“But if it freezes,” added Renny, “we shall have the devil of a mess.” He turned to Wakefield. “There are twin lambs in the barn this morning.”
“Oo — may I go back with you and see them?”
“Yes.” He looked fondly at his small brother. “If you eat up your breakfast.”
“Renny, do you think I might have a pony for my birthday?”
Now, thought Finch, that will remind them! Now they’ll remember that it’s my birthday.
But it didn’t. Everyone began to discuss the question of a pony for Wakefield, as though it were a matter of profound importance. Wragge, the houseman, who had been Renny’s batman in the war, had returned with him in 1919, and established himself as a permanent fixture at Jalna by marrying the cook, now brought in another dish of bacon and eggs. He was a small wiry man who imparted an air of jaunty good humour to his domestic activities. He had a pronounced cockney accent and cherished an unaffected devotion to Renny. He was familiarly called Rags.
Renny Whiteoak was at this time thirty-seven years old, tall and thin, with an elegantly sculptured head covered by dark-red wiry hair. His complexion was somewhat weather-beaten and his brown eyes had a wary look, as though thus far in his life he had encountered a fair amount of trouble and was prepared for more. His eyebrows were a salient feature of his face, quickly expressing by their contractions or upraisings, their sudden movements, as though independent of each other, his moods of anger, dismay, or jocularity. He raised them now as Eden and Piers came into the room, and glanced at his wristwatch.
“Sorry,” said Eden, bending to kiss his sister.
“But you’re not really late, dear, only your porridge will be cold.”
“Preserve me from it hot or cold. Morning, everybody.” He smiled at the faces about the table and seated himself at the left of his eldest brother, who said, while helping him to bacon and eggs —
“What I was remarking is his clothes.”
It was obvious that Eden wore jacket and trousers over his pyjamas.
“If I had appeared at table in such undress when I was a young fella,” observed Nicholas, “my father would have ordered me to leave.” He glanced with reminiscent pride at the portrait of the handsome officer in Hussar’s uniform which hung above the sideboard beside that of his wife. The dominating presence of this portrait, painted in London seventy years ago, had influenced even the second generation of Whiteoaks to be born in Canada. In their earliest years the splendour of the uniform had attracted them, and as they grew this grandfather was often pointed out to them as the model of what a British officer should be, firm in discipline, quick in decision, inexorable in justice. His gallantry had been equalled only by his strength of character. No one told them of his weaknesses which were charming.
Eden shrugged his shoulders in a new and irritating way he had, and said — “Well, he was a martinet, wasn’t he? He’d not have done for these days.”
“It is a good thing for you,” said his Uncle Ernest, “that my mother did not hear that remark.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, Uncle Ernie, but things have changed, you know. Especially since the war.”
“For the worse,” put in Nicholas. “Where the young are concerned.”
Eden laid down his knife and fork and laughed. His blue eyes regarded his uncle across the table with ironic amusement. “Come now, Uncle Nick, were you always well-behaved?”
“I was human.”
“And so am I — very.”
“That has nothing to do with coming to breakfast in pyjamas and uncombed hair.”
“You have just remarked how things have changed.”
“Not that much.”
Renny now spoke. “Say the word, Uncle Nicholas, and I’ll see to it that he goes upstairs and dresses.”
“No, no. Let Meg decide. If she doesn’t mind …”
Eden leaned back in his chair smiling from one face to the other.
“It doesn’t matter in the least to me,” cried Meg. “Eden looks so nice no matter what he has on.”
“Thank you, Meggie darling. I should have hated to be sent upstairs to tidy myself like a little boy.” He attacked his bacon and eggs with appetite.
Finch was thinking — “How does Eden get that way? Doesn’t he mind what’s said? Or is he just so darned proud?” Yet Finch had seen Eden look blacker than he had ever seen one of his other brothers. But when Eden looked black you didn’t know what it was about. Last year, he had remained cool in the storm which had raged about him, yet Finch had heard him walking about his room in the middle of the night. Perhaps he felt things more than he showed.
