by A. J. Cronin
Francis broke off here, and with a sudden flush scored out the last line he had written. Then, conscientiously, he resumed.
‘Secondly, I am selfishly concerned about my future. I’m now educated above – here again Fr Tarrant would agree – my station. I’ve only another term at Holywell. Am I to return gracefully to the beer-pulls of the Union? I can’t continue to be a charge on Ned – or more justly Polly, since I recently ascertained quite by accident that my fees have been discharged, out of her modest income, by that wonderful woman! My ambitions are so muddled. My fondness for Aunt Polly, my overbrimming gratitude, make me long to repay her. And it is her dearest wish to see me ordained. Again, in a place like this, where three quarters of the students and most of one’s friends are predestined for the priesthood, it is hard to escape the inevitable pull of sympathy. One wants to line up in the ranks. Tarrant apart, Father MacNabb thinks I should make a good priest – I can feel it in his shrewd, friendly provocativeness, his almost Godlike sense of waiting. And as Principal of this College he should know something about vocations.
‘Naturally I’m impetuous and hot-tempered; and my mixed upbringing has left me with a schismatic quirk. I can’t pretend to be one of these consecrated youths – our college library teems with them – who lisp prayers throughout their infancy, make boyish shrines in the woods, and sweetly rebuke the little girls who jostle them at the village fair. “Keep away, Therese and Annabelle, I am not for thee.”
‘Yet who can describe those moments that come to one suddenly: alone upon the back road to Doune, waking in the darkness in one’s silent room, remaining behind, quite solitary, when the scraping, coughing, whispering mob has gone in the empty yet breathing church. Moments of strange apprehension, of intuition. Not that sentimental ecstasy which is as loathsome to me as ever – Query: why do I want to vomit when I see rapture on the Master of Novices’ face? – but a sense of consolation, of hope.
‘I’m distressed to find myself writing like this – though it is for no other eye than mine. One’s private ardours make chilling stuff on paper. Yet I must record this inescapable sense of belonging to God which strikes at me through the darkness, the deep conviction, under the measured, arranged, implacable movement of the universe, that man does not emerge from, or vanish into, nothing. And here – is it not strange? – I feel the influence of Daniel Glennie, dear, cracked Holy Dan, feel his warm unearthly gaze upon me …
‘Confound it! And Tarrant! I am literally pouring out my heart. If I am such a Holy Willie why don’t I set out and do something for God, attack the great mass of indifference, of sneering materialism in the world today … in short, become a priest? Well … I must be honest. I think it is because of Nora. The beauty and tenderness of my feeling for her overfills my heart. The vision of her face, with its light and sweetness, is before me even when I am praying to Our Lady in church. Dear, dear Nora. You are the real reason why I don’t take my ticket on the celestial express for San Morales!’
He stopped writing and let his gaze travel into the distance, a faint frown on his brow, but his lips smiling. With an effort, he again collected himself.
‘I must, I must get back to this morning and Rusty Mac. This being a holiday of obligation, I had the forenoon on my hands. On my way down to post a letter at the lodge I ran into the Headmaster coming up from the Stinchar with his rod and without fish. He stopped, supporting his short burly form on the gaff, his ruddy face screwed up, rather put out, beneath his blaze of red hair. I do love Rusty Mac. I think he has some fondness for me and perhaps the simplest explanation is that we are so dourly Scottish and both of us fishers … the only two in the school. When Lady Frazer endowed the College from her Stinchar properties, Rusty claimed the river as his own. The jingo in the Holywell Monitor beginning,
I’ll not have my pools
Whipped to ribbons by fools …
neatly takes off his attitude – for he’s a mad fisher. There’s a story of him, in the middle of mass at Frazer Castle, which Holywell serves, when his staunch friend, the Presbyterian Gillie, stuck his head through the window of the oratory bursting with suppressed excitement. “Your reverence! They’re rising like fury in Lochaber Pool!” Never was a mass more quickly completed. The stupefied congregation, including Her Ladyship, was pattered over, blessed at breakneck speed; then a dark streak, not unlike the local concept of the Devil, was seen flying from the sacristy. “ Jock! Jock! What flee are they taking?”
