Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  His interest in Geer and Loftus had been merely academic. Jenny was the one real person of his Clinker Street days, and he warmed to the thought of seeing her again.

  Cable Street was on the right, nearer the river, only two streets away. In ten minutes he was there, walking along the slightly curved row of low, one-storey brick houses, noting the numbers on the fanlights – the odd numbers were on the right. He was almost opposite 17 when the door opened and a woman came out, bare-headed, wearing a mackintosh and carrying a string bag. He would have known her anywhere.

  ‘Jenny,’ he said. ‘ Don’t you remember me?’

  She looked at him, looked hard, as though confronted by an unbelievable circumstance which really startled her. Then in a faraway voice she said:

  ‘Mr Stephen Desmonde.’

  ‘Yes, Jenny. You look as though you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. You have changed though. You’re thinner, but of course you always was small made.’ The colour had flooded back into her face and, still flustered, she added: ‘I am glad to see you. I was just going shopping down the street. Come back in the house.’

  ‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘ I’ll go along with you.’

  He took her umbrella and held it over them as they walked along Cable Street.

  ‘How long is it since we last met?’

  ‘It must be eight years and … let me see … yes, eight years and three months … if it’s a day.’

  The exactitude of her reply amused him. ‘I sent you a postcard once from Paris. Did you ever get it?’

  ‘Get it! It’s on my kitchen mantelpiece this minute. The Eiffel Tower. Been much admired.’

  ‘I’m truly flattered, Jenny. So you haven’t forgotten me?’

  ‘That I haven’t, Mr Desmonde,’ she answered firmly.

  They were now in the main street and, as the drizzle had increased, he stood her by the elbow and steered her into a tearoom that stood at the corner of the Commercial Road.

  ‘We’ll shelter here. And have a cup of tea.’

  ‘You remember my weakness, sir. I always was a one for tea.’

  After some delay a waitress detached herself from the little group gossiping in the back premises.

  ‘Tea and hot buttered toast for two.’

  ‘And see it is butter, miss, if you please,’ Jenny amplified, dryly adding, later, to Stephen, in a confidential undertone: ‘I know them here. Give you marge as soon as look at you.’

  The tea was brought, steaming hot, the toast examined and approved.

  ‘And how have things been with you, Jenny?’ He took the cup she poured for him. ‘1 was sorry to hear … that you were alone now.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had my troubles. But you get over them, sir. I never was one to sit and mope. I put Alf’s insurance in a nice little house and haven’t done too bad.’

  ‘You take lodgers?’

  ‘In a very particular way, sir. I have one regular, old Captain Tapley – Mr Joe Tapley really is his name. Not to mislead you, it was only a barge he had when he retired, and before that a canal boat. But he’s nice, sir, though very deaf. Then I have another room I let temporary, mostly on recommendations, ships’ officers unloading at the Docks, engineers what come down for a refit. Why, when they’re pushed at mission time, I even take a clergyman from the Settlement.’

  ‘Good God, Jenny. Clergymen. After all they did to you. You’re as forgiving … and as cheerful as ever.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be, sir? I like to be busy. I have my independence. And I’m lucky to have Florrie.’

  He gave her a glance of interested inquiry.

  ‘Florrie Baines. Alf’s sister, and one of the best. We’re ever so friendly. She has a tidy little business in Margate. I go down a lot to help her.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Wet fish.’

  Her choice of an adjective made him smile. ‘Is there any other kind?’

  ‘Never thought of that,’ She laughed. ‘Wet’s what they say in the trade. Silly p’raps. Still, I suppose there’s kippers and dried salt haddick and that like. But Florrie’s mostly in the shrimp line.’

  Studying her as she sat there, bareheaded, with her arms comfortably on the table, mackintosh open at the neck, breasts rounded under the tight drab bodice, he understood why he had always wanted to paint her. Something in her: a quality of womanhood, the generosity of her wide mouth and full underlip, that too vivid complexion, with the reticulated network of tiny veins on the cheeks, the fringe of black hair, eyes soft yet fiercely independent. He could see her now, reclining, small-boned under her plumpness, on a blue couch, against which reds in her skin would burn and crackle.

