by A. J. Cronin
As I entered, feeling perceptive and extremely light on my feet, Mother was busy helping Bernard’s wife, whom I now knew as Aunt Teresa, to set the long mahogany table for tea. Mother’s activity and resolved air of cheerfulness astounded me. True, she was much thinner, but when I returned from Port Cregan I had expected to find her prostrate with an inconsolable grief. I had failed to realize that, whatever reaction the future might bring, for the present she had no sorrow left. Worn out by months of nursing, knowing that my father must die, she could only feel relief to see his suffering end.
‘How nice your breath smells, dearest,’ she said, kissing me. She had kissed me a great deal since my return. ‘Have you been sucking sweets?’
‘No, Mother,’ I said virtuously.
At that moment Aunt Teresa wandered in with a platter on which lay a huge red boiled ham.
‘Didn’t I hear the cab?’ she said, smiling and nodding to me. ‘If so, we may as well dish up.’
Nora’s mother was a gentle, wavering little woman who seemed wrapped in an air of abstracted wonder. Her bosoms, swelling visibly under a rich black satin blouse, gave me the odd notion—was it promoted by the port?—that for comfort she had removed her stays or perhaps forgotten to put them on. Her face, naturally pale but faintly flushed now from the stove, had a dreamy remoteness as though years of these condemned Vaults and the disorder that reigned here had in the end exalted her to a supernatural plane where she drifted peacefully, isolated and immune.
‘There they are now,’ Nora confirmed. ‘On the stairs.’
Almost as she spoke the door opened and my two uncles entered. Bernard came first, a heavy, round-shouldered, flabby figure, half bald, with a full, sagging face and pouches under his eyes which, although he could not have been more than forty-five, made him look much older. Since already I had observed in him an emotionalism so acute that he seemed unable to contain it. I was not surprised to see his black-bordered handkerchief still in his hand as he approached my mother and laid a consoling arm upon her shoulders.
‘My poor girl, the hand of the Lord has been laid upon us. But you must be brave, it’s over now, he’s at rest under the sod, with his own kith and kin, and we can only bow our heads to the will of the Almighty. God’s will be done. But I tell you, it fair broke my heart as they lowered him down, Conor my own brother, so young, and well favoured, with most of his days and his future before him. And to leave you and the boy, all, that must have been the bitterest cut of all. But God help me, I’ll see that you don’t want, neither of the two of you. I swore it at the grave, and by your leave I’ll swear it again. Now dear, you must keep your strength up, so sit down and we’ll have a bite. When we’ve had our tea we’ll go into everything and see what’s to be done for you.’
Bernard’s affirmation, delivered almost in one breath with lyrical intensity, and which my mother listened to with averted head, touched me deeply. I glanced expectantly at Uncle Leo, but to my surprise and disappointment he remained silent. This uncle, a few years younger than Bernard, was tall and extremely thin, with a long pale clean-shaven expressionless face, topped by a plastering of smooth black hair. Unlike the others he gave no evidence of mourning, being dressed in a plain navy-blue suit, so tight fitting and shiny with use that he seemed to have grown into it. While Bernard was speaking his features remained completely blank except for a slight, yet most peculiar twitching of the corners of his lips which, but for the fact that his personality seemed so reserved, repressed and distant, might have been the vestige of a sarcastic smile.
At this moment my cousin Terence came bustling in, looking smarter, more handsome than ever, quite a man of the world in fact, and when Bernard had said grace we all sat down.
The lavishness of the repast provided me with a further indication of Bernard’s generosity, all the more commendable in the face of his own financial difficulties. As Aunt Teresa kept drifting in and out, absently bringing fresh hot supplies from the kitchen, sausages, white puddings, a boiled fowl—never had I seen such quantities of food—Bernard repeatedly pressed us to eat and, considering his grief, sustained himself with remarkable fortitude. Mother had not much appetite nor, indeed, had I. The ruby port was taking its toll and my head felt as if it were stuffed with cottonwool, an extraordinary yet not unpleasant aerial sensation that made me forget my earlier miseries. Most curious of all, however, were the table manners and gastronomic proclivities of Uncle Leo, who at the outset of the feast had resolutely reversed his plate to preclude all possibility of the funeral meats being placed upon it and, avoiding like the plague Aunt Teresa’s steaming dishes, contented himself with a glass of milk, a plain wheaten scone, masticated with extreme thoroughness, and four tablets taken from a little bottle which he extracted from his waistcoat pocket.