‘Now, he looked at me disgustedly. “Not a fish in sight. Just when I wanted one for the notables!” The Bishop of the diocese and the retiring principal of our English Seminary at San Morales were coming to lunch at Holywell that day.
‘I said, “ There’s a fish in the Glebe Pool, sir.”
‘“There’s no fish in the river at all, not even a grilse … I’ve been out since six.”
‘“It’s a big one.”
‘“Imaginary!”
‘“I saw it there yesterday, under the weir, but of course I didn’t dare try for it.”
‘From beneath his sandy brows he gave me his dour smile. “You’re a perverse demon, Chisholm. If you want to waste your time – you’ve my dispensation.” He handed me his rod and walked off.
‘I went down to the Glebe Pool, my heart leaping as it always does at the sound of running water. The fly on the leader was a Silver Doctor, perfect for the size and colour of the river. I began to fish the pool. I fished it for an hour. Salmon are painfully scarce this season. Once I thought I saw the movement of a dark fin in the shadows of the opposite bank. But I touched nothing. Suddenly I heard a discreet cough. I swung round. Rusty Mac, dressed in his best blacks, wearing gloves and his ceremonial top hat, had stopped, on his way to meet his guest at Doune Station, to condole with me.
‘“It’s these large ones, Chisholm –” he said with a sepulchral grin – “they’re always the hardest!”
‘As he spoke, I made a final cast thirty yards across the pool. The fly fell exactly on the spume eddying beneath the far edge of the weir. The next instant I felt the fish, struck, and was fast in it.
‘“Ye have one!” Rusty cried. Then the salmon jumped – four feet in the air. Though for my own part I nearly dropped, the effect on Rusty was stupendous. I could feel him stiffen beside me. “In the name of God!” he muttered in stricken awe. The salmon was the biggest I had ever seen, here, in the Stinchar, or in my father’s Tweedside bothy. “Keep his head up!” Rusty suddenly shouted. “Man, man – give him the butt!”
‘I was doing my best. But now the fish was in control. It set off, downstream, in a mad tearing rush. I followed. And Rusty followed me.
‘The Stinchar, at Holywell, is not like the Tweed. It runs in a brown torrent through pines and gorges, making not inconsiderable somersaults over slippery boulders and high shaley ledges. At the end of ten minutes, Rusty Mac and I were half a mile downstream, somewhat the worse for wear. But we still stayed with the fish.
‘“Hold him, hold him!” Mac was hoarse from shouting. “You fool, you fool, don’t let him get in that slack!” The brute, of course, was already in the slack, sulking in a deep hole, with the leader ensnared in a mess of sunken roots.
‘“Ease him, ease him!” Mac hopped in anguish. “Just ease him while I give him a stone.”
‘Gingerly, breathlessly, he began flipping stones, trying to start out the fish without snapping the cast. The game continued for an agony of time. Then whirr! – off went the fish, to the scream of the reel. And off again went Rusty and I.
‘An hour later, or thereabouts, in the slow wide flats opposite Doune village, the salmon at last showed signs of defeat. Exhausted, panting, torn by a hundred agonizing and entrancing hazards, Rusty gave a final command.
‘“Now, now! On this sand!” He croaked: “We’ve no gaff. If he takes you down farther, he’s gone for good.”
‘My mouth was gulpy and dry. Nervously, I stood the fish close. It came, quiet, then suddenly made a last frantic scuttle. R
usty let out a hollow groan. “ Lightly … lightly! If you lose him now I’ll never forgive you!”
‘In the shallows the fish seemed incredible. I could see the frayed gut of the leader. If I lost him! – an icy lump came under my shirt. I slid him gently to the little flat of sand. In an absolute tense silence Mac bent over, whipped his hand in the gills and heaved the fish, monstrous, on to the grass.
‘It made a noble sight on the green meadow, a fish of over forty pounds, run so freshly the sea lice still were on its arching back.
‘“A record, a record!” Mac chanted, swept, as was I, by a wave of heavenly joy. We had joined hands and were dancing the fandango. “Forty-two pounds if it’s an ounce … we’ll put it in the book.” He actually embraced me. “ Man, man – You’re a bonny, bonny fisher.”
‘At that moment, from the single railway line across the river, came the faint whistle of an engine. Rusty paused, gazed in bewildered fashion at the plume of smoke, at the toylike red-and-white signal which had suddenly dipped over Doune village station. Recollection flooded him. He dug in consternation for his watch. “Good Heavens, Chisholm!” His tone was that of the Holywell Headmaster. “ That’s the Bishop’s train.”
‘His dilemma was apparent: he had five minutes to meet his distinguished visitors and five miles of roundabout road to reach the station – visible, only two fields away, across the Stinchar.
‘I could see him slowly make up his mind. “Take the fish back, Chisholm, and have them boil it whole for luncheon. Go quickly now. And remember Lot’s wife and the pillar of salt. Whatever you do, don’t look back!”
‘I couldn’t help it. Once I reached the first bend of the stream, from behind a bush, I risked a salty ending. Father Mac had already stripped to the buff and tied his clothing in a bundle. Wearing his top hat on his head, with the bundle uplifted like a crozier, he stepped naked into the river. Wading and swimming, he reached the other side, scrambled into his suit and sprinted manfully towards the approaching train.
‘I lay on the grass, rolling, in a kind of ecstasy. It was not the vision – which would live with me forever – of the top hat planted dauntlessly upon the nubile brow, but the moral pluck which lay behind the escapade. I thought: He too must hate our pious prudery, which shudders at the sight of human flesh, and cloaks the female form as though it were an infamy.’
A sound outside made Francis pause and he ceased writing as the door opened. Hudson and Anselm Mealey came into the room. Hudson, a dark quiet youth, sat down and began to change his shoes. Anselm had the evening mail in his hand.
‘Letter for you, Francis,’ he said effusively.
Mealey had grown into a fine pink-and-white young man. His cheek had the smoothness of perfect health. His eye was soft and limpid, his smile ready. Always eager busy, smiling: without question he was the most popular student in the school. Though his work was never brilliant the masters liked him – his name was usually on the prize list. He was good at fives and racquets and all the less rough games. And he had a genius for procedure. He ran half a dozen clubs – from the Philatelists to the Philosophers. He knew, and glibly employed, such words as ‘quorum’ ‘minutes’ and ‘ Mr Chair’. Whenever a new society was proposed, Anselm’s advice was sure to be invoked – automatically he became its president. In praise of the clerical life he was lyrical. His only cross was the singular paradox: the Headmaster and a few odd lonely souls cordially disliked him. To the rest he was a hero, and he bore his successes with open smiling modesty.
Now, as he handed Francis the letter, he gave him that warm disarming smile. ‘Hope it’s full of good news, dear fellow.’
Francis opened the letter. Undated, it was written in pencil upon an invoice headed:
Dr to Edward Bannon
Union Tavern
Corner Dyke and Canal Streets,
Tynecastle
Dear Francis,
I hope this finds you well as it leaves me. Also please excuse pencil. We are all upset. It grieves me to tell you Francis you won’t be able to come home this holiday. No one is more sick and sorry than me about it not having seen you since last summer and all. But believe me it is impossible and we must bow to the will of God. I know you are not one to take no for an answer but this time you must the B V M be my witness. I won’t disguise we have trouble as you must guess but it is nothing you can help or hinder. It is not money nor sickness so do not worry. And it will all pass by the help of God and be forgotten. You can easy arrange to stay the holidays at the college. Ned will pay all extras. You’ll have your books and your nice surroundings and all. Maybe we’ll fix for you to come down at Christmas, so don’t fret. Ned has sold his whippets but not for the money. Mr Gilfoyle is a comfort to all. You are not missing much in the weather, it has been terrible wet. Now don’t forget Francis we have people in the house, there isn’t no room, you are not [underlined twice] to come.
Bless you my dear boy and excuse haste.
Yours affectionately, POLLY BANNON
At the window, Francis read the letter several times: though its purpose was plain, its meaning remained troubling and inscrutable. With a strained look he folded the sheet and placed it in his pocket.
‘Nothing wrong I hope?’ Mealey had been studying his face solicitiously.
Francis, uncomfortably silent, hardly knew what to say.
