‘Well, I didn’t like to say fat.’
‘It’s because you would make me feed up,’ Eustace complained. ‘I was quite thin before. Nancy Steptoe said I was just the right size for a boy.’
No one took this up; indeed, a slight chill fell on the company at the mention of Nancy’s name.
‘Never mind,’ Minney soothed him, ‘there’s some who would give a lot to be so comfortable looking as Master Eustace is.’
‘Would they, Minney?’
Eustace was encouraged.
‘Yes, they would, nasty scraggy things. And I can make that quite all right.’ She inserted two soft fingers beneath the tight line round his waist.
‘Hilda hasn’t said anything yet,’ said Mr. Cherrington. ‘What do you think of your brother now, Hilda?’
Hilda had not left her place at the luncheon table, nor had she taken her eyes off her plate. Without looking up she said:
‘He’ll soon get thin if he goes to school, if that’s what you want.’
‘If he goes,’ said Mr. Cherrington. ‘Of course he’s going. Why do you suppose we took him to London to Faith Brothers if he wasn’t? All the same, I’m not sure we ought to have got his clothes off the peg. . . . Now go and have a look at yourself, Eustace. Mind the glass doesn’t break.’
Laughing, but half afraid of what he might see, Eustace tiptoed to the mirror. There stood his new personality, years older than a moment ago. The Eton collar, the black jacket cut like a man’s, the dark grey trousers that he could feel through his stockings, caressing his calves, made a veritable mantle of manhood. A host of new sensations, adult, prideful, standing no nonsense, coursed through him. Involuntarily, he tilted his head back and frowned, as though he were considering a leg-break that might dismiss R. H. Spooner.
‘What a pity he hasn’t got the cap,’ said Minney admiringly.
Eustace half turned his head. ‘It’s because of the crest, the White Horse of Kent. You see, if they let a common public tailor make that, anyone might wear it.’
‘Don’t call people common, please Eustace, even a tailor.’
‘I didn’t mean common in a nasty way, Aunt Sarah. Common just means anyone. It might mean me or even you.’
Hoping to change the subject, Minney dived into a cardboard box, noisily rustling the tissue paper.
‘But we’ve got the straw hat. Put that on, Master Eustace. . . . There, Mr. Cherrington, doesn’t he look nice?’
‘Not so much on the back of your head, Eustace, or you’ll look like Ally Sloper. That’s better.’
‘I wish it had a guard,’ sighed Eustace, longingly.
‘Oh well, one thing at a time.’
‘And of course it hasn’t got the school band yet. It’s blue, you know, with a white horse.’
‘What, another?’
‘Oh, no, the same one, Daddy. You are silly.’
‘Don’t call your father silly, please, Eustace.’
‘Oh, let him, this once. . . . Now take your hat off, Eustace, and bow.’
Eustace did so.
‘Now say “Please sir, it wasn’t my fault”.’
Eustace did not quite catch what his father said.
‘Please, sir, it was my fault.’
‘No, no. Wasn’t my fault.’
‘Oh, I see, Daddy. Please, sir, it wasn’t my fault. But I expect it would have been really. It nearly always is.’
‘People will think it is, if you say so. Now say “That’s all very well, old chap, but this time it’s my turn”.’
Eustace repeated the phrase, imitating his father’s intonation and dégagé man-of-the-world air; then he said:
‘What would it be my turn to do, Daddy?’
‘Well, what do you think?’ When Eustace couldn’t think, his father said: ‘Ask Minney.’
Minney was mystified but tried to carry it off.
‘They do say one good turn deserves another,’ she said, shaking her head wisely.
‘That’s the right answer as far as it goes. Your Aunt knows what I mean, Eustace, but she won’t tell us.’
‘I don’t think you should teach the boy to say such things, Alfred, even in fun. It’s an expression they use in a. . . in a public house, Eustace.’
