by A. J. Cronin
‘Quite so,’ she said, with an assumption of briskness. She did not understand his attitude. The first shock of her dismissal over, her resentment had thinned. She had even seen something of his point of view.
‘I’m glad, though,’ he persisted, cocking his beard. ‘I’m real glad you’ve got settled.’ He looked at her sideways, and added: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s teaching work,’ she replied at random – a little wildly. ‘An excellent job.’
‘I see,’ he replied somewhat vaguely. ‘I see,’ he said again; he stared hesitatingly at her a moment, then moved off to the window, turning a pencil in his fingers, turning a strange intangible consideration within his mind.
She looked at his square back covered by the inevitable grey homespun. Why had she lied to him? It was so unlike her. She did not know, yet she did know with clear-cut, painful apprehension that she must at all costs escape a final expression of his condolences: for him to say, ‘I’m sorry – real sorry you’ve nothing to do!’ That, at least, her swelling heart could not endure. She could suffer anything but an exhibition of her own misery.
Yet, as she bent low over her book, she was aware of his turning from the window as though again he meant to speak. But at that moment the outer door swung sharply open and Andrews entered the office with Dougal. At once Lennox halted, thrust his hands into his pockets, began his conscious undertone of a whistle. Instinctively she felt the eyes of Dougal and Andrews upon her. They were safely settled; Dougal secure with Hagelmann’s; Andrews tidily looking forward to a pleasant existence in a small newspaper and confectionery shop in the Gorbals which he had purchased with ‘a bit of the wife’s money’. Yes, they were all right, but she – she was not all right: she was all wrong: a liar, a humbug, a fool! Well, let it be so; she did not care. She would keep her head up and make herself to smile.
She finished her book, shut it, put down her pencil, and looked at the clock. As she did so, it struck one – a slow, portentous stroke.
‘Well,’ she cried cheerfully – or so it seemed – ‘that’s the end of Lennox’s!’ They greeted her remark with fitting solemnity. It was quite an occasion. They all shook hands with each other. Lennox gave them their pay envelopes.
‘I hope we’ll meet again, Mrs Moore,’ said Dougal, quite earnestly. Now he was a head taller than she, well dressed, clean, and businesslike – even his ears seemed less obtrusive. Incredible what the passage of the years had done for him. But what had they done for her?
‘We’ll run up against each other, Dougal,’ she answered briskly. ‘That’s certain.’
‘I hope so, indeed,’ he said seriously.
‘And don’t forget to look me up,’ cried Andrews, shorn from his melancholy by the moment. ‘Look in if you’re passing’; and, combining sentiment with business, he added. ‘We sell all the papers.’
‘Glad to hear you’ve gotten fixed,’ said Lennox, in a confidential undertone, still rather sheepish, still hesitating, holding her hand a little longer than he ought. ‘I’ll be coming to take a cup of tea with you one of these days.’ Tea! Was it likely that he would ever take tea with her?
She put on her hat and coat, took a last look round, then at the door she gave that neat little nod, smiled towards them collectively.
‘Good-bye, then,’ she exclaimed briskly, ‘and good luck.’
Still smiling, she turned and went down the stairs. But, outside, that smile went wrong. Her lips quivered as she made her way to the station and entered her train. Seated in the empty compartment, she gazed at the opposite cushions with a set face; then all at once she dropped her head into her hands, broke down into a flood of silent tears.
Chapter Thirteen
Those tears, though unaccountable, were assuredly not the symbol of her defeat. Inevitably she felt better when she had shed them; she became aware, with swift reaction, almost with a smile, that neither this termination of her present employment nor her enforced departure from the flat was synonymous with the deluge. Hope was inextinguishable within her.
She would find another post. Unencumbered by any obligation, she would find it. Herself! Naturally, too, she must find some temporary lodging; a room – an inexpensive room; and she decided at once that she would not rent this apartment in Ardfillan. Though she was little known in the town, she shrank somehow from exposing to the public eye the sudden change in her fortune and position, from any relevation of her altered circumstances. She wanted to get away completely; to make a fresh start; and it was essential for her to be at the heart of things, ready to seize upon the slenderest opportunity; in the city, moreover, she knew she could obtain easily a cheap lodging such as she desired.
And so already, in advance, the next step was decided. Her mind, again alert; speculated actively; yet never – no, not once – did she entertain the thought of demanding assistance from her relations. That was the last unthinkable resource. She would cringe before nobody. Joe, of course, had placed himself utterly beyond the pale; Edward’s past spasmodic interest had merely irritated her: and, as for Richard, her own brother, she would, in her own phrase, have died sooner than ask him for a penny.
Her stock of money was ridiculously low – a few pounds. But, against that, once again her spirit was high, her determination firm, her fortitude unquenchable. She began her intensive campaign. She bought no more papers, but the reading-room of the public library became her resort. Once more she scoured the advertisement columns with an almost painful intensity. On Monday she wrote twenty letters of application. On Tuesday she went to Glasgow and again made a scrupulous canvass of every firm even remotely associated with her previous line of business. On Wednesday she discovered an advertisement demanding a personal application for a travelling agency in connection with one of the smaller spinning-mills at Raisley. Immediately she set out. The town lay outside the zone covered by her season ticket, and, to avoid expense, she travelled by workman’s train, sitting with repugnance amongst a row of corduroyed labourers who smoked and spat inordinately. But the situation had been filled an hour before her arrival. Had she no luck, she thought bitterly? Would her affairs never turn? She came home in cold exasperation.
Thursday she spent writing letters at the flat. Some men came to arrange for the removal of Miss Hocking’s furniture on the following Monday. She took out and sacked some of her own clothing.
Despite herself, she felt again that her situation was growing desperate. Four long days of effort and nothing to show for it. Nothing.
Restlessly she wandered about the flat, sat down, touched the piano, then got up again. A strange agitation lay upon her, due, she thought, to the imminence of her departure. She took up a book, but, her ears attuned for the postman’s knock, she could not settle herself. Would nothing ever turn up for her? When with a sinking heart she heard the postman go past her door, she laid down her book listlessly and went at once to bed.
On Friday she said to herself frankly: ‘If nothing happens today, I must go tomorrow to see about my room.’ And on Friday nothing happened.
Accordingly, on the following day she set out for the city to find this apartment of necessity. It was a repugnant step, which she had put off until the final moment – anything in the nature of a temporary measure filled her with a sense of insufficiency – but now she could procrastinate no longer. Facing the bitter necessity, she took an early train for Glasgow, and on her arrival, her face strangely sober and contained, she came out of Queen Street Station and turned along towards Unity Street.
Then suddenly someone collided with her. Turning, she raised her head sharply and found herself looking up at young Frame’s smiling face. It was an encounter strangely reminiscent of that moment when, on her first day at Lennox’s, running after her with his usual velocity, he had bumped into her on the stairs.
But so little had she expected this present meeting that she exclaimed involuntarily: ‘It’s you.’
‘I told you we’d run into each other,’ he said, smiling more broad
ly. ‘But it’s sooner than I thought.’
‘Yes,’ she said, a trifle coldly. ‘ But I didn’t expect you to run me down.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he exclaimed hurriedly, his smile fading. ‘I was in too big a hurry, I suppose.’ He paused, disconcerted by her singular lack of effusion, whilst on either side a stream of people slipped past them along the pavement.
‘I’ve been up seeing my aunt,’ he said, explaining himself with growing embarrassment. ‘She’s cashier at Henderson & Shaw’s – the house factors, you know.’
She gave him a wintry smile, wondering how she could be rid of him, inferring by her manner that now, of all times, she was in no humour for his ingenuous conversation.
‘A regular bother she was in,’ he persevered, flushing, however, at her silence. ‘ One of her collectors has left without giving notice, and she’s at her wits’ end to find somebody reliable straight away. Wanted me to take on the job. But no fear. I’m starting with Hagelmann’s on Monday.’
Abruptly she raised her head, stared at him: not that frosty smile, but an eagerness leaping suddenly like a light into her dark-blue eyes.
