Wicked Uncle (3 page)

It was about an hour and a half later that Dorinda knocked on what had been the nursery door. A voice said, “Come in!” and she had no sooner done so than she became aware that after a brief unhappy interlude as a schoolroom it had quite firmly reverted to being a nursery again. All Marty’s clothes were airing in front of a fire, Marty was putting away his toys in a toy-cupboard, and a large, firm, buxom woman whom no one could have taken for anything but a nurse, was sitting up to the table darning socks. The scene was peaceful in the extreme, but there was an underlying feeling that if anything broke the peace, Nurse would want to know the reason why. Dorinda knew all about nurses. She had had a very strict old-fashioned one herself in the days before so much of Aunt Mary’s money had been disposed of by the Wicked Uncle. She said, “Good afternoon, Nurse,” very respectfully, and then explained that Mrs. Oakley had asked her to find out whether she had everything she wanted.

Nurse Mason inclined her head and said in a tone which was more non-belligerent than neutral that what she hadn’t got she would see about, thank you.

Marty stopped with a headless horse in his hand.

“Nannie says she never did see anything like the way my things is gone to rack an’ ruin.”

“That will be enough from you, Marty! You keep right on putting those toys away—and shocked I am to see the way they’ve been broke.”

Marty thrust the mutilated horse out of sight and turned round with a cheerful smile.

“I’ve been a very naughty boy since you’ve been away, haven’t I, Nannie?”

“You go on picking up your toys!”

With an armful of wreckage, Marty continued to discourse.

“I frowed her brooch out of the car”—he appealed to Dorinda for confirmation—“didn’t I? And I digged a pin into her leg to make it bleed. Did it bleed, Miss Brown?”

“I haven’t looked,” said Dorinda.

Nurse had fixed a penetrating eye upon the culprit.

“Then you say you’re sorry to Miss Brown this very minute! Digging pins into people to make them bleed—I never heard such a thing! More like naked heathen savages than a child brought up in any nursery of mine! Go and say you’re sorry at once!”

Marty dropped all the toys he had gathered, advanced two paces, clasped his hands in front of him, and recited in a rapid sing-song,

“I’m sorry I was a naughty boy and I won’t do it again.”

There was a little talk about the brooch, Nurse being much shocked on hearing that it had been a legacy from a great-grandmother, and Marty contributing a few facts about cairngorms and finishing up with,

“I frowed it as hard as shooting from a gun.”

“I don’t want to hear no more about it,” said Nurse with decision.

“And I frowed water out of the kettle on to Miss Cole, and she put on her coat and hat and went away.”

“That’s enough, Marty! If those toys aren’t back in ten minutes, you know what will happen.”

He bent strenuously to the task.

Dorinda turned to go, but just as she did so something caught her eye. When Marty dropped his armful it had really been more of a throw than a drop. The lighter things had scattered, amongst them a bent carte-de-visite photograph. Dorinda picked it up and began to straighten it out. At just what instant everything in her began a landslide, she didn’t know. She heard Nurse say sharply,

“Marty, wherever did you get that photograph from? Is it one of your mother’s?”

And she heard him say, “It comed out of a box.”

“What box did it come out of?”

“A box. And it was all crumpled up and stuck in underneaf.”

Dorinda heard the words, but she didn’t make anything of them. She was sliding much too fast. By making a simply tremendous effort she managed to say, “I’ll see it’s put back,” and she managed to get out of the room.

Her own room was just across the landing. When she had locked herself in she sat down on the bed and gazed in unbelieving horror at the crumpled photograph. There wasn’t any mistake: The name of the photographer was glaringly legible— “Charles Rowbecker and Son, Norwood.” It was the twin photograph of the one in Aunt Mary’s album. It was, incredibly but indisputably, a photograph of the Wicked Uncle.

It was certainly a shock. Practically everyone has a relation whom they hope never to see again. There never has been, and probably never will be a time when this would occasion any particular remark. Dorinda sat and looked at the photograph and told herself what a perfectly ordinary thing it was to have a Wicked Uncle, and to find his photo doubled up among the nursery toys of your employer’s brat. She had the feeling that if she could convince herself of the ordinariness of what had just happened she would stop feeling as if she might be going to be sick. The fact was that she had always had what she chose to call a complex about Glen Porteous. A very, very long time ago that famous charm of his had charmed her too. And then one night she woke up and heard him talking to Aunt Mary, and all the charm turned to bitter poison. She couldn’t have been more than six years old, but she never forgot lying there in the dark and hearing them in the next room. The door must have been open, because she could hear quite well, and she never forgot, because it was the first time that she had heard a grown-up person cry. Aunt Mary had cried bitterly, and Uncle Glen had laughed at her as if she was doing something very amusing. After that he went away for about two years. Aunt Mary didn’t cry any more, but she got very strict and cross.

