Mothering Sunday

by Noel Streatfeild

  Margaret was not a person who admired from behind a gate or hedge; she was the sort who got asked in and shown round. The cherry blossom was not out, but some baby chicks were. The farmer was the old-fashioned type who believed no good came of work done on a Sunday. He was walking round smoking his pipe, examining everything and poking at this and that with his stick, but doing nothing which to him was work. He heard Margaret’s pleased cry at the sight of his chicks and invited her and Peter in to look round. It was a long while since Peter had such an opportunity. Questions poured out of him. The farmer was at first amused and then interested. He found it hard to believe the boy had never worked on a farm.

  “All out of books! You’re the first boy I ever met who’d got much good out of books. I always say don’t trouble with books, do the job yourself; it’s the only way to learn. And I still say it. You get on a farm, my lad, and you’ll know something about farming some day.”

  Margaret, enjoying herself in the chirruping, manure-smelling placidity of the farm, was not too engrossed to see a metamorphosed Peter. He was not shy nor diffident. Even before an expert like the farmer he was not humble. He had views which he was not afraid to express. He did not seem to mind risking making a mistake. This was not the boy she had watched on her arrival. Silent, awkward, gauche, delicate, it was almost as if his chest broadened and definitely he spoke slower with less sign of the asthmatic rush to get the words out. It seemed unkind to drag him away when he was so happy, but Jane’s eyes would be everywhere. She might not want everybody to hand, but she would like to feel she could get hold of them if she wanted them.

  Margaret drove slowly and Peter talked. She mustn’t say anything about it at home but he had always meant to be a farmer. Mother thought he couldn’t because of his asthma. That he would have to have an office job. What did Aunt Margaret, as a doctor, think?

  Margaret answered his questions. She was not his doctor. She did not know how bad his asthma was nor what his general state of health was, but, if he were her patient, and after an overhaul there proved no heart weakness or anything like that, she would recommend that as soon as possible he went to an agricultural college, and that if he stood that all right he might farm, abroad perhaps, Canada or Australia.

  It almost hurt to look at Peter’s face. It was as if the setting sun were shining on it. She thought for a moment he was near tears. If he was he controlled them. It seemed dreadful to her that such a good, sensible plan could bring such happiness to a boy’s eyes. Simon had said he was ashamed to say he did not know Peter. That he was like a stranger, but she had not expected to find the boy quite such a stranger.

  “Haven’t you talked about this to your father and mother? I should think they’ll be pleased. Parents like their children to do what they want if they can.” The light died on Peter’s face. Back came the shy, breathless, reticent boy she had taken out. Margaret was not allowing that. “I’ll talk to your father if you like.”

  Peter gripped his hands together. She could almost see the struggle that was going on in him. The fear of having his dearest dream smashed by exposure; the dread of having it buried under unkind laughter; the chance that with a doctor aunt to plead for him it just might come true.

  “Mother wouldn’t like it. You see, she would think it a pretty feeble sort of thing to be.”

  Margaret, shocked, grasped that Simon had been right. Anthea was not the only one who had a sense of inferiority because they were not up to Alistair’s standard. She had met that type of case often in her practice, but it dismayed you when you found it in your own family.

  “That may be true, but if it is, it’s only because she’s thinking wrong. It’s difficult for any mother who’s had a very clever son in the bookish sort of way not to hope that one of the other children will do the things he might have done. It’s all wrong, of course, but Alistair’s death was a shock and you’re old enough to be understanding about it. But it mustn’t interfere with your life; that really would be wrong. What I should like to do is to talk the whole thing out with your father, to-night. I’ll give you an overhaul, if he likes. Have you got your school certificate?”

  “I sit for it in June.”

  “Good. That means that you could, if a place can be found, either go on a farm or to an agricultural college this autumn.”

  Peter’s world was spinning. No more day school! No more toy farm and hidden books on agriculture! No more swotting in Alistair’s bedroom amongst Alistair’s books! A new beginning. A life of his own doing the things he could do well. Being of value as himself and not a feeble, disappointing reflection of a dead brother. He couldn’t speak but his eyes spoke for him. Margaret patted his knee.

  “Don’t muck up that school certificate. You must have that. Leave the rest to me.”