‘It’s a position,’ she exclaimed in a different key. ‘ Did you say it was a position she offered you?’
‘Only twenty-five shillings a week. Walking about all day collecting rents. No, thank you,’ he answered contemptuously. ‘And such work! I wouldn’t look at it.’
‘Do you –’ she asked slowly. ‘Do you know if they’ve got anybody else?’
He shook his head. ‘ They’ll have to advertise, I expect.’
‘Dougal,’ she exclaimed, with sudden outright vehemence, ‘do you think – would they give it to me?’
He looked at her, his lips adrift, his eyes widening in surprise.
‘But you’re fixed up,’ he stammered. ‘You told us at the office. Besides, you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Like it!’ she breathed; this was no time for a specious picture of her achievements. Speaking rapidly, she said:
‘Look here, Dougal, I want to get something to do. Never mind why. I just must get settled into something. If you think they’d take me at that place, I’d jump at it – yes, I’d jump at it if I had the chance.’
Still astounded, he replied slowly:
‘You’d have the chance all right. She’s been cashier there for years – my aunt. Practically manages the place. She’d give you the job, I haven’t the slightest doubt.’
All unconscious of the sublime irony of the situation – this one-time office-boy, whom she had viewed with so dubious an eye, offering to assist her towards fresh employment – her gaze shone towards him. He was perhaps her deliverer. Yes, at last it was a chance – a chance of that very work which had for weeks eluded her, an opportunity which changed instantly the whole complexion of her life.
‘Tell me about it,’ she cried quickly. ‘I’ll go straight along now.’
‘Mind you, it’s not much,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘Only twenty-five shillings a week. I don’t think you’d consider it. And the work’s not exactly pleasant.’
He paused, envisaging her eagerness. ‘But it might – you might take it – for the time being.’
‘It’ll suit me all right if I get it.’ She laughed delightedly, a little breathless with her own excitement. And to think that a moment ago she had almost snubbed him. More intimately she added: ‘Quick, now, tell me where I am to go.’
‘Well,’ he said at length, smiling in sympathy, ‘the office is at the end of Davis Street. Henderson & Shaw. House factors. You can’t miss it. Ask for Miss Tinto and mention my name. I’m sorry I can’t come along with you. Not that you’ll have the slightest difficulty: It’s just that I don’t think that you’d care about the kind of work.’
‘Never mind the kind,’ she answered, flashing a warm look at him. ‘It’s work I want.’
‘I see,’ he said doubtfully. But it was evident that he did not see. There was still a questioning smile on his face as she took his hand and shook it quickly, gratefully.
‘Good-bye,’ she said warmly, ‘and a thousand thanks.’
‘That’s all right,’ he answered awkwardly. ‘Nothing at all. We’ll– we’ll run into each other again one of these days.’
She nodded with a final quick glance, turned, and set off along the pavement. At last a stroke of luck had come to her; she must at all costs turn that luck to account. With a swift memory of that situation at Raisley which had been filled before she arrived, she swung into Davis Street, hurrying from her eagerness. She did not pause to take a tramcar – that in her mood she felt to be too slow – and in a few moments she had traversed the length of the street. Then, all at once, she drew up, her vivid eyes upon the sign before her: Henderson & Shaw – House Factors.
It was, she saw immediately, a dignified office, shop-fronted, the window screened by wire mesh, the door of mahogany, the fittings of solid shining brass, a very different office from those back rooms above the Saddleriggs. But she was not intimidated. With a determined thrust of her chin she advanced, turned the handle, and pushed through the door.
She found herself in a wide and rather lofty room, facing a long and shining counter railed with brass. Behind the counter stood a large, stout desk, and behind the desk a large, stout woman. Other articles of office furniture: two tables, some chairs, an enormous greenish safe inset against the wall: were also behind that counter, but the desk and the woman were significant, outstanding, starkly arresting to the eye.
For a long time Lucy stood upon the tessellated floor gazing in silence over the brass-railed counter – there seemed a superfluity of brass about the establishment – at the woman who, betraying no consciousness of her existence, moved carefully a pen over an enormous ledger.
