by A. J. Cronin
Ah! He was a liar too. Liar and lecher both! But before I could confront him he moved out of the lobby.
“Come away into the kitchen.” He was rubbing his hands, full of calm, kindness, and peace of mind. “I have a vegetable soup that’ll draw the teeth out your head.”
I entered the kitchen and, while he was absent in the scullery, sat down at the table. In spite of my wrongs I was extremely hungry.
A moment later he entered and served me with a big bowl of steaming broth. To divert me, to add point to his culinary achievements, he had put on one of Mama’s aprons, and wound a napkin, like a chef’s cap, around his depraved and venerable locks. So he was a clown, a pitiful buffoon as well, this fiend who had almost, but not quite, spoiled everything.
I put my spoon in the thick soup, which was filled with peas, chopped-up carrots, and shredded pieces of chicken. I lifted it to my lips, while he watched with an expression of affectionate expectancy.
“Good?” he inquired.
It was delicious. I finished it to the last drop. Then I gazed at this absurd and abominable old man who had earned my loathing and contempt, who betrayed the sacred beliefs of youth, whom I must shun as the cause and occasion of sin. The moment of denunciation had arrived.
“Can I have another helping, Grandpa?” I asked meekly.
Chapter Eleven
The morning of the examination was wet. On the afternoon of Thursday, the day before, Jason had taken all my books away and hidden them.
“Only the second-raters cram up to the last minute,” he said. “You see them mucking over notes before they go in. They never win.”
What I had learned seemed part of me. Nothing more to be assimilated. At present a mental blackness. But it is there, in the marrow of my bones. Outside my core of desperate resolution I was pale but quite calm as I dressed in the best of Murdoch‘ s cast-offs: not a bad blue suit, though shiny at the elbows and seat. With measured strokes I shone and prepared my boots—which had caused Mama anxiety and which I must speak of later. Grandpa, hovering around, had picked me a buttonhole, to give me courage. Ah, those famous buttonholes of Grandpa’s! I remember, distinctly: it was a pink moss-rosebud, with raindrops still upon it.
When he had handed it to me he produced, with a distinct “air,” a small square envelope.
“Someone left this for you.”
“Who?”
He shrugged his shoulders as though to say: “My dear boy, I am a gentlemen, I don’t spy on your affairs.” But out of the corner of his eye he watched me, with a pleased expression, as though I were conforming to a pattern he approved, while with nervous figures I opened the letter.
It was from Alison, a short note sending me her good wishes. A glow expanded round my heart … I reddened and put the letter in my pocket while Grandpa, whistling, smiling to himself, served my breakfast.
Jason was coming up with me to the College on this first morning. His frivolous pretext: that he did not wish me to get ensnared in the toils of a great city. Jason’s kindness to me, all masked by flippancy, his unsparing generosity—for you must not imagine that three months’ tutoring, given gladly and for nothing, is a natural phenomenon in a small Scots town—his support, his friendship, above all his complete understanding of my difficulties—all this, in recollection, clouds the eyes, gives one greater hope for the future of the human race than all the ideologies.
At the station we were joined by Gavin, a little pale, like myself, but calm, even smiling. He, too, had been working hard; I had not seen him for at least ten days. Now there was no sense of rivalry between us, we were partners in a tremendous enterprise. I felt a warm lush of comradeship as we exchanged our handclasp and I murmured now, so that Jason might not hear: “ One of us, Gavin.”
I knew now that it must be I, but if it were not … dear God, that was an awful thought! … then let it be Gavin.
The train of destiny rushed in. Our compartment was empty, smelling of cigarette and tunnel smoke, strewn with spent matches, the wooden partition scrawled with the crude wit of the apprentice engineers who travelled on this line. Reid, who did not wish us to dissipate our energies in conversation, had bought us each a Strand Magazine which, with a pretence of interest, we held before our faces in our corners. My copy made an excellent shield for my silently moving lips, for I was praying all the time, beseeching Heaven not to lose interest at the last ditch. Reid sat next to me, quite close, staring at the shipyards, chimney-stacks, and gasometers which sped past us in the rain, giving me courage by the communicative pressure of his thick shoulders, not withdrawing when the train threw us together, but trying, it almost seemed, to impart to me, as a final gift, his own strength, spirit, and intellectual power. Although from time to time he made desultory efforts to bring my attention back to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a character whom he admired greatly, he was excited, yes, tensely overwrought. I could feel this, despite the check he imposed upon himself. He wanted me to win, desired it with every vital fibre of his stocky, vital frame.
