Paid In Full/Chapter 13

families have a Laura Meakin. Laura’s outstanding characteristic was an uncompromising sense of duty: much of her crowded, energetic, and mainly futile existence had been devoted to correcting in Mildred’s offspring the faults incident upon their mother’s manner of bringing them up. With Joan and Denny she waged continuous warfare, and they treated her with the frank rudeness due to a declared and invulnerable opponent.

‘Good-morning, everybody!’ Laura was a lady of commanding presence, attired in country garments of an eminently sensible nature—thick boots, massive walking-stick, and a masculine felt hat.

Mildred, who pitied all childless people, and was constitutionally incapable of discourtesy to any one, advanced to greet her with her usual ready smile. Mildred’s children, with the candour of youth, made no attempt to assume any appearance of cordiality whatsoever.

‘How nice of you to look in, dear,’ said Mildred. ‘This is my uncle, Sir Anthony Fenwick. Uncle Tony, this is Miss Meakin, our nearest neighbour, and an old friend.’

‘How do you do?’ said Uncle Tony, rising and shaking hands.

‘I have a slight cold in the head,’ replied Laura, who was a person of literal disposition. ‘I suppose you arrived for the dinner last night?’ She turned to her hostess. ‘I was expecting you to invite me, too, Mildred, but, of course, old friends are easily dropped. Joan, I have spoken to you before about cigarette smoking.’

‘Yes, Laura,’ replied Joan, with a seraphic smile, ‘and I promise you many opportunities of doing so again.’ She produced a powder-puff and mirror, and embarked upon one of the public toilette exercises to which this generation is so frankly addicted.

‘You know it will ruin your teeth in time,’ pursued Laura, unswerving in her duty. ‘Your complexion is going already: anybody can see that.’

‘There’s plenty more where it came from, thank you, dear,’ replied Joan, busy with the puff.

Laura, squarely repulsed, swung round towards the table.

‘Good-morning, Denis!’ she said. ‘You have now reached years of discretion. It was time!’

‘Thank you so much for pointing it out,’ replied Denny politely. He indicated his friend with the handle of his knife. ‘You know Bags, I think?’

‘I do not approve of childish nicknames,’ Laura reminded him. ‘Good-morning, Mr. Bagby!’

Leo Bagby, taken rather at a disadvantage by reason of a thoughtless mouthful of sausage, rose to his feet, made an affable noise, and sat down again.

‘In my young days,’ said Laura, ‘gentlemen were not accustomed to speak to ladies with their mouths full. But perhaps Joan’—she turned to observe the effect of this side thrust, fruitlessly—‘has not been educated to expect such courtesies.’ She turned to Denny again. ‘I have a birthday present for you.’ She extracted a square package from her ample coat-pocket.

‘What sort?’ inquired Denny cautiously. ‘Tracts?’

‘It is a recently published work upon Social Service, by a personal friend of mine. She has been kind enough to autograph it for you, on the front page.’

‘Thank you very much,’ replied Denny, accepting the volume dubiously. ‘Have I got to read it?’

‘Certainly. It will do you good. It will do you all good.’

‘Then we’ll let Mother read it first,’ announced Denny, with a smile of happy inspiration. ‘Have a banana.’

‘I think you know,’ said Laura coldly, ‘that I do not eat uncooked fruit.’

‘Well, have a baked apple, or a chair, or something!’ said Denny. ‘Let us be convivial, for Gawd’s sake!’

‘I will sit down for a moment,’ replied Laura, ‘because I have some business to discuss.’ She planted herself heavily upon the sofa, beside the flinching form of Uncle Tony. ‘It’s about the Meeting.’

‘The Meeting, dear?’ asked Mildred, a little apprehensively.

‘Yes—the Meeting of the Society.’

‘Forgive me asking, but which?’ inquired Denny.

‘Your interests are so diversified, explained Joan politely.

‘The League of Educative Science.’

There was an interval of respectful silence. Then Joan inquired:

‘What is that, if anything?’

‘Stinks,’ said Denny promptly.

‘Denny, Denny!’ said Mildred.

‘Sorry, Mother.’

‘He means Chemistry, Miss Meakin,’ explained Leo, hastening characteristically to the rescue.

‘But I do not mean Chemistry,’ said Laura. ‘I mean Social Science.’

