by A. J. Cronin
It was a sweet morning: the sun spangling, across the sea, the air still holding, the tenderness of summer – a tranquillity in itself a happy portent for the enjoyment of the short voyage across the firth.
As she dressed Peter in his kilt, which was – in honour of her own name – the Murray tartan, she stressed upon him the immense necessity for polite behaviour.
‘Remember to say “ please” and “thank you” every time,’ she pressed, strapping on his sporran firmly. ‘I’m afraid Anna has been spoiling you. And no personal remarks or I’ll be more than cross with you.’
Upon a previous visit two years ago he had utterly disgraced her by a naive reference to the colour of Miss O’Regan’s nose.
He promised to be good, to maintain a most polished and refined demeanour, and, excited at the prospect of the trip, he kept jumping up and down, so that she had difficulty in fastening the square metal buttons of his dark green jacket.
‘I wonder if Eileen still has the yellow cat? And will Dave or Angus take us over?’ he exclaimed at intervals, shifting his weight from one small brogue to the other. ‘I hope it will be rough, too. I like a toss.
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Lucy, with a little nod – merely the sight of a rough sea made her stomach quail. ‘And what about your poor mother? Stand still, boy!’
‘Take a lemon to suck, mother,’ he suggested, quite innocently.
She looked at him sideways, thinking that he was his father’s son: she had been persuaded to adopt this fruitarian preventive upon her last sea trip, and Frank had not for many weeks let her forget the disastrous consequences.
‘There,’ she said at length, satisfied, holding him away from her; then, making a final inspection of his nails and ears, she turned to her own toilette. Her best, it was, of course, since this was no mission in the cause of suffering – the dark crimson costume of fleecy cloth patterned with white flecks like flakes of snow. Zibelline – a rich resounding name for the material. And the cloth in truth was richly cut: the skirt flared, the jacket short, edged with a basque of wine-red velvet. Her hat, too, a toque of black chenille, drooped its black cock’s tail with a coquettish air. Her gloves – black kid – were stitched with white. Her leather purse, ‘quite the latest thing’, swung elegantly by a metal chain.
As a last touch – a rather dashing one, no doubt – she sprinkled a few drops of eau-de-Cologne upon her handkerchief; then with a sigh, she was ready – elegant, glowing, and modestly content. Knocking lightly on the door opposite, she entered Anna’s room.
‘Nearly ready?’ she enquired.
‘Do you know,’ said Anna, who was sitting upon the edge of her bed, ‘I hardly feel like going. I don’t care much about Edward – he’s such a high-sounding chap. You and Peter go. I’ll stay and see that Frank gets his tea.’
Unconsciously, Lucy’s look lost its vivacity.
‘Netta’s perfectly capable of giving Frank his tea,’ she answered slowly, and paused; ‘and you’ve been specially invited.’
‘I’m not very caring about it,’ said Anna again.
‘But why? It’s such a lovely day,’ insisted Lucy. Obviously she could not comprehend this attitude. ‘And such a nice outing.’
‘You like to have your own way, don’t you, Lucy?’ said Anna, smiling very pleasantly.
‘Well’ – Lucy coloured – ‘ surely –’
‘All right,’ said Anna suddenly, ‘I’ll come.’
There was a moment’s silence; then, turning, Lucy went downstairs thoughtfully.
‘Will I do, Netta?’ she enquired absently, revolving slowly in the centre of the kitchen. They had their confidences, had Lucy and her maid.
‘If you don’t do, I don’t know what will,’ returned Netta, with hand appraisingly on hip. Left-handed also was the compliment, but a high one none the less from Netta.
‘You look lovely, mother,’ said Peter spontaneously.
There was a pause; they were waiting for Anna.
‘Everything go well when I was away?’ said Lucy, idly tucking in her watch. She hardly knew why she asked this question – and to Netta, so trustworthy, a ‘perfect gem’ of a girl – but for some reason unrecognised the words left her lips.
‘Fine – yes, fine,’ said Netta definitely.
Here the door swung open and Anna came into the room, slowly, without apology for her delay, wearing her dark dress so negligently that Lucy, quick to react, instantly assumed the zibelline to be flamboyant.
‘It’s a shame Frank isn’t here,’ said Anna ‘then we’d all be going.’
