The Forgotten Story (10 page)

Aunt Madge took out her spoon. ‘What were you doing … Ship and Sailor?'

‘Oh, I wasn't there!' Anthony hastened on. ‘It was in a queue at the theatre.'

There was silence. Aunt Madge shifted the pot a little off the stove and put on more coal. She opened the oven door and then shut it again without taking anything out. Anthony perceived that something was going on behind the pince-nez.

She took off her glasses and blew her nose. ‘People, So unkind … Unkind to say such a thing. How does Mr Treharne … How does anybody know? Nobody, until he sees a doctor.'

‘I'm sorry, Aunt Madge,' Anthony said. ‘I just heard him say that.'

Mrs Veal shifted back the pot and began again mechanically to stir it. ‘Married a year,' she said. ‘I don't want … to be alone again. Lonely all my life. Your uncle … very kind. Though a little close. If he would take care. Give up drink and take care. I don't believe there's anything serious. That's if he takes care. But look at him. Won't have help. Hi've told him. Your Uncle Perry …'

Anthony shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and tried to think of something to say.

‘Well, perhaps he'll be all right again tomorrow.'

There was a familiar rumble, and the dumb-waiter came up from the restaurant below. On it was a pile of used plates.

‘For Fanny,' said Aunt Madge. ‘Perhaps …'

Anthony hastened to obey this request. Glad to be out of an embarrassing situation, he remained in the scullery for some time helping Fanny to wipe the dishes. When he emerged, hoping that Patricia would be in the kitchen, he was disappointed to find his aunt still alone.

The stew was simmering on the stove, and she had begun to roll out some pastry.

‘Bed,' said Mrs Veal. ‘I thought you'd gone. High time.'

She was making pasties for the party of men who were expected in an hour. Fascinated he watched her short plump fingers cut out the pieces of pastry and arrange the potatoes, meat and onions upon it, scatter a pinch of salt, then in a trice the pastry had been turned in to contain the meat, and the nimble fingers had made a curious decorative pattern where the pastry joined.

‘Aunt Madge,' he said, ‘I wonder when I shall hear from Father again.'

She worked silently for some minutes, and the pasties multiplied, ready to go into the oven.

‘Bed,' she said. ‘He should have stayed in bed. No reasoning … Where's Patricia?'

‘In the shop, I think.'

‘Must go and see when these are done. See if he's …'

‘Aunt Madge, how long does it take for a letter to come from Canada?'

‘Eaten nothing all day. Can't go on like that. Canada? The one we had yesterday. Weeks …'

‘You had a letter yesterday?' he exclaimed excitedly. ‘From Father! I didn't know. What did he say?'

Another pasty grew and came into shape. Her fingers were like machines.

‘Schooling,' she said. ‘ Only about schooling.'

‘What did he say? You mean …' Excitement suddenly left the boy as air will escape from a pricked balloon. ‘Does he mean I'm to go to school here?'

Through her wobbly pince-nez she stared at the pasties as if trying to estimate whether she had made enough. Then she took up a few bits of pastry which were left and began to roll them together.

‘One more. One or two more …'

‘Aunt Madge …'

She looked at him. ‘Not good enough. Father's duty to his son.
Make
a home. That's what I say.'

‘Aren't I to go out to him? Why mustn't I go?'

‘Questions. Next spring, he says. School here this winter. We must see what your uncle says.'

‘Didn't he put in a message for me?'

‘His love. He says conditions … no place for a boy in winter. Not quite right. Your uncle isn't fit to see about schooling. Inadequate, besides.'

Anthony watched her for some minutes. All the pasties were put upon a shelf and slipped into the oven.

‘Tomorrow,' she said. ‘Doctor. Your uncle has too much on his mind. Won't allow others to help.'

‘Aunt Madge,' the boy said, ‘do you think I could read Father's letter? You see, I haven't had one from him for ages. I wrote to him last week and the week before. If I could see what he said I should know more what to say.'

She waved a hand. ‘Your uncle. Personally … boy's place is with his father. Should go to school in Canada. Or he should come home. Evading responsibility. Your uncle must see a doctor. That Mr Treharne … No right to spread such stories. So unkind. Get back to Joe and then he'd think perhaps it was true. Hi shall speak to Mr Treharne.'

