The Stars Look Down

by A. J. Cronin

  Her frown was like a cloud sailing into the clear sky of his happiness. She had always been very odd with him, abrupt, caustic, perversely disagreeable. She seemed to have a grudge against him, an instinct for flicking him on the raw. Suddenly he wanted to be on good terms with Sally now that he was so happy, now that he was marrying her sister. And on an impulse he said:

  “Why do you look at me that way, Sally? Is it because you dislike me?”

  She faced him steadily: she wore an old blue drill costume, relic of her last year’s school days; her hair was very untidy.

  “I don’t dislike you,” she said, with none of her usual precocious flippancy.

  He saw that she was speaking the truth. He smiled.

  “But you’re… you’re always so sour to me.”

  She answered with uncommon gravity:

  “You know where to get sugar if you want it.” And lowering her eyes suddenly she turned and went out of the room.

  As Sally went through the door Jenny came swimming in.

  “What’s the little cat been saying to you?” Not waiting for his reply she took his arm with a proprietary air, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come along now, dear. I’m dying for us to have our lovely, lovely talk.”

  She was bright now, yes, bright as a bird was Jenny. And why not? Hadn’t she every reason to be pleased, with a fiancé, not just a “boy” but a real fiancé, qualified to be a teacher. Oh! Marvellous to have a fiancé who was a teacher. She’d get out of Slattery’s right away, and out of Scottswood Road as well. She’d show them, show Joe too, she’d have a church wedding to spite them all, with a notice in the paper, she’d always set her mind on a church wedding, now what would she wear, something simple but nice… oh, yes, nice… nice… nice.

  When David returned from his walk he wrote to Barras, “just to please” Jenny. A week later he had an answer, offering him a post as junior master at the New Bethel Street Council School in Sleescale. He showed it to Jenny, tom between reason and the rapture of his love for her, thinking of his parents, his career, wondering what she would say. She flung her arms round his neck.

  “Oh, David, darling,” she sobbed. “Isn’t that marvellous, too marvellous for words? Aren’t you glad I made you write? Isn’t it really wonderful?”

  Pressed against her, his eyes shut, his lips on hers holding her, oh, so tight, he felt with surging intoxication that she was right: it was really quite wonderful.

  SIXTEEN

  That morning, even before the telegram arrived for his father, Arthur was conscious of a singular elation. He awoke into it, was aware from the moment he opened his eyes upon the square of blue sky through his open window that life was very precious—full of sunshine and strength and hope. Naturally he did not always wake this way. Some mornings there was no sunshine, nothing awaited him but heaviness, a kind of immobile darkness, and the dismal sense of his own deficiencies.

  Why was he so happy? That, like his moods of misery, remained inexplicable. Perhaps a premonition of the morning telegram, or of seeing Hetty in the afternoon. More likely the joyful recognition of his own improvement for, lying in bed with his hands clasped behind his head and the long span of his eighteen-year body luxuriously stretched, his first real thought had been: “I didn’t eat the strawberries.”

  Of course, the strawberries, though he was very fond of them, were nothing in themselves; they were a symbol, they stood for his own strength. Half-smiling, he recapitulated. The table last night, Aunt Caroline, head on one side as usual, purring, portioning the luscious bowl of home-grown strawberries—a rare luxury on Barras’s austere table. And the cream too, he nearly forgot the big silver jug of yellow cream—nothing he liked better than strawberries and cream. “Now, Arthur,” he heard Aunt Caroline say, preparing to delve generously for him. Then, himself, quickly: “No thank you, Aunt Carrie. I shan’t have any strawberries to-night.” “But, Arthur…” Surprise, even consternation in Aunt Carrie’s voice; his father’s aloof eye fixed momentarily upon him. Aunt Carrie again: “Aren’t you well, Arthur, my dear?” Himself, laughing: “Perfectly well, Aunt Carrie, I just don’t feel like strawberries to-night.” He had sat, with watering teeth, watching them eat the strawberries.

