Read Online Old Filth by Jane Gardam - Free Book Online Page A

Ingoldby opened a bottle of Valpolicella which he remembered having drunk (“Did we dear?”) on their honeymoon in Italy before the Great War. The following year Eddie won one, too, and there was the same ritual.
    Mrs. Ingoldby was Eddie’s first English love. He had not known such an uncomplicated woman could exist. Calm and dreamy, often carrying somebody a cup of tea for no reason but love; entirely at the whim of a choleric husband, of whom she made no complaints. She was unfailingly delighted by the surprise of each new day.
    The house was High House and stood at the end of a straight steep drive with an avenue of trees. Old and spare metal fences separated the avenue from the fields which in the Easter holidays of the wet Lancashire spring were the same dizzy green as the rice-paddies of South-East Asia. Far below the avenue to the West you could look down the chimneys of the family business which was a factory set in a deli. It was famous for making a particular kind of carpet, and was called The Goit, and through it, among the buildings of the purring carpet factory, ran a wide stream full of washed stones and little transparent fishes. “I am told our water is particularly pure,” said Mrs. Ingoldby to Eddie Feathers (“Such an interesting name”).
    â€œI suppose it has to be, for washing the carpets,” said Eddie. “But what about all the dyes?”
    â€œOh, I’ve simply no idea.”
    Â 
    â€œTeddy” they called him, or “My dear chap” (the Colonel). Pat called him “Fevvers,” as at school, but otherwise often ignored him. He was different at home and went off on his own. He sometimes sulked.
    â€œHe has these wretched black moods,” said Mrs. Ingoldby, shelling peas under a beech tree. “Does it happen at school?”
    â€œYes. Sometimes. It does, actually.”
    â€œD’you know what causes them? He was such a sunny little boy. Of course he is so clever, it’s such a pity. The rest of us are nothing much. I keep thinking it’s my fault. One’s mother becomes disappointing in puberty, don’t you think? I suppose he’ll just have to bear it.”
    Eddie wondered what puberty was.
    â€œI suppose it’s just this tiresome sex business coming on. Not, thank goodness, homo -sex for either of you.”
    â€œNo,” said Eddie. “We get too much about it from Sir.”
    â€œAh, Sir. And poor Mr. Smith.”
    â€œYes,” said Eddie. “And the Mr. Smiths are always changing and Sir broken-hearted and we have to take him up Striding Edge and get his spirits re-started.” Eddie had come some distance since the motor ride from North Wales.
    â€œYour mother must feel so far from you, across the world.”
    â€œOh no, she’s dead. She died having me. I never knew her.”
    â€œAnd your poor father, all alone still?”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œI’m sure he loves you.”
    Eddie said nothing. The idea was novel. Bumble bees drowsed in the lavender bushes.
    â€œ My parents didn’t love me at all,” said Mrs. Ingoldby. “They were Indian Army. My mother couldn’t wait to get rid of me to England. She’d lost several of us. Such pitiful rows of little graves in the Punjab and rows of mothers, too. But she really wanted just to ship me off. I’m very grateful. I went to a marvellous woman and there was a group of us. We completely forgot our parents. My mother ran off with someone—they did, you know. Or took to drink. Not enough to do. They used to give orders to the Indian servants like soldiers—very unbecoming. Utterly loyal to England of course. Then my father lost all his money. He was rather pathetic, I suppose.”
    â€œD-d-did he come to see you? In England?”
    â€œOh, I suppose so. Yes. I went to live with his sister, my Aunt Rose, when I grew up. It was very dull but I had nice clothes and she was very rich.