  ‘And how about you, sir? Getting along all right?’

  ‘Oh, pretty well, Jenny.’ He came out of his dream. ‘I’ve disgraced myself beyond the hopes of my worst enemies. Dodged the war, rolled in all the gutters of Europe – that’s a quote from a recent letter – and come out of them rather the worse for wear.’

  ‘That I can’t believe, Mr Desmonde. You was always the gentleman.’ A pause. ‘You’re still at the painting?’

  ‘It’s still at me. Got me by the throat. Won’t let go.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed with practical complaisance. ‘If you have to do a thing I suppose you have to. It’s like … like going to sea, I was going to say, sir.’

  ‘Like being thrown overboard, Jenny. And having to swim for it.’

  ‘Well,’ she nodded briskly, ‘you always liked the water, sir. I remember you had a cold bath at the Settlement every day.’

  Her dry smile was irresistible. He laughed, and so did she, a joint fit of laughter that caused the waitress to emerge from the rear with a disapproving frown and pointedly lay the bill upon the table.

  ‘Impudence!’ Jenny commented, wiping her eyes. ‘Still, I feel the better for that. Nothing like a good laugh. Have another cup of tea.’

  ‘No more, Jenny.’

  ‘It is strange to see you in these parts again, Mr Desmonde.’ She spoke with rare artlessness. ‘I suppose … I suppose you’ve come down to see them at the Settlement.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I wanted to paint a bit of the river.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her eyes fell.

  ‘You know the old Barking wharf?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘That’s the bit.’

  ‘These tumble-down old shacks …’ She broke off, biting her lower lip, then asked: ‘Shall you be stopping in London long?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m leaving in a couple of days.’

  ‘I see.’

  A silence followed. He took up the bill.

  ‘I mustn’t keep you from your shopping.’

  ‘No, I suppose we can’t sit her for ever.’ She drew a quick breath, then asked, with touching diffidence: ‘ Won’t you come back and meet Cap’n Tapley? I could give you ever such a nice lunch, sir.’

  The genuineness in her voice and the thought of a good hot meal enticed him. But he shook off the temptation abruptly.

  ‘Perhaps another time, Jenny. Who knows but what I may be down here again one day.’

  ‘Don’t forget to look me up if you come, sir.’

  ‘I will.’

  She picked up her bag and umbrella, at the swing doors they shook hands, then she went towards the market while he set off in the opposite direction with the intention of walking back to Fulham. As he reached the street corner something made him turn his head. And she too was looking back, towards him. He hesitated, then waved his hand and went on. The mist, thickening to fog, seemed to accentuate his sense of having lost both warmth and companionship.

  Chapter Three

  Stephen’s exhibition closed on the last day of November. Charles Maddox, owner of the gallery, fearing that a strong feeling might develop against Stephen in the press, had undertaken it with reluctance, and only after pressure from Richard Glyn, whom he had represented with cons
iderable profit in the last few years. However, to his surprise – if an art dealer is capable of such emotion – two of the highest-priced pictures, Charity and Noon in the Olive Grove, were sold to an agent during the final week of the show, so that he more than covered his expenses, while Stephen, after deduction of commission, received a cheque for three hundred pounds. Despite his indifference to material success, it was a relief to be so unexpectedly lifted out of his chronic state of penury and, in addition, this unaccustomed affluence cast a better light upon his prospective visit to Stillwater. A letter, brief but not unkind, had come from his father, inviting him to the Rectory, and he had already written to accept. Now, at least, he would not return a beggar.

