by A. J. Cronin
‘You said you would help me,’ she burst out, the moment he had finished.
‘Yes! Yes!’ he expostulated. ‘In a fitting manner. I have certain influence. I might get your son in somewhere as a clerk.’ ‘A clerk!’ she echoed harshly.
‘And why not, pray?’ he countered frigidly. ‘You’ve given him a good schooling. It’s high time that young man did something for you. Besides, if there’s any good in him, he’ll soon rise above the office stool. Let him fight his way up.’
‘You can keep your office stool,’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘I don’t want that kind of help. My boy can do better than that!’
He contemplated her for a moment, then said emphatically: ‘You have not changed.’
‘I haven’t changed enough to thrust my only son into an office,’ she returned fiercely, ‘while your children have the best of everything.’
‘Let the Moores do something for him,’ he returned dryly. ‘ That publican fellow has lots of money.’
‘I don’t want his help,’ she exclaimed in a hard tone; ‘nor his money. And more than that – let me tell you straight – I don’t want yours either.’
‘No?’
‘No!’ She fired it at him like a bullet. He looked at her coolly, twisting his watch-chain, then without apparent significance, remarked:
‘I warned you from the first against marrying into that family. I said you’d regret it.’
Her eye glistened; her nostrils quivered.
‘What did I care for your warning then?’ she retorted fiercely. ‘As much as I do now. And I regret nothing.’
‘Well, you can’t say that I haven’t given you my advice again,’ he replied evenly. ‘It’s folly to entertain this university idea. You haven’t been fortunate, and you must cut your cloth accordingly.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ She began to draw on her gloves.
‘Be logical,’ he persisted, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Why must you always swim against the stream? You’ll get into deep water and drown yourself. I’ll give you reasonable help. I’ll get the boy some respectable work. His wages will be a great help to you. Don’t go on with your eternal striving after the unobtainable. Be content with what you’ve got.’
She fastened the last button of her glove and stood up suddenly; her face was pale and set rigidly.
‘You’ll see what I can do!’ she said in a vibrating voice.
He got awkwardly to his feet, exclaiming:
‘Now don’t be ridiculous, Lucy.’ Her emotion did indeed seem ridiculous; the intensity of her feeling out of all proportion to the situation. ‘Listen to reason. Leave the impossible alone.’
‘Goodbye, Richard,’ she said, her hand shaking slightly from her agitation.
He gazed at her for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders coldly. ‘Of course, if you insist on being melodramatic,’ he exclaimed, ‘the whole thing’s hopeless.’
Here the door swung suddenly open and Eva entered, fluttering into the tense air with an entrancing smile.
‘You’re not really thinking of going, Lucy?’ she lisped. ‘You haven’t stayed nearly long enough.’
‘Too long, I’m afraid,’ returned Lucy stiffly; but the irony had a pathetic ring.
‘So sorry you can’t stay to dinner. And I meant to cut you some flowers from the garden,’ protested Eva sweetly, as she moved towards the door.
Flowers, thought Lucy; she had asked for bread and they offered her flowers. One day she would ‘give’ Eva flowers! She controlled herself sufficiently to bid them goodbye, but as she passed down the neat garden path her cheeks flamed with indignation; the bitterness of her humiliation stifled her. Yes, she had abased herself; and to what purpose? Richard, who could enter his son for the law and send his daughter to Paris, had offered her son a clerkship, had likened her love for Peter to a ridiculous pose. Even now he would be relating the incident, discussing her critically with Eva. Her lips trembled and drew together; she walked on unseeingly. Eva, of course, might be at the bottom of the entire affair; Eva’s detestably winsome manner had its influence – its insidious, sickly influence – on Richard. In her imagination she heard Eva’s light laugh dismissing the affair; she shivered sensitively in shame.
On the journey home, her pride clenched itself to a fierce intention. She walked into the house in Flowers Street with a quivering determination. Her son was awaiting her: not, she reflected, flaunting himself lightly in pleasure upon a golf-course, but reading seriously in the kitchen: and, keeping her voice as normal as her agitation would permit, she said:
‘Do you think you can win one of those scholarships you were speaking of?’
He looked up, his face somewhat startled at her strange intensity. ‘Yes, mother,’ he said. ‘But did Uncle Richard not –’
‘Be quiet,’ she flung out fiercely; then, with an effort, she took hold of herself. She looked at him tenderly. ‘I want you to enter your name tomorrow,’ she said, calmly, in an altered voice. ‘You’re going to win a scholarship, my son – and I’ll do the rest for you.’
Melodramatic, indeed. She would show Richard, with his two undistinguished children; and above all she would show Eva. Yes, when next Eva laughed, she would be in a position to answer her with a calm and contemptuous smile. Her eye, seeking the distance, drank in a vision of the future, and she clenched her teeth with the grim intensity of her purpose.
