by A. J. Cronin
Yours , Stephen
A thrill of fearful joy electrified me. Holding my breath I stared at the damning words—a waiter at the Metropolitan—then, unbolting the door, I rushed towards the staircase. I could not wait an instant before avenging myself for all I had, suffered by delivering this fatal blow, not only to my mother’s hopes, but to her pride.
During the past two days of rain Mother had drawn more within herself, resting and reading in her room after lunch. I knew that she was there now. A cruel, an unholy triumph intoxicated me, sent the blood rushing to my head as I knocked at her door, with the letter in my hand.
‘Come in.’
She was not reading, but standing at the window, wearing that look of abstraction, a kind of meditative sadness, which, in later years, came over her more and more. She half turned, ventured a smile.
‘Mother …’ I went forward. Her expression, tender and, for some reason, forgiving, unnerved me. Not only that, before I could prevent her she actually took my hand and pressed it against her cheek. Yet I was not to be deterred by such sentimental tricks. I was trembling now and sweating all over, but I made myself go on. ‘There’s something I have to show you …’
‘Yes, Laurie, dear.’
Still holding my hand she was again looking out and down. Instinctively my gaze followed hers. A station cab stood at the front door and luggage was being heaped upon its roof. Then, hurriedly, bent as if to avoid the plashing rain, a figure, familiar though untartaned, emerged from the porch and dived into the cab. The door slammed, the cabby mounted the box and drove off.
There was a mortal silence in that little bedroom.
‘He’s gone?’ I stammered.
She nodded slowly and turned to me.
‘I’ve sent him away.’
‘Why?’
‘There was your father, Laurence. And now there’s you. I suddenly discovered there wasn’t room for anyone else.’
Something in my throat tied itself into a knot so that I could not speak or swallow. I stared at her, then in my free hand I crushed the letter to shapeless pulp and blindly flung myself upon her breast.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The habitat of my Uncle Leo was a four-storey warehouse somewhat peculiarly named Templar’s Hall and situated in that unsalubrious district of Winton known as the Gorbielaw. The building, which occupied one comer of two mean, narrow cobbled streets, was old and in poor repair with the side windows plastered over and painted a dingy black, but as it stood in the centre of the city, adjacent to Argyle Street and convenient for the docks, it presumably had for my uncle advantages of a commercial nature. As a residence it had less to offer. The top floor, consisting of a long dark passage with a great many rooms opening off on either side, served as the living quarters. However, as I had arrived late the night before I had as yet no idea of the nature of these rooms, only that my own, furnished with an iron bed, a washstand and a burst cane chair, was at the far end of the corridor, and the kitchen, where a sort of general servant to my uncle, Annie Tobin, had given me bread and cheese for my supper, at the other.
I had slept intermittently, disturbed by the clanging of the Argyle Street trams and by an unmanly heartache for my mother, whom I had seen off at the Central Station on the previous afternoon. The prospect of a separation for at least a year—despite Mother’s assertion that it would quickly pass—had made it a difficult parting. But the morning brought the promise of new experiences. I got up, washed and dressed, then, opening my door, moved circumspectly in search of breakfast.
Mrs Tobin stood at the kitchen stove. She was a shapeless woman of about fifty-five with a bright-red face, pitted by acne, small deep-set blue eyes and wild grey hair that seemed to be standing on end. An old brown wrapper was tied about her middle. Scuffed carpet slippers adorned her feet.
Apart from her blowsy appearance, her strong Irish accent and familiar manners had already offended me and I had quite decided that I should not like Mrs Tobin at all.
‘Is my uncle not up yet?’
She turned and considered me good-naturedly.
‘He’s up and out a good hour ago.’
‘Has he gone to Mass?’ I inquired, conceiving no other reason for so early an excursion.
Mrs Tobin burst out laughing. When she laughed her stomach shook and her blue eyes dissolved completely in folds of inflamed red skin. Good heavens, I thought, she seems to be enjoying some kind of joke.
