by A. J. Cronin
With a start she rose and paid her bill; she had to hurry to catch her train at Charing Cross; but she did catch it, and she settled herself in her corner eagerly, a little breathless from her haste.
Chapter Four
Whilst Lucy’s train came pounding through the twilight along the right bank of the widening river at the frightful velocity demanded by the age, Anna and Frank sat on either side of the fireplace in the dining-room of her home. They had finished tea, which still lay upon the table, and now each seemed to have a meditative eye for the red heart of the fire. Ridiculous thought – a fire in August. But in these latitudes the evenings are chilly, the night winds sharp, and nothing, meteorologically, impossible. Already the lamp was lit, casting a yellow gleam upon the comfortable curtained room and upon the figures of the two occupants: conferring, it seemed, to each face, perhaps through some virtue of the mellow glow, a vague similarity of feature or expression.
They were cousins, of course: Moore’s mother and Anna’s father had been sister and brother; that no doubt explained this subtle flicker of resemblance. But actually the similitude was deeper, inherent, racial: the manifestation of a common peasant stock sublimated through a generation of prosperity, yet persisting in an altered, weaker form. Despite the difference in their temperaments – Moore’s indolent, moody, so easy-going it flowed on like water; Anna’s graceless, charming, yet subtly averse – they were under their skins alike: not only of the same kin, but of the same kind.
As they sat without speech, from the kitchen a vague and intermittent noise, chiefly in the nature of shrill laughter, indicated that Peter was ‘having fun’ with Netta, when by the laws which governed the universe, he ought to have been in the process of disrobing for bed. And now, following a prolonged reverberation, Moore said mildly, as he rocked gently in his chair, and exhaled the evitable smoke:
‘High time he was in bed, that youngster!’
Anna removed her gaze from the fire and let it fall on him with a faint smile.
‘Let him enjoy himself while he can,’ she said. ‘That’s always a passable idea, Frank. Besides, he’s behaved well. And Netta – it’ll keep her right to have a laugh. She’s a fine little servant.’
‘For the Pope’s sake!’ murmured Moore, with a glance at the door. ‘Don’t let her hear you say servant. She’d leave on the spot. They’re highly thought of, her family. Respectable! She’s got a connection in the ministry, so Lucy tells me.’
There was a short silence; then, induced perhaps by the mention of his wife’s name, he looked at the black marble temple on the mantelpiece – the imposing facade was inset with a clock face – and reflectively he remarked:
‘She’ll be back within the hour – Lucy, I mean.’
‘I know who you mean,’ she answered, her curious smile continuing. ‘No need to come over it. Sure, you’ve looked at that clock half a dozen times in the last ten minutes.’
He lowered his head, made a deprecating movement with the end of his cigarette, which served also to deposit the ash upon the fire.
‘You are, though, Frank,’ she went on lightly, ‘yes, you are – so don’t deny it. A regular old settled-down married man. You’ve sat there these three nights and done nothing but doze and wear the seat out of your trousers and wonder when she’ll be back.’
‘Well –’ he muttered uncomfortably.
‘It’s written all over you.’
‘All over me?’ he echoed interrogatively.
‘I suppose that was why you’d hardly speak to me when I arrived,’ she persisted, in her tone of teasing irony. ‘ Didn’t want a bad lot like Anna Galton coming into your nice clean little house.’
The term, as applied to herself touching some hidden chord of knowledge, seemed to rouse him from his lethargy.
‘Half a chance now, Anna,’ he exclaimed suddenly, sitting upright. ‘We’ve got on fine these last few days. We’re the best of friends. You know that.’
‘It’s true though, Frank, isn’t it? You didn’t want me to come.’
‘Not at all,’ he stammered. ‘There was nobody sorrier than I was when you – when you had that bit of trouble.’
‘Bit of trouble!’ she repeated, her full, deep eyes faintly mocking him. ‘That’s so like you, Frank! You don’t face up to things. Why can’t you be downright and say, “ When you had that baby”?’
