by A. J. Cronin
At last, as though about to give way to tears—and indeed, tears were making my own eyes smart—she was led back by the accompanist. Her mother had stipulated as the condition of her appearance that she should sing only one group of four songs. Also, it was the rule of these charity concerts not to permit encores. But now all that was forgotten. Alison herself seemed incapable of speech; the accompanist, smiling at her, still holding her by the hand, announced that she would give one extra song. More applause. Absolute silence as the audience, triumphant, settled back.
The piano began, repeated the opening bar, and waited; for now Alison, extremely pale, appeared to hesitate. Only for an instant, however. As though freeing herself from all distraction, she clasped her hands—no longer holding that formal sheet—and filled her breast deep. Even before the first notes broke I guessed that she would offer her vanquished listeners an old Scots song. I had not dared to hope for my favourite amongst all these native airs, “The Banks of Doon.” Yet this, with beautiful simplicity, was the song she sang.
“Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?”
The tender words lifted me to the world of my dreams, a world
which Alison and I would one day roam together, hand in hand,
not far beneath the sky.
When the last note faded, the silence in the hall was profound.
A rigid spell; a community entranced. Then the storm broke. The Scottish song, so exquisitely sung by this Scottish girl, had set the Scottish audience on fire. Perhaps she had won her little victory by the charm of immaturity, perhaps by a pleasant trick of voice over-estimated by local sentiment. The future alone would tell. For the present everyone stood up to applaud. I was on my feet, hoarse, completely hoarse, with cheering.
When the concert ended and I made my way out of the hall, slowly, impeded by the crowd, everyone spoke of Alison. Then, in the vestibule, as I was about to escape, an arm reached out and detained me.
“Where were you?” Reid’s face was flushed as my own, flushed with pleasure, yet his tone was sharply annoyed. “We’ve been looking out for you all evening.”
“I preferred to sit by myself.”
I felt him frowning at me, as I stared sideways through the arched doorway.
“I’m beginning to get angry with you, Shannon. Why can’t you put on a collar and behave like a decent member of society?”
This, from a man who had prided himself on his unconventional views, brought a smile of amusement to my lips.
“Must one wear a collar to be decent?”
“Really, this pose of yours is becoming a nuisance.”
“If I’m so peculiar, why bother with me?”
“Oh, don’t be an ass, to-night of all nights. Thomas is delighted with Alison. Come on to the reception room. I want to introduce you to him.”
Anticipating my protest, he hustled me through the vestibule, along a corridor that ran parallel to the auditorium. He was in high spirits—his love of music had brought him, long ago, into touch with Mrs. Keith, he took a great interest in Alison’s talent, and it was he who had arranged for the Orpheus conductor to attend her first public performance.
He gave me a forgiving smile as we approached the end of the corridor. “Couldn’t have gone better. Here we are. For heaven’s sake, try to look less like Lord Chesterfield attending his own funeral.”
We entered a room, opening to the stage, where a number of the performers, their friends, and the town officials stood talking while tea was served by ladies of the Hospital Committee.
Alison stood in the centre of a large group, restored to calmness, yet silent amidst the chatter, holding stiffly a small presentation bouquet of white flowers. Her gaze wandered about the room, as if searching for some recollection of ordinary events which would help her to preserve her steadiness. When our eyes met she gave me, while her lips formed into a faint smile, a glance of communicative understanding.
Awkwardly, I allowed Reid to introduce me to Dr. Thomas, who gave me his free hand and a smile while continuing his animated lecture to Miss Cramb, who for once didn’t look as though she had been sucking lemons. I refused the tea which Mrs. Keith offered me—I was thirsty but I knew that my shaking fingers would never support the cup. While I stood, apart, listening to the conversation, my gaze kept straying back to Alison.