‘Never heard of it,’ replied Denny.

‘I will explain, Miss Meakin,’ announced Leo, one of whose hobbies was the involved elucidation of the obvious.

‘Thank you, I am quite capable of explaining myself.’

Miss Meakin turned impressively upon Sir Anthony, who immediately adopted an attitude of massive concentration. ‘One of our activities is to instruct the mothers of the village in the scientific rearing of children.’

‘What do you instruct the grandmothers of the village in?’ flashed Denny, before any one else could speak. ‘Sucking eggs? Sorry, Mother!’

‘What else does the Society do?’ inquired Sir Anthony, in a solemn voice.

‘It maintains Recreation Centres, where children are taught to amuse themselves rationally and scientifically.’

‘Poor little mites!’ This from Joan.

‘The Annual Meeting,’ pursued Laura, oblivious of these ribald interruptions, ‘is to be held this day fortnight. I want to have it in this house, Mildred.’

‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed Mildred. ‘I mean—’

‘The bomb,’ announced Denny to Leo Bagby, ‘has now exploded.’

‘I mean, certainly!’ continued Mildred, recovering herself. ‘What—what date will that be?’

‘The fifteenth of July.’

‘The fifteenth? Let me think. I have a feeling that something is happening on that date already.’

Corroboration was immediately forthcoming, from the breakfast-table.

‘I should think something was happening! The Regatta!’

Mildred gave a little sigh of relief, and turned to Laura.

‘There, dear; you see—’

‘I selected the date on purpose,’ announced Laura calmly.

‘Are the Society going to teach the crews how to row?’ inquired Joan.

‘I have selected that date,’ pursued Laura, ‘because everybody of importance in the district will be here. The Regatta ends about six, and nothing happens after that, except a lot of unnecessary eating and drinking’—she rolled a cold eye in the direction of the breakfast-table—‘until the fireworks commence at nine. The Meeting can be at a quarter-past six.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Then that’s settled.’

‘I suppose so, dear,’ said Mildred resignedly.

‘Thank you. By the way, we haven’t got a chairman yet. Will you be here, Sir Anthony?’

‘No!’ shouted Joan and Denny together.

‘I hope Uncle Tony will be here,’ remarked Mildred gently, ‘but we don’t want to commit him to public appearances at present. He’s having a holiday.’

‘Well, I shall see,’ said Laura calmly. ‘Now I must be off; I have some Old Age Pensioners to visit. You shouldn’t wear blue, Mildred; it doesn’t suit you. I have spoken to you about it before. Good-bye!’

She strolled through the window, and the sound of her resolute footsteps died away. The Cradock family promptly indulged in extravagant manifestations of relief from strain.

‘Old maids’ children!’ remarked Joan, swinging her legs over the arm of her chair.

‘Social Stinks!’ mumbled Denny.

‘Now, don’t be uncharitable, children,’ said Mildred, who never quite gave up hope of reforming her family. ‘Laura is a very good woman. I wish I had her courage.’

‘I wish I had her nerve!’ said Joan.

‘I wish I had her moustache!’ said Denny, with obvious sincerity.

‘What do you think of the League, Uncle Tony?’ asked Joan.

Sir Anthony puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.

‘There is quite a vogue for that sort of interference with other people’s comfort nowadays,’ he said. ‘How you can educate children to make mud pies, or play hopscotch, or drown kittens in a canal rationally and scientifically beats me. Still, it may keep them out of worse mischief.’

‘The children?’

‘No. The Society!’

‘You’re as bad as the rest, Uncle Tony!’ sighed Mildred.

Sir Anthony laughed, and patted her upon the shoulder.

‘Temporary demoralisation, produced by bad company—that’s all!’ he said. ‘When does the aquatic adventure start?’

‘As soon as possible. Boys, go and get the launch ready: the lunch baskets are in the hall.’

‘Righto!’ said Denny. ‘Bags, old friend, you have eaten enough. Give us a hand, Joan.’

The resisting guest was uprooted by his hosts and escorted, still masticating, out of sight and hearing.

Mildred sat down upon the sofa beside Sir Anthony. They smiled upon one another understandingly.

‘You’re a happy woman, Mildred.’

‘Who wouldn’t be, with my children?’

‘They certainly are a credit to somebody. All done by kindness and Ancestor Worship!’