Dorinda came back out of the past. It was dead, and Aunt Mary was dead. But was the Wicked Uncle dead too—that was the question. It wasn’t a question to which she had any answer. His last appearance had been about seven years ago, when he had blown in and blown out again, leaving Aunt Mary noticeably more economical. She had rather taken it for granted that he was dead because he hadn’t come back, but that might only have been because he thought that there wasn’t any more to be had. As a matter of fact there was the fifty pounds a year which Dorinda had now, but he mightn’t have known about it, and the rest of what Aunt Mary had being an annuity, he couldn’t, even with the worst intentions in the world, put it in his pocket and walk off with it.

She stared at the photograph. It was the exact twin of the one in Aunt Mary’s album. It showed a good-looking man with dark hair and very dark dancing eyes. The hair curled a little too visibly. The teeth showed in a smile which everyone who knew him had considered charming. Dorinda wondered when it had been taken. Not later than about fifteen years ago, because after that he only came to get what he could out of Aunt Mary, and he wouldn’t have gone to a local photographer and given her a copy. She thought it must have been done when they were living at Norwood. Before the Row.

It was a long way from the time before the Row and Charles Rowbecker and Son to Marty’s toy-cupboard and the Mill House. The most frightening idea came suddenly into her head. Suppose the Wicked Uncle was Martin Oakley. She was too sensible to encourage it, but it lurked. Hastily assembling reasons to disprove it, she recalled that Nurse had given the photograph no name. If it was a picture of Martin Oakley, wouldn’t she have said, “What are you doing with your father’s picture all crumpled up like that?” She stopped feeling sick and her spirits began to rise. After all, the very worst that could happen would be that she might have to leave her job. But she wouldn’t have to—she felt quite reassured about that. Everyone has got old photograph albums full of junk. Aunt Mary had forgotten the names of a lot of the people in hers. Uncle Glen’s photograph was neither here nor there. It hadn’t the slightest importance. It was just something out of a junkery. She was wearing a dress with large patch pockets. She slipped the photograph into one of them and went down.

It ought to have been the easiest thing in the world to walk into the boudoir, slap the photograph down in front of Mrs. Oakley, and say, “Marty had this knocking about in his toy-cupboard. I told Nurse I’d bring it down.” But it wasn’t. When she thought about doing it she couldn’t even open the door and go in. It was too stupid. If Doris, who was one of the housemaids, hadn’t come along the passage, she might have just stuck there and grown into the floor. As it was, she got herself inside the room and found it empty. Voices from the bedroom next door proclaimed that Mrs. Oakley was dressing for dinner.

With a feeling of relief, Dorinda put the photograph down upon a gimcrack writing-table and ran upstairs to assume the despised blue dress.

When she came down again Mrs. Oakley had exchanged the sofa for the most comfortable of the armchairs. Her fluffy draperies were still pink, but of a different shade. The photograph was nowhere to be seen. No reference was made to it, which suited Dorinda very well. Anyone who had known Glen Porteous might have just as good reasons as she had herself for not wanting to talk about him.

They had a delightful meal on a tray. Dorinda told herself that there were going to be far too many meals, and all much too good, but it was a very pleasing change after the economical dullness of the food at the Heather Club.

They had no more than finished dinner, when the telephone bell rang. As it had been explained to her that her most important duty was to stand between Mrs. Oakley and the telephone, Dorinda went to it. The instrument stood upon the writing-table where she had put the photograph. She lifted the receiver and said,

“Mrs. Oakley’s secretary speaking.”

A man’s voice said, “Will you tell Mrs. Oakley that Gregory Porlock would like to speak to her?”

She replaced the receiver and repeated the request. With her back to her, Mrs. Oakley murmured,

“I don’t speak to anyone except Martin or someone I know very well indeed—never, never, never. He must talk to you, and you can tell me what he says.”

Dorinda took up the receiver again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Porlock—Mrs. Oakley asks me to explain that she never speaks on the telephone. I’m new, or I should have known. If you will tell me what you want to say, I will pass it on.”

She heard Mr. Porlock smother a laugh. Well, that was better than getting his back up. He said,

“Will you tell her I saw her husband this afternoon? I’m having a week-end party, and he promised that he and his wife would join us for dinner on Saturday night. He said it would be all right, but as I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Oakley yet I don’t want to seem to be taking too much for granted.”

Dorinda repeated this, and received the fretful reply that if Martin had said they would go, she supposed they would have to. The words were so barely audible that there were grounds for hoping that they would not carry as far as the Grange.

Dorinda conveyed a polite acceptance, and heard Mr. Porlock say, “Splendid!”

