Hungry Hill (48 page)

Even the children back in London lacked reality.

They were like little ghosts who had drifted with him through the years. Nothing had been real or living since he had left Clonmere and turned the key upon the past.

As he heard the flat sea break on the dull beach he thought of the swift tide in the creek at home, and the surf running upon Doon Island. He remembered the soft winds and the pale sun, and the white clouds above the top of Hungry Hill. He thought of the little churchyard at Ardmore, and the robin who sang in winter. And all that was finished and done with, he had no part in it, he did not belong there any more.

He went and sat in the lounge in one of the big hotels and waited for Adeline Price. He waited one hour, two hours, and she did not come.

Finally he could stand it no longer; he went outside and jumped into a fiacre, and ordered the driver to take him to the Home.

It was dark now, and he could not see much, except the endless avenues, and the trees. The sea kept breaking on the shore in the distance. The frogs set up their nightly croaking. The wind was cold.

The fiacre drove past a high wall and came to a great gate. It was shut. The driver rang the bell, and presently a concierge looked through the narrow grille.

“It’s prison,” thought Henry. “I don’t care what they say, it’s prison.”

After a few minutes the concierge opened the gates. The fiacre drove up a long, winding avenue, closely shut by tall trees. They came at last to the building. Few lights showed. The curtains were drawn for the night. Another fiacre was waiting outside the front door. Henry recognised the driver. He was one of the men who kept his vehicle in the little square near his mother’s villa. Henry got out and enquired if Mrs.

Price and Mrs. Brodrick had gone inside the building. The man said they had been there for over an hour. He said something about extra time, and he hoped he was going to be paid for it. Henry gave him ten francs at once, and the man pocketed them, muttering to himself. Henry went and rang the bell of the front-door. It was opened by a man in a white coat.

“My name is Brodrick,” said Henry. “I’m the son of Mrs. Brodrick who arrived here this evening.”

“Oh, yes, number 34,” said the man, in good English. “If you’ll come to the reception room, I’ll make enquiries for you. Do you want to see your mother?”

“If you please,” said Henry. “And there was a lady with her, Mrs. Price. Perhaps she could come down and speak to me?”

The man showed Henry into a large room on the right of the entrance. It was comfortably furnished- with chairs, and tables, and books. There was nobody in it. As he waited a loud bell clanged for dinner. Through the half-open door he could hear people file along the corridor to the dining-room. He caught a glimpse of a green uniform, and the white cap of a nurse. A little old man was walking with the aid of crutches.

“Come on, Mr. Vines, don’t be all day about it,” said someone sharply.

Other people were talking. Someone laughed in a high, silly way. The footsteps and the voices died away, and a door shut in the distance.

Henry went on waiting. Then a man in a grey frock-coat, with a monocle hanging down the front on a black cord, came through the door and held out his hand.

“I am Doctor Wells,” he said. “I’m afraid my superior is dining in Nice, but I am in charge here for the evening. You are Mrs. Brodrick’s son, I understand. We’ve had just a little difficulty, but nothing for you to worry about. Your friend Mrs. Price has been so sensible.”

“What do you mean, difficulty?” said Henry.

“Mrs. Brodrick was a trifle bewildered on arrival. Very natural. They often are, you know. But your friend is with her, and the nurse on duty is an excellent woman. We thought it better she should have her supper upstairs the first evening, and then she will be able to go into the dining-room tomorrow. I think Mrs.

Price is coming down now.”

He turned towards the door as Adeline Price came into the room. She seemed quite unruffled and composed, as though nothing had disturbed her.

“It’s all right,” she said, “she’s quite quiet now. I’ve left her showing photographs to the nurse. And such a nice dinner has gone up to her on a tray. Well cooked, well served. I must say you look after them well, doctor.”

Doctor Wells smiled, and toyed with his monocle.

“The little things are so important,” he said.

Adeline Price was staring at Henry.

“Why did you come?” she said reproachfully. “I thought I told you to go and wait for me at the hotel?”

The doctor smiled.