‘And now, my dear Grace,’ Bernard gazed at Mother with admiring sympathy, ‘if it’s agreeable to you, should we have our little family chat about your future? From what I can gather, our poor Con didn’t leave you with too much of the ready—if I may put it that way without offence.’
‘Almost everything we had went into Conor’s business,’ Mother answered quietly. ‘And to very good purpose. He had paid off every penny he owed, both to Hagemann and the bank. He was his own master.’
Uncle Leo, who had so far said nothing, had a strange way of not looking directly at anyone. Now his gaze travelled well over Mother’s head as he asked despondently:
‘Was he insured?’
‘No. I believe he tried eventually, but was refused a policy.’
‘What exactly is in the bank?’ Leo persisted, still viewing the ceiling.
‘A matter of two hundred pounds.’ Mother flushed as she answered. ‘And of course there’s the doctor’s bill and the funeral expenses.’
Bernard raised a restraining, benevolent hand.
‘Not a word more about that, dear. As I told you before, I’ll take care of the funeral, every penny of it. And we’ll throw in the doctor’s bill as well.’
‘Even if that’s done, two hundred won’t take you far,’ Leo said gloomily. ‘In my opinion the first thing you’ll have to do is sell some of your furniture and get out of that big expensive flat.’
‘I have already arranged to do so.’
I wanted to cheer Mother for that calm, composed answer, and such was my elevated state, I would probably have done so had not Leo immediately resumed.
‘Next, you must try to sell the agency.’
Mother shook her head.
‘No.’
‘Why not? It must be worth something … if we can find a buyer. Even if the U.D.L. have cooled off they’ll make some sort of offer.’
‘I don’t want a buyer.’
I reached under the table and found her hand. It was cold and trembling slightly. But she went on firmly:
‘Conor made the business. It was all his idea, and a wonderful one too. Apart from my loyalty to him, I’m not going to see it thrown away. It’s essentially single-handed work. I believe I can do it. And I’m going to try. I’m going to carry on the agency.’
There was a silence, then Bernard thumped the table enthusiastically with his fist.
‘And you’ll do it, too. You’ll have sympathy on your side. You’ll get orders for that alone, not to speak of your pretty face. By God, you’re a brave little woman. But what about the boy? You’ll be in Winton all day. Shall I send him to Rockcliff for you, like I did my Terry?’
‘He’ll go later, perhaps,’ Mother said. ‘I can’t part with him now. I’ve arranged with a neighbour, the lady downstairs, to rent three rooms in her house. She’ll keep an eye on Laurence when he’s not at school.’
So we were going to Miss Greville! Following on Mother’s previous announcement, for which I had been equally unprepared, this news gave me a real start in which apprehension and excitement had an equal part. While Bernard continued to praise Mother with the most optimistic prognostications of her success, I tried to foresee the possibilities inherent
in our new lodging and, although I failed, somehow I sensed they would be profound. The discussion between Mother and my uncles went on, but I had now passed beyond the stage of coherent attention, although from time to time I was vaguely conscious of the note of pessimistic protest in Uncle Leo’s voice.
‘Well,’ he declared finally. ‘If your mind is made up, there’s nothing more to be done.’
In the pause that followed Uncle Bernard made a special sort of sign to Terence who nodded and got to his feet.
‘He’ll open up below,’ Bernard explained with a sigh. ‘Life must go on.’
‘I’ll feed the dog first,’ Terry said. ‘Get his dinner, Nora. Like to come?’ he added, with a glance that casually took in me.