  That was the way to do it, a little thing, perhaps, but the book said bigger things would follow. Yes, he was satisfied this morning. “I do wish Arthur would show more character.” His mother’s petulant remark, overheard as he passed along the corridor outside her room, and fixed through all these months in the very centre of his mind, receded now, answered by his conduct towards the strawberries!

  He jumped out of bed—it was wrong, really, to lie dreaming in bed—went through his exercises vigorously before the open window, dashed into the bathroom and took a cold bath: really cold, mind you, not a trickle, even, from the hot tap to temper the icy plunge. He came back to his room, glowing, dressed in his working suit with his eyes fixed religiously upon the placard which hung on the wall opposite his bed. The placard said in large heavily inked letters: I will! Beneath this was another: “Look every man straight between the eyes!”

  Arthur finished lacing his boots, his heavy boots, for he would be going inbye today, and was ready. He went to a drawer, unlocked it and picked out a small red book; The Cure of Self-consciousness, one of a series of such books entitled The Will and the Way—and sat down seriously upon the edge of his bed to read. He always read one chapter before breakfast when, as the book declared, the mind was most receptive; and he preferred his bedroom because of its privacy—these little red books were a secret, guarded jealously.

  Outside the edge of his concentration he heard the movements of the house: the slow pad, pad of Aunt Carrie in his mother’s room, Grace’s laugh and scurry towards the bathroom, the sullen thud of Hilda overhead as she grudgingly got out of bed to face the day. His father had been up an hour ago; early rising was part of his father’s routine, inevitable somehow, never questioned, expected.

  Arthur paused momentarily in his reading: The human will is capable of controlling not only the destiny of one man but the destinies of many men. That faculty of mind which determines either to do or forbear to do, that faculty whereby we determine, among two courses, which we shall embrace or pursue can affect not only our own lives but the lives of many others.

  How true that was! If only for that single reason one must cultivate the will—not for the effects upon oneself but for these wide and far-flung consequences upon others. He wanted to be strong, to have control, resolution, mastery over himself. He knew his own defects, his natural shyness and awkwardness, his proneness to burrow in his own reserve, but beyond everything his incorrigible tendency to dream.

  Like all gentle and sensitive natures, he was tempted to escape from the harsh reality of life through the gateway of his imagination. How wonderful were these dreams! How often he saw himself performing some terrific act of heroism at the Neptune… or perhaps it was a little child he saved from drowning or from an express train, walking away quietly without giving his name, only to be discovered afterwards and carried shoulder high by a delirious crowd… or it was a hulking brute he knocked out for bullying a woman… or he stood upon a platform, spellbinding an enormous audience with his oratory… or again, at some select dinner table, partnered by Hetty Todd, he fascinated her and the company at large by the ease and brilliance of his address… oh, there was no limit to the dazzling wonder of those dreams. But he realised their danger, he had put them behind him, he would be strong now, magnificently strong. He was nearly nineteen; in a year would finish his course in mining engineering. Life had… oh yes, life really had begun, and it was necessary to bring courage to bear upon it. Courage and determination. I will, Arthur said firmly, closing the book and staring zealously at the placard. He shut his eyes tight and repeated the phrase several times into himself, burning the words, as it were, into his soul. I will, I will, I will… Then he went down to breakfast.

  His father, who preferred to breakfast half an h
our before the others, had almost finished; he was drinking a last cup of coffee, reflectively, with the paper on his knee. He nodded silently in answer to Arthur’s good morning. There was nothing peremptory in that nod, none of the freezing curtness which sometimes cut Arthur to the bone. The nod this morning held an indulgent tranquillity: it fell upon Arthur like a caress, it reinforced, admitted his devotion, acknowledged him as an individual. He smiled with happiness, began intently to chip the top from his egg, warmly conscious of his father’s continued gaze.

  “I think, Arthur,” Barras said, suddenly, as though he had decided to speak, “I think we may have interesting news today.”

  “Yes, father?”

  “We have the prospect of a contract.”

  “Yes, father?” Arthur looked up blushing. That “We” simply was magnificent, including him, making him one with his father, enrolling him already as a partner in the mine.

  “A first-rate contract, I may add, with P. W. & Company.”

  “Yes, father.”

  “You’re pleased?” Barras inquired with amiable satire.