‘My dear lad,’ she replied at last, ‘that fellow hasn’t seen the inside of a church for more nor thirty year. He’s a black atheist, none other. But you’ll soon get used to his comings and goings, though God Himself wouldn’t know what he’s up to, or after. A gombeen man, no less. Are you wanting your breakfast?’
‘Please,’ I said coldly, determined to repress all familiarity.
‘Then you shall have it, my lad,’ she replied agreeably.
‘Where is the dining-room?’
‘Just here, dear, none other. Kitchen, drawing-room, dining-room, combined. So take a seat and be easy.’
As with some reluctance I sat down, she removed a china bowl from the shelf, half-filled it with a yellowish mealy powder and stirred in boiling water from the kettle on the stove. The result was a sort of muddy-brown porridge which did not smell at all well and which, with a cup of bluish milk and a spoon, she placed before me.
‘What’s this?’
‘Just a kind of stirabout, only made with pease meal. Your uncle favours it, and gets it wholesale by the hunderweight bag.’
I picked up my spoon and took a mouthful.
‘You don’t fancy it, dear,’ she said sympathetically, studying my face. ‘Still, as there isn’t much else, if I were you I’d sup it up.’
‘It would taste better with a lump of butter in it,’ I said demandingly, with a grimace.
‘Butter, dear?’ Her twinkling eyes began to disappear again. ‘You’ll not get as much butter from Leo as you could put on the end of a bumbee’s arse.’
Naturally, as far as I was concerned, this vulgarity was the end of Mrs Tobin.
Nevertheless, anxious not to offend my uncle, since it was his choice, I supped the stirabout up, meanwhile reflecting gloomily on all my mother’s appetizing breakfasts, not to speak of the delicious luncheons provided me by Miss Greville. When I had made my way to the bottom of the bowl Mrs Tobin remarked:
‘If you’re not full, I’ll give you a cut off my loaf.’
‘Your loaf!’ I exclaimed, exploding with indignation.
‘Well, yes, lad. I do buy myself a few things now and then, just by way of what you might call an extra.’
Her tone was so mild and with that constant hint of laughter lying behind, ready to spring up and make light of any difficulties, I felt obliged to hold back my resentment. Besides, cradling the loaf in the crook of her arm, she was sawing off a thick slice of sweet-smelling fresh bread and spreading it generously with dripping.
I accepted it in silence. After the stirabout it tasted like real food. I was still chewing when steps sounded on the stairs and my uncle came into the room.
Although it was more than four years since I had first encountered Leo at my father’s funeral, I now found not the slightest change in him. He presented to the world the same tall thin figure, almost emaciated, in the tight shiny navy-blue suit, the same long, smooth, pale, expressionless, self-contained, unreadable face. Leo was an ageless man who remained fixed permanently, as by an effort of will, in the same changeless mould, and when he died, some thirty years later—worth, incidentally, three-quarters of a million sterling—I felt convinced, although I was then four thousand miles away, that he had expired inscrutably in precisely the same form, and was buried in the identical blue suit.
Meanwhile, putting a hand on my shoulder, he had made me welcome, pleasantly enough, although with a deprecating shake of his head he seemed to take exception to my slice of bread.
‘That bleached white flour rots the coating of the bowel, L
aurence. But I see you’ve had your pease meal. That’s the stuff that’ll really stick to your ribs. You’ll soon get used to our ways. We’re careful what we put in our stomachs here. Now if you’ve finished I’ll take you downstairs.’
We descended by the stone staircase to the first floor, then, selecting a key from the shiny bunch secured to his braces by a thin chain, he opened a door and led me into the stockroom. This was a long hall which ran the entire length of the building, and so high—it contained both the first and second stories—as to produce a faint echo when we spoke. In this lofty and extremely dusty repository a double row of trestle-tables was laid out, leaving a passage in the middle which was covered by a strip of frayed red drugget, while on the tables bales of cloth were piled and strewn in some disarray.
‘Now,’ said Uncle Leo, in a confidential manner, so plausible it would have deceived the entire College of Cardinals, ‘you’ll begin to learn your trade.’
