Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  “I’m afraid you must have thought we neglected Mother to-day.”

  Miss Doe beamed. Margaret had struck exactly the right note. She had accepted that she would know everything that concerned her old people.

  “Well, I did wonder where your daffs were. The others might forget, but never you. Will you come in?”

  Margaret shook her head. She explained about Simon and the waiting family party. She described the plans for the morning. Miss Doe felt more acutely than usual her sensation of inward swelling. They might plan a surprise party but they had to let her into the secret. No one knew what pleased her old dears like she did.

  “Bit of luck you’ve chosen to-morrow, for there’s no need to worry if the tins run a bit short. It was your mother’s turn for a chicken yesterday. Never eats much but I like to leave her something tasty for Sunday, so, as well as her meat ration—which you couldn’t see this week—I made her a fish pie, and when Perks sent up the fish there was the chicken. ‘I’ll put this in the larder,’ I said—‘chicken lunch Monday, yum-yum. I’ll pop up after church just as if it was an accident and the first thing I’ll do is put the chicken in the oven.’ Mind you, I don’t hold with this giving everything to the children, there’s too much of it, but it’ll please the old dear to have something to offer.”

  While Margaret talked to Miss Doe, Simon had been brooding. She had scarcely reseated herself in the car before he asked:

  “What d’you think of Jane?”

  Margaret turned the question over.

  “Much as usual. She looks a bit tired.”

  “She does such a hell of a lot. You know, in some ways, Jane enjoyed the war.”

  “I’m sure she did. She’s always liked organising things and in her job there was such masses of organising to be done. She was marvellous. The help she arranged for my people. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”

  “It was a godsend that she was so busy. It tided her over the Alistair business—but she doesn’t seem able to stop now the war’s over.”

  “There’s still lots to do.”

  “So there is—in her home.”

  Margaret tried to consider Jane as a patient. The young Jane, whom she had described to Dixon as being like a dragon-fly; Jane at school, seen mostly from a respectful distance; the growing-up Jane, organising this and organising that, always the hub on which the wheel turned; Jane at her wedding, pleased and excited at marrying just the sort of brilliant man that people expected her to marry; Jane seen only occasionally after her marriage and then saying, “Alistair thinks . . .” “Alistair won . . .” “Alistair is playing . . .”

  “Do you mind if I ask you something awfully personal, Simon?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you share your professional life with Jane at all?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Discuss your cases. Ask her about things?”

  “No. You think she’d have liked that?”

  “I expect that’s what happened. She swopped Alistair for you. Now she’s got nothing, at least nothing in her home.”

  “She could have.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t believe you can do much about changing people, especially at her age. I can’t tell you the messes I keep seeing every day. I look after lots of women who neglect their homes—take on jobs—their husbands come and see me and ask me to talk them out of it, but you can’t. The husband, the house, the children, their nerves, boredom or something has got them down. Outside, they feel free; they make friends, they aren’t taken for granted. This wouldn’t happen to Jane, she’s not the sort, but I’ve seen cases where a woman has been forced back into her home with the result she’s spent too much time in the pubs, or too much money at the dogs or pictures. In an extreme case I’ve known a woman take up shop-lifting as a hobby.”

  “But Jane’s intelligent. She could have no end of fun taking Anthea about with her. Doing things with them all in fact.”

  “I doubt it. If I were you I’d see what you can do instead. It’ll be fun for you. You’ll get their confidence all right if you don’t rush.”

  “And leave Jane outside running all these damned committees and things.”

  “I think so. I expect she’s been bottled up since Alistair was killed. She never let herself go, did she?”

  Simon felt sick at the memory of that time.

  “Never, and jeered at the children when they cried.”

  “Poor Jane, the only person who might do her good if he could be persuaded to talk to her, is Henry.”

  “Henry!”

  “I know all you in-laws think of Henry like that. But once he and Jane were thick as thieves. It was after father died and before he was called up in the first war. I was only a kid at the time, but I can remember them talking and talking. I used to wish I was old enough to join in.”

  “You do surprise me. I’ve never thought of Henry as a boy.”

  “Nobody ever does. The funny thing is he was a very sensitive boy. I tell you who reminds me of him a little. Your Peter.”

  They were nearing the hotel. Simon patted Margaret’s arm.

  “Thanks for the advice. Have a look at the children to-morrow, will you? See if you can get anything out of them that might help me. Pity, with all your understanding, that you were the one who didn’t marry.”

  Margaret stopped the car outside the hotel front entrance.

  “Go in. I’ll park the car. I expect Jane’s got jobs waiting for you.” She laughed. “Funny; people always think it’s sad not to have married. Quite honestly, I’m glad I haven’t. I don’t believe a woman can make a good job of a career and a home and children. You’ve got to do one or the other.”

  Simon got out of the car.

  “Judging by my home, I expect you’re right.”

  Margaret parked her car. When she got out she paused a moment to look at the stars. There was a soft wind which brought with it the smell of earth and growing things. She gave a sigh. It was so lovely here; such fun meeting all the family, but she must give up any idea that this would be a restful week-end.