  “Oh yes, father.”

  Barras nodded again.

  “It’s our coking coal they want. I had begun to think we should never get started on that seam again. But if they meet our price we shall start work there next week. Start to strip the Dyke in Scupper Flats.”

  “When shall you know, father?”

  “This morning,” Barras answered; and as though Arthur’s direct question had made him suddenly resent his previous unbending, he raised his paper and from behind it said authoritatively: “Be ready at nine sharp, please. I don’t wish to be kept waiting.”

  Arthur returned to his egg industriously, gratified at the information he had received. But suddenly a thought disturbed him. He remembered something… something most disturbing. Scupper Flats! He lifted his eyes quickly towards the screened figure of his father. He wanted to ask… he most terribly wanted to ask a question. Should he, could he, or had be better not? While he vacillated, Aunt Carrie came in with Grace and Hilda. Aunt Carrie wore her usual look of pleasantness which she put on every morning, regularly, naturally, just as she put in her false teeth.

  “Your mother’s had a splendid night.” Brightly she apostrophised Arthur. Though the information was for Richard, Carrie knew better than address him outright: all Aunt Carrie’s methods were indirect, protective of her own and the general peace.

  Arthur passed her the toast without hearing a word. His mind was focused entirely upon his own disturbing thought… Scupper Flats. He did not feel half so happy now, he began to feel worried and upset. He kept his eyes upon his plate. And under his brooding the splendour of the morning slowly waned. He could have cried out with vexation: why should it always be, this sudden turn of his being from ecstatic lightness to heaviness and dismay?

  He gazed across at Grace in a sort of envy, watching her as she dealt with the marmalade cheerfully and happily. Grace was always the same: at sixteen she had the same sweetness, the same happy unconsciousness that he remembered so vividly in those days when they used both to tumble off Boxer’s back. Why, only yesterday he had seen her come up the Avenue with Dan Teasdale, munching a big red apple, with a sort of cheerful comradeship. She, who was going next month to a finishing school at Harrogate, went chewing apples through the town in broad daylight, and with Dan Teasdale, the baker’s son! He, no doubt, had given her the apple, for he was munching its neighbour. If Aunt Carrie had seen her there would have been a row and no mistake.

  Here Grace caught his eyes upon her before he could remove them, smiled at him and silently articulated a single word. At least she shaped her lips to the word, just breathed it across the table towards him. But he knew what it was. Grace, still smiling at him cheerfully, was saying “Hetty!” Whenever Grace caught him in a mood of introspection she deduced that he was dreaming of Hetty Todd.

  He shook his head vaguely—an action which seemed to cause her the most intense amusement. Her eyes glistened with fun, she simply bubbled with some inward joy. But as her mouth was full of toast and marmalade, the result was calamitous. Grace spluttered suddenly, coughed, choked and got very red in the face.

  “Oh dear,” she gasped at last. “Something went the wrong way.”

  Hilda frowned at her:

  “Drink some coffee quickly, then. And don’t be such a little jay.”

  Grace obediently drank her coffee. Hilda watched her; sitting erect and severe, the frown still lingering, making her dark face harsh.

  “I don’t think,” she said firmly, “that you will ever learn to behave.”

  The remark was like a rap across the knuckles. That at least was how Arthur would have felt it. And yet, he knew that Hilda loved Grace. Curious! Yes, it struck him always as intensely curious this love of Hilda for Grace. It was violent somehow, yet disciplined; like a caress united to a blow; watchful; both dormant and possessive; made up of sudden anger and tenderness quickly subdued. Hilda wanted Grace to be with her; Hilda would give everything to be loved by Grace. Yet Hilda, he felt, openly scorned the least demonstration of affection which might attract Grace to her, which might evoke Grace’s love.

  With a quick impatience he turned from the thought—that was another fault he must correct, the wandering tendency of his too inquisitive mind. Hadn’t he enough to occupy him since that conversation with his father? He finished his coffee, rolled his napkin in the bone ring and sat waiting for his father to rise. On the way to the pit he would ask… or perhaps mightn’t it be better on the way home?

