by A. J. Cronin
The Antonellis lived above their shop, which was painted primrose and vermilion with a proud and glittering gold-lettered signboard: Levenford Select Ice Cream Saloon, Antonio Antonelli, Sole Proprietor. This tropical brilliance was continued upstairs. The carpets were vivid, the hangings a gorgeous shade of yellow-green. Coloured holy pictures were everywhere, for the Antonellis were very devout, but on either side of the tasselled mantelpiece two secular paintings, views of Capri and Naples, dazzled the eye with their shimmering blues. And here, good gracious, was Vesuvius, blazing in eruption. A little statue, dressed brightly in pink and white, like a doll, smiled down on me from a gilt bracket on the wall. I had never entered a house so foreign or so rich in mysterious odours. Strange cooking smells provoked my nostrils, fruity smells, acrid, tart and pungent smells, the smells of onion and perspiration, of boiling fat and damp sawdust, the sweet vanilla scent of ice cream powder rising from the cellar below.
While Mrs. Antonelli and Clara were hurrying, with many excited exclamations, to serve the breakfast, Angelo, who had taken possession of my hand, drew me shyly to the end of the first-floor corridor. Here, at the half-open door of a room which proved later to be his uncle’s, he paused, with an air of promise. My heart had already bounded at the vision of a barrel organ, a real hurdy-gurdy inlaid with the name ORFEO ORGANETTO in mother-of-pearl, standing on its peg against the wall. Yet I was unprepared for the surprise which followed.
“Nicolo, Nicolo,” Angelo, called softly.
A monkey dressed in a red coat jumped from the bed, pattered along the floor and leaped into Angelo’s arms. He was a small neat monkey with pathetic eyes and a little, wrinkled, worried face. He had, exactly, that expression which, many years after, I saw on the faces of newly-born babies: a crushed, surprised, troubled, yet peevish air. Meanwhile Angelo was stroking him affectionately and offering me the same delightful privilege.
“Pet him, Robie. He won’t bite you. He knows you are my dear friend. Don’t you, Nicolo, Nicolo? And he has no fleas, not a single one. He belongs to my Uncle Vita. Vita loves him the best in all the world. He says he is our good luck. When we first came to Levenford and were very poor my uncle used to go round the streets with his organ and Nicolo. Got a lot of pennies too. But now that we are rich, at least quite rich, though he wishes to go playing the organ Mother will not let him. She says it is not nice, that we are above such common things now. So we keep Nicolo as a pet, a great pet. He was three when my uncle brought him here. Now he is only ten, which is still young, very young for a monkey.”
Here, Mrs. Antonelli called us. Enchanted, I followed Angelo, who still carried the monkey, into the front room where the others were assembled.
“Oh, not Nicolo,” Mrs. Antonelli protested as we went in. “ Not today, Angelo, when we have such nice company.”
“Yes, Mother,” Angelo insisted; “it’s my First Communion.”
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Antonelli gave Uncle Vita a cross look, then flashed her teeth at Grandpa. “He’s just Angelo’s pet!”
When Angelo had said grace, we all sat down at the table covered with an embroidered cloth and loaded with many things which did not appear at breakfast time in Lomond View. There were large platters of meat and rice, of tomato-coloured macaroni, a chicken pie, a galantine of tongue, olives, sardines and anchovies, a dish of fruits, and, guarding a big iced cake inscribed “Bless our Angelo,” several tall bottles of wine.
Grandpa, seated between Clara and Mrs. Antonelli, was tucking in with every sign of enjoyment. Beaming, at the head of the table, sat Mr. Antonelli. He looked pleased, honoured by our presence.
“A leeta wine, Mr. Gow, justa leeta. Very special. Naples imported. Frascati.”
Glasses were filled, even the glass of dark, silent, smiling Uncle Vitaliano, who seemed to occupy a slightly subordinate position in the family. Rising to his feet, Grandpa proposed a toast.
“To our little ones. A happy and a holy occasion.”
We all drank, even we children, for Angelo and I had each a thimbleful. The wine was sweet and warming to my inside.
“You like the Frascati, Mr. Gow?” Mr. Antonelli bent forward anxiously.
“Most refreshing,” Grandpa answered cordially. He added, “Light.”