We descended to the yard by an outside stair I had not noticed before. Repulsing the Joker’s frantic leapings and quiverings with the words: ‘Down, brute,’ Terence dusted off a convenient box and seated himself judicially.
‘Well, caper, here we are again.’
‘Yes, Terence.’
‘And not under the best of circumstances.’
A pause while he looked me up and down.
‘As a matter of interest, who slapped these duds on you?’
‘Miss O’Riordan.’
‘I thought as much.’ He shook his head in slow disparagement. ‘You know, caper, if you don’t watch out women’ll be the ruin of you. You’ve got to learn to stand up for yourself, and not let them run you, or you’ll be under their thumb for the rest of your life.’
Terence’s homily was not altogether comprehensible but as it seemed to manifest some interest in my welfare I took it as a compliment to my bereaved state. He seemed indeed to be on the point of offering me further sage advice; however, at this point Nora appeared with a plate on which lay a thick outsize slice of prime raw steak.
‘You’d better hurry, Terry. There’s a crowd outside with their tongues hanging out.’
‘Ah, let them wait, it’ll strengthen their thirst. I want to show caper the Joker.’ Holding off the hound whose whip-like tail lashings had now become intense, he took the plate from Nora, placed it on the ground and in a solemn tone of warning said: ‘Friday.’
The Joker, already launching himself on the steak, was stopped by what had every appearance of a lethal electric shock. Curved in an acute parabola over the plate, saliva drooling from his jaws, he fixed one intense imploring eye on Terence.
‘You see,’ remarked Terence, lighting a cigarette in a manner so leisurely as to exacerbate the Joker’s anguish. ‘That’s a good Catholic dog. He’ll not touch flesh meat on days of abstinence.’
‘But today isn’t Friday, Terry,’ I objected.
‘For the Joker,’ Terence said, ‘my word is good enough. Yes, man, for that dog I’m as infallible as the Pope. In a minute I’m going to tell him it’s Saturday.’
I was deeply impressed until a thought struck me.
‘But how do you manage in Lent, Terry? Practically every day’s a fast day then.’
‘In Lent,’ Terence appeared to reflect. ‘In Lent we get him a dispensation. Yes, man, that’s a very holy dog. Strange too, when you consider I bought him from a Jewish gentleman by the name of K. Q. Fink. I had a bit of trouble getting him out of his Kosher habits but in the end, thank God, we converted him. And has it paid off, man! Now he’s just full of piety. You ought to see him play lame just before I match him in a race.’
Where this remarkable dialogue would have led us is impossible to determine. Certainly it appeared to cause Nora a series of suppressed internal spasms. But it was interrupted by a violent banging on some outer door and a voice shouting:
‘Open up, will ye, for the love of God. We’re all parched out here.’
At this Terence lounged to his feet and released the Joker with truly apostolic gesture and intonation.
‘There’s proof for you, caper,’ he remarked as he went out. ‘The Joker never fails me.’
In three swift snaps the steak had gone.
A somewhat hollow silence followed this remarkable demonstration. It was broken by my mother calling me from the head of the stair. Apparently we had been pressed to stay the night with Uncle Bernard but to my disappointment, since I harboured an extraordinary inclination to resume my acquaintance with Nora in the hen house, Mother had declined. And now, as it was past four o’clock, she said we must leave for our train.
While she was getting her coat and hat Leo, who had not spoken to me once, had not even appeared aware of my existence, came slowly towards me. While his tall, sad, enigmatic presence loomed above me, he produced from his shiny trouser pocket a short handful of silver amongst which, after a diligent search, he found a threepenny bit.
‘Here, boy,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste it. It’s hard-earned money. And always remember this. Your best friend is your own bank book.’
So far I had not been at all favourably impressed by Uncle Leo but now, discovering him to be so poor—a suspicion I had already entertained—yet willing to spare me this coin, albeit the smallest in the realm, and as I now observed, thin, darkish in colour and slightly bent, all of which made me dubious of its negotiability, I felt a twinge of sympathetic pity and thanked him profusely.
