Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  They were gutting the shop. The men worked quickly and in the rush to complete their operations as rapidly as possible, worked also overtime; double wages apparently meant nothing to the Mungo Company! At the end of the week they had cleared out the old window frames, the doorway, the dilapidated shelves and counter, the whole worn wreckage of a bygone age, and now the denuded frontage leered at Brodie like a mask, its window spaces the sightless sockets of eyes and its empty doorway the gaping, toothless mouth. Then the plasterers and decorators added their efforts to those of the joiners and masons, altering visibly, from day to day, by their combined exertions and skill, the entire aspect of the structure. Brodie hated every phase of its change, and he encompassed within his growing aversion for the transformed building these workmen who, through their labours, were reconstructing it so admirably, and making it the finest and most modern shop in the Borough. On an occasion when one of these had entered Brodie’s establishment and, touching his cap, asked civilly if he might be obliged with a bucket of water to make tea for himself and his mates next door, as their own supply had been temporarily suspended at the main, Brodie had shot the astonished man out of his shop. ‘Water!’ he had snarled. ‘Ye want water, and ye have the impertinence to come here for your favours. Ye’ll get none of it. If the whole gang o’ ye were fryin’ in hell I wouldna so much as put a drop on one o’ your tongues. Get out!’

  But his animadversion had no effect upon their activities, serving only, or so it seemed to him, to stimulate these, and moodily he observed thick, scintillating plate-glass windows of a green actinic translucency come into place, rich showcases appear like mushrooms in the space of a night, an ornately lettered sign-board emerge – glittering! Finally, under his eyes, in broad daylight – the crowning anathema – a model of a huge top-hat, sumptuously and opulently gilt, was erected above the doorway, where it swung jauntily from its supporting pole with every breath of air.

  Brodie’s demeanour to the town during this period gave, in general, no marked indication of the emotions which he repressed. He manifested outwardly only calm indifference, for his very pride forbade him to speak; and to his acquaintances who rallied him on the matter of the encroachment he exhibited an air of profound contempt towards the new company, met Grierson’s gall-dipped witticisms at the Philosophical Club with the assumption of a careless and superior unconcern.

  The general opinion was that Brodie would undoubtedly carry the day against the invaders.

  ‘I give them six months,’ remarked Provost Gordon judiciously, to the select junto of the club one evening, in Brodie’s absence, ‘before Brodie drives them out. He’s an unco’ deevelish man that, for an enemy. Dod, he’s quite capable o’ layin’a charge o’gunpowder under their braw new shop.’

  ‘’T would be a risky job wi’ that sparky temper o’ his,’ inserted Grierson.

  ‘He’ll spark them out,’ replied the Provost. ‘He fair beats me, does James Brodie. I know of no man alive who would have come through a’ that awfu’ pother and disgrace about his daughter without turnin’ a hair, or once hangin’ his heid. He’s a black deevil when his purpose is set.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Provost; na, na, I’m not just so sure,’ drawled the other, ‘that the very deliberateness o’ him michtna thwart its aim purpose, for he’s that obstinate he would try to outface a mule. Forbye, Provost, he’s gotten so big for his shoes now that folks – aye, even the county folks who liket it at first – are beginnin’ to get a wheen sick o’ it. That grand style o’ his is juist like the lordly salmon; a wee bittie is all right, but if ye get it served up a’ the time, man, ye get awfu’ scunnered by it.’

  Seeing himself thus the object of their speculation, and sensing its slightly favourable tone, Brodie began to feel that the public eye was turned encouragingly towards him as a defender of the old, solid order of the Borough against the invasion of the trumpery new, and he became, in his appearance, even more of the dandy, ordered two new suits of the finest and most expensive cloth, bought himself in the jeweller’s at the Cross a smart, opal tiepin which he now wore in place of his plain gold horseshoe. This pin was immediately the object of criticism amongst the cronies, and was passed from hand to hand in admiration.

  ‘’Tis a bonnie stone – although I’m no judge,’ tittered Grierson. ‘I hope it hasna ruined you to buy it.’

  ‘Don’t judge my savings by yours. I know weel enough what I can afford,’ retorted Brodie roughly.