“No doubt Mr. Brodrick was anxious,” he said smoothly, “and perhaps as he is here it would be more satisfactory if he just popped his head round the door and said goodnight to his mother. He would know then that she was quite comfortable.”

“Yes, I should like to do that,” said Henry.

Adeline Price frowned.

“Is it wise?” she said. “Wouldn’t it upset her?”

“I don’t think so,” said the doctor; “it might be just the right touch. Of course we shall give her a small sleeping draught, as it’s her first evening and everything will seem a little strange.”

“I’ll wait for you in the fiacre,” said Adeline Price abruptly. “No point in my going up there again.”

She swung out of the room, a tall, confident figure in her grey coat and gown. Henry followed the doctor upstairs. The corridors were of shiny wood, scrubbed clean, and carpetless. The walls were green, like the uniforms of the nurses. A young nurse at the top of the stairs smiled at him.

She looked kindly, sympathetic. Henry clung to this like a straw.

“Are many of the nurses young?” he asked. “That one who passed, will she have much to do for my mother?”

“The matron would tell you that better than I could,” said the doctor. “I can make enquiries for you, of course. Number 34. This is your mother’s room.”

He tapped on the door. It was opened by a stout, middle-aged nurse in glasses.

“What is it?” she said sharply. “Oh, it’s you, doctor; I’m sorry. Will you come in?”

Doctor Wells murmured in her ear.

“Mr. Brodrick,” he said, “just come to say goodnight to his mother. He won’t stay more than a few minutes.”

“All right,” said the nurse, “but I want to get her washed and settled down for the night as soon as possible. We’re short-handed this evening.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” said Henry. “My mother’s been used to staying up until midnight or after.”

The nurse began to speak, but the doctor cut her short. “It’s only for tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow she will be with the others, leading quite a normal life.”

Henry went into the room. It was green like the corridor, but had a large window, and there were coloured mats upon the floor. The curtains were yellow, with green flowers upon them. The room was smaller than he had imagined. There was one easy chair in the corner. His mother was sitting up in bed, counting some money in her bag. She did not see him come in. She was scattering coins over the bedclothes, and talking to herself. Her hair hung in a cloud over her shoulders, silver white. Suddenly she saw him, and held out her arms.

“My darling,” she said; “they told me you had gone away, that I couldn’t see you.”

He bent over the bed, and took her hand.

“I thought I would just come along and say goodnight,” he said, She nodded her head, and then winked, pointing to the door.

“Such extraordinary people,” she whispered. “I think they’re all mad. The maid, I’m sure she’s a nurse, insisted on taking my temperature. I suppose it’s one of these new hydros I’ve heard about, but I never heard that the casino had anything to do with one before. Mrs. Price says I can go to the roulette rooms in the morning.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Is it all going to be very expensive? You know what a fool I am about money.” .

“No, darling. I’m arranging for that.”

“Dear boy, so good to me always. But I should have been quite all right at the villa, you know. There was no need for you to fuss.” She tumbled her coins back into her bag. “Mrs. Price says they have a queer system here,” she said. “They give you so many chips, and you don’t have to give up your money in exchange.

Sounds crazy to me. What about the boys, Henry darling? Will somebody remember to feed the boys?”

“What boys?”

“The dogs, sweetheart. They’ll miss me so, they won’t understand why I don’t come back. A week will seem a long time.”

Henry did not say anything. He stood there, holding his mother’s hand.

“Put Johnnie’s photograph on the mantelpiece,” she said suddenly, “so that it faces me. Yes, that’s better. He always looked so sulky in uniform, and so lovable… . Henry.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Take care of that boy of yours. I didn’t take care of Johnnie.” She was staring up at him, her green eyes wide and frightened. “I can’t forget it, you know,” she said; “that’s why I go to the casino. One must do something. John was such a darling-your father, I mean. So gentle, so kind. He understood so much. I’ve been very lost without him, very lonely. You were all such little boys when he died.

Sometimes I think it would have been better if I’d married again.” Then she smiled, she ran her fingers through her hair. “What an idiot I am!” she said, “raving on like an old lunatic. I tell you what, Henry. I’m damned if I’m going to let these people get my money, even if their system is a new one. I’ll show them how to play roulette. They won’t get the better of me here as they did at the casino.”

