Читать книгу Travels with my aunt / Путешествие с тетушкой. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Грэм Грин - Страница 4

I was quite right in my weather forecast. The grey clouds began to rain and I found myself preoccupied with my private worries. All along the shiny streets people were putting up umbrellas and taking shelter in the doorways of Burton’s, the United Dairies, Mac Fisheries or the ABC. For some reason rain in the suburbs reminds me of a Sunday.

“What’s on your mind?” Aunt Augusta said.

“It was so stupid of me. I left my lawn-mower out, on the lawn, uncovered.”

My aunt showed me no sympathy. She said, “Forget your lawn-mower. It’s odd how we seem to meet only at religious ceremonies. The last time I saw you was at your baptism. I was not asked but I came.” She gave a croak of a laugh. “Like the wicked fairy.”

“Why didn’t they ask you?”

“I knew too much. About both of them. I remember you were far too quiet. You didn’t yell the devil out. I wonder if he is still there?” She called to the driver, “Don’t confuse the Place with the Square, the Crescent or the Gardens. I am the Place.”

“I didn’t know there was any breach. Your photograph was there in the family album.”

“For appearances only.[9]” She gave a little sigh which drove out a puff of scented powder. “Your mother was a very saintly woman. She should by rights have had a white funeral. La Pucelle,” she added again.

“I don’t quite see… La Pucelle means – well, to put it bluntly, I am here, Aunt Augusta.”

“Yes. But you were your father’s child. Not your mother’s.”

That morning I had been very excited, even exhilarated, by the thought of the funeral. Indeed, if it had not been my mother’s, I would have found it a wholly desirable break in the daily routine of retirement, and I was pleasurably reminded of the old banking days, when I had paid the final adieu to so many admirable clients. But I had never contemplated such a break as this one which my aunt announced so casually. Hiccups are said to be cured by a sudden shock and they can equally be caused by one. I hiccupped an incoherent question.

“I have said that your official mother was a saint. The girl, you see, refused to marry your father, who was anxious – if you can use such an energetic term in his case – to do the right thing. So my sister covered up for her by marrying him. (He was not very strong-willed.) Afterwards, she padded herself for months with progressive cushions. No one ever suspected. She even wore the cushions in bed, and she was so deeply shocked when your father tried once to make love to her – after the marriage but before your birth – that, even when you had been safely delivered, she refused him what the Church calls his rights. He was never a man in any case to stand on them.”

I leant back hiccupping in the taxi. I couldn’t have spoken if I had tried. I remembered all those pursuits up the scaffolding. Had they been caused then by my mother’s jealousy or was it the apprehension that she might be required to pass again so many more months padded with cushions of assorted sizes?

“No,” my aunt said to the taxi-driver, “these are the Gardens. I told you – I am the Place.”

“Then I turn left, ma’am?”

“No. Right. On the left is the Crescent.”

“This shouldn’t come as a shock to you, Henry,” Aunt Augusta said. “My sister – your stepmother – perhaps we should agree to call her that – was a very noble person indeed.”

“And my – hic – father?”

“A bit of a hound, but so are most men. Perhaps it’s their best quality. I hope you have a little bit of the hound in you too, Henry.”

“I don’t – huc – think so.”

“We may discover it in time. You are your father’s son. That hiccup is best cured by drinking out of the opposite rim of a glass. You can imitate a glass with your hand. Liquid is not a necessary part of the cure.”

I drew a long free breath and asked, “Who was my mother, Aunt Augusta?” But she was already far away from that subject, speaking to the driver. “No, no, my man. This is the Crescent.”

“You said turn right, lady.”

“Then I apologize. It was my mistake. I am always a little uncertain about right and left. Port I can always remember because of the colour – red means left. You should have turned to port not starboard.”

“I’m no bloody navigator, lady.”

“Never mind. Just continue all the way round and start again. I take all the blame.[10]”

We drew up outside a public house. The driver said, “Ma’am, if you had only told me it was the Crown and Anchor…”

“Henry,” my aunt said, “if you could forget your hiccup for a moment.”

“Huc?” I asked.

“It’s six and six on the clock,” the driver said.

“Then we will let it reach seven shillings,” Aunt Augusta retorted. “Henry, I feel I ought perhaps to warn you before we go in that a white funeral in my case would have been quite out of place.”

“But-you’ve-never-married,” I said, very quickly to beat the hiccups.

“I have nearly always, during the last sixty or more years, had a friend,” Aunt Augusta said. She added, perhaps because I looked incredulous, “Age, Henry, may a little modify our emotions – it does not destroy them.”

Even those words did not prepare me properly for what I found next. My life in the bank had taught me, of course, to be unsurprised, even by the demand for startling overdrafts, and I had always made it a point[11] neither to ask for nor to listen to any explanation. The overdraft was given or refused simply on the previous credit of the client. If I seem to the reader a somewhat static character he should appreciate the long conditioning of my career before retirement. My aunt, I was to discover, had never been conditioned by anything at all, and she had no intention of explaining more than she had already done.