Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever
when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his
things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on
Josephine’s list of things to be done. “_Go through father’s things and
settle about them._” But that was a very different matter from saying
after breakfast:
“Well, are you ready, Con?”
“Yes, Jug—when you are.”
“Then I think we’d better get it over.”
It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb
father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to
open the door without knocking even.... Constantia’s eyes were enormous
at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees.
“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia.
But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No,
Jug, that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.”
Josephine was just going to say—what at other times she wouldn’t have
owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last weapon, “But
you’re the tallest,” when they noticed that the kitchen door was open,
and there stood Kate....
“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her
best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate!
It couldn’t be helped. That girl was.... Then the door was shut behind
them, but—but they weren’t in father’s room at all. They might have
suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat
altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to
look. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut;
Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn’t any handle at
all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or the
whiteness—which? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth
hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper
filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost
expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her
nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the
cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.
“I had better pull up a blind,” said Josephine bravely.
“Yes, it might be a good idea,” whispered Constantia.
They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flew
after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as
if trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia.
“Don’t you think—don’t you think we might put it off for another day?”
she whispered.
“Why?” snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that she
knew for certain that Constantia was terrified. “It’s got to be done.
But I do wish you wouldn’t whisper, Con.”
“I didn’t know I was whispering,” whispered Constantia.
“And why do you keep staring at the bed?” said Josephine, raising her
voice almost defiantly. “There’s nothing _on_ the bed.”
“Oh, Jug, don’t say so!” said poor Connie. “At any rate, not so
loudly.”
Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide
swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew
it back again.
“Connie!” she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her back
against the chest of drawers.
“Oh, Jug—what?”
Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that
she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain
to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the
top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his
shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was
watching there, hidden away—just behind the door-handle—ready to
spring.
She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used
to in the old days when she was going to cry.
“I can’t open,” she nearly wailed.
“No, don’t, Jug,” whispered Constantia earnestly. “It’s much better not
to. Don’t let’s open anything. At any rate, not for a long time.”
“But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down.
“But why not be weak for once, Jug?” argued Constantia, whispering
quite fiercely. “If it is weak.” And her pale stare flew from the
locked writing-table—so safe—to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she
began to breathe in a queer, panting away. “Why shouldn’t we be weak
for once in our lives, Jug? It’s quite excusable. Let’s be weak—be
weak, Jug. It’s much nicer to be weak than to be strong.”
And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she’d done
about twice before in their lives: she marched over to the wardrobe,
turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock
and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary
smile that she knew what she’d done—she’d risked deliberately father
being in there among his overcoats.
If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had crashed down on
Constantia, Josephine wouldn’t have been surprised. On the contrary,
she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But
nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the
bigger flakes of cold air fell on Josephine’s shoulders and knees. She
began to shiver.
“Come, Jug,” said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, and
Josephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia had
pushed Benny into the round pond.