On the Night of the Seventh Moon

I stared at the name for some seconds, and then I was back in the narrow street with the cobbled road, the overhanging signs; I was standing outside Dr. Kleine’s clinic and my body was heavy with my lively unborn child.

Two women had spoken to me on that occasion. Yes, their name had been Elkington. They sold teas and coffees, homemade cakes and homemade knicknacks like tea-cosy covers and egg-covers.

I shivered and felt vaguely apprehensive.

I was right to feel so. On the first afternoon of the sale of work they were there. Two pairs of bright eyes regarded me. They were like monkey’s eyes dark, living, curious.

“Why, it’s Miss Helena Trant.”

“Yes,” I said.

“We sent the egg-cosies.”

“Thank you. They are very useful.”

“I hope you like the red and green combination,” said the younger.

I said I thought it was most effective.

The elder of the two said: “didn’`t we see you in Germany?”

“Oh yes, I believe you did.”

“You’d gone out with your cousin, I believe, and stayed quite a long time.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Interesting,” said the elder; and I did not much like the gleam in her eye.

It made me more uneasy.

Aunt Caroline worked herself up into a fury that night. Matilda had come in and hurried off early because she was worried about Albert.

You had to be careful with one kidney, she kept saying.

I was late back. I had had quite a success with my stall and by the time I had added up the takings and packed away the unsold goods and gone back with Mrs. Greville with this, it was beginning to get late.

Aunt Caroline screamed at me when I came home.

She really looked very wild, her hair in disorder, her face flushed.

She had been knocking on the floor with her stick for the last half an hour. No one had answered. Our maid Ellen was a lazy good-for-nothing, she declared; Matilda was besotted about that man next door; Amelia had gone to some concert; and I of course was busy chasing Anthony Greville. No one had spared a thought for her, but that was how it was when you were ill. People were so selfish.

She went on and on and I was afraid for her because the doctor had said that she must not become excited. He had given me some pills which should have a calming effect but when I suggested she take one, she cried: “That’s right, blame it on to me. I’m the one who has to calm down. I have to keep quiet. I mustn’`t say a word. You all go gadding off to enjoy yourselves in the grand man-hunt. First Matilda Matty she calls herself now. Matty indeed! She’s gone back to her second childhood. And as for you! You’re brazen you are. I wonder the vicar can’t see through you. Well, you’re not a girl any more, are you? You’re getting a bit worried. You’re going to be left on the shelf if you don’t watch out. But nobody could say you’re not watching out. On the prowl, I’d say.”

I cried: “Be quiet. Aunt Caroline. You’re talking nonsense.”

“Nonsense. Nonsense that’s as plain as the nose on your face. Nonsense indeed! Anyone with half an eye can see what you’re after.”

I was goaded beyond endurance and I said: “As a matter of fact Anthony has asked me marry him.”

I saw her face change, and I knew then that this was what she feared, and suddenly I saw clearly what her life had been. She had not had Matilda’s more simple nature; Matilda had been interested in her invalids and sympathetic towards them: there was no sympathy in Aunt Caroline’s nature. She had been the less attractive of the two sisters. She was the eldest of the family. My father had come in between. She had had to stand aside for him and envy had eaten into her soul. I saw it there on her face-envy of my father for whom sacrifices had had to be made, for Matilda, who had made other people’s ailments her interest and who had now found a new life in her marriage; myself, as she thought, about to marry. Poor Aunt Caroline, robbed of everything; the education my father had had, the husband Matilda had; and in addition she was an invalid. I felt deeply sorry for her. Envy that deadliest of the seven sins-had etched those bitter lines about her mouth, had tightened it and set the sneering glitter in her eyes. Poor, poor Aunt Caroline.

I thought: I must look after her. I must try to be patient.

“Aunt Caroline,” I began, “I...

But she was groping for her pills. I took one and put it into her mouth.

I said, “You had better rest now. I am here if you want anything.”

She nodded; and that night she died.

No one could mourn her. Her passing could only be what was aptly and so commonly known as ‘a happy release’. “Her condition could only have worsened,” said the doctor. Aunt Matilda reverted to type and talked endlessly about hearts which were such funny things but were going to get you in the end. I should sleep next door until after the funeral, she said. Mrs. Greville immediately invited me to the vicarage, but I had already accepted Aunt Matilda’s offer. So I slept in the room which had been mine as a very small child before my father had acquired the house next door.

There was that bustling which funerals always meant. Aunt Matilda was in her element. Funerals as the ultimate climax to illness were a matter of great interest to her. Everything must be done in a manner which she considered ‘right’. Black had to be ordered and made at great speed; as chief mourner Aunt Matilda assumed a great importance.

I was next and we should go together; she would lean on my arm and I. would have to support her. Tears were necessary on such an occasion, and it was very strange, she told me, that some’ people did not always find it easy to shed them. One must not speak ill of the dead (an important point in funeral etiquette) but Aunt Caroline had been very ill and it was hard to regret her death. If tears should prove difficult, and she knew that I was by no means an easy shedder of them (“You’ never were,” she confided.

“It was something to do with being sent away from home when you were young’), she had heard a peeled onion concealed in the handkerchief was very effective.

I listened to the chattering and I thought how life had changed for her since Mr. Clees had come along; and that she was a much pleas anter person than she had been under the sway of Aunt Caroline and a participator in the perpetual bickering that seemed inevitable.

Marriage had been a blessing for her. And for me? I believed it would be the same. The black arrived. Aunt Matilda was not pleased with Amelia’s hat; her own, with its jet brooch and dead black satin ribbons, was a triumph. There were the wreaths which caused great consternation lest they should arrive too late. Aunt Matilda could not bear the thought of her sister’s being :y carried to her last resting-place without the “Gates of Heaven , Ajar’ which she and Albert were contributing. In our little drawing-room the coffin stood on trestles; there was a funereal smell throughout the house. The blinds were drawn in all rooms and our little maid had gone home to her mother because she couldn’'t face spending the nights alone in the |j house with the dead.

At last the day arrived. The solemn black-clad, top-hatted men walking beside the black-velvet caparisoned horses provided mournful solemnity, and the necessary pall of gloom had been arranged even to Aunt Matilda’s complete satisfaction.

Then back to the rooms over the shop to partake of funeral meats. Cold ham. Aunt Matilda said, was a necessity. At one funeral she had been given cold chicken, which in her opinion showed a certain levity out of keeping with the occasion.

The evening came.

T should stay here one more night,” said Aunt Matilda. So I did; and in my little room that night, I thought: I should marry Anthony.