The College buildings, washed by the rain as they stood ancient, spired, and grey on an eminence overlooking the Park on the west side of the city, were impressive to a boy of fifteen who had only seen them in his dreams. My old weakness, my inveterate curse, began to afflict me. I felt humble and intimidated as we left the yellow tram which had borne us from Central Station to the foot of Gilmore Hill, and, as we went up the quiet road with the professors’ houses on either side, and entered a lovely quadrangle through the low cloisters, I began to question the right of a shabby and contemptible boy to penetrate such sacred precincts. Do not wholly despise me, however. Though my buttonhole and the small square note in my inside pocket should have sustained me, my left boot was already giving me concern, causing me to walk in a fashion so flat-footed that Jason asked:
“Have you hurt your leg?”
I flushed. “Perhaps I’ve strained my knee.”
But we were there now, on the battle ground. The other candidates were grouped round the door of the Bute Hall.
“Plates of sour porridge!” Jason, our ally, holding us apart, gave the comment as much conviction as he dared, yet I could not agree with him. They looked a fine bright crowd of boys, full of life and intelligence. I thought I discerned McEwan, a smallish, bespectacled figure leaning against a pillar, with his hands in his pockets and laughing, yes, dear God, laughing as if he did not care.
At last, a low kind of rumble, which might be from my own heart: the oak doors swung open, the boys began filing through. Suddenly, as I moved, I felt Jason grip my arm in a vice. He bent down, putting his head close to mine, so that I could feel on my cheek his warm, “ bad” breath. “Take my watch, Shannon. Don’t trust their old clock. And keep cool.” His whisper became hoarse, his bulging eyes fastened on mine with terrible intensity. “I know you can win.”
The Bute Hall is very large, with stained-glass windows like a church, organ pipes shining dully on a balcony, tattered flags round the walls, newer, brighter flags hanging from the high beams. This morning, however, at the top end, a familiar sight: varnished yellow desks, about a hundred of them, numbered and arranged before the examiner’s dais. My number is nine, in the centre of the front row; several buff-covered exercise books, pen, pencil, ink and blotting sheet, all laid out for me. I add Jason’s silver watch which shows three minutes to ten. Around me, the creaking and rustling has ceased. The examiner, a heavy, slow man in a faded gown, is already handing out the first paper: Trigonometry. I close my eyes, in a last desperate prayer, and when I open them the paper, printed in small clear type, lies before me. I pick it up and with a start of joy perceive that the first question is one which Jason, with unbelievable cunning, has anticipated. I know the answer almost by heart. With compressed lips and fingers that tremble slightly, I pick up my pen and draw the first virgin exercise book towards me. Then oblivion descends … nothing exists but that steady outflowing which comes from my bowed figure, wrapped in a pale trance.
L
ate that afternoon, when Gavin and I returned to Levenford, the train was so full we had little chance to compare notes, though we agreed that the Algebra and Solid Geometry papers had been horribly stiff. Now, worrying about things that perhaps I had missed, I was depressed, spent and cold. My feet especially were cold, and at this point I had better admit, not only that my boots leaked abominably, but that one of them, the left, was worn completely through in the sole, leaving a hole into which three fingers could be comfortably inserted. Still, in my vanity, I had preferred these ruins to Kate’s pointed boots, which, although sound, laced halfway up the leg. With considerable ingenuity I had covered the most gaping wound by an inner sole of brown cardboard, cut from an old hatbox taken from beneath Mama’s bed. However, the rain and the hard pavements soon uncovered the futility of this subterfuge. In ten minutes I had worn through the cardboard and my stocking as well, and was walking on my bare foot. No wonder I felt a little damp as I sat in the steamy compartment, crushed between workmen in dripping oilskins.
Jason met the train at Levenford station and immediately took possession of me. In his rooms, while I sat down to a hot dinner of chops and potatoes, he asked me in a queer voice, urgent yet anxious, for the papers. Seated at the desk, beneath his metal reading lamp, using logarithms and books of tables, he worked out every answer; then came over, placed them before me without a word. I compared his results with my own, then glanced up at his strained face.
“Yes,” I said.
“Every one?”
“Yes,” I said again, humbly, yet exalted by the long breath which broke from him.
The next day, Saturday, we had French, English and Applied Chemistry; for the final subject, which was Physics, we must wait till Monday. I put thicker cardboard in my boot and inked the sole of my foot as a precaution against the worst. Curiously enough, my chief concern was that I should be discovered, in full view of all the candidates, with this indecent, half-naked extremity. As we came up from the tramway terminus a heavy shower caught us. Gavin shared his mackintosh with me, but, of course, he could not share his boots.
What matter? Once in the examination hall all such trivialities were forgotten, lost in the throbbing sweep of my endeavour. I thought nothing of my wet feet until I was again in the train, when, indeed, I shivered and put my hand to my brow, suddenly aware that I had a frightful headache. I was alone. Gavin had remained in Winton to meet his sister, and, during the journey, I stuck my head out of the window into the rushing air to try to cure it.
At Levenford station Jason’s faithful, waiting face danced before me; I smiled, to show him that I had not completely disgraced him. He gripped my arm again, protective rather than importunate, and guided me down the steps to the cab rank.
“You’re done up … and no wonder. Thank heaven you have all to-morrow to rest.”
He took me home in the splendid luxury of a cab, and Grandpa provided us with dinner, at which, so to speak, I was the guest of honour. During the meal, contrary to my custom, I talked without reserve. Pressed by Jason, I went over the French paper and related almost word for word the English essay I had written.
“Good … good,” Jason kept muttering, moving his hands restlessly, growing more excited every moment. “ It was excellent to bring in those quotations. You did well … very well to say that.” There was actually, on Jason’s lips, a dry white spume of excitement. Grandpa was equally affected: rarely had I seen him so worked-up. He ate nothing, hung upon my words. He was not only my patron and protector, but rejuvenated, living his youth again through me; he was actually sitting the examination, and winning it, himself. He beamed at me as Reid at last declared:
“I don’t want to say things I’ll regret, Shannon. But you haven’t exactly made a fool of yourself. Monday’s paper is your best subject. Unless God turns you into a raving lunatic over the week-end—and that is quite possible—for I myself already feel like one—you cannot fail to score less than ninety-five per cent., deaf, dumb, and blindfolded. Off you go now, for heaven’s sake, and sleep your head off.”
As I went slowly upstairs I distinctly heard Reid add to Grandpa, as though scarcely able to trust himself:
“He hasn’t put a foot wrong. Better … far better than I expected.”
Oh, joy, supreme and blessed transport, making me close my eyes and cling, weak with praise, to the banister of the stairs.
Next morning, Sunday, I awakened at half-past seven and got up to attend church at eight o’clock—an act so completely automatic I was halfway along Drumbuck Road before I realized how very queer I felt. My head still ached dizzily, my throat was painfully dry, and, although the grey day gave promise of being mild, I couldn’t stop shivering. Still, I knew that the strain of the examination had played havoc with my nerves. And I must go to Communion this morning, not only out of profound gratitude for favours received, but also because it was part of a solemn vow which I had made to ensure my success.
When I returned from church I found it difficult to swallow my breakfast, I was chillier than ever.
“Grandpa,” I said. “ I’m awfully cold. It seems silly, but I wish I could have a fire.”
He had been studying me from beneath his brows, and although his face expressed some surprise he offered no objection. He remarked, slowly, “ I should think you’ve earned a fire. And you’ll have one. In the best room in the house.”
