by A. J. Cronin
As for the posters, that stem look on Kitchener’s face and the finger, which pointed at him and would not let him alone, oh, when passing those posters Stanley fumed and fretted and flushed, and clenched his pipe between his teeth, and wondered how long he would be able to endure it.
It was not the pointing finger, however, but the Old St. Bedean’s Dinner which had brought Stanley to a head. The dinner had taken place at Dilley’s Rooms in Tynecastle upon the previous evening. And now Millington looked across his desk at Joe and announced gravely:
“Joe, there’s a great adventure taking place in France, and I’m missing it!”
Joe did not understand, his main feeling was relief that Stanley had not uncovered his antimony deals.
“I think you ought to know,” Stanley went on, his voice rising, a little hysterical, “I’ve made up my mind to join the army.”
An electric silence. The shock was so great that Joe became completely unnerved. He paled and blurted out:
“But you can’t. What about here?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Stanley said, pushing it away from him and speaking rapidly. “You can take it from me, I’m going. Last night convinced me. The dinner last night. My God, how I ever got through it I can’t imagine. Would you believe it—everyone but myself in uniform. All my pals in uniform and me there in civilians. I felt an absolute outsider. They all looked at me, you know—how’s the profiteer?—that sort of thing. Hampson, who was in my form, a regular decent fellow, cut me absolutely dead. He’s a major in the Public Schools Battalion now. And there was Robbins, a little worm who wasn’t even in the second eleven, he’s a captain now with a couple of wound stripes. I tell you I can’t stand it, Gowlan. I’ve got to get into it.”
Joe took a trembling breath, trying to collect his scattered wits. He could not yet believe it, the thing was too good to be true.
“You’re doing work of national importance. They’ll never let you go.”
“They’ll have to let me go,” Stanley barked. “This place runs itself now. The contracts are automatic. Dobbie handles the accounts, and there’s you—you know it all backwards, Joe.”
Joe lowered his eyes quickly.
“Well,” he muttered, “that’s true enough.”
Stanley jumped up and began to march up and down the office.
“I’m not a spiritually-minded chap, I suppose, but I will say I’ve felt uplifted since I decided to answer the call. The spirit of St. George for England lives still, you know. It isn’t dead, you know, it isn’t really. We’re fighting for the right. What decent fellow could sit down under it, these air raids and submarine attacks, and innocent women raped, and shelling hospitals and babies even—O God, even to read it in the papers makes a man’s blood boil.”
“I know how you feel,” Joe said with his eyes on the floor. “It’s the devil. If I didn’t have this old knee of mine…” The knee, it may be remembered, was a complaint which Joe had discovered by visiting an obscure surgery in Commercial Road and planking down seven and six for a certificate, and it made Joe limp horribly whenever the air was military.
But Stanley, marching up and down, was solely occupied with Stanley.
“I’m qualified for a commission, you know. I was three years in the corps at St. Bede’s. It’ll take a few weeks to make my arrangements, then I’ll get into uniform with the Public Schools Battalion.”
Another silence.
“I see,” Joe said slowly; he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Millington won’t like this.”
“No, naturally, she doesn’t want me to go.” Stanley laughed and clapped Joe on the back. “Cheer up, there’s a good fellow. It’s decent of you to be upset, but the bally old war won’t last long once I get into it.” He broke off, glanced at his watch. “Now look here, I’ve got to run down and meet Major Hampson for lunch. If I’m not back by three you might look over to Rutley’s and see them about these last grenades. Old John Rutley made the appointment, but you can tell him all there is to it.”
“All right,” Joe said sadly. “I’ll go.”
So Joe went over to Rutley’s and met old John in a tiresome and involved discussion upon blow-hole castings while Stanley tore down excitedly to have lunch with Hampson. At five o’clock when Stanley, several drinks to the good, lay back in a club chair convulsed by one of Hampson’s stories about a certain mademoiselle in a certain estaminet, Joe was shaking hands in a firm but deferential fashion with Rutley himself, while the old man thought, with grim approval, there’s a young fellow who knows what he’s about.