‘My dear fellow, I am sorry.’ Anselm took a step forward, placed his arm lightly, comfortingly, around the other’s shoulders. ‘If there’s anything I can do for mercy’s sake let me know. Perhaps,’ – he paused earnestly, – ‘perhaps you don’t feel like handball tonight?’
‘No,’ Francis mumbled. ‘I believe I’d rather not.’
‘Quite all right, my dear Francis!’ The vespers bell rang. ‘ I can see there is something bothering you. I’ll remember you tonight in my prayers.’
All through vespers Francis worried about Polly’s incomprehensible letter. When the service was over he had a sudden impulse to take his trouble to Rusty Mac. He went slowly up the wide staircase.
As he entered the study he became aware that the Headmaster was not alone, Father Tarrant sat with him, behind a pile of papers; and from the odd sudden silence his appearance provoked, Francis had the extraordinary feeling that the two had been discussing him.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He cast an embarrassed glance towards Rusty Mac. ‘I didn’t know you were engaged.’
‘That’s all right, Chisholm. Sit down.’
The quick warmth of the tone compelled Francis, already half-turned towards the door, into the wicker chair beside the desk. With slow movements of his stubby fingers Rusty went on stuffing shag into his corroded briar pipe. ‘Well! What can we do for you, my good man?’
Francis coloured. ‘I … I rather thought you’d be alone.’
For some queer reason the Headmaster avoided his appealing gaze. ‘You don’t mind Father Tarrant? What is it?’
There was no escape. Without guile to invent further excuse Francis stumbled out: ‘It’s a letter I’ve had … from home.’ He had meant to show Polly’s note to Rusty Mac but, in Tarrant’s presence, his pride restrained him. ‘For some obscure reason they don’t seem to want me back for the vacation.’
‘Oh!’ Was he mistaken; was there again swift interchange between the two? ‘That must be something of a disappointment.’
‘It is, sir. And I feel worried. I was wondering … in fact I came to ask you what I should do.’
Silence. Father MacNabb himself sank more deeply into his old cape; still fumbling at his pipe. He had known many boys, known them inside-out; yet there was about this youth who sat beside him a fineness, beauty, and dogged honesty which lit a fire in his heart. ‘We all have our disappointments, Francis.’ His meditative voice was sad, more than unusually mild. ‘Father Tarrant and I have suffered one today. Retirements are the order of the day at our Seminary in Spain.’ He paused. ‘ We are appointed there, I as Rector, Father Tarrant as my Administrator of Studies.’
>
Francis stammered a reply. San Morales was, indeed, a coveted advancement, next step to a bishopric; but whatever Tarrant’s reaction – Francis shot a quick glance at the expressionless profile – MacNabb would not so regard it. The dry Aragon plains would be alien for a man who loved the green woods and rushing waters of Holywell with all his soul. Rusty Mac smiled gently. ‘ I had my heart set on staying here. You had set yours on going away. What d’you say. Shall we both agree to take a beating from Almighty God?’
Francis strove to pluck the proper phrase from his confusion. ‘It’s just … being anxious … I wondered if I shouldn’t find out what’s wrong and try to help?’
‘I question if I should.’ Father MacNabb answered quickly. ‘ What would you say, Father Tarrant?’
In the shadow, the younger master stirred. ‘Troubles resolve themselves best, in my experience without outside interference.’
There appeared nothing more to be said. The headmaster turned up his desk lamp which, while it brightened the dark study, seemed to terminate the interview. Francis got up. Though he faced them both, haltingly, from his heart, he spoke to Rusty Mac.
‘I can’t say how sorry I am that you are leaving for Spain. The school … I … I shall miss you.’
‘Perhaps we shall see you there?’ There was hope, quiet affection in the voice.
Francis did not answer. As he stood there, indecisively, hardly knowing what to say, torn by conflicting difficulties, his downcast gaze struck suddenly upon a letter, lying open on the desk. It was not so much the letter – illegible at that distance – as the letter’s bright blue-stamped heading which caught his eye. Quickly he glanced away. But not before he had read St Dominic’s Presbytery, Tynecastle.
A shiver went through him. Something was wrong at home. Now he was sure. His face revealed nothing, remained impassive. Neither of the two masters was aware of his discovery. But as he moved towards the door he knew, despite all persuasion to the contrary, that one course at least was clear before him.
