Margot Bennett - The Man Who Didn't Fly

“Don’t worry too much about money,” her father said.

“Money? I wasn’t thinking about money,” she said sadly.

“Someone has to think about it. We’re not rich, you know, Hester. We haven’t much. I shouldn’t be doing all this work myself if we had. But at last I see light ahead. I have a plan – at least Maurice has a plan.”

“Oh, Maurice,” Hester said in a voice of relief.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve had to put a lot of work in with Maurice. He obviously knows the tree the money grows on – these people who work at something mysterious in the City usually do. I’ve asked his advice often enough. But he’s said to me quite frankly that one rocket looks like another until it bursts, and he doesn’t want me to risk my capital on a dud.”

“Father, he’s right. Don’t gamble on the Stock Exchange. Take Maurice’s advice and keep what capital is left.”

“At four per cent? You know we don’t get enough to pay the grocer’s bill.”

“But Maurice knows better than you, Father.”

“Maurice has been very excited for the last week or two. I’m convinced he’s on to something big.” Wade hesitated, and looked shyly at Hester.

“I’ve cashed some securities already,” he said. “What are they worth? Four hundred a year. What am I risking? Nothing.”

“I know we live in hard times,” Hester said. “Even so, four hundred a year isn’t exactly nothing.”

“But it’s safe. Maurice won’t let me put money in unless it’s safe. Hester, we might be rich – rich enough to live on capital again. What would my little medical student say to a year in Paris – or Vienna?”

“That’s not the way I see it,” Hester said shortly. “Please try to keep your head, Father. You know you’re not good about money.”

“And what do you know about money?” Wade demanded angrily. “You’re only a child, Hester. It’s not my habit to take advice from children.”

“Nor from anyone else. Oh, this is much worse than your idea about the hotel. I can’t let you risk the little capital you have. When you lose it, what shall we do?” Hester asked in agitation. “It’s three years before I qualify – and there’s Prudence. I’ll speak to Maurice.”

“Hester, I forbid it. Maurice is reluctant enough, as it is. I absolutely forbid you to say one word to Maurice. I know what I’m doing.”

“Father, the wall!” Hester said.

Wade turned round. The wall into which he had been ramming plaster was bulging dangerously. There was a noise like a rifle shot, then about two square yards of wall, borne outwards by the weight of the new plaster, crashed into the room and was buried under the sand that poured from above.

Hester looked at the ruins. “The home decorator,” she said, impelled by the bitter force that nature provides to intensify the war between generations. “Oh, Father, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, anxious for peace.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Nothing. Only more money to be spent.”

“Don’t work any more now. Come down to lunch,” she said uneasily.

“Lunch!” he looked at her sorrowfully, like a man who could no longer afford to eat. “Lunch. Yes, that reminds me. Be a good girl, Hester. Don’t ask Harry to stay to lunch.”

“He’s already been asked.”

“I wish you wouldn’t issue these invitations without consulting me.”

“But I didn’t ask him. You did.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe anyone asked him. This kind of thing is always happening with him. Tell him he can’t stay to lunch after all.”

Hester looked at him angrily, then suddenly she saw the disappointment and weariness on his face. He stood beside the ruins of the wall, the inefficient man confronted once again with the wreck of his hopes. She went to him quickly and squeezed his hand.

“Father, even if it’s falling down it’s lovely to be home again. The view from this window is better – better than a week in Paris. Come and look out of the window with me. I’m so happy when I look over the treetops. Most people only see trees from underneath.”

He went with her to the window.

“It’s you I’m thinking of – and Prudence,” he said.

“I know, Father. I’ll leave you with the view and go and speak to Harry.”

Harry was sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

She sat down beside him.

“Harry, I don’t think it would be tactful to stay to lunch.”

His face became strained and infinitely sad. He looked at her with his melancholy, appealing eyes, until she was filled with a conviction of his helplessness, and so was all the more touched when he spoke, not of himself, but of her.

“Hester, you’re tired. You’re trying to carry the house on your back. It’s a thing that only snails can do. If you’re not a snail, the house will flatten you hard as a sixpence. Give up all this snaili-ness. Come butterflying to the pub with me.”

“I thought you had no money.”

“I could borrow some from Uncle Joe.” His face became serious. “Well, perhaps I couldn’t. Not today.” He leant back, thinking.

“Your father might be willing to lend me a pound,” he suggested.

“I don’t think I want a drink,” Hester said brusquely. She stood up. She wasn’t entirely in sympathy with Harry’s ideas about money. Most of her conversations with him left her in a confusion of tenderness and disapproval.

“If you don’t want a drink, I do. If I’m not to have lunch I’ll wait in the drawing-room and have a sip of your father’s sherry.”

“No, Harry, he wouldn’t like it. Oh, I do wish you had some normal conventional feelings,” she said in despair.

“HAS Harry gone?” Morgan asked.

“He hasn’t stayed to lunch,” Hester said, looking quickly across the table at her father.

Morgan’s flat, usually expressionless face, registered a brief smile, and he began to talk rapidly. He was like a clock that after days of standing unwound on a mantelpiece has suddenly been jolted enough to make it tick again. Everyone always felt relieved when Morgan spoke.

“When Harry stays to lunch,” he said, “the next thing that happens is that around two in the morning I’m being asked to play Donegal Poker. You have two cards each and you take away the value of the one from the other. Then you bet a penny, or a shilling, or a pound that the difference in your cards is bigger than the difference in his. Or if you don’t want to bet you put your money in the kitty instead. And you get extra from the kitty for every point you win by. It’s a gambling game,” he added unnecessarily. He glanced at Wade. “If any girl decides to marry Harry, she’ll have a bad time.”

“This is wonderful soup, Prudence,” Hester said.

“I had to grate twelve onions with my eyes shut,” Prudence said. “I’d better warn you that my cooking phase is nearly over. I’m going on to dress-designing next. Why would any girl who married Harry have a bad time, Morgan?”

“Gamblers are always losing the housekeeping money,” Morgan said.

“Always? Don’t they sometimes win?” Prudence asked. She was still at the age when contradiction is automatic.

“Not often,” Morgan said, looking around for help. His conversational phase was over, and he wanted to be left alone on the mantelpiece again.

“I thought they sometimes had syndicates and died rich,” Prudence persisted.

“Not many do.”

“And some gamblers make fortunes on the Stock Exchange and go to Hunt balls. It would be O.K. being married to a gambler like that. The real thing is not to generalise,” Prudence said sternly.

“Harry doesn’t make fortunes on the Stock Exchange. He plays Donegal Poker in the small hours,” Morgan said angrily. He was usually a very quiet man, emotional only about his illnesses, but Prudence could annoy him very quickly. She was sixteen, not at all shy in her assumption that she had the solution to all human problems; and she added to this common adolescent feature a frightening competence. She could light a fire with one match and mend broken fuses.