Old Filth - Jane Gardam [22]
“He has these wretched black moods,” said Mrs. Ingoldby, shelling peas under a beech tree. “Does it happen at school?”
“Yes. Sometimes. It does, actually.”
“D’you know what causes them? He was such a sunny little boy. Of course he is so clever, it’s such a pity. The rest of us are nothing much. I keep thinking it’s my fault. One’s mother becomes disappointing in puberty, don’t you think? I suppose he’ll just have to bear it.”
Eddie wondered what puberty was.
“I suppose it’s just this tiresome sex business coming on. Not, thank goodness, homo-sex for either of you.”
“No,” said Eddie. “We get too much about it from Sir.”
“Ah, Sir. And poor Mr. Smith.”
“Yes,” said Eddie. “And the Mr. Smiths are always changing and Sir broken-hearted and we have to take him up Striding Edge and get his spirits re-started.” Eddie had come some distance since the motor ride from North Wales.
“Your mother must feel so far from you, across the world.”
“Oh no, she’s dead. She died having me. I never knew her.”
“And your poor father, all alone still?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m sure he loves you.”
Eddie said nothing. The idea was novel. Bumble bees drowsed in the lavender bushes.
“My parents didn’t love me at all,” said Mrs. Ingoldby. “They were Indian Army. My mother couldn’t wait to get rid of me to England. She’d lost several of us. Such pitiful rows of little graves in the Punjab and rows of mothers, too. But she really wanted just to ship me off. I’m very grateful. I went to a marvellous woman and there was a group of us. We completely forgot our parents. My mother ran off with someone—they did, you know. Or took to drink. Not enough to do. They used to give orders to the Indian servants like soldiers—very unbecoming. Utterly loyal to England of course. Then my father lost all his money. He was rather pathetic, I suppose.”
“D-d-did he come to see you? In England?”
“Oh, I suppose so. Yes. I went to live with his sister, my Aunt Rose, when I grew up. It was very dull but I had nice clothes and she was very rich. I was never allowed to be ill. She was what is known as a Christian Scientist. Influenza in 1919 was tiresome. Everyone was dying. When my father turned up one day, a footman answered the morning-room door if you please (Aunt Rose had never opened a door in her life), and she just said, ‘Oh, there you are, Gaspard. You must be tired. Here is your little girl.’ D’you know, he burst into tears and fled. I can’t think why. Oh, how lucky I was to meet the Colonel.”
Walking across the fields with Pat, Eddie made about the only comment on anyone’s life he had ever made.
“Your mother seems to feel the same about everybody. Why is she always happy?”
“God—I don’t know.”
“She’s not bitter at all. Nobody liked her. Her parents sound awful if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You’ve had Aunt Rose and the footman? They were all barmy, if you ask me. Raj loonies.”
“She seems to feel—well, to like everybody, though.”
“Oh, no, she doesn’t. They were brought up like that. Most of them learned never to like anyone, ever, their whole lives. But they didn’t moan because they had this safety net. The Empire. Wherever you went you wore the Crown, and wherever you went you could find your own kind. A club. There are still thousands round the world thinking they own it. It’s vaguely mixed up with Christian duty. Even now. Even here, at Home. Every house of our sort you go into, Liverpool to the Isle of Wight—there’s big game on the wall and tiger skins on the floor and tables made of Benares brass trays and a photograph of the Great Durbar. Nowadays you can even fake it, with plenty of servants. It wasn’t like that in my grandfather’s generation. They were better people. Better educated, Bible-readers, not showy. Got on with the job. There was a job for everyone and they did it and often died in it.”
“I think my father will die in his. He thinks of nothing else. Sweats and slogs. Sick with malaria. And lost his