Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘No, dear,’ whispered Mary, ‘it can’t hurt us.’ But the dark, enclosing barrier still advanced, and upon its summit streaks of lighter saffron lay, like spume upon the crest of a breaking comber. Against this background the three birch trees had lost their soft, silvery mobility; stiff and livid, they gripped the soil more tenaciously with their sinewy roots, their stems standing straight, with closely furled branches, like masts awaiting oppressively the batter of a hurricane.

  From amongst the now hidden hills came a secret mutter like the tattoo of muffled drums. It seemed as if it rolled along the crests of the hill-tops, bounding down the ravines, notes chasing each other with a frantic revelry.

  ‘That’s thunder,’ shivered Nessie. ‘It’s like guns firing.’

  ‘It’s a long way off,’ Mary comforted her. ‘It may pass over us without breaking here.’

  ‘I feel it’s going to be a terrible storm. Will we both go to Mamma, Mary?’

  ‘You go if you like,’ replied Mary, ‘but you’re just as safe here, dear.’

  The thunder drew nearer. It ceased to rattle continuously, and instead pealed brokenly; but now each peal was loud as an explosion, and each succeeding explosion more violent than the one before. This ominous quality of approach conveyed to Nessie the impression that she was the focus of some blind, celestial fury, which was surely converging upon her, and would ultimately destroy her.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll get us,’ she gasped. ‘ Oh! there’s the lightning.’

  An ear-splitting crash accompanied the first flash of lightning, a thin, blue streak which darted raggedly across the dead sky, as if the detonation of the thunder had suddenly cracked the bowl of the firmament, allowing, for one quivering instant, a dazzling and unearthly light to penetrate.

  ‘It’s forked!’ cried Nessie. ‘That’s more dangerous than sheet Come away from the window!’; she tugged at Mary’s arm.

  ‘You’re as safe here as anywhere,’ Mary repeated.

  ‘Oh! it’s no good saying that. This room of yours gets the worst of it. I’m going away to Mamma. I’ll put my head below the blankets in her room till that awful lightning stops. Come away or you’ll be struck’; and she rushed out of the room in a panic.

  Mary did not follow her but continued to watch the growing storm alone. She felt like a lonely watcher in a tower, obsessed by pain and danger, for whose diversion a gigantic journey was waged by nature’s forces. The discord which raged outside was a drastic anodyne, which served to distract her from her increasing pain, the pangs of which seemed to her to be slowly intensifying. She was glad to be alone once more, glad that Nessie had left her. It was easier for her to suffer in solitude. The thunder fulminated wildly, and the lightning cascaded like fluid across the sky with a blinding intensity. Often, the onset of her pain would synchronize with a flash, and then she felt that she, a speck within the universe, was linked by the chain of light to this titanic upheaval of the heavens.

  As the distracting influence of the storm upon her failed, the disturbance ceased to be palliative; she began, involuntarily, to interpret it in terms of her bodily suffering, and became herself involved in the tumult around her. The rolling waves of thunder lifted her in their upward sweep, and carried her off upon their undulating echoes, until, suddenly, a violent lightning flash would stab her with pain, and cast her down again upon the ground. When the thunder failed, the wind, which had been rapidly increasing in volume, swept her back again into the midst of the chaos. This wind especially frightened Mary, began, indeed, to terrify her. The first soughing onset and retreat which had whirled the leaves then left them motionless, had been but the prelude to a series of deeper and more powerful attacks. Now there was no retreat, and with crushing vigour the full force of the blast struck the land. Mary felt the strong, stout house tremble to its foundations, as though an infinity of tearing fingers were rending each stone from its bed of mortar. She saw her own trees whipped downwards, like drawn bows bent double under some prodigious strain; with each gust they bent, then, liberated, again sprang upwards with a twanging, sound. The arrows they released were invisible, but they penetrated Mary’s room as shafts of pain. The long grasses in the field were no longer gently ruffled, but were flattened as though a gigantic scythe had decimated them. Each fierce blast of the gale battered at the windows, rattling them in their frames, then rushed howling around the house, with all the uncouth demons of sound loosed and rampant upon its wings.

  Then the rain began. It fell at first in heavy, solitary gouts which stained the wind-swept pavements with spots each as large as a crown piece. Faster and faster came the drops, until a solid sheet of water deluged the earth. Water splashed upon the open roadways, hissed and dripped from the roofs and gutters of houses, spattered against trees, flattened shrubs and bushes by its very density and weight. Water flooded everything. The gutters were at once filled to overflowing and ran like torrents; the streets became watercourses, and running streams, filled with floating debris, sluiced along the main thoroughfares.

  With the commencement of the rain the lightning gradually ceased, the thunder passed over, and the air chilled perceptibly; but the storm, instead of abating, grew more violent with every moment. The wind gained velocity. Mary heard it drive the rain in waves, like sea surf, upon the roof of the house, then she faintly heard a snap and saw the flagstaff, riven from the turret fall clattering to the ground.

  At this she got up, and began to pace up and down the room, hardly able to endure the racking ache which now seemed continually an element of her being. She had felt nothing of the kind before, nothing to equal this in all her life. She wondered, uncertainly, if she should ask her mother for some remedy, thinking that a hot application might perhaps do good, but, reluctantly, she abandoned the idea as dangerous. She did not know that such an antidote would have been ineffectual, for, although she had no apprehension of her condition, she was already advanced in the throes of a premature labour. Like the untimely darkness of the premature night which now began to fall upon the outraged earth, this precipitate travail had already, and too soon, begun to lay its mantle of suffering upon her. The mental hardships she had undergone were demanding an undreamed of toll, which she could not escape, and she had now, in all her unpreparedness, unconsciously begun to solve the dreadful mystery of the nativity of her child.

  By this time she felt that it was impossible for her to go downstairs for tea, and, in despair, she loosened her corset, and began again to pace up and down the narrow confines of her room. Between these pacings she stopped, supporting her body between her open palms. She discovered that it was easier for her to meet the paroxysms in a stooping posture and, from time to time, she stood crouching against the end of her bed, her forehead pressed downwards against the cold metal of the rails.

  As she remained heedlessly like this, in one of these spasms, suddenly the door opened, and her mother entered the room. Mrs Brodie had come to satisfy herself that Mary had suffered no ill effects from the storm, and to reprimand her for not taking greater precautions, for Nessie had run to her with the story that lightning was striking into the room. She was herself terrified by the tempest, and her overstrung nerves were quiveringly set for an outburst of recrimination. But now, as she stood, unobserved, regarding her daughter, the rebuke that lay half-formed upon her lips remained unuttered. Her jaw dropped slowly, she gasped, whilst the room, rocked by the fury of the wind, seemed to oscillate about her. Mary’s abandonment, her relaxed attitude, the profile of her unrestrained figure, plucked at the instrument of the mother’s memory and touched a hidden chord in her mind, bringing back suddenly the unforgettable remembrance of her own travail. An illuminating flash, more terrible than any lightning stroke, pierced her understanding. All the latent, the unthought of and unthinkable misgivings, which had been dormant within her, bounded before her in one devastating conviction. The pupils of her eyes dilated into pools of horror and, clutching her shrunken bosom with her left hand, she raised her right drunke
nly, and pointed her finger at Mary.

  ‘Look – look at me!’ she stammered.

  With a start Mary turned and, her brow dewed with perspiration, looked at her mother dumbly. Immediately the mother knew, knew inexorably, and Mary saw that she was discovered. Instantly a shriek burst from Mrs Brodie like the cry of an outraged animal. Higher and more piercing than the wind it shrilled inside the room, and echoed screechingly through the house. Again, and again, she shrieked, lost in the grasp of hysteria. Blindly, Mary clutched at her mother’s dress.

  ‘I didn’t know, Mamma,’ she sobbed. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  With short, stabbing blows Mrs Brodie thrust Mary from her. She could not speak; her breath came stertorously from her in panting spasms.

  ‘Mamma! dear Mamma! I understood nothing! I didn’t know I was wicked. Something’s hurting me now. Help me!’ she begged her.

  The mother found her tongue with difficulty.

  ‘The disgrace! Your father!’ she moaned. ‘Oh! it’s a nightmare. I’m not awake.’

