Our Mother's House Read online

  “It’s your duty, isn’t it?”

  Jiminee’s smile flashed and vanished. “Yes.”

  “You failed, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t m-mean to, Dun. Honestly I didn’t. I just f-forgot.”

  “Forgot!” snapped Dunstan.

  “I do forget, you know I forget. Mother knows I forget, doesn’t she, Elsa? Mother doesn’t m-mind me forgetting—I didn’t m-mean to do anything b-bad.” He began to cry. The children stared at him so and there was no place to hide.

  “He must be punished,” Dunstan said. “He can’t go on forgetting. He must be taught a lesson. We must—”

  “Shut up, Dun.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say what, it’s rude,” piped five-year-old Gerty. Hubert spoke again, “I said shut up.”

  Dunstan tensed himself and marched three steps towards Hubert. “You tell me to shut up?”

  Hubert waited. At nine, he was a year younger than Dunstan and a good deal shorter, but he was sturdier ana there was something about the way he held himself that gave an impression of imperturbability.

  Dunstan darted out a finger and pointed menacingly at the other boy. “Titch!”

  “You’re a bully,” said Hubert, “so just shut up.” He raised his voice. “It’s all right, Jiminee, you can pick them later.”

  “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare! It’s not all right! He’s got to be punished. He forgot the lilies for Mother and he’s got to pay for it. He’s a sinner, that’s what he is! And he’s got to pay!”

  “Pipe down,” replied Hubert.

  “I won’t pipe down. Don’t you dare tell me to pipe down.” He stepped closer, his voice high and hard. “You cheeky little twirp, don’t you dare. Don’t you understand? He forgot. He—forgot—the—lilies—for—Mother. See? And he’s got to—”

  Hubert shook his head. “Mother won’t mind now, Dun. It doesn’t matter.”

  Dunstan lowered his arm slowly. He began to turn away. Then suddenly he was quivering and shouting, “But I mind, I mind—I don’t care—I mind!”

  The screams darted round the room like blind arrows seeking to get out. “I mind, I mind!”

  “Don’t do that, Dun,” Hubert said at last, “please don’t.”

  But already Dunstan’s rage was dwindling to grief. He sank to his knees and bent his head and wept. The words shivered in a meaningless litany between his tears. And among the children, Gerty and Willy had begun to cry too. Then, one by one, all except Hubert and Elsa.

  And the sound of each particular grief joined in a soft and general lamentation that filled the brightly lit room and crept out into the dark beyond the window, where the garden shifted uneasily under the cool wind of the spring night.

  “Read, Elsa, go on reading,” urged Hubert.

  The girl lowered her eyes to the page and found another place. She laboured with the archaic language.

  O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.

  I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother’s house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate …

  As she read, the sobbing of the children quietened. And when she spoke of Mother, a small sigh came from their lips.

  … I raised thee up under the apple tree: there thy mother brought thee forth: there she brought thee forth that bare thee.…

  Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.

  Elsa stopped reading and looked up. Her gaze took in the children in their various attitudes of listening and the still figure on the bed, but she seemed to be thinking of something else entirely. The children felt hushed and none disturbed Elsa until Hubert took the book from her knees and carried it over to the bedside table, where it belonged. As he laid the book on the embroidered cloth, he noticed the watch lying face down. He raised the dented case to his ear. He shook it and then turned it over and opened the back. Inside the initials C.R.H. were engraved in nearly indecipherable script. Hubert traced the letters with his thumbnail. He sighed. “Mother’s watch is bust,” he said.

  The remark woke Elsa from her thoughts. “Yes, I know,” she said and became suddenly brisk. She stood up and clapped her hands together. “Now come along, children, it’s time for cocoa.”

  “Cocoa time!” said Gerty, getting to her feet. Somebody yawned and a general murmur began.

  Gerty stood in front of Elsa and put her head to one side. She smiled winningly. “Elsa, can I keep the comb now?”

  “Of course not.”

  But Gerty stood her ground. “Why can’t I keep the comb?”

