alice favoured a sailor, like Nelson, in a cockaded hat), the face, as the flames worked on it, became clearer so that all could see that it was, in fact, the hawk-nosed gypsy which Louise had predicted. How often they had stared at the face in the fire until either some movement of the coals broke it apart or the flames, burning steadily, ate it away! But by then another face would be forming, only to be consumed in its turn, and so it would go on until, as evening turned to night, the flames hollowed the last face to glowing embers. Tonight, the wind howling in the chimney had accelerated the process. Soon the embers would dwindle to ash. Mr Fairley, who had no taste for the end of things, went out of the room and began his nightly round of winding the clocks.

  Chapter Four

  The blizzard was the worst for fifty years, but the snow cleared as rapidly as it had come, and brought floods to many parts of the country. Days followed which were bright and clear. On one such day in March Joseph Tippet, sitting at the window of his house high in the old part of Falmouth, had a fine view across the harbour and the Carrick Roads. He looked steadily, eyes narrowed – not against the sun, for he was looking north-east – but in order to focus on the particular period on which he was gazing, which was certainly not the present. But then, what was the present? Joseph’s present had never been other people’s present. He had lived most of his life at sea, and his brief excursions ashore had been like the intermittent waking of a Rip Van Winkle. Now, as he looked out of the window he was seeing in his mind’s eye the last of the clippers. It did not seem possible that a thing of such grace and beauty could vanish so quickly from the earth once its commercial value was gone. Although he had spent a lifetime in steamships – and traders at that – he had little time for commerce. He gave a deep sigh. ‘There wasn’t anything to touch them!’