Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  Immediately her look left the window; she gazed at him with a numb expectation.

  ‘Don’t excite yourself, though,’ he scoffed. ‘It’s not about your fine, bawdy daughter. You’ll never know where she is! It’s business this time. You’re always such a help and encouragement to a man that I must tell ye this.’ He paused importantly. ‘The Mungo Clothing Company have taken the shop next door to your husband – ay – next door to Brodie – the Hatter.’ He laughed uproariously, ‘So maybe ye’ll find yourself in the poor-house soon!’ He howled at his own humour.

  Mrs Brodie restored her gaze into space. She suddenly felt weak and sat down; but as she did so his mocking eye darkened, his face, already flushed with hot food, flamed sullenly.

  ‘Did I tell ye to sit down, ye limmer! Stand up till I’ve done with ye.’

  Like an obedient child, she rose.

  ‘Maybe the fact that these blasted swine are goin’ to have the audacity to settle on my door-step doesna mean much to you. You get your meat and drink too easy perhaps, while I’ve got to work for it. Does your weak mind not see it’s going to be a fight to a finish – to their finish?’ He banged his fist on the table. His ranting gaiety was wearing off and giving place, instead, to a morose reactionary temper. ‘If ye canna think – ye can serve. Go and get my pudding.’

  She brought him some steamed apple dumpling, and he began to attack it wolfishly, whilst she stood like some bedraggled flunkey at the other end of the table. The news he had given her caused her little concern. In the shadow of Brodie’s dominant personality she did not fear pecuniary disaster, although he kept her household allowance parsimoniously tight, she understood, always, that money was free with him, and often she had seen him draw out from his pocket a shining handful of golden sovereigns. Her dejected spirit was grappling with another care. She had not received a letter from Matthew for six weeks, and, before that, his communications to her had been growing increasingly brief, and so irregular as to cause her the deepest vexation and misgiving. Mary she had now abandoned as irrevocably lost to her, she did not even know her whereabouts, except that it had been rumoured that the Foyles had found her a situation of some sort in London, but of what nature she did not know; now it was Matthew upon whom she built her entire hopes and affection. Nessie was so absolutely Brodie’s exclusive favourite that only Matt was now left to Mamma. But, apart from this, she had, indeed, always loved him best and, now that he was neglecting to write to her, she imagined that ill-health or misfortune had surely befallen him. Suddenly she started.

  ‘Give me some sugar. What are you moping and moonin’ about?’ Brodie was shouting at her. ‘This dumplin’ tastes like sourocks. You’ve got as much hand for a dumplin’ as my foot.’ The more the effect of the liquor left him the more surly he became. He snatched the sugar basin from her, sweetened the pudding to his liking, then consumed it with every indication of dissatisfaction.

  Finally, he rose, shaking himself in an effort to dispel the heavy lethargy which was beginning to affect him. Going to the door he turned to his wife and said cuttingly: ‘Ye’ll get sitting down now! I’ve no doubt the moment my back’s turned you’ll be crouching at the fire wi’ your trashy books, while I’m away working for you. Don’t tell me you’re not lazy; don’t tell me you’re not a slut. If I say so, then ye are – and that’s the end o’t. I know ye for what you are – you lazy besom.’ In his own increasing ill-temper he sought sullenly for some new means of wounding her, and, as an idea of a parting shot of extreme subtlety struck him, his eyes gleamed, maliciously, with the humour of using Dron’s news of this morning, speciously, as a pretext for her discomfiture.

  ‘Now that we’ve got opposition in the business,’ he continued slowly, pausing at the door, ‘ we must economise. There’ll have to be less wastin’ and throwin’ out in this house, and for a start I’ve made up my mind to cut down your allowance for the house. Ye’ll get ten shillings a week less from now on, and don’t forget I want no savin’ on my food. Ye maun just cut out what ye waste and give me the same as usual. Do ye hear me. Ten shillings a week less for ye! Think over that when ye’re at your novelettes.’ Then he turned, and left the room.

