Late, Late in the Evening

sharing them out, on a promise not to tell, she said the receiver was worse than the thief.'

'Yes, but Uncle Arthur didn't steal the chocolate. He bought it fair and square with his own money. Besides, we couldn't refuse it. He would have been awfully offended. Nut-milk chocolate is about the most expensive sweet you can buy.'

'Perhaps we could make up for eating it. Put ourselves right some way.'

'Give most of our next brandy balls to Our Ern?' (That year we had only a halfpenny a week pocket- money.)

'No, that would be going too far. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll each put one brandy ball down the well as a sacrifice. That ought to get us in the clear.'

'We'd only have three left.'

'Yes, well, let's just add a private bit when we say our prayers tonight. That ought to do. Even God couldn't really expect us not to eat the chocolate when Uncle Arthur had bought it for us.'

As it turned out, when Sunday came and went, our consciences were clear. We spent no money, having none left to spend, and we even allowed Aunt Lally to pressurise us into going to Sunday school. She was always suggesting it and our usual response was to make ourselves scarce as soon as we could.

On this particular Sunday, however, we were unlucky. The blow fell at the very beginning of the day. We had come downstairs at nine because Aunt Lally always allowed herself what she called 'a long lie-in' on Sunday mornings, and were about to go over to Aunt Kirstie's when grandfather, seated as usual in his big leather-covered armchair, said, 'You'll breakfast and dine with us today. Kirstie and Arthur have business up at the manor.'

We asked no questions. Grandfather, in addition to his patriarchal appearance and dignified bearing, was autocratic and short-tempered and, I think, not very fond of children, having had eight of his own.

Kenneth said (daringly, I thought),

'They generally leave us something on their bedside table. We go in to say good morning and there's chocolate cream or something.'

'It's here,' said grandfather, pointing to the sideboard with the silver-topped ebony stick he always had by him. 'You may have it after breakfast.'

After breakfast, which was bacon and eggs and fried bread, but not nearly such good fried bread as Aunt Kirstie's, we were told to go upstairs again and put on our best clothes.

'But we never change until after Sunday dinner,' I said, looking down at my print frock.

'Your grandfather likes to see you dressed up pretty on a Sunday,' said Aunt Lally, ushering us up the stairs as though she thought we would cut and run if she were not there to superintend us. 'He'll give you a button-hole to wear to Sunday school if you're good children.'

'But we don't go to Sunday school. It's a waste of time,' said Kenneth.

'That's wicked talk,' said Aunt Lally, shocked. 'Besides, your cousins are coming to call for you at a quarter to ten. They always go to Sunday school in the morning, yes, and to Mission Hall at night.'

The only cousins still young enough to go to Sunday school were Uncle George's children, Cissie and Dannie. We despised them, and they disliked us. However, it was of no use to argue. Along with them we had to go. I had tumbled down the day before and was not anxious to exhibit my scars in public, so the triumph of Cissie and Dannie was complete when, near the beginning of the proceedings, the Sunday school superintendent, a bearded man with a cast in one eye, pointed straight at me and said sternly,

'Stop talking, that little girl with the scrazed nose!' (I was not talking. It was Cissie.)

However, we were free at last, and just as we reached grandfather's front gate and were discussing what there was likely to be for Sunday dinner-'Chicken, I hope,' said Kenneth-we saw Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur coming towards us down the hill. We rushed up to them.

'Thank you for the chocolate cream pigs,' I said. 'We've been to Sunday school. It was horrible. We knew much more about the Romans than the teacher who took our class. She was just plain ignorant. She only knew what was in the Bible.'

'That's no way to talk,' said Aunt Kirstie, who always paid lip-service, but no more, to religious observances. 'Sunday school is very nice and proper.'

'Can we have dinner with you instead of with Aunt Lally?' asked Kenneth.

'No, that you can't. Lally has killed and plucked a chicken specially. Besides, ours isn't even in the oven yet.'

'Aunt Lally said you went to the manor house. Did you really?'

'Your aunt don't tell lies,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'You'll maybe hear all about it later on.'

'Was it about Mr Ward?'

'Now why on earth should you ask me that?'

'Only because Lionel let out one day that Mr Ward was some kind of relation of his. He said he was a remittance man. What does that mean, Aunt Kirstie?'

'Only that he's kept by the family and doesn't have to work for his living.'

'Why doesn't he?'

'Because he was a gentleman born and has delicate health. And now you'd better run along, else Lally's dinner will spoil and I'll get the blame for keeping you talking.'

'You know what I think,' said Kenneth, when Sunday dinner was over and we