Sleep in Peace (6 page)

“Was it Tariffs that ruined him, Papa?”

Papa laughed very heartily indeed at this, proud of his little daughter's cleverness, but Mr. Hinchliffe's smile was wry.

The Hinchliffes were one of the nuisances of life. There was a perpetual question of going there to tea, a perpetual duty to ask them in return, a perpetual evasion of these hospitalities on both sides. The theory was that Mrs. Hinchliffe kept a motherly eye on the motherless Armisteads, and that the children of the partners were great friends; in practice, Gwen could not endure the mildest comment on the household's affairs from any person, Hinchliffe or other, and all the children disliked each other heartily. Laura could remember only one occasion when the three Armisteads actually had tea in Cromwell Place, but this one occasion she could never forget because it was so uncomfortable. The three Hinchliffes, with their large pink faces and tousled yellow hair and uncouth clothes, appeared so odd, so far outside her experience, that she stared at them unwinkingly from her clear hazel eyes throughout the meal, in spite of Gwen's frowns and head-shakings. Understanding these signals to mean that she was failing in manners somehow, but not sure in what direction,
Laura turned to Mr. Hinchliffe, at whose side she sat, and blurted suddenly:

“We have a cat called Buller.”

It was true; and what a darling Buller was! Black, young, slender and of remarkable beauty and vivacity, Buller had been given to Ada as a kittten by her young man. (Ludo had christened him.) Round his slim neck Buller always wore a ribbon and a bell, and it was Laura and Ludo's care to see that his neckwear was always in good condition. Every Saturday, when Papa had given out the Saturday pennies, a length of ribbon was solemnly purchased from the little shop down the hill at the corner of Blackshaw Lane and Prince's Road; Ludo, that staunch Conservative, always bought blue ribbon, Laura, as yet ignorant of political symbolisms, bought red. For Christmas Day, Sundays, and Armistead birthdays, Buller had a special length of white ribbon, which was carefully washed after each wearing. In Laura's heart Buller occupied a position quite near Ludo. Buller was so warm, so affectionate, so purringly responsive to caresses; he never snapped, he was never cross, he never suggested that you were not as good and pretty as you ought to be, he was always ready to play. His name was like him, thought Laura, cosy and purring and warm. So that it was really a very friendly attempt at intimacy on Laura's part to speak of Buller to Mr. Hinchliffe. But immediately she had spoken she knew she had somehow said the wrong thing; Gwen looked down her aristocratic nose with that air of pleased malice which Laura had learned to dread, Ludo's velvet eyes showed embarrassed fear. Edward and Frederick exchanged glances of contemptuous amusement, and Mrs. Hinchliffe became very busy over little Grace's milk. Mr. Hinchliffe remarked, in a tone whose dryness closed the subject finally:

“Indeed.”

As the three Armisteads drove home in the cab Papa had sent for them, Laura enquired timidly why Mr. Hinchliffe didn't like to hear about their cat.

“It's because he's a little Englander, that's why,” said Ludo.

“What's a little Englander?” asked Laura, perplexed.

Gwen said impatiently that Laura was too young to understand. But Ludo, as his habit was, explained carefully, in childish words suited to Laura's understanding, that General Buller, after whom the cat was named, was a general fighting for England against the Boers.

“But why doesn't Mr. Hinchliffe like him, then?” asked Laura.

“He thinks we ought to let the Boers win,” said Ludo.

Laura was profoundly shocked. Could there be anybody alive who thought England ought to lose? Incredible!

“Edward and Frederick aren't at all like Ludo, are they?” she pursued presently.

“Ludo,” said Gwen with conviction, “is a
gentleman's
son.”

This striking expression lodged itself firmly in Laura's mind, and was often used as the climax of the stories she told herself as she skipped solemnly round the Blackshaw garden wielding her new skipping-rope. It seemed to be springtime; Ludo all of a sudden had a great many beautiful marbles, some of glass with coloured twirls within, some of mottled marble, some (the cheapest, these) of white stone with thin coloured stripes. Papa had bought Laura the skipping-rope, and shortened it to the right length for her with his own hands. The rope was very white at first, with bright red striped handles, and Laura loved its new and glossy air. But skipping one day in the garden after a shower, she did not realise the effect of puddles upon the rope until it was too late, when she perceived with anguish that its whiteness was all muddied, all besmirched. But she was fonder of the rope than ever, she decided quickly, so that the rope's feelings might not be hurt; one was always fond of things and people which had done good service. “Why are you so fond of that old rope,” said someone in her daydream with a sneer. The little girl who played Laura's part—a lovely creature with fine grey eyes like Gwen and black curly hair like Papa—replied haughtily: “I am the daughter
of a gentleman.” It was the same with Buller. Gwen wanted to change his name to Roberts, who it seemed was fighting the Boers more successfully than Buller. But Ludo would not agree, and Laura approved his decision. One did not throw one's old friends overboard like that—not if one were a gentleman's son.

