Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
In the Basement Kitchen — and After
He was affectionately known to the Whiteoaks as “Rags” and his wife as “Mrs. Rags,” though their name was Wragge. Alayne felt little affection for them, or so she thought, for her Dutch couple had been admirable. Yet, when the Wragges were once more established in the basement, she experienced a kind of inner glow, as though their presence had brought back to her something that she had thought lost — an excitement in living, an earthy appreciation of the rough-and-tumble side of days at Jalna. For one thing, both Rags and his wife had a lively sense of humour, where the admirable Dutch couple had none. The Cockney pair were zestful observers of all that went on about them, while the Dutch couple were absorbed in their own affairs. Renny, on his part, was delighted to have Rags again with him at Jalna. Together they had passed through two wars. They had racy memories in common.
On this summer afternoon the basement kitchen was the scene of a reunion. From a glaring recipe that occupied a full page in the evening paper the cook had made a cake which now sat in the middle of the table and was sprinkled thickly with coconut, its layers held together by jam, and there were chopped nuts through it. Also on the table were ham sandwiches, radishes, sliced cucumbers, and a large pot of tea. At one end of the table, which was covered by a red-and-white-checked tea cloth, sat the cook, even more florid and stout than before her stay in England. At the other end Rags, even greyer of face and thinner. Both were in high spirits. At one side sat Wright, who for many years had been the head of the stables at Jalna, a fine man of stocky frame and intrepid nature who spoke in a deep resonant voice and was always seen in leather leggings. Opposite him Noah Binns. All his long cantankerous life he had lived in this neighbourhood and found little to please him. From the time he was old enough to hold a hoe he had been a labourer, adept in wasting time, self-opinionated as any town counsellor. Now, through the sale of his cottage on the highway and his old age pension, he had retired. He had never married, had a poor regard for women, but kept on the right side of the cook.
She said, “Have another radish, Mr. Binns. It’s grand to see you able to champ them hard things, for you used to be a bit short on teeth.”
“No thank
you
,”
said Noah. “It’s true that my dentures can tackle anything but my stomach ain’t that plausible. It prefers soft food.”
“Another sandwich?”
“I’ve ate several of them. I think I’ll start on the cake.”
The cook helped him to a generous slice which he attacked with avidity, shreds of coconut clinging to his straggling grey moustache and the bristles on his chin.
“
Delidgious
,” he said. “I’ve never tasted cake like that since you went away. I didn’t think much of that Dutch couple. They were terrible penurious with the refreshments. You’d a thought they’d have paid for the food themselves the way they doled it out. The last time I came to the door they never answered my knock, though I could hear them jabbering away in their own lingo at the same time. Well, I says to myself, I can be standoffish as well as you. So I never called on them again. I’m a proud man. Pride hasn’t been my downfall. If it wasn’t fer pride I’d like to know where I’d be.”
“Hans and Frieda,” said Wright, “were always nice to me. I guess they sort of looked on me as one of the family.”
Noah Binns grinned. “Danged if I’d want to be took fer one of this family.”
“And why not, I’d like to know?” demanded Rags.
“Because of mortality,” said Noah. “I was raised in a mortal home and I never forget it.”
“I don’t want to hear anything said against this family.” Wright looked squarely at Noah.
Unperturbed, Noah replied, “I like the family or I wouldn’t visit here, but danged if I want to be took fer one of them.”
“Not much danger of that,” grinned Wright. “Not with
your
face.”
“Danged if I’d call the boss handsome,” said Noah.
“Put him on a horse and there’s no one in the country can equal him for looks,” said Wright.
“Then the credit goes to the horse, don’t it?” said Mrs. Wragge.
“what would Noah look like on a prancing thoroughbred?” asked Wright.
At the thought of that spectacle Rags and his wife could not restrain their mirth. To ease the moment, she said, lolling a little in her chair, “Ah, it’s good to be back.”
“This here country can’t be beat,” said Noah. “It’s the best in the world.”
“And the way it’s growing! whatever way you look there’s hundreds of new little houses and wherever you go you hear foreigners talking,” she continued.
“Them’s new Canadians,” said Noah. “They was born and bred to be new Canadians. You couldn’t stop them if you tried.”
“who’s trying to stop them?” she demanded.
“London ain’t what it used to be,” said Rags. “So my missus and me moved to one of them new villages, developed on an old estate, but life there wasn’t as ’appy as we’d hexpected.”
“I bet it wasn’t,” said Noah.
“what was the trouble?” asked Wright.
Rags answered solemnly, “It was the nightingales.”
“They’d drive you crazy,” said the cook. “There was no peace for them. Babies — invalids — working folk that needed their rest. They couldn’t get it, for the nightingales singing.”
“That was bad,” Noah mumbled, through lips fringed by coconut shreds. “Very, very bad. Worse than motor traffic. Danged if I’d not sooner have motor traffic than birds piping away in the dead of night. It’s unnatural. Motor traffic is natural.”
“I’ve always fancied a bird in the house,” said Mrs. Wragge. “Then you can cover the cage with a cloth if necessary. But them nightingales you couldn’t control.”
Down the stairs from above Dennis appeared and was greeted affably by the cook.
“You haven’t grown as fast as you might,” she said. “Do they give you plenty to eat at school?”
“I’ll shoot up later,” he returned. “We get plenty to eat but not cake like that.”
At once she placed a slice on a plate for him and he drew a chair to the table beside Wright. All four adults regarded him with concentrated interest as he ate.
“I haven’t seen your new ma yet,” said Mrs. Wragge. “I suppose you love her dearly.” She gave a knowing look at the men.
“She’s a lovely young lady,” said Wright.
“I haven’t seen the woman yet I’d want to share my home with,” said Noah.
“If one of these modern girls got after you, you wouldn’t have a chance,” observed Wright with a wink at Rags.
“Is that the way it is?” asked Dennis.
“Oh, they’ve been after me these many years,” said Noah, “but I know how to circumference them.”
“I was caught young,” said Wright, “and I don’t regret it.”
“I’ll not get caught,” said Dennis. “I shall live in a ranch house with my children — and no wife.”
He was pleased by the laugh this brought. He continued, “Just as my father and I settle down to enjoy ourselves, my stepmother says for me to make myself scarce because she wants to be alone with my father.”
“Well, of all the cruel things I ever heard!” cried the cook.
“You wouldn’t think it to look at her,” said Wright.
“Would you think I was a desirous man to look at me?” asked Noah.
Wright answered, “If you mean desirable, I have my doubts.”
Mrs. Wragge leaned across the table to say firmly to the little boy, “Don’t let yourself be put upon, dearie. Stand up for yourself. Reely, it’s shameful the things some women will do.”
“Don’t go putting notions in the child’s head,” said Rags. “It’ll unsettle ’im.”
Noah Binns tapped the table with his teaspoon. He said: “Organize — that’s the way to get things done. All my life I’ve organized. Whether it’s ringin’ the church bells or diggin’ a grave, I organize.” He stared hard at Dennis.
“Now, young man,” he went on, “you’ve got to organize against the schemes of that woman or she’ll get the best of you.”
“what’s organize?” asked Dennis.
“Organized labour,” said Noah, “is what has kept this country from being ruled by danged aristocrats and Tories.”
“The Tories are in power in the province now,” said Wright. “Don’t forget that.”
“The way you men get off the track is terrible,” said Mrs. Wragge — “while here’s this little boy waiting for advice.”
“Thanks,” said Dennis, rising, “but I think I’ll go.”
“My advice,” said Noah Binns, “is: Organize, plan, lay a deep scheme, and don’t let nothing stop you.”
Wright left with Dennis. Outside he said, “Don’t you pay any attention to what Noah Binns says. He’s not worth it. You mark my words. Your stepmother means well by you, I’m sure of that. But she’s delicate. She’s nervous, and she had a great shock in the war.”
“what was that?” asked Dennis.
“Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you,” said Wright, “but I think I will. It may sort of help you to understand her better.”
Dennis’s eyes were on Wright’s face. “what was it?” he asked.
“Well,” Wright said, almost whispering, “she was in London, with her first husband, at the time of the Blitz. You know what the Blitz was?”
“Yes. I know.”
“I don’t suppose I ought to tell you this. If your father wanted you to know, I guess he’d have told you.”
“I think he’d rather you told me.”
Wright was longing to tell him. Now he got it out. “Well, what she saw was — her husband blown to pieces before her very eyes. It was a terrible shock for a sensitive lady and I guess she’s never been the same since.”
Dennis ran home through the shadows cast by the tall trees. This summer the leaves seemed larger than usual and of a more intense green. This colour was strangely reflected in the little boy’s eyes.
He found Sylvia in the music room writing a letter. She smiled at him and said, “I’ve just been writing a letter to my mother, telling her about our lovely house, and now I find I have no stamp for it.”
“I have stamps,” said Dennis. “I have a stamp collection. When my father is on a tour he sends me valuable stamps from everywhere he goes.”
“I’d love to see them,” said Sylvia.
“I keep them under lock and key. They’re too valuable to be left lying about.”
There was something unfriendly in his tone, Sylvia thought. She drew into herself. “I only want an ordinary five-cent stamp,” she said. “Surely that’s a simple thing to need.”
Dennis regarded her intently. He appeared to want to ask her something important. She smiled at him and said, in her voice that was like music, “Yes, Dennis, what is it?” She raised her hand as though to touch him.
“Have you ever,” he asked abruptly, “seen anybody killed?”
The colour retreated from her face. “Yes,” she breathed. “Once — I did.”
“So did I,” he said. “It was my mother. In a motor accident. I was only four but I remember. Her blood was on the road. It was on me too.” He raised his voice. “Do you see blood, when you think about the one you saw killed?”
“Don’t! Don’t!” She covered her eyes with her hands. “I can’t bear it.” She gave a cry as of one in pain and her slender body was shaken by sobs.
Finch’s steps were heard running along the drive.
Dennis moved lightly out of the room.
“Sylvia!” cried Finch. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”
She made a desperate effort to control herself.
He took her in his arms. “My darling one,” he kept repeating and soon she was quiet.
“I was writing to my mother,” she said, “and something I wrote was upsetting to me … Oh, nothing that has happened here … Something out of the past … It’s all over. See how steady I am.” She achieved a smile, then hid her face on his shoulder.
“Was Dennis here?” asked Finch. “I thought I saw him through the window.”
“He was here — a moment before — I think.”
“Did he say anything that upset you?”
“No, no. He was telling me of the wonderful collection of stamps you’ve sent him.”
“Stamps!”
Finch exclaimed. “I’ve never sent him a stamp in his life.” He wheeled and turned toward the child’s room. “what the devil does he mean?”
Sylvia caught his arm. But now again she was overcome and could not speak. “There, there,” he kept on saying, and patted her on the back, as one would comfort a child. Not till she was calm did he detach himself from her clinging hands and go to Dennis. He was hot with anger at the child. Either he had deliberately been the cause of Sylvia’s distress or he had not. But he was entangled with it, whatever his intentions.
Finch strode to Dennis’s room. He went in and closed the door after him. The child had remained unmoved by Sylvia’s outburst but he flinched when he saw Finch’s frown. He stood up straight in front of the window.
Finch said, keeping his voice low with an effort, “why did you tell those lies to Sylvia?”
“I thought there was only one lie,” said Dennis.
Dennis had a surprising power of angering Finch. He found himself with a hot desire to take hold of his son roughly. That would not do and he said, in a controlled voice, “You said you had a stamp collection
and
you said I’d sent you stamps for it. What does it matter how many lies? You lied.”
Dennis hung his head. “I thought you had.”
“You knew I hadn’t. Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know.”
A silence fell that seemed almost fearful to Finch, for his nerves were shaken by Sylvia’s distress.
Through the window Dennis was watching a red squirrel. Finch asked suddenly, “Was Sylvia upset before you spoke to her? I mean did you say anything to upset her?”
“I couldn’t know how, could I?”
“Well, I just wondered. You were with her.”
They looked into each other’s eyes — each trying to fathom what lay hidden.
Finch drew a sigh. “Sylvia is very delicate,” he said.
“Is it a misfortune to have a delicate wife?”
“She must be taken care of.”
“By you and me?” Dennis asked eagerly, moving a little toward Finch.
“You must not make yourself troublesome.”
Dennis said at once: “I won’t be troublesome.”
“As for your lying,” said Finch, “for that you’ll stay in your room for the rest of the day.”