  Dinner was over. The family drank their coffee sitting in a wide half circle round the log fire. There were only two other guests staying in the hotel, and these, feeling unwanted and unable even to glimpse the fire, had departed for the bar. Jane felt their departure to be a part of her good organisation. She felt some of the glow of satisfaction that came to her when some public event she had arranged worked flawlessly. She would have been entirely satisfied with herself had there not been that annoying business of Andrew. How untrustworthy people were. Turn your back for one minute and all your plans were upset. It had been an extra irritant that Carol was there to hear that Andrew was not returning to school that day. Carol had passed the telephone receiver to her saying the school wanted to speak to her, and she had been forced to bite back what she felt, and pretend that her servants and her daughter had done the right thing in keeping Andrew at home. Carol, who was so great a believer in the mother deciding everything in the home, was not to have the pleasure of knowing a mother’s distinct orders had been over-ridden. Carol had noticed the additional edge to Jane’s voice, but mistaken its cause. She had laid a hand on Jane’s arm. “I guess you needn’t worry, honey. Children are often upset by anæsthetics.” Jane had managed, in replacing the telephone receiver, to shake off Carol’s hand without seeming rude. Worry, indeed! The last thing she felt was worry. She knew in her bones Andrew had arranged his indisposition for some end of his own. To put a crown on her irritation, when Simon came in, instead of at once telling her that Andrew was at home he smiled round at everybody and asked if any one had ordered drinks. It had not helped that the family appeared to realise she was upset and did their best to placate her. Henry, quite unnecessarily moving a table a shade nearer to her. George rushing across to light her cigarette when she alre
ady had her lighter open. Margaret saying nothing but giving her a smile which combined professional concern and dog like affection. Virginia, when she remarked it was cold, springing to her feet and offering to fetch a coat. Simon, as he brought her a second drink, laying a hand on her shoulder—a thing he never did nowadays. Even Felicity made an effort of a kind, remarking suddenly in a lull in the conversation, “You need a week down here. Not just a week-end,” which was capped by Carol, who added, “You do too much, Jane. You look worn to a shoe string.” Jane knew, as she shrugged away their various efforts, that she was being ungracious; that she, who had planned this week-end was the only member of the family who was not trying to make a success of it now that it was taking place, but she could not make the effort. She had fallen into a well of suffering. Something—the spring day, the family circle or being in the countryside that she knew so well—had toppled her over into those ever-waiting waters. Alistair! Oh, Alistair!

  Margaret unwittingly made dinner a success. She and Virginia were the last to come down. Virginia, lovely in her simple blue frock bounding ahead with Slipper, had produced Margaret with a creator’s pride.

  “Look at Aunt Margaret. Doesn’t she look nice?”

  In Freda’s well-chosen black wool frock, nylon stockings and with pearls round her neck, Margaret was almost soignée, but clothes could not alter her. She might be in her middle forties, her plaits might be snailed round her ears instead of hanging down her back, but the round face and shining eyes behind spectacles were undatable. They opened the doors to family memories. Felicity started it. “Do you remember that time, Margaret, when you . . .”

  They all contributed. As each reminiscence ended, Carol, George or Simon demanded more. It would be so terribly easy to have had a controversial evening. At any minute Henry and Margaret could have quarrelled over the National Health service, and it would have been difficult not to take sides. Henry, infuriated by Margaret’s belief in a service which, in his opinion, was leading the nation into bankruptcy, was only too likely to have bored them with a Conservative pep talk. Political arguments at table they all knew to be trouble provokers at any time, but in a family gathering they must be avoided by any method, especially when one member of the family was American. They liked Carol and knew what they owed her country; but, ruffled by politics, how easily one of them might have said what each subconsciously thought, that, though all great powers must sooner or later fall, it was galling to be the generation who had to fall, particularly when you had a relation belonging to the nation which had risen to the place from which you had toppled. Because they were speaking carelessly they might have left out what each equally knew to be true, that, if you had to watch another nation rise to the place you had occupied, how lucky that the rising nation spoke the same language, was almost a relation and the most naturally peace-loving race the world had ever seen. Carol was immensely composed, and fortified by Finkelstein breathing she might not have thrown a stick on to the rising fire, but the temptation would have been almost irresistible, if her country was slighted, to mention “living on charity.” There could also so easily have been an acrimonious talk on service. Jane slashing at Felicity for frittering away her time, and Felicity leading Jane on to greater slashings by opening her eyes in puzzlement and murmuring, “Do you think people really like being managed?” But no wrong word had been spoken. Dinner had passed in gales of laughter which had swept away Jane’s black mood. Nevertheless, however pleasant dinner might have been, this evening had not been arranged for amusement. Jane looked round the lounge at the empty coffee cups.

  “Virginia dear, would you take the coffee cups out? Then we can be undisturbed.”

  Virginia found a tray and collected the empty cups.

  “Did you want me and Slipper to stop out, Aunt Jane? Because I don’t know where we’re to go. There’s only the bar besides this and I mayn’t sit in there, it’s against the law.”

  “Isn’t it bedtime?”

  “Half-past eight! Goodness, no!”

