by A. J. Cronin
“Oh, dear Saint Joseph!” Angelo wailed. “He says Clara, who alone is responsible, must make the three hundred and sixty-five steps, now, immediately. It is our only hope!”
In the midst of the ensuing commotion, while they are reasoning futilely with Uncle Vita, let me offer an explanation. This good, this simple soul, product of sunny Italy, and survival of a mediæval age, who in the midst of the traffic of the busy High Street would suddenly stand stock still and gaze up, from beneath his flapping black hat, at the lovely heaven of Saints and Virgins, had invented for himself on this alien soil a most amazing devotion, I might even say a discipline. Upon the Castle Rock, a historic landmark which I have already mentioned, an old fortress guarding the estuary, with derelict cannon, defended in the past by Bruce and Wallace, and now a forgotten shrine, a public monument, there existed an outside winding, stair, leading steeply from the portcullis below to the ruined ramparts of the Castle above and consisting, to the curiosity of succeeding generations, of precisely three hundred and sixty-five steps, one for every day of the year. Uncle Vita’s penance was this: pausing to repeat an Ave on each step, he ascended this stairway upon his knees.
Ten minutes later Clara and I set out in the rain for the Castle Rock. Clara, the proud, the wicked, was half fainting at the ordeal, the humiliation, in prospect. But Uncle Vita must be obeyed. It was too wet for Angelo to accompany her; I was sent as an escort, to act as “watcher” for the fair penitent. Should a guide or a party of sightseers appear I was at once to warn her so that she might rise quickly and, leaning upon the ramparts, assume a position of intelligent interest in the scenery.
However, the Castle was deserted, cleared by the rain, not an onlooker in sight. We decided that I too should make the devotion. Side by side, saying our “Hail Marys,” swooped upon by inquisitive gulls, we ascended, like crabs, under the dripping skies. Clara, despite her distress, had thoughtfully brought with her a soft cushion, also a small umbrella. But I, without such foresight or protection, soon found myself soaked, my bare knees completely worn out, as up, up we went, fervently, painfully, beneath the swooping gulls, the drenching clouds, the startled shades of Wallace and Bruce, the omnipotent God.
At last, it was over; we reached the top. I could barely stand … or see. Clara in the final throes had, accidentally but cruelly, poked her umbrella in my eye. Still we had done it, we had made the three hundred and sixty-five steps. We returned, conscious of our worth, to the Saloon.
From her martyred air I sensed that Clara was prepared for some bare acknowledgment of her efforts. But not for the scintillation of joy, of praise, which burst upon her at the threshold. The door swung open, the whole family flung themselves upon her. What gratitude! What rejoicings! During our absence the monkey had passed the crisis of his illness. Later, I was to observe and marvel at the amazing transformation which accompanies the resolution of a pneumonic infection. Abrupt and magical … No, wonder Uncle Vita cried aloud, with shining eyes, that the good God had intervened on little Nicolo’s behalf. At twenty past eleven, a moment which was calculated to coincide with the consummation of our reparation, but which, I subsequently decided, approximated more nearly to the instant when the spoke of Clara’s umbrella entered my eye, Nicolo had suddenly ceased to suffocate. A mild benignant sweat had broken on him; he had smiled feebly at his patron; then, breathing quietly, had fallen into a deep sleep.
The monkey’s recovery was rapid—there arises a memory of Uncle Vita’s face, wreathed in smiles, as he announced: “ Nicolo has just eaten his first banana.” Vita had returned, already, to his usual position of humility, the equilibrium of the household was swiftly being restored. Clara had several new dresses of a violent hue. The good Sisters received a handsome donation, Canon Roche a contribution to the new side-altar fund. The doctor was presented, at dead of night, with three cases of the best preserved apricots; his housekeeper had acknowledged to Mrs. Antonelli that he was strongly addicted to this fruit; it was judged, too, that he would refuse a more conventional gift.