  Fred Pickering sat on a seat in the sun. He had enjoyed himself. Anthea and Jim had been a perfect audience. Jim had said it was a jolly good idea to clip a yew tree into the shape of an arm-chair. Anthea had thought each gnome, fairy and rabbit better than the last. Jim had said that when he could get a bit of wood he would make something for the garden. Had Mr. Pickering ever thought of having one of those wheels which, when the wind spun it, made a couple of rabbits see-saw, or two little figures cut a log? The small Fred Pickering who had never had a childhood had come forward, eager and excited. The plan had grown. It would be something different that could not be found anywhere else. It would be a dove-cot and every time the wind turned the wheel toy doves would pop in and out of the cot. Fred had not kept them long. He had told Anthea to show Jim the contorting glass in the greenhouse; there was nothing like having a good laugh. He watched them go into the greenhouse but knew they would not look at the glass any more than he and M’ria would have done when they were courting. These two put him in mind of himself and M’ria. Came out of a different drawer, of course, but not so different in ideas. If M’ria was herself she and Anthea would have a lot to say to each other. Anthea was the sort to make a man happy. M’ria’d never really cared for all the little jokes and tricks he had put in the garden, but she wanted him to have just what he liked, and if he was happy she was, and he’d take a bet young Anthea felt the same about Jim. Young Jim had not got as good prospects as he had when he was courting, but he was a reliable sort of boy, made no fuss about his legs and he’d got his pension. It had been nice of him to talk as he had over lunch. It wasn’t every boy would be so open and friendly. “Of course, I’m no great shakes, sir,” he had said, “but I think Anthea and I could get along all right. Anthea says her father’s coming over presently. If you were me, sir, would you say anything?” Fred would have liked notice of that question. He did not know Simon Betler except by reputation. The boy had not much to offer the daughter of a successful K.C., but this boy, though his job was not up to much, was a pleasant, straightforward type. “I should ask her first,” he advised, “and if she says yes, ask her father.” From his seat in the sun he could see the greenhouse. He nodded his head at it affectionately. Nice to think of what was being said in there.

  Virginia and Anna sat in the drawing-room. Virginia held skeins of wool across her hands and Anna wound it into balls. Anna had seen the pleading in Virginia’s eyes. She had not wanted to talk alone for there was nothing she could say, but as every one melted away leaving herself and Virginia standing alone she heard, as distinctly as if a voice had spoken to her, “For as much as you have done it unto these little ones, you have done it unto me.” Virginia was already hurt and puzzled; obviously to avoid a tête-à-tête would be to cause her real suffering. She must find words to comfort her and perhaps, with God’s help, some explanation which the child could accept. Falling back on Miss Macintosh’s training she asked Virginia to hold her wool. Employment was always a help. Anna had started cheerfully, asking about lessons, classes and daily doings. Virginia answered dutifully at first, but a sense of urgency—so soon someone would interrupt—forced her to speak.


  “What’s happened, Grannie. Why can’t I stay with you any more?”

  Anna rolled her wool methodically. “God be in my head and in my understanding.” Suddenly help came to her. She knew without question what she should say.

  “I am glad to get this opportunity to talk to you, darling. I have had a worry. A very bad worry which I needed to think about a lot without being interrupted. I know now just what is the answer to my worry.”

  “It’s coming right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “When?”

  Anna thought of Tony upstairs creeping about in his socks. Had her words sunk in?

  “It could happen any time. To-day, next week, next month. But until it does I must be alone.”

  “When it comes right can I come and stay again like I used to.”

  “Please. I miss you terribly.”

  Virginia, in spite of her hands holding the skein, jumped up and kissed Anna.

  “Darling, darling Grannie! How lovely! Will Mrs. Conrad come back?”

  “I would like her to if she’s free.”

  “She will be. She doesn’t like that job Aunt Carol got her half as much as she liked being with you. She misses Mr. Pickering’s Robinsons.”

  “Have you been in to see Mr. Pickering?”

  Virginia hesitated, conscious that she could easily blunder into mentioning Anthea’s business.

  “I was going to help Miss Doe get tea for the cousins. They’re having it early because of the train. I’ll go and see him after they’ve gone.”

  Anna pulled the last strand of wool from Virginia’s fingers and wound it on to her ball.

  “Do you know where your mother is?”

  “Lucia’s with her. Shall I fetch her? I could sort of get Lucia to bring her this way without saying you wanted her.”

  Anna disliked Virginia’s calm acceptance of the fact that Felicity must not be told her mother wanted her, but it was natural. It was something with which Virginia had grown up.

  “Please, dear. I dare say Lucia will help you and Miss Doe with the tea.”

  Virginia paused in the french windows, fumbling down the front of her jersey. She thought it peculiar of Nannie to have written and felt Anna would think it odd. Her voice was embarrassed.

  “Nannie gave me this for you.” She gave a nervous laugh. “She’s an awful fusspot, she always was, but I promised I’d give it to you. So here it is.”

  Anna followed Virginia to the french windows. There was no chance of Felicity coming into the drawing-room. She would see her and, murmuring a dozen half-formed excuses, float away. She might, however, if Virginia and Lucia could urge her in the right direction, pause in passing and, if that happened, she could, if necessary by keeping a hand on her, detain her long enough to hear what she must say. It was as hard as the talk with Tony. Harder really, for Tony, in his graceless way, did listen, and, because he loved her, though he teased her, he attended to what she said. Felicity might still love her. Who could say? If she did she showed no sign of it, and what she had to say to her would scare her from the first. Anna was tired. It seemed a long time since six o’clock when she had got out of her bed. God had been good to her in sending her the right words to say to Virginia. If only He would support her in this vital conversation with Felicity. She closed her eyes and murmured, as she had murmured before her talk with Tony, “. . . speaketh the truth from his heart—the truth—the truth.” The support came. Flooding through her. It was as if new blood was pulsing through her tired arteries. She gave a grateful sigh and opened Nannie’s letter.

