THE SPARROW

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Mr. Rutledge should be in the vestry by now; I saw him coming up the street. You stay with him.’

  ‘Shall I tell him about Spencer?’ she suggested, rather aggrieved that so little was being made of the episode.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, is there? You teased him and he grabbed at you.’

  ‘He frightened me,’ she grizzled resentfully. ‘And he bruised my arm.’

  He looked at her arm.

  ‘Aunt Myra will give you something to rub on it.’

  He was breathing rather quickly and his eyes were bright; he kept glancing in the direction of Spencer’s cottage. Sarah could see that he wasn’t going to offer much sympathy so she turned away sulkily and walked up the path towards the vestry. Although she was cross with him, curiosity made her look round before she went into the porch. He must have waited until she was there, because he was only now turning away. She watched as he crossed the road and went up to the door of Spencer’s cottage. From a near-by house came the sound of jazz music, very loud.

  II

  ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ Spencer said as he opened the door a few inches.

  Wilson gave the door a sharp blow with his fist at the level of the knob and applied pressure lower down with his knee; the door cracked back against the wall. Spencer had only held it with one hand because the other was grasping a heavy brass candlestick. Wilson pushed into the hall and shut the door. The hall was narrow and dark. They faced one another, very close and both breathing rather heavily.

  ‘You just brought that along to make your peaceful intentions quite clear?’ Wilson jerked his head at the candlestick. He looked as though a threatening reply would be a gift and his clenched fist was eager to hand out punishment.’

  Spencer wetted his lips and said carefully:

  ‘I don’t want no trouble.’

  But he grasped the candlestick more firmly, just to show that he was ready for it if it came.

  ‘You haven’t much space to swing your arm, have you?’ Wilson pushed Spencer towards the sitting-room. ‘Let’s go in here.’

  The sitting-room didn’t given them much space either. It was cluttered with furniture, some of which Spencer had brought across from the church to repair and then forgotten. Wilson shut the door and leant against it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, rather like a swimmer drawing himself together before the moment of diving. While he was thus occupied, Spencer furtively dribbled a torn hassock into line between them.

  ‘Tell me about the letters,’ Wilson still had his eyes closed, but there was a knife-edge to his voice. ‘Why you wrote them and . . .’

  ‘This is my house.’ Spencer’s voice spiralled petulantly. ‘You can’t force your way in here . . .’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just tell me about the letters.’

  Very imperious; yet there was a note of pleading, too, in the voice. Spencer understood that. He had had all he could take, had young Mr. Wilson, and this was the moment of release, the moment they all welcomed when the pressure was removed, the restraining bonds cut. Only Wilson was the type who likes to feel justified when he smashes his fist into your face, so he wanted Spencer to give him an excuse. Spencer had no intention of co-operating. Tell him, indeed! And get a beating followed by a nice stretch for blackmail. Spencer reverted to his own grievance.

  ‘This is my house.’

  A nerve began to jerk in the young man’s cheek. He braced himself against the door and held his head stiff and high as though his collar were too tight for him. His fingers were spread out on the door behind him, exploring the grain of the wood with restless impatience. Spencer watched those exploring fingers.

  ‘Tell me!’

  In the house next door a radio was switched on loud to a jazz programme; Wilson moved his shoulders uneasily against the door as though the erotic beat of the rhythm accentuated the discomfort of his body.

  ‘I had a right,’ Spencer snivelled heedlessly. ‘I had a right. You wanted my things, my house . . .’

  The room was hot and airless, the furniture was smeared with damp and there was a smell of all the meals that Spencer had had over the past few days, toast and liver, cheese and cabbage mingled with the ranker odour of Spencer’s clothes. A pulse began to beat in Wilson’s throat.

  ‘I wanted your things?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Your house . . .’