Only towards me, towards the unimportant yet worthy Robert Shannon, was there a strange and incomprehensible coldness, at least a nullity, a vacuum of regard. Had I not, on my bare bended knees, helped to achieve at least half the miracle? Did I not scour the Drumbuck woods for tender green caterpillars, to which the pampered convalescent was passionately addicted? Yet not a word, not a token of gratitude. Instead, queer looks, conversations between Clara, Mrs. Antonelli, and Clara’s young man, significantly interrupted when I came up from the Saloon with Angelo. The mistral was blowing colder than before. I was about to learn, early, one of the bitter truths of life.
Several days later, as Angelo and I took the almost fully restored Nicolo round the courtyard for an outing, I received a push which sent me spinning to the wall.
“Get away from that monkey, you.” It was Thaddeus, the young man of Clara, scowling at me vengefully. “We don’t want you or your kind around here. Get away. Go.”
Paralyzed with dismay, I could not even answer him back. But my blood rose slowly nevertheless. I refused to leave. I waited until I had Angelo to myself in the sunny yard.
“Angelo,” I said, with quiet intensity. “Something is the matter. What have I done wrong? Tell me, Angelo?”
He would not meet my gaze. Then suddenly he raised his head. His peachy face had turned yellow, the colour of a duck’s foot. There was a waspish look in his soulful eyes.
“We don’t like you any more,” he cried shrilly. “Mother says I mustn’t play with you. She says your grandpa is a drunken person who sponges for wine, who has no money, not a lira, who lies about the grand houses he was never inside, who is, in fact, practically the biggest liar in the world…”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Was this the child whom I had stood beside at my First Communion, the lovely babe whom I had cherished and indulged, for whom, even, in my loyalty I had sacrificed the friendship of Gavin, dear Gavin, the good, the true?
“Yes,” he shrilled. “ Thad found out everything. Your grandpa is a cheat, a pauper, a tramp. He is known all over Levenford. He chases ladies, at his age! And worst of all he puts his arm round our sweet Clara to annoy Thaddeus from bad and wicked motives …”
I could stand it no longer. I saw, dumbly, that all was finished between Angelo and me. I turned away. But before I did so I punched him with all my force, on his angelic little nose. A mortal sin, perhaps, to damage such an angel. But the recollection of his howl as he ran towards his mother lived joyously in my memory through many bitter weeks. I can hear it still.
Chapter Fifteen
The week of Murdoch’s tests has come and that faithful student of seed catalogues stands in the lobby in his best boots and Sunday clothes being brushed all over by Mama, who plumps down on her knees to get at a spot on the back of his trouser cuff, the brush fairly flying in her work-reddened hand, an intent and proud expression on her worn face. Mama, who slaves herself to the bone for us, cooks and mends, scours, polishes and scrubs, makes every penny do the work of three, rises first and goes to bed last, and all for no apparent recompense; Mama who bears up superhumanly under Papa’s increasing economies, who finds time to display the soft corner in her heart for the old man upstairs, and for a wretched boy thrown upon her hands … But this is Murdoch’s week: no time for panegyrics. Now that the fateful days are upon him he is pleasingly confident. He has emerged unscathed from a serious talk with his father the night before. He says to us all: “I can do no more.” Yes, surely these eternal fingerings have massaged enough learning beneath that dandruffed scalp. He has his lunch money in his pocket, two pairs of spectacles, in case of breakages, his pen, rubber, set squares, in fine, everything. He sets off ponderously to catch the 9.20 a.m. train for Winton, where the Civil Service tests are held. Mama and I, standing at the door, wave to him and in our hearts we wish him well.…
Every evening, Murdoch came back on the four o’clock local and his father, home early from the office, w
as already waiting in suspense.
“How did you get on?”
“Wonderful, Father, really wonderful.”
As the days progressed Murdoch’s confidence increased. Munching an enormous tea stolidly, while we all hung upon his words, he would throw off calm little comments on his day.
“Really, I was surprised … found this morning’s paper so confoundedly easy. I wrote reams … had to ask for a second exercise book. Some of the other fellows didn’t half fill theirs …”
“Well done … well done.” His father voiced the rare praise grudgingly, but with a gleaming eye.