  ‘Na! Na! I wouldna dream o’ doin’ that. Ye’re so lavish wi’ your money ye maun be worth a mint o’ it. I’ll warrant ye’ll have a wheen o’ siller stowed away for a rainy day,’ lisped Grierson ambiguously, as his eye flicked Brodie’s with ironic insight.

  ‘They say an opal’s gey unlucky. The wife’s sister had an opal ring that brought her a heap o’ misfortune. She had an unco’ bad slip the very month she got it,’ demurred Paxton.

  ‘That’ll no’ happen to me,’ replied Brodie coarsely.

  ‘But are ye not feared to wear it?’ persisted Paxton.

  Brodie looked at him fixedly.

  ‘Man,’ he said slowly, ‘ you ought to know I’m feared of nothing on this God’s earth.’

  Curiously, although he directed the most scrupulous attention towards his own attire and personal appearance, he would not for an instant entertain the idea of sprucing up his business premises by renewing the drab aspect of his shop, but seemed actually to glory in its unalterable, but recently accentuated, dinginess. When Perry, who had cast a persistently envious eye upon the growth of the dazzling magnificence next door, remarked upon the contrast and timidly suggested that perhaps a touch of paint might benefit the exterior, he said, impressively: ‘Not a finger do we lay on it. Them that wants to buy their hats in a painted panopticon can do so, but this is a gentlemen’s business and I’m going to keep it so.’ In this attitude he waited the first attack of the enemy.

  With the final steps of restoration and reconstruction completed, at last the opening day of the rival establishment arrived. Astonishing progress had been made during the last week of March and a full blaring column in the Advertiser had announced that the first of April would mark the inauguration of the new establishment. Behind the thick green blinds and shuttered entrance, a feeling of occult mysticism had prevailed during the whole of the previous day, and through this veil the district manager of the company, who had been deputed to take charge of the local branch for the initial months, had been observed flitting restlessly, like a shadow, symbolic of secrecy. Obviously the policy of the Mungo Company was to dazzle Levenford by their display in one sudden, blinding revelation; they would rend the cover from the windows and the Borough as a whole would be staggered by the vision of what it saw. Such, at least, were Brodie’s ironic thoughts as, on the first of April, he left his house at 9.30 to the second, no sooner no later, and began the usual walk to his business in exactly his usual manner. As he came down the High Street in perfect composure he looked, although his manner was perhaps a trifle over-emphasised, the least perturbed man in Levenford. The satirical nature of his reflections fed his vanity and consolidated his rooted belief in himself, stifling the vague misgiving that had for days fluttered at the back of his brain. Now that the moody period of waiting was at an end and the fight actually begun, he became once more the master of his fate and his bearing now seemed to say: ‘ Let me get at it. I’ve been waitin’ on this. And now you’re ready for me, by God, I’m ready for you.’ He loved a fight. Furthermore, he felt spurred in this incentive to contest, by his additional anticipation that the heat of the battle would remove his mind from the dull depression into which the blow to his intimate family pride had recently plunged him. Already his heart lifted to the joy of the fight as he told himself that he would show them the stuff that James Brodie was made of, would demonstrate again to the town the spirit that was in him, would, by a crushing defeat to these Mungo upstarts, restore his prestige in the eyes of the Borough to even a higher level than b
efore. With a stiff back and expanded chest, with his stick cocked over his shoulder – an exultant mannerism he had not indulged in for months – he strode confidently along the street.

