Shannon's Way

by A. J. Cronin

  I gave an inarticulate murmur.

  “Ah! You must come down to the piano in the auditorium with me. I go there most evenings, to run through a few things. I might as well confess, music is my delight. I count the three great moments in my life … when I heard Patti sing ‘Sicilian Vespers,’ Galli-Curci ‘Pretty Bird’ from The Pearl of Brazil, and Melba Massanet’s ‘Sevillana.’”

  He ran on like this until I had finished breakfast; then, with a ladylike gesture, examined his wrist watch.

  “The Chief has asked me to take you round. Come along.”

  He led off fussily, his short, plump legs twinkling with unexpected speed along the subway—then, taking a concrete incline to the left, as by an astral materialization, he brought us unexpectedly to daylight in the corridor beneath my own quarters.

  Here an obese, stupid-looking man of fifty in an untidy, grease-stained grey uniform and rubber-soled shoes was padding up and down officiously. At Palfrey’s appearance he threw out his stomach and saluted with a mixture of obsequiousness and pomp.

  “Morning, Scammon. Dr. Shannon—this is Samuel Scammon—our Head Attendant … and also, may I add our valued conductor of the Eastershaws Brass Band.”

  Joined by Scammon’s assistant, Attendant Brogan, a young, good-looking fellow with a bold blue eye, we advanced towards the first gallery, over which I now saw, in faded gold, the name BALACLAVA. Like a conjurer, Scammon manipulated his key. We were inside.

  The gallery was long, lofty and restful, well lit by a row of high windows upon one side and with a score of doors, leading to the individual bedrooms, upon the other. The furniture, like that in the entrance below, was of buhl, the carpets and hangings, though faded, were rich. There were easy chairs in plenty, racks of books and periodicals, in one corner a revolving globe of the world. The atmosphere was that of a comfortable but old-fashioned club, smelling of age, soap, leather and furniture polish, just faintly tinged with the scent of the commode.

  About twenty gentlemen sat quietly enjoying the gallery’s amenities. In the foreground two were occupied by a game of chess. Another, in the corner, with a meditative finger, was revolving the geographic sphere. Several had their morning newspaper. Others had nothing, but kept still, very erect, on chairs.

  Palfrey, having scanned the report which Scammon handed to him, swept forward blithely.

  “Morning, gentlemen. Having a good game?” Beaming, he placed a companionable hand on the shoulder of each chess player. “ It’s the most glorious day outside. You’ll enjoy your little walk, I promise you. I shan’t be a moment running through … then you may be off.”

  He moved down the gallery, pausing at intervals, full of good humour and affable advice. His flow of small talk, though somewhat to a pattern, never failed. He heard complaints with an indulgent and soothing ear. He hummed between times. Yet he wasted not a minute in his expeditious passage.

  ALMA was the next gallery, then came INKERMAN; altogether there were six and when, at last, we emerged to the ground-floor vestibule, having completed the entire circuit, it was almost one o’clock. Palfrey, without delay, escorted me into the fresh air and along the terrace towards the West Wing for luncheon.

  “By the by, Shannon, perhaps I ought to warn you … Maitland and our housekeeper, Miss Indre, are a very close little mutual admiration society. They’re not particularly enamoured of me.” He passed this off airily. “ I don’t mind a bit. But it’s all the more reason for us to support each other.”

  In a small parlour off the vestibule of Ladies’ West, tastefully arranged as a dining-room, the square table set with fine linen and shining silver for four, Miss Indre and Maitland were already waiting. The housekeeper greeted me with a small, quiet inclination of her head, a slender, faded, aristocratic woman of over fifty, immaculate and fragile in a blue voile uniform with narrow soft white wrist-bands and collar.

