by A. J. Cronin
‘First rate, thanks.’
Richard nodded his head.
‘I’m glad. I’m very glad.’ He paused, his eye upon the toe of his boot. ‘Sometimes I have the feeling that your good mother is not just to us. We are not answerable for her, of course. But we wish you well, nevertheless.’
‘Of course,’ answered Peter hurriedly. ‘ I can see that.’ There was a pause.
‘Perhaps life has dealt hardly with Lucy,’ suggested Richard. ‘ It’s understandable. But I bear her not the slightest ill-will. I would like you to know that, my boy. And you’re always welcome here. Your Aunt Eva –’ His glance strayed fondlv to the distant figure of his wife. ‘ Yes, your Aunt Eva is very fond of young people about her. Come out any time you wish.’
Peter was grateful profoundly grateful.
‘And I am delighted at your success,’ went on Uncle Richard. ‘At one time I admit I was dubious. But now I see you I’m not surprised. Stick to it, my boy, and you’ll come through with flying colours.’
‘Thanks, uncle,’ stammered Peter. What exactly he was thankful for he did not then consider; but he was thankful none the less.
‘Remember me to your mother, then,’ said Richard, pulling out his gold watch with a resumption of his normal brusqueness. ‘Now I must go.’
Why, thought Peter when his uncle had gone, did the recollection of his mother suddenly make him feel uncomfortable; fill him with a curious sense of shabbiness? It was as though some tie, some restraint, were upon him which he could not explain; and he wished to break that tie, throw off that restraint. However, in a moment this went out of his head; he began again to enjoy himself.
But at last, the sun slid off the lawn and a faint breeze sprang up which made the thin-blooded Vera shiver. At this there was a general movement towards the house, and, unwilling to spoil this glorious day by outstaying his welcome, he at once went upstairs to change. First he had a cold spray in the large porcelain bath – so unlike the cracked and blistered tub at home – then he dressed with extreme care, brushed his hair with cousin Charlie’s brilliantine till it shone, and went down.
Rosie and Jim were on the point of going – somehow he had the impression that she bad delayed her departure until he came back – and now Rose turned to him and in her soft voice remarked:
‘Can we give you a lift to the station?’
‘Let’s all go,’ exclaimed Kitty gaily, in her usual slapdash fashion.
He took his leave of Eva and Richard with a profuse and eloquent gratitude: how could he thank them sufficiently, he said; then he followed the others to the big red car. Incredible that he who, a few short hours ago, had stood diffidently at this very gate was now gliding away from it by motor – a member of this jolly party.
He was squeezed very close to Rose by the pack in the back seat, and with each movement of the car he felt the sliding movement of silk against that smooth skin. Was she blushing? He did not know; but he did know that he was happy, elated.
They tumbled out on to the platform, where – Ralston was a terminus – the train awaited him. And how he blessed his first-class ticket! He entered the compartment with a lordly air of indifference, and leaned out of the window, facing the little group beneath him. There was more elegant raillery, more laughter. Jim, blooming suddenly as a humorist, produced a handful of coins and rifled the automatic machine. They all ate chocolate round his window, then the engine whistled, the coaches jerked once, twice, and he was off.
Gallantly he lifted his hat and held it in his hand, keeping his eyes fixed upon the dwindling group. Was it his fancy or had Rose answered that pressure of his hand? She now gave him a last little wave as he swung out of sight around the bend.
Exultantly he raised the window and threw himself back upon the cushion. He wanted to shout, to sing. It was fine; it was great; it was wonderful! He had enjoyed himself! He was a handsome fellow, and how admirably he had acquitted himself – an extraordinary success he had had! And what charming people! Rosie, especially, with her background of those turrets and the big Argyll, with that diamond sparkling so unconcernedly upon her rounded bosom. Suddenly he laughed outright. Life was opening out marvellously for him. Then he closed his eyes, and lay back with a faint smile still lingering upon his lips.