  She screeched again, madly. Mary was terrified; this outcry imprisoned her in a cell of iniquity; she heard in each scream the wide broadcast of her disgrace.

  ‘Oh! please, Mamma, don’t call out like that,’ implored Mary, her head hanging abjectly; ‘only stop, and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘No! No!’ shrieked Mamma. ‘I’ll hear nothing! Ye’ll have to face your father. I’ll be party to nothing. I’m not responsible. It’s only yourself to blame.’

  Mary’s limbs trembled violently. ‘Dear Mamma! is there no excuse for me?’ she whispered. ‘I was so ignorant’

  ‘Your father will kill ye for this,’ screamed Mrs Brodie. ‘It’s your fault.’

  ‘I implore you, Mamma,’ pleaded Mary feverishly, ‘not to tell father. Help me for two days more – only two days’ – she cried desperately, trying to bury her head on her mother’s breast – ‘dear, kind Mamma. Keep it between us till then. Only two days more! Please – Oh! please!’

  But again her mother, terrified beyond reason, thrust her off and cried out wildly:

  ‘You must tell him at once. I’m no’ to blame. Oh! the wickedness of ye to get us into such trouble. Oh! the wickedness, the wickedness!’

  Then, with a bitter finality, Mary realised that it was hopeless to entreat her mother further. A great fear descended on her and, with it, the rushing desire to escape. She felt that if she left her, Mamma might recover her control. She desired urgently to get out of the room, and pushing past her mother, she began hastily to descend the stairs. But when she was half-way down, suddenly she raised her head and saw at the foot of the staircase, standing in the hall, the heavy figure of her father.

  Brodie had the custom, every Sunday afternoon after dinner, of resting. He went with the regularity of clockwork into the parlour, closed the door, drew the curtains, removed his frock coat, and laid his ponderous bulk down upon the sofa, where he slept heavily for two or three hours. But to-day he had been disturbed by the storm, and he had slept only in snatches, which was worse than not sleeping at all. The loss of his sleep had aggravated him, rendering his temper sour, and, in addition, he took it as a matter of great annoyance that his time-honoured ritual should have been deranged in such an outrageous fashion. The culmination of his vexation had been achieved when he had been aroused from a snatch of sleep by the fall of the flagstaff from his house. He was in a flaming rage and, as he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking at Mary, his upturned face reflected the bitter resentment of his mood.

  ‘Have we not enough noise outside that you must start that infernal din upstairs?’ he shouted. ‘How can a man sleep with such a fiendish blattering in his ears? Who was making that noise? Was it you?’ He glared at her.

  Mamma had followed Mary, and now stood swaying upon the top landing, rocking herself to and fro, with her arms clasped upon her breast Brodie turned his inflamed eye upon her.

  ‘This is a braw house for a man to rest in,’ he flared. ‘ Do I not work hard enough for ye through the week? What is this day made for, will ye tell me? What’s the use of all that godly snivellin’ talk of yours if ye must go and ring our ears like this. Can I not lay down for a minute without this damned wind howlin’, and you howlin’ like a hyena too?’

  Mrs Brodie did not reply but still swayed hysterically at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What are you going on about? Are you gone, silly?’ bawled Brodie. ‘Has the thunder turned your reason to make ye stand like a drunken fish wife?’

  Still she was silent, and it then dawned upon him, from her manner, that some disaster had occurred.

  ‘What is it?’ he shouted roughly. ‘Is it Nessie? Has the lightning hit her? Is she hurt?’

  Mamma shook her whole body in a frantic negation – the catastrophe was worse than that!

  ‘No! No!’ she gasped. ‘It’s her – her!’ She raised her hand accusingly against Mary. Not even the most shadowy instinct of protection was in her. Her terror of Brodie in this awful calamity was so unbounded that her only impulse was to disclaim all responsibility, all knowledge of the crime. She must at all costs defend herself from any charge of liability in the matter.

  ‘For the last time,’ raged Brodie, ‘ I ask ye what it is. Tell me, or by God I’ll come up to ye both.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ cringed Mrs Brodie, still shielding herself from the undelivered charge, ‘I’ve brought her up always like a Christian girl. It’s her own natural badness.’ Then, realising that she must tell or be beaten, she strained her body to the utmost, threw her head back and, as if each word cost her an unbearable effort of ejaculation, sobbed: ‘If you must know. She’s going – she’s going to have a child.’