  Chapter Two

  When her husband had gone Mrs Brodie did, indeed, sit down, feeling that if, by his departure, she had not been permitted to rest her tired body, she would have fallen at his feet upon the floor from sheer weariness and from a gnawing pain within her side. This pain was peculiar, like a slow, harassing stitch which, though she was so inured to it as almost to ignore it, continually dragged upon her strength and rendered her, when she remained standing for any length of time, unduly and incomprehensibly fatigued. But, as she sat there, it was apparent from her features, which had aged considerably in the last three months, and which now bore the look of remote concentration, that she was not selfishly occupied by the consideration of her own physical disabilities, but was influenced by a deeper and more moving cause for sorrow.

  Brodie’s last threat had not yet greatly affected her, she was, at the moment, too crushed to realise its portent, and, although she vaguely understood that his conduct had been unusual and his manner exceptional, she had no suspicion of the cause. Nor was she greatly perturbed at his abuse. On this especial side of her nature she was so calloused to the lash of his tongue that she now hardly noticed a variation in the mode of her chastisement, and against any of his sneering charges it never occurred to her to attempt to defend herself; she could not have uttered the mildest or most logical assertion in her favour contrary to his will. Long ago she had realised, with a crushing finality, that she was chained to a man of domineering injustice, that her sole defence would be to develop a supine indifference to every irrational imputation with which he vilified her. She had not entirely succeeded, and he had broken her, but she had at least evolved the faculty of inhibiting him from her meditation in his absence from the home. Therefore, the moment he went out, she directed her thoughts away from him, and automatically they returned to the object of her recent solicitude – her son.

  At first, Matt’s letters had reached her with a satisfying and affectionate regularity, and with these initial letters he had every month sent her the sum of five pounds to invest for him in the Levenford Building Society. She had loved the tone of these early letters; they had been to her so engrossingly interesting, of such an elevated sentiment, and so filled with strongly expressed moral rectitude. Then, gradually, a slow transition had occurred, and his letters, though still appearing regularly with each mail, had dwindled in volume, and altered in principle, so that, though she had devoured the few husks of scanty and frequently disturbing news within them, her maternal craving had not been satisfied; nor had the half-hearted, stereotyped expression of regard, with which they had invariably concluded, stifled her vague misgivings. When he had thus cut down his epistles to the shortest and most meagre limits, she had begun to write to him reprovingly, but alas, ineffectually, and his acknowledgment of her first letter in this spirit had been to ignore it completely, and to miss the mail for the first time since he had left her. His omissions subsequently had grown more frequent, more disturbing, and now she had not heard from him for nearly six weeks.

  Agnes Moir had suffered in the same respect, and his later letters to her had been indifferent in sentiment to the point of actual coldness, filled with veiled, then direct allusions, to the unsuitability of the Indian climate for a wife, and interpolated by intimations as to his unworthiness, or unwillingness, to accept her chastely proffered matrimonial relationship. Miss Moir’s soft, amorous nature had received a rude and painful check, by these chilling and infrequent effusions. Now, as she thought of Agnes, Mamma, with the irrational yet inherent notion of seeking consolation in a despondency equal to her own, decided despite her own lassitude and the inclemency of the weather, to visit her future daughter-in-law. A glance at the clock told her that she had two free hours which she could utilise for this purpose without being missed by any of the h
ousehold – an important point as, since Mary’s banishment, Brodie expected her to account to him for her every absence from the house.

  Accordingly, she got up and, ascending to her room, discarded her wrapper by allowing it to slide from her to the floor; without once regarding herself in the glass she made her toilet by giving her face a quick wipe with the wetted end of a towel. She next withdrew from the wardrobe what was revealed to be, after removing several pinned, protecting sheets of paper, an old sealskin jacket. The jacket, a relic of the days before her marriage, was now worn, frayed, shiny, and in places of a drab, brownish tinge. It had been kept and worn intermittently for a period of over twenty years, and this decayed and dilapidated coat, which had once enclosed her young, virgin figure, held as much tragedy as Margaret Brodie herself. She did not, however, view it in this sombre light, regarding it as sealskin, real sealskin, no longer perhaps elegant in cut, but still genuine sealskin, and treasuring it accordingly as the most splendid garment she possessed. For a moment she forgot her sorrow as, holding up the jacket, denuded of its wrappings, to the satisfaction of her appraising eyes, she shook it gently, touched the faded fur with caressing fingers, then with a sigh, as though she had shaken out from its musty texture faded recollections of her forgotten youth, slowly she assumed it, when at least it had the merit of covering her rusty gown and sheathing warmly her decrepit figure. Her next action was to cram upon her untidy hair, and to stab carelessly into position, a black hat plumed with a withered pinion which trailed, with a frightful travesty of coquetry, behind her left ear; having thus accomplished completely her vesture for the outer air, she hastened downstairs and left the house with a mien which was almost stealthy.