After testing my knowledge of linear measure he presented me with an inch tape, which I assumed had got into the establishment by mistake since as he draped it professionally over my shoulders I saw on the reverse side, in plain black letters, ‘Property of Morris Shapiro Tailor’. He then began to take me round the tables, stopping at each to instruct me in the goods displayed. First the saxonys, then the cheviots, next the angolas, the broadcloths, the tweeds—Donegal, Harris, Shetland. To each bale a ticket was attached on which was marked the price, not in figures but in letters, and glancing down at me obliquely with a deepening of his confidence and flattering implications of my fidelity, Uncle Leo entrusted me with the secret of his code. It was simple, a reversal of the alphabet in which Z stood for zero, Y for one, X for two, and so on back to Q which represented nine.
All this would have impressed me more but for the unworthy suspicion that those materials, which my uncle spoke of and indeed caressed with a proprietary touch as though they were rare and precious fabrics, seemed rather more shop-soiled, ill used and exhausted than I, even as an untrained neophyte, would have expected—seemed, in brief, scarcely to merit the high-sounding titles and rich encomiums bestowed upon them, indeed, while I hesitated to mention the fact my eye had more than once been attracted by other tickets, unrelated to Uncle’s code, but crudely stamped in red with such devices as: Bankrupt Stock, Sale, Job Lot, and finally a fearfully incriminating tag on which was scrawled in blue pencil: Knocked down to Pinchpenny C. at 50% off.
When our circuit had been completed Leo drew up at the last trestle.
‘You understand, Laurence, that in the ordinary way I would expect a premium from an apprentice. And a handsome one at that. But blood is thicker than water. We’ll let you off the premium. You’ll have your board and lodging, and over and above I’m going to give you sixpence a week for your pocket.’
Mother had told me that Uncle had promised to pay me wages, but this seemed very little. Still, I managed to say:
‘Thank you, Uncle Leo.’
Perhaps he noticed the hesitation in my tone for he went on quickly:
‘What’s more, if you need anything, and I think you need a suit,’ he paused, with an air of serious liberality. ‘I’ll give you it.’ I looked at him gratefully. I undoubtedly had need of a suit. In the past few months I had shot up and out of my present garments so that my trouser ends were well above my ankles and the sleeves of my jacket failed to cover my wrists. But before I could express my thanks Leo went on: ‘Now here’s a lovely piece of stuff.’
The cloth he displayed, with a professional toss that unwrapped the bolt and spread it hurtfully before my eyes, was a strong pepper-and-salt check, of a pattern so vivid I would have judged it suitable only for gentlemen of the most pronounced sporting tastes.
‘Isn’t it a trifle loud, Uncle?’
‘Loud!’ He dismissed the idea. ‘This is a classic, Laurence, and the only piece of it I have. As for wear, it stands by itself. It’ll last a lifetime. I’ll get Shapiro up to measure you this afternoon.’
I was quite overcome, but whether by his generosity or by the design of the material I scarcely knew. While I remained silent he drew a large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and thoughtfully consulted it, an action which, as I soon discovered, was the usual prelude to his sudden and mysterious departure.
‘I have to go now,’ he said. ‘ If anyone comes in call down Mrs Tobin or just say I’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some work to keep you busy. Come into the office.’
I followed him through a door I had not previously observed, into a small room furnished with a flat desk, a single chair and a large green safe. The bare floor-boards were cluttered with a great many packages and cardboard boxes, some open and disclosing to my gaze a varied assortment of attractively labelled tins, bottles and jars. Hustling through some papers on the desk he found a magazine which had the title The Health Food Bulletin. Turning the pages he indicated a number of advertisements, each of which he had marked with a cross.
‘You write a pretty fair hand, I hope?’
When I had assured him on this point the instructions he then gave me, though astounding, were precise. Thus, five minutes later, when he had departed, I found myself seated at the desk, pen in hand, inditing a letter, the first of a series, which ran as follows:
Mr Leo Carroll presents his compliments to the Ocean Seaweed Food Company and requests them to forward to his business office at the above address, liberal free samples of their product Sargossa as advertised in The Health Food Bulletin, for his personal use and possible future commercial orders.