Eustace gave his father a look of mingled admiration and reproach which Mr. Cherrington answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘Between you you’ll make an old woman of the boy. Good Lord, at his age, I. . .’ he broke off, his tone implying that at ten years old he had little left to learn.’ Now stand up, Eustace, and don’t stick your tummy out.’
Eustace obeyed.
‘Shoulders back.’
‘Head up.’
‘Don’t bend those knees.’
‘Don’t arch your back.’
Each command set up in Eustace a brief spasm ending in rigidity, and soon his neck, back, and shoulders were a network of wrinkles. Miss Cherrington and Minney rushed forward.
‘Give me a pin, please Minney, the left shoulder still droops.’
‘There’s too much fullness at the neck now, Miss Cherrington. Wait a moment, I’ll pin it.’
‘It’s the back that’s the worst, Minney. I can get my hand and arm up it—stand still, Eustace, one pin won’t be enough—Oh, he hasn’t buttoned his coat in front, that’s the reason——’
Hands and fingers were everywhere, pinching, patting, and pushing; Eustace swayed like a sapling in a gale. Struggling to keep his balance on the chair, he saw intent eyes flashing round him, leaving gleaming streaks like shooting stars in August. He tried first to resist, then to abandon himself to all the pressures. At last the quickened breathing subsided, there were gasps and sighs, and the ring of electric tension round Eustace suddenly dispersed, like an expiring thunderstorm.
‘That’s better.’
‘Really, Minney, you’ve made quite a remarkable improvement.’
‘He looks quite a man now, doesn’t he, Miss Cherrington? Oh, I wish he could be photographed, just to remind us. If only Hilda would fetch her camera——’
‘Hilda!’
There was no answer. They all looked round.
The tableau broke up; and they found themselves staring at an empty room.
‘Can I get down now, Daddy?’ asked Eustace.
‘Yes, run and see if you can find her.’
‘She can’t get used to the idea of his going away,’ said Minney when Eustace had gone.
‘No, I’m afraid she’ll suffer much more than he will,’ Miss Cherrington said.
Mr. Cherrington straightened his tie and shot his cuffs. ‘You forget, Sarah, that she’s going to school herself.’
‘It’s not likely I should forget losing my right hand, Alfred.’
After her single contribution to the problems of Eustace’s school outfit, Hilda continued to sit at the table, steadily refusing to look in his direction, and trying to make her disapproval felt throughout the room. Unlike Eustace, she had long ago ceased to think that grown-up people were always right, or that if she was angry with them they possessed some special armour of experience, like an extra skin, that made them unable to feel it. She thought they were just as fallible as she was, more so, indeed; and that in this instance they were making a particularly big mistake. Her father’s high-spirited raillery, as if the whole thing was a joke, exasperated her. Again, she projected her resentment through the æther, but they all had their backs to her, they were absorbed with Eustace. Presently his father made him stand on a chair. How silly he looked, she thought, like a dummy, totally without the dignity that every human being should possess. All this flattery and attention was making him conceited, and infecting him with the lax standards of the world, which she despised and dreaded. Now he was chattering about his school crest, as if that was anything to be proud of, a device woven on a cap, such as every little boy wore. He was pluming and preening himself, just as if she had never brought him up to know what was truly serious and worthwhile. A wave of bitter feeling broke
against her. She could not let this mutilation of a personality go on; she must stop it, and there was only one way, though that way was the hardest she could take and the thought of it filled her with loathing.
Her aunt and Minney were milling round Eustace like dogs over a bone; sticking their noses into him. It was almost disgusting. To get away unnoticed was easy; if she had fired a pistol they would not have heard her. Taking her pencil box which she had left on the sideboard she slouched out of the room. A moment in the drawing-room to collect some writing paper and then she was in the bedroom which she still shared with Eustace. She locked the door and, clearing a space at the corner of the dressing-table, she sat down to write. It never crossed Hilda’s mind that her plan could miscarry; she measured its success entirely by the distaste it aroused in her, and that was absolute—the strongest of her many strong feelings. She no more doubted its success than she doubted that, if she threw herself off the cliff, she would be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. In her mind, as she wrote, consoling her, was the image of Eustace, stripped of all his foolish finery, his figure restored to its proper outlines, his mouth cleansed of the puerilities of attempted schoolboy speech, his mind soft and tractable—forever hers.
