Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  Across the circle from Carol was Margaret. Poor creature, even in that black dress she looked terrible! Seemed as if some women just never could put their clothes on right. She had seen funny sights back home, but when it came to bad dressing no one could beat the British. She had been surprised at the dinner table to see the place Margaret held in the family. For all her efforts she had not been able to drag a picture of his home life out of Henry. One of his stubborn fits had come over him after they had dropped Helen and Paul and he had answered anything she said with grunts, and, when she had taken over driving, had dropped off to sleep. But, to make up for that, at the dinner table she had for the first time felt there was a family and that she was part of it, and it was Margaret who had made her feel that way. Maybe it was because she was the middle of the family but it seemed as if, through her, the whole lot were tied together. Even Henry had joined in the fun and seemed to enjoy it. He had always given her the impression that, because of the first war and then old Cousin Tom adopting him, there had never been a time when he had been part of his family. At table she had seen that was not true. There had been several stories in connection with an old Morris car. “How beautifully you and Jane used to clean it,” Margaret said to Henry, “then Mother drove it into something or through something and brought it back in a mess. Do you remember that time . . . ?” The clearest memories all came from Margaret. The others could recall funny, outstanding incidents, but it was she who brought the family before the outsider’s eyes. “And Jane was wearing that funny hat with the velvet ribbon.” “It wasn’t funny. It was a very smart hat.” “It was funny, Jane. Wasn’t it a funny hat, Henry?” or “That was the time Felicity would come too. Don’t you remember, Felicity, Nannie dressed you in muslin though we said you’d get in a mess? My goodness, you did, too. No, Henry wasn’t there. He was coming back the next day. Don’t you remember that, Jane? You half-starved us because everything was being kept for him.” As Margaret painted in her additional touches there grew a wonderfully warm, happy, interlocked home life. “I wonder,” Carol mused, “if that is the way she sees it, or if that was the way it was.”

  Of all her in-laws the easiest member for Carol to understand was Jane. America was full of Janes. Women who just naturally were on every important committee. Jane, except where her home was concerned, had a gift for organisation which Carol respected. Not for her that messy British word “cope,” which meant, as far as Carol could see, making do instead of getting whatever it was properly fixed. When Jane said she would arrange something she meant “fix” in the American sense. Jane was sitting in the centre of the circle where she could see everybody and direct things. Her thin face and intelligent brown eyes were aflame with interest. She looked nice, too. Her greying hair was smartly done, and her black dress well cut. Felicity would look beautifully dressed in any country. Jane was well-dressed in the British sense, sort of tailored and elegant. Queer that a woman who looked like that could dress her children the way she did. That poor Lucia! How she would love to get her hands on Anthea! That was no way to dress a young girl. And her house! It made Carol shudder. It was just about the worst example she knew of post-war slovenliness. How that nice Simon put up with it she just could not make out.

  Carol admired Simon. He had the same sort of English, well-dressed look as Anthony Eden, and she thought Anthony Eden’s appearance could not be bettered. To learn to put his clothes on in Anthony Eden’s way was something she planned for Paul. Simon had such a fine career, too; everybody respected him and knew his name. Somehow, in spite of the way she ran her home and Simon’s brilliance, Jane seemed to manage to keep him from interfering in the way Henry did. She had thought the way Simon had come to Jane and asked if he might telephone Anthea just perfect. He had taken the paper with the trains and the message without any fuss or argument and gone off with Margaret like a lamb. She would just like to see Henry doing that!

  The meeting was over. It had not been entirely abortive. Jane had names of people abroad who might help. Simon promised, through some unnamed source, to try and let it be known there was help and money waiting for Tony when he had completed his sentence. In twos and threes the family drifted towards the bar. Simon came to Carol.

  “You’ve been very quiet. I hear you had the children out to-day. How were they?”

  Simon was a wonderful listener. Carol told him how happy the day had made her. How Paul had seemed to be growing away from her last holidays but to-day he had been just a real mother’s boy. She lowered her voice so that Henry could not hear and confided in Simon how Paul had run right through his pocket money, and that though Henry would not have approved she had given him what he asked for. How lovely Helen was growing; how she had just reached the age when she could have all those sweetly pretty teen-age frocks.

  Simon lowered his voice so that only she could hear what he said.

  “Would you do something to-morrow, Carol? Would you talk to my children? Have a look at the girls’ clothes. If anything strikes you that would make them happy would you tell me?”

  Carol’s mouth was open to ask why, but George came over to offer them drinks. In the brief time that he was fetching them she could only say:

  “Surely, Simon. I would be glad to do that.”

  Leaving George with Carol, Simon wandered over, apparently casually, to Virginia. She was alone, practising shove-halfpenny.

  “Does Slipper want a little walk?”

  It was cold, so while Slipper sniffed about outside, Simon and Virginia stood in the porch.

  “This is a secret between us. Anthea may be getting a lift down in a car. A boy called Jim Bury. Do you know him?”

  Virginia was loyally evasive.

  “Lucia’s talked about him.”

  “If he brings her down d’you know where he could hang about while the party’s on? A pub’s not much fun on a Sunday afternoon, and he must be somewhere where we can get hold of him when the party’s over.”

  “Mr. Pickering, of course.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Uncle Simon! You must have seen Mr. Pickering; he’s the most darling old gentleman who lives next to Grannie. He’s got all those gnomes and rabbits in his garden.”

  “Would he have young Jim?”

  “I’m sure he would. I’ll ring up now if you like. He won’t have gone to bed yet.”

  “I wish you would. Then I can telephone Anthea before she starts in the morning.”

  Virginia called Slipper.

  “You must see all the family stop in the bar, Uncle Simon. It’s a terribly public telephone in this hotel.”

  When Virginia came back into the bar the party was breaking up. Margaret held out a hand.

  “Where have you been? We’re all going to bed.”

  “Taking Slipper out. I won’t be a second. I just want to speak to Daddie.”

  George and Simon were having a final cigarette. Virginia sat on the arm of her father’s chair.

  “Can I tell you the answer in front of Daddie, Uncle Simon, he’s the safest man I know.” Simon nodded. “Mr. Pickering would love you know who to lunch and stay as long as he likes. He’s thrilled about the party. You needn’t bother to tell Anthea the address. Just say Mr. Pickering’s. She’ll know.”

  George looked at the clock.

  “Better beetle off. Your mother’s gone up.”

  Virginia turned to Simon.

  “Do you mind moving away just for a second? I’ve got to remind Daddie of something.” She waited until Simon was out of earshot. “Daddie, you did say I needn’t take the fence about warning Grannie this morning, but now it’s nearly to-morrow. I won’t warn her if you say I mustn’t, but somebody’s absolutely got to.”

  George kissed her.

  “Hop it. Leave it to me. Got to fetch your cousins from the station. I’ll telephone.”

  Virginia hugged him.

  “Th
ank you, Daddie. Now I needn’t worry. You can come back now, Uncle Simon. Oh, I am looking forward to to-morrow. Won’t it be fun?”

  The two men looked after her. George said:

  “May as well have a night-cap.”

  Simon nodded.

  “I’m a great admirer of your daughter, but I don’t think that was a well-chosen word. I doubt, however to-morrow turns out, if it will be fun.”

  SUNDAY

  Simon sneaked down the stairs to the telephone. Of all idiotic places to put a telephone! Right in the middle of the hall in the well of the stairs, a position apparently chosen so that what was said should be heard by the whole hotel.

  The manageress was up. She looked at Simon with anything but pleasure.

  “Mrs. Betler said you would all breakfast together at eight-thirty.”

  Simon nodded a friendly good-morning.

  “That’s right. I want to put a call through, and then I am going for a walk in that nice garden of yours.”

  The manageress felt better. If that was all he wanted she could put up with him. Eight-thirty breakfast was a bit on the early side on a Sunday morning. There was already trouble with the chef. This family were nice and quiet but they made work. She pushed the telephone towards Simon and went into the dining-room to see the special orders were carried out. Orange juices for Sir Henry and Lady Caldwell. Starchless bread for Mrs. Wilson . . .

  Anthea was obviously waiting by the telephone. Her voice had a breathless, ecstatic note.

  “Oh, Dad! Jim is bringing me. It was simply extraordinary, Dad. I just told him where we were going, like you told me to, and he said, ‘Can I drive you?’ Just like that. Isn’t it heavenly, and it’s such a lovely, lovely morning.”

  Simon cupped his hand round the mouthpiece and lowered his voice.

  “Bit public this end. Can’t say much. Virginia says you know an old boy called Pickering.”

  “Mr. Gnome Pickering! Of course, I do!”

  “You’re to take Jim there. He’s expected for lunch, and can hang around until you’re ready to go home.”

  Anthea’s voice was a shade anxious.

  “Mr. Pickering’s awfully nice, but . . .”

  “Don’t worry. You needn’t quite desert him. You can sneak off after lunch for a bit. I’d like to have a word with him myself. We’ll see how the day works out. Are the others set to catch that train?”

  “Goodness, yes. Was there an awful fuss about Andrew? Mary and Annie are in no end of a flap.”

  “It’s all right, tell them not to bother. Good-bye, darling. See you later.”

  The garden was full of the scents of spring. Simon took a deep breath and lit his pipe. He had slept badly. He could not get the children out of his mind. He had lain awake thinking of them, and when he did sleep, in his dreams he had half-finished, unlikely conversations with them. It was partly his talks with Anthea and Lucia that had upset him, partly this family gathering, but mainly the accumulated thoughts of weeks and months coming to a head. Carol especially had disturbed him. He was convinced Andrew never confided to his mother that his pocket money was inadequate though, attending the same school as Paul, there should be the same expenses. Poor old Lucia, from the sound of it she got no teen-age frocks. There was a nasty gap between “And Helen’s growing so pretty” and Lucia’s “Just so as not to be ashamed of me.” He had decided before he went to sleep that in the morning he would talk the whole thing out with Jane. Even perhaps tell her about Jim Bury, and that Anthea would never make a secretary, and, in any case, how much more sensible to train to be a first-class cook. Margaret had said she believed he would have to leave Jane outside the family. That she doubted if she could be drawn in now, but he disliked the thought of that. He must at least have a try at talking to her. But when morning came it had been impossible. Almost before his eyes were open Jane’s high, authoritative voice was repeating the orders of the day. He did not think it mattered a damn who travelled in whose car. He did not want to hear again what each member of the family ought to say or do. He was sick and tired of feeding arrangements; but these things were like a barricade round Jane. They shut her off from all interests save those which touched her plans for the day.

  Anthea was right, it was a lovely morning. There had been a little frost and this had caused some mist, but it would lift. It looked, Simon decided, as if the weather would hold up all day, and he thanked Heaven for it. The day would be trying enough without their all being cooped up in the house. Besides, a fine day was good for Anthea. She and that boy might sneak off somewhere for a bit; he could probably contrive that she was not missed for an hour.

  Henry came into the garden.

  “Morning, Simon. Glass is rising. That’s something to be thankful for. Would have been blue murder shut up in the house with all the children. What does Jane want to drag them down for? Of course, once she started the idea, there was no holding Carol.”

  “It was because of Carol. It seems Carol wanted the children to come in the first place, but Jane laid down there were to be no grandchildren. Then young Virginia turned up.”

  “Between you and me, Simon, the whole thing is a mistake. I said so from the beginning. My mother’s made it perfectly clear she wants to be left alone.”

  “I suppose someone would have had to look over the situation sooner or later. Jane’s idea was the looking over would come easier disguised as a family affair.”

  “Lot of poppycock! My mother’s no fool. See what we’re up to in a minute. Why should we all turn up this Mothering Sunday? We have never done it before.”

  “That house is a bit isolated. It’s nothing to do with me Henry, but I must say I think she ought to have somebody to keep her company at night. Lot of queer characters about.”

  Henry eyed Simon as if he were a wavering voter.

  “It is something to do with you. It is something to do with us all.” He caught the beginning of a twinkle in Simon’s eye and continued more quietly, “If my mother wants someone to sleep in the house she will engage someone to sleep in the house, and if she does not want anybody she will not have anybody. This unannounced sweeping in on her will not make any difference. Jane thinks I should do something. She tells Carol I am head of the family. I agree with you, she ought not to be alone, but I have no influence. There has never been a time when she listened to what I had to say.”

  Simon, with his experienced ear for recognising truth and picking the pith out of a statement, fell silent. It was hard not to take your in-laws exactly as you found them when you joined the family; to see them with your eyes rather than through the eyes of the member of the family you had married. When he had first met him, Henry had been a visitor rather than a part of his family circle. Simon had gathered this was because of the war, and his adoption by a rich cousin. He was already a Member of Parliament, and was supposed to be a coming man. He was even then a bit pompous and conscious of his position. The rest of the family had been very young, of course; Felicity was a flapper, Tony a kid in shorts, Margaret was training to be a doctor but she had never grown up: they were all ready for any amusement that offered, and with a year’s soldiering and start in his career behind him, Simon had been in the mood for fooling around, and Henry, though really they were much of an age, had seemed almost another generation, a feeling helped by the way his brother and sisters talked of him as if he did not quite belong to the family. It was a shake-up to revalue a brother-in-law you had known for so long. But there was what Margaret had said: “I know all you in-laws think of Henry like that—he was a very sensitive boy—I tell you who reminds me of him—your Peter”—and, most surprising statement of all—“Once he and Jane were thick as thieves.” There had been no thick as thieves stuff when he had first met Jane—and never since. Of course, brothers and sisters grew away from each other but it seemed queer that in their life together Jane had shown no sign of ever having been clos
e to Henry. Now came Henry’s remark about his mother. “There has never been a time when she listened to what I had to say.” That had not been delivered as a part of a speech. Simon would swear that was a spontaneous statement; it came from the heart and, he would guess, a sore heart. Could there have been a time when Henry would have liked a close understanding with his mother and had it been denied him? Had he been pushed, rather than had walked out of the family circle? That could very well account for the Henry he had always known; staking his happiness on a public rather than a private life. He and Carol seemed to jog along all right, but jog along probably just about described it, yet he had been in love with Carol when he married her. Now he came to think about him, Henry could be hiding an inferiority complex behind all that bombast; he might be shielding himself from pain. He had so often heard Jane say that Henry thought himself too important, and was too lazy, to bother with family matters, that he had taken her statements as facts. But was she right? Could it be that Henry’s unwillingness to join to-day’s gathering was because he was the member of the family who would be hypersensitive to a snub from Anna, because he had suffered that way before? Interesting.

  Henry looked at his watch.

  “Breakfast must be ready. Nonsense this all eating it at the same time. Breakfast should never be a social occasion.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more, but have you looked that manageress in the eye or tried to upset a plan Jane has made? Talking of which, you must meet a lot of women in public life, do you find when they get into it they’re inclined to do too much?”

  Henry heard his cue for his speech on women’s place in the universe. He cleared his throat, but before he spoke the twinkle reappeared in Simon’s eyes, so he relapsed back into brother-in-law Henry walking in the garden before breakfast.