The word rang a bell somewhere. It reminded her of something or someone in one of those flashes which are so vivid whilst they last, and so impossible to recall when they are gone. She came out of a dizzying moment to hear him say,

“Now this is where I ought to be talking to Mrs. Oakley, because I want to ask her to be very kind and bring you along. Miss Brown, isn’t it?… Yes, I thought that was what Martin Oakley said—Miss Dorinda Brown. Now will you be as persuasive as I should be myself and tell Mrs. Oakley that I am a lady short and I am particularly anxious to make your acquaintance.”

Dorinda fixed a grave, frowning gaze upon the instrument. She considered Mr. Porlock’s manner to be on the familiar side. She repeated his invitation in the baldest possible way.

“He says he is a woman short on Saturday, and will you bring me. He seems to have fixed it up with Mr. Oakley.”

There was a murmur of assent. Dorinda put it into words, again heard Gregory Porlock say, “Splendid!” and hung up.

When she came back to her seat she found herself the object of Mrs. Oakley’s attention.

“What about an evening dress, Miss Brown? Have you one that will do?”

There really must be something wrong about that wretched blue dress, because Mrs. Oakley simply didn’t consider it for a moment.

“Oh, no—that was what I was afraid of. Martin telephoned while I was dressing, and he said I must see that you had something suitable.”

Dorinda wouldn’t have been human if she had been pleased. She said in a restrained voice,

“There is no need for me to go.”

Mrs. Oakley’s face puckered up as if she were going to cry.

“Oh dear—now you are offended—and Martin will say I have no tact And it isn’t that I haven’t really, but I do think being tactful is the most utterly exhausting thing, and my nerves won’t stand it. It will be so much simpler if you just won’t be offended. Because of course we couldn’t expect you to have clothes which you didn’t know you were going to want. And of course we shouldn’t expect you to be put to any expense, if you know what I mean.”

Dorinda knew quite well. She wasn’t Dorinda Brown—she was an Appanage, an outward and visible sign of the Oakleys’ financial standing. They could no more go out to dinner with a shabby secretary than with shabby liveries or an elderly broken-down car. Her Scottish pride stiffened.

And then she became aware that Mrs. Oakley was frightened. She was actually leaning forward, and the hand on the arm of her chair shook.

“Miss Brown—please don’t be offended. You are quite a young girl—why should you mind if we give you a frock?”

A real person had emerged from behind the frills. Not a very grown-up person—not at all accustomed to letting go of its props, and very shaky without them. Dorinda’s sweet temper reasserted itself. She said,

“But of course, Mrs. Oakley—it’s very kind of you.”

When Mrs. Oakley had gone to bed she rang up Justin Leigh.

“Look here, I’m coming up to town tomorrow… Yes, I know you thought you’d got rid of me—I did too. But you haven’t. There’s going to be a reprieve—or perhaps you’ll feel as if it was a relapse.”

Justin’s voice sounded cool and amused.

“I don’t know that I should go as far as that. Is this leading up to the fact that you will lunch with me tomorrow if I press you very hard?”

“Yes—at one o’clock. Because I’m being sent up to buy a dress to dine out in on Saturday, and if we lunch together I can show you what I’ve got, and if you thought it wouldn’t do, I could go back and change it.”

“Nothing doing. I don’t know where you’re in the habit of lunching with Tip and Buzzer, but in my high-toned circles you can’t try things on between courses.”

Dorinda gave a sort of wail.

“Justin, sometimes I do think you are a beast!”

“Far from it—I am a noble hero. I shall wangle my lunch-hour between twelve and one and meet you at—where are you going?”

“Mrs. Oakley said any one of these…” She read from a list of names.

“All right, we’ll take the big shop first. It will be easier for you to wait about for me there—let’s say the glove counter. A connoisseur’s eye can then direct your choice. What time do you get up?”

Dorinda was thrilled.

“Oh, Justin—will you really? I get up at half past ten. But that doesn’t matter—I’ve got things to do for Mrs. Oakley. I can put in the time all right—in fact I shall want it. I’m to be at Mr. Oakley’s office at a quarter past two, and he’ll drive me down. It will be more peaceful than it was today—at least I hope so.”

“Why, what happened today?”

She began to tell him about Marty and her brooch. If she made an amusing story of it, perhaps Justin would laugh. It appeared quite soon that he wouldn’t. He actually sounded angry as he exclaimed,

“Your great-grandmother’s brooch!”

“The only one I’ve got,” said Dorinda ruefully. “I shall have to buy a gold safety-pin to fasten the things that just have to be fastened. I know where I can get one for seven-and-six.”

“Then it won’t be gold.”

Dorinda giggled.

“You’re so lordly. It won’t be real of course—only rolled.”

Justin lost his temper quite suddenly. She had never heard him do it before, and it surprised her very much. The odd thing was that she heard it go, like something breaking at the other end of the line. He couldn’t have banged a door, but there was that kind of effect about it. After which he said in quite a violent tone, “I never heard such nonsense in my life!” and jammed the receiver back. Dorinda went to bed a good deal heartened.