“Yes, yes, verra light. Nice and light. Another glass, Mr. Gow.”
“I thank you, Mr. Antonelli.”
The monkey, looking rather bored on Angelo’s knee, reached out casually and helped himself to a banana. I watched, spellbound, while he peeled and began to eat it—like a little man. Angelo nodded to me proudly and whispered: “ He will do more tricks for us, after.”
“Allow me to fill your glass again, Mrs. Antonelli,” Grandpa pressed. “Yours too, my dear Miss Clara.” Though they refused, laughingly covering their glasses with their hands, Grandpa was having a tremendous success with the two ladies. He replenished his own glass and after an aside which made Clara laugh again, gravely resumed the account he was giving our hostess of his recent social activities at the Provost’s and other large houses in the Cemetery Road. It was plain that Mrs. Antonelli was enraptured to find herself, even remotely, in touch with such gentility.
The laughter increased; Grandpa was now teasing Clara about her young man. “ Not a patch on the older generation, these youngsters,” he declared grandly.
As Grandpa and Mr. Antonelli began exchanging toasts—“To Italy!” “ To Scotland!”— Angelo and I received permission to leave the table. We slipped into Uncle Vitaliano’s room with Nicolo and began, softly, pushing in the stop marked Piano, to play the hurdy-gurdy. There were four tunes: “ The Bluebells of Scotland,” “Onward Christian Soldiers,” “God Save the King,” and “ Oh, Mary, We Crown Thee with Blossoms To-day.”
Nicolo enjoyed the music too. “ The Bluebells of Scotland” was his favourite piece, and when the familiar trills and tinkles fell upon his ear he began to dance and caper for our benefit. Once he found himself the centre of attention, a stimulus which had been lacking in the other room, he increased his efforts, ran along the corridor and skipped back with a hat—it was Grandpa’s. Then, using the hat, he minced up and down, like a great swell, doffing his hat and bowing, from time to time. Our laughter excited him. He began to chatter, to hold the hat up with his tail, to let it drop over his head, extinguishing himself. With a shriek of assumed rage he freed himself, kicked the hat round the room, turned a somersault over it, then curled up and pretended to go to sleep in it.
Angelo and I were rocking with laughter when the door opened and Uncle Vita came in, his grave, silent face displeased. He lifted Nicolo, soothed him and put him in his basket in the corner of the room. Then as he picked up and, with his cuff, brushed Grandpa’s hat, he said something in Italian. Angelo turned to me: “ He says that even for a deaf man there is too much noise in the room, and here, on such a blessed day as this … He wants us to sit down and sing a hymn.” Angelo added of his own accord: “ Uncle Vita is very holy.”
“What else did he say?”
“Well … He said your grandpa has already drunk three bottles of wine … himself. And that he is squeezing our Clara’s hand under the table.”
Chastened, I sat down on the floor beside Angelo, while Uncle Vita, with the touch of a true virtuoso, turned the handle of the organ. We sang:
“Oh, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms to-day,
Queen of the angels and queen of the May.…”
Uncle Vita smiled when we finished. Angelo translated: “He says we must never, never forget how wonderful it is to be in a state of grace. If we drop stone dead, if we are killed, cut into little pieces this very second, it does not matter. We go straight to Heaven.”
Then I heard them calling me from below; it was time for me to go. Grandpa, in the hall, was saying good-bye, shaking hands repeatedly with Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli, placing his arm, in a paternal fashion, round Clara’s waist; remarking: “Really, my dear, you must accord a gracious privilege to a man old enough to be your
father.”
“Good-bye. Good-bye.” Everyone smiling, exhilarated, except Clara’s young man, Thaddeus Gerrity, who had just come in and who turned very red when Grandpa kissed Clara.
Grandpa and I walked down the street. My head is reeling with the joyful events of this eventful day. Grandpa, too, seems not unmoved: his eye is bright, his cheeks are flushed; and from time to time he seems to have a little trouble, not much, with his equilibrium.
A state of grace! Uncle Vita’s words returned to me, like a soaring bird, a bird which bears a message. Is it the Frascati still gurgling in my stomach which lifts me, suddenly, to a moment of blurred white ecstasy? I know. I know I have made a good Communion, yes, perhaps even a perfect Communion. I feel a long rolling platitude gathering like a ball behind Grandpa’s tongue. But for once, unable to prevent myself, I forestall him. With a rush of emotion I clasp his hand.
“Oh Grandpa, I love our Blessed Saviour very much … but don’t forget, I love you too.”
Chapter Thirteen
We are marooned, in August, amidst fields of scorched stubble and dusty hedgerows, the few vagrant airs which stir the drooping trees producing only a sigh of lassitude, the protest of an earth exhausted by too much fruitfulness. Most of the good burghers of Levenford are at the seaside with their families. The empty town seems unfamiliar and as my footsteps echo across the Market Square a vista of deserted cobblestones, of roofs rising one upon another against the Castle battlements, creates the illusion of a city besieged.
Gavin is still away, his earnest postcards causing me to pine more and more for his return. Really, no drama to record in this period of stagnation; yet, beneath the surface of our household, events still move sluggishly, like fish which, although spent, are still capable of sudden and tumultuous movement.
Every evening, when I went out for a breath of air before my holiday homework—a long essay on “ Mary Queen of Scots”—I found Jamie Nigg seated on our low stone garden wall, his back directed, in studied carelessness, towards the house. He had his mouth organ with him, and was playing softly and with complete unconcern a catchy tune which, since he could not tell me either its name or origin, I simply called “Jamie’s tune.” What an infectious melody it was! He did not stop playing when I sat down in silence beside him, grateful for the cool beads of dew forming around us on the yellow grass, for the low line of mist creeping like a relieving army across the parched fields.
After seven o’clock Kate came out of the front door for her evening visit to her friend, Bessie Ewing, usually wearing her light grey raincoat, bareheaded, collar turned up at the back, hands in her pockets. For more than a week she had taken no notice of us, beyond a small, cool, barely perceptible nod to me. Nor had Jamie, motionless, except for his sliding mouth organ, acknowledged her passing. Only the music growing a little stronger as she disappeared, followed her inexorably down the street. Dimly, though it lacked the lush effects of doublet, balcony, and guitar, I sensed this to be a serenade: a Scottish serenade—slow, persistent, dour.
One evening, unexpectedly, almost reluctantly as if against her better nature, Kate stopped. She gazed at me severely: “ You ought to be in at your essay.”
Before I could reply Jamie took the mouth organ from his lips, shaking it free of its accumulated moisture with jerks of his wrist. “Ah, the boy’s doing no harm.”
Kate was forced to look at him. She did so angrily: angry about many things; angry at his persistence, at his sitting there calmly while she stood; angry most of all for being angry. But her eyes were the first to fall. Silence.
“It’s a fine night,” Jamie said.
“It’ll probably rain.” Kate spoke with bitterness.
“Maybe, maybe. We need a few good showers.”
A pause. “Are you detaining me here to talk about the weather?” She made no movement to go, however. Though her plain face was cloudy, I noticed, for the first time, as she stood there in the dusk with one foot courageously advanced and her hands in her pockets visibly clenched, as in preparation for battle, what a trim sturdy figure she had, a well-turned leg, a good ankle. Perhaps Jamie noticed too. Absently, he ran off a few bars of his tune, shook the harmonica again.
“I was just thinking it was a fine night for a walk.”
“Indeed! And where to, might I inquire?”
“Oh anywhere, just anywhere at all.”
“Thank you, thank you very much indeed.” Kate tossed her head, stiffly. “Quite a compliment. But as it so happens I’m going down to see my friend, Miss Ewing.” She took a step preparatory to departure.
“That’s my way too,” Jamie remarked, getting up from the wall and dusting himself. “ I’ll just dauner down with you as far as her gate.”
Kate, completely taken aback, could offer no protest. Her colour remained high, her manner indignant. Yet I felt, oddly enough, that she was not wholly displeased as they departed, together, walking far apart, on the pavement. The gathering darkness was merciful to Jamie’s legs.
I am standing alone, enjoying my solitude and a last damp, delicious breath; then, as though pursued, I run into the house, begin, in the kitchen, to take my books from my patched satchel.