  Spencer watched him. Over the years he had become used to contempt and he understood the signs; the twist of the lips, the flare of the nostrils, the bright hardness of the eyes—once they got to feeling like that about you, you didn’t have a hope. Spencer gave up. ‘Go on, beat me,’ he thought. ‘I’m old, soiled, just waiting to be broken and thrown away on a rubbish dump by a piece of arrogance like you. Do what you want to; only stop tormenting us both and get on with it.’ But when fear loosened his tongue he said none of these things; instead he began to babble obscenities. Mostly he was incoherent, but eventually he enunciated clearly enough:

  ‘I know about you whoring with that randy bitch at the vicarage.’

  It was the moment for which they had both been waiting, but somehow it went ludicrously wrong. As Wilson sprang forward he caught his foot on the hassock and sprawled across a chair. Spencer made the most of this comic intervention. He was round the other side of the table before Wilson and the chair had skidded to a halt; still clutching the candlestick in one hand, he made his way towards the door, hurling anything that came within range of his free hand. A bottle of glue, a bread-board, a vase of dead daffodils, two lemons and a copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern marked his passage to the hall. There he made a mistake, blundering into the kitchen instead of making for the front door. He tried to get the door shut but Wilson was too quick for him and the nightmare scramble round the table began again, like a parody of a children’s game. The sink was, as usual, full of pots and pans; as he came to it Spencer managed to get his hand round an empty milk bottle which he broke as he passed the gas stove. The greasy water had done its work, however, and it slipped out of his fingers. Wilson, who could afford to disdain such weapons, kicked it out of the way. They did a turn round the table.

  Wilson was not in so much of a hurry now. He had fallen into a rhythm. Spencer, too, began to feel himself a part of the rhythm. It was as though the two had become united in a dance, moving to a pattern beyond their own design. Spencer reached towards the table for the hot-water jug—the water would still be hot enough to scald. Wilson twitched the table-cloth and it was Spencer who was scalded. They did another turn round the table. There was nothing left to throw now. Wilson’s cheeks were flushed and his breathing was quick and shallow; his eyes didn’t seem to focus too well, but he moved with the precision of a dancer. Spencer had seen men like this before, moving in with deadly grace to kill or maim. He knew that the climax must come now.

  ‘They’ll hear us next door,’ he whined.

  He was backing away into a corner between the boiler and an ancient wringer. Wilson was walking round the edge of the table, still unhurried and with that unpleasant, half-hypnotized look about the eyes. Spencer huddled back against the wall, cradling the candlestick in his arms; tears of exhaustion and despair gushed down his face. The thin veneer of respectability had peeled off and he was just a shoddy, unsuccessful criminal cornered once again.

  ‘We’ll have the bogies in,’ he whimpered. ‘I hadn’t reckoned to go to prison again.’

  The thought filled him with an emptiness more terrible than the fear of violence which was at least a positive thing. There would be no way back this time. He stopped gibbering and his mouth hung slack, his eyes became vacant as he thought of those four walls and that iron-barred window which would see him into eternity. After a few moments his sense of timing, which was instinctive in such matters, told him that something was wrong. Violence should have intervened between him and the vacuum by now. He looked up. The glazed look in Wilson’s eyes had been replaced by something which could have been fear; he was standing in front of Spencer
, but leaning back a little, his hands hanging uncertainly at his sides. Spencer did not waste any time analysing this strange phenomenon. It was the second reprieve; the gods don’t give more. He raised the candlestick above his head and brought it down with all his strength. He was too excited to aim carefully, and in any case he was not well placed; but although he missed Wilson’s head he caught him a good, jarring blow on the right shoulder. Spencer’s own wrist and arm went numb for a moment.

  Wilson staggered back. Spencer waited, the candlestick poised for another blow should it be necessary. But Wilson was in bad shape. These youngsters collapsed easily, Spencer thought contemp¬tuously as he watched the young man doubled up, one hand grasping the back of a chair. Spencer went up and inspected him warily. He was very white and his face was twitching, but he did not seem to be in actual pain.

  ‘I warned you,’ Spencer admonished. ‘You shouldn’t have tried to stand in my place, influencing them against me . . .’

