The Stars Look Down

by A. J. Cronin

Bayswater, naturally, was the district towards which she was drawn. No one knew better than Aunt Carrie that Bayswater had “come down”—but then she had a certain proud consciousness of having come down herself. The remnants of gentility in Bayswater awoke a sentimental echo in her heart and made her head incline with not unhappy resignation. And Linden Place was so very suitable, the green of the trees in spring was delicate and charming against the faded yellowish paint upon the old stuccoed houses and there was a church at the end of the street which afforded both atmosphere and solace. Lately Aunt Carrie had turned even more devout and, in St. Philip’s, matins and evensong, which she regularly attended, often drew tears of voluptuous tenderness from her eyes. From the spire of St. Philip’s a high clear bell rang occasionally, and the milkman called pleasantly in the street and the smell of roasting mutton came from many basements. Mrs. Gittins’s house, No. 104c, where after full investigation Aunt Carrie had selected her room, was of an eminent respectability and the bath, though cracked and flaking its enamel, was always clean. The twopence in the slot geyser gave excellent hot water and, most properly, the washing of clothes in the bathroom was strictly prohibited. All Mrs. Gittins’s people were elderly ladies except for one young Indian gentleman, a law student, but even he, though coloured, kept the bath meticulously clean.

  Conscious of her manifold advantages, Aunt Carrie turned from the window, and surveyed her room. Here she was in comfort, surrounded by her own things, her treasures—what a blessing that in all her life she had never thrown anything out!—the room was furnished practically with her precious and valued possessions. On the table stood the model of the Swiss chalet which Harriet had brought her forty years ago from Lucerne; the carving was really delightful and there were models of little cows inside—and to think that once she had almost sent it to the St. James’s Jumble Sale! There, too, hanging from the black bell-handle by the marble mantelpiece were the three postcards which Arthur had once sent her from Boulogne and which she herself had framed a long time ago in passe-partout. She had always liked these postcards, the colouring was cheerful and of course the foreign stamps, still upon the back, might, in time, be valuable. And there, on the other wall, was the poker-work memorial she had done for dear Harriet fourteen years before. The poetry, beginning Auspicious day when first you breathed, was quite beautiful and the poker work!—well, she had been considered an adept at poker work in her time.

  They were all here, all her things, her photographs, her album on the table, her set of Goss china, the yellowish globe of the world preserved from the schoolroom, the big cowrie shell that always stood beside it, the game of solitaire with one glass ball lost by Arthur at the age of seven—oh, her panic, then, that Arthur might have swallowed it!—the pen wiper and blotter combined, the court guide and gazetteer of 1907, everything, she had even saved the wicker fly-whisk which she had bought for Richard towards the end.

  This single room held the record of Aunt Carrie’s life and in it Aunt Carrie could not bemoan her lot. No, she counted her blessings here and counted them gratefully. But meanwhile she was going for her little walk—ah yes. She advanced to the small square of mirror and put on her hat. She had bought her hat seven years ago and it was rather faded now perhaps, with a feather that was slightly emasculate. But still a perfectly good hat—black “went” with almost anything. Pulling on her gloves, she took her tightly rolled umbrella under her arm as though it were a gun. She swept her room with a final look: the half loaf of bread and the little jug of milk neatly stowed on the shelf, the tomato left over from yesterday beside them, the lid on the cocoa tin to keep out the damp, the gas ring safely turned out, the window open just enough to let in the air, no matches left lying about, everything tidy and in order. Satisfied, with her head in the air, Aunt Carrie went out.

  She strolled along Linden Place into Westbourne Grove looking into the windows and admiring many of the articles in the shops. Then at the end of Westbourne Grove she turned into Merrett’s with an air of familiarity and purpose. Merrett’s was a delightful place, quite the best of the large department stores where it was possible to inspect and admire everything, simply everything. For half an hour Aunt Carrie moved about the aisles of Merrett’s, head to one side under the antique black hat, gazing at everything, even stopping once or twice to inquire the price. The assistants were civil to a degree—particularly gratifying since Aunt Carrie’s purchases in Merrett’s could never be extensive. Her financial position, on one hundred and twenty pounds a year, was perfectly secure, yet the fact remained that she could not be reckless. But this morning she was reckless. For some weeks she had kept her eye upon a letter opener, indistinguishable from real ivory and fashioned incredibly into a parrot’s beak at one end—how on earth do they do it? Aunt Carrie marvelled—oh, a gem of a letter opener, the price of which was ninepence. But this morning Aunt Carrie’s eyes widened with delight. The letter opener bore a little card marked Reduced to 6½d. Good gracious!—such an opportunity, such a bargain! Aunt Carrie bought the letter opener, and saw it wrapped in green paper and tied with green string. There and then she decided she would give the letter opener to Hilda.

  Pleased with her purchase, for it was a point of honour with her to buy something in Merrett’s once in a while, Aunt Carrie advanced to the lift. In the lift the girl attendant was dressed like a jockey and by pressing a button she went swishing up with Aunt Carrie to the top floor. “Reading, writing and rest-room,” called out the lift girl smartly. It was a beautiful room with cedar panelling and mirrors and agreeable chairs, full of newspapers and periodicals and ladies in the act of resting. And it was free, too, absolutely and unbelievably free.

  As Aunt Carrie stepped out of the lift her umbrella, which she still carried like a gun, prodded the lift girl in the buttocks.

  “Oh, pardon me,” Aunt Carrie cried, her feather quivering with apology. “Quite a mistake I assure you.”

  “It’s quite all right, madam,” the lift girl answered.

  Such civility!

  An hour passed while Aunt Carrie read the papers. A number of ladies like Aunt Carrie seemed to be reading the papers. Perhaps the mirrors created an optical illusion, so many of the ladies were elderly, and a little pinched and clothed in faded black and eager to make the most of the free newspapers. In point of fact the papers were full of news this morning. The country was in a whirl of excitement. Mr. MacDonald had been to see the King again, the National Cabinet was making splendid statements and there was great talk of the coming election. Aunt Carrie was all for a National Government—it was so secure. There was an excellent article in the Tribune entitled, Don’t Let the Socialists Squander YOUR Money, and another in the Meteor, Bolshevism Gone Mad. Aunt Carrie read them both. She went through all the papers with great enjoyment—with the exception of one dreadful Labour rag which was full of distorted reports of destitution in the South Wales valleys. She had always had so little time for reading at the Law. She appreciated her leisure now.

  The same lift took her down again and the same lift girl smiled at her. She was a pleasant girl that, indeed she was, Aunt Carrie hoped sincerely she would have promotion.

  Outside Merrett’s, Aunt Carrie set her course towards Hilda’s flat, with the intention of delivering her present. She went, as usual, by Kensington Gardens. It was a pleasant road to the Gardens but it held a great temptation in the shape of Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. Aunt Carrie could seldom resist the delightful home-made cakes and biscuits and in spite of her unusual extravagance at Merrett’s she entered Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. The young lady knew her, smiled, went to the wire basket and took a twopenny iced cake which she placed in a paper bag.

  “It looks like rain,” the young lady remarked, handing Aunt Carrie the bag.

  “Oh, I hope not, my dear,” Aunt Carrie said handing the girl twopence. She now had the letter opener and the twopenny cake which, nibbled delicately, would make her tea a joy. Quite a morning’s shopping.

  The Gardens were beautiful,
the children in particular by the Round Pond were always adorable. To-day there was one, just a toddler, Aunt Carrie thought to herself, just a little toddler in a tiny red tailor-made coat who toddled and toddled and nearly toddled away from his nannie into the pond. The little love.

  There were the sea-gulls too, which swooped and screamed for bread and bacon rind, oh, Aunt Carrie was thrilled by the sea-gulls. So much bread had been thrown to the sea-gulls that the edges of the Round Pond were fringed with floating bread, hundreds of pieces of floating bread. Cast your bread upon the waters, Aunt Carrie thought, but it was strange nevertheless to see all that bread gone to waste when, if that dreadful paper she had read in Merrett’s was to be believed, so many children went in want of it. But it could not be; it was a gross exaggeration; besides there was always charity.

