by A. J. Cronin
I stopped to watch, smiling in sympathy, as she came along, quite unaware of me, her figure a little stouter now, bending over as she walked, smiling, clicking her tongue, her eyes intent upon the baby.
“Hello, Kate,” I murmured shyly, when she had almost passed me.
“Why, Robie.” Her tone was warm with welcome. “You poor boy. And me never looking the road you were on. It’s baby. Robie, you would not believe, it, he is cutting his second tooth, and with never a whimper, just as good as gold …” She bent again. “The pet, the precious, the mother’s lamb …”
Ah Kate, dear Kate, you are happy with your incomparable child. And to think that, once, they prescribed for you the mandolin!
Kate’s home was bright and neat, with the modern convenience of hot and cold running water, and the sharp smell of paint and polish indicating how houseproud she had become. Her marriage was a success despite the forebodings of Papa who, rent by the loss of her salary, had declared that she was throwing herself, and her career, away. When she had laid the baby in his cot she put a pan on the “main” gas stove and soon the delicious fragrance of frying steak and onions came upon the air.
“You’ll wait and have a bite with us,” she insisted, turning the steak expertly with a knife, and holding her head away to avoid the spark of the fat. “ Jamie’s upstairs in the bath. He’s been on overtime lately or I’m sure he’d have wanted to take you to the football match.” What sublime tact from the once churlish Kate! “He won’t be a minute. You must be famished.” She gave me a quick look as she said that, but looked away with equal quickness.
Jamie came down well-washed, his hair wetly plastered, and wearing complacently, an outrageous red tartan tie.
“It’s yourself, boy.” That, and his little nod, had more warmth and more welcome in them, for a sensitive heart, than all the protestations in the world.
We sat down to supper at once. The steak, of which Kate gave me a very large portion, was tender and juicy, its rich substance permeated me like a transfusion. Jamie kept heaping my plate with the crisp frizzled onions. There was thick hot buttered toast and strong, scalding tea.
I think Kate and Jamie knew perfectly how poor and limited the food had become at home. Jamie, in particular, pressed me repeatedly and when I could eat no more he fixed on me a reproachful eye.
“It’s there, boy,” he said, simply.
All my childhood at Lomond View was dominated by a monstrous law: the necessity for saving money, even at the sacrifice of the very necessities of life. Ah, if only we could have done without money, without this Northern thrift which preferred money in the bank to a good meal in the stomach, which put gentility before generosity, this cursed penuriousness which blighted us.
When this money question bewildered and tormented me, I thought of Jamie Nigg. Jamie was never well off; yet whether he spent it upon a good steak, or on taking a forgotten boy to a football game, Jamie always got good use of his hard-won money and, what was better, he made all the money that he touched seem clean.
As we each drank one last cup of tea Jamie began to rally me, for I am sure he regarded my shy and gawky melancholy not only with compassion, but also with concern. Sensing the suppressed excitement of my mood, he remarked gravely to Kate:
“The professor has something on his mind. These quiet clever ones … they’re the worst.”
Kate nodded, then gave me a sideways smile that advised me not to take him too seriously.
“They’re deep,” Jamie said. “Up to all sorts of devilments. Especially when they’re good jumpers.”
This delicate reference to my success in the recent Academy sports, when I had won the open high jump, gave me an inward glow and although I lowered my eyes I had again to admit to myself that it was a school record, inch and a quarter above the previous best. But that glow was nothing to the incandescence lit within me when Jamie added in a measured voice: “ Of course, if you want my opinion, he’s in love.”
Ah, the pure white flame of pride, the deep and secret realization of this truth. With eyes still lowered I cherished the warm flush of happiness that bathed my heart.
“What’s been happening at home then?” Kate asked, curbing Jamie’s humour.
I hurriedly produced and gave to her Mama’s letter.
“I’m sorry I forgot about this.”
Kate opened the letter and read it through twice, and to my surprise her face darkened and her forehead bumps, which I had imagined gone for ever, filled up angrily. She handed the letter to Jamie, who read it in silence.
“It really is too bad. This thing of Papa’s is getting to be a disease.” Kate made an effort to free herself from what seemed a highly disagreeable thought. Jamie was glancing at me in a queer sort of way. There was an awkward pause.
Just then the baby woke up and Kate, seeming to welcome the interruption, gave him his bottle on her knee. For an instant, as a sign of their regard, I was allowed to take this priceless burden in my arms.
“He likes you,” Kate said encouragingly. “Wait till you have one of your own, man.”
I smiled, uncertainly. Terrible paradox: I was in love; but how could I reveal to her that I was morally convinced, from certain unspeakable nocturnal experiences, that I was doomed never to be able to have children?
When the baby was restored to his cot I said that it was time for me to go.
Kate saw me to the door. Now that we were alone she was again examining me intently.
“Mama didn’t tell you what was in her letter?”
“No, Kate.” I smiled up at her. “As a matter of fact, I’m rather taken up with some news of my own.”
“Good or bad?” she inquired, with her head to one side.
“Oh, good, Kate … extremely good, I think … You see, Kate …” I broke off, flushing darkly, staring out at the mysterious night, spangled with misty lights, hearing the far-off whistling of a train, followed, like an echo, by the thrilling sound of a ship’s foghorn from the river.
“It’s all right, Robie.” Now Kate was shaking her head and smiling, almost against her will. “ You keep your news and I’ll keep mine.”
I pressed her hand and, unable to contain myself, started running at full speed down the road. Much as I liked Kate, she could not be the first to know. Again, from the unseen river, there came the slow sounding of that outward ship, making me shiver in sheer delight.
Chapter Three
Quickly, my heart lifting at every step, I returned to Drumbuck Road; then, with a sudden quickening of my pulse, entered Sinclair Drive, a narrow street shaded by young lindens which, lightly shedding their twirling flowers, had spread a yellow carpet upon the pavement. Although there seemed nothing new in this familiar thoroughfare which in my childhood had never deeply stirred me, although its rambling old houses wore the same undisturbed air of having seen better days, now … ah, now its mysterious and exquisite name was engraved upon my heart. It was almost eight o’clock when my unworthy feet fell again upon the soft strewn linden flowers of that beloved drive and my blood pounded as I saw a light behind the drawn blind of the front-room window of the end house. Even as I drew up, I heard the sound of Alison singing.
It was the hour of her practising: she had begun seriously to develop that talent which was widely spoken of in the town. Tonight, she had finished her scales and exercises, those clear true notes, not woven into melody, yet enchanting of their own accord, like the flutings of a bird. Now, while her mother accompanied her on the piano, she was singing “Lament for Flodden,” one of those simple Scottish songs which seemed to me difficult to surpass.
“I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lassies a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaming—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.”
A crystal bell pealed into the night, so true, so sweet, I held my breath. I shut my eyes and saw the singer, not the child whom I had often played wi
th, but a tall, grown girl, who no longer flung her limbs about, but walked quietly, with restraint, as though conscious of a new dignity budding within her. I saw her as, on that astounding day six months ago, she came out of the cloakroom and along the school corridor with some other girls, wearing her short navy-blue drill costume, straps crossed over her white blouse, long firm legs in black stockings, speckled black gym shoes on her feet. How often had I passed her like this, with no more than a briskly casual nod. But, suddenly, as I politely stood against the wall to make way for the advancing group, Alison, still talking to her companions, raised her hand to her brown hair which clustered about her slender neck, moulding by this unconscious gesture her young breasts, and at the same time, as she brushed by, her skin warm with her recent exercise, giving me from her dark brown eyes a friendly, melting smile. Dear God, what had happened to me, all in an instant, at the hands of this heavenly creature whom I had so far practically ignored? Waves of intoxicating warmth surged through me as I leaned, bewildered yet entranced, against the wall in the empty corridor, long after she had gone. Oh, Alison, Alison of the quiet brown eyes, and the white, pure, swelling throat, I am caught up in that same rapture as I stand now, hidden by the night, and the deeper shadow of the linden tree, listening, until the last note wings, tremulous, towards the skies.