Chapter Twenty-Four
And she – she was late in returning from her work: when, at quarter to two, she entered the house, he simply was not there. With a strained look she picked up the foolish note: ‘Off for an afternoon at little Eva’s. – Uncle Tom.’ Nothing about being back early; no thought of her; no message of endearment. Her face coloured violently when she read it, then she tore off her hat and flung it fiercely on to the dresser. She felt stifling. He had gone, then, in spite of her. She sat down, let her thoughts rush out of the close room. But in a moment she drew herself up sharply. Why was she thinking like this; so jealous, so intense, whipping herself into this bitterness of mood? What had come over her? Years ago she would have delighted in an expedition of this nature – a sudden vision of that excursion with Peter to Port Doran rose up before her; but since then she had altered in some strange, insidious manner. She had, of course, no suitable clothes; she disliked Eva; she had a legitimate grievance against Richard; she was, moreover, tired after a hard week’s work; but some reason beyond all these had made her decline that invitation. Had the cumulation of her years of work and struggle and anxiety, and the realisation of the wretched locality wherein she lived, suspended her desire for social intercourse? No, that was not the reason. Eva, of course, would know that her son had disobeyed her. Even now the memory of that recent encounter rose up and stung her. Yes, the victory was Eva’s. Eva had connived the whole thing. It would, she knew, be a delicious, piquant triumph for that lisping little snippet of insincerity to have so smartly turned this finesse against her. She began to entertain an almost diabolic bitterness against Eva. She wanted to be left alone with her son. That was it. They must keep their hands off Peter. He was hers. She wanted him all to herself; and when he was away from her she was miserable. Yes, she admitted it.
Automatically she rose up and put on the kettle to boil for her now unfailing solace – a cup of tea. Controlling herself, she marshalled all her forces. There was no universal conspiracy to take her son away from her. And he was devoted to her. She soothed herself with the memory of that delicious evening at the Empire.
She drank her tea, took up a book and tried to read. Downstairs, Alice Maitland began upon the piano those interminable scales which so invariably annoyed her. But she neither heard the halting notes nor saw the printed words before her.
She was waiting, consolidating her resolve not to antagonise him by her anger. Yet, when he came back from Ralston, she saw with a curious sinking of her heart that he was elated; nevertheless, she said in a forced yet kindly voice:
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
Manifestly relieved at her reception, he unburdened himself of his experiences at Le Nid.
‘They all sent their regards to you,’ he concluded meaningly, out of breath with the rush of his enthusiasm.
‘That’s right!’ it cost her a frightful effort to maintain her determination to be calm. Their regard, indeed! Would their regards have put him through the University?
‘I can see nothing wrong with them,’ he resumed unguardedly.
‘No?’
‘You’ve got to swim with the stream these days – not against it.’
‘What’s Vera like now?’ she demanded abruptly.
‘Oh, I hardly spoke to her.’ He paused, and gave her a charming smile. ‘ But there was a crowd of jolly people there. One lot came along in one of these new Argyll cars. Lovely thing it was. Must have cost tons of money. I’ll never be content till I’ve got a car like that – and the money to run it.’ He laughed. ‘You can do anything nowadays if you’ve, got money.’ Then his laugh died out and he looked disgustedly round the room. ‘ It’s awful to come back to a hole like this after a decent ho
use. You should see their bath! How could we ever invite anyone here?’
‘Well,’ she rejoined almost wearily, ‘we haven’t long now.’
‘Thank God for that!’
His tone was to her almost insupportable; she was on the verge of a frightful outburst; but no words left her tongue. She watched him in silence as he went out of the room to change his suit. Then he returned, flung his books on to the table, and began to work.
‘That’s over, anyway,’ she thought after some moments, congratulating herself on her restraint. ‘He’s been to their wretched party. Now he’ll think no more about it.’
