A Time for Courage (13 page)

Hannah watched as she performed a few steps, her arms languid, her toes pointing in those beautiful pumps. Esther stopped and gripped Hannah’s arm. ‘Do you remember that dreadful ballet teacher last term; how she slapped one of the girls and Miss Fletcher sent her from the school, there and then.’

They returned to the chairs, Hannah laughing as Esther lay back, her arms clasped above her head, her legs relaxed in a sprawl. Esther was very beautiful, Hannah knew. But knew also that as quickly as she drew people to her she would also discard them. Much like the way she talked; here, there and everywhere. She was enchanting but how deep did it all go? Hannah didn’t know, hadn’t yet had to know.

They had been friends for years, since Thomas had sent Esther to what was now Miss Fletcher’s school and, not to be outdone, John Watson had entered his daughter. It had been wonderful from the start; especially as Harry had already turned away from her. Relation and friend, how very fortunate. Hannah smiled again.

‘And then we had that lady who walked like a duck, do you remember, Esther? We called her Quack and Sonia made glorious duck noises. She had a faint moustache.’

They laughed again and the heat from the fire was pleasant on her face. There was a box of bon-bons topped with crystallised violets on top of the bookcase at Esther’s right hand. She picked one out and threw it to Hannah.

‘Spoil your meal with that, Hannah. At least you’ll be able to leave a bit on your plate without your father rapping your knuckles this year. Do you remember last year how he leant over and tapped you with his knife?’

Hannah did remember and though she laughed, no vestige touched beneath the surface, where there was only coldness at the memory. ‘He’ll have more to make him angry than that this year. Has your father told you about Harry?’

Esther held her bon-bon between her thumb and finger, eating it with small bites. Chocolate stuck to her teeth and she ran her tongue over them. She nodded. ‘I was rather looking forward to seeing Harry in a uniform, he would have made a good escort. He’s a fearful spoilsport.’

Hannah grinned and shook her head. ‘You know what he’s like with girls. He doesn’t like us.’

‘Doesn’t like you, you mean. Sisters are different.’

‘I mean he doesn’t like girls. He and this friend Arthur seem to spend all their time playing cricket or running round chasing pieces of paper, as far as I can see.’

Esther was licking her fingers; the chocolate was gone. ‘I could get him to like me,’ she murmured. ‘After all, he could be very rich one day.’ She half smiled at her friend, her eyes thoughtful.

This time Hannah threw the cushion. ‘You’re just a gold-digger.’

Esther grinned. ‘Hardly me, dear. That’s what you should be calling Harry. With a bit of luck anyway.’

Harry was sitting back from the fire. His uncle had broken with tradition and opened a bottle of champagne before the meal. The glasses were cold and a fine mist settled on the outside. He held his by the stem, knowing that his uncle had tried to make it easier for him and for his father, but it would not be easy to cross him. Ever.

‘Really, John,’ his uncle was saying. ‘Think about it a bit. The lad could end up like the big-timers out there, Rhodes, Barnato and Beit. The South African mines have given them fortunes and power. Think of the power, man.’

Harry looked at his father. He sat back in the chair smoking, not looking at Thomas but across at the window where the tassels of the valance shone deep red in the light from the electric lights. It was a quiet form of lighting, Harry thought, and bright but his uncle had only installed it downstairs until he was sure that this new-fangled idea was safe. He looked back again at his father who still gazed at the window.

‘Jews, you mean,’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, John,’ his uncle said, his voice rising. Harry’s hand tightened on the stem. He made himself sit quite still, his legs crossed, his left arm resting on the arm of the settee. If his uncle allowed himself to anger, his father would simply shut his mind.

‘What I mean is, old man’ – Thomas was speaking in a deliberate and slow voice now – ‘there are opportunities out there that we will never see the likes of over here. Think of the money he could make in gold or diamond mining. With his family background he could return in a few years well set up to become a man of property, of standing in the community.’

Thomas stood up and leant against the mantelshelf, one arm draped along its length. His grey hair made him look much older than Harry’s father, older, wiser and kinder. But then, as Harry’s father had said to him on more than one occasion, that side of the family had had things easy. He had sounded full of bitterness.