  Wilson did not reply. He might not have heard; he might even have forgotten about Spencer. His face was a putty colour now and beaded with sweat. Spencer felt a little frightened.

  ‘You’re not going to want a doctor, are you?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘It would be better not,’ Spencer agreed. ‘You’d have a bit of explaining to do, forcing your way in here like this.’

  Wilson raised his head. His hand tightened its grip on the back of the chair as he tried to stand erect. He might have been suffering from a severe cramp, the process was so agonizingly slow. Spencer watched, biting his lip in agitation. The sooner Wilson got out the better; it would take a lot of explaining if he flaked out here.

  ‘Do you want a drink or something?’ he asked grudgingly.

  Wilson looked at him; his eyes travelled over Spencer’s face as though trying to memorize the features. Spencer, who was unused to such attention from any but policemen, stepped back and held the candlestick more tightly. Wilson swivelled away from him, hesitated a moment, his injured arm hanging loosely, and then began to walk towards the door. He walked stiffly, feeling his way along the wall like a blind man. Spencer limped along behind him.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he demanded, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘Going?’ Wilson shook his head and swayed drunkenly into the hall. ‘Just out of here.’ He got the front door open and leant against the door post; he made an effort to focus on Spencer. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said, his speech a little slurred. ‘I don’t want your house. I don’t want ever to stand in your shoes.’

  Spencer thought he understood: a bargain was being struck. He said reassuringly:

  ‘There won’t be any more letters.’

  Wilson was not listening. The night air had made him shiver; Spencer had not seen anyone shiver like that since a man broke down in his cell once when there was a hanging at Wandsworth. He watched Wilson walk slowly to the gate. In the distance the vicar could be seen making his way to the church. He saw Wilson and called out:

  ‘Hurry up! We’re late already.’

  He went up the path without waiting for Wilson who was swaying in the road. Spencer wondered whether Wilson would get run over. He doubted it: the devil looks after his own. He shut the door. He felt shaken, but relieved; the only thing that bothered him was Rutledge. Now that he and Wilson had reached an agreement, he wished he had not said so much to Rutledge this afternoon. Perhaps he could go round to see Rutledge and say that he had made a mistake? Then he began to wonder about the child. He doubted whether she could be made to understand about bargains.

  Wilson sat on the grass at the side of the church. He dug his fingers into the grass and wondered why he was sitting there. His arm, which up to now had been numb, was beginning to throb. He felt sick and the branches of the trees seemed to be swaying in a rather exaggerated way above his head. He lay back on the grass. He was shaking all over and his teeth were chattering ; he would have to stop this nonsense before he went to the meeting at the vestry or they would wonder what he had been up to. Come to that, what had he been up to?

  He turned on his side and pain seared his body. Even when the red-hot pincers had stopped eating into his shoulder, the pain was severe; but his mind seemed to have cleared. ‘You know a bit more about yourself now, don’t you?’ he thought. ‘No use pretending that the Teddy boy affair was an isolated instance. Better face it, maintaining some kind of balance is more difficult for you than for most.’ When he went across to Spencer’s cottage, he had been saying to himself: ‘Better let go; fall one way or the other, it doesn’t matter, but let go. The strain is too much; you don’t have the kind of spiritual muscle that can stand so much strain.’ Yet, at the last, something had held him back from the edge.

  In the distance he could hear people coming across the grass; the vicar and the treasurer had been inspecting that damned boiler. They seemed to accentuate his loneliness, these tranquil, unburdened people. He wondered whether the vicar, up on his cloud-capped heights, ever saw any of the smoke signals rising from the little jungles of hell. The voices died away in the direction of the vestry. Wilson sat up. The world spun round and seemed to hit him in the face. He lay down again. Never mind the dizziness; the fact remained that back there he had kept his balance, though how it had happened he was not sure. Perhaps the sight of Spencer had helped. Not that he would ever whine and cringe as Spencer had done; he would be the angry sarcastic type, the all-the-world’s-out- of-step-but-me type. But the end would be the same: the blankness behind the eyes, the destitution of hope. Perhaps this bleak vision had been enough to hold him back. But what was it worth, this one isolated triumph of sanity? How long could the precarious balance be maintained? When he was forty, would he still be asking; How long? It was a frightening thought. He was not sure that he could maintain such a long vigil. Help was needed, something to counteract the darkness, a buoyancy and a resilience which he did not himself possess.