The nurse came in, and stood by the bed.

“Now, Mrs. Brodrick,” she said, “we’ve got to think about that big wash, haven’t we?”

Fanny-Rosa winked at Henry.

“Such a fool!” she whispered; “treats one like a baby. What does it matter though, if it keeps her amused?”

Henry kissed the top of her head. He knew he would never see her again.

“Goodnight, darling, and sleep well,” he said.

For a moment she clung to him, and then she laughed, and let him g.

“Life is so amusing,” said Fanny-Rosa; “try not to look serious, Henry boy. Thinking never did anybody any good.”

She followed him with her eyes as he went out of the room… .

The doctor was still waiting outside the door.

“You see,” he said, “she is quite comfortable, quite settled. There is nothing whatever for you to worry about.

And I understand Mrs. Price has made certain arrangements for her extra comforts.”

“Thank you,” said Henry, “thank you… yes.”

He shook hands with the man, he took his hat and stick. He climbed into the waiting fiacre.

Adeline Price was sitting in the corner.

“I paid the other one,” she said. “It seemed pointless to keep the two. Well, did she seem all right?”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I think so.”

The driver whipped up his horse. They drove away down the long, dark avenue.

“You must be very tired,” said Henry.

“Not a bit. I want my dinner, though. I expect you do too.”

The fiacre turned out of the avenue into the road.

The heavy gate clanged behind them.

“I was wondering, while I sat waiting,” said Adeline Price, “whether there is anything else I can do for you. What are your plans?”

Henry turned to her in the darkness.

“Plans?” he said wearily. “I have none.

What plans should I possibly have?”

The horse trotted down the cobbled stones. The driver cracked his whip. In the distance the sea broke upon the shore. He thought of the long train journey, the sea crossing, the house in Lancaster Gate, and Molly, and Kitty, and Hal, and the poor little lame Lizette. He felt very lonely, very tired.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “you wouldn’t care to marry me, would you?”

BOOK FIVE

HAL, 1874-1895

THE BEST PART ABOUT ETON, thought Hal, was that they left you alone, You could scrape along through your day, doing a minimum of work, and nobody bothered very much whether you lived or died. There were numberless rules and regulations, of course, and certain hours when you had to be in certain places, but in spite of these things there was a freedom that made for contentment.

He could walk about alone, and no one would ask him what he was doing or where he was going. And he had a room to himself. That, perhaps, was the best of all. One or two of his own pictures hung upon the wall, signed with his initials in the corner, H. E. L.

B. One of the fellows asked who had painted them, and he lied instantly, saying they had been painted by an uncle who had died. Somehow, he did not feel the paintings were good enough to acknowledge as his own. But when he was in the room alone, at night, he would take his candle and look at them closely with secret pride. They were his creation, the things he had made with his hands, and because he had made them himself he loved them. One day he would make paintings which he could show to everyone, but until that day came it was best to conceal what he did, in case people laughed and did not understand.

Mamma had never laughed. She had always understood.

And now that she was not with him any more he wanted his father to take her place, so that whatever he achieved might be an offering to him, a pride and a delight. And he would have the certainty of never failing because his father would have faith in him. The trouble was that he felt shy of his father. They might sit in the drawing-room of the London house together and neither speak a word, father reading the Times, and Hal staring at his boots. And when his father did speak it would be in a jovial, hearty manner, the manner grown-up people so often assumed to boys in the same way that they did to dogs. It was like the way a person patted a dog’s coat and said “Good fellow,” and then forgot him the moment afterwards. Sometimes his father would say, “Well, Hal, how’s the painting?”, making an effort to be interested, but because the effort was obvious and the question a hopeless one to answer, Hal would say, “All right, thank you,” and then fall once more to silence, feeling gauche and dull.

His father would wait a few minutes, expecting Hal to enlarge upon the subject, and then when nothing happened he would pick up his paper again, or talk about something else to the girls.