‘Well,’ said Lucy, rather dryly, as she moved into the hall, ‘he’s at business, you know.’
Frank, indeed, had sent to Edward a satiric message of regret which she had promised faithfully not to convey.
They went out, across the road and towards the stone jetty which jutted from Bowie’s yard: the two women walking together, Peter trotting, attached safely to his mother’s hand.
‘It’s quicker this way – and nicer,’ exclaimed Lucy, with all the cicerone’s air of responsibility as they walked through the clean pine-shavings to the slip.
It was, in truth, much easier for the Moores to favour the small steam launch run by the Bowie brothers than to walk a mile to the pier to take the infrequent steamer. Besides, the Bowies were accommodating: nice young lads were Dave and Angus, the twin brothers who, carrying on their old father’s trade, built their dinghies and hired their row-boats and ran the Eagle, half ferry, half cock-boat, all with a sort of easy, obliging affability.
Yes, either Dave or Angus – so like each other it was all the same – would take a man or a sheep or a barrel of potatoes across the water at a moment’s notice without formality of purser’s braid.
It was Dave today, grinning beneath his peaked cap, who drove the momentous vessel – the Eagle was a ‘one-man’boat. A strapping lad was Dave, wearing his well-oiled dungarees with a careless grace, blushing – now that his grin had passed – for some obscure reason pertaining to the household of the Moores.
‘Your dad going on well, Dave?’ demanded Lucy cheerfully.
‘Fine, fine,’ answered Dave, the grin starting again. ‘He’d be all right – so he says – if he had the legs’ – this the pithy idiom by which the Ancient Mariner epitomised his debility.
He paused. ‘ Well, if you’re ready?’; and he gallantly assisted them over the low iron bulwarks to the stern, where, in their honour, a long plush cushion had been placed. Then in a moment they were off with threshing screw, curving from the quay, leaving a swift arc of foam which tossed for a moment beneath the following gulls, then rolled towards the shore in a slow succession of undulating waves.
The sea was a flat calm, overhung by a diaphanous haze, through which the sun shone with diffused yet glistening sheen. The air spilled over the ship’s sharp bow; the limpid water had a lovely gloss. To Lucy, reassured by the universal steadiness, the departure in this pearly light was beautiful; the slow recession of the land, the widening sweep of the bay, the gradual uprising of the blue hills behind, held her eyes absorbed; mysterious, somehow, it was – the dwarfing of trees and houses, the shrinking of a haystack to a yellow point, the transmutation of a running train to a tiny filament winding beneath a plume of white.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said slowly, with a friendly smile to Anna. Anna, her hands inevitably in her lap, her body quite motionless, her gaze remote, inclined her head in acquiescence. The words, unanswered, fell foolishly; and somehow Lucy flushed, as though the warm companionship she offered had been repulsed. Half frowning – her remarks did not usually pass like this – she stared at Anna’s profile, faintly provoked by this present apathy; then, with a quick turn of her head, she began to talk to Peter.
Nearing Port Doran, the boy suddenly stood up and pointed excitedly.
‘Look,’ he cried. ‘ Theres the Rathlin.’
‘That’s right, Peter,’ said Anna unexpectedly. ‘I came over in her.’
&nbs
p; ‘She rolls all right, too.’ grinned Dave. ‘Regular old tub.’
Together they watched the Irish mail-boat swing out of the harbour mouth and breast her way down-channel, streaming a pennant of umber smoke. Then they were at the pier themselves, and disembarked.
A bustling town was Port Doran, thriving on strength and sweetness – it had its distillery and cane-sugar refineries – mantling the hill which sloped gradually from the water’s edge.
Half-way up this incline was situated the Presbytery of St Joseph’s: a double-gabled grey house, standing in that plot of land which held also the school and the church, the whole guarded discreetly by an iron railing of ornamental and almost ecclesiastical design.
The three entered this enclosure, mounted the stone steps of the house, and, when Lucy had rung the bell, waited. They waited some time; then a servant-girl, with long dark lashes and a downcast smile, opened the door and showed them into a small bare side-room with a table, two chairs, a portrait of Pope Leo XIII on the wall, and a strip of worn waxcloth upon the floor.