To engage that rapt attention she coughed; but her cough was without avail. The pen scratched faintly; the woman stopped writing, inspected the nib reproachfully, cleansed it fastidiously of an invisible hair; then she began slowly to write again.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Lucy suddenly.
Slowly the woman turned round, exposing an expanse of shining red face focused by a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. She was in black, rather stiff black, high-necked, and wore no ornament but a fine gold chain. And now in silence she slid off her stool and swept to the counter. Seen, at close quarters, she was more massive than ever, and her high bosom was terrific.
Gazing down at Lucy over that expanse of bosom, in a voice unexpectedly mild she said: ‘Well?’
Dwarfed by that impressive presence, Lucy felt suddenly a strange sense of insignificance come upon her, but with that resolute tilt of her chin she enquired: ‘ Miss Tinto?’
The other inclined her head, tapping her pen gently upon the counter.
‘My name is Moore,’ said Lucy quickly. ‘I’ve come to see about the vacancy you have.’ And, before Miss Tinto could reply, she rushed swiftly into a full account of the circumstances of her coming. It was a long account, and, when she concluded, abruptly, again she felt herself tremulous with the eagerness of her intention.
‘Just so,’ said Miss Tinto at length, following a prolonged survey through her gold-rimmed glasses; then, with unexpected confidence, she added: ‘He’s a nice young fellow, my nephew.’
‘He is indeed,’ agreed Lucy with fervour.
‘He was left badly off,’ said Miss Tinto reminiscently, ‘but I must say he has done remarkably well for himself.’
Lucy concurred eagerly with this concise eulogy of young Frame’s progress.
‘It’s a pity though,’ said Miss Tinto guardedly; ‘it’s a man that I require.’
Not that Miss Tinto attached a literal significance to her phrase! Miss Tinto at fifty-five knew all that was to be known of man, and of man’s duplicity. Miss Tinto was a business woman, pioneer of her age, calm, capable, respectable, and virgin, with a birdie capable of reducing any male to abject impotence. Yet through all her dryness Miss Tinto had amiability – when she felt that amiab
ility to be deserved. And now, with another survey of Lucy’s intent figure, she added: ‘We’ve got to collect our rents in some curious places.’
‘That wouldn’t worry me,’ said Lucy swiftly. ‘I’ve been doing a man’s work for six years now.’
‘You mightn’t stand up to it,’ said Miss Tinto thoughtfully. ‘There’s not much of you.’
‘But what there is of me is good,’ answered Lucy. ‘Just give me a trial and you’ll see.’
Incredibly a slow smile spread over Miss Tinto’s shining features. ‘You’ve a good conceit of yourself,’ she said with caustic pleasantry. She patted her mouse-coloured hair with the pen, then smoothed her cheeks back to their normal impassivity.
‘The very highest references would be essential,’ she added after a moment. ‘Our collectors have the handling of money, you understand.’
‘I can give you references,’ broke in Lucy eagerly. And at once, without compunction, she advanced Lennox’s, Edward’s, and Richard’s names.
The effect was astonishing.
‘Your brother!’ gasped Miss Tinto, immediately engaged. She stared at Lucy with new eyes. ‘So you are Mr Murray’s sister.’ She paused. ‘He’s a most respected man. I know. I live in Ralston myself.’
There was an impressive silence. Then slowly Miss Tinto moved and lifted the flap of the counter.
‘Come in and sit down,’ she said, and there was even a tinge of cordiality in her manner. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Rattray about you.’
With cheeks faintly flushed, Lucy obeyed, taking one of the smaller chairs whilst Miss Tinto mounted a short flight of stairs to a glass-panelled door upon the first landing, knocked and went in. It was for Lucy a moment of crisis, this momentous balancing of her fate. Surely here she would be successful. Surely she was right in thinking that Miss Tinto seemed well disposed towards her. Had she not observed a sympathetic flash of understanding in the other woman’s eye? Sitting there, gazing unseeingly at that enormous safe, her eyes remote, her small hands clasped upon her knee, her hair – struck as it were by a new lustre – coiled delicately upon her white neck, she had an air both vivid and intense.