At last, an eddy of the crowd brought me beside her. Near, like this, after the remote vastness of the stage, she created in me a wistful and half-fearful excitement, a darkened joy which brought a lump to my throat and twisted my mouth so that I could scarcely speak. Yet somehow I brought out my fumbling tribute, knowing that she disliked praise and was always disinclined to discuss her singing.
She shook her head to indicate that she had not pleased herself.
“Still,” she added, as though continuing that unspoken thought, “they have asked me to sing at the Orpheus Chorale.”
“A solo part?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Alison … that’s wonderful.”
She shook her head again, but her round young chin was startlingly firm. “ It’s a beginning.”
There was a silence. People were beginning to leave now, putting on their coats and wraps. Quickly, before my courage failed, I said:
“Alison, may I see you home to-night?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered quite calmly, glancing round. “Everyone seems to be going now. I’ll just tell Mother.”
She went over to where Mrs. Keith, looking extremely nice in a dove-grey frock and antique quaint necklace, stood talking to Reid. I watched her as she surrendered her flowers, drew on her thick tweed coat and wrapped a white shawl with a tasselled edge about her hair. I felt Mrs. Keith giving me a mildly ironic look, less kind than before, a new expression which made me redden and move towards the door. It took Alison a long time to say good-night to everyone, but at last we were outside, walking from the Hall together.
“I’m cross with myself.” She spoke thoughtfully, after a silence. “Just think of it. Giving way like that and almost crying. I didn’t though, thank goodness.”
“But, Alison. Your first concert. It would have been perfect if you had cried a little.”
“No, it would have been silly. And I hate people who do silly things.”
I did not press the matter to another of our arguments: I was beginning to discover that our viewpoints were quite different. Even-tempered, capable, and contained, Alison was everything that I was not. She wasn’t clever perhaps, nor had she much sense of humour, but in spite of her slow way of thinking, she was full of practical common sense. Also, she was ambitious—not in my intense and highflown way, but with a logical desire to make the most of her talent. She recognized, and faced with determination, the fact that to become a singer would require study, work, and sacrifice. Her exercises, those deep breathings which enabled her to sing a “long” scale, or to maintain a phrase lasting twenty seconds, had given her a kind of physical serenity. Yet under her placidity, this smooth-brown Juno had a quiet will of her own.
“Let’s go up the hill, Alison.” Trembling slightly I came a little closer to her as we walked along, aware that every step was taking us nearer Sinclair Drive. “It’s a lovely evening.”
She smiled at my appealing tone. “ It’s damp and cold. I think it’s going to rain. Besides, Mother’ll expect me in to-night. She may be bringing a few friends home with her.”
A hot lump rose in my throat; I was ready, in my intensity, to die for her, yet she calmly allowed “ a few friends” to come between us.
“You don’t seem to appreciate me very much,” I muttered, “considering that you’ll be away most of the winter.”
Mrs. Keith had lately begun to speak of the old house in Sinclair Drive as being too large for her requirements. With Alison’s training ahead of her she wanted to economize. She
was closing her home for the cold months and spending that time with her sister-in-law in Ardfillan.
“You sound as though Ardfillan were at the other end of the earth,” Alison replied with a touch of asperity. “ Can’t you come and see me like other people? There’ll be dances, Louisa’s School Reunion especially.”
“You know I can’t dance,” I answered miserably.
“It’s your own fault for not learning.”
“Don’t worry,” I said bitterly, “ you’ll have plenty of beaus. All Louisa’s young men. And your own.”
“Thank you. I daresay I shall. And I daresay they’ll be more entertaining than someone I know.”
My heart was bursting; and suddenly my anger gave way to despair.
“Oh, Alison,” I gasped. “Don’t let’s have another quarrel. I’m so terribly fond of you.”
She did not answer at once. When she did her voice was troubled, sympathetic, yet struggling against the unknown.
“You know I like you too.” She added, in a lower tone, “Very much.”
“Then why won’t you stay out with me a little longer?”
“Because I’m hungry, I’ve had nothing substantial since four o’clock.” She laughed at herself. We were now at the entrance to her house. “Why don’t you come in? The others will be here any minute. We’ll have refreshments and lots of fun.”
I tightened my lips in the darkness, repelled by the idea of lights, crowds of people and banal conversation in which I was too stiff and proud to join. Under such circumstances I had no capacity for gaiety, the laughter which I forced, so as not to appear unusual, sounded hollow in my ears.
“Your mother didn’t invite me,” I said moodily. “It’s no use. I don’t want to come in.”
“What do you want?” Alison said.
She stopped and stood facing me beside the currant bush in the drive.
“I want us to be together,” I mumbled. “Just you and I alone. All I would want to do would be to hold your hand … so long as I was near you …”
I broke off, incoherently. How could I tell her what I wanted when my emotions were so tangled, my desires so agonizingly confused?
She seemed touched; her smile was hesitant.
“You’d soon get tired of holding my hand.”
“I swear I wouldn’t.”
In proof of this I reached out and caught her fingers. Then my heart began to beat madly. “ Oh, Alison,” I groaned.
She did not draw back. For an instant her lips brushed against my cheek.
“There now.” In the darkness she was smiling at me quietly. “Good night.”
She broke away and, holding the ends of her shawl beneath her chin, ran towards the front door.
When she had gone I stood for a long time in the shadow, torn between elation and disappointment. I hoped that she would return. Surely she would come to the porch and call me in. I had been a fool to refuse and would gladly go now. But she did not come. Gradually the glow faded inside me and, turning up my coat collar, I walked slowly away, pausing several times to look over my shoulder at the lighted window of her house. The wind caught me sharply at the corner of the drive. Alison had been right. It was a damp and icy evening.
Chapter Three
My work at the boiler shop was not that melodramatic toil one reads of in novels, but I was not cut out for manual labour and I found it hard enough. For the most part we made marine engines which went into the vessels constructed in the shipyard; we also built feed and suction pumps, which were usually crated and shipped abroad. I had begun in the foundry, where my job for months had been to file and clean the rough castings with a steel brush. It was heavy and dirty work. Jamie kept his eyes on me and was kind in many ways, but our relationship forbade his showing me favouritism, the slightest sign of which would have been resented by the whole shop. My bench was near the cupola where the cast iron was melted and poured into sand moulds. Sometimes the heat was extreme and on windy days sand blew about the shed, making me cough. Later on I moved into the machine shop. Here the shaped castings were turned and burnished by innumerable lathes. It stood next to the fitting shop, the place of assembly for all the finished parts, and resounded with the clang of hammers and the whirring of its own machines.
The apprentices were, in the main, a cheerful lot, who took life with a carefree grin, were interested in football and horse-racing, and openly ribald in their attitude towards sex. At the end of four years most of them would become seagoing engineers; while others, like myself, went on to the drawing office. A few had come for more specialized training. There was a young Siamese of noble family who appeared every morning, silent and smilingly polite, in immaculate overalls, and who would no doubt, in due course, carry the benefits of Western civilization back to his own country. At the bench next to mine a Welsh youth named Lewis gracefully idled away his time. Lewis was the son of a wealthy Cardiff shipbuilder and, since the Marshall Works enjoyed a special reputation, he had been sent there for a practical course before entering the parental business. He was a vapid, easy-going youth, with oiled hair and a receding chin, who wore vivid bow ties and equally striking shirts. But he was good-natured and generous. He kept on his bench a huge yellow tin of cigarettes, a miniature trunk in fact, and everyone was free to help himself from it. Bored to tears by his enforced sojourn in Levenford, he spent much of his spare time in Winton, where he was often seen dining at the Bodega Grill, or occupying a box at the Alhambra Music Hall. He fancied himself as a lady-killer and his remarks dealt almost exclusively with his amorous adventures in the neighbouring city.