When there was silence I gathered myself and pushed through the iron gate. The garden was large, surrounded by a high wall and shaded by thick trees, with wide lawns spreading out from the drive, and rhododendron shrubberies which were straggling, somewhat overgrown. Although Alison’s mother had been left comfortably off she was not wealthy, and the property was not maintained with the prim propriety of the villas in Drumbuck Road. On the front doorstep I rang the bell, and a moment later I was admitted by Janet, the elderly maid who had been with Mrs. Keith for over ten years and who always regarded me with that air of distrust peculiar to old and favoured servants, but which I then felt to be directed specially against myself. She showed me into the front room where Alison had already spread her books out on the table while Mrs. Keith, seated in a low chair by the fire, was busy with some crochet work contained in a green linen bag upon her lap.
What a bright and charming room it was, quite dazzling after the darkness—the walls light-coloured, hung with white framed water colours done by Mrs. Keith, white muslin curtains draping the drawn blinds. Two bowls of blue hyacinths perfumed the air; a fringed silk shawl hung over the open piano; the furniture was chintz-covered. In the firelight a brass Benares stand glinted beneath its load of bric-a-brac, mostly ivories, brought home from India by Captain Keith. A procession of white elephants, growing in size, marched steadily across the mantelpiece.
“You’re punctual, as usual, Robert.” Mrs. Keith, while I stood blinking, was endeavouring to put me at ease. “What sort of night is it?”
“Oh, very nice, Mrs. Keith,” I stammered. “Misty. But you can see the stars.”
She smiled as I drew up a chair beside Alison at the table. “You will always see the stars, Robert. In fact, you are a regular stargazer.”
That lenient smile lingered on her kind, sallow, slightly ironic face; I felt her watching me as I began, confusedly, to work with Alison.
Mrs. Keith was thin and rather tall, in her middle thirties, dressed simply, yet with an air of breeding and good taste. She came from a prominent county family but after the death of her husband she had gone out very little, giving herself up to her daughter’s education, content with her music and the friendship of a few intimates, amongst whom were Miss Julia Blair, Mrs. Marshall—mother of Louisa, that tormentor of my childhood—and my form master, Jason Reid. Her retirement was perhaps encouraged by the fact that her health was poor—often I had the odd impression that, under her graciousness, she was suffering from headache. Yet, mainly I think for Alison’s sake, she concealed her invalidism or, with a light shrug of her shoulders, gently mocked at it. Her devotion to her daughter was extreme, she was proud of Alison’s talent and bent upon developing it, but since she was a clever woman with a clear sense of judgment, she seemed to realize the dangers of indulging her possessiveness. She urged Alison to have “suitable” friends of her own age, and from the beginning, after a penetrating scrutiny which ended, I must confess, in a twitch of suppressed amusement, she had encouraged me to come about the house. In my early childhood I had arrived periodically, rather overawed, burdened by the sorrows of timidity, to play staid and boring games with little Alison. On the sunny lawn, while the thin note of the piano came from the open window, or a carriage rolled up the drive bearing Mrs. Marshall to “take tea” with Alison’s mother, we held a picnic for her dolls, or fed the goldfish. If it were showery we went indoors where Janet suspiciously gave us bread and butter spread with chocolate seeds and, seated at the table, the rain drumming on the panes, we engaged in a contest known as “Questions and Answers,” played with small round cards which bore ridiculous queries like, “Is backgammon an old game?” and the equally preposterous response, “Yes, it was played by the Ancient Druids.” Occasionally Louisa was present at these junketings, winning all the games, withering me with her scorn. Then, as we grew older, Alison and I “did our homework” together. She, a practical person, was weak in mathematics; while I, absurdly fanciful, was good at them. And Mrs. Keith, anxious that Alison should take her Intermediate Certificate, without which she could not enter the College of Music at Winton, had recently suggested that I should come in, regularly, to coach Alison in this subject.