  Early on December 3 he packed his rucksack, left a note at the studio for Glyn, who was soon to arrive in London, and entrained for Sussex. An hour later he got off at Gillinghurst, the station before Halborough, so that he might take the long cross-country walk to Stillwater. It was an exquisite winter morning. The pale yellow sun had not yet dispelled the crisping frost which silvered every blade of grass, every hawthorn twig. On the branches of the beeches, prisms of ice caught the light, splintered it into brilliant rainbow fragments. The air was still, but sharp as cider. In the fields cows moved in the vapour of their own breath. How often in Spain, suffering acutely the sickness of exile, wandering through the hot olive-groves in burning loneliness, the thought of England had haunted him; the wet earth and leafless trees, the drenched meadows and osier-hung brooks had called and called to him.

  As he tramped through the winding lanes, the hard ground ringing like iron under his boots, every step brought him back to the days when he had scoured these woods and meadows with his brother. On the right was the thicket where they gathered hazel nuts, and farther on the coppice which, one June afternoon, had yielded them the rare speckled egg of a golden-crested wren. Another bend of the road and, through the leafless trees, he could see the glitter of Chillingham Lake. How often they had come together to fish for the silver perch that hovered and darted among the lily-pads and beds of water-cress in these clear springs. A pang of recollection made him grit his teeth. That sense of self-reproach which, since he learned of Davie’s death, had never quite left him, flared up again in his breast. Suddenly, painfully, he seemed stripped of the faith in his own creative powers which usually sustained him, felt himself worthless, his life no more than weak and wasted essay in futility.

  He reached Stillwater village and, with beating heart, traversed the cobbled streets which wandered between the old half-timbered gables. Yet the place apparently had grown in his absence, a modern note was struck by a number of strange shops, by a red-fronted Woolworth’s, a cinema which presented a showy marquee, and a large dance-hall, embellished with neon signs, on the site of the old corn exchange. Then, as he climbed the hill out of the village, he was brought sharply to a halt by a row of new red-brick suburban bungalows, built on the main road above the lane which gave access to the Rectory. Their dreadful style and cheap pretentiousness, even their names – his gaze quailed before such titles as ‘The Nest’, ‘Cosy-Nook’, ‘Billancoo’ – gilt upon the ornate front doors, were an insult to good taste. And this high ridge, offering an exquisite view of the Norman church and the rolling Downs, had been a lovely spot, a warren, wild with gorse and bracken, ever since he could remember.

  Saddened, he swung away, and hastened down the lane, cutting to the left through the wicket into the Rectory grounds by the woodland path known as the Canon’s Walk. Here, too, he sensed an air of change, a slight neglect in the wind-blown leaves littering the mossy drive. In the orchard an ancient apple tree lay riven and unstripped where it had fallen across the tiled coping of the stable wall. But after seven years of absence, he was in no mood to linger. The side door, which gave entry through the fern conservatory, stood open. The next minute he was in the house. In answer to his call there was a movement in the still-room. He went in and found Caroline, wearing a stained apron, hair wrapped in a coloured scarf, seated at the table, coring apples.

  ‘Carrie!’ he exclaimed.

  She turned, gazed at him, dropped the coring knife.

  ‘Oh, Stephen, I’m glad you’ve come.’

  Her welcome touched him. Yet he saw that she was put out at being taken unawares and that her eyes had a worried look. He did not press her. After a moment he asked:

  ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘Father has gone to a conference at Charminster. Won’t be back till afternoon. We didn’t expect you till evening.’

  ‘And Mother?’

  ‘Away. As usual. Let me get you something to eat?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I warn you, lunch won’t be much.’

  At this, moisture formed beneath her lids. He sat down beside her, pulled out the red cotton handkerchief he always carried and offered it to her.

  ‘Am I to blame?’

  ‘No, no … it isn’t you … it’s … it’s everything.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She sighed and unburdened herself. The troubles which afflicted her could be expressed in a single word … change … change in that splendid world they had known in their youth … change which had come with such rapidity it baffled and bewildered her.

