Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  “That fellow! Call himself what he likes, he’s a communist; ought not to be allowed to edit a paper.”

  “I rather like him. He’s always very pleasant when he comes to the house.”

  Henry drank some coffee to help himself not to answer. He never, if he could help it, discussed politics with Carol, for unbelievably Carol and her parents disapproved of his being a politician. It would have been impossible to believe if he had not heard it from Mr. Cussac himself. Mr. Cussac had not so much given his consent to his daughter’s marriage as indicated he had no consent to give; if Carol and her mother wished the marriage to take place all that was left for Mr. Cussac to do was to settle money on Carol. Mr. Cussac was a quiet, small man who had made a fortune large to British, but not to American, eyes. He had an engaging way of suggesting by a lowered voice that he and Henry were in league to outwit what he called “the girls.” As “the girls” seemed to include Mrs. Cussac Henry enjoyed the outwitting idea, though unable to imagine it could ever happen. Mr. Cussac looked as if he might be a dignitary of his church. All the more surprising to Henry that his ideas of what happened if you could outwit “the girls” and go on a stag party were a cross between what gentlemen in Paris wearing strangely pointed shoes offered to lead you to, and what a cotton operative expected in Blackpool during a Wakes’ Week. Henry, though knowing Mr. Cussac’s tastes on stag parties, still saw him nevertheless as a near vicar’s warden, so it was the more horrifying to hear his views on serving your country by governing it. If Henry supposed he had anything to offer Carol it was that he was doing well in the political field. Nothing very startling; he had held various minor offices and served on special committees, and his name, if not a household word, was, provided it was a sufficiently long street, by way of becoming a street-hold one. He was, at the time of his engagement, at the point in his career when anything might have happened to him, even the most exalted happenings. How strange then to hear Mr. Cussac, in his slow voice, explaining that he and Mrs. Cussac, though Henry must not take anything Mr. Cussac said as personal, thought it a pity the man that Carol married could find nothing better to do with his time than go into politics. Mr. Cussac would not, he explained, mind the politics so much if there was anything behind them. The only point of going into politics was to make use of them, but what use was Henry making? Henry had stared at Mr. Cussac with shocked eyes, and the more Mr. Cussac explained what he meant by “use” the more shocked his eyes became, for what “use” would he ever make of politics if, as he understood, he ought amongst many things to have placed various people, including his young brother, in well-paid government jobs, and seen that when there were tenders going he pushed them in the right direction and, as a result, got a rake off. You could not start an argument on ethics with a man who had that very day consented to become your father-in-law, but neither had Henry any intention of giving up his career. He made an ambiguous reply, of which the inner Henry was ashamed, and inwardly trusted that his future would change the Cussac viewpoint. Subsequent conversations with Carol, which skirmished round politics, for Henry was scared to tackle the subject directly, did seem to show that her mind and her father’s were following the same lines, while Mrs. Cussac’s went further. To Mrs. Cussac, politics, no matter what clever use you made of them, just never were nor could be respectable, and the sooner Henry gave them up and got fixed up in a business concern the better.

  Once Henry had grasped the Cussac’s views on politics he tried not to let his career be a subject for conversation. It was then he first gave the outer Henry, to awe the Cussacs and help rebuild the morale of the much-shattered inner Henry, his a-man-in-my-position face. There was little else he could do. His old Cousin Tom believed in a governing class as fervently as others believed in immortal souls. He had thought nothing of his cousin Harry; he had made him his estate agent, but that was charity, for he could not see another career which would support him and his family. It was again charity which had, during the 1914-1918 war, made him send for Harry’s boy Henry to see, if he should survive the war, if he could do something for him. A very few talks with Henry and he knew what he would do. The war over he sent him to Oxford, made him his heir and later settled enough capital on him so that he was independent and could try for a seat in Parliament to fight for the right, which meant “Keep those damned Labour fellows out.”

  Henry finished his coffee; he got up and walked slowly to the door, not only his face but his body saying a-man-in-my position! Carol, unmoved, looked at her watch.