  He repeated the getting-up process again with extreme caution. The need for human contact had suddenly become desperately urgent. He must get over to the vestry as quickly as possible. Not that the vicar and Rutledge could ever understand, but they would, by their unquestioning acceptance of him, help him back a little further from the edge of darkness. He brushed down his clothes as carefully as he could with his left hand and fumbled in his pocket for a comb. He did not want to tell them what had happened. Perhaps one day Spencer would land himself in trouble again; but Wilson did not want it to happen through him. However long he lived, and however socially responsible he might become, he knew now that a part of him would always belong to Spencer’s fraternity.

  He walked along the path to the vestry, more hungry for companionship than he had ever been in his proud life. He opened the door and saw Sarah sitting on a high-backed chair in the opposite corner. There was a queer lamp burning beside her. Perhaps it was that that made her face seem so stiff and frightened when she looked at him.

  III

  Mr. Rutledge was cross when he saw Sarah. He said:

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mr. Wilson told me to wait in here,’ she replied.

  No one answered. Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Harris, the people’s warden, had been talking when she came in, but now they didn’t seem able to say anything. Mr. Rutledge went across to the window and peered out through the tracery of ivy branches. He said: ‘Late, as usual.’ The back of his neck was crimson.

  Sarah sat on the stiff-backed armchair in the corner. Mr. Harris put his hands in his pockets and jingled his money, staring down at the tips of his shoes. After a long silence he looked up at Sarah, his face crumpled unhappily, and said:

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and find your Aunt Myra? She’ll be wondering where you are.’

  ‘She’s out,’ Sarah’s lips quivered; she was tired and their unreasonable disapproval confused her. ‘I’m to stay here because the house will be empty.’

  Mr. Rutledge sucked in air between his teeth,
and Mr. Harris said:

  ‘We’re upsetting the little girl.’

  He came across to her and picked up a flat, rather rough-looking bowl which was on the shelf just beside her chair.

  ‘Isn’t this a wonderful lamp that Mr. Rutledge has made for the pageant?’

  Out of the corner of her eye Sarah could see Mr. Rutledge’s back arch like a cat that has had its fur rubbed up the wrong way. Mr. Harris put the lamp down on the floor and fumbled for matches.

  ‘And it really lights up.’

  He struck a match. After a moment there was an unpleasant, oily smell and a dull orange blur spread inside the lamp. Mr. Rutledge beat with his fist on the window sill. Mr. Harris darted an anxious look at him and said:

  ‘You’re a real craftsman, Stanley.’

  Mr. Rutledge did not answer and, as Sarah was not interested in the lamp, Mr. Harris put it back on the shelf. He sat on the edge of the table and spread his fingers across his face, pinching into the flesh in a painful way.

  The smell from the lamp made Sarah feel sick. The two men seemed to have forgotten her and she was afraid to speak. They were both very upset and like all adult reactions there was something incalculable and mysterious about their distress. It was like the hints at unimagined horrors in a book which is suddenly snatched away, or a scene glimpsed in a room before the door is shut firmly in one’s face. But this time, it seemed that Sarah was not to be denied the climax. She would not have to run up to her room and lie on her bed, until she had somehow shaken the fear out of herself. This time she would see it through. Her hands gripping the arms of the chair, she waited full of the same unbearable tension she experienced when she was allowed to watch one of the plays for grown-ups on Sukie Price’s television. It was a long time before the play started and then it was slow to get going. First came the sound of steps on the gravel path. They halted some little way from the vestry and Uncle Ralph called out: