be 'drink.'
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Raisins
'Have you ever seen an orange?' Mrs Stratton asked. She had a pretty face, Oscar thought, with large soft lips and pale, gentle, blinking eyes, but everything about her was bigger than it should have been. 'Yes,' he said.
'Jolly good!' she said, and leaned back, folding her hands in her lap as if oranges were why he was there. He ate more of the nasty food. -'-…•
He thought: 'They are Thy servants, Lord.' It would appear that neither of the Strattons knew what to talk to him about. Mr Stratton tapped his plate with his fork and had more of his 'drink.' Mrs Stratton asked him about various fruit and then described for him a little church in Torquay which was being restored by some followers of Dr Pusey. There were to be a number of altars in the church apart from the high altar. Each altar was to have its own dresser and wardrobe in its sacristy. She asked Oscar what his view was on this subject.
'I do not know, ma'am,' the boy said in misery. He knew an altar was a place where heathen sacrifice was made. It was all he knew about the term. He knew he must eat his raisins, otherwise his plate would not be taken from him. They were waiting for him to eat the raisins. The raisins had become a symbol of a Christmas pudding. He knew he should eat them. He could not bring himself to do it.
'So you draw the line at altars,' Mrs Stratton suggested. 'Well, I don't know-Hugh, I really don't-don't know that it is incorrect to do so, for really there is so much that we have accepted unthinkingly, and if you will call it a communion table instead, I, for one, will not call you a fanatic.'
The boy moved a raisin sideways on the rim on his plate. He looked so very unhappy. Mrs Stratton smiled. 'Really, you know,' she said, 'it is a nice distinction. Don't you think so, Hugh?' And having begun her speech so confidently, she now ended on a breathless and rather supplicatory note, bowing her head. Mr Stratton suddenly took Oscar's raisins. He speared them, one, two, etc., with his fork. He did not speak until he had finished eating them.
'Do you think your pater will come rushing around here?' He stared at Oscar belligerently. 43
Oscar and Lucinda
Oscar could not hold his gaze. He was not comforted when Mrs Stratton patted his hand.'
'Threatening me?' asked Mr Stratton.
Until this moment Oscar had not thought about the immediate future at all. He had his mind on eternity. He had thought merely to do that which was unthinkable. Had he permitted himself to think about his father's actions he would never have had the will to climb the fence into the Anglican garden. But now, imagining his father arriving here, angry, threatening Mr Stratton, his heart lightened.
'Yes,' he said, 'I expect so.' And when he saw the effect of this on Mr Stratton, he felt suddenly very powerful. He was the object of his papa's care and love. Of course his papa would come. He was only a boy and the matter would be taken from his hands.
He smiled at Mrs Stratton, even though he knew that a smile was out of keeping with the seriousness of the question.
'Threats will do his cause no good,' said Mr Stratton. He picked up the bell and shook it. He was, it seemed, impatient that Oscar's plate should be removed by Mrs Millar. He topped up his
'drink.' 'You can tell him that from me.'
'You thought to stay
Mr Stratton, quite without warning, grinned at her. Mrs Stratton chose to attribute this grin to sherry.
'Yes, ma'am,' said Oscar.
'But what will your poor father do?' said Mrs Stratton. 'Think of the terrible pain you will cause him, to know his son is here with us, not half a dozen chains away.' Oscar's eyes were brimful of tears. He scratched his head. He looked around the room (a little wildly, Mrs Stratton thought).
'I know, ma'am. He will be very sad.'
Mrs Stratton heard the West Country accent where the Baptist boys had heard only London. She thought, not for the first time, how expressive it was. When Oscar said 'sad' she felt an immediate response, as if to a reed played in a minor key.
'Yes,' she said, 'most sad.'
'I know, ma'am, I
'But still you will go home to him,' she said, but looking at her husband whose intentions she had not divined. She expected to see his face twisted in anxiety about this matter. Money would be a trouble
44
Raisins
for him, that most of all. She was surprised therefore to see his grin transmogrified into a beneficent smile.
'But still,' said Mrs Stratton, continuing to look at her husband. 'Still you shall go home to him.' She added: 'Hugh?'
'Oh, no,' said Oscar, and he banged his hand upon his knee in an agony of agitation. Beneath the banging hand, his knee rose and fell, his foot drumming the Turkoman which made Hugh Stratton-in spite of his triumph- think about the rot in the floor joists.
'But surely,' she said, 'surely your father loves you?'
'Yes, yes, most dreadfully.' The tears had come now, but the boy had not lost control. Mrs Stratton extended her napkin a little and then, not having the offer accepted, withdrew it. She extended a hand to his shaking shoulder but did not feel she had a call to be intimate. He looked alien to her now, like a praying mantis-those long thin limbs shaking with agitation, the raw scratched hands wiping the triangular face. She thought this and still felt great compassion.
'I also love him,' said Oscar, with some effort.
The gooseberries and custard were then brought in by Mrs Millar who was surprised to see Mr Stratton serve the boy himself. He doled out excessive quantities of custard. It was not like him to be so generous towards a guest. Mrs Stratton also observed this custard-ladling with interest.
'I could not otherwise.'
'Otherwise?' said Mrs Stratton. 'Please have sugar if you wish.'
'Otherwise than to love him.' He accepted the very small handkerchief which Mrs Stratton gave him. He had never seen anything like it; it had fragile lace around its edges. He blew his nose thoroughly and judged the lace a poor material for such a task. 'But the dispute is not personal so much,' he did not know what to do with the handkerchief ('Keep it, keep it,' said Mrs Stratton),
'not so much personal as theological. You see,' he said, 'he is not saved.'
'What a remarkable boy you are,' said Mrs Stratton.
Oscar, in spite of his agony, felt pleased to accept this compliment and he tucked it away carefully just as he now tucked away this hard warm ball of wet handkerchief into the depth of his pocket. He
45
Oscar and Lucinda
'But, Oliver,' said Mrs Stratton, 'we cannot steal you from your father, even if we wished.'
'It is not Oliver,' said Mr Stratton (rather smugly, thought Mrs Stratton).
'What is it, then?'
'It is Oscar,' said Mr Stratton.
'Oscar?',
'Yes.'