But the letter did not come easily, partly because Hilda never wrote letters, but chiefly because her inclination battled with her will, and her sense of her destiny warned her against what she was doing. More than once she was on the point of abandoning the letter, but in the pauses of her thoughts she heard the excited murmur of voices in the room below. This letter, if she posted it, would still those voices and send those silly clothes back to Messrs. Faith Brothers. It could do anything, this letter, stop the clock, put it back even, restore to her the Eustace of pre-Miss Fothergill days. Then why did she hesitate? Was it an obscure presentiment that she would regain Eustace but lose herself?
Dear Mr. Staveley (she had written),
Some time ago you asked me and Eustace to visit you, and we were not able to because . . . (Because why?)
Because I didn’t want to go, that was the real reason, and I don’t want to now except that it’s the only way of keeping Eustace at home.
Then he would see where he stood; she had sacrificed her pride by writing to him at all, she wouldn’t throw away the rest by pretending she wanted to see him. Instinctively she knew that however rude and ungracious the letter, he would want to see her just the same.
So we can come any time you like, and would you be quick and ask us because Eustace will go to school, so there’s no time to lose.
Yours sincerely,
Hilda Cherrington.
Hilda was staring at the letter when there came a loud knock on the door, repeated twice with growing imperiousness before she had time to answer.
‘Yes?’ she shouted.
‘Oh, Hilda, can I come in?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m busy, that’s why.’
Eustace’s tone gathered urgency and became almost menacing as he said:
‘Well, you’ve got to come down because Daddy said so. He wants you to take my snapshot.’
‘I can’t. I couldn’t anyhow because the film’s used up.’
‘Shall I go out and buy some? You see, it’s very important, it’s like a change of life. They want a record of me.’
‘They can go on wanting, for all I care.’
‘Oh, Hilda, I shan’t be here for you to photograph this time next Thursday week.’
‘Yes, you will, you see if you’re not.’
‘Don’t you want to remember what I look like?’
‘No, I don’t. Go away, go away, you’re driving me mad.’
She heard his footsteps retreating from the door. Wretchedly she turned to the letter. It looked blurred and misty, and a tear fell on it. Hilda had no blotting paper, and soon the tear-drop, absorbing the ink, began to turn blue at the edges.
‘He mustn’t see that,’ she thought, and taking another sheet began to copy the letter out. ‘Dear Mr. Staveley . . .’ But she did not like what she had written; it was out of key with her present mood. She took another sheet and began again:
‘Dear Mr. Staveley, My brother Eustace and I are now free . . .’ That wouldn’t do. Recklessly she snatched another sheet, and then another. ‘Dear Mr. Staveley, Dear Mr. Staveley.’ Strangely enough, with the repetition of the words he seemed to become almost dear; the warmth of dearness crept into her lonely, miserable heart and softly spread there—‘Dear Richard,’ she wrote, and then, ‘Dear Dick.’ ‘Dear’ meant something to her now; it meant that Dick was someone of whom she could ask a favour without reserve.
Dear Dick,
I do not know if you will remember me. I am the sister of Eustace Cherrington who was a little boy then and he was ill at your house and when you came to our house to ask after him you kindly invited us to go and see you. But we couldn’t because Eustace was too delicate. And you saw us again last summer on the sands and told Eustace about the money Miss Fothergill had left him but it hasn’t done him any good, I’m afraid, he still wants to go to school because other boys do but I would much rather he stayed at home and didn’t get like them. If you haven’t forgotten, you will remember you said I had been a good sister to him, much better than Nancy Steptoe is to Gerald. You said you would like to have me for a sister even when your own sister was there. You may not have heard but he is motherless and I have been a mother to him and it would be a great pity I’m sure you would agree if at this critical state of his development my influence was taken away. You may not remember but if you do you will recollect that you said you would pretend to be a cripple so that I could come and talk to you and play games with you like Eustace did with Miss Fothergill. There is no need for that because we can both walk over quite easily any day and the sooner the better otherwise Eustace will go to school. He is having his Sunday suit tried on at this moment so there is no time to lose. I shall be very pleased to come any time you want me and so will Eustace and we will do anything you want. I am quite brave Eustace says and do not mind strange experiences as long as they are for someone else’s good. That is why I am writing to you now.