  Comforted, she walked down Exhibition Road. South Kensington was delightful, and Chelsea too, Carlyle and the mulberry-tree—or was it bush? Aunt Carrie neared Hilda’s flat. She greatly enjoyed visiting Hilda. Indeed, at the back of Aunt Carrie’s mind a vague hope lingered that Hilda might one day ask her to keep house for her. She saw herself in high-necked black admitting seriously ill and important people to Hilda’s consulting-room—the more gravely ill and important the better. Although Aunt Carrie had emancipated herself from the sick-room, sickness still retained a certain morbid fascination for her.

  Hilda was in, the maid declared, and Aunt Carrie, smiling her special smile towards Hilda’s maid, the faintly ingratiating smile she had towards the servants at the Law for thirty years, followed her into the flat.

  But here a shock awaited Aunt Carrie. Hilda was not alone and it sent Aunt Carrie into a perfect flutter to see that Hilda’s visitor was David Fenwick. She came to a full stop inside the door of Hilda’s room and her peaked face flushed.

  “I’m sorry, Hilda,” she breathed. “I had no idea. I thought you were alone.”

  Hilda rose. She had been sitting in silence, and she seemed not entirely pleased to see Aunt Carrie. But she said:

  “Come in, Aunt Carrie. You know David Fenwick.”

  In a greater flutter than ever Aunt Carrie shook hands with David. She was aware that Hilda and David were friends. But the sight of him in the flesh, her nice young man who had once tutored Arthur and who now made such terribly inflammatory speeches in Parliament, almost overcame her. She subsided in a chair by the window.

  David glanced at his watch.

  “I’m afraid I must be going,” he said to Hilda, “if I’m to be at the hospital this afternoon.”

  “Oh, don’t let me drive you away,” Aunt Carrie cried hastily. She thought him pale and worn. His eyes were worried, too, dreadfully worried; they had a look of pained expectancy.

  “It’s a beautiful day outside,” she went on quickly. “I thought it might rain, but it hasn’t.”

  “I don’t think it’ll rain,” Hilda said after an awkward pause.

  Aunt Carrie said:

  “Indeed, I hope not.”

  Another pause.

  “I came across the Gardens,” Aunt Carrie persisted. “They’re very beautiful just now.”

  “Are they?” Hilda said. “Yes, I suppose they are just now.”

  “There was the dearest little mite by the Round Pond,” Aunt Carrie continued, smiling. “In a tiny red coat. I do wish you could have seen him. He was sweet.”

  Despite her good intentions Aunt Carrie had the confused feeling that Hilda was not really attending to her. Vaguely taken aback she gazed at David, who stood silent and preoccupied by the window.

  Aunt Carrie smelled trouble in the air—she had a nose for trouble like a fox for a hunting morning. Curiosity rose within her. But David looked at his watch again, then glanced towards Hilda.

  “Now I really must go,” he said. “I’ll see you again at three.” He shook hands with Aunt Carrie and went out. Pricking up her ears, Aunt Carrie could hear him talking to Hilda in the hall, but to her disappointment could not make out what he said. For once curiosity mastered timidity. When Hilda returned she exclaimed:

  “What’s the matter, Hilda dear? He seemed so upset. And what did he mean by hospital?”

  For a moment Hilda gave no appearance of having heard. Then her answer came unwillingly as if once and for all she wished to cut short Aunt Carrie’s curiosity.

  “It’s his wife. She’s in hospital. Being operated on this afternoon.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” gasped Aunt Carrie, and her eyes went wide in a spasm of satisfied sensation. “But—”

  “There aren’t any buts,” Hilda cut in shortly. “I’m doing the operation and I prefer not to discuss it.”

  Aunt Carrie’s eyes went wider than ever. There was a silence, then she murmured, humbly:

  “Shall you make her better, Hilda dear?”

  “What do you expect?” Hilda retorted rudely.

  Aunt Carrie’s face fell. Oh dear, oh dear, Hilda could still be very abrupt when she chose. She wanted terribly to ask Hilda what was wrong with David’s wife, but Hilda’s expression forbade it. Crestfallen and subdued she sighed deeply and was again silent for a minute. Then, remembering suddenly, her face lit up. She smiled:

  “Oh, by the way, Hilda, I’ve brought you the sweetest little present. At least”—modestly—“I think it’s rather sweet.” And, beaming towards the sombre Hilda, she gaily produced the letter opener.