Mildred shook a finger at him.

‘You’ve been talking to Joan!’

‘Joan may have been talking to me,’ admitted Uncle Tony guardedly.

Mildred knitted her brows.

‘Joan is a little inclined to be restive under my old-fashioned methods,’ she said; ‘but Ancestor Worship has been more of a help to her than she realises. It’s not easy for young people to keep to the right line in these days, Uncle Tony. It’s a terribly dangerous age that they live in. Do you realise that?’

‘You mean—so much liberty—licence?’

‘Yes—especially for girls. Joan could get into all sorts of mischief if she wanted to; and I think she sometimes does want to. She is more temperamental—horrid word!—than you would think. But I believe I have taught her what her father would have taught her—that it would not be playing the game to take advantage of the complete liberty I give her to do anything—common.’

‘I see.’

‘She’s a terribly modern child, of course—utterly outspoken about other people, and utterly reticent about herself. Now, Molly’—Mildred’s brow was suddenly unravelled—‘is a particularly satisfactory child to have. She positively enjoys confiding in her mother.’

‘It’s a good thing you have no favourites!’ said Uncle Tony solemnly.

‘And it’s true! Only’—there was a curious tremor in Mildred’s voice now—‘Molly seems to belong to me more than the other two. You see, she came to me after—after I became a widow; and that makes me feel solely responsible for her, somehow. No, Molly’s no trouble; Denny is my anxiety. He’s a nice, amiable, amusing boy; but he’s terribly weak—especially where a pretty face is concerned.’

‘Did you ever know a man who wasn’t?’

‘Were you?’

‘I was,’ replied Sir Anthony majestically—‘and am!’ He kissed his niece. ‘Denny’s all right; he’ll settle down. Don’t worry, my dear.’

‘I try not to,’ said Mildred, with a little sigh.

‘On the contrary, you should rejoice. Now, I’m going into the garden to excogitate a suitable birthday homily for my godson. My chief difficulty will be to select a text.’

‘I’ll come and help you to find him,’ said Mildred: ‘he’s probably down at the landing-stage by this time. Then I must come back and collect a few umbrellas and waterproofs. No one in this house will do it if I don’t—and you know what an English summer day can be! I’ll ring for Simmons to clear breakfast. Dear Denny! It’s ridiculous to think he’s twenty-one!’

Mildred took her uncle’s arm, and the pair disappeared into the garden.

Simmons entered with the tray, and began to clear away breakfast. Her first proceeding was to examine Denny’s place at table, from which, she observed with a fluttering heart, her birthday present had disappeared. Almost at the same moment the recipient of the gift came softly down the staircase and entered the room. His rubber-soled boating-shoes made no sound. He halted in the doorway, reddened, and gazed fondly upon the preoccupied Simmons, nervously caressing his upper lip. Then, under sudden impulse, he stepped forward and put his hands over the girl’s eyes.

Simmons gave a terrified little yelp, broke away, and whirled round.

‘Oh!’ she whispered. ‘It’s you, Mr. Denis, dear!’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ admitted Denny. ‘But I told you not to call me ‘Mr. Denis.’ He stepped forward again, and, conquering the fundamental diffidence of the youthful male, put his arms round her. Simmons submitted, passively. Passive submission was her principal charm in Denny’s eyes: what lovers of twenty-one chiefly dread is a rebuff.

‘Did you give me that horseshoe present?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, dear!’

Simmons wriggled shyly, then made the effort.

‘Yes—dear! Did you like it—dear?’

‘I thought it was absolutely topping. Er—I say—you are a little darling, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. I simply can’t resist you.’

‘Oh!’

Deeply gratified, Miss Simmons buried her face timidly in Denny’s shoulder.

‘I simply can’t resist any one,’ continued Denny, with more candour than tact, ‘who is fair and fluffy.’

‘Just any one?’ asked Simmons, looking up sharply.

‘I don’t love any of them, of course,’ Denny hastened to add. ‘I only love you.’

‘Reelly?’

‘Yes, really.’

Simmons’s face was upturned now, and very close. The moment had arrived. Summoning all his manhood, Denny kissed her. Simultaneously there came a stifled exclamation from the open window, where Mildred and Uncle Tony, deep in conversation, had just drifted into view.