Flint and Roses Read Free Page B

indeed.
    But it was not in her nature to take second place to a Mrs. Morgan Aycliffe, her own sister, nor to a Mrs. Joel Barforth, her own brother’s wife, both these ladies younger, and in her view considerably less able, than herself, and although she was ready enough to borrow our carriage-horses and to help herself to the surplus products of the Barforth kitchens—unable, she said, to tolerate waste—I had always recognized her as a great power.
    Uncle Joel, no doubt, would wind up my father’s business affairs, or keep them ticking over as he thought fit, but unless my mother, who so far as I knew had never made a decision in her life, chose now to stir herself, it occurred to me that the minutiae of our daily lives—of far greater importance to us than building land and railway shares—would be left to Aunt Hannah.
    Uncle Joel, apparently disinclined for conversation, planted himself on the hearthrug dominating the fire, and, reaching for his cigar-case—although I did not think that even he would dare to smoke here, in my father’s drawing-room—allowed his gaze to rest speculatively on my father’s glass-fronted cabinets and his intricately inlaid, expertly polished tables, each one bearing the treasures of Sèvres and Meissen, Minton and Derby, that my father had cherished far more than his children.
    I saw Aunt Hannah’s husband look down uncomfortably at his feet, his sense of propriety telling him it was time to leave, his sense of reality reminding him he would need his wife’s permission to do so. I saw my Uncle Joel’s wife, kind Aunt Verity, smile with tolerant, tranquil understanding at her husband well aware, I thought, of his urge to light that forbidden cigar, and of the commercial instincts which were now leading him from force of habit to assess the value of my father’s porcelain.
    And for a while there was no sound but the busy crackling of the fire, the ticking of the ormolu and enamel clock standing, as it had always done, at the very centre of the mantelpiece, a black basalt urn perfectly placed at either side. But Aunt Hannah was not given to prolonged meditation, and, fixing my mother with an irritable eye, announced, ‘Well, then, Elinor—it’s a bad business.’
    â€˜Yes, dear. So it is.’
    â€˜Indeed. And he’ll be sadly missed, for heaven knows how we’ll find another Member of Parliament to serve us so well. I suppose the by-election must be quite soon?’
    â€˜Yes, dear. I suppose it must.’
    â€˜And I wonder if you have given any thought to a suitable memorial?’
    â€˜Oh—my word! Should I do that, do you think, Hannah?’
    â€˜I think it will be expected of you, Elinor. A headstone will hardly suffice, you know, for so distinguished a man. No—no—something altogether out of the ordinary. And it strikes me that if the worthies of this town could be prevailed upon to subscribe towards the building of a concert hall, then there would be every reason in the world to name it after your husband. Now what do you think to that?’
    â€˜That would be splendid, Hannah.’
    â€˜Well, then—if you agree, of course—a committee could easily be formed for the purpose, and in view of Mr. Aycliffe’s services to the community I can anticipate no difficulty. Really, it would be most appropriate.’
    And as my mother continued to smile, a placid little woman who had no objection to monuments or concert halls or anything else so long as she was not required to stir from her own warm corner, my Uncle Joel, that most awe inspiring of gentlemen, grinned suddenly, as mischievously as a schoolboy, and said, ‘Aye—most appropriate. And if the firm of Morgan Aycliffe should undertake the construction work, then I’d think it more than appropriate. I’d think it shrewd.’
    And with an air of enormous unconcern—master in his own home, master,