Apparently he thought no more about it; for he never spoke of it to her again. Yet strangely she was not comfortable in her mind. Was it her imagination – that very peculiarity of which he had accused her – or did he seem altered in some manner indefinable? She was uneasy; but she was not sure. Had some mysterious seed of unrest been sown in him by that one ill-advised excursion? It was absurd, a ridiculous thought, and yet somehow it clung to her. Often in the evenings she would look up from her knitting and find him staring away from his books in quite a vacuous manner; she observed that he became even more meticulous in his dress; he complained more bitterly about the shortness of money; he brought a face-lotion back from the dispensary. Once when she returned unexpectedly, having forgotten something, she found him writing furiously at the table. All this indefinable evidence pointed nowhere. She saw that she was making a fool of herself for nothing. Besides, had she not firmly resolved that never would she allow suspicion to transfix the sweetness of her love? Not again would she defeat herself by that misguided step. Her frightful mistake with Frank was enough. No, no, she suspected Peter of nothing.
And then one afternoon late in May, when she entered the office after her day’s work, she was greeted by a loud burst of laughter, which made her pause. Nobody observed her, the merriment was so intense, and Adam Dandie, holding the centre of the floor, was at once its focus and its source. Standing in the doorway, she smiled in spite of herself. Dandie, a natural mimic given to derisive acts of caricature in which he used his physical oddity to its most clownish limit, was now engaged in such an act, to the unrestrained amusement of Miss Tinto and, inevitably, of himself. With head upturned engagingly, arm crooked tenderly, small bandy legs curved amorously as a cupid’s bow, he escorted an invisible companion – manifestly feminine – around the room. ‘As sure as I’m here – that’s how I saw him,’ he exclaimed, with a gesture of broad pantomime. It was very funny; and laughter convulsed him. ‘Down Maidenhall Street! “Allow me, my dear,” said he. “My arm, if you please.”’
Miss Tinto was about to relax her high front once more when suddenly she lifted her eyes and saw Lucy. Instantly her double chin dropped, her face coloured in confusion; she turned abruptly and gave her attention to her ledger.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Lucy, as she shut the door and came into the room. She had an uncomfortable intuition towards that pantomime which once – a long time ago – had been enacted satirically for her benefit by Peter.
Miss Tinto made an inarticulate, non-committal noise in her throat; but the inimitable Dandie, his hardihood surviving his discovery, fronted the situation with bravado.
‘Tell me,’ insisted Lucy.
‘It was nothing,’ said Dandie.
Lucy stared at him, her mind filled by an unpleasant suspicion.
‘Was it anything about me?’ she asked severely.
‘Not a thing!’ he repeated. ‘ It was just a bit of fun!’
‘It was about me,’ she persisted sharply. ‘Come on – out with it.’
A sourness came over his features.
‘I tell you it wasn’t,’ he exclaimed. ‘ I happened to see that boy of yours this afternoon – arm in arm with some piece of goods. That’s all it was!’ And he swung to his desk, slapped down his book with an aggrieved air, and began his addition audibly.
She felt herself flush vividly; an indignant repudiation of his assertion trembled on her lips. But she hesitated. Supposing – supposing he was right? He knew Peter, who on an occasion had called for her at the office; and he had sharp sight; yes – wretched prying eyes.
‘I wouldn’t worry my head about it,’ said Miss Tinto suddenly, addressing her ledger. ‘Any young man will make a fool of himself once in a while.’
Lucy made no answer. Her son a fool! She bit her lips as she felt the other woman glancing at her stealthily. She walked over to her table, slammed down her bag, and made up her book furiously. At five o’clock she left the room without saying good night to either of them. Almost racing, she could not get home quick enough. He was back, awaiting her, when she arrived at Flowers Street.
‘Come along, Lucy,’ he exclaimed amiably. ‘I’m starving for tea.’
She drew a deep breath and faced him.
‘Where were you this afternoon?’ she shot out.
‘Why – what’s the matter?’ His face had altered at her tone.
‘Where were you?’ she repeated more violently.
‘At dispensary – out-patients – where I always am.’
‘Where did you go after that?’ The words came furiously.
He looked at her strangely.
‘Oh, come now, mother. What are you getting at?’
‘Answer me!’
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ he exclaimed with a sudden heat. ‘You would think I was a schoolboy, the way you go on.’
