The Whiteoak Brothers. Mazo de la Roche

it was his birthday. He ought to be in a good mood. And perhaps Piers had a present for him. He remembered that on his last birthday Piers had given him something. What had it been? Oh, yes, a necktie, a quite decent one. It was still one of his best. He thought he would put it on this morning. It would be a sort of polite thing to do. It would remind Piers that this was his birthday. Strange that Piers had not remarked the day, because he was one who generally gave you a hard smack for every year and a terrific one “to grow on.” He glanced at his brother to see if he were noticing the tie but Piers had sunk on to his pillow again and closed his eyes. He was enjoying his Saturday freedom from school. He had that look of blissful carefreeness on his healthy face that Finch both envied and distrusted. He envied it because he knew that never could he achieve that look and he distrusted it because it sometimes was the forerunner of a teasing mood. He stood staring at Piers for a space, the tie in his hand. Then he saw that Piers had abruptly fallen asleep again, in that way he had, as though he could sleep or wake at will.

      Fifteen seemed, in some way, a landmark to Finch. He felt that he was different. He was no longer a kid. There was a certain dignity attached to the fifteenth birthday. Why, in just six years more he would be of age. What would he be like then, he wondered. A very different sort of fellow from what he was today. He put back his shoulders and held himself very straight. But only for a moment. It really was too much effort the first thing in the morning.

      And what a morning! An icy rain was beating on the panes, running down in dreary rivulets to form a pool on the sill. The old cedar tree close to the window looked as though it had been lifted dripping from a pool. Surely no rain could make it quite so wet. Beyond it he could see the blurred shape of the stables and the figure of a stableman running towards them. Benny, the English sheepdog, was walking tranquilly toward the house, as though he didn’t give a fig for the rain…. What a day for a birthday! And yet Finch had, deep down in him, that delicious feeling of excitement.

      He poured the water in which Piers had washed his hands last night into the slop bowl. He poured fresh water from the ewer into the basin, noticing with distaste the grimy rim round its edge where the wash water had been. Now he splashed the fresh cold water over his face, passed his wet hands across his lank light-brown hair, and made a pretence of drying himself. Why the hell did Piers have to use his towel as well as his own, and drop them both on the floor? He wondered whether or not he would brush his teeth and decided against it.

      He wished someone would give him new hairbrushes and a comb. Certainly these were dilapidated. He couldn’t even remember whom they had belonged to or how long he had had them, and he could remember a long way back. His hair looked nice and moist and sleek when he had finished with it but, by the time he had finished dressing, that unruly lock was out of place and falling stiffly over his forehead. He cleaned his nails, then, with an eager feeling deep inside him, went forth to meet his birthday.

      At the top of the stairs he hesitated to look in at Eden, asleep on his back. Always he left his bedroom door wide open. His arms were thrown above his head, and his hair, of a bright gold, lay tossed against the pillow. There was something in the sight of Eden lying there that made Finch feel uneasy, almost sad. But then there was something sort of sad about anybody lying fast asleep. Even Eden had a look almost of humility, as though he were sorry for having been suspended from the university last term and would never, never do anything wrong again. Yet the moment his eyes were open that look would be gone, and he’d not be pleased to find Finch staring in at him. Finch wondered if Eden had a present for him.

      In the passage he met his sister Meg, leading the youngest member of the family by the hand. Why should she lead as though he were a baby, when he would be seven next June? Why should she dress him and fuss over his hair and spoil him in every possible way? There were others who could do with a little more attention than they got.

      “Why, Finch dear,” Meg said reproachfully, “why in the world have you put on your Sunday suit? It’s only Saturday. Did you get mixed up in the days, dear?”

      He had a mind to shout back — “It’s my birthday, isn’t it? A fellow has a right to wear his best suit on his birthday, hasn’t he?” But he said nothing. He just stared at her with his mouth open.

      Little Wakefield tugged at Meg’s hand. “I want my brekkus. I want my brekkus,” he said, in the whiny voice he kept especially for his sister.

      “Listen, Finch.” Meg spoke in a reasoning way. “Listen, dear. I want you to go back and take off that suit. It’s been all freshly sponged and pressed. I don’t want you to get spots on it. So do, like a good boy….”

      Finch turned from her and ran up the stairs. “All right,” he called back, his voice breaking in anger, “I’ll change, I’ll come down in my old rags. Don’t worry.”

      Meg raised her blue eyes to him in wonder. “What a temper to get in, dear! If Renny heard you I don’t know what he’d say.”

      “He’d give him a clip on the ear,” put in Wakefield, turning suddenly from a baby into a horrid small boy.

      “You shut up,” called down Finch.

      Now Wakefield was a real little gamin. “Shut up yourself!” he yelled.

      “I will not have such rudeness from either of you,” Meg was saying. She grasped the little boy’s hand more firmly and began to descend the stairs into the hall below.

      Finch fervently hoped he would not have to change his suit with Piers’s laughing eyes on him. Thankfully he saw that Eden had only been enough disturbed to make him roll over on his face. Piers was still fast asleep, one hand cradling a pink cheek. Tremblingly Finch jerked off jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. As they sank to the floor he gave them a savage kick. He was ashamed and worried by his own temper. From the clothes cupboard he got his most disreputable trousers, the ones with the paint stains on the knees, and an old grey pullover with holes in the elbows. If Meg wanted to see him shabby on his birthday he certainly would give her that pleasure. He couldn’t understand Meg. She was always after him for his untidiness, yet, when he made himself really tidy, she was after him again.

      The rain was coming down harder than ever. That spot in the ceiling was beginning to leak again. He would let it leak. It would serve Meggie right, serve Piers right when he stepped into a puddle. But halfway down the stairs he thought better of it. “Gosh,” he thought, “if I was setting out to do a murder, I’d not be able to finish the job. I’d leave the fellow just half-killed.” He ran back up the stairs, emptied his wash water from the basin and placed it beneath the falling drops. He stood motionless, listening to them as they fell. At first they made almost no sound. Then as a little pool formed, they fell into it with the pleasantest sound. Not just a tinkle but a sweet cadence, like the beginning of a little tune. He stood with head bent, his long light eyes rapt in listening.

      Piers opened his eyes, took one look at the basin and rolled over with a groan.

      Downstairs in the dining room four of the family were at breakfast — Meg who was taking nothing but tea and a sliver of toast, young Wakefield who was making miniature canals and lakes in his plate of porridge and milk, and the two uncles, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak, who were eating heartily of bacon and eggs. All four raised their eyes to Finch as he appeared in the doorway. The uncles said good morning, but no one spoke of his birthday. He sank into his chair and drooped there. Nicholas and Ernest went on with a discussion of the increase in taxation in England since the war. As they had spent the greater part and by far the most enjoyable part of their lives there, even though Nicholas’s marriage to an Englishwoman had ended in divorce, their interests and their conversation turned often to London and their past pleasures. There they had spent their patrimony, their prime, returning to Jalna when their bank accounts dwindled and receiving from their younger brother, Philip, who had inherited the property, a generous and warm-hearted welcome.

      Ernest was at this time just under seventy and Nicholas just over it, fine-looking men with an elegance quite unusual in these days, though Nicholas was tending more and more toward allowing his thick black hair, that was streaked with grey, to grow too long, and to being a bit careless about his cigar ashes. But Ernest was immaculate, looking, as his nephews said, always ready