  At last Barras finished with the paper. He did not let it drop beside him; he folded it neatly with his white, beautifully kept hands; his fingers smoothed, preserved the paper; then he passed it to Aunt Carrie without a word.

  Hilda always took the paper the moment Barras went out, and Barras knew that Hilda took it. But he chose rather loftily to ignore that obtrusive fact.

  He went out of the room followed by Arthur and in five minutes both were in the dogcart spanking towards the pit. Arthur nerved himself to speak. The words were on his tongue a dozen times and in a dozen different ways. “By the bye, father,” he would say: or simply “Father, do you think…” or perhaps “It has suddenly struck me, father…” would be a more propitious opening. All the permutations and combinations ranged themselves for his choice: he saw himself speaking, heard the words he spoke. But he said nothing. It was agony. Then, to his infinite relief, Barras calmly cut right into the heart of his distress.

  “We had a little trouble some years ago over the Scupper Flats. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, father, I remember.” Arthur stole a quick glance at his father, who sat upright and composed beside him.

  “A wretched business! I didn’t want it. Who does want trouble? But that trouble was thrust upon me. It cost me dearly.” He disposed of the matter, slid it back quietly into the archives of the past, moralising: “Life is a hard business, sometimes, Arthur. It is necessary to preserve one’s position in the face of circumstance.” Then in a moment he said: “But this time we shall have no trouble.”

  “You think not, father?”

  “I’m sure of it. The men had a lesson last time they won’t be in a hurry to repeat.” His tone was considered, reasonable; he balanced the argument dispassionately. “No doubt the Scupper will turn out a wet section, but for that matter Mixen and the whole of Paradise is wet. They’re used to these conditions. Quite used to them.”

  As his father spoke, saying so little yet conveying so much, a tremendous wave of comfort flowed over Arthur, obliterating all the nebulous anxieties and fears which had tormented him for the last hour. They became effaced, like puny sand castles washed straight and clean by some vigorous advancing tide. Gratitude overwhelmed him. He loved his father for this serenity, for this calm, unruffled strength. He sat silent, conscious of his father’s presence near to him. He was untroubled now. The brightness of the morning was restored.

  They bowled
down Cowpen Street at a fine pace, entered the pit yard, went straight into the office. Armstrong was there, obviously waiting, for he stood at the window idly tapping the pane with his thumb. He spun round as Barras entered.

  “A wire for you, Mr. Barras.” And, in a moment, showing that he knew the telegram’s significance, “I thought maybe I’d better wait.”

  Barras took the orange slip from the desk and opened it without hurry.

  “Yes,” he said calmly. “It’s all right. They’ve agreed to our price.”

  “Then we start in the Flats on Monday?” Armstrong said.

  Barras nodded.

  Armstrong stroked his lips with the back of his hand, an odd self-conscious gesture. For no apparent reason he had a sheepish look. Suddenly the telephone rang. Almost with relief, Armstrong walked over to the desk and lifted the receiver to his ear.

  “Hello, hello.” He listened for a moment, then glanced across at Barras. “It’s Mr. Todd of Tynecastle. He’s been on twice this morning already.”

  Barras took the instrument from Armstrong.

  “Yes, yes, this is Richard Barras… yes, Todd, I’m glad to say it’s settled.”

  He broke off, listening, then in an altered tone he said:

  “Don’t be absurd, Todd. Yes, of course. What? I said of course!”

  Another pause while the familiar impatient furrow gathered on Barras’s forehead.

  “I tell you yes.” A rasp entered his voice. “What nonsense, man! I should think so. Not over the ’phone. What? I don’t see the slightest need. Yes, I shall be in Tynecastle this afternoon. Where? At your house? What’s that? Indigestion? Dear, dear…” The sarcastic emphasis in Barras’s voice grew more pronounced and his eyes, searching the office irritably, found Arthur’s suddenly and remained there, communicating, derisive. “…Your liver again? What a pity! Something disagreed with you. Well, since you’re seedy I suppose I’d better call on you. But I refuse to take you seriously. Yes, I absolutely refuse. Listen, I’ll bring Arthur with me. Tell Hetty to expect him.”