  Mary stiffened, whilst the blood drained from her face. Her mother, like Judas, had betrayed her. She was lost – trapped – her father below, her mother above.

  Brodie’s great frame seemed to shrink imperceptibly; his bellicose eyes became faintly bemused, and, in a muddled fashion, he looked at Mary.

  ‘What wha’ –’ he muttered. He raised his eyes uncomprehendingly to Mamma, saw her frantic plight, and again lowered his gaze upon Mary. He paused, whilst his mind grappled with the inconceivable, unfathomable news. Suddenly he shouted: ‘Come here!’

  Mary obeyed. Each step she took seemed to lower her into her own tomb. Brodie seized her roughly by the arm and looked her up and down. A sickening feeling went through him. ‘My God!’ he repeated to himself, in a low tone. ‘My God! I believe it’s true. Is it?’ he cried thickly. Her tongue lay mutely in her mouth from shame. Still holding her arm he shook her unmercifully, then, releasing her suddenly, allowed her to recoil heavily upon the floor.

  ‘Are you with child? Tell me quickly or I’ll brain you,’ he shouted.

  As she told him, she thought he would surely kill her. He stood there looking at her as if she were a viper that had stung him. He raised his arm as if to strike her, to crush her skull with one blow of his hammer fist, to wipe out with one blow her obliquity and his dishonour. He wanted to strike her, to trample on her, grind her under the heels of his boots into a mangled, bloody pulp. A vast brutal passion seethed in him. She had dragged his name into the mire. The name of Brodie! She had lowered his heritage into the slime of ill-fame. The whole place would reek of it. He would see the smirks, the sneers, the significant nods as he strode down the High Street; at the Cross he would hear the stray word of mockery and the half-muffled laugh of derision. The niche he had cut and was still carving for himself would be shattered, the name, the reputation he had made for himself would be ruined, and he himself cast downwards in contumely through this thing that lay weeping at his feet. But he did not strike her. The intensity of his feeling burned suddenly into a heat which turned his gross rage into a subtle and more dangerous channel. In a different manner he would show her! He saw sharply a means of vindicating his honour. Yes! by God, he would show them in the Borough how he dealt with this sort of thi
ng. They would see the stand that he was taking. She was now no daughter of his. He would cast her from him as unclean.

  Then, suddenly, a second, loathsome suspicion came into his mind, a suspicion which gathered in aversion, becoming more certain the longer he contemplated it. He roused Mary with his huge, heavy boot

  ‘Who was the man?’ he hissed at her. ‘Was it Foyle?’ He saw from her look that he was right. For the second time that hateful young upstart had dealt him a crushing blow, this time more deadly than before. He would rather it had been anyone, the basest and most beggarly scoundrel in the town, anyone but Foyle! But it was he, the smooth-faced, blarneying, young corner boy who had possessed the body of Mary Brodie; and she, his child, had suffered him to do so. A lucid mental picture, revolting in its libidinous detail, rose up and tortured him. His face worked, the skin around his nostrils twitched, a thick, throbbing vessel corded itself intumescently upon his temple. His features, which had at first been suffused with a high angry flush, now became white as chiselled granite. His jaw set ruthlessly like a trap, his narrow forehead lowered with an inhuman barbarity. A cold ferocity, more terrifying than the loud-mouthed abuse which he usually displayed, tempered his rage like an axe blade. He kicked Mary viciously. The hard sole of his boot sank into her soft side.

  ‘Get up, you bitch!’ he hissed, as he again spurned her brutally with his foot. ‘Do you hear me? Get up.’

  From the staircase the broken voice of Mamma senselessly, repeated: ‘I’m not to blame! I’m not to blame!’ Over and over came the words: ‘ I’m not to blame. Don’t blame me.’ She stood there abjectly, cringingly, protesting ceaselessly in a muttering voice her inculpability, whilst behind her the terrified figures of Nessie and the old woman were dimly outlined. Brodie gave no heed to the interruption. He had not heard it.