On Sundays one was not allowed to skip, which was a pity. Indeed Sundays were often rather a pity; it was surprising how many things there were to go wrong on Sundays. They began well. One wore one's best dress of blue corduroy velvet with the lace collar, and that was fun. Ludo was usually punctual for breakfast, breakfast being later; Papa was in a lively laughing mood, and breakfast was in the dining-room, which on Sundays seemed usually to be sunny, with Buller basking on the window-sill. Papa cut a piece of buttered toast into long thin strips, and offered one strip to his youngest daughter, who stood at his side to receive the dainty.

“Can't Ludo have a piece, Papa?” suggested Laura.

“Only the youngest has it,” said Gwen.

At this there passed over Ludo's face the dark sad look which made Laura more unhappy than anything on earth. She longed to say: If Ludo can't have it I don't want it—but if she said that, then Papa's feelings might be hurt. It was very perplexing. She stood holding the beautiful thin strip of crisp toast, so thickly buttered, quite unable to decide whether to put it in her mouth or no.

“Only people whose heads don't come above the table-top can have the master's toast,” suggested Ada, who had come in with fresh hot water.

“And when my head comes above, can't I have it?” enquired Laura.

She brightened as Papa, laughing, shook his head; for this was justice, and Ludo's face had cleared.

After breakfast on Sunday one put on one's blue corduroy coat, trimmed with fur, and the tight blue corduroy bonnet with a fur tail round the front. Ludo wore a coat with an astrakhan collar,
an astrakhan cap and a white silk scarf. Dressed like that he looked very handsome, whatever Gwen might say. Of course he did not equal Papa in his glossy top hat; but then who could equal Papa? Gwen had a blue coat with gilt buttons and a great many capes, and all these capes lay very flat and had raw edges. Considering how fussy Gwen was about having neat hems on all the clothes one made for one's dolls, it was odd that she should consent to have raw edges on her Sunday coat. Laura for some reason enjoyed Gwen's having these raw edges and considering them “smart”, and she liked to tease her sister about them—though this was dangerous, for Gwen grew irritable on the subject, and an irritable Gwen threw the whole house into gloom. (Ludo, oddly enough, could never see this raw edge joke, though he understood all the other jokes so quickly and well.) Once Gwen had retaliated by suggesting that the fur tail on Laura's bonnet was a cat's tail, just like Buller's; but Mildred had come to the rescue, saying indignantly that the tail belonged to a much more valuable animal called a skunk. At this Laura was silent, bemused by too many diverse ideas. The tail was very like Buller's, certainly. Evidently if it was like Buller's, it was not right to wear it on a bonnet. She could not bear to think of Buller's tail being removed. Perhaps skunks did not mind. How could a skunk be more valuable than Buller? However, it was time to go to Church. Grandmamma did not go to Church; she sang hymns instead, in her thin cracked voice, to herself beside her own fire. Papa and Gwen walked behind, Ludo and Laura in front; they all felt very clean and brushed and good, and quite able to hold their own with the other clean, brushed, good families who were neatly walking in the same direction.

