The Wax Fruit Trilogy Read online

  “Good morning, dear,” she said, in a voice that was controlled and gentle. You could never quite determine just how much this tone was assumed and how much of it came naturally to her.

  Mary Moorhouse was a beautiful woman of thirty. Her face was oval, her brows clear and serene, and her eyes da Vinci-like and candid.

  Mary was in danger of becoming a saint. Consciously, that is. For there was a conscious, thought-out quality about everything she did. Like most saints, she was not above staging herself a little. And, again like most saints, she was quite devoid of humour.

  At this point Sophia flooded into the waiting-room, embraced her sister and gave her good morning.

  “And how are the boys, Mary?” she gushed to her sister, who was settling down again like a lake after a sudden squall.

  Mary knew that Sophia was only asking after the children that she might make for herself an opening to begin talking about her own, but she put this unworthy thought from her. Besides, she had something to tell Sophia.

  “Georgie and Jackie are having a little tea-party this afternoon, dear. Not anybody in, of course, but I baked some cakes. I felt that they should be happy at Christmas-time. They’re too small to understand about their grandpapa.”

  Before she could say more, Sophia had broken in. “Mary, I wish I had known! My children could have gone there today. Their Auntie Bel wants them.” (In the background Arthur grunted at this.) “But still, it would have been nice for the children to be all together.”

  “I’ve arranged for a cab to go for them, dear,” Mary went on serenely, knowing in her heart what she was saving Auntie Bel and not feeling the less saintly for the knowledge. “One of George’s clerks had just been down to take any orders we might have to give him, so I told him to see to it.”

  In the matter of worldly gear, Mary had done better than her sister. She lived in a neat, front-door house at Albany Place, near Charing Cross. And her husband conducted a flourishing manufacturers’ agency in Queen Street.

  Sophia, to do her justice, was not really jealous of her sister’s greater prosperity. But her motto in life was: If there’s anything to be had, then have it. And there was so much to be had from and in connection with Mary.

  She turned to her husband, who was standing mute behind her. “William, aren’t you delighted? Wil and Margy are going along to tea at their Auntie Mary’s.”

  At this point Arthur, who had been looking out of the door-way, shouted, “Hurry up and get into the train.”

  So William Butter did not appear to feel it necessary to add to his wife’s expressions of rapture. Or perhaps he was just standing.

  IV

  They were all in the train now and settling down to a melancholy, and what promised to be a cold, journey.

  George, by dint of impressing with his majestic presence the man with the trolley of warming-pans, had two put into their carriage instead of one. But these, they reflected regretfully, would not remain hot for long upon so cold a morning.

  The train jogged slowly out towards Paisley. In these days all trains going to central Ayrshire went by Paisley, for the direct line to Kilmarnock was not yet available, and the journey, for this reason, was more than an hour longer.

  Arthur sat huddled, trying to read his newspaper, but the constant chatter of Sophia—about her children, about her house, about her maids, about a misunderstanding with a lady in the church—became too much for him and he set it down, thrust his hands into his coat-pockets and looked at his brood, pondering.

  For in a very real sense they were his brood. He had put them all where they were. In a sense he had taken the place of their father.

  Fifteen years before, feeling that life at the Laigh Farm could offer him no future, he had taken himself to the City. The first years had been hard. A man with whom his father dealt had taken him in as a clerk. Pay had been meagre for the eighteen-year-old lad, but Arthur was country-bred and wiry. His health had stood up to long hours, airless quarters and none too lavish food. Presently he had found himself with better wages and more responsibility. It was inevitable, for he had health, character and a sound village education, and his own mother, though a farmer’s wife, had been anything but crude. The others had not come to Glasgow until their father’s remarriage to one of his own servants eleven years ago had scattered them. The girls had felt their situation worst. Sophia had come to him almost at once. For a couple of years he had made a home for her; then, to the satisfaction of all, the high-mettled William Butter had lost his head at a church soirée (or perhaps Sophia had taken matters into her own hands) and claimed her for his own.