‘Why didn’t Eileen speak to me?’ whispered Peter, with an eye on Anna, who had fixed the enthroned figure of Leo with an impenetrable stare.
‘Hush,’ said Lucy. She was sitting upright and had on her company air. ‘Eileen knows her place. You’ll see her afterwards.’
She had hardly finished before an older woman came in and droopingly advanced. It was Miss O’Regan, the housekeeper, a tall, thin, pale, pimpled woman with reddish hair, watery-blue eyes, and a cadaverous bosom. She invariably wore black, draping her attenuated figure from the chin downwards in garments which revealed not even her boots; her hands were folded, her voice hushed, her eyes raised only to roll them. A rosary and a bunch of keys – symbols of her piety and her office – swung from her girdle. In her outward order she was scrupulous, but, prohibited by her natural purity from the more intimate ablutions of the bath, there hung about her a sour odour, saintly perhaps, but certainly sudoriferous. Her age was stationary at about forty years, her physical being set constantly to suffering, and when she spoke of her poor health it had been for a long time tacitly inferred that she endured interminably with holy martyrdom the rigours of a virgin climacteric.
Although reputed popularly to be dying on her feet, she existed. But she existed only to serve God and the Revd Edward Moore. Remove the Deity and she might have lived. But Edward – ah, without Edward surely she must have perished.
‘Yourself – Peter too – and isn’t he getting to favour the Moores!’ she murmured, in a voice still tinged by the accent of Cork. ‘’Tis the very curl of his father’s mouth he has.’
She turned to Anna, and insensibly, or so it seemed to Lucy, her manner altered to a faint opprobrium.
‘You’re over again, Miss Anna. You’re stouter – yes, you’re stouter.’
‘I can’t say the same for you,’ said Anna softly.
A tremor that might have been resentment suffused Miss O’Regan’s meagre flesh; but, tightening her lips, she turned again to Lucy.
‘Yes, indeed, his reverence is expecting you. I’ll show you up.’
They followed her along the passage and upstairs to a door, where she paused, bowed her head, and tapped reverently with her finger nail.
‘Come in,’ said a mellow voice. And obediently she led them into a large room, comfortably filled by red plush-covered furniture, a yellow roll-top desk, and a square table – a pleasant chamber, well lit by a wide bow-window affording a sweeping view of the bay.
Miss O’Regan, making a submissive movement – half curtsey, half genuflexion – towards the figure which reclined in an easychair by the open window, now said with jealous humility:
‘May it please your reverence.’
Father Moore looked round and rose at once. He was a tall, round-shouldered man of over thirty, with hair as black as the soutane he wore. His head was oval, like an egg; his face yellowish in colour, with a full straight nose, a long mobile upper lip, and prominent light blue eyes, whose whites were faintly flecked with ochre. Ned Moore, the raw youth of undistinguished parentage, who had entered the seminary of Stairs with gawky timidity, was lost now in the ecclesiastic who had studied further at Valladolid and visited Rome, no less – as though to recompense his swelling virtue the Church had dowered this courtliness upon him.
He elevated his large white hand.
‘Ah! Anna!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am happy to see you again. After those years, this is a pleasant meeting. I’ve often thought of you and wondered how you were getting on.’
‘That was good of you, Edward,’ she said, accepting his hand.
He said: ‘We were sorry to hear of your poor father’s death. I hope by now you are recovering from the bereavement.’ Then he turned. ‘And Lucy! How well you are looking. And Peter’s taller than ever – naturally! Let me see – let me see – yes, two inches at least.’
He patted the boy’s head gently, and twitched his lip towards them with a prelate’s grace, whilst Miss O’Regan in the background, clasping her hands seraphically, set the seal of her fervent eyes upon the ceremony.
When their greetings had been exchanged, Father Moore turned to his handmaiden and included her in the conversation by asking if luncheon was ready.
‘Yes, your reverence,’ answered Miss O’Regan. ‘I have a beautiful lunch for you. There’s a lovely sole that’ll eat sweet as a nut. Two birds with sweetbreads and mushrooms to follow. And a sponge trifle that’s flavoured fit for the bishop himself.’
He listened intelligently, with half-lowered lids. Then his lips pressed themselves together lightly once, and separated with a faintly sounding approval.