With my kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Hilda Cherrington.
She sat for a moment looking at the letter, then with an angry and despairing sigh she crossed out ‘sincerely’ and wrote ‘affectionately’. But the word ‘sincerely’ was still legible, even to a casual glance; so she again tried to delete it, this time with so much vehemence that her pen almost went through the paper.
Sitting back, she fell into a mood of bitter musing. She saw the letter piling up behind her like a huge cliff, unscalable, taking away the sunlight, cutting off retreat. She dared not read it through but thrust it into an envelope, addressed and stamped it in a daze, and ran downstairs.
Eustace and his father were sitting together; the others had gone. Eustace kept looking at his new suit and fingering it as though to make sure it was real. They both jumped as they heard the door bang, and exchanged man-to-man glances.
‘She seems in a great hurry,’ said Mr. Cherrington.
‘Oh yes, Hilda’s always like that. She never gives things time to settle.’
‘You’ll miss her, won’t you?’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Eustace. ‘I shall be quite unconscionable.’ It was the new suit that said the word; Eustace knew the word was wrong and hurried on.
‘Of course, it wouldn’t do for her to be with me there, even if she could be, in a boys’ school, I mean, because she would see me being, well, you know, tortured, and that would upset her terribly. Besides, the other fellows would think she was bossing me, though I don’t.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Oh no, it’s quite right at her time of life, but, of course, it couldn’t go on always. They would laugh at me, for one thing.’
‘If they did,’ said Mr. Cherrington, ‘it’s because they don’t know Hilda. P
erhaps it’s a good thing she’s going to school herself.’
‘Oh, she is?’ Eustace had been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he had forgotten the threat which hung over Hilda. But was it a threat or a promise? Ought he to feel glad for her sake or sorry? He couldn’t decide, and as it was natural for his mind to feel things as either nice or nasty, which meant right or wrong, of course, but one didn’t always know that at the time, he couldn’t easily entertain a mixed emotion, and the question of Hilda’s future wasn’t very real to him.
‘Yes,’ his father was saying, ‘we only got the letter this morning, telling us we could get her in. The school is very full but they are making an exception for her, as a favour to Dr. Waghorn, your head-master.’
‘Then it must be a good school,’ exclaimed Eustace, ‘if it’s at all like mine.’
‘Yes, St. Willibald’s is a pretty good school,’ said his father carelessly. ‘It isn’t so far from yours, either; just round the North Foreland. I shouldn’t be surprised if you couldn’t see each other with a telescope.’
Eustace’s eyes sparkled, then he looked anxious. ‘Do you think they’ll have a white horse on their hats?’ Mr. Cherrington laughed. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you that.’ Eustace shook his head, and said earnestly:
‘I hope they won’t try to copy us too much. Boys and girls should be kept separate, shouldn’t they?’ He thought for a moment and his brow cleared. ‘Of course, there was Lady Godiva.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see the connection,’ said his father.
‘Well, she rode on a white horse.’ Eustace didn’t like being called on to explain what he meant. ‘But only with nothing on.’ He paused. ‘Hilda will have to get some new clothes now, won’t she? She’ll have to have them tried on.’ His eye brightened; he liked to see Hilda freshly adorned.
‘Yes, and there’s no time to lose. I’ve spoken to your aunt, Eustace, and she agrees with me that you’re the right person to break the news to Hilda. We think it’ll come better from you. Companions in adversity and all that, you know.’
The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley Page 56