  It was then that Mary came. For much the same length of time she had been with him. She had always been calm and distinguished. Though she was country-bred, she took on the refinements of the town at once. It was as though its gentler, more genteel ways had called to something in her blood. Arthur had been sorry, a little, when George McNairn had taken her to his majestic bosom. For Mary, in her quiet, self-conscious way, was a highly capable person.

  That left only David to come—for Mungo, the oldest of them all, remained a farmer. At the time of his father’s remarriage, David was a child of twelve.

  He had better make himself responsible for David, Arthur had decided. He didn’t want the boy to live in a house where he might feel himself a stepchild. And so, for David’s sake, he had persuaded their aunt—a sister of their own mother—to put herself beneath his roof, to keep house, and to bring up his youngest brother.

  As he sat now looking at David, he doubted if he had done the right thing. Would it have been better had the boy been brought up in the country? He had been delicate and their aunt had spoilt him. And now that he was twenty-three he was all too well acquainted with the town’s ways.

  David was slack.

  Arthur had him in the business now and was trying to knock some kind of discipline into him, but it was uphill work. He might have done better to leave him to his father and his stepmother.

  Why had they taken such a hate to this Highland woman that their father had married? After eleven years they still knew nothing against her, except that she had been a hired servant and was almost illiterate. Mungo, the only one who really knew her, had liked her well enough. Had they been unfair in keeping away so much from the old man? They had felt it, perhaps, a desecration of their mother’s memory. But had that been reasonable? And now, they hardly knew their little half-sister Phœbe. Bel had asked what was to become of her. She had even suggested she should be brought to live at Ure Place. He wondered if he ought to let her come. His habit of taking responsibility for everybody told him he should. Bel had maintained that the child could not stay on at the farm with only Mungo and a household of crude farm-women.

  V

  The train was jogging on through the frost-bound country. He looked out across the wide Clyde valley. The Kilpatrick Hills and, further away, the Campsies stood peppered with snow. In the rosy-morning distance a white cone stood out. That must be Ben Lomond. He and Bel must make a trip to Loch Lomond sometime. And there were the buildings of the new University on Gilmour Hill at the extreme west end of the town. In the far distance they looked almost completed. He had heard about the difficulty the builders were having with the spire and wondered what they intended to do about it.

  Yes, it had been nice of Bel to think of taking in his little half-sister. But he felt reluctant. He felt he had done enough for everybody. Or was he the kind of person to whom everybody would always turn for help? Would he never be able just to lead his own life, be able just to look after his wife and his children and bother about nobody else?

  He had hoped he had come to an end when, before his marriage, he had seen David settled in rooms, sold the flat where they had lived alone together—for their aunt had died—and, with the help of his wife-to-be and her mother, had furnished the pleasant house in Ure Place.

  That was only eight months ago. And now suddenly his little half-sister was an orphan.

>   Well, they would all have a look at her today. And this evening, back again at tea in his own house and with the help of his sisters and their husbands, the future of Phœbe would have to be thrashed out.

  The carriage jingled on the points and came to a standstill.

  “Dear me,” Sophia was saying, “this is only Paisley!”

  Chapter Three

  PUNCTUALLY to the minute, old Mrs. Barrowfield was roused to consciousness by the housemaid re-laying her bedroom fire.

  This began every morning on the stroke of eight. Old Mrs. Barrowfield saw to that.

  “A body’s not much worth, if she’s come to the age of sixty-five and still lets her girls get the better of her.”

  Mrs. Barrowfield’s two girls had not sought to get the better of her for a long time now. They had been with her for more years than any of them cared to remember, and the discipline of the old lady’s much-betasselled and upholstered flat in Monteith Row had long since ceased to chafe. Time had been when they had not been above an exchange of wit with young men at the door on the back lane. But their hair was grey now and their bodies had long since lost the fluidity of youth and had, like the body of their mistress, turned unalluring and rotund. And young men had, somehow, ceased to be witty.

