Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Perhaps a sweetie—?’ and from an unsuspected recess in a drawer he adroitly produced a large peppermint drop and poised it prominently, alluringly, between his finger and thumb. Instantly the child stopped crying and, exposing one large, brimming, doubtful eye from out the folds of its mother’s bodice, lifted it calculatingly towards the sweet. The mother, at this indication of trust, halted, questioningly regarding the child.

  ‘Would you?’ she queried.

  With a final, convulsive sob the boy nodded his head trustingly towards Perry, and stretched forward a small, avid claw. They returned. The sweet quickly bulged the wet, shining, young cheek, and, peace now being restored, Perry continued to soothe the child, to propitiate the mother, to minister to them both until finally, the notable purchase, for such he now made them feel it to be, was satisfactorily effected. As they departed, he showed them to the door with the same ubiquitous courtesy; receiving the mother’s last grateful glance upon the top of his lowered unassuming head, whilst Brodie, who had moved sullenly, ponderously to the background, looked on gloomily.

  Perry returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. Strange young man that he was, he built his conceit only upon his imaginary powers and took no credit for the undoubted attributes of quickness and intuition which were actually his; though he had just achieved a triumph of diplomacy and tact, yet his sole feeling was a humble satisfaction that he had saved the customer for Brodie before the eyes of the august master himself. He glanced up deferentially as the other spoke.

  ‘I didna know we gave away sweeties wi’ our hats,’ was all that Brodie said, as he turned sombrely into his office.

  The day had begun; and it wore steadily on, with Brodie remaining still shut up in his room, immersed in his own, intimate thoughts. Across his stern face shadows drifted like clouds across the face of a dark mountain. He suffered. Despite the iron hardness of his will he could not prevent his responsive ears from quickening to every sound, from anticipating the gradual halting of footsteps as they drew near his shop, from analysing the lightest noise without his office, as if to differentiate the entry of a customer from Perry’s restless pacings; yet to-day, he felt that, though he had never before consciously noted them, the sounds were few and unsuggestive. The sun poured through the window upon him, the slush of the thaw which had succeeded the long frost was now completely gone, and the day was crisply dry, yet warm, so that in this dawning hint of spring the streets would, he knew, fill with people, happy, eager, thronging the shops; yet no chatter of enquiring voices broke the outer silence.

  The blank, dividing wall which stood before him seemed to dissolve, under his piercing gaze and reveal, in the premises next door, a bustling and successful activity. A reaction from his sneering confidence of the morning took him, and he now morbidly visioned crowds of people jostling each other there in a passionate eagerness to buy. Savagely, he bit his lip and again picked up his discarded paper in an effort to read; but in a few moments, to his annoyance, he returned to himself to find that he gazed stupidly at the wall in front: as though it hypnotised him.

  Moodily, he reflected how delightful it had been in the past to lie back in his chair – for what else had he done – with an eye through the half-open door, lording it over Perry and those who entered his domain. The menial duties of the business were entirely Perry’s, who fetched and carried to his royal word, and he himself had not mounted the steps or lifted his hand to the shelves, or bound up a parcel for longer than he could remember. Most customers he ignored; with some he would stroll in whilst they were being served, nod casually, pick up the hat under review, pass his hand over its nap or bend the brim in haughty approval of his own merchandise, saying with his air: ‘Take it or leave it, but ye’ll not get a better hat anywhere.’ Towards only a few, a handful from the best families of the county, did he actually direct his personal service and attention.

  It had then been so delightful to feel assured that people must come to him, for, in his blind autocratic way, he had scarcely realised, had not paused to consider, that the absence of competition and lack of choice might drive many people to him, that necessity might be the mainstay of his business; but now, as he sat alone, he became unhappily aware that, for the time being at least, his monopoly was at an end. Nevertheless he would not, he firmly determined, alter his conduct; if he had not been obliged to run after people to solicit their paltry custom, he would not now be coerced into so doing; he had run after no man in his life and he now swore a solemn oath that he would never do so.

  The dim, early days of his beginning in Levenford, so long since that he had almost forgotten, returned mistily to him; but through these mists he saw himself as a man who had never curried favour, nor fawned, nor acted the subservient toady. Though there had been no Perry then, he had been upright and honest and determined, had worked hard and asked no favour. And he had succeