The Forgotten Gift. Kathleen McGurl

my current situation, and my plans and dreams for the future, such as they are. This leather-bound, lined notebook is just the thing for it. Ironically, it was a parting gift to me from Mr Smythe.

      I am ashamed to say I did not think to give him anything, despite his having lectured and harangued and cajoled me over the last ten years. I assume my father gave him a suitable bonus on leaving our employ. Or a good reference at the very least. Mr Smythe leaves our employment to take up a post in a school, in west London. Twickenham is the place I heard him mention. I believe he has a sweetheart there and may well marry her before too long.

      Having begun in a rather odd way with my previous paragraph, I think it is time I started properly. As Mr Smythe was wont to say, begin at the beginning, carry on through the middle and stop when you reach the end. I don’t know what awaits me at the end of this journal, but I assume I will recognise it when I meet it, so for the moment I shall just begin, and see where it takes me.

      My name is George Britten, and I am nineteen years of age, the second son of Albert and Augusta Britten, and younger brother to Charles Britten. There, that is the beginning and serves as a form of introduction, (though who will ever read this journal I do not know. I have no intention of ever showing it to anyone. Perhaps my future self might look back on these words one day, and smile in fond remembrance). I live in my father’s house in a village in the northern part of the county of Hampshire. It is a small estate but a comfortable one and serves us well. As well as my parents and I, the household consists of a cook who is also the housekeeper, a couple of house servants, a groom and his two lads. My elder brother Charles stays here sometimes when he is not travelling abroad.

      I was born into sadness – my sister having died only days before my birth. She was just three years old. Mother said I came early. Her grief at Elizabeth’s death brought on premature labour, but I was a good weight, and survived. When I was two there was more sadness for our little family, as my other sister Isobel also died, at the tender age of ten. There were no more children after me.

      You would think, perhaps, that I was spoilt, being the last born, the youngest child, surviving infancy while my sisters did not. You might think my parents doted on me, pandered to my every whim, wrapped me in the softest merino wools to ensure my safety. But I am afraid you would be wrong. Very wrong. When I look back on my childhood, I don’t see a happy time. I see a time when, try as I might, there was nothing I could do to gain my father’s attention or my mother’s love.

      My father makes no secret of the fact that Charles is his favourite. As Charles is his first born I suppose that is to be expected. But he looks upon me as though I am vastly inferior, as though he barely counts me as his son at all. My mother is withdrawn, cold and unfeeling towards me. The loss of her daughters was more than she could really bear, I believe. Perhaps in fear of losing another child, she hardened her heart against those who were still living, though not to Charles, whom she too favoured.

      Mother loves Charles. He left home last year, to set off on his Grand Tour of France and Italy. Mother wept as he left, clutching hold of him until the last possible moment. ‘You are leaving me all alone and childless,’ she’d said, and Charles had shaken his head. ‘You still have George, Mother. He will keep you company while I am away. Give him a chance – he is a fine young man.’

      I’d preened a little at this compliment from Charles, and he’d smiled at me. But Mother just laughed. ‘He’s no substitute for you, dear Charles. Keep yourself safe, and return to me soon.’

      ‘I shall return to all of you,’ Charles had said, and then he’d bade us all farewell, his last and longest embrace being reserved for me.

      An imaginary reader of this journal might think I exaggerate when I say my parents paid me no heed throughout my childhood, and indeed appeared to look upon me as one might consider a poor, distant relation. Someone to whom they had a duty to care and provide for, but for whom they held no love or affection. But I do not exaggerate. Just last week, I overheard a conversation after dinner, between my father and his friend the doctor Jonathan Moore. Let me set down here what happened and what it was that I heard. Perhaps in writing it down it might help me come to terms with it.

      We had finished dinner – a small dinner party for just our family and the Moores. The ladies – my mother and Mrs Moore – had retired to the drawing room, while my father and Dr Moore lingered over the port. As a man, and almost of age, I wanted to stay too, but a stern look from my father told me I was not welcome. I pushed back my chair, nodded to Dr Moore and left the room.

      In the hallway I dithered a while. The ladies wouldn’t want me with them either. I felt caught in the middle, not wanted anywhere. A metaphor for my life to date, I thought, as I lingered, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my evening. I became aware that the men were talking about me, and as the door to the dining room was not quite shut (I had failed to pull it firmly enough for it to latch) I could hear every word. It was as though I was rooted to the spot. I am not normally someone who would listen at keyholes, and indeed Mr Smythe would say it is an exceedingly low thing to do, but in my defence I would say that their voices were loud, and who would not stop to listen, on hearing their own name mentioned?

      ‘I don’t know what will become of George,’ my father said. ‘It is a shame we are not at war. If we were, I would buy him a commission. Fighting for his country would toughen him up. Lord knows he needs it. That tutor we employed – Smythe – was far too soft on the boy. Never thrashed him once, as far as I could tell.’

      A commission! I suppressed a gasp at this. While I did not know what I wanted for my future, a commission in the army was certainly not it. I had no desire whatsoever to become a soldier.

      ‘Hmm. Not all boys need thrashing,’ Dr Moore answered. ‘He seems a pleasant lad, well informed and intelligent. I’d say Smythe was good for him, from what I’ve seen. You could still buy him a commission – we need an army whether or not we are at war. But is it the right thing for him?’

      ‘What do you mean, the right thing? Something needs to be done to make a man of him. He’s too soft and sensitive, always reading poetry and wandering about the countryside looking at flowers. Women’s pursuits.’ Father snorted, and there was a moment’s silence in which I imagined him taking a sip of his port and shaking his head sadly. It is true, though, I do love to read verse and seek out rare flowers in the hedgerows and meadows of our beautiful countryside.

      ‘The world needs all kinds of men, Albert old chap. Not just the tough soldier boys. There’ll be a place for him in this world. You just need to help him find it.’

      ‘He’ll get no help from me. The house and estate will go to Charles. There won’t be enough money to keep George for life. He’ll have to find some sort of profession I suppose. But he shows no interest in the clergy, or medicine. What else is there?’

      ‘Oh, there are plenty of professions beyond those, Albert. Law, or teaching, or business. Perhaps you should send him to Oxford or Cambridge. He’s bright enough.’ I raised my eyebrows at this. I had never considered a university career. I wondered whether I would enjoy life in academia. Perhaps I might. My musings were cut short by my father’s reply.

      ‘I can’t afford to send him to university, Jonathan. And I don’t see the point. I never went, so why should he? Yes, I suppose he will need to make his own way in business. I just don’t see how he’ll be any good at it. His head’s always too much in the clouds.’

      ‘What does Augusta think?’

      ‘Hmph. She has less time for him than I do. You know, she never got over losing the girls. If she hadn’t been heavily pregnant she might have been able to do more for Elizabeth. And George was sick with influenza just before Isobel died of that same disease. He survived it while she did not. I think poor Augusta never forgave him for that.’

      ‘Hardly the boy’s fault, though, was it?’ Dr Moore said. ‘There was nothing that could be done for either of your little girls, unfortunately, or for the other child. Don’t forget I tended to them all during their final days, the poor mites.’

      ‘I know.