  Mrs. Barrowfield awoke with a sense of uneasiness. She had fallen asleep worrying over her only daughter Bel.

  She raised herself on her pillow a little and looked about her.

  “Wipe yer hands, Maggie, and draw back the curtains.”

  The respectful, respectable woman rose to her feet and did as she was bade. From her bed the old lady looked out on the slow winter dawn.

  “Is it still frosty?”

  The maid at the window cast her eyes over the wide expanse of Glasgow Green—to the winding banks of the Clyde—to the belching chimneys on the further side. On the south-east, the rising day was still red, made redder than it should be from particles of smoke. One or two stragglers, huddled in overcoats, were hurrying quickly along the carriage-way in the park. Distant buildings loomed indistinct in the morning haze.

  “Aye, it’s still frosty, Mam.”

  Mrs. Barrowfield let Maggie go back to her work and lay watching her get the fire going. She did it deftly and quickly, according to minute instructions long since given and long since learnt.

  Bel. Bother the girl with all her high falutin nonsense.

  Mrs. Barrowfield was proud of her twenty-four-year-old daughter. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that she lived for her—that is, when she was not living for her own, immediate and highly organised comfort. But, as Bel’s mother often assured herself, she would be no proper parent if she were blind to her child’s faults. And to high falute was one of Bel’s worst ones.

  Mrs. Barrowfield lay considering. Of course, the girl had got it direct from her father, the lamented Doctor Barrowfield. A little decorative pomp had been no bad thing in a doctor with a good-class practice, where bedside manner was everything. But it was merely irritating in the doctor’s daughter. Besides, Charles Barrowfield had always managed to high falute without incurring obligation. Which was just precisely what his daughter was not doing. She was threatening to take on a responsibility that might be a trouble to her for years. That might, indeed, threaten her married happiness.

  But here Mrs. Barrowfield’s sense of comfort intervened. This worry was spoiling the nicest hour of her day. The crackling fire. The newspaper. Tea, toast, and ham and eggs (the eggs just soft and no more, or cook would hear about it).

  She would try to dismiss Bel until she had got up.

  The maid was standing now, scuttle in hand, preparing to go.

  “Bring up my Herald now, Maggie. And you’ll have to light the gas. It’s dark these mornings.”

  Maggie was surprised. The old lady usually lay contented until her breakfast came up punctually at half-past eight. But she did as her mistress told her, helped to arrange her in bed, found a shawl for her shoulders, and gave her spectacles a rub.

  Mrs. Barrowfield—to show defiance, perhaps, to her own uncomfortable thoughts—snapped the paper open.

  II

  The Glasgow Herald, Saturday, 24th December, 1870.

  It was her habit to look through the paper systematically. This morning she started fiercely at the top left-hand corner of the front page.

  The Glasgow Weekly Herald was advertising itself. Special Hogmanay Stories. “A Loveless Marriage”, by A Young Lady. “The Fate of Baby Daisy, the Village Beauty.” How could people read such trash? People, that was, who had business to attend to. For herself, seeing that time lay in plenty on her hands, she might go the length of a penny to see just in what respect the marriage had failed, that it had become loveless.

  The new Theatre Royal, Hope Street. The pantomime, “Sinbad the Sailor”, the cast including King Wangdoodle of the Chickorybony Islands. Pity Bel had to be in mourning for her father-in-law, otherwise she might have taken the young couple to see this. Not that she approved of theatre much, but of course the pantomime was different.

  Hengler’s Circus. Herr Holtum would exhibit his wonderful powers of juggling with cannon-balls. The circus was for children. She laid down her paper smiling and looked about the much-upholstered room, which was becoming lighter with the growing day. Well, Bel was making a start. In May there would be a grandchild.

  And say in five more years he—she was determined it should be a he—would be ready to go to the circus. The prospect of this grandchild enchanted Mrs. Barrowfield. She would, she pondered, be able to give the little boy lots of good advice.