That night Joe went posting round to Mawson’s with the news. Mawson was silent for a long time, sitting upright in his chair, clasping his stomach with both hands, his high bald forehead creased, his small eyes fixed thoughtfully on Joe.
“Well,” he reflected. “This is goin’ to be helpful.”
In spite of himself Joe grinned.
“You and me’s goin’ to do well out of this, Joe,” Mawson said unemotionally, then raising his voice he bawled: “Mother, fetch me and Joe a bottle of Scotch.”
They finished the bottle between them, but towards midnight when Joe walked home the thrilling intoxication in his blood was not due to whisky. He was drunk with the sense of his opportunity, the chance of power, money, everything. He was in it at last, as Jim had said, absolutely set right up to the ear-holes in it, in with the big men, he only had to watch himself to be big himself, bloody big. O Christ, wasn’t it great! A great place, Tynecastle, wonderful air, wonderful streets, wonderful buildings—there was an idea now, property, he’d have property, a hell of a lot, some day. What a wonderful night it was. Look at the moon shining on that white place over there. What was it? Public lavatory, eh? Never mind—wonderful public lavatory! At the corner of Grainger Street a tart spoke to him.
“You little bitch,” said Joe kindly, “get out!” He strode on, laughing, wide awake, exultant. Better than that, he thought, much better than that. He gloated upon Laura, her fastidiousness, her aloof charms. To hell with tarts. Women like Laura were different, see, different. His idyllic fancy took him far with Laura that night, especially when he reached his lodgings and went to bed.
But next morning he was at Platt Lane upon the tick of nine, fresh as a daisy and more deferentially alert towards Stanley than ever. There was an astonishing number of things to be gone into. Joe was thoroughness itself: nothing escaped him.
“Good lord, Joe,” Stanley exclaimed, yawning, after they had been hard at it for a couple of hours. “You’re a regular tartar. I’d no idea you’d got such an eye for detail.”
He patted Joe on the shoulder gaily. “I appreciate it immensely. But in the meantime I’m going out to have a spot with Hampson. See you later.”
There was a queer look on Joe’s face as he watched Stanley’s figure disappear briskly through the office door.
The days passed, the final arrangements were completed, and at last the afternoon of Stanley’s departure for Aider-shot arrived. He had arranged to drive over to Carnton Junction and join the express direct, instead of taking a slow local from Yarrow. As a special sign of his regard he had asked Joe to come with Laura to the station to see him off.
It was a wet afternoon. Joe arrived too early at Hilltop, he had to wait ten minutes in the lounge before Laura came in. She wore a plain blue costume and a dark soft fur which gave her pale skin that queer luminous quality which always excited him. He jumped up from his chair, but she walked slowly to the window as though she did not notice him. There was a silence. He watched her.
“I’m sorry he’s going,” he said at last.
She turned and considered him with that secret look which always puzzled him. He felt that she was sad, perhaps angry too; she didn’t want Stanley to go; no, she didn’t want him to go.
Here Stanley entered breezily, as if a row of medals were already on his chest. He rubbed his hands cheerfully.
“Filthy day, isn’t it? Well, the wetter the day the better
the deed, eh, Joe? Ha! Ha! Now what about the rum ration for the troops, Laura?”
Laura rang the bell and Bessie brought in a tray of sandwiches and tea. Stanley was dreadfully hearty. He chaffed Bessie out of her long face, mixed himself a whisky and soda, and walked up and down the room munching sandwiches and talking.
“Good sandwiches, these, Laura. Don’t suppose I’ll be getting this kind of stomach-fodder in a week or two. You’ll need to send me some parcels, Laura. A fellow was saying last night that they absobloomingutely look forward to getting parcels. Varies the jolly old bully beef and plum and apple.” Stanley laughed. He could now say plum and apple without a blush. He could laugh, really laugh at the Bairnsfather cartoons. He crowed: “Hampson, old dodger that he is—” another laugh, “was telling me of a scheme they have for making Irish stew in a ration tin. Some of the batmen are wonderful. Wonder what my luck will be. Did you see the Bystander this week? Good it was, oh, damned good!” Then he began to be patriotic again. Swinging up and down the room he talked glowingly of what the Major had told him—counter-attacks, gas-masks, pill boxes. Very lights, the musketry handbook, number nines and British pluck.