  “You’ve got twelve minutes, Henry. Fitch has your things packed. Now don’t be late.”

  Carol drove and to start with Henry read The Times, but more and more the glory of the day distracted him. It was a pale blue and silver morning; there had been a slight ground frost and this had left a glitter of moisture. Catkins hung yellow from their branches, there was prunus in the cottage gardens; every plant and tree was about to burst its buds. As they turned a corner they came on a blackthorn so covered in blossom that Henry caught his breath. Carol slowed down the car. She smiled.

  “My, what a day! Is that beautiful.” Henry folded The Times and put it away. Carol gave him another smile. “Feeling better?”

  Henry immediately felt worse. He took his eyes off the countryside.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I feel perfectly well, thank you. A little tired, perhaps.”

  Carol did not speak again for a mile or two. She let the morning do her work for her. She felt Henry relaxing. Presently he began to whistle under his breath. She smiled; that was much better. Henry was indeed at peace when he gave a sotto voce performance of “Pop goes the weasel.”

  Henry would not have believed it if Carol had told him she was nervous. He would not have believed that the soignée Carol in the smart tweed outfit could have a heart which missed beats because she was going to talk to her husband. She had been telling herself for weeks that she would ask what she must before the family week-end, but now the time had come she was terribly conscious of how easy it would be to put her words badly, offend Henry and make the week-end even more difficult.

  “I guess the children are getting all excited. I just can’t imagine boarding-school. Must be something when your family take you out.”

  “I suppose so. I don’t remember very clearly. Mine didn’t come often to my prep. school and I was only fifteen, you remember, when my father died.”

  “Didn’t your mother come to see you at Eton?”

  Henry moved as if physically uncomfortable.

  “No.”

  Carol felt as if she were in the dark groping her way with her fingers.

  “I guess she was busy. A new baby and Felicity only a mite.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Did you keep this Mothering Sunday right from the start?”

  Strange how a question like that could open a door so that you could see back down the years. Henry saw the sprawling, charming Queen Anne house they had lived in when his father was agent to Cousin Tom. In his memory the sun was always shining. They must have been keeping Mothering Sunday since he was a baby, but the one Sunday which had stayed clear even to the smell of it was the last he had spent at home, the year he was eight; he went to his prep. school that autumn. He was either a secretive child or else Jane, who would only have been five, was too small for a confidant. He had his mother’s present waiting for what, looking back, seemed months, but was probably only a few weeks. He had bought it in the village with all his Christmas money and thought it perfection. A vase made gaudy by a great deal of gold paint. It had been hard to keep the vase hidden, and impossible not to throw out hints in the unshakable faith that his mother was dying with curiosity to see what he had for her. “Mummie, I’ll give you one hint. It’s something you can put something in if you put in something else as well.” “Mummie, look at my hand, it’s that tall.” His mother, who seemed in memory at that time to have been alway
s running, and usually singing as she ran, would stop, her eyes shining. “You mustn’t tell me, Henry. I want it to be a most wonderful surprise.” On the Saturday he had picked flowers. Easter must have been late that year for the flowers were daffodils and narcissus. He had put the filled vase in his cupboard so that his mother should not see it when she came to put out his light. He had gone to sleep staring at the cupboard, thinking “It’s to-morrow. It’s to-morrow.” In the morning he had waited to be called. It was a terrible crime to disturb his father before breakfast any morning, but particularly on Sunday mornings. He had waited clasping the vase, his hands trembling with excitement, for the breakfast gong. He had to go to the nursery for his breakfast but he passed his mother’s room on the way and was allowed to say “Good morning,” He put down the vase and beat on her door. “Mummie, Mummie. I’ve got your present.” His mother came to her door; she had one of his father’s coats over her arm; she was holding a clothes’ brush. She put a finger to her lips. “Ssh, darling. It’s lovely.” She kissed him. “Run along now though. Daddy was very late last night. He’s still asleep.” Henry could feel even now, forty-two years later, the pain of that moment, the smarting at the back of his eyes, the lump in his throat as he saw his vase that he had expected to enjoy with his mother, each pointing out to the other its excellencies, taken away to be shared, when he should wake, behind a shut door with his father.

  “I went to my prep. school when I was eight, you know, and of course mid-Lent came in the term. I used to post her something.”

  “What sort of things? You didn’t have much pocket money.”

  It was after that Mothering Sunday he had tried to catch his mother’s notice. He was not sure if he had been jealous of his father, or just hungry for affection. His father easily lost patience with him. He had been a quiet child, a bookworm, not good at sport. In his father’s eyes a boy whose life was not filled with blood sports had got something the matter with him. “Come on out, you little rat.” He would snatch his book from him and give a disgusted snort. “Scott! A son of mine to spend a morning reading Scott!” Henry had tried but he was always shaming his father, usually in front of his friends; falling off his pony, catching his line in trees, missing the simplest shots, and, when he was first given a lesson in gutting a rabbit, being violently sick in front of several farmers. His mother, when he was home, helped to put his ego back; usually when his father was telling the story of his latest display, by a smile, to show that to her it was all a lot of nonsense. Once or twice she had said, “Don’t worry, darling. Daddy and all the uncles and grandfather think those sort of things terribly important, but I don’t, and lots of people don’t.” At school he learned something which gave him a new view of himself. Now he would hold not only his mother’s but his father’s notice. They would be proud of him. He was unusually clever; he was top of every class; he looked like being the cleverest boy the school had had for years. He had come home after his first term with a glowing report, except about football and gymnasium. He had handed the envelope with the report to his father and waited for praise. None came. That none came from his father was understandable because of “Tries but shows no aptitude” about the football, but no word from his mother! Each morning he woke certain she would say how pleased she was with him, and every night he went to bed hurt and puzzled. The Head himself had said “Well done, young Caldwell. You’ve made a fine start. You deserve a good holiday.” That holiday had blurred with time into other holidays, all of which in retrospect seemed to have been disappointing. Always he came home expecting a tremendous welcome, with showers of praise. Always he was treated by his father as a bit queer and more strenuous efforts than ever were made to make a sportsman of him. At school he was respected for his braininess but he was never popular. This meant that what little time he had to do with as he liked he spent alone, and in some of this time he made or planned presents for his mother. Christmas presents, Mothering Sunday presents, birthday presents; fearful presents, but part of the Henry of that era. Poems illuminated by himself, framed by himself; books, usually secondhand because they were cheap, totally unsuited to his mother but chosen to draw attention to himself. “Fancy a boy of that age choosing this; I’m sure he’s read it. Isn’t he clever!” Curios, or what passed as curios, with descriptions of them written by Henry. One Mothering Sunday it was a stuffed wild duck with a carefully composed history of the species of duck and its habits, but tactlessly no mention of where, when or by whom it was shot. Somewhere his mother would have those presents, for she would never throw them away, but they had not apparently impressed her at the time; at least they did not appear to draw her attention to the fact that she had a brilliant son. She wrote charming thank-you letters but when the next holiday came round, always anticipated by Henry with such passionate hope in its perfection, she was the same. “Hallo, darling. How lovely to have you back. Daddy is full of plans for you, he’s taking you to a big shoot to-morrow—do try and look pleased about it when he tells you, though I know you won’t be. He’s taken so much trouble to arrange it.” Henry could still feel the pain of that. His mother minding so terribly if her husband was disappointed but never about the disappointment of the son.

  “Just any present. Often made them myself like children do.”

  Carol groped on. What sort of childhood was it that was locked away from her? It was not, she told herself, that she was curious, it was something much deeper. During the years she had been a Caldwell she had become steadily more engrossed with the family to which she belonged. Her moods had varied; she had felt at various times hurt, resentful, bitter and amused. Why did Henry shut her out? Or did he shut her out? Was there nothing to shut her out from? Was there an inner core in their detached family relationship? If there was, somehow, foreigner though she might be, she was going to shove in and find it. That core, if it existed, was a thing her children ought to know even if she was excluded. She knew that Jane had only written to her about this week-end because Henry would have made an immediate excuse not to go, and she had hoped tact would make her send Henry and stay away herself. She still had Jane’s letter, written in her large, assured handwriting: “Being together for the Saturday night will give us a chance to discuss family things. We shall be just the family except Simon, who must be there to help us as he is the only one who understands the law; there is, of course, a danger George comes with Felicity but I hope he won’t, he gets more of a bore every time I see him.” Jane would never write “You won’t come, will you, this is none of your business?” but how she could hint. Carol had taken hints for years but she was damned if she was going to take this one. Her mother-in-law was her business and Tony was her business and they were what lay behind this family gathering. Tony was Helen’s and Paul’s uncle and they were the only nephew and niece to have to share his surname. If Henry’s mother was going peculiar, wandering like a gipsy and not living in a style becoming to her, who suffered most? Henry, of course, because he was a prominent figure with the same surname but indirectly, Henry’s children. Carol would have given a great deal to be travelling to this family gathering sure of affection and a welcome; but since it was for her children she was travelling, though aware she would get neither—and nothing was more arctic than an unfriendly welcome from an in-law—she travelled serenely, borne up by the Tightness of what she was doing—a wife and mother on duty.

  It was clear to Carol she was not going to get Henry to talk by indirect methods. To cut through his defences to get a picture of his relationship with his mother needed wire cutters.

  “I don’t want to interfere in your family affairs, Henry, but I’ll be around this evening, and of course I know what’s going to be discussed. I’ve not spoken of this before because I hoped you’d speak of it to me, but what do you think about your mother? I mean the way she’s been behaving since Christmas.”

  “I’ve not seen her, as you know. I only know what my sisters tell me. I dare say it’s a mare’s nest.”


  “It’s not a mare’s nest that she’s living alone. After all I got her Mrs. Conrad another job. I just can’t bear to think that all she has in the way of help is that terrible Miss Doe.”

  “Presumably she likes Miss Doe, and didn’t like Mrs. Conrad. To Margaret she said that she found as she grew older she increasingly valued her privacy. I see no reason to doubt that statement.”

  “Maybe it is true but is it right? I just know that if it was my mother I wouldn’t allow it. Why, just anything might happen.”

  Henry’s pleasure in the morning was evaporating. There was no escaping the meaning of Carol’s “Just anything might happen.” She knew he hated talking about Tony, and she would not do so directly, but she would try and drive him to talk about him, as if there wouldn’t be enough of Tony over the week-end.

  “We’re going over to-morrow. We can see for ourselves if anything should be done.”

  “What—in one visit? What’ll we see? If it was my mother who was acting this way I just wouldn’t rest until I got to the back of what was wrong.”

  “She’s not your mother.”

  “No, but my children have your name and I just can’t bear to think what people are saying. It’s no good being an ostrich, Henry. You can put your head in the sand all you like but they’re saying, amongst other things, ‘Why doesn’t that Sir Henry look after his mother?’ After all, you’re her eldest son.”

  “She wouldn’t pay any attention to any view I might express.”

  Carol’s voice vibrated with feeling.

  “But why not? If only you’d explain to me, Henry. All the years we’ve been married I’ve wondered about that. I’ve never needed to ask before. Your mother seemed to me to lead a lonely life, but she was properly looked after, and little Virginia was a lot with her and there was no need to worry, but things have changed. She lives alone. She refuses to have any one to stay, even Virginia. We hear she’s taken to wandering. Somebody’s got to take charge of her, and I say it should be you. I know you just hate my interfering but I have to.” Carol hesitated, unwilling to use her sharpest goad but sure that she must. She spoke with careful gentleness. “We don’t want any more trouble in the family. It’s hard on the children.” She took her left hand off the wheel and gave Henry’s arm a pat. “Couldn’t you talk to me about things?”