When I had finished the letters, all addressed to patent-food companies, it was almost noon and no customers had yet appeared. I went through the warehouse and opened the door to satisfy myself that a queue had not formed outside. It had not. Then, as I turned, I saw pinned on a panel of the door a cryptic notice which read Call again. Back at two. Leo.
The realization that my uncle had so little faith in me caused my spirits to droop. I went back and stared through one of the front windows. Masked by the grime on the panes the narrow street nevertheless revealed itself mercilessly: mean little shops, a public house, a short string of hucksters’ barrows, and at the far end, the familiar three brass balls of the pawnbroker. I could not comprehend why my uncle should have chosen to live in such a locality or to own so vast and dilapidated a building in order to carry on his business in so small a part of it. How could I guess, in those early days, his astute precognition that changes in the city planning would raise the value of this porperty to fantastic heights?
A sudden laugh from behind disturbed my brooding and made me spin round.
‘The sight of you there with the inch tape on you!’
Forgetting that I had made up my mind not to like her, I felt surprisingly relieved to see Mrs Tobin.
‘I thought I’d see how you were getting on. Anyhow it’s time for your dinner.’ She added: ‘Such as it is.’
She locked the outer door and we went upstairs to the kitchen where I was not long in perceiving that my dinner was to be derived from a large pot of boiled potatoes and a wedge of Dunlop cheese. However, before this was served Mrs Tobin set a frying-pan on the stove and, almost from nowhere, by a kind of legerdemain, shot into it two fat sausages which immediately began to sizzle and to emit a seductive aroma that brought the water to my teeth. While she tended them she kept watching me with a broad, suggestive smile until I could no longer contain myself.
‘Yours, Mrs Tobin?’ I queried.
‘Mine,’ she agreed, and lifting the pan from the stove she forked one of the sausages on to my plate and placed the other on her own.
‘This looks awfully good, Mrs Tobin.’
‘Annacker’s,’ she replied succinctly.
I was hungry. Despite Uncle’s assurances, the stirabout had not stuck long to my ribs. Several minutes elapsed before I added:
‘And these potatoes are beautifully floury.’
‘I have the knack of the spuds, dear,
like most of the Irish. And don’t call me Mrs Tobin, just Annie.’
‘Does my uncle not come in to dinner?’ I inquired, with, my mouth full of hot sausage and mash.
She shook her head.
‘In the first place he hardly eats what would feed a sparrow. In the second, except when, he’s messing about here in the evening with his patent foods and what not, he takes his meals in the Vegetarian Restaurant in Union Street.’
‘Good gracious. Is he really a vegetarian, Mrs Tobin, I mean Annie?’
‘He’ll not put meat in his mouth. Sure if it was raining pork chops he’d only use the fat to grease his boots. Foment which, he doesn’t smoke. And as for liquor, and this is the quarest of all, he’s never had a drink in his life. Leo’s a quare fellow, dear, and deep. He never lets his right hand know what his left hand’s doing. But you’ll soon get to know him,’ she added slyly, ‘ if you haven’t already.’
‘It does seem to me,’ I spoke interestedly, anxious to pursue the subject, ‘that my uncle is not very well off.’
If I had made the wittiest joke of the century the effect on Mrs Tobin could not have been mere pronounced. She literally rocked with laughter. When finally she had composed herself she wiped her eyes and said:
‘What makes you think that, dear?’
‘Well,’ I reasoned, reddening with embarrassment, ‘Uncle doesn’t seem to live very well here. I mean, the food isn’t too plentiful. And, as a matter of fact, this morning not a single person came to the showroom to buy cloth.’
‘Oh, they’ll come, dear, they’ll come,’ she said mildly. ‘In the afternoon when himself is there. And even if they didn’t what’s the odds?’
‘The odds, Mrs Tobin, Annie?’
‘That little bit of a shop down there isn’t but a fraction of Leo’s interests. He has property all over the city. If you’d walked like me up and down the tenements at Anderson Cross collecting his rents you’d know to your sorrow just how much he has. And that’s not the big thing.’