  TWENTY-ONE

  At half-past one that afternoon David set out for St. Elizabeth’s Hospital—where, following a satisfactory blood-test, Jenny had now been transferred. He was aware that he was much too early, but he could not bear to sit still in his rooms thinking of Jenny under the operation. Jenny, his wife, being operated on to-day!

  Often during these months of treatment which had been necessary to fit her for the operation he had asked himself about his feeling for Jenny. It was not love. No, it could not be love, that was dead a long time ago. But it was a great and overwhelming feeling nevertheless. And it was something more than pity.

  Her story was quite clear to him now; she had told him snatches here and there, lying occasionally and embroidering always, but failing pitifully to make fiction out of fact. When she first came to London she took a post at one of the big department stores. But the work was hard, much harder than at Slattery’s, and the pay small, much smaller than her optimism had allowed her to imagine. Soon Jenny had a friend. Then she had another friend. Jenny’s friends had all been perfect gentlemen at the start and had shown themselves in the end to be perfect beasts. The lady-companion story was of course a myth—she had never been out of England. He found it strange that Jenny should have so little sense of her own position. She had still the same childish facility for excusing herself, the same childish capacity for tearful self-compassion. She was hurt and she was down, but it was not she who was to blame. “Men, David,” she wept. “You wouldn’t believe. I never want to see another man, not as long as I live.”

  Still the same Jenny. When he brought her flowers she was deeply gratified, not because she cared much for flowers, but because it would show sister she was “a cut above” the others in the ward. He suspected Jenny had elaborated a little tale for her sister, no doubt a polite, romantic tale. It was the same when, on her transference to St. Elizabeth’s, he had arranged for her to have a side-room—it indicated to the new sister how highly he “thought of her.” Even in hospital she was romantic. It was incredible, but it was true. When she had condemned the bestiality of man she asked him please to hand her the tube of lipstick from her bag which she had smuggled into the locker beside her bed. She kept a tiny mirror hidden under her bedside table so that she might arrange herself before his visits. The mirror was forbidden, but Jenny kept it; she wanted to be nice for him, she said.

  David sighed as he turned from the Embankment towards the hospital. He hoped things would all turn out right in the end—he hoped this with all his soul.

  He looked at the clock above the hospital archway. He was still t
oo early, but he felt he must go into the hospital. He could not wait outside, hang about in the street, he must go inside. He went past the porter’s box and walked upstairs. He came to the second floor where Jenny was and he stood in the cool, high vestibule.

  A great many doors opened off the vestibule—the door of Hilda’s room, sister’s room, the waiting-room. But one pair of glass doors drew his eyes, the doors of the operating theatre. He stared at the doors of the operating theatre, two white-frosted glass doors, and it hurt him to think what was going on behind these doors.

  The sister in charge, Sister Clegg, came out of the ward. She was not the theatre sister. She looked at him with a mild reproof. She said:

  “You’re much too early. They have only just begun.”

  “Yes, I know,” he answered. “But I had to come.”

  She walked away without asking him to go into the waiting-room. She simply left him there, and there he stood, with his back against the wall, making himself unobtrusive so that he might not be asked to go away, watching the white-frosted doors of the operating theatre.

  As he watched the doors they became transparent and he could see what was taking place inside. He had often assisted at operations in the base hospital, he saw it all clearly and exactly as though he were in the theatre himself.

  Exactly in the centre of the theatre there was a metal table which was less like a table than a shining machine with shining levers and wheels to enable it to be contorted into strange and wonderful positions. No! it was not like a machine either. It was like a flower, a great shining metallic flower which grew on a shining stem from the floor of the theatre. And yet it was neither machine nor flower, but a table on which something was laid. Hilda was on one side of this shining table, and Hilda’s assistant upon the other, and round about, clustered closely as though they were pressing in upon the table and trying to see what was laid upon the table, were a number of nurses. They were all in white with white caps, and white masks, but they all had black and shiny hands. Their hands were dripping and rubbery and smooth.