  “Why?” said Elsa in astonished irritation. The children stopped to hear her reply. “Because—because I say so, that’s why.”

  “But Mother won’t need her comb now.”

  Elsa drew breath sharply.

  “She won’t, will she?” Gerty used the voice she put on to wheedle a second helping.

  It seemed to Hubert that, only an hour ago, Gerty would not have dared persist like this to Elsa. No one, not even Dunstan, had ever challenged the eldest girl’s authority. But already it was different, and Hubert knew instinctively that the children would be wolves to any weakness of Elsa’s now.

  “She won’t, will she?” Gerty repeated, her plump face replete with a smile of triumph.

  “Yes,” Elsa said stiffly. “Yes, Mother does need her comb.” Suddenly vehement, “Mother needs everything!”

  “But—” began Gerty with a pout.

  “Mother needs it!”

  “But not now,” Gerty clasped the comb to her chest.

  “Now …” Elsa grappled with the word, “now’s no different. Now’s the same as it always was.” She looked round at each of the children and her frown cleared. “It’s just the same as it always was. Just because of—of what’s happened, that doesn’t mean … that doesn’t change anything. You understand, children?—nothing has changed.” She spoke with the power of special illumination. “Everything is going to be the same as it always was—everything”

  The children were silent. Elsa held out her hand for the comb. Gerty clutched it to herself for a second, then slowly relinquished it.

  “Come on!” said Dunstan abruptly.

  They began to move out of the room. Hubert stayed where he was, watching Elsa.

  The thump and clatter of feet grew less as the children reached the hall and went through the big door, down the steps into the basement kitchen.

  Upstairs all noise ceased. Hubert and Elsa looked at each other, not letting their eyes turn towards the bed.

  Caught in the breeze between the open door and the window, the night light bowed and swayed in a drunken curtsy.

  “We’d better be going,” Elsa said.

  “Yes.” Hubert looked away from the candle and a multitude of yellow, flickering swords darted before his eyes. “I’ll turn out the light.”

  “No, I’ll turn it off. It’s your turn for cocoa, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You better be going then.”

  “What about you?” He shut his eyes as he asked the question, and the swords danced more wildly.

  “I won’t be a minute.”

  “All right.” He opened his eyes again. “Elsa…”

  “Yes?”

  “Elsa, do you … do you …” He turned his head a little and stared up at the naked bulb in the centre of the ceiling.

  “Do I what?”

  The solitary bald image of the light glared.

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  3

  He stirred the water and the milk in the big saucepan. The silence of the children sitting at the table behind him was broken only by the grating of the spoon against the sides of the pan. Slowly the bubbles of cocoa powder dissolved in smearing trails. Hubert
watched for the liquid to fizz at the edges.

  They were quiet as they waited. No disgrace or guilt had ever silenced them like this. Even while Mother had been in bed, they had talked and laughed just the same. And Mother had managed to come down to Sunday dinner until … until—suddenly to Hubert it seemed an age impossible to remember since she had been there, calming them, teasing them, watching them. And laughing—how Mother laughed. And they would all eat, Mother too, until they were full up to dolly’s wax. And then she would say, “Is there any more hunger?” And she’d say grace in her Jesus voice. Afterwards she’d stand up, wiping her hands on her apron; then, “Done!” she’d say.

  The cocoa started to boil and Hubert took it off the light and began to pour into the first of the mugs lined up on the draining board. “Done!” Suddenly his hand began to tremble and a dribble of cocoa sprouted from the base of the saucepan. He took a deep breath and bit his lip hard. He glanced down at the scar on his right forefinger. “Be a man!” she had said when that scar had been a wound in which the white glimmer of bone had shown. “Be a man!” he said now between tight teeth. He had not paused in his pouring. Now he filled the last mug with a steady hand. He took the pan to the sink and filled it with cold water.

  “It’s ready,” he said.

  Elsa rose and came to his side. Together they passed round the mugs. The children murmured their thanks as they took the cocoa. “Thank you, Hu.” “Thank you.” “Thank you, Elsa.” “Thank you.” They kept their eyes downcast. Only Gerty had the temerity to take a sip.

  “More sugar,” she said as Hubert and Elsa sat down. Without answering they looked at her. A white moustache surrounded her lips. “Well,” she said, “it isn’t sweet enough.”

  “Hush, we haven’t said grace yet.”

  “Yes, grace,” said Elsa.

  They pushed back their chairs and stood up with heads bent. Hubert looked down at the table. Already on the surface of his cocoa a skin was beginning to form. Gently he blew down on it and watched as it wrinkled.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Elsa, “we thank thee for these thy gifts—”

  “Listen!” Jiminee broke in upon her.

  “Jiminee, why—”

  “What is—”

  “Listen!”

  “It’s somebody knocking at the door.”

  They all listened, and the sound came again. Hubert went to the swing door of the kitchen and pushed it open. The sound came sharp. It would stop for perhaps ten seconds and then begin again—crack, crack-crack!

  “Who could it be?” murmured Gerty.

  “Perhaps it’s Mrs. Stork,” said Diana.

  “Mrs. Stork wouldn’t make all that row,” Elsa said. “Anyway, Friday isn’t her day.”

  Jiminee grinned quickly. “I remember she c-came on Friday once, she c-came to—”

  “Why don’t you remember the important things for once?” asked Dunstan, suddenly fierce out of his own dark reverie.

  “She doesn’t usually come on Fridays, Jiminee. Besides,” said Elsa, “what would Mrs. Stork be coming at this time of night for?”

  “Perhaps it’s the delivery boy.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jiminee, “they’ll just g-go away.”

  “Well, whoever it is,” Hubert said, “we ought to go and see.”

  “Of course we must,” said Dunstan.

  They all turned to Elsa. “All right,” she said, “I’ll go.”

  “I think a man ought to go,” said Gerty suddenly, smugly.

  “Who cares what you think?” said Dunstan angrily. “You’re just a silly baby.”

  No one answered him. In the silence came another burst of knocking—crack-crack, crack. From the door Hubert watched Dunstan whiten and his lip tremble with the awareness of his role as the eldest “man.” Gradually the quiet force of the children’s opinion pressed in upon him. “Who cares what you think?” he said again, almost tentatively this time.

  Crack-crack, crack-crack! sounded the knocker.

  “W-why don’t you g-go, Dun?” asked Jiminee.

  “ ’Cause he’s afraid,” Gerty said. “That’s what I think.”

  Dunstan clenched his fists on the scrubbed top of the table. He shook his lowered head tightly. “No I’m not,” he whispered.

  “Well, why don’t—” began Gerty. Hubert interrupted her. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’m nearest anyway.” And he stepped into the passage, letting the door swing to behind him. For a moment he stood still, listening to the shivering swish of the door. It steadied, and he began to walk along the passage and up the stairs into the front hall.

  The man at the door was large; he wore a light-blue uniform with a cap set squarely on his head so the peak hid his eyes.

  “Well,” he said, “at last. You’re about as nippy as a superannuated bleeding undertaker.” He laughed.

  “Not today thank you very much,” said Hubert, beginning to close the door.

  “Hold on, hold on,” said the man. “You haven’t even asked me what I came for.”

  “Well, what did you come for?”

  “I came to see Vi.”

  “Vi?”

  “Yes, Vi. The old lady.” He stepped over the threshold. “I reckon that’s your mum, laddie.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not in.”

  “Ha! Not in, eh? This is number thirty-eight, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure this is not the house you want.”

  “Dead right—it’s not the house I want.” He laughed again. “You just tell Vi it’s Flight-Sergeant Millard. She’ll be in to Flight-Sergeant Millard.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Been away for a bit, see? Aden—cor blimey!” He glanced round the hall and smiled. “I remember it now. I’m not one to forget a good thing. My first leave for a year and I come straight here.”

  “I don’t think we know anyone called Miller.”

  “Millard! Not Miller—Millard:” Flight-Sergeant Millard stiffened, then relaxed. “Well, she may not remember my name—but tell her, tell her to cast her mind back to, let me see, to the night of January the eighteenth, last year.” He chuckled. “Card index memory, that’s what I got, laddie. Just press a button, flip the file and up I come with the answer. Bam—like that!” Flight-Sergeant Millard suddenly leapt a couple of feet into the hall and smashed his hand down on the table with a smart clap, “Like that!”

  Hubert didn’t move. “Mother is not in.”

  “Don’t give me that, laddie,” he said softly, “don’t give me that. That’s what they all say—‘I don’t want never to see you again.’ But you don’t want to pay no attention to that, see? There’s one thing you got to learn about women, lad—I’m telling you out of the very kindness of my heart—and that is, what they mean is the exact opposite of what they say.” He stared hard at Hubert. “So just nip along and fetch her, will you?”

  “I’m very sorry, Mother isn’t in.”

  “Now listen, laddie, I don’t bear no malice. If your mum ain’t in, she ain’t in. But she wouldn’t leave a little nipper like you all by yourself, would she now?”

  “But she isn’t in, really she isn’t.”

  Flight-Sergeant Millard advanced on Hubert. “Don’t give me that, son. I’m a patient man. Just go and tell her, will you?”

  Hubert braced himself against the menace in the man’s voice. “I think you’d better go, if you don’t mind.”

  The Flight-Sergeant jerked his hand up. “Hop to it, you little—’ere, ’ere,” the arm was lowered slightly, “you haven’t got a dad, have you? Your dad isn’t in, is he?”

  “We haven’t—I mean—”

  The man grabbed him by the shoulders. “Is that it? Your dad’s in?”

  Hubert tried to step away, but the man held him tight and gave him a shake. Hubert smelled the beer on his breath. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it.”

  “You creepy little bastard, why didn’t you say so?” He let the boy go abruptly. “Come all the way from Victoria, I did.” He l
ooked down the hall. “Bloody nuts,” he murmured. The hall clock said nine-thirty.

  “Well, they’re still open, that’s one thing.” He went to the door and stood there for a moment, looking at Hubert. The light from the lamp above the door shone on the brightly polished floor at his feet, so that his heavy silhouetted figure seemed to stand at the edge of a sea of gold.

  “Bloody nuts,” Millard repeated slowly. “Here, I’ll give her something to remember me by.” He stepped forward, lifted his heavy boot and stamped down with all his force on the floor boards.

  Hubert heard his footsteps on the front path and the click of the gate and then there was silence. He went to the door and got down on his hands and knees. The nails in the boot had made deep indentations in the smooth wood. Hubert ran his fingers gently across the holes, like a tracker tracing the marks of an enemy who had been this way before. Suddenly he thought of the watch upstairs and the delicately inscribed initials C.R.H. As he touched the sharp impressions of the nail marks in the floor, it seemed to him that their regular pattern, like the convoluted initials on the watch case, was cast in a code, the secret of which only needed to be deciphered for all to be clear and clean again. He felt a strange comfort as he crouched over the damaged floor boards, a reassurance somehow over the emptiness within the house.

  He stood up. It seemed a very long time since he had left the kitchen. He switched off the porch lamp and shut the door on the spring night outside. It was well past their bedtime now.

  4

  “Who was it, Hu?” Elsa asked.

  Hubert took his place at the table before he answered. He touched his mug of cocoa. It was stone cold. All at once he was tired. “It was a man,” he said. “I sent him away.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I sent him away.” He could hardly keep his eyes open, yet there was a question pressing against his mind. He forced his eyes wide open and looked round the table. They were all sleepy and quite uninterested in the man at the front door.

  Even Elsa didn’t bother to go into it. “Why don’t you warm up your cocoa, Hu—it must be cold now.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mind. I don’t want it anyway.” Something had happened, and none of them seemed to realise it. It’s no good just sitting there—the words seemed to come directly into his mind from Mother’s lips. They had to do something, they had to decide, they had to—“We got to get Mother’s watch mended.”