‘Answer me!’ she persisted in a high voice.
‘Oh, be quiet, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Answer me!’ she shouted, for the third time.
‘Don’t be mad!’ he shot out; but he looked now a little afraid of her. They gazed at each other in a tense silence; her lips were pale; she could feel her heart struggling like a bird within a net.
‘You were seen in Maidenhall Street this afternoon with a girl – walking arm in arm.’ The last words came pantingly, ridiculously, in a rush – the culmination of her impeachment.
His face fell.
‘What if I was?’ he said, sullenly. ‘ It’s no business of yours.’
He did not deny it! The feeling within her became intolerable.
‘No business!’ she returned furiously. ‘What in the name of God are you talking about? You that’s got your work to do – wasting your time on that sort of nonsense. And with hardly a penny in your pocket!’
‘Well, whose fault is that?’
‘To think of it,’ she exploded. ‘To be seen like that in broad daylight. You – you would lose your bursary if it was known. It’s humiliating! It’s disgraceful!’
‘Here, what are you talking about?’ he exclaimed heatedly. ‘Don’t start running people down. Where’s the harm in what I did?’
‘Harm!’
‘Yes – harm?’
Her lips quivered as she stared at him.
‘Are you mad?’ she cried fiercely. ‘Are you forgetting our position here – stuck up in this tenement? Here you go gallivanting about with some empty-headed creature from Maidenhall Street’ – her fear drove her to a preconceived opinion on the form of his debauchery – ‘and me slaving myself to put you through. Have you nothing else to do that you must make such a weak fool of yourself?’
‘Put me through?’ he returned loftily, picking up this issue. ‘ I understood I had a bursary.’
‘And am I not,’ she panted, ‘ taking the very bite out of my mouth for you?’
‘Don’t be vulgarly disgusting,’ said he with a chilling disdain.
‘What?’ His manner, cutting into her apprehension, drove her beyond control. She swung back her arm and struck him a frightful box on the ears. The sound of the heavy blow resounded through the room like an explosion.
He staggered back from the very unexpectedness of the attack, and, clutching at the table-cloth, dragged the tea-things to the floor, where they broke with a resounding crash. His face, ridiculous and crestfallen, was pale; his cheek
began slowly to assume the reddish print of her fingers.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he stammered. ‘Well – now we know how we stand.’ He scrambled up from his absurd position, and, with a high attempt at dignity, walked into the front room, shutting the door behind him with a violent bang.
She followed him with her eyes, which were now glistening with tears; she breathed painfully, as if she had been running. Then suddenly she heard a noise in the hall: in the agitation of her entry she had left the front door open, and now Mrs Finch came rushing into the house.
‘I thought – I thought I heard something,’ cried Bessie with large round eyes, which, since the exposure of her own misfortune, seemed on the outlook for kindred calamity. ‘Did you fall?’
‘Yes – I stumbled,’ said Lucy, staring at the other like a woman in a trance; then, making the explanation clearer, more obviously false, ‘against the table.’
‘Are you ill?’ stammered Bessie. ‘ Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m all right now.’ She uttered the words with difficulty, supporting herself against the table by one stiff arm. Mrs Finch bent down and picked up the fallen tea-things – a cup and one plate had been broken; then, raising her flushed face, she suggested diffidently: ‘I could give you a drop of spirits.’
‘No!’ Lucy waved the assistance away. ‘Just leave me. I want to be alone.’
‘But –’ persisted Bessie; then something in the other’s attitude compelled her. She went out of the room with a bewildered look on her round red face, closed the front door almost apologetically behind her.
When Mrs Finch had gone, Lucy sat down. She felt ridiculously weak, and the hand resting upon her knee showed a fine, faint tremor. For five minutes she remained seated, then she rose and took a drink of cold water. Slowly the colour came back into her face. She set about making the tea, adjusted the table, dropped the broken crockery into the bunker, and finally composed herself completely with an effort which was almost painful. Then she went to the door of his room and knocked firmly.
‘Peter,’ she exclaimed in a low, controlled voice, ‘your tea!’