Murdoch is already bent studiously, turning few pages, but producing showers of dandruff. I often wonder if Murdoch really studies: he has never made any pretence of scholarship and once or twice I have caught sight of a seed catalogue concealed between his covers, evidence of his secret passion for all things horticultural. Through the day he keeps rising restlessly from his books, belching loudly (although he digests like an ostrich it is an article of faith that he suffers, heroically, from “the bile”), going to the mirror to squeeze blackheads from his chin, or into the garden to potter about, like a soul in limbo. Sometimes he unconsciously permits me to glimpse his thoughts.
“Do you know that in Holland they grow tulips by the square mile? Think of it. Mile after mile of tulips!”
Just now, in the corner chair behind him, silent and erect, exactly like a man driving a horse, sits his father. With the approach of the Post Office Examination next month the reins with which Papa guides the unhappy youth have become tighter; indeed, there are signs of the whip. It is necessary, not only for Murdoch’s future, but for the Inspector’s prestige, that Murdoch should succeed. With all the intensity of a disliked, frustated man he wishes to announce to the Provost, to Mr. McKellar, to his chief Dr. Laird, Medical Officer of the borough, of whom he is obsequiously jealous, to announce, in fact, all over the town: “My son, my second son … in the Civil Service …”
I put my lesson books on the table opposite Murdoch, very quietly, not to disturb him. My books, inscribed in Grandpa’s hairlike copperplate, are covered with brown paper, sewn on by Mama to save them, “ to keep them good”—everything must be preserved, never, never wasted, in this household. For three months I have been in a higher class. My new teacher, Mr. Singer, bald, slow, and methodical, is both gentle and encouraging towards me. Free of the tyranny of Mr. Dalgleish, I no longer blot my exercises or stand like an idiot when questioned. I display, instead, a surprising aptitude. In fact at this moment a card, a certain card which I have retained for my own secret satisfaction, falls out of my history book and flutters to the floor, causing me to blush, guiltily, under Papa’s eye. He sees the blush, and the card, and is at once suspicious of both. He makes a silent gesture for me to bring him the incriminating card.
There is a long pause while Papa studies the card, my quarterly report card wherein is written, in Mr. Singer’s hand:
R. SHANNON
Arithmetic
1st.
Geography
1st.
History
1st.
English
1st.
French
1st.
Drawing
2nd.
Place in Class
1st.
Signed:
GEO. SINGER, M. A.
I can see that Papa is dumb
founded. In fact, at first he glances at me sharply, convinced that it is a trick, a cheap deception. But no, the official heading, the flowing signature … I read his thoughts: It must be true. He is far from pleased. He hands me back the card grudgingly, with an offended air, and I return, still guilty, to my books.
Silence in the kitchen except for the ticking of the clock, the turning of a page, a restive stirring from Papa’s chair … and, of course, I had forgotten, the click of Mama’s needles, for she has come in from the scullery and is knitting a scarf for Adam. It is always for Adam, her knitting.
At nine o’clock Kate returns, does not enter the kitchen, but goes straight from the front door to her room. Good gracious! I must be mistaken. Yet I think that she is humming, humming a little run from Jamie’s tune.
Half an hour later Mama looks at me significantly. I put away my books and, moving with great care, lest I knock against something and annoy Papa, I go to my little curtained closet and begin to undress. I am terribly hungry, it seems ages since my tea, and I long, with sudden ravening, for a hunk of bread and rhubarb jam. That white crust, oh, lovely white crust! Mama would give it me, no doubt, but it is preposterous, such a demand at such an hour. I kneel down, say my prayers, then I am in bed. Through the thin curtain I hear the quiet pulse of this house which harbours me: a word exchanged between Mama and Papa, the rustle of a page, the shudder of the bathroom tap, a step above my head.
Sometimes I lie awake, staring at the dim ceiling, and am only half asleep when Murdoch goes upstairs and there begins one of those long, low-voiced conferences held by Papa and Mama in the kitchen before retiring, muttered words of which reach me in the closet. The Ardfillan Hygienic Society … invited Papa to address them on “Refuse Disposal” … What did they charge for that beef to-day? What a price! … No trip to the Coast, this year … the money will do better in the Building Society, and when Mama pleads gently: Well, perhaps next year, if Adam “ comes forward” … or if Papa is promoted to the Waterworks … meanwhile it is necessary to save … save … save.