He recoiled from her phrase, uttered so calmly across his domestic hearth. Though it contained no bitterness, but was uttered with a meditative neutrality, it defined so sharply his vague objection to her visit, recalled so vividly her tragedy – though she refused to regard it as a tragedy, that commonplace misfortune which had disturbed the family circle five years ago in Belfast. Actually, yes, actually the beginning of the trouble, the discovery of her condition – he suspected that, indeed, of having knocked old Galton over – had occurred about the time of his visit. It had not then been an agreeable affair; nor was it agreeable now. But it had happened for all that. It had been such a wretched business for her, cumbered with an illegitimate child, deserted, he felt sure, by the child’s father, whose name pertinaciously she refused to disclose. That was like Anna! You never seemed to get to the bottom of her: under her pleasant surface there ran a deep and turbulent stream. In those days, of course, as in their early days at Levenford, he hadn’t thought twice about her; but somehow, though Anna invited no compassion, he had felt for her a vague indeterminate sympathy. She had stood up to things, to her father’s raging, to the general commotion – all with a sort of stolid silence which won his grudging, indifferent admiration. Now he looked at her awkwardly.
‘Whatever way it’s put, Anna,’ he remarked quietly, ‘I was sorry about it. And I was sorry for you when I heard the kid had died.’ He paused. ‘Why didn’t you get married at the start of the trouble and make the best of things?’
‘It takes two to do that,’ said Anna frankly. ‘Besides, I don’t think I’m cut out for the bonds of holy matrimony. I’ve only got to look at your snugness, Frank, to know that I like something a little less tame. Why, I’ve had rare good times, off and on, these last years.’ The lightness of her tone was unforced, her independence quite unaffected, this startling declaration of her philosophy no pose.
‘You know, Frank,’ she went on, still smiling gently, ‘ I’d like to stir you up a bit. You’ve been here in the house with me for three evenings and you’ve taken no more heed of me than if I’d been a sack of meal. And I’m far more interesting than porridge! Why don’t you wake up? You’re asleep, man – you’re going through life dreaming.’
He gazed at her questioningly.
‘I didn’t dream my nice villa,’ he said slowly; this was far from his usual attitude, but somehow he was impelled to defend himself; and he added: ‘And I didn’t dream my comfortable home or the good job I’ve got.’
‘Oh, I’m not talking about business,’ she broke in. ‘Let business go hang for a bit. I always liked you, Frank, and I don’t care to see you settling into the rut. You always were inclined to think small beer of yourself. Why, in the old days at Levenford I believe you would have run around after me but for that.’
‘No,’ he returned unthinkingly, ‘I don’t think I would.’
She laughed. ‘Honestly, though, Frank, I feel like shaking you. I believe it’s Lucy that’s made you like that. You belong to her too much. When she was going away she asked me to look after you as though you were a nice little bit of china she owned and didn’t want chipped. Oh, I saw it before that, whenever I came into the house. Sort of riled me, it did.’
‘I know when I’m well off,’ he replied defensively.
‘It’s true though, Frank. A fine-looking chap like yourself ought to be knocking more fun out of life. You’ll be an old man before your time if you don’t watch out.’
He stared at the fire, apathetic towards her words, contemplating his own complex individuality: he was perhaps a queer sort of man – he knew that. He had an idea what she meant:
trying to stir him up: but he was not interested. There had been impulses in the past, of course – who hadn’t had these? – but they had been for the most part transitory, unsatisfactory in their achievement.
‘I’m right as the mail,’ he said at length, ‘the way I am!’
‘If you’d mix up more,’ she continued pleasantly, with that delicate air of raillery. ‘Get some men friends about you. If you’d even buy yourself one of these new bicycles and ride it. Or keep a dog, even – a good snarling hound!’
He looked at her sharply: was she laughing at him? But her face was bland, agreeable. Abruptly he shook his head, threw away his cigarette.
‘That’s not my style, Anna. I just couldn’t be bothered.’
Again she laughed – one of her rare laughs – and he, looking up quickly, smiled responsively, sympathetically.