  As we sat down veiled glances of understanding and quiet, intimate remarks passed between the two women. It was a strained and uncomfortable meal. After the soup a joint of meat was brought in and placed before Palfrey, who carved in an embarrassed manner, humming strenuously as he sliced the undercut on to the various plates. Occasionally, with masculine directness, Maitland addressed a breezy remark in my direction—she asked me if I would make up the stock solutions after lunch for her sister-in-charge. Once or twice when Palfrey spoke she shot an amused glance at Miss Indre.

  Oppressed by my morning experiences, and by the unexpected difficulty of adjusting myself to this strange environment, I kept silent. When Palfrey rose, after the dessert, with a muttered excuse, I followed him towards the terrace.

  “These women!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you? I can’t stand these two, Shannon. In fact, I detest all women. I thank Heaven I have never had anything to do with one of them in my life.”

  He flounced off to take duty in the refectory, leaving me to proceed, with mixed emotions, towards the dispensary.

  Here, Sister Shadd and a nurse were awaiting me, with an official air. Shadd was a coarse, middle-aged, strongly bosomed woman with a good-natured eye. She was examining her watch, pinned on the front of her uniform, as I came in.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor. This is Nurse Stanway. May we have our supplies?”

  As Shadd placed her empty basket on the counter, the nurse glanced at me, sideways, and across her pale, composed, flattened face there passed a faint smile. She was about twenty-five years of age, dark-haired, carrying herself with an air of indifference, and wearing a wedding ring on her right hand.

  “Let me show you where things are,” Shadd said. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

  I was to discover that Sister Shadd had a collection of proverbs such as, “Six and half a dozen,” “It never rains but it pours,” “A stitch in time saves nine,” which she constantly produced with an air of wisdom. Now, very cheerfully, she aided me to fill her basket with the standard drugs, mostly hypnotics; then, with another glance at her pinned on watch, she took her departure, remarking over her shoulder, as she went through the door, in that friendly, well-disposed tone she adopted towards Stanway:

  “Get the East dressings from Dr. Shannon, Nurse. Then come back and help me in the linen-room.”

  There was a pause when Nurse Stanway and I were left alone, an alteration of the atmosphere, an imperceptible drop from the official plane. As she slid forward her basket she gave me a casual glance.

  “You don’t mind if I sit down?”

  I made no objection. I guessed she wanted to get into talk with me, but although I had a rule of never looking twice at any nurse, this place, frankly, was getting on my nerves, and I felt that a little human conversation might help.

  Perching herself upon the counter, she gazed at me, expressionless, yet with a slightly mocking air. She was not exactly good-looking, she was too pale, with pale, full lips, flat high cheek-bones, and a pushed-in nose. Yet she had an attractive quality. Under her eyes there were faint blue shadows, and the skin there was stretched tight. Her black hair, cut square across her forehead, had a bluish sheen.

  “Well,” she said, coolly. “What brought you to Eastershaws?”

  In the same manner, I answered:

  “I just came in for a rest.”

  “You’ll get it. This place is practically a morgue.”

  “Some of it seems pretty old-fashioned.”

  “It was built over a century ago. I shouldn’t think it’s changed much since then.”

  “Don’t they use any modern methods?”

  “Oh, yes. Not Palfrey, poor dear. He only eats, sleeps, and hums. But Maitland sweats away at hydrotherapy, shock-treatment, and psycho-analysis. She’s very earnest, means well, quite decent, in fact. Goodall’s idea is the best. He lets well alone. But he sees that the patients are taken care of, and he sort of helps them along by pretending that they’re normal.”

  “I like Goodall. I met him last night.”

  “He’s all right. Only he’s a litt
le cracked himself.” She glanced at me satirically. “We’re all slightly off the beam.”

  I filled the East list for her, gauze, lint, and g. p. tissue, solutions of valerian, bromide, and chloral hydrate. I had never met paraldyhyde before, and as I took the stopper from the bottle the ether smell of it almost knocked me over.

  “That’s powerful stuff.”

  “Yes. It has a kick in it. Not bad for a hangover.”