Nicholas must have been thinking about that time too, for he remarked to Eden — “Of course, you’ve heard that I was sent down from Oxford.”
“Oh, yes, and you have no idea how that endears you to me.”
“Grandfather,” said Renny, his eyes full on Eden’s face, “had more money to waste than I have.”
The upbringing and education of his young half-brothers was his responsibility and a father he was to them. The smile faded on Eden’s lips. His smile always had the shadow of pain in it and now that shadow deepened before it faded. Ernest gave him a sympathetic look and began to talk of the weather, which had greatly worsened. The rain now slashed furiously on the windowpanes, making a wall between those in the room and the desolate world beyond. No one who was not forced to would venture out on this day.
More thickly buttered toast with marmalade was eaten, the huge silver teapot was replenished and emptied, while the windows trembled in their frames and down the roof poured the rain, washing away the last of the snow that lay in little ridges on the northward side. Wragge, with an air of ceremony, as though he were performing a juggling trick and showing the family something they had never before seen, opened the folding doors that led to the sitting room, grandly called the library though there was no more than a hundred books on its shelves. Nicholas, Ernest, and Eden kept their own books in their rooms. One of the shelves in this room was filled by books on the breeding of show horses, care of the horse in health and disease, a history of the Grand National, books on the judging of show horses and their training. These were only a portion of the books and magazines on the same subject which were perused by the master of the house, and many of which were in his office in the stable or littered the shelves of his clothes cupboard.
“It is cold in here,” remarked Ernest with a glance at the fireplace.
“There is an east wind.”
“If there’s an east wind,” said his brother, “the chimney would smoke.”
“The wind is from the south,” Meg declared, “right off the lake.”
“I’m positive it’s from the east,” persisted Ernest.
“If it’s from the east, the chimney will smoke like the devil,” said Renny.
“It’s from the south,” said Meg. “Finch, just go out to the porch and see if it isn’t from the south.”
Everybody looked at Finch, as though quite suddenly he had become interesting. He stared back truculently.
Why should he be chosen to go out into the wet and cold to discover which way the wind blew? And on his birthday. “It’s from the east,” he muttered. He did not want a fire lighted, for he would probably be sent to fetch wood for it. Always it was he who was sent to do unpleasant things.
“Get a move on,” ordered Renny, raising an eyebrow at him. Glumly he went to the hall and opened the front door against the blast. He stepped out into the porch and shut the door with a bang behind him.... Here was an icy cold dripping world, filled with the thunder of rain and wind. The heavy branches of the evergreen trees swayed senselessly, the bare branches of maple and birch, but dimly visible against the rain, were without meaning, as though never would life run through them again. Their sap was sunk into their roots, and their roots clung to the wet clay in fear of being torn up. Where had the birds hidden themselves? Were there perhaps, deep down in the sodden ground, flat-faced
worms which knew that spring was coming? The first day of March — and his birthday and no one had thought it worth noticing! He did not care which way the wind blew. Let it blow. Let it blow the chimneys down.
The door opened, and closed. Renny was standing beside him. “What’s the matter with you, Finch?” he demanded. “How long does it take you to discover which way the wind blows?”
“It’s blowing every way,” growled Finch, standing where the rain beat full on him.
“This is a pretty way to behave — and on your birthday too.”
At last the words were out. At last the day had been mentioned. But how? In what a way? Flung at him — in rebuke. Renny too drew back, as though he wished he had not mentioned it. Doubtless he was sorry he had mentioned it, as he had no present for him. Now Renny was saying — “The wind is blowing the rain into the porch, so it’s from the south. We can have a fire. Come in.”
He took Finch by the arm, in a jocular way, and propelled him back to the library.
“The wind,” he announced, “is straight from the south. Get some logs, Finch.” He himself knelt in front of the fireplace, crumpled a newspaper and took a handful of kindling from a small battered oak chest.