‘Well, if you’re not going to ride the bicycle, will you be nice to your cousin while she’s here?’ she exclaimed. ‘ Or are you going to let her mope around and be miserable? Why, even in Levenford, Joe gave me a rare good time – fat and all as he is, he could spare the time. But you, Frank, you entertain a lady by sitting down and thinking about your wife.’
He coloured slightly, a little apologetic, a little disturbed: somehow he had not regarded the matter from this angle: and not without compunction he said:
‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit of a stick these days.’ He hesitated, and with a reactionary influx of enthusiasm added: ‘ But I’ll do what I can to liven things up for you.’
‘That’s more like it,’ she declared, as though between them they had effected a compact. ‘ I’ll depend on you.’
‘Right,’ he agreed mildly, and, crossing his legs, he entrenched himself once more behind the smoke of a freshly lighted cigarette. A few moments passed, filled only by the gentle ticking of the clock.
As she sat watching him, in her curious way of observing without seeming to observe, with the firelight striking on her rich black hair, on her round cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes, she had a strangely mysterious air. But she was not mysterious, though she had some slight subtlety of address. Her thoughts were plain thoughts, barbed by her scepticism and by a natural satire of mind. But she rarely uttered those thoughts. She had a sort of defensive silence, not malicious, not sullen, but due partly to her history. Betrayed in a moment of weakness by her amorous Irish corpuscles, she had lost her virginity in a damp field whilst returning from a Confraternity Dance. And it was as though she had never forgotten the ironic implication of that dance. Her lover, finding America suddenly more attractive than his responsibility, had left her. She made no complaint, but kept silence, admitting only to herself the burden of her suffering, resolving in future not to cease to enjoy life, but to face it without the compliment of sentimentality.
In some degree she was ahead of her age; she had, too, a remnant of the peasant’s coarseness beneath her outward refinement; but she was attractive, vigorous, strongly endowed with sex.
And now, sitting opposite to Moore, she was taken with the idea – not malicious, more provocative, satirical – of shaking him gently from his marital inertia. She had always rather liked Frank – she liked most men – and, on the other side, it was inevitable that her antipathy should be aroused by Lucy, whose idealism and sense of ownership jarred upon her sadly. It would be amusing, most amusing, slyly to spoke that smoothly running wheel.
Suddenly she made a movement more emphatic than usual.
‘Fine!’ she said all at once, with a faint derision. ‘Now we are having a wonderful time.’
‘Eh, what?’ He looked up, startled by her speech, her sudden amusement.
‘You’re all tired out cheering me up,’ she declared. ‘You deserve a glass of beer for that effort.’ And she rose and went over to the sideboard. ‘You’ll have one. And I believe I’ll have one myself. My kipper was salt at tea, and, as Joe would say, it’s thirsty work enjoying ourselves.’
‘I’m not much caring for beer,’ said he, watching her as she drew up a bottle from the little cupboard. ‘I don’t usually take it now.’ He meant actually that Lucy did not care for him to drink at this hour.
In answer, she bent down, looked at him over her shoulder, then pulled the cork, filled two glasses, and offered him one.
‘Here, Frank! It’ll do you good. We’ll drink to our better understanding.’
Rather self-consciously he took a sip and put the tumbler down upon the mantelpiece. As he did so, the door opened and Peter ran into the room.
‘Did you hear me, father?’ he enquired breathlessly. ‘I’ve been having a fight with Netta. And I won.’ He had not won; in the culmination of his ‘cheek’ he had been chased ignominiously from the kitchen with the soup-ladle; but it was imperative for his purpose to create an atmosphere of success. So, standing on one leg, he demanded with ingenuous innocence: ‘And can I stay up a little longer, father?’
‘It’s well after seven, my lad,’ said Moore, and paused; he had no success as the strict parent; the mere idea made him tingle uncomfortably.
‘Let me wait up till mother comes home,’ pleaded Peter. ‘ I’m sure she’ll have brought me something. Positive.’