  She laughed briefly at my surprised expression, and crooked her arm in the handle of the basket. As she moved to the door, she gave me, from her oblique eyes, that peculiar, direct half-smile.

  “It’s not so bad here, when you know your way around. Some of us manage to have a fairly decent time. Drop into our sitting-room when you’re bored.”

  As she went out I found myself frowning slightly. Not that I was puzzled. Although she was quite young, her air of experience, the stretched blue skin beneath her eyes, that pushed-in, expressionless face which gave nothing away, suggested an eventful history.

  When I had finished in the dispensary it was only three o’clock, and now I was free to begin my own work. With a sigh of relief, I went outside. But there I drew up suddenly, arrested by the scene before me.

  On the lawn beneath the terrace a group of gentlemen had been marshalled by Chief Attendant Scammon for a game of bowls which, from their frequent exclamations, was proving highly exciting. The tennis courts on the other side of the Tyrolean pavilion were in full blast, with Palfrey umpiring one match. From the pavilion itself came the strains of brass music: pleasant little broken snatches, runs and rallentandos from one of Sousa’s marches: indicating that the Eastershaws band was engaged in practice. Colour was added by a party of ladies, headed by Sister Shadd, trailing in elegant fashion—some were even sporting parasols—round the orchard. Nor was the picture entirely given over to diversion. In the kitchen gardens a large body of men from the East Wing were working industriously, spaced at regular intervals, hoeing the newly planted furrows with well-directed strokes.

  I looked at the scene for a long time, then gradually a strange and startled feeling came upon me, a recurrence, an intensification of the sensation which had troubled me ever since I set foot in the place. This was pleasant, this was pretty, but, my God, it was almost more than I could stand. My nerves were not in a good state, perhaps, but I’d had about enough of Eastershaws for the present, with these Crimean galleries, and the gentlemen inside them, and Palfrey, and the pass key with chain attached, the doors with no handles, the smell of Sanitas, and all the rest of it. In fact, I was getting a queer, confused dizziness at the back of my head. I spun round sharply, went straight to the laboratory and locked the door. As I shut my window against the distant cries of the bowlers, a terrible weight of desolation, of loneliness, struck at me and crushed me down. Suddenly, despairingly, with all my heart, I longed for Jean. What was I doing in this accursed spot? I should be with her. We should be together, I couldn’t stand it here … alone.

  But at last I conquered myself and, at the bench, set myself to begin the last phase of my research.

  Chapter Three

  On the thirty-first of July, that date I had so determinedly anticipated, I obtained Dr. Goodall’s consent and started, early, for the graduation ceremony at the University. Although Palfrey had occasionally tried to enveigle me to one of his favourite operas and Maitland several times had suggested that I ought to “ go out”—because of my activities in the laboratory, since my arrival I had not once been beyond the confines of the Place. I was beginning to settle down. In fact, it felt unreal to be in a tram again, and to see cars and people moving at will about the streets.

  When, towards eleven o’clock, I reached the summit of Fenner Hill, the Moray Hall was already crowded with students and their relatives, buzzing with the usual anticipation, its musty dignity rent, from time to time, by the demonstrations of the younger and more exuberant undergraduates, who were singing student songs, chasing up the aisles, whooping and catcalling, unrolling paper streamers. It all looked childish and stupid to me. I did not go in, but hung about in the crowd standing by the door, hoping to meet with Spence or Lomax and, in the meantime, searching the auditorium and balconies with a strained and nervous gaze.

  Jean was not visible. But suddenly, amongst that sea of faces, I caught sight of her family, her father, mother, and Luke, seated in the second row of the left side balcony, with Malcolm Hodden beside them. All were in their best clothes, bending forward eagerly, with such animation, so pleased, proud and expectant, I had to repress an instinctive reaction of hostility. I took cover behind the nearest pillar.

  At that moment, by the dexterous use of his umbrella, a corpulent spectator poked and manœuvred into position beside me—then, with a gasp of triumph, accosted me.