  The Rectory had never been an easy establishment to manage. But now … the difficulties were heartbreaking. Since Beasley died just after the Armistice she had not had a decent servant in the house. Grown women, accustomed to the large wages of the munition factories, had lost taste for domestic service. A procession of girls from the village had passed in and out of the kitchen. Pert, careless, with no interest in their work, they thought of nothing but going off to the cinema or to the new dance-hall which now desecrated the village. Only this morning she had been obliged to dismiss Bessie Gudderby, the thatcher’s daughter, having discovered her, late last night, in the servants’ hall, sharing a bottle of the Rector’s port with a young man from Brighton, in her pyjamas.

  ‘Think of it. Pyjamas!’ Caroline declared. ‘ It’s the war that’s done it, the awful war. If I hadn’t taken in an Austrian immigrant straight from the Tyrol I wouldn’t have a person in the house to help me. And Sophie speaks no English, can cook nothing but apfelstrudel and wiener schnitzel!’

  Stephen might have smiled but for the drawn expression on Caroline’s face. He noticed, too, that her hands were red and chapped, the palms roughened by hard work. He kept silent while she resumed:

  ‘It isn’t only inside, it’s out as well. Money seems to be scarce with Father. We don’t work the farm any more. It’s let to Matthews. During the war we were all ploughed up, it was simply too much to get the meadows back to grass, especially since we’d lost Mould.’

  ‘What! Is the old chap dead?’

  ‘No. Retired … by his remarkable son.’ As Stephen gazed at her inquiringly she continued with a note of real bitterness. ‘I suppose you noticed the new bungalows on the warren. Albert Mould built them. Owns them too. Albert has shown himself to be quite go-ahead since last you saw him. During the war he got hold of the old clay pit, worked it at a fantastic profit. Made heaps of money. Now he’s in all sorts of business projects – politics too. County councillor … quite a force in the district. Of course he hates us, he always has, and last year he had a violent row with Father over the glebe boundary.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘How is Father?’

  ‘He’s well, considering. He can’t do so much as he used to, but he’s perfectly sound.’

  ‘He must miss Davie.’ Stephen’s gaze remained lowered.

  ‘Yes. But you are the one he really misses. And of course, like the rest of us, he has his worries.’ For an instant Stephen thought the reference was to him, then, in a subdued tone, Caroline added: ‘Mother.’

  Carrie had always made it a rule never to discuss their mother, but now, softer, more communicative, she revealed, after a momentous hesitation, this added anxiety. Julia’s eccentricity had lately gro
wn to such an extent as to become a source of real concern. With housekeeping so difficult, imposing a restriction on her comforts, she was less at Stillwater than ever, often away for weeks at a time, leaving them ignorant of her whereabouts. Previously, she had seemed at home only in one of the inland spas where, indulging her indolence, she could drink the waters in the morning and, in the afternoon, wearing a plumed hat and many strings of beads, sit statuesque and unruffled in the palm court of the Grand Hotel close to the orchestra, listening to Strauss, Bizet, and Amy Woodford-Finden. But now her hypochondria, like her oddity, had progressed, so that from orthodox physicians who, while they humoured her whims and caprices, had at least kept her within reasonable bounds, she had passed, step by step, to chiropractors, osteopaths, and faith healers. Now apparently she was installed at Shepherd’s Bush in the curative establishment of an Eastern mystic who expounded some form of theosophy centring – Caroline believed – upon the word ‘Karma’. It was all dreadfully worrying. Julia, of course, had a small income of her own, yet this surely must be quite inadequate to sustain the varied extravagances of such a mode of life. But no one could discover the truth – she had become more secretive, at least more serenely detached, than ever. She lived in her own dream world … from which the war. Stephen’s absence, the Rector’s difficulties, even Davie’s death had not moved her for a single moment.

  A bell tinkled as Caroline concluded. It indicated lunch. During the meal, which, as predicted, was simple and bad, served without ceremony by the raw-boned Sophie, and later, when they went round the garden and she showed him how she had managed to keep things going with only a part-time man in summer and a boy who came on Saturdays, Stephen exerted himself to win his sister from her depression. Since their early childhood there had never been much love between Caroline and himself. Her jealousy, resentment at their father’s fondness for him, had stifled such overtures as he had made. But now, adversity had worn her down, given her need of support.