‘Let him stay, Frank,’ said Anna. ‘ It’ll do him no harm.’
‘Fine!’ shouted Peter, accepting the affair as settled; and, taking up Hans Andersen, he flung it on the hearthrug and settled himself before it with noisy evidence of content. He was, indeed, a little louder than usual, and in the interval since Lucy’s departure his knees and ears had ceased to be immaculate. ‘I think I’ll have the Tinder Box this time,’ he announced audibly, and, finding the place, he planted his elbows widely, cupped his chin in his hands, and began to read.
Again silence fell upon the room, but suddenly into that silence came a brisk sound – a light and lively step upon the path outside. The key turned in the outer lock, the step quickened, almost running, in the hall, then swiftly the door of the dining-room swung open and Lucy burst into the room.
On the threshold she paused, parcels in her arms, her eyes bright, her smail face glowing, an almost girlish excitement in her slim figure. There was a freshness about her, an enthusiasm, an eagerness born of the rare delight of reaching home.
‘I’m back,’ she cried. ‘I’m back, everybody.’
Moore started round. ‘Lucy! Well – that’s fine,’ he said consciously.
Although he had anticipated her return, he betrayed before Anna a characteristic embarrassment as, straightening himself, he sheepishly put down the glass of beer he had been holding.
Still at the door, she stood arrested, it seemed, envisaging the scene: such a picture of domestic felicity as must surely have delighted her! Frank and Anna each occupying an easy chair on either side of the fire, with Peter between them upon the rug. Yet her smile wavered. Why didn’t they give some answering sign of joy? And that tumbler –? She was no prude – but beer, so soon after his tea! Anna, she observed, had a corresponding glass conveniently upon the mantelpiece above her. Anna! Drinking beer with her husband! And her eye, roving farther, in a flash detected a dozen details that no other eye could possibly have perceived: a flower half-withered in the vase, a stain on the table-cloth, Peter’s knees, a smudge upon her immaculate lamp-shade. Despite herself, she had a faint sinking of her elation, a vague flowing qualm of dismay.
‘You don’t seem too excited,’ she declared, maintaining the smile with difficulty. ‘I thought you might have been along at the station to meet me.’
‘I never thought,’ stammered Moore, feeling his own awkwardness.
‘What have you brought me, mother?’ cried Peter, jumping up boisterously. ‘Let me see. Quick. Oh, quick.’
Standing motionless, her eye shot now by a faint displeasure, she let her son rob her of the packages – did even he think only of the material benefit she could afford him?
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Tear off the paper. Make as much mess as you can.’ Almost with an effort she mo
ved, began to take off her hat and gloves. She mustn’t be ridiculous. It was nothing – a glass of ale in the evening. And how could Frank rise to embrace her with Anna in the room?
‘Anyway,’ she exclaimed, with factitious lightness, ‘I’m glad you two have made friends again.’
‘We were never anything else,’ answered Anna mildly. And, without the least embarrassment under Lucy’s sudden stare, she took a sip at her glass, then crossed her legs before the glinting fire.
‘I see,’ said Lucy slowly. And, for no reason whatsoever, she had a curious clouding of her cheerfulness, the feeling that her entry had fallen strangely flat.
‘It’s fine to see you home,’ said Frank, self-consciously, rubbing his chin. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘Yes, you do seem pleased,’ she answered, with a little laugh – such a travesty of a laugh! ‘Come along, Peter! It’s high time you were in bed.’
It was perfectly absurd; yet her eyes were suddenly blurred and, the thought of that previous reunion passionately in her mind, a deep and poignant longing rising in her bosom, she turned sharply and swept out of the room.
Chapter Five
But on the following morning, which was the day appointed for the visit to Edward, she had quite recovered her spirits. She enjoyed an excursion of this kind: no visitation of necessity, but an opportunity to dress herself tastefully and to exhibit the comeliness, intelligence, and infallible behaviour of her son. The warm sociability of her nature grasped, too, the chance of visiting her husband’s relations, the more so as Frank was careless in these matters, and, indeed, openly disdained them.