  He reached the new shop, saw instantly that, at last, it was open. Whilst a lesser man might have, more circumspectly, completed his inspection by peering from the corner of his eye as he walked past, this prying was not in Brodie’s nature, and he arrested himself openly, ostentatiously, in the middle of the pavement, and with his stick still upon his shoulder, his feet planted firmly apart, his massive head thrown back, he gazed sardonically at the double-fronted spectacle before him. A deliberate smile spread over his features. A ponderous guffaw shook him. His whole attitude became expressive of his delightful realisation that the display before him was more trashy and new-fangled than he had dared to hope, more ludicrous than he had preconceived even in his wildest expectations. One window was crammed from floor to ceiling with hats, hats of every conceivable form, variety, and style, mounting upwards in graduated tiers amongst festoons of ties and sprouting bouquets of coloured handkerchiefs, ornamented at tasteful intervals by garlands of socks and stockings and embellished by an array of gloves arranged like fern fronds, with limp yet politely extended fingers. The indication that the purpose of this strikingly artistic exhibition was not purely decorative was clearly, yet tactfully, conveyed by the fact that each article bore a small ticket stamped M. H.H., with the price in plain red figures below. But although he perceived this composite tableau, it was, however, the other window which riveted Brodie’s quizzical attention, where his contemptuous eyes observed the unthought-of novelty of two wax figures. Wax figures – incredible! Still, there they were, a gentleman of perfect complexion and address gazing with fixed, ambiguous fondness upon the form of a small boy who, from his clear skin, wide blue eyes, and bland innocuous simper was undoubtedly the model son of this model father. They stood, the right hand of the father and the left hand of the son extended with the same delicate gesture, as if to say: ‘Here we are. Gaze upon us. We are here for your admiration.’

  The clothing was immaculate, and Brodie’s eye travelled from the creases of their trousers to the brilliance of their ties, over the glaze of their collars, the snowy whiteness of their prominent handkerchiefs, the sheen of sock and stocking, to the curly brimmed Derby on the parental brow and the natty pill-box upon the juvenile head, until finally it rested upon the neat card on which was printed: ‘Dressed by the M.H. H. Co. Let us do the same for you.’

  ‘Dummies,’ muttered Brodie. ‘Demned dummies. It’s not a hat shop; it’s a demned waxworks.’ They represented to him the joke of a lifetime, for these figures had never been seen in Levenford – although it had been recently rumoured that such innovations were appearing in the larger Glasgow warehouses – and he considered that they would soon be the laughing-stock of the Borough.

  As he remained in arrogant contemplation, suddenly a man came out of the shop, carrying a brown paper parcel. Instantly Brodie’s sneer was transfixed by a sudden mortifying apprehension, and a pang shot through him like a knife stab. Had they, then, begun to do business already? He had never seen the man before, and he tried to reassure himself that, in all probability, this was merely a belated workman performing some omitted task or collecting his forgotten gear; nevertheless, a neat parcel aroused his suspicion, disturbed him deeply, and in a less arrogant manner, he moved his firmly rooted limbs and went slowly through his own doorway.

  Perry, inevitably, was there to greet him, moved this morning, by the progress of current events, to a more obsequious deference, and bearing in his mind perhaps the faint aspiration that he might, in the face of this new opposition, have the opportunity to show to his patron something of his real value, to achieve in some measure a realisation of his blighted hopes.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Brodie, sir.’ For this especial occasion Perry had concocted a mild witticism which he considered in his own mind both clever and amusing, and, plucking up all his courage, he now had the temerity to liberate it upon Brodie. ‘This is the first of April, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘Do you observe the inference, since they’ – he always referred to his new neighbours in this ambiguous manner – ‘ since they have opened on All Fools’ Day.’

  ‘No,’ growled Brodie, looking from under his brows, ‘but tell me, you that’s so clever.’

  ‘Well, it’s all through the town, Mr Brodie, that you’ll make April gowks of them,’ gushed Perry, and, as he saw the effect of his remark, he tittered sympathetically, then writhed in the exuberance of his satisfaction, for Brodie had laughed shortly, pleased by the notion of the general adulation of the town implied in Perry’s flattering, but, though he knew it not, fabricated remark. His huge fingers flexed in slowly on his palm.

  ‘Ay, I’ll mak’ a gowk o’ them, right enough! I’ll take some o’ the conceit out o’ them, take some o’ the gilt off their gingerbread. They don’t know who they’re up against yet, but, by gad, I’ll learn them.’ How, exactly, he did not quite know, but at this moment, although he had no vestige of a settled policy in his brain, his confidence in his own ability to crush the opposition was supreme.

  ‘Did ye notice the stookies in the window?’ he queried, absently.

  ‘Yes! oh yes! Mr Brodie. A new idea from the larger houses. Rather original, of course, and up to date.’ In the first flush of his conversational success he had almost the optimism to hope that ‘the guv’nor’ might perhaps order a brace of these intriguing models on the spot. His eyes glowed enthusiastically, but he had perforce to lower them under Brodie’s glower, realising that he had this time said, apparently, the wrong thing.

  ‘Up to date, ye say. It’s a deshed museum! They’ll have a crowd round that bluter of a window o’ theirs.’

  ‘But, sir,’ ventured Perry timidly, ‘is that not desirable. If you would attract people and draw their attention outside, they’re more likely to come inside. It’s a sort of advertisement.’

  Brodie looked at him obtusely for a moment, then growled, angrily: ‘Has the same bug been bitin’ you, that you’re itchin’ for the common herd to batter at our doors. If it has, get the poison out your system quick, or it’ll be as much as your job is worth.’

  Perry looked at him humbly, and observed, meekly: ‘It’s all grist to your mill though, sir.’ Then, removing himself to safer ground, he hastened to observe: ‘I see they’re going in for a sort of general outfitting as well, Mr Brodie, sir.’

  Brodie nodded sullenly.

  ‘You wouldn’t care to branch out with a few extra lines yourself, sir, a novelty or two perhaps. Say a brace or a smart glove! Very refined indeed, a nice glove, sir.’ Perry almost pleaded at the bubbling urge of all the ideas repressed within him.

  But his bright, insinuating suggestions fell on deaf ears. Brodie paid no heed to him, but stood, moved by an unusual impulse of self-analysis, absorbed in the contemplation of his strange departure from his invariable routine. Why, he asked himself, was he hanging about the shop instead of entering his office with his usual imperial negligence? He was going to smash them next door, of course, but would he do it by sitting calmly at his desk, attempting to read the Glasgow Herald? He felt he must do something, take some definite line of conduct, but as he moved about, chafing at his desuetude, his sluggish mentality offered him no tangible suggestions towards the powerful action which he craved. If only he could have used the terrific strength of his body in this present cause, then he would have toiled till the sweat poured from him, till his joints cracked with the strain of his effort; he would willingly have embraced the supporting pillars of the opposing shop and, uprooting them, have dragged down the entire edifice about him, but some dim perception of the uselessness of his brute force dawned upon him and stung him bitterly.

  At this point a woman, holding by the hand a small child of about six years of age, entered the shop. She was obviously of a poor class, and advanced to Perry who greeted her deferentially.

  ‘
I wanted a bonnet for ma wee boy. He’s goin’ to the school next week!’ she said, confidentially.

  Perry beamed upon her.

  ‘Certainly, madam! What can I show you for the little man?’

  Suddenly a strange impulse, a fierce inclination against his hated opposition, seized Brodie, and, although these customers were obviously of an inferior class, and clearly of that type whom he invariably left to his assistant, he was impelled to go forward.

  ‘Let me do it,’ he said, in a harsh, unreal tone.

  The woman gazed at him timidly and, instinctively in awe of him, her lightly worn assurance fell from her, she became, not a lady who was selecting, yes and paying for, a hat to set her son bravely out upon the adventure of school, that first step upon the mysterious highway of life, but merely a mean, shabby, workman’s wife.

  ‘This young gentleman served me the last time,’ she whispered irresolutely, indicating Perry. ‘I was in last year and he suited me nicely.’

  The little boy instantly sensed his mother’s discomfiture, felt also the lowering oppression of the huge, dark figure above him, and, burying his face in his mother’s dress, he began to whine plaintively.

  ‘Mammie! Mammie, I want to go hame,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I want hame.’

  ‘Stop greetin’ now. Stop your greetin’ at once, will ye.’ The poor woman, utterly humiliated, stood discomposed and faltering whilst the wailing child burrowed his head dourly into the sanctuary of her person; she shook him, and the more fiercely she shook him the louder he howled; her face coloured with shame and annoyance; she herself was near enough to tears. ‘ Can that black-browed Brodie not keep out o’ the place? it’s the bairn’s hat I wanted – not him,’ she thought, angrily, as she lifted the yelling child in her arms and said with great embarrassment: ‘I better come back another time. He’s a bad boy. I’ll come again when he can behave himself.’ While she cast, for appearance sake, this specious aspersion against her own child, her outraged maternal instinct assured her that she would never return. She had turned to go, and would have vanished irrevocably, when Perry in a low, tactful voice suggested tentatively from the background: