by A. J. Cronin
‘For God’s sake,’ he had cried out, ‘must you do that?’
‘Yes,’ Glyn answered, sombrely, ‘ for art’s sake. In the future this will be for many a source of faith and perseverance.’
At least the funeral had been at Stillwater, and Stephen was at peace there now, within the church, lulled by the Downland winds, beside his ancestor the Crusader.
With an effort Bertram roused himself … the past was past, there was no profit in mourning it.
‘Come, my boy. You shall have an ice at Buszard’s before we meet your mother.’
They took a bus to Oxford Circus and, seated at a little marble-topped table in the old-established confectioner’s, the Rector watched his grandson eat a strawberry ice.
‘Good?’
‘Awfully.’ He looked up. ‘Won’t you have one too, sir?’
Touched, Bertram shook his head.
‘I liked them when I was your age. There’s a coconut sweet they make here which is quite excellent too. I used to be given it when I was a boy.’ He smiled faintly as he added: ‘ They’ve been making it for almost a century.’
When they went out he paused at the mahogany counter and bought a pound box of the pink-and-white confection. Wholesome stuff, he reflected, taking the neatly wrapped box – it wouldn’t do the boy a bit of harm.
It was not far to the station. And there, well ahead of time, waiting for them under the clock, was young Stephen’s mother, neat and unobtrusive in her black serge costume, a figure one would scarcely notice in the crowd. But the boy saw her and went towards her quickly. She bent a little, held him closely in her arms.
Standing a little distance off, the Rector discreetly looked away. Yet he couldn’t help noticing … it was a loving reunion. And his son’s widow … she was really a modest, decent little creature, living now with her sister in a detached house in Cliftonville, quite the better part of Margate. There was a steady, indeed, an increasing income from the sale of Stephen’s pictures. He felt sure the black she wore was still a sign of mourning – she must have cared more, yes, much more than he had believed. They were coming towards him now.
‘I do hope Stevie’s been a good boy.’
‘Very good.’ But he wished she would not so abbreviate the name. ‘We had a nice time together.’
‘It’s kind of you to take him out.’
‘And good of you to let me do so.’
They talked amiably for a few minutes. Then a pause. Jenny looked meaningly at her son.
‘Thank you very much, sir, for a splendid time.’
They shook hands. He saw them go off together, arm in arm, watching until they were quite lost to view. He sighed. Although the clock was above, he consulted his watch. His train was due to leave in fifteen minutes. Caroline most probably would have been to the Halborough market and would meet him at the junction, come home with him in the bus. Since Julia’s death two years ago she had seemed to worry less. She made him comfortable in the Little Rectory and had done it up so nicely, he rather liked it now. Although only a bungalow, it was most convenient, and warm in the winter. Yes, a good soul, Carrie. Why, she had looked almost cheerful the other day when Claire had given her that cocker spaniel pup. Ah, Claire … Claire … If only … but no, he must not wander into that land of might-have-been. At the bookstall he prowled around – nothing worth reading now, all sensational rubbish; in the end he took the Cornhill Magazine. Perhaps he might find something in it for his Sunday sermon. He had rather used up Bishop Denton now, been over the old chap once too often, and ideas did not strike one quite so sharply or so easily as they once had done.
He found a third-class corner seat – gone were the days of travelling first – and when the engine started off, settled himself to read. But the daylight was fading, his eyesight enfeebled, the illumination in the compartment poor. He suddenly felt tired, and the lunch which the boy had chosen, a mixed grill, though he had partaken of it sparingly, or perhaps it was the Chablis, he had never been a drinker, gave him a slight sense of heaviness. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Was he asleep? Or listening to the pounding of the wheels, which seemed to repeat, over and over again, the name of his dead son?
Night fell, the train went rattling on, through the dark landscape of the night.
Copyright
First published in 1956 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1956
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