  If only Bel didn’t go and—Mrs. Barrowfield snapped up the paper and went on reading.

  Pretty Baby Things could be had at Mrs. Fyfe’s shops in Argyle Street and in Sauchiehall Street. She must remember that for Bel. She would look into the Argyle Street shop. There was no need of her dragging up into the West End where things were bound to be dearer and not a whit better.

  Great Bargains! Smart clothes for genteel assemblies. She was past genteel assemblies and Bel didn’t feel like them just now.

  The Argyle House was overflowing with French and German fancy goods. Just imagine that now! With the Germans and the French fighting each other as hard as they could! You would wonder that they had time to send fancy goods anywhere.

  Wine advertisements. She could do with a bottle or two of that Marsala for odd guests on New Year’s Day.

  She turned a page.

  Reviews of Books. They all looked as dry as dust.

  Letters to the Editor. Women’s rights. Dear me! What was making them start that nonsense? Signed “Dejected Brother”. Did you ever? What was he dejected about? Because these modern hussies expected all the chivalries from the male sex and yet expected to be on equal terms with them. Rights had never worried Mrs. Barrowfield much. She didn’t know what they were talking about. But there would be nothing dejected about her treatment of these shameless besoms. A good skelping from their fathers was what they were all needing. That behaviour like this should be happening in what was nearly the year 1871! She would just like to know what the Queen thought of it all!

  Criminal Judge of London Court deprives two pickpockets of their Christmas dinner. And quite right too.

  War Victims’ Fund. A Glasgow meeting to raise funds to help the women and children of France in their terrible plight had met with discouraging response. Poor things! It was terrible for them. Mrs. Barrowfield immediately forgot them as Maggie appeared with the breakfast.

  She sat up yet higher, buttered her toast, poured out her tea and took a sip.

  Serious Railway Accident at Port Glasgow. Dear me! That was terrible too!

  Nice ham they were getting just now.

  The War. Great Battle in the North: Sortie from Paris. What was a sortie? Additional details. This war news was really very difficult to follow. Besides, she was perfectly certain the newspapers exaggerated it just to get more sales.

  The Mont Cenis Tunnel had been compl
eted for a distance of 12,215 metres. (Why couldn’t they say yards or miles or inches?) And only five now remained to be pierced. A banquet was to be held in the tunnel to solemnise the completion of the event. Fancy! In a tunnel. Had they no nice hotels at one end or the other where they could sit down in comfort? But you never knew with foreigners what they would be up to.

  The stock market was very quiet, but prices were steady. That was good. Consols were at 91¾ per cent, Railways were firm.

  She took a last look through the pages.

  Last Days of the Art Union Draw. She had three tickets. It would be nice if she got a picture. She would give it to Bel for her new house. Young marrieds couldn’t afford things like pictures.

  Mr. Charles Halle, pianist, and Madame Norman Neruda, violinist, were giving a recital in the Queen’s Rooms. Well, she would not be there. No one would catch her going right away up to the very edge of the town to sit among the hoity-toities from Park Circus and Royal Crescent. She liked a bit of music you could tap your toes to. But these devil’s trills were not for sensible people. Bel and her husband had gone once or twice when they were courting. It was nice to think of them going. For her Bel could hold her head as high and look as fine as any of your new-fangled ladies in the West End! And very plain porridge they had come from, some of these very ladies! Mrs. Barrowfield smiled to think what some of them would have thought of their grandfathers.

  III

  While she was dressing comfortably before her fire, a note was brought by a messenger.

  “DEAR MAMA,

  “The funeral is today, as we expected. Arthur and all the others have just gone. I offered to go too, but Arthur wouldn’t hear of it. He said it would be much too exhausting for me at present. I have invited them all to come here for tea, but I shall be alone all day before they get back. Would you like to come up and have dinner with me—just the two of us alone? Or are you still busy with your Christmas shopping? Try to come.