Finch brought logs from the basement, labouring up the stairs with them, as though they were made of lead. Outside his grandmother’s bedroom, which was opposite the dining room, he hesitated, wondering whether or not she would remember his birthday. Well, she made a great fuss over her own. Surely she might give a thought to other people’s. As his eyes rested speculatively on the door, the rappings of her stick sounded on the bedroom floor, and she called out — “Come in!”
He could not very well go to her with his arms full of logs, yet there was that peremptory note in her voice which took for granted that you would run at her bidding. He stood still, wondering what to do.
Again she called out, and this time more sharply — “Come in!”
Holding the six logs to his breast with his left arm, the sweetness of the pine filling his nostrils, he gingerly opened the door and put his face in the opening. In the room was a different world, the world of the very old. The heavy maroon curtains were drawn across the windows, and the still air was laden with the scent of sandalwood, camphor, and hair oil. In the dimness the pale shape of the bed was visible and a night-capped head on the pillow.
“Which of you is it?” demanded the voice, old but vibrant.
“It’s Finch, Granny.”
“Well, come in and let in the light.”
“I … I can’t. I’ll come back and do it.”
“Do it now.”
“But Gran, I’ve got an armful of wood.”
“Put it down and come in.”
Finch’s voice broke on a note of anguish. “Gran, it will make a mess on your carpet and I’m supposed to take these logs to Renny for the fire.”
That was enough for her. If there was to be a tug of war over who was to be waited on first, she was ready for it.
“Put down the wood,” she ordered, and he could perceive her struggling to sit up.
He laid the logs carefully in the doorway and went to her. She was propped on one elbow. She gave a chuckle, as of pleasure in her little triumph. “Kiss me,” she said.
He put his arms about her old body in its heavy cotton nightdress that was trimmed with embroidery, and hugged her. That was what she liked from her sons and grandsons, a good hug and a hearty kiss. It seemed to put fresh life into her. She was ninety-eight years old. Her arms, surprisingly strong, held him close.
“Now open the curtains.”
“It’s an awful day, Gran. The worst sort of day you could think of for the time of year.”
“What time of year is it — I mean what date?”
“The first day of March.” Now he had drawn the curtains wide and the window streaming in freezing rain was disclosed. The bare branches of an old lilac-tree bent before the gale.
“The first of March, eh? And coming in like a raging lion. Well, well, what a day for …”
Now she was going to say it! What a day for your birthday. But she only said — “Put my pillows behind me. Prop me up.” She gave a sniff, as though she had a cold in the head.
He placed the huge feather pillows at her back, his eager eyes on her face beseeching her. My birthday, his heart pleaded, don’t forget my birthday, Gran…. But how could he expect an old woman, almost a hundred years old, to remember his birthday?
When he had her propped up he looked down into her face. He could remember it since he was little more than a baby and it had always fascinated him. The dark eyes were so alive, the nose so finely arched, there was a look of courage, of boldness, in the very structure of the face, so that toothless as she was, dominance was enthroned there. There was craft in the face too. It might have belonged to an old empress, seasoned in the intrigues of a court. Yet her realm had been Jalna. She was little known beyond the surrounding countryside. In Ireland where she had spent her youth, and in India where, in a British Military Station, she had spent the first three years of a happy marriage, she was forgotten.
“My teeth,” she now demanded, “give me my teeth.”
The two sets were in a tumbler of water on a bedside table. Finch held it in front of her while she, with a look of pleasurable anticipation, retrieved them and, with a clicking sound, put first one denture, then the other, in place.
“Good,” she said, “now —”
But her eldest grandon’s voice interrupted her. “Finch! What the devil are you doing?” he shouted.
“Oh, gosh,” groaned Finch, “the logs!”
Renny was striding down the hall. Before Finch could intercept him he was at the door of the bedroom and had stumbled over the logs and almost plunged on to the bed. Old Adeline Whiteoak held out her arms to him.
“Bless me, what an entrance,” she exclaimed. “What a clumsy fellow you are! Can’t you see where you are going?” She knew she was to blame and so smothered his explosion of anger in an embrace. She held him close while Finch gathered up the logs. She drew strength from Renny.
Finch found the fire merrily burning up the kindling and the family group at ease. Meg was knitting something for Wakefield.
“Let me put on the logs,” begged the little boy.
Finch gruffly pushed him away and built up the fire, laying the logs carefully, almost caressingly in place. The sweet scent of these pleased him. Wakefield crouched close beside him, the flames reflected in his large brown eyes. He held up his little hands to the fire. Finch had a sudden desire to hold him close. He picked him up and pressed his small body against his own, rejoicing in its weakness, finding sensuous comfort in it.
Meg beamed up at them.
Wakefield whispered — “It’s your birthday, isn’t it, Finch? I know.” He looked mischievous.
Finch quickly set him on his feet. “Forget it,” he said.
Renny appeared in the doorway. He said, in his decisive voice — “Gran’s awake, Meg. I’ve rung for her breakfast, can you go to her?”
Meg rose at once. She would be thirty-nine in a few months but already had a matronly figure and a strand of grey in her light-brown hair at the temples. She had a particularly sweet smile but a stubborn nature. She was devoted to her brother and her young half-brothers and was held up by all the neighbourhood as the model of what a sister, a niece, and a granddaughter should be.
The spaniels were stretched in front of the fire and now two other pets entered the room, passing Meg in the doorway with a supercilious air. These were Nip, a Yorkshire terrier belonging to Nicholas, and Sasha, a yellow tortoise-shell cat, which was Ernest’s. Each made straight for its owner, Nip scratching on Nicholas’s leg in a peremptory way till he was lifted to his knee; Sasha, in a graceful bound, reached Ernest’s chest and then his shoulder, rubbing her cheek on his.
“Lucky little brute,” observed Eden, stretching his supple body to its indolent length.
“This is a perfect morning for
study,” said Ernest. “You should bring your books down here by the fire, boys.”
“Good idea,” agreed Piers. “I’ll race you upstairs, Eden.” As though shot from a bow both darted into the hall and up the two flights of stairs. Eden flew up so lightly, with such eager grace, it was hard to believe that only a moment ago he had been as relaxed as the cat Sasha.
Nicholas was filling his pipe, Ernest was reading aloud something from the morning paper. Renny was putting on his mackintosh, Wragge was about to carry a tray into the grandmother’s room, from where her voice and Meg’s came, amiably discussing the weather. Grandmother was saying — “It was just such a day as this when he was born. I well remember it and his mother in labour for six hours.”
Meg interrupted — “Sh-h. He’s just outside in the hall. He’ll hear you.”
At the same moment Grandmother’s parrot broke in with vigorous imprecations in Hindustani, directed, the old lady liked to think, against the weather. She exclaimed — “Poor Boney, poor Boney. How he does hate this climate — and so do I.”
Wragge’s voice came. “Your breakfast, madam.”
She said, with gusto, “Good — good — I’m ready for it too.”
Finch, whose heart had halted at mention of his birthday, now slowly mounted the stairs.
What was the matter with everybody? Why did they treat him with such indifference? On his fourteenth birthday they’d been very decent to him. What had happened? He had not been in disgrace or complained about by his schoolmasters. Yet not one present, not even one good wish, had come his way. Three times had it been spoken of and then hushed up as though it were a disgrace. Of course he knew he was not as attractive as the other boys, but what was the sense of rubbing it in? There was no sense — no sense in anything. The world was a senseless bewildering place. He wondered how he could endure it for fifty or sixty or — if he lived as long as Gran — eighty years more. But then he’d probably die young. Yes, he was pretty sure he’d die young.
He looked into the bedroom he shared with Piers. Bessie, the maid, was making the bed. Her round pink wrists and capable hands were moving above the sheets. He wanted her to say a kind word to him but she was smiling to herself — busy with her own thoughts. There was no place for him in the house or in anyone’s thoughts. He was alone — as perhaps few in the world were alone….
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 2