‘Ah!’ he replied. ‘Well, if it’s ready, I presume we’re ready for it.’
‘Yes, your reverence,’ breathed Miss O’Regan, enraptured by the aphorism; ‘I’ll dish it now.’
She smiled at them submissively; glided like a pious shadow from the room.
‘A fine woman,’ he murmured in explanation when she had gone. ‘A perfect saint, no less – but not strong.’
‘She does look delicate,’ assented Lucy; ‘but she’s surely a wonderful cook.’
She had been a little overcome by the superlative standard of Miss O’Regan’s menu. He nodded his head; then, after a moment, remarked reflectively:
‘The spine is weak. She has been to Lourdes twice.’ He paused solemnly. ‘No miracle, but – a little benefited, I think.’
‘You should send her again, Edward,’ said Anna, looking out of the window, ‘Third time might be lucky.’
‘Hardly a question of luck, I imagine,’ said Edward. ‘If the cure took place, it would be miraculous.’
‘That’s what I meant,’ Anna said very naturally.
Edward’s brows contracted, but just then the gong rang out, thumped, no doubt, by Eileen, for it was a sonorous note beyond Miss O’Regan’s feeble forces.
‘Well,’ he said at once, momentarily relinquishing his reply, ‘ we’ll go down.’
Gracefully he took Lucy’s arm and led the way to the dining-room, where the table, covered by spotless damask, was laid for four. He invoked a blessing on the food. They sat down, and immediately the meal was served.
‘A little sherry?’ said Edward, coaxing the stopper from the decanter.
Anna advanced her glass negligently, and waited until it brimmed.
‘Only half, Edward,’ protested Lucy; always she felt very youthful and diffident before him; and she had an idea, too, that Miss O’Regan might not approve of any intemperance upon her part. But he insisted generously.
The sherry, of a deep amber colour, glowed upon her tongue as she delicately sipped it. The sole, too, was delicious – that was Edward’s word, and it rolled from his tongue unctuously. It was served with a piquant pink sauce.
‘Anchovy,’ he explained, from full cheeks. ‘And not out of a bottle.’
‘It’s good,’ said Lucy.
Peter, she noted with satisfaction, was be
having well. He had been given yellow lemonade, gaseous to a degree, and a stiff white napkin lay like a surplice around his neck.
‘Really,’ she thought, ‘Edward is kindness itself.’
He was indeed a perfect host: kind, explanatory, epicurean, moving his hands lightly about the equipage of the table, serving them and, indeed, himself with priestly gestures, rolling the wine upon his tongue, savouring the food elegantly, criticising it blandly, courteous also, and to that end using the heavy lids of his full eyes with suave and subtle eloquence.
And yet, through it all, she saw his glance fall from time to time on Anna and rest there with a curious dubiety.
‘I’m thinking, Anna,’ he said at length, with delicate yet pointed allusion, ‘of that little remark you made. I hope it was not sceptical. We’re all perhaps a trifle wayward in our youth. But I’m sure you meant no irreverence by it.’
His air was irreproachable, benevolent, mildly arch.
‘You mean,’ she asked, almost ingenuously, ‘about Miss O’Regan’s spine, Edward?’
‘No, Anna. I refer more generally to the question of the miraculous. I’m aware that in these days when they would attempt to explain the universe in terms of science it is sometimes difficult to believe the primary essentials of our faith. Well, we have a stand-by in Lourdes. Those holy waters – he elevated his hand – they are pure and healing.’
‘I know Polly went over once, for her wind,’ said Anna mildly. ‘But she wasn’t healed. She said it was terrible cold, the water, and dirty. And no wonder either, with all these foreigners taking a dip in it.’
‘A miracle, Anna,’ said Edward rather stiffly, ‘implies something more than the mere cure of wind.’
‘But if Polly’s wind had been cured, Edward, surely it would have been a miracle. I mean, you don’t ever hear of much in the way of big miracles out there. Now, if a man had his leg off and went into the grotto and came out all of a sudden with a new one, I would call that something substantial.’ Surely her manner, which seemed faintly apologetic, could hold no hint of mockery, but he coloured, at once aloof. Opportune interruption came, however, through the entry of the ‘birds’, which proved to be two blackcocks, lying crisply upon toast.