While Stanley talked Laura sat by the window, her almost sad profile outlined by the dripping laurel bush beyond. She was listening loyally to Stanley’s patriotism. Suddenly Stanley slapped down his tumbler.
“Well, we better get along now. Mustn’t miss the old joy waggon.” He glanced out of the window. “Better put your mac on, old girl, looks like more rain.”
“I don’t think I’ll mind,” Laura answered. She stood up, arresting all Stanley’s fussing by the perfect immobility of her manner. “Have you everything in the car?”
“You bet,” Stanley said, leading the way to the door.
They got into the car, not the office car, but Stanley’s own, an open sports model now two years old, which stood with the hood up in front of the porch. Stanley jabbed at the starter with his thumb, threw in the gear and they drove off.
The road ran uphill through the outskirts of Hillbrow, left the last isolated villa behind and stretched out across open country towards the moor. Stanley drove in a kind of exhilaration, using his cut-out on all the corners.
“Goes like an aeroplane, doesn’t she?” he threw out high-spiritedly. “Almost wish I’d joined the Flying Corps.”
“Look out you don’t skid,” Joe said, “the roads are pretty greasy.”
Stanley laughed again. Joe, alone in the back seat, kept his eyes on Laura’s calm profile in front. Her composure was both baffling and fascinating: Stanley driving like a mug, and she not turning a hair. She didn’t want to come to a sticky end yet, did she? He didn’t, at any rate not yet, by God, no!
They flashed past the old St. Bede’s Church, which stood grey and gauntly weatherbeaten, surrounded by a few flat, lichened tombstones, isolated and open on the edge of the moor.
“Wonderful old building,” Stanley said, jerking his head, “Ever been in, Joe?”
“No.”
“Got some wonderful oak pews. Some time you ought to have a look at them.”
They began to slip downhill, through Cadder village and a few outlying farms. Twenty minutes later they reached Carnton Junction. The express was late and after seeing to his baggage Stanley began to walk slowly up and down the platform with Laura. Joe, pretending to make affable conversation with the porter, watched them jealously from the corner of his eye. Damn it, he thought, oh, damn it all, I believe she’s in love with him after all.
A sharp whistle and the thunder of the approaching train.
“Here she is, sir,” the porter said. “Only four minutes behind her time.”
Stanley came hurrying over.
“Well, Joe, here we are at last. Yes, porter, a first smoker, facing the engine if you can. You’ll write to me, old man. I can leave everything to you. Yes, yes, that’s all right, splendid, splendid. I know you’ll do everything.” He shook hands with Joe—Joe’s grip was manly and prolonged—kissed Laura good-bye, then jumped into his compartment. Stanley was to the core a sentimentalist and now that the moment of departure had come he was deeply affected. He hung out of the window, feeling himself every inch a man going to the front, facing his wife and his friend. Quick tears glistened in his eyes but he smiled them away.
“Take care of Laura, Joe.”
“You bet, Mr. Stanley.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“No fear!”
There came a pause; the train did not move. The pause lengthened awkwardly.
“It looks like more rain,” Stanley said, filling in the gap. Another hollow pause. The train started forward. Stanley shouted:
“Well, we’re off! Good-bye, Laura. Good-bye, old man.”
The train shuddered and stopped. Stanley frowned, looking up the line.
“Must be taking in water. We’ll be a few minutes yet.”
Immediately the train started again, pulled away smoothly and began to gather speed.
“Well! Good-bye, good-bye.”
This time Stanley was away. Joe and Laura stood on the platform until the last carriage was out of sight, Joe waving heartily, Laura not waving at all. She was paler than usual and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes. Joe saw this. They turned to the car in silence.
When they came out from the cover of the station and reached the car it was raining again. Laura went towards the back seat but, with an air of solicitude, Joe put out his hand:
“You’ll get all the rain in there, Mrs. Millington. It’s coming on heavy.”
She hesitated, then without speaking she got into the front seat. He nodded, as though she had done a most reasonable and sensible thing, then climbed in and took the wheel.