‘Has Uncle Joe got the letter?'

Patricia entered the kitchen. Aunt Madge peered at her.

‘He seems better,' said the girl. ‘What happened, Madge? How long was he like that?'

‘Fanny,' said Mrs Veal, shaking her earrings. ‘Always dawdling down there. Dawdling over a few things. Everything left to me. Where's your Uncle Perry?'

‘He went out in a rage. How was it –'

‘
He
saw him. He just said: “ Perry, help me upstairs.” When I went up he hardly knew me. Just said his limbs were numb.' Aunt Madge took out her handkerchief again. Her short fleshy nose disappeared into it. ‘But Mr Treharne has no right. He only needs a few days in bed.'

The girl looked perplexed. ‘What has Mr Treharne to do with it? Did he help?'

Mrs Veal went back to stir the stew. ‘Must have a doctor. Tomorrow morning. Can't go on. What time are these men coming?'

‘Tonight? In half an hour, Joe said.'

‘The pasties won't be ready. Have to wait. Persuade him to go to bed. Hi can't.'

‘I'll do my best,' said Pat. ‘ I'm afraid it's a hopeless case, though.'

She went back into the shop.

Aunt Madge tasted the stew.

‘Another carrot,' she said. ‘In the scullery. And Anthony … see what Fanny is doing.'

What pressure was brought to bear upon Joe – unless it was his own feelings – Anthony never knew; but the next day the doctor was summoned. He was a tall, elderly man with muttonchop whiskers and he was upstairs for an hour.

When he came down a cloud had been lifted from the house. He had been not at all discouraging, Pat said. Joe must spend at least a week in bed. Milk food was to be his only diet and he must neither smoke nor drink. Absolute rest and quiet; then perhaps a little change of air. He'd give him some ointment for his eczema and some pills to be taken after meals. There was no reason why there should not be a big improvement before the month was out. Joe lay in bed, looking smaller and more dog-like than ever in his nightshirt, and watched the doctor out of shrewd inimical eyes.

The business of the house was arranged to meet the new situation. To assuage her father's restless spirit, Pat promised to take over his vigil behind the counter; but she found this task even more tedious than she had anticipated, and two or three times each day she risked the Wrath by handing over charge to Perry. Perry was quite undeterred from doing this by any memory of the quarrel he had had with Joe. The morning after the quarrel he had turned up for breakfast at eleven o'clock, laughing his usual laugh and cracking his accustomed jokes as if nothing had happened. The memory of what had occurred had run off him like water off the champion swimmer he claimed to be.

On the fourth day
The Grey Cat
was seen lying in the roads, and Joe sent out his daughter to ask Captain Stevens to call on the morrow.

Anthony always enjoyed these visits to his uncle's ships but today was a special treat. Patricia could in fact row as well as any man, but she had no objection to sitting in the back of the dinghy and trailing a hand over the side if that suited her cousin better.

She was very simply but very charmingly dressed today, and Anthony wondered if the extra care she had taken was on Captain Stevens's account or was directed at his mate.

The effect was certainly more obvious upon the latter. They had been under observation as they approached, for Ned Pawlyn was down the short ladder to meet them, his clean broad face a-beam, the breeze ruffling his black hair.

‘I could hardly believe my eyes,' he exclaimed. ‘I said to myself, “That can't be the Old Man; is it my eyes that's wrong? Or have I a fairy godmother?” Hold on, son; ship your oar; steady up; make her fast; that's the way. Now take my hand, my dear.'

Patricia laughed at his eagerness. She stepped upon the gunnel of the boat, and then climbed swiftly and easily up the ladder with a flutter of lace petticoats. Anthony fumed a little at the unnecessary instructions which were offered him, but soon was climbing the side after the other two.

‘Where's the captain?' said Pat. ‘ Dad's not well and I have a message for him.'

‘In his cabin. When I saw who it was I didn't tell him of your coming. Well, and I'm sorry to hear about the Old Man; but 'tis an ill wind that blows no one any good. Otherwise I'd not have seen you before this evening. I couldn't have got away until then. Don't tell me you're engaged to do something else.'