Chapter Seventeen
Her key made no sound as she inserted it carefully and turned the lock; her entry was as noiseless as she could make it. In the small hall, darkly lit by the fanlight above the door, she laid down her leather satchel: not the famous collecting-bag, this, but a reticule for parcels newly bought in the Caledonian Bazaar; then she took off her coat and hat, hung these on their pegs, turned, and went quietly into the back room.
He was studying: elbows upon the table, head supported by both palms, hair ruffled by his unconscious fingers: bent over the strewn litter of books and papers which so engrossed him that he did not look up to acknowledge her presence. She made no sign, but began quietly to make her preparations for tea: putting the kettle to boil, lighting the gas-ring silently, letting her glance fall from time to time upon his bent form. For almost three weeks this intensive study had continued, and the sight of his bowed, absorbed figure moved her indescribably. When at last her preparations were complete, she paused and said mildly:
‘May I have the table now, Peter?’
‘Hello, mother,’ he returned, looking up as though only now aware of her presence. He lay back in his chair. ‘ Disturbing me again.’
‘I can give you another five minutes, if you like,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he returned agreeably. ‘I’ve had a pretty hard afternoon altogether.’
She thought he looked pale as; taking great care not to lose his place, she began to lift his books on to the scrubbed wooden box – now called by courtesy the dresser. He lay back for a moment watching her intent actions with a half-smile on his face, then he got out of his chair and, with his hands in his pockets, began to move about the house. As she covered the table with a cloth and quickly set it, she heard him pacing up and down in the next room, muttering aloud snatches of erudition far beyond her comprehension.
‘Ready,’ she called out cheerfully when the sounds ceased. ‘Tea’s ready,’ She had, she reflected, no need of a gong in this house.
‘Charming quarter this is, really,’ he asserted as he came in; his first dismay overcome, he had lately turned his wit upon the district. ‘I’ve just been watching some kids outside – playing football with a tin can – along the gutter.’ He sat down and helped himself to toast. ‘We can’t be out of it too soon for my taste.’
‘Well,’ she agreed, handing him a well-browned fillet of fish, ‘we’ll do that between us some day.’
‘You leave it to me,’ he asserted confidently. He meditatively stirred his tea, then picked up his knife and fork. ‘Fish again,’ he commented, not u
npleasantly.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ she put forward quickly. ‘It’s quite fresh. I went down to the market for it – I don’t mind the walk – it’s such good value there. It’s light for you, too, when you’re studying. They say it’s a brain food.’
‘Brain food be blowed,’ he said indulgently – and in his voice she heard Frank’s gentle scoffing. ‘ But it is good,’ he went on, taking a large mouthful. ‘Fine flavour.’ He had almost finished before he looked up and said suddenly: ‘Where’s yours? You haven’t had any.’
‘You know I don’t care for fish,’ she laughed. ‘Besides, I’ve just had coffee and a cake – Miss Tinto and I went into Chisholm’s on our way into the office. It put me quite off my tea.’
He looked at her dubiously as he put the last of the fish in his mouth; he had the suspicion that her sprightliness was mendacious.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘ if that’s the way of it. Spoiling your stomach like that.’ This aspersion so often cast upon him in his childhood flew back like a shuttlecock; she smiled, watching him as he picked up the Evening News and opened its pink sheets at the sports page. At first he read in silence, then, finding his cup by sense of touch, he took a long drink of tea, and said critically: ‘The West ought to have a good season this year. They’ve a rather decent team.’
‘Yes?’ she answered, with a show of interest.
‘Splendid,’ he returned; ‘ you mark my words.’
She would not have known a football player from a weight-lifter: her interest sprang from the animation which coloured his pale face; it thrilled her to hear him speak so intimately, exposing his tastes, his interests, so unreservedly to her. Whilst he read, she sipped her tea, observing him with a faint smile, throwing out appropriate comments, when he would explode suddenly:
‘Now listen to this of all things, mother.’
Yes, she, his mother, was at least content.
At last he let the paper slide to the floor, yawned, and stretched himself.
‘This won’t get me to the top of the list. Still, I’ve stuck at it all day.’
She had a rule never to press him as to his progress, but now she permitted herself to say humorously:
‘You’ve got on well by the look of you. You seem pleased with yourself.’
‘Wait and see how pleased I’ll look when the results come out,’ he returned sapiently. ‘ I’ll top that list – or nothing!’
‘Yes, you’ve always done well,’ she said reminiscently, ‘the whole way along, from your very first term at school.’
‘Well, do you want me to stop now?’
‘So long as you get one of the scholarships,’ she suggested; ‘it doesn’t matter whether it’s the first or the last.’
He watched her meditatively as she got up and began to clear the table.
‘I’ll dry for you tonight,’ he said at length, when she had set herself to wash the dishes.
She held up a moist, steaming hand.
‘Sit where you are, boy.’
But he got up, took the dish-towel from its hook, and began to dry the dripping dishes as she placed them on the cheap japanned tray. It gave her a curious feeling to have him beside her, almost touching her – and standing now half a head taller than she – helping her with this menial occupation at the kitchen sink. She reflected that some day she would say to him across the perfectly appointed table of their dining-room, one day when, perhaps, he had returned from a brilliant operation – yes, then she would say to him amusedly: ‘ Do you remember those days when we did the dishes together at Flowers Street?’ It would be an almost ludicrous memory! Meanwhile, however, she cherished his assistance as a token of their comradeship.