  “Hello, my dear Dr. Robert Shannon.”

  I found myself confronted by that fount of gossip and good nature, the ever-beaming Babu Chatterjee.

  “How extremely agreeable to meet you, sir. We miss you continually at Rothesay, but, of course, follow your career with interest. Is it not a splendid assembly here to-day?”

  “Splendid,” I agreed, without enthusiasm.

  “Oh, come, sir! Tee hee! No disparagement to our dear Alma Mater.” His remarks were punctuated by little grunts as, periodically, from the thrusting crowd, he received an elbow in his abdomen. “Although I am not myself graduating, hoping to do so shortly, the splendid ceremonial pleases me greatly. I have not once missed it the past ten years. Come, sir. Shall we press forward and secure two front adjacent seats?”

  “I think I’ll wait here. I’m looking out for Spence and Lomax.”

  At that instant the great organ above us pealed out, drowning all other sounds; and, realizing that the proceedings had begun, a fresh wave of people pressed into the hall, swirling us apart, sweeping the Babu up the central aisle.

  I held my ground for a few minutes, while the Principal made a short speech and, aided by Professor Usher, who stood beside him with the parchments, started the usual business of “ capping” the long procession of graduates. But the crowd was too dense for me to view the spectacle; in any case I had no wish to see all of it, and, since my frustrated gaze kept stealing upwards to the balcony, the sight of Hodden and the Law family, smiling and applauding, became more than I could endure. In the face of protests and opposition, I fought my way out of the hall. A public telephone booth stood in a corner of the cloisters, and, on an impulse, I entered and rang up the Pathology Department. But Spence was not there. Nor could I find him at his house. The phone simply rang; no one answered.

  Defeated, I came out of the cabinet and went slowly up the worn, shallow stone stairway, along the corridor, to the robing-room. It was here that, for a fee of half a guinea or so, the students hired their gowns and hoods, and I knew that after the ceremony Jean would come back, to return her borrowed robes. This was the only place where I could be sure of finding her alone, and I sat down in a corner by the long wooden counter, to wait.

  Under the depressing sound of forced applause, which rattled out every thirty seconds beneath me, my mood sank to depths of bitter sadness. A rush of returning graduates caused me to raise my head abruptly and presently, amongst the others, I saw Jean, hurrying along the corridor, wearing her gown over a new brown costume, new brown stockings and shoes. She was flushed, talking to the girl beside her, with an air of excitement, of momentary animation which, after these weeks of separation, cut me to the heart. Because I loved her I wished to find her bathed in tears.

  She had not noticed me. Slowly and carefully, I got up and stood by the counter, close beside her. I was at her elbow, but she did not dream that I was there, and I did not say a word.

  For several seconds nothing happened; then, all at once, she paused, arrested in the act of handing in her gown. She could not have seen me, yet the warm blood ebbed, slowly, from her face and neck, leaving her very white. For a long, long moment she remained inanimate—th
en, as by the exercise of an immense, and almost superhuman, effort she forced herself to turn her head.

  I looked straight into her eyes. She seemed turned to stone.

  “I wasn’t invited, but all the same, I came.”

  A long pause. Her pale lips may have shaped an answer. But she could not speak it. I went on.

  “I don’t suppose you have a few minutes to waste? I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  “I am alone now.”

  “Yes, but we’re sure to be interrupted here. Can’t we go off somewhere for a bit? I seem to recollect that we’ve done it before.”

  “My people are waiting for me downstairs. I have to go back to them at once.”

  Although all my bones were melting towards her, I answered bitterly.

  “I’ve kept out of your way for four weeks, I haven’t contaminated you with my presence. I think I’m due a short conversation with you.”

  She moistened those pale dry lips.

  “What good would it do?”

  I looked at her cruelly. I had longed to see her and now that we were, at last, together, my one desire was to wound her as deeply as I could. I searched for the hardest and most cutting words.