He laid and lit a fire in the parlour which, recently, we had used so considerably—the only period, to my knowledge, when this useless mausoleum achieved the status of a human habitation. I felt more comfortable in the armchair by the fire, much warmer; indeed I was soon burning all over.
“What do you fancy for dinner?” Grandpa had been in and out of the room all the forenoon, attending to the fire, glancing at me.
“I don’t think I’ll bother with anything. I’m not in the least hungry.”
“Just as you wish, boy.” He hesitated, but said no more. The next time he appeared he was wearing his hat and a casual air which would have deceived no one. “I’m away out for a stroll. I won’t be long.”
He came back, in half an hour, with Reid. As they entered, the room, I looked up from the position into which I had sunk in the chair. Jason seemed both angry and disturbed.
“Hello, hello! What’s all this?” he exclaimed in a brusque voice, utterly foreign to him. “ Trying to make out you’re sick, eh? Well, it won’t work, my good fellow. If you think you’re going to run out at the last hurdle, you’re very much mistaken.”
He blustered forward, drew a stool up to my armchair and took my hand in his, roughly, like a man who is going to stand no nonsense. “Yes, you might have some fever. But we shan’t take your temperature. I haven’t got a thermometer. And I don’t want to put stupid notions in your head. You’ve simply caught a cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, with difficulty. “I’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“I should hope so. Don’t look so damned sorry for yourself. I warned you you’d get hysterical. Pull yourself together and try and eat something.” He turned to Grandpa. “Bring him in some of that milk pudding and fruit you had last night.” As Grandpa went out he resumed: “After what we’ve been through together, I’ll get you to that examination hall if I’ve got to fill you to the ears with brandy. Is your head clear?”
“Fairly clear, sir … just a little dizzy.”
Grandpa had come back with a saucer of stewed apples and custard. I sat up, determined to do my best, but after I had attempted a few spoonfuls I gazed mournfully at Reid.
“It’s my throat, sir.”
“Your throat, eh?” There was a pause. “Well, at least we can have a look at that. Come over here.”
He led me to the window and adjusted my head none too gently, so that the light fell into my mouth—which, with an effort, I held wide open. He peered for a moment; then, by the immediate change in his attitude, conveyed to me by a lessening of the pressure of his hands, I sensed the presence of disaster.
“What is it, sir?”
“Nothing .… I’m not sure.” He turned his face away, his tone was flat, absolutely crushed. “We’ll fetch the doctor.”
While he went out I reeled back to my chair. I knew now that I was very sick. Worst of all was the terrible dread, growing upon me, filling my throbbing head—the dread that I might not be well enough to complete my examination next day. Grandpa was sitting erect, motionless and silent, opposite me.
Within the hour Jason was back with Dr. Galbraith. The doctor took one practised look at my throat, then nodded to Jason.
“Get him up to bed,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Once the acute inflammation has subsided, and the membrane begins to slough from the throat, diphtheria is neither painful nor prolonged. Following the first few days of fever, a dreamy state: the pulse beats slowly and the nerves are pleasantly relaxed. Sometimes this goes too far and the larynx, or even the heart, refuses to function, causing the physician to advance, hurriedly, with a charged hypodermic. But in my case there was no such drama. It was not a severe attack and Dr. Galbraith promised that I should be up in less than two weeks. After months of agonizing effort it was restful simply to be at peace, absolutely motionless upon one’s back, hands limp upon the counterpane, eyes upon the shaft of sunlight which penetrated the narrow bedroom window and swung slowly round, filled with dancing motes, as the day advanced.
Do not imagine a mind tortured by disappointment and despair—far, far from it. Yes, I had the firm belief, born of my enfeeblement and the close communion which I still maintained with things celestial, the unshakable belief that God in His infinite goodness would not wilfully destroy the future of a boy who loved Him, who had propitiated Him, day and night, upon bended knees. No miracle was required, no thunderous manifestation of the divine power—simply justice, a little act of justice. The examiners need only, in fairness, allow me an average mark for the paper I had missed. Even Jason had hinted that such a thing was not impossible. When the results were announced … I closed my eyes, with a faint and confident smile, murmured another tranquil prayer.