  In the street, unlike her husband, she did not swagger her way down the middle of the road, but instead, crept along the inside of the pavement with short, shuffling steps, her head inclined, her face blue with cold, her figure shirking observation, her entire aspect a graphic exposition of resigned martyrdom. The snow turned her dull sealskin to glittering ermine, blew into her eyes and mouth and made her cough, penetrated her thin, inadequate boots and soaked her feet so profusely that, long before she reached the Moirs’ shop, they squelched at every step.

  Despite the unexpectedness of this visitation, Agnes was delighted to see her, and welcomed her warmly, whilst a quick look passed between the two women, each searching the other’s eyes for some recorded sign of better tidings. Immediately they knew their eager hope to be unfulfilled, deferred, and their eyes fell dejectedly; but they still voiced the question which each had, silently, already answered.

  ‘Have you had anything this week, Aggie?’

  ‘Not yet, Mamma.’ She fondly addressed Mrs Brodie by that term in the sanguine anticipation of her future relationship. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No, dear, not yet, but maybe the mail is delayed by the bad weather,’ said Mrs Brodie, in a despondent tone.

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Agnes, forlornly.

  Actually each attempted to delude the other, for they knew by heart the incidence of the posts from India, and the mystery of the passage of mail ships was now to them an open book; but to-day, under the intolerable burden of their growing uncertainty, this feeble effort of deception was useless and they now gazed at each other blankly, for a moment, as if they had already exhausted their entire range of conversation. Agnes, by virtue of her position as hostess, recovered first, and collecting her forces said, considerately:

  ‘You’ll have a cup of tea with me, Mamma. You’re all wet and cold from the snow.’

  Mrs Brodie assented dumbly and followed her into the little back shop where, amidst a profusion of empty biscuit tins, sweet bottles, and wooden chocolate boxes, a small iron stove threw out a meagre heat.

  ‘Sit down, there, Mamma,’ continued Agnes, opening the metal window of the stove and placing a chair before this small glowing mouth. ‘The weather’s keeping us as quiet as can be, so I’ll have time for a crack with you.’

  By mutual consent an armistice was tacitly proclaimed for the cessation of their unhappy exchanges, and, whilst Agnes boiled the kettle, Mamma steamed her damp boots at the fire and agreed, meditatively:

  ‘Ay!’ Twas snowin’ heavy again as I came along. It’s good to see a blink of heat on a day like this.’

  At these words Agnes threw a small shovelful of coke on to the red embers, and enquired:

  ‘Will you have tea or cocoa, Mamma? I’ve got some fresh Epps’ in this week.’

  ‘I think I would prefer the cocoa. It’s more sustaining, and nourishing like, than tea on a cold day. That’s one thing about you, Agnes, you always offer a body something tasty.’

  ‘I can surely do that for you, Mamma,’ replied Miss Moir, pursing her lips significantly. ‘It would be a pity if I couldn’t put myself about a bit for you. Will ye not take your coat off?’ and she made an advance to assist in the removal of the sealskin.

  ‘No! No! thanks,’ cried Mamma hastily, with a dreadful consciousness of her deficiencies underneath. ‘ I’ll not be biding that long.’ But her eyes watered gratefully as she took the cup of hot cocoa and sipped it appreciatively; she even accepted and nibbled a sweet biscuit; then, as comfort stole through her, she sighed:

  ‘It’s been a hard winter for me. I don’t know how I’ve come through it.’

  ‘I well know that, Mamma! You have suffered.’

