06 The Whiteoak Brothers

by Mazo de La Roche

  THE WHITEOAK BROTHERS

  THE WHITEOAK

  BROTHERS

  MAZO DE LA ROCHE

  Copyright © 2010 The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited

  First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1953.

  This 2010 edition of The Whiteoak Brothers is published in a new trade paperback format.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of undurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Michael Carroll

  Copy Editor: Matt Baker

  Design: Courtney Horner

  Printer: Transcontinental

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961

  The Whiteoak brothers / by Mazo De La Roche.

  ISBN 978-1-55488-741-5

  I. Title.

  PS8507.E43W4 2010 C813'.52 C2009-907535-0

  1 2 3 4 5 14 13 12 11 10

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

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  Dundurn Press

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  For my children, René and Kim, with my love

  CONTENTS

  I Jalna, 1923

  II Indigo Lake

  III Awakening of Spring

  IV A Rise in Stocks

  V The Power of Attorney

  VI Room for Scope

  VII A Secret Among Them

  VIII Learning

  IX Aunt Augusta and Dilly

  X More Investors

  XI Dilly

  XII Pheasant

  XIII The Vegetarian

  XIV The Falling Leaves

  XV The Falling Stocks

  XVI Wakefield’s Day

  XVII After the Show

  XVIII The Bubble Burst

  XIX Scenes at Night

  XX Paying the Piper

  XXI Skating

  XXII The Regaining of Equilibrium

  XXIII The Winter Moves On

  XXIV Indoor Sport

  XXV Nothing Could Be Fairer

  I

  JALNA, 1923

  As Finch Whiteoak was dressing that morning he noticed the change in his hands. Funny he never had noticed it before. They had, suddenly it seemed, as though overnight, grown long and thin, the fingers finely articulated, the knuckles more prominent, the thumb more individual. They looked like the hands that might do something worthwhile. He grinned at the thought that he should do anything worthwhile. Then he grew sober and straightened himself. This was the first day of March, his fifteenth birthday. It was natural that he should change. He wondered if possibly he might have the beginning of a beard, but when he ran his hand over his chin it felt smooth as an egg. Certainly he was growing fast, for his jackets were short in the sleeve and his trousers in the leg. When he considered his clothes he scowled. Was he never to have a brand new suit? Always he was forced to wear those which his brother Piers had outgrown, and by the time Piers had outgrown a suit, who would want it? Not Finch. He wanted a brand new suit.

  Sunday morning was the regular morning for clean underthings, but as this was his birthday he would change today. He pulled off his socks that had holes in the heels, and opening the bottom drawer of the scarred chest of drawers, of which several of the wooden knobs were missing, he discovered clean socks and underclothes as well. These last had shrunk in the washing, so that when he had forced himself into them, he felt scarcely able to move. He performed a few stretching exercises to ease the discomfort, thereby making himself such a figure of fun that his brother Piers, who had just wakened up, gave a derisive chuckle. Piers would soon be nineteen.

  Finch stiffened and demanded — “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You.”

  “Me? What d’you mean?”

  “You ought to see yourself.”

  Finch’s voice came out loudly. “It’s not my fault if everything’s five sizes too small for me.”

  Piers answered soothingly — “Dear me, no. And it’s not your fault you’re such a funny shape. But you can’t expect me not to laugh.”

  “You’d laugh,” said Finch bitterly, “at your grandmother — if you dared.”

  “I have a cheerful disposition and you help me to keep the way.”

  “Shut up.”

  Piers raised himself on his elbow, his pink and white face suddenly serious. “You’re not being cheeky, I hope.”

  There was silence from Finch, as he began to put on his shoes.

  “Are you?”

  “No,” muttered Finch. He knew better than to be cheeky to Piers. Anyhow it was his birthday. He ought to be in a good mood. And perhaps Piers had a present for him. He remembered that on his last birthday Piers had given him something. What had it been? Oh, yes, a necktie, a quite decent one. It was still one of his best. He thought he would put it on this morning. It would be a sort of polite thing to do. It would remind Piers that this was his birthday. Strange that Piers had not remarked the day, because he was one who generally gave you a hard smack for every year and a terrific one “to grow on.” He glanced at his brother to see if he were noticing the tie but Piers had sunk on to his pillow again and closed his eyes. He was enjoying his Saturday freedom from school. He had that look of blissful carefreeness on his healthy face that Finch both envied and distrusted. He envied it because he knew that never could he achieve that look and he distrusted it because it sometimes was the forerunner of a teasing mood. He stood staring at Piers for a space, the tie in his hand. Then he saw that Piers had abruptly fallen asleep again, in that way he had, as though he could sleep or wake at will.

  Fifteen seemed, in some way, a landmark to Finch. He felt that he was different. He was no longer a kid. There was a certain dignity attached to the fifteenth birthday. Why, in just six years more he would be of age. What would he be like then, he wondered. A very different sort of fellow from what he was today. He put back his shoulders and held himself very straight. But only for a moment. It really was too much effort the first thing in the morning.

  And what a morning! An icy rain was beating on the panes, running down in dreary rivulets to form a pool on the sill. The old cedar tree close to the window looked as though it had been lifted dripping from a pool. Surely no rain could make it quite so wet. Beyond it he could see the blurred shape of the stables and the figure of a stableman running towards them. Benny, the English sheepdog, was walking tranquilly toward the house, as though he didn’t give a fig for the rain…. What a day for a birthday! And yet Finch had, deep down in him, that delicious feeling of excit
ement.

  He poured the water in which Piers had washed his hands last night into the slop bowl. He poured fresh water from the ewer into the basin, noticing with distaste the grimy rim round its edge where the wash water had been. Now he splashed the fresh cold water over his face, passed his wet hands across his lank light-brown hair, and made a pretence of drying himself. Why the hell did Piers have to use his towel as well as his own, and drop them both on the floor? He wondered whether or not he would brush his teeth and decided against it.

  He wished someone would give him new hairbrushes and a comb. Certainly these were dilapidated. He couldn’t even remember whom they had belonged to or how long he had had them, and he could remember a long way back. His hair looked nice and moist and sleek when he had finished with it but, by the time he had finished dressing, that unruly lock was out of place and falling stiffly over his forehead. He cleaned his nails, then, with an eager feeling deep inside him, went forth to meet his birthday.

  At the top of the stairs he hesitated to look in at Eden, asleep on his back. Always he left his bedroom door wide open. His arms were thrown above his head, and his hair, of a bright gold, lay tossed against the pillow. There was something in the sight of Eden lying there that made Finch feel uneasy, almost sad. But then there was something sort of sad about anybody lying fast asleep. Even Eden had a look almost of humility, as though he were sorry for having been suspended from the university last term and would never, never do anything wrong again. Yet the moment his eyes were open that look would be gone, and he’d not be pleased to find Finch staring in at him. Finch wondered if Eden had a present for him.

  In the passage he met his sister Meg, leading the youngest member of the family by the hand. Why should she lead as though he were a baby, when he would be seven next June? Why should she dress him and fuss over his hair and spoil him in every possible way? There were others who could do with a little more attention than they got.

  “Why, Finch dear,” Meg said reproachfully, “why in the world have you put on your Sunday suit? It’s only Saturday. Did you get mixed up in the days, dear?”

  He had a mind to shout back — “It’s my birthday, isn’t it? A fellow has a right to wear his best suit on his birthday, hasn’t he?” But he said nothing. He just stared at her with his mouth open.

  Little Wakefield tugged at Meg’s hand. “I want my brekkus. I want my brekkus,” he said, in the whiny voice he kept especially for his sister.

  “Listen, Finch.” Meg spoke in a reasoning way. “Listen, dear. I want you to go back and take off that suit. It’s been all freshly sponged and pressed. I don’t want you to get spots on it. So do, like a good boy….”

  Finch turned from her and ran up the stairs. “All right,” he called back, his voice breaking in anger, “I’ll change, I’ll come down in my old rags. Don’t worry.”

  Meg raised her blue eyes to him in wonder. “What a temper to get in, dear! If Renny heard you I don’t know what he’d say.”

  “He’d give him a clip on the ear,” put in Wakefield, turning suddenly from a baby into a horrid small boy.

  “You shut up,” called down Finch.

  Now Wakefield was a real little gamin. “Shut up yourself!” he yelled.

  “I will not have such rudeness from either of you,” Meg was saying. She grasped the little boy’s hand more firmly and began to descend the stairs into the hall below.

  Finch fervently hoped he would not have to change his suit with Piers’s laughing eyes on him. Thankfully he saw that Eden had only been enough disturbed to make him roll over on his face. Piers was still fast asleep, one hand cradling a pink cheek. Tremblingly Finch jerked off jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. As they sank to the floor he gave them a savage kick. He was ashamed and worried by his own temper. From the clothes cupboard he got his most disreputable trousers, the ones with the paint stains on the knees, and an old grey pullover with holes in the elbows. If Meg wanted to see him shabby on his birthday he certainly would give her that pleasure. He couldn’t understand Meg. She was always after him for his untidiness, yet, when he made himself really tidy, she was after him again.

  The rain was coming down harder than ever. That spot in the ceiling was beginning to leak again. He would let it leak. It would serve Meggie right, serve Piers right when he stepped into a puddle. But halfway down the stairs he thought better of it. “Gosh,” he thought, “if I was setting out to do a murder, I’d not be able to finish the job. I’d leave the fellow just half-killed.” He ran back up the stairs, emptied his wash water from the basin and placed it beneath the falling drops. He stood motionless, listening to them as they fell. At first they made almost no sound. Then as a little pool formed, they fell into it with the pleasantest sound. Not just a tinkle but a sweet cadence, like the beginning of a little tune. He stood with head bent, his long light eyes rapt in listening.

  Piers opened his eyes, took one look at the basin and rolled over with a groan.

  Downstairs in the dining room four of the family were at breakfast — Meg who was taking nothing but tea and a sliver of toast, young Wakefield who was making miniature canals and lakes in his plate of porridge and milk, and the two uncles, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak, who were eating heartily of bacon and eggs. All four raised their eyes to Finch as he appeared in the doorway. The uncles said good morning, but no one spoke of his birthday. He sank into his chair and drooped there. Nicholas and Ernest went on with a discussion of the increase in taxation in England since the war. As they had spent the greater part and by far the most enjoyable part of their lives there, even though Nicholas’s marriage to an Englishwoman had ended in divorce, their interests and their conversation turned often to London and their past pleasures. There they had spent their patrimony, their prime, returning to Jalna when their bank accounts dwindled and receiving from their younger brother, Philip, who had inherited the property, a generous and warm-hearted welcome.

  Ernest was at this time just under seventy and Nicholas just over it, fine-looking men with an elegance quite unusual in these days, though Nicholas was tending more and more toward allowing his thick black hair, that was streaked with grey, to grow too long, and to being a bit careless about his cigar ashes. But Ernest was immaculate, looking, as his nephews said, always ready to go anywhere. He thought of himself as intellectual and spent a large part of his time in reading Shakespeare and books about Shakespeare, though he had a tendency to forget what he had read. Nicholas could play the piano quite well and, if he had not been too much preoccupied with other matters in his youth, might have become a very good musician. Now he had an old square piano upstairs in his bedroom and played on it almost every evening. He did not like the tone of the piano in the drawing-room so well, he said. In fact his fingers were getting somewhat stiff from arthritis and a gouty knee caused him to limp a little. But he enjoyed his food. All the Whiteoak family enjoyed their food, with the apparent exception of Meg, though even she could make a clean sweep of a tempting tray when she had it alone in her own room.

  Finch helped himself from the bowl of hot porridge and poured milk over it, closely observed by Wakefield.

  “What are you staring at?” demanded Finch.

  “You’re greedy.”

  Meg interposed — “Eat your porridge, darling.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Aren’t you well?” At once her voice had an anxious tone. She scrutinized his pointed, rather sallow face.

  “What he needs,” said Nicholas, “is a little wholesome neglect.”

  “Oh, Uncle Nicholas, you know very well that Wake could never have lived if I had not watched over him so carefully.”

  “Very true indeed,” agreed Ernest.

  The little boy looked languidly from one face to the other, savouring his delicacy.

  A quick step sounded in the hall and the master of Jalna came into the room, followed by three dogs, two Clumber spaniels and the English sheepdog.

  “The dogs!” cried Meg. “They must be
dripping!”

  “Not they,” returned their master. “They know that this weather isn’t fit for a dog. It’s a filthy day and no mistake.” He laid his fingers against his sister’s warm white neck for a moment, then, with a good morning to his uncles, went to his place at the head of the table, the dogs majestically ranging themselves on either side of him.

  Ernest Whiteoak was of a fastidious nature. He was conscious not only of a pleasant clean smell of Windsor soap from his eldest nephew but also of a slight smell of the stables, and from the coats of the dogs their characteristic odour. He took out his handkerchief and sniffed the pure scent of Vapex from it.

  Renny gave him a quick look. “A cold Uncle Ernest?”

  “No, no. I just use a little Vapex on my handkerchief. As a protection. Nothing more.”

  “Good.” Renny helped himself to porridge and added — “It’s a bad time for colds and, as I said, this is a filthy day.” He turned to Finch. “I guess you’re glad you don’t have to go to school. It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

  Finch longed to shout — “It’s my birthday, that’s what it is! And nobody has the decency to remember it.” But he looked glumly at his plate with a muttered assent.

  His Uncle Ernest eyed him with mild disapproval.

  “It is a good thing,” he said, “to form the habit in youth of getting up cheerful in the morning. I formed that habit many years ago and I have found it beneficial to my own health and to the comfort of those about me.”

  “Yes, indeed, Uncle Ernest,” agreed Meg, “you are an example to everyone.”

  “I’m cheerful,” piped Wakefield. “But I can’t eat this porridge. Would you like to have it, Finch?”

  Finch gave him a quelling look and applied himself morosely to his own.

  Nicholas wiped his drooping iron-grey moustache on an enormous linen table-napkin. “I’m glad,” he said, “that we’re on the way to spring.”

  “This rain,” said Ernest, “will take away the last of the snow.”