  Had Virginia been her child Jane would have had the answer to that. It would have been, “Go up to your room and don’t argue.” Even she could not say that to a niece with her parents present. While she hesitated, George said:

  “Beetle off, Virginia. Don’t suppose there’s a cop in the place. There’s a dart board in the bar.”

  He might just as well go too, thought Jane, for all the help he’ll be. She waited until Virginia, Slipper and the cups had departed, then she rapped the table.

  “I’m sorry to treat you as if this was a committee, but we’ve really got to come to a decision about Tony. I’m sure you all agree that we ought to have a plan for him . . .”

  Carol took no part in the discussion. She sat upright in her chair, smoking. From her composed, almost disinterested expression she might have retired behind a Finkelstein-created curtain. Actually she was utterly absorbed, studying the family. What was said, she decided, took them nowhere. Simon explained the probable sentence Tony would have to serve if, and when, he was caught. Jane stated that when his sentence was finished he must be sent abroad and stop there. Henry, clearing his throat, made a short, pompous speech on the Empire and how it needed the country’s best as opposed to its worst blood. Felicity, less vague than usual because she knew Tony better than her brothers and sisters, thought he might like Kenya. There were plenty of his sort of people there. Jane said it was not a case of what he would like so much as who would take him. George said he knew a fellow in South America who might help, if Tony fancied South America. Felicity thought he might; South America sounded the sort of place where you got suddenly rich without working. Simon said the first thing to do was to try and spread, amongst people who might contact Tony, the information that plans were being made for him, but that they all ought to be on the watch. Most escaped prisoners were caught in the end, and on the run Tony might come to any of them for help and they ought to make up their minds in advance, if that should happen, what they would do. It surprised Carol that they all skidded away from that question. After a fidgety little pause Jane led the discussion back to whom they knew abroad who might help him.

  Carol’s eyes rested on Felicity. What an attractive creature she was, sitting there with her amused eyes, contributing nothing constructive to the conversation; in fact, on the whole, what she said was destructive, pretending not to know she was being unhelpful, but actually deliberately sabotaging Jane’s efforts to make the discussion of deep importance. What a queer life hers had been. She had always been hard to know, but in the days when they had both been newly-weds Carol had some idea what she was like, though knowing Felicity had always been rather as if you knew somebody out of a fairy tale; she was able both to vanish and to change her shape. Some facets of her were unchanging; she had always been gay but in the old days she had gayness of heart. Observing her now, Carol decided that, though her gaiety was still there, her heart had nothing to do with it. It was not to be surprised at; George must be a dull husband, though wonderfully devoted. Except that the British did not go in for divorce much, Carol would have expected that marriage to have broken years ago. Still, if it came to that, none of her family or friends had expected her marriage to last. But it had, though she sometimes wondered why. Of course, she had married Henry knowing just how he would be, and he hadn’t changed a mite. Let down like that back home she had come to Europe intending to stay. She was not returning to Minnesota with all those whispers, head shakings and murmurs of three times a bridesmaid. “You marry Henry, dear,” her mother had said. “He’s real fond of you, and your father will help him get away from those politicians. I know, honey, it doesn’t seem that way now, but when you have a nice home of your own, and a baby coming, you’ll forget there ever was such a person as Garry.” It had not been quite as simple as that, but it had nearly come true. It was years now since thinking of Garry had hurt, and if she were to see him across the street she doubted if she would tro
uble to speak to him, except, of course, that it was always fun meeting folks from home. But Felicity had no need to marry George. No one was whispering and being sorry for her; besides, British girls did not seem to feel shamed at being left the way American girls did. Felicity went everywhere and had a wonderful time, but it just seemed as if it came over her she had to marry, and that being so she let herself float right into the nearest arms, which, of course, seeing the way he stood around, could not help but be George’s. Such a funny choice! She had talked about it to her mother at the time. She could hear her mother now. “My, I’d like to take that girl back with me. She would be a sensation and, mark my words, you would hear no more of George. Wouldn’t you think, honey, the way she is about horses she would have the sense to pick a man with a home in the country? I guess that George has never ridden horseback.”

  Thinking of George, Carol shifted her position so that she could look at him without appearing to. He had changed very little. She could see him in her mind on the day Felicity had brought him to meet her parents in their suite in Claridges. “This is George. We’re going to be married. You can laugh, everybody does. We don’t mind, do we, George?” George had seemed perfectly satisfied then and ever since. Yet never had a man a more lonesome life. Felicity was always away. It had been the same right from the wedding. Carol remembered a friend saying when she heard a baby was expected, “Then it must have been conceived on a railway platform, some time when George was meeting Felicity or seeing her off, for that’s the only times they’ve met.” They got no pleasure from that nice little Virginia. The way that child had been raised! Always handed to someone else to look after; first the nurse, then her grandmother and now, presumably, that visiting teacher. It shocked Carol to think how little education Virginia was receiving. Why ever didn’t George and Felicity send her to a school? They could send her to the day school to which Jane sent Lucia, or she could go to boarding-school; she might send her to Fairfield with Helen, but to keep her home like that when there was no home you could call a home seemed crazy.