Mama, without quailing, bent forward and gave Murdoch as large a helping of potted head as his father. I knew, we all knew, that his success was assured. While this pleased me it also made me sad; I could not help contrasting how miserably I should have done in like circumstances. And I had other reasons for my dejection. The Antonelli debacle, fruit of false friendship and ingratitude, still preyed upon my mind; I had not dared mention it to Grandpa. But worst of all, I had not seen Gavin for a fortnight; once only had we met, passing each other, pale to the lips, eyes straight ahead, in the High Street. I longed for this boy whom I had betrayed, longed for him with all my heart.
One faint gleam alone illuminated the horizon. Next Wednesday was the occasion of the Ardfillan Fair, when I was to accompany Kate and Jamie to the “ Shows.” Grandpa had, in the past, been a regular patron of the Shows and he described their delights to me in glowing phrases. When I remarked, wistfully, that I thought I might enjoy myself, he replied, emphatically: “We shall, boy. We shall.”
Jamie had promised to call for us at two o’clock, in a wagonette. He arrived punctually, but in a different vehicle. Kate and I, waiting at the parlour window, gasped our amazement as a yellow motor car chugged up.
“If your brother Adam can do it, so can I.” Jamie, less saturnine than usual, under a new checked cap, gave us his explanation on the spot. He was friendly with Sam Lightbody, a mechanic at the Argyll works. Sam had borrowed a car and would drive us to Ardfillan.
We shook hands with Sam, who remained, goggled, on the driver’s seat, holding, somewhat tensely, two vertical levers with handles, as though keeping the machine pulsating with his own life-blood. At his suggestion Kate ran in to get a veil to keep her hat in place. Then, as we circled admiringly, before taking our places, there strolled through the gate, brushed, trimmed, and with his best stick: Grandpa.
“Remarkable … remarkable,” he said, eyeing the car; then to Jamie, sternly: “You don’t imagine I’m going to let you take my granddaughter to Ardfillan … till all hours … with no one to chaperone her but a mere child.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” Kate said pettishly. “ You’re not invited.”
But Jamie had broken into a rough laugh. He knew Grandpa; I had several times seen them emerging together from the Drumbuck Arms, wiping their mouths with the back of their hands. “ Let him come,” he said. “The more the merrier. Hop in.”
The machine, after a few preliminary shudders, jolted into action, then began to glide in delightful style down the Drumbuck Road. Kate and Jamie sat high beside the driver in front, Kate’s feather boa floating gracefully in the breeze; Grandpa and I luxuriated in the large tonneau behind. We had barely started when a hand, Jamie’s, slipped backwards bearing a large cigar. Grandpa accepted, lighted it and, placing one leg on his cushion, reclined regally. “ This is delightful, Robert.” He spoke in his well-bred voice. “ I hope he drives through the town. It’ll give the bodies a chance to see us.”
We were, in fact, sliding under the railway bridge on our way to the High Street. Suddenly a wild shout caused me to sit up. I saw Murdoch, standing at the station exit, waving his arms for us to stop. As we swept past he took off his bowler hat and began to pound heavily after us, still waving one arm.
“Oh, stop, Sam, stop,” I cried. “There’s our Murdoch!”
The machine drew up with another terrible jerk and, when stationary, began to bounce us all up and down like peas on a drum. Sam, while bouncing, turned with a pained expression: I divined that he felt this excessive stopping and starting to be no part of the duty of a normal automobile. But here was Murdoch, puffing and blowing, in his thick good clothes. He climbed in at the back and collapsing in the tonneau exclaimed: “ I’m coming with you.”
A pause. Was there to be no end to our self-invited guests? Grandpa, in particular, looked hurt at the intrusion, but Sam solved the difficulty by pushing in a lever and throwing us all forward in a series of short convulsions. Soon we were bowling through the town.
“How did you get on, Murdoch?” I shouted above the wind which flowed deliciously past our ears.
“Wonderful,” said Murdoch. “Simply wonderful.” Still blown, he crouched in his seat with his mouth partly open, his coat huddled about his ears, which stuck out more than ever. He looked pale; I thought he had run too hard. He was fanning himself, somewhat unnecessarily, with his hat. He opened his mouth wider as if to speak, then half closed it again.