In Church one sat in order of age except that Laura, being so very young, was put between Gwen and Ludo. Laura liked Church. The rolling music, the glossy brown pews, the brass lectern winking in the sunlight, the white flowers on the altar, the crimson footstools—Laura had a specially tall footstool of her
own that Papa had made for her, with a very large black button and two fine tabs like Buller's ears. All those nice little boys in their clean surplices, and the clergyman with his booming voice, and the feeling of God looking down kindly but sternly on the congregation from above the roof, in a kind of surplice made of cloud, very powerful and benevolent and majestic. God could see into everybody's heart, He knew just when Laura tried to be good and failed, and when she really meant to be naughty; He understood Ludo too, and valued him very highly. There was a delicious feeling of goodness in Church on Sunday morning, a feeling of starting again, of really going to be good this time. Often in Church Laura would catch Gwen's eye and smile lovingly at her, and Gwen would smile back in the same way. Sometimes she actually smiled at Ludo! Then Laura was so happy that tears came into her eyes. Laura was proud of being able to sit through the sermon, and not have to go out before it, as the Vicar's children did. She was also proud of knowing the tunes and singing, though she did not of course know the words. But alas, one Sunday when Laura was singing with particular gusto, she went out of tune, and her childish voice soared above everyone else's in the church. Some people actually turned round and looked at her, but as everybody who did so, including Papa, smiled very kindly, Laura, though blushing with confusion, thought that perhaps her mistake did not matter very much. She was wrong, however; for when the Armisteads had returned home and were waiting for dinner in the dining-room, Gwen was very cross about it, and forbade Laura to make the family ridiculous again by singing in church when she didn't know either tune or words. Then suddenly Ludo turned very red, and in a high excited voice cried out:

“She shall sing if she likes!”

“Ludovic!” said Gwen in a shocked voice. “Please don't shout like that at your sister.”

Papa, who was just coming in, heard this; looking angrily at
Ludo, he seemed to hesitate whether to scold him, but decided not to do so, perhaps because it was Sunday, perhaps because Grandmamma was just coming into the room. But of course Sunday dinner was quite spoiled that day, and it was surprising how many Sunday dinners were spoiled in that kind of way, by some scolding from Gwen. They were not spoiled by Laura's singing again, however; for that very week Ludo taught her the words and tune of the Creed and that lovely hymn “All things bright and beautiful”, and very soon she was able to read for herself and so could follow the words of the psalms, and as she always sang very quietly after Gwen's complaint, even if she made a slight mistake nobody heard.

Sunday afternoon was also rather a trying time. Papa took a nap in the drawing-room, and the children had to be quiet in the nursery upstairs. Gwen read, and as she was not very fond of reading this made her rather cross; she greatly preferred to sew. Indeed she could not concentrate on any book for long, particularly if the book were one of Mr. Hinchliffe's Christmas presents, which were what Mildred considered suitable reading for Sunday. So Gwen constantly broke out in talk, and was irritable if Laura, who was deep in a book of very fine Bible stories which she loved, did not instantly reply. Ludo was not allowed to play his pet game of
Paper Cricket
on Sunday afternoon. This game was another of his own inventions; it was played by one person only, and consisted of cricket matches between famous county sides, accurately scored. Runs, wides, bowled, caught at wicket and so on were inscribed on small neat slips of paper, and then drawn at random from a shuffled heap in a box. Too many of Ludo's games, in Gwen's opinion, were played by himself, and she disliked
Paper Cricket
strongly. In any case, no form of cricket could be played on Sunday afternoon. Ludo, who liked Mr. Hinchliffe's Christmas presents no better than Gwen, had, however, a very fine wild animal book, a present from Papa, to console him; in this book there were pictures which stood out in
relief from the page, on paper frames. Even Laura was hot allowed to touch this precious book, though she might look over Ludo's shoulder for a treat, sometimes.

After tea on Sunday the children went downstairs to the drawing-room to Grandmamma and Papa. The drawing-room was a very pretty place, all yellow silk frills and green velvet and photographs; but Laura was never at her ease there. It was understood that the drawing-room was still exactly as Mamma had left it, and would never be changed, and the walls and tables were full of photographs of Mamma. Gwen and Grandmamma, it appeared, liked these relics, but Laura at the bottom of her heart hated them. She hated them for Ludo's sake, for there were two terrible things connecting Ludo and Mamma. One was that Ludo stills loved his mother so devotedly that he could not bear to hear her mentioned, but turned pale and sullen and hung his head if she were even remotely alluded to, which irritated Papa dreadfully. The other was, that by his delay on the fatal afternoon of Laura's birth, Ludo was supposed to have helped to bring about Mamma's death. Laura rejected this theory, rejected it on Ludo's behalf with all her heart and soul; it's not
true
, she said to herself with passionate conviction. She said it to herself alone, however, for she would not wound Ludo by appearing to understand Gwen's veiled references to this terrible subject. So Laura was never happy in the drawing-room. She liked, however, to hear Gwen playing the “pieces” she was learning at school, which was part of the routine on Sunday evening. Gwen played the piano very prettily, her long fingers skimming the notes in trills and runs in a manner marvellous to behold; the Armisteads all admired her playing very much, especially Papa.