Patricia turned her face to the breeze and smiled. ‘The ill wind does not bring all good. With Joe in bed I must stay in and help. I am deputising for him behind the counter.'

Ned Pawlyn made a face.

‘Then I'll help you there. I'll sit behind the counter too! I am sure I can carve a chicken better than you.'

She shook her head, pursing her lips a little. ‘ Joe wouldn't allow it. The only time you will see me will be when you are ordering your evening meal –'

‘I'll order everything in the place,' he threatened. ‘And eat it. And come back for more. You'll not get rid of me so easily as that –'

She laughed again, enjoying his easy good-tempered banter; but at that moment Captain Stevens came on deck and approached them.

‘Mister Pawlyn; ye did not tell me we had a distinguished visitor.'

‘Beg your pardon, sir; I was so astonished myself –'

‘I hope your father's well, Miss Patricia.'

‘Well, no, he isn't. I've brought you a message from him.'

‘Will you step down into the saloon, please …?'

Anthony was left alone with the tall, good-looking mate. There was silence for a time, for the boy was taking in all the shipping which lay around him. One of the great windjammers on the Australian run had arrived in Falmouth yesterday after the worst passage in her chequered history. Anthony had heard the story in snatches last evening when the master had had a meal at Smoky Joe's. She had limped into Falmouth after a passage of 197 days from Brisbane, having faced consistently adverse weather and having been partly de-sparred off the Portuguese coast near the end of her long ordeal. So instead of riding silently and proudly out in the bay she had accepted a pilot and come into the harbour to lick her wounds.

‘Well, son, and how have things been doing at Smoky Joe's while I've been away? I hear that the threepenny gaffs are here again.'

‘Yes.'

‘You should go to Liverpool, son. They have proper theatres there. 'Tis not many days since I was at a handsome music-hall show.' Ned Pawlyn began to describe it.

‘Did you have a good voyage?' Anthony said, still looking at the battered windjammer.

‘Eh? Voyage? Oh, it was all right. Head winds off the Carnarvon coast. Has that fellow Tom Harris been round plaguing your cousin's life out since I left?'

Anthony looked up at the mate. ‘Not really … We've seen him once.'

‘Well, let's hope we don't see him while I'm ashore,' said Pawlyn. ‘Else I shall be tempted to pull his tall hat down over his ears. I'd dearly like to have him aboard this ship for a voyage or two.'

They chatted for some minutes until Patricia reappeared, escorted by the captain.

Anthony climbed over the side and got into the boat.

‘Goodbye, Captain Stevens. Goodbye, Mr Pawlyn.'

‘Goodbye, ma'am.'

‘I hope I can have the pleasure o' calling upon you tonight,' said Ned.

Patricia smiled. ‘I hope you'll be hungry.'

A moment later she had joined Anthony in the dinghy, and he was pulling away.

Ned waved from the side and the girl waved back.

None of them would have been quite so light-hearted had they known all that the evening was to bring.

While they were away Dr Penrose had paid his third visit, and he seemed very cheery and much encouraged by Joe's improvement – so much so that when he had gone Joe announced his intention of getting up that evening. This went so far beyond the medical sanction that Aunt Madge and Patricia did their utmost to dissuade him.

But as usual he was adamant. This was Saturday night; there might be a big crowd; the whole place would need his supervision; besides, he felt better, the doctor had said he was better; this staying in bed was no more than the usual physician's fad, instructions designed to increase the doctor's importance so that he could charge an extra two shillings a visit. As it was, three visits in little more than a week was pretty tight going; he should think Penrose thought they were made of money, coming so often and doing so little. Anybody could stand by a bedside and look important at so much a time. They were all the same; Penrose was no better than Dr Barrat Clark with whom he had quarrelled over the bill for his wife's last illness. Had Fanny done enough potatoes for tonight? It was wasteful not to give customers enough potatoes.

He was helped into his alpaca coat and high white collar and assisted downstairs. They brought him a drink of patent milk food which he swallowed with many grunts and grimaces. Then before they were able to stop him his hand was fumbling with his bizarre old pipe and a match trembled and flickered at its bowl. A cloud of blue smoke hid his thin, wasted face, and when it emerged there was a different and more satisfied expression on it. Smoky Joe was himself again.