“What are you giving my backward and wayward daughter to-night, Robert?” Mrs. Keith spoke with affectionate irony, her eyes on her work.
“Euclid, Mrs. Keith,” I answered awkwardly. “ The sum of the squares of the sides of a right-angled triangle … you know …”
“I don’t know, Robert, but I’m sure you do.” She did not smile, still trying to help me over my terrible self-consciousness. She was always helping me, without seeming to do so, giving me ideas which I could not find in the book on etiquette which I had procured from the Public Library for the special purpose of improving my behaviour.
“It does seem silly that I should have to learn this, Mother,” Alison remarked tranquilly. “ It’s all so made-up.”
“Oh, no, Alison,” I said quickly. “ It’s really very logical. Once you admit that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points all of the thirteen books of Euclid follow automatically.”
“I believe you will write a fourteenth book yourself, one day, Robert,” Mrs. Keith said. “ Or worse—a Life History of Beetles.”
“He will, Mother,” Alison exclaimed accusingly. “Do you know, in Mr. Reid’s class last week he actually proved that an answer in the algebra book was wrong.”
While they both smiled I lowered my head in pride and shyness, grateful to Alison for having brought this up, resuming my explanation of the theorem in a low and husky voice.
Seated close beside her, so that our knees touched under the table, I was conscious of a sweetness that made my heart faint. When our hands came in contact on the page of the book an exquisite thrill passed through me. Her rather untidy hair, which lay upon her shoulders and which, from time to time, she shook impatiently, seemed to me something wonderful and holy. I stole quick glances at her fresh cheeks, noticing the moistness of her lower lip as with a puzzled frown she sucked her pencil. I did not, could not, even contemplate the word “ love.” I hoped that, perhaps, she liked me. I felt that I was living, talking, smiling in a dream.
The hour passed with unbelievable rapidity. It was almost nine. Already Mrs. Keith had stifled a yawn and I had detected her looking at the clock. I did not dare to speak aloud or even whisper to Alison what was in my mind. Suddenly, with a shaking hand, I took a scrap of paper and wrote:
“Alison, I want to see you. Will you come to the door with me to-night?”
A look of surprise came into Alison’s eyes as she read the message. Taking her pencil she wrote:
“What for?”
Trembling in all my limbs I wrote back:
“I have something to tell you.”
A pause, then Alison gave me her clear frank smile and firmly inscribed the words:
“Very well.”
A shiver of joy passed through me. Fearful that Mrs. Keith should see me, the betrayer of her trust, I took the piece of paper, folded it tight, thrust it in my mouth and swallowed it. At that moment Janet brought in a tray of milk and cracknel biscuits—positive indication that the geometry lesson was over.
Ten minutes later I stood up and said good night to Mrs. Keith. Faithful to her promise Alison accompanied me to the front porch.
“It is a nice night.” She viewed the dewy night with a calm, untroubled gaze. “I’ll come with you to the gate.”
As we went down the drive I walked slowly to prolong the warm and choking rapture of being near her. Holding herself erect, Alison looked straight ahead. As we passed a dark yet familiar bush she plucked and crushed a leaf—the smell of flowering currant filled the air.
My brain was swimming, the world wavering before me. With a terrible effort I commanded my disordered breathing.
“I heard you singing to-night, Alison.”
The banality of that quavering remark, which brutally parodied my pure yet destroying passion, which, in fact, horrified me the instant it was spoken, seemed lost upon her.
“Yes, I’ve begun to work in earnest. Miss Cramb has just started me on Schubert’s songs. They are simply beautiful.”