At last his father turned to Thomas, but still not to Harry. ‘What if it were George wanting to throw up his law practice and sail out to some idea he had pulled out of the air?’ His lips were barely moving and smoke puffed out of his mouth and through his teeth as he spoke.

Thomas pushed back a log which had fallen to one side of the grate. Sparks spun around his polished boot until, with one final thrust, he turned to John, his eye catching Harry’s as he did so. There was a smile in it now.

‘Why, of course I’d be delighted. Give him my best toothbrush! Shows a bit of spirit, you know. Something to be proud of in a boy, John. Why, where would you be if you hadn’t shown spirit and moved up to London?’

Harry took a sip of champagne. It was almost warm now and flat. His uncle was a clever man, no wonder he made an excellent barrister.

There was a pause while his father tapped his knee. The fire was crackling, the clock in the corner had a long slow tick and the brass pendulum shone as it swung. Shone like gold, Harry thought, and felt the excitement begin again. How much would he find, or would it be diamonds?

‘Harold should really think of the status he will be throwing away.’ His father’s voice was quiet but icy.

The status
you
would be throwing away, thought Harry, suddenly afraid no longer but angry. Good God, I should hate to be a soldier. So tedious. So senseless. And what if he ever had to kill someone? He thought of the fish on the end of his line and shuddered. All so damned messy. And soldiering hadn’t done Simon much good, had it, poor old chap, and just when he had made up his mind to get out too. Hannah had said that his death had made her realise how short life could be and that therefore it should not be wasted. She really was too intelligent for a girl, did too much thinking. She should be careful or she would make herself unmarriageable or contract brain fever.

He could hear his uncle’s soft reply and silence fell again. His father was studying the fire through his glass. He took his watch from his pocket and checked the time, then turned it over and over in his hand. Harry flushed as he felt the weight of his Christmas present in his waistcoat pocket. Should he have told his father before? But it was so difficult. Arthur had told him to write but somehow the words would not come. Perhaps he should return the present but that would mean he couldn’t show it to the chaps at school. God, why was life so difficult?

‘Very well.’ His father still did not look at him or speak to him directly. ‘I shall allow the boy to forgo the army at this stage. He can attend to his mining exams but he must do the thing properly in a university situation, then if he still wants to explore the possibilities of South Africa we shall discuss it again.’

That was all. There was silence for a moment then Thomas looked across at Harry and smiled before turning again to John Watson.

‘Well done, man,’ he said to him, sweeping the champagne bottle from the ice-bucket and pouring more into both their glasses, beckoning Harry to come over. ‘This calls for a toast.’

He pulled Harry over to stand beside him and they both watched as Harry’s father rose slowly from his chair. His face was set but Thomas continued as though he had not noticed.

‘To this young man; a son to be proud of. Good luck, my boy.’

His father drank to this along with Thomas but still said nothing.

Thomas put down his glass, it was half full. ‘Do excuse me a moment, both of you. I must see where the ladies are. They seem to have been overseeing the dining-room preparations for far too long.’ Before leaving he handed round the silver cigarette box. Harry refused but his father took one, tapping the cigarette on the back of his nail, watching Thomas as he left the room. Harry stood by the fire, uncertain whether to take his place again on the settee. He saw that his father’s fingers were more heavily stained with nicotine than they had been in the summer and that the discoloration of his moustache and hair was more obvious too. There was no belly on him as there was with Thomas.

His father did not ask him to sit but sat gazing into the fire. It was a shock when he spoke; he had been silent for so long.

‘I have acquiesced because your uncle seems to feel the idea has its merits but I have suffered a grave disappointment. For, as you know, I feel there is nothing finer than a man fighting to save the honour of his country.’

His voice shook and his hands were trembling, he could not go on and Harry knew that there was a great rage building and felt the tension rise in himself, tension and fear, but then the door opened. Thomas stood there with the girls, calling them all to dine and announcing that later the young ladies would be entertaining them with an amusing interlude.

