Giant’s Bread · Book I · V · Chapter 1 5 2

II

Soon after this, something queer happened about Aunt Nina. His mother began to speak of her and his father managed to hush her down with a sideways glance at himself. He only carried away a couple of phrases: “It’s that poor child I’m so sorry for. You’ve only got to look at Nina to see she’s a Bad Lot and always will be.”

The poor child, Vernon knew, was his cousin Josephine whom he had never seen, but to whom he sent presents at Christmas and duly received them in return. He wondered why Josephine was “poor” and why his mother was sorry for her, and also why Aunt Nina was a Bad Lot⁠—whatever that meant. He asked Miss Robbins, who got very pink and told him he mustn’t talk about “things like that.” Things like what? Vernon wondered.

However, he didn’t think much more about it, till four months later, when the matter was mentioned once more. This time no one noticed Vernon’s presence⁠—feelings were running too high for that. His mother and father were in the middle of a vehement discussion. His mother, as usual, was vociferous, excited. His father was very quiet.

“Disgraceful!” Myra was saying. “Within three months of running away with one man to go off with another. It shows her up in her true light. I always knew what she was like. Men, men, men, nothing but men!”

“You’re welcome to any opinion you choose, Myra. That’s not the point. I knew perfectly how it would strike you.”

“And anyone else too, I should think! I can’t understand you, Walter. You call yourself an old family and all that⁠—”

“We are an old family,” he put in quietly.

“I should have thought you’d have minded a bit about the honour of your name. She’s disgraced it⁠—and if you were a real man you’d cast her off utterly as she deserves.”

“Traditional scene from the melodrama, in fact.”

“You always sneer and laugh! Morals mean nothing to you⁠—absolutely nothing.”

“At the minute, as I’ve been trying to make you understand, it’s not a question of morals. It’s a question of my sister being destitute. I must go out to Monte Carlo and see what can be done. I should have thought anyone in their senses would see that.”

“Thank you. You’re not very polite, are you? And whose fault is it she’s destitute, I should like to know? She had a good husband⁠—”

“No⁠—not that.”

“At any rate, he married her.”

It was his father who flushed this time. He said, in a very low voice:

“I can’t understand you, Myra. You’re a good woman⁠—a kind, honourable, upright woman⁠—and yet you can demean yourself to make a nasty mean taunt like that.”

“That’s right! Abuse me! I’m used to it! You don’t mind what you say to me.”

“That’s not true. I try to be as courteous as I can.”

“Yes. And that’s partly why I hate you⁠—you never do say right out. Always polite and sneering⁠—your tongue in your cheek. All this keeping up appearances⁠—why should one, I should like to know? Why should I care if everyone in the house knows what I feel?”

“I’ve no doubt they do⁠—thanks to the carrying power of your voice.”

“There you are⁠—sneering again. At any rate I’ve enjoyed telling you what I think of your precious sister. Running away with one man, going off with a second⁠—and why can’t the second man keep her, I should like to know? Or is he tired of her already?”

“I’ve already told you, but you didn’t listen. He’s threatened with galloping consumption⁠—has had to throw up his job. He’s no private means.”

“Ah! Nina brought her pigs to a bad market that time.”

“There’s one thing about Nina⁠—she’s never been actuated by motives of gain. She’s a fool, a damned fool or she wouldn’t have got herself into this mess. But it’s always her affections that run away with her common sense. It’s the deuce of a tangle. She won’t touch a penny from Fred. Anstey wants to make her an allowance⁠—she won’t hear of it. And mind you, I agree with her. There are things one can’t do. But I’ve certainly got to go and see to things. I’m sorry if it annoys you, but there it is.”

“You never do anything I want! You hate me! You do this on purpose to make me miserable. But there’s one thing. You don’t bring this precious sister of yours under this roof while I’m here. I’m not accustomed to meeting that kind of woman. You understand?”

“You make your meaning almost offensively clear.”

“If you bring her here, I go back to Birmingham.”

There was a faint flicker in Walter Deyre’s eyes, and suddenly Vernon realized something that his mother did not. He had understood very little of the actual words of the conversation though he had grasped the essentials. Aunt Nina was ill or unhappy somewhere and Mummy was angry about it. She had said that if Aunt Nina came to Abbots Puissants, she would go back to Uncle Sydney at Birmingham. She had meant that as a threat⁠—but Vernon knew that his father would be very pleased if she did go back to Birmingham. He knew it quite certainly and uncomprehendingly. It was like some of Miss Robbins’ punishments, like not speaking for half an hour. She thought you minded that as much as not having jam for tea, and fortunately she had never discovered that you didn’t really mind it at all⁠—in fact rather enjoyed it.

Walter Deyre walked up and down the room. Vernon watched him, puzzled. That his father was fighting out a battle in his own mind, he knew. But he couldn’t understand what it was all about.

“Well?” said Myra.

She was rather beautiful just at that moment⁠—a great big woman, magnificently proportioned, her head thrown back and the sunlight streaming in on her golden red hair. A fit mate for some Viking seafarer.

“I made you the mistress of this house, Myra,” said Walter Deyre. “If you object to my sister coming to it, naturally she will not come.”

He moved towards the door. There he paused and looked back at her. “If Llewellyn dies⁠—which seems almost certain, Nina must try to get some kind of a job. Then there will be the child to think of. Do your objections apply to her?”

“Do you think I want a girl in my home who will turn out like her mother?”

His father said quietly: “Yes or No would have been quite sufficient answer.”

He went out. Myra stood staring after him. Tears stood in her eyes and began to fall. Vernon did not like tears. He edged towards the door⁠—but not in time.

“Darling, come to me.”

He had to come. He was enfolded⁠—hugged. Fragments of phrases reiterated in his ears.

“You’ll make up to me⁠—you, my own boy. You shan’t be like them⁠—horrid, sneering. You won’t fail me⁠—you’ll never fail me⁠—will you? Swear it⁠—my boy, my own boy!”

He knew it all so well. He said what was wanted of him⁠—Yes and No in the right places. How he hated the whole business! It always happened so close to your ears.

That evening after tea, Myra was in quite another mood. She was writing a letter at her writing table and looked up gaily as Vernon entered.

“I’m writing to Daddy. Perhaps, very soon, your Aunt Nina and your cousin Josephine will come to stay. Won’t that be lovely?”

But they didn’t come. Myra said to herself that really Walter was incomprehensible. Just because she’d said a few things she really didn’t mean.⁠ ⁠…

Vernon was not very surprised, somehow. He hadn’t thought they would come.

Aunt Nina had said she wasn’t a nice woman⁠—but she was very pretty.