‘It seems Bernard has put you in hand,’ he said impassively, though his lips were twitching again. ‘There’s no end that he means to do for you. I’ve a poor sort of business myself, but if ever you should need a job or want to learn a trade, come to me. I’ve told your mother.’
Without saying goodbye he turned and went off.
Nora and Terence, now released from duty by his father, came with us to the station. How pleased I was when Nora took my hand, swinging it as we walked along. I reddened with gratification when Terry asked me if I could still run fast. It was good to be in the open again with a fresh breeze to blow away all the strange and conflicting impressions so summarily forced upon me. Mother’s step seemed lighter too, as though she had not been at ease in Bernard’s house, and that while she had supported it with calm and fortitude the day had been for her a fearful ordeal.
Seated together in the corner of a third-class compartment she did not speak. Gazing intently into her face I felt sadness descend upon her. What were her thoughts? Of my father no doubt, and perhaps of how blessedly different he had been, as was Simon too, from those other brothers. Or did she think of the strangeness of her life, contrasting her upbringing and early background, both so proper and correct, with all that she had experienced and endured today? I could not guess. Then, all that mattered was that she held me close to her as the train rumbled past the Lomond Vaults and, gathering speed, bore us through a pale serene sunset towards the darkening valley of the Fruin beyond.
Chapter Thirteen
In the second week of April Mother and I moved down to Miss Greville’s house—a memorable transition, not in domicile alone, but also in our lives. The accommodation so graciously offered was pleasing and, everything considered, well suited to our needs. At the back of the first floor of the spacious maisonette we had two nice rooms, not large but well lit and cheerful since both overlooked the lawn, and an adjoining smaller room, actually a deep alcove which Miss Greville, by installing a gas cooker and a porcelain sink, had converted to a small but practicable kitchen. A bathroom, too, was conveniently near on the half-landing. Care had undoubtedly been taken and thought expended to make us comfortable and while I had no exact knowledge of the sum Mother paid in rent it must of necessity have been disproportionately modest, representing, in my view, Miss Greville’s wish to help us, rather than any sordid desire for gain.
Here, then, in this miniature lodging, our new life began. Every morning Mother rose at seven o’clock and made our breakfast. Usually I had a cereal called grapenuts, then we each had a boiled egg and hot buttered toast. I drank a glass of milk while Mother had several cups of very strong tea. She confided in me that she could never do without her morning tea. It seemed to brisken and fortify her, although she still looked
sad. She had not yet lost the pinched look that startled me when I returned from Port Cregan.
After breakfast she washed the dishes and I dried them, then, while I finished dressing, she put on her new business suit, a costume of dark grey material, and how relieved I was to see her out of that sinister funeral black, which she had wisely decided would be prejudicial to her work. At quarter past eight we left the house together, Mother resolutely to take the eight-forty train for Winton, I reluctantly, to go to school. I need hardly add that I was still attending St Mary’s—our position at the moment was too uncertain to justify any change to a better school.
Nevertheless, if that cherished dream seemed deferred, I was amply compensated by a new and striking departure from my dull routine. Since my poor mother was away all day, did not in fact get home until six o’clock at night, and made the best of some kind of lunch at one or other of the city tea rooms, Miss Greville had suggested, had indeed insisted, that I take my midday meal with her. Lunch with Miss Greville became then the fascination and, at least in the beginning, the bane of my existence.
On the first day, when I arrived, breathless at half past twelve, having hurried all the way back from school for fear of being late, she was waiting for me in the dining-room, standing erect with her thumb in her waistband. She glanced at the curious bronze and porcelain clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Good. You are punctual. Go and wash your hands. And brush your hair.’
When I returned, she indicated my place. We sat down. The food, served by Campbell, the silent elderly maid who behaved as though I did not exist, was delicious, hot, and startlingly strange. The table appointments, among which twin silver pheasants were outstanding, no less than the arrangement of the heavy silver cutlery, embarrassed and intimidated me. I dropped my stiff napkin and had to grope under my chair. When I had retrieved it Miss Greville addressed me pleasantly.