  ‘Ay, I’ve suffered! I never thought I could have endured such disgrace, Agnes, I didn’t merit it. And I think her father blames me for not having watched Mary better.’ She could hardly bring herself to articulate her daughter’s name, it had been so firmly proscribed from her lips.

  ‘Nobody could be blamed for her fall but herself, Mamma. Your influence could only have been for good – wickedness is in the person that sins. You’ll just need to let me take her place.’

  ‘That’s good o’ ye, Agnes, but there’s times at night I can’t get her out of my head. I never thought I should miss her so much – she was always that quiet and douce about the house – and I don’t even know where she is.’

  ‘You must forget her now,’ insisted Agnes gently.

  ‘Her father wouldna let me speir a word about her. Not even when she was near dyin’ in the hospital. Not even when the puir bairn died.’

  Agnes drew her mouth together.

  ‘I’m not sure if I should tell you, Mamma,’ she began, slowly, ‘and it’s not a pleasant subject for me – it’s not the thing for a nice girl to be connected with even indirectly – but I heard the other day that she was in London.’ She gave to the name of the city an accent of imputation and opprobrium which seemed to summarise her opinion of its manifold potentialities for wickedness.

  ‘Do you know what she’s doing?’ cried Mamma.

  Agnes veiled her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ she replied, lowering her voice, ‘but I’ve been told – only been told mind you – that it’s service.’

  ‘A servant!’ gasped Mamma. ‘Oh dearie me! what a thing to come to! It’s terrible! What would her father say if he knew! A Brodie a servant!’

  ‘What else is she fitted for,’ replied Agnes, with a faint toss of her head. ‘We should be thankful it’s an honest occupation, if indeed it is so.’

  Despite the bond between Mrs Brodie and herself it gave her a pleasurable sense of moral and social superiority to impart this news, which she had avidly sought amongst the tittle-tattle of the town.

  ‘A servant in London!’ repeated Mamma, faintly, ‘ It’s awfu’. Could these folks in Darroch no’ have done something for her?’

  ‘Indeed that’s the very point,’ cried Agnes. ‘These Foyles wanted the child for the sake of the son’s memory, so as to take it back to Ireland with them – they’ve gone back there ye know. Ye can’t believe all ye hear, of course there’s all sorts of stories about, but I believe the truth is that, when it died, they took a spite at her and got rid of her the quickest they could!’
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  Mrs Brodie shook her head negatively.

  ‘That wouldna be difficult,’ she retorted. ‘Mary was always an independent girl; she would take charity from nobody – no, she would work for her living first.’

  ‘Well, anyway, Mamma, I didn’t like telling you, but I thought it best you should know. Anyway, your responsibility for her is ended. Mind you, although she has lowered the name of my intended, I bear no grudge against her. I hope she may in time repent; but you have got others to think of.’

  ‘Ay, that’s true, Agnes! I maun swallow the bitter pill; but I will say this – I never thought much of Mary, never valued her until I lost her. Still I maun forget if I can, and think of them that’s left to us.’ She sighed heavily. ‘What’s come over our poor Matt at all, at all? It fair breaks my heart not to have news o’ him. Can he be ill, think ye?’ They were now embarked upon the consideration of the subject vital to them both, and, after a moment’s thought, Miss Moir shook her head, dubiously.

  ‘He’s said nothing about his health,’ she replied. ‘He’s been off his work once or twice I know, but I don’t think it was from sickness.’

  ‘Maybe he wouldn’t like to frighten us,’ said Mrs Brodie, diffidently. ‘There’s agues and fevers and jaundice and all kinds of awfu’ troubles out in these foreign parts. He might even have got sunstroke, although it’s strange to think of such a thing with all this snow about us here. Matt was never a strong boy.’ Then she added, inconsequently; ‘He aye had a weak chest in the winter, and bronchitis, that needed thick garments.’

  ‘But, Mamma,’ cried Agnes impatiently, ‘he would never get bronchitis in a hot country. They would never get snow like this in Calcutta.’

  ‘I ken that, Agnes,’ replied Mrs Brodie firmly, ‘but a weakness like that might work inwardly in a hot country, and forbye if he opened his pores he might sit doun and get a chill, as easy as look at ye.’