  “Dear Madam,

  I take the liberty of writing this and hope you will understand and oblige knowing it is done for Virginia. Please Madam have her to stay again that Miss Selby does not teach her as she should nor has she any discipline. Since Mister Wilson gave her the dog Virginia has not been to her classes music dancing and such. It is not my place to speak but Virginia has no home life like she should have she needs regular hours and girls of her own age if you cannot have her to stay Madam like you did could you perhaps have her sent to school. If you should be speaking of schools it would be best to speak to Mister Wilson he is the one to get things done.

  Respectfully, Nannie”

  Lucia and Virginia steered Felicity to Anna’s side and then left her. Anna laid a hand on Felicity’s arm. It felt a frail hand, but it was placed so that the fingers could get a good grip.

  “Have you seen what’s left of my crocuses round the apple tree?” Felicity moved forward to shake off Anna’s hand, whereupon Anna gripped more firmly. Her voice was low but strong. “Don’t try and go away, dear. You have to hear what I am going to tell you.”

  Felicity faced Anna. She looked white and wretched.

  “Please, no.”

  “I must, dear. I should have said this before if I had known it before. But I only learned the truth to-day. You have never been able to forgive me for coming to the station to tell you that your friend Charles had been killed.”

  Felicity threw up her chin.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It was bad enough I’d treated George the way I had. He’s always been so kind, but that you knew and sided with me in deceiving him! It was hateful.”

  Anna had not thought of that angle. She had supposed the wall behind which Felicity had retired had been built to defend her from her mother’s apparently over-prying eyes.

  “You thought I knew about Charles?”

  Felicity frowned at Anna’s detaining hand.

  “Of course you did. Please don’t talk about it.”

  “Charles was only a name to me until the night before I came to the station to tell you he had been killed.”

  Felicity’s eyes were wide open; in them was the blank stare of someone reversing every thought in their head. She spoke almost as if she were talking in her sleep.

  “You didn’t know about him when I married?”

  “Certainly not. I was not altogether happy about your marriage. I know now I should have done what I could to prevent it. I had no idea what was wrong. I merely felt, I think, you did not love George.”

  “Charles was married when I first met him. There was already a baby. He was miserable; his wife’s a bitch but he couldn’t get free—I never wanted to hurt George—it seemed so caddish when he was so angelic. It was the end when you came in on deceiving him.”

  “Nobody deceived him. The telephone call asking me to break the news to you that Charles was killed came from George.”

  Felicity swayed. Anna held her more firmly. After a moment, Felicity whispered:

  “From George! Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “Nobody knew. I do not know where he telephoned from, but it was clearly a line on which he could be overheard. He whispered the message. I’ve puzzled so often whose voice it was. To-day George whispered a warning to me to expect you all. Then I knew. I asked him if it was true.”

  Felicity looked as if she were coming out of darkness into light. She peered round as if all objects were strange and unfamiliar. Was this the same March day? Surely the grass was greener and the flowers brighter! Her lips trembled and tears hung on her lashes.

  “What a fool I’ve been! Fancy old George . . . He always knew. Dear old George . . .” She shook her head as if to clear a mist. “You were always an old faggot, as Tony would say. I’m going for a walk.”

  Anna was alone for a minute or two. From the kitchen she could hear Doe talking to Lucia and Virginia.

  “And Matron said if she hadn’t acted the way she did he would have choked to death.”

  Up and down the road Henry and Jane were pacing. She could not hear what they said, but Anna could guess they were making plans for her. Their voices from the distance sounded like one of those piano duets the children used to play. One child thumping away on the treble and the othe
r on the bass, both determined to play the loudest.

  Margaret had just driven her car into the drive. Anna wondered where she and Peter had been. They were standing by Henry’s car, talking to Carol and Helen. What a dear Carol was! Everybody took it for granted that she could and would provide food on every occasion. Did she get thanked enough? She must make an especial fuss of her at tea time.

  Shrill, excited barks made her look anxiously down the garden but she saw nothing to alarm her. George and Simon were standing together apparently deep in discussion. There was no sign of Virginia’s dog. The little boys must have taken him into the wood. Everybody seemed happy; it would be a good moment to sit down and rest.

  Paul, Andrew and Slipper had crept right up the garden as far as the bluebell glade. They thought nobody had seen them. They had no idea that George had said, “I used to be quite a dab at that,” and Simon had answered, “Let’s see what they’re after.”

  At the bluebell glade Slipper, who up till then had given a disappointing performance as a bloodhound, suddenly came to life. Without warning he sprang forward jerking his lead out of Andrew’s hand and began to dig furiously.

  “Gosh!” said Paul. “He’s found something. It could be anything. Stolen goods or petrol.”

  Andrew lay down by Slipper.

  “Go it, old boy. Go it.” He gave an admirable imitation of Henry. “You must remember, my dear fellow, it all depends on you.” Simon and George overheard this. Simon winked at George. Andrew, unaware of an audience, went on. “At a time like this the nation calls on every dog to do his duty and stem the rising tide of socialism which is bringing our beloved country to ruin.”