Hannah loved the dining-room when it was decorated for this evening. There were garlands of holly, and tinsel hanging from the picture rails. A Christmas rose was placed in a crystal vase either side of the mantelshelf in front of the tall thin chimney mirrors so that their reflections were bathed in the glow of the candles set in candelabras down the length of the table. The table was laid with the finest porcelain, crystal wine glasses, silver cutlery and the epergne in the centre all on a crisp table-cloth. In the corner opposite the serving door was a forest tree decorated with shining balls of red, gold and silver, and alive with small candles glinting and lighting their corner. The electric lights were not on this evening and she was glad. George sat between her and Esther and after grace he made her pull a cracker but only the crepe tore and left the brown paper strip with the gunpowder on. Esther laughed, calling Harry to turn and watch Hannah pull the end.

Hannah hated the bang, hated the smell and the flash but George said she must and Esther too so she gripped it, her body rigid and the smile set too fixedly on her face, and pulled. There it was, the bang and Esther shrieked and Hannah laughed, but not really.

Her father had a green paper hat on and he was drinking a great deal of wine as the soup, the fish and then the saddle of mutton came and went while the butler watched the servants and refilled the glasses.

George was kind and his deep voice talked to her of Cornwall and school but then he and Harry leant over the table as they drank their wine and Hannah and Esther sat back in their chairs and talked. Hannah had been given wine; it made her cheeks hot and laughter well in her throat. She was hot and wished that she was in a light dress like Esther and her mother. It would be nice to have her neck free of restraining heat.

‘Of course the Liberals have been stabbing the government in the back with all this pro-Boer business. Independence for the Transvaal, I ask you,’ Harry was saying. His eyes were very bright and she could tell from her father’s face that he now knew about the mining.

‘That damned Lloyd-George too, waffling on about the moans of the poor.’ George was sweating all over his forehead and his collar was quite limp, Hannah saw. ‘Good God, the poor have always been with us. What do he and those bounders, the Liberals, expect us to do about them?’

Her father broke in from further down the table. ‘Now the war is closing they’ll be bringing down the income tax again and about time too.’

Esther poked George in the ribs. ‘What’s income tax?’

He laughed and turned towards her, his back now to Hannah but she heard his reply before Harry cut in.

‘It’ll get worse if the Liberals bring in their reforms.’

Harry was drinking more wine. It was red and full to the brim. He slopped some on the table and the stain spread a deep pink. Why pink when the wine is red, thought Hannah and could feel a smile still on her face. She sipped at her wine again.

‘That’s true, they want to use our money to improve things for the poor. It’s a disgrace. But they won’t get the support they need,’ George said.

Her tongue felt heavy and her words came out slowly as she turned to her cousin. ‘Why won’t they get support?’ George hadn’t heard so she tapped him on the shoulder and repeated her question, but her words were sounding strange; clumsy and slow and her head was full of air.

‘Because, Hannah, the rules about voting mean that very few of the poor have the vote, so how can they get these trouble-makers into Parliament? It’s a question of voting qualifications, you see. Rate payers and so on.’

He was signalling to the butler who brought water and poured some for Hannah. George smiled. ‘Drink some of this, my dear. You’ve had quite enough wine.’

She was thirsty and the room was hot. Heads were bent towards one another and Esther was leaning over the table, listening to Harry with her eyes as wide as she could make them. Harry, Hannah saw to her surprise, was talking to her now as though Esther was the only person in the room. There was chatter all around the table.

‘I’ll support them,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m not poor. I’ll vote.’

George leant back and slapped his leg, laughing until he coughed. ‘But you’re a woman. You can’t vote.’ Wiping his face with his handkerchief.

Hannah sat back feeling hot, so hot. ‘I forgot,’ she murmured. ‘Just for a moment I forgot. How could I have forgotten something like that?’

George shook his head and patted her hand which lay on the table. ‘My dear Hannah, it is of no importance. We can’t have women worrying their heads about serious matters, can we? You just let your husband do it, when the big day comes, because he will decide what is best. After all, women aren’t really suited to thinking, are they? They’re pretty little things that do a man’s eye a power of good and look splendid in his sitting-room.’