‘Thank you,’ she said, when they had finished; she wrung out her dishcloth. ‘Now you go out and take a walk before you settle down for the evening.’
‘Do you think I should?’ he queried undecidedly: Frank’s voice speaking to her again – not quite sure, depending upon her opinion.
‘Of course,’ she replied firmly. ‘It’ll do you good.’
He took his cap and went out with that fleeting, almost hesitant smile which he sometimes gave her, which warmed her with a glowing appreciation of his affection.
Whilst he was away, she arranged the dishes, tidied the room, placed his books back upon the table – adjusting them with careful touches – then changed quickly into her grey house-dress. All the time her ears were set for his quick step upon the stairs, for the sharp, prearranged whistle by which he now announced his coming.
When she did hear this shrill sign, she ran to the door, opened it, and, leaving it ajar, was back sitting in her chair, calmly knitting, when he arrived – the obvious inference being that the door had somehow sprung ajar; that she, of course, was neither so fond nor so foolish as to have opened it for him.
He had been round the Park, had watched the tennis, sat for a moment at the public bowling green, dived finally into the Grove Café (Antonio Demario, proprietor) for an ice on the way up: ‘Just to cool off that fish, you know, mother.’ Though she frowned a little at his entering the café, she withheld the correction on her tongue.
Again he was busy with his books. Seated at the other end of the table, knitting his socks, pretending to read the novel that lay in front of her, she wondered, with an amazement, how she had ever endured to send this boy to school; only because it had been for his own good, because of inevitable circumstances; yet now she knew that through some change in him or in herself she could never separate herself from him again. Secretly she studied him, followed his efforts intently, supported them even by the unconscious exercise of her own will.
From the mantelpiece the clock ticked down a quiet rain of seconds upon them; the soup that was for his supper simmered gently upon the stove; from the house beneath a muffled sound – a step – a snatch of words – arose at intervals; outside, the faint evening hum of the city ascended around the tenement and fell, like the note of a subdued and distant organ, softly upon the windows of the room. Devotion was in that room, coupled with a high endeavour, and a strange softness – a softness in her love such as for many months she had not known.
As the days rushed on – for, as the examination drew near, time spilled a swifter sand – it seemed to her that he was working too hard. So many scholarships of equal value were open to him that she felt this striving to top the list unnecessary and prejudicial to his health. So long as he was amongst the first twenty candidates he would receive a bursary; but nothing less would satisfy him than to carry out his assertion to achieve the first place in open competition. Violently she willed that he might succeed, and with an unusual devotion she prayed for this intention. As she tramped round the slums she had the habit of slipping into the church situated in her district – a poor church, it was, but one convenient to her purpose – and there, for a few earnest moments, to petition his success. Often her votive candles burned before the plaster statue of St Anthony and her copper coins rattled as frequently into the black tin box between his sandalled feet. The widow’s mite, she sometimes thought, with a wry twisting of her lips, and St Anthony – patron saint of youth – could not refuse these supplications for her son.
As the time drew in she became, actually, moved by an increasing solicitude; when, that morning of the examination, she kissed him – for her the rarest demonstration – and saw him depart composedly upon the great adventure, a tear hung upon her lashes as she ran into the front room to watch him down the street. Pride and tenderness swelled within her as he turned and waved affectionately, even confidently. His confidence thrilled her. Ordinarily, toughened by experience, her hardihood was boundless, but today she felt nerveless, limp from her anticipation.
She did her work, talked rationally, made adequate answers when addressed, yet she had no real consciousness, and, later, no memory of how she accomplished these acts. She did not return home at middle day – Peter’s luncheon was to be taken at the University – but went by herself to Mis
s Chisholm’s tea-room, where she sat abstracted, eating a twopenny pie – an excellent pie, with plentiful gravy – without tasting it. Actually she was seated in the examination hall watching the flying pen of her son; her fork, indeed, might have been a pen, and the pie’s rich gravy ink, for all the savour which she drew therefrom.
When at last the interminable day dragged towards its close, she left the office at five sharp and took the red tram for home.
Mounting the stairs, her breath came quickly; though she realised that it was too early for him to have returned, she felt already the presage of his news. Her mood was not propitious to accidental conversation, yet as she unlocked her own door and made to enter, the door of the adjoining flat swung open and a young woman holding some parcels smilingly accosted her.
‘These messages came when you were out,’ said she, tendering the packages to Lucy. Fair-headed, her upper lip touched also by a faint golden down, her face round, smiling, red, her body inclined already to plumpness, she had a look at once innocent and voluptuous; and now almost diffidently she added. ‘I took them in for you, to spare the boy coming back.’
‘That was good of you,’ said Lucy, taking the parcels and turning to go.