He drove slowly, partly because of the rain blurring the windscreen, but chiefly because he wanted to prolong the journey. Though his attitude was respectful, openly deferential, he was bursting with the knowledge of his position: Stanley tearing off to God knows where, every minute getting farther and farther away, Laura in the car with him, here, now. Cautiously, he glanced at her. She sat at the extreme end of the seat, staring straight in front of her; he could feel that every fibre of her was resentful, defensively alert. He thought how careful he must be, no gentle pressure of his knee against hers, a different technique, weeks perhaps or months of strategy, he must be slow, cautious as hell. He had the queer feeling that she almost hated him.
Suddenly he said, in a voice of mild regret:
“I don’t think you like me very much, Mrs. Millington.”
Silence; he kept his eyes on the road.
“I haven’t thought about it a great deal,” she answered rather scornfully.
“Oh, I know.” A deprecating laugh. “I didn’t mean anything. I only thought, you’d helped me at the start a bit, at the works you know, and lately you’d… oh, I don’t know…”
“Would you mind driving a little faster,” she said. “I’ve got to be at the canteen by six.”
“Why, certainly, Mrs. Millington.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, increasing the car’s speed, causing the rain to shoot round the windscreen. “I was only hoping you’d let me do anything for you I can. Mr. Stanley’s gone. A great chap Stanley.” He sighed. “He’s certainly given me my chance. I’d do anything for him, anything.”
As he spoke the rain began to fall in torrents. They were on the open moor now, and the wind was high. The car, sheltered only by its thin hood, quite unprotected by side screens, caught the full force of the driving rain.
“I say,” Joe cried, “you’re getting drenched.”
Laura turned up the collar of her costume.
“I’m all right.”
“But you’re not. Look, you’re getting soaked, absolutely soaked. We’ll stop a minute. We must take shelter. It’s a perfect cloudburst.”
It actually was a deluge and Laura, without her mackintosh, began to get extremely wet. It was obvious that in a few minutes she must
be drenched to her skin. Still, she did not speak. Joe, however, sighting the old church upon their left, suddenly swerved the car towards it and drew up with a jerk.
“Quick,” he urged. “In here. This is awful, simply awful.” He took her arm, impelling her from the car by the very unexpectedness of his action, running with her up the short path into the dripping portico of the old church. The door was open. “In here,” Joe cried. “If you don’t you’ll catch your death of cold. This is awful, awful.” They went in.
It was a small place, warm after the biting wind and rather dark, impregnated with a faint scent of candle grease and incense. The altar was dimly visible and upon it a large brass crucifix and, remaining from the previous Sunday’s service, two globular brass vases holding white flowers. The atmosphere was quiet and still, belonging to another world, different. The drumming of the rain upon the leaded roof intensified the warm silence.
Gazing about him curiously, Joe walked up the aisle, subconsciously noting the heavy carved pews to which Stanley had referred.
“Damn funny old place, but it’s dry anyway.” Then, his voice solicitous, “We won’t have to wait long till it goes off. I’ll get you back in time for the canteen.”
He turned and saw, suddenly, that she was shivering, standing against one of the benches with her hands pressed together.
“Oh dear,” he said in that beautiful tone of self-reproach. “I’ve let you in for it. Your jacket’s soaking. Let me help you off with it.”
“No,” she said, “I’m all right.” She kept her eyes averted, biting her lip fiercely. He sensed vaguely some struggle within her, deep, unknown.
“But you must, Mrs. Millington,” he said with that same regretful, reassuring kindness, and he put his hand on the lapel of her jacket.
“No, no,” she stammered. “I’m all right, I tell you. I don’t like it here. We ought never to have come. The rain…” She broke off, struggled quickly out of the jacket herself. She was breathing quickly, he saw the rise and fall of her breasts under the white silk blouse which, dampened in places, adhered to her skin. Her composure seemed gone, torn from her by the dim secrecy of the place, the drumming rain, the silence. Her eyes fluttered about in frightened glances. He stared at her dumbly, uncomprehendingly. She shivered again. Then all at once he understood. A suffocating heat flushed over him. He took a step forward.