Conversation was now impossible. We were out of the town and coasting down the Lea Brae. Before us, reaching out to the sea, lay the wide estuary, all sequined by the high sun; along the shore, through flat green pastures and sandy dunes, wound a white ribbon—the road we must traverse; to the west, above the blue mist, a bluer outline, watchful, ever present, the Ben. Such loveliness, such still and shimmering delight! Why could I not view it without a pang of sadness stealing round my heart? Ah, wretched boy, to whom beauty must always bring this distant, lingering pain. I sighed and surrendered myself to the sad, sweet rapture of our flight.
The car was functioning to perfection: on the down grades we approached a rapidity of twenty miles an hour. As we swept through the villages the inhabitants ran to their doors to stare after us. Men working in the fields straightened themselves, and brandished their hoes at the novelty. Only the livestock of the district seemed to regard us with resentment. It took all Sam’s skill to circumvent a stubborn cow; barking dogs furiously escorted us; hens flew protestingly from beneath our wheels; once there were feathers, but the clouds of white dust rising behind mercifully left the massacre in doubt. A solitary humiliation to be recorded: the brave heart of our machine faltered on the crest of an incline; some country ruffians bound for the Shows walked alongside; ignorant laughter—“ Yah! Get out and push!” …
We sailed into Ardfillan at four o’clock, an hour too early for the delights of the Shows, which did not properly begin until evening. While Kate went across the street to make some purchases for Mama in a special millinery shop of this pleasant seaside resort, Sam stilled his engine, and we gazed at the galaxy of booths, tents, and roundabouts, arranged on a square of green beside the Esplanade, with the beach and plashing waves beyond.
Suddenly, crouched pale and hapless, Murdoch gave a great heave. It shook the structure of our vehicle; I thought we were starting again. But, no, the explosion came from Murdoch’s soul.
“I’ll commit suicide.”
The threat was uttered by Murdoch in such a loud tone, almost a shout, that it instantly drew upon him our united attention. He continued, beating the cushions with his fists, his eyes bulging: “ I tell you I’ll commit suicide. I wanted no post in no Post Office. It’s all Papa’s fault. I’ll kill myself. And he’ll be to blame. A murderer.”
“In the name of God, man!” Grandpa sat up. “What’s wrong wi’ye?”
Murdoch stared at him, at all of us, with those obtuse, near-sighted eyes. Suddenly he broke down and began to blubber. “ I’m plunked. Sent home by the examiners. They took me aside this morning and told me not to come back. Just told me not to come back. Not to come back. It must be a mistake. I’ve done wonderful, wonderful.”
Failed; Murdoch failed! Silence of consternation. His bulky sobs were now shaking us all. A crowd gave evidence of forming.
“Here!” Grandpa took him by the coat collar. “Pull yourself together.”
�
��He needs a stiff’ner.” The sombre advice came from Sam.
“By God you’re right. He needs something to make a man of him.” Grandpa and Jamie got the helpless Murdoch out of the car while Sam held open the swing door of the Esplanade Vaults, immediately opposite. As they disappeared into the cool interior, Jamie called over his shoulder: “ Hang about, boy. We’ll not be long.”
I stood for a while, thinking: “ Poor Murdoch!” then I strolled disconsolately across the road. The fair ground was now beginning to fill up as people flocked in from the surrounding countryside. I recognized several Levenford faces. Suddenly I caught sight of a figure—small, sunburned, and resolute. It was Gavin.
He was alone, on the outskirts of a small gathering, watching, with his own particular disdain, the efforts of a cheap-jack to sell genuine gold watches to some awestruck farm hands. Then he turned and across the heads of the meaningless crowd our glances met. He reddened deeply, then went white, yet though he transferred his gaze, he did not move away. Indeed, presently he took a few steps in my direction and began, apart from everyone, to study, with concentrated immobility, a billhead advertising Willmot’s Steam Bostons.
I felt the attraction of that billhead also. Though it was crudely printed and contained no information that I did not know by heart, I was soon staring at it too, standing beside Gavin, very pale, my cheek beginning to twitch—a horrible peculiarity which always affected me when I got nervous and overstrung. Impossible to say which of us spoke first. We were breathing with difficulty, our eyes remained riveted on that torn poster with its blurred representation of a swing boat standing on its head.
“It was all my fault.”
“No, it was mine.”