Amongst my fellow apprentices I had tried, anxiously, to find a congenial companion. But, although I longed for friendship, my advances were clumsy, and inhibited by the fear of a rebuff. When I made the effort and went out with some of the wilder spirits, the level of the conversation, long and vociferous arguments relating to the merits of one whippet over another or to the price paid for the winner of the local pony trot, soon reduced me to a stony impotence. I wanted to find someone with whom I could discuss books and music; who would respond eagerly with his own views when I tried to articulate the new ideas towards which I was reaching out fumblingly. But whenever I brought up such subjects, I felt myself suspect of showing off, and quickly relapsed into silence. Lewis was my closest acquaintance and once or twice I had been to tea at his lodgings. But the story of his conquests could be very boring and its obvious mendacity soon ceased to amuse me. Because of my kinship with Jamie and my capacity for silence—a quality always respected in the North—I was quite well-thought-of by the others. I tried, moreover, to do my work to the best of my ability. But I was dreadfully out of my element. The thought of the years that lay ahead of me made me sick at heart.
On the Saturday following the concert, two o’clock had struck and Papa, Murdoch, Kate, Grandma, and I were seated round the cleared table while Sophie, in the scullery, washed the dishes with such complete absence of noise that one could almost hear the straining of her ear drums.
Papa wore the suppressed and anxious expression which now seldom left him. He was thinner. His face had a grey and careworn quality, his cheeks were sunken, his lips tight over his teeth.
“It’s a fortnight after quarter-day.” He made the remark in a controlled voice. “And still no word from Adam.”
“There’s time enough, Papa.” Kate spoke placatingly.
“That’s what you said before. You know when the conversion fell through he promised faithfully to pay me five per cent. on the nine hundred he borrowed. And there’s been not a penny of interest from him for the last six months.”
In my childhood I had always thought of Adam as a man who would make a fortune. He seemed earmarked for self-made success. Yet now, although our meetings remained infrequent, I had begun to perceive, underneath that genial confidence in himself, an odd limitation. Perhaps it was the tendency, so common in the Scot who thinks himself a “ big man,” to underestimate other people and their capacity
to resist him. Adam was too sure that he could outwit others. In the private enterprise upon which he had embarked so triumphantly with Papa, he had failed to anticipate that the owners of property adjoining his Kensington house, many of whom were rich and influential, would strenuously contest his right to derange their amenities by a conversion to flats. Under the sharp scrutiny of their lawyers the freehold was not quite so watertight as it had seemed. After placing all his available capital in the venture and inveigling from Papa his entire savings, after entering into commitments with a jobbing builder, he had found himself faced with a court injunction and the threat of a devastating lawsuit. The house still remained on his hands; it was now, indeed, the “white elephant” he had once joked about, and it was only too apparent that the men in the top hats whom he so openly derided had got the better of him in the end.
“What about the school that wanted to buy it?” Kate broke the silence.
“That fell through,” Papa answered gloomily. “ He’ll never get rid of it.”
“Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t worry so much. Adam has a good position, he’ll pay you back eventually. And you’re very comfortably off. You get a nice salary, Grandma has her compensation and Robie is bringing in a good weekly wage.”
Papa, still pale, could hardly speak for indignation.
“Have you no idea of the value of money? Do you expect folks to throw their earnings away without a word … and be reduced to beggary in their old age?”
“Nonsense, Papa.” Kate spoke soothingly but firmly. “There’s your superannuation pension. Besides, you’re still saving money. Why, you even have a servant in the house, a thing poor Mama never had.”
“I wish your mother was alive to hear you!” Papa’s eyes flashed; he dropped his voice, breathing with difficulty. “ You wouldn’t believe how much that girl eats over and above her wages. Not only that, she’s broken two of the best plates since she came here. It’s wicked, wicked.”
Abandoning Kate as hopeless he turned to Murdoch. “Why don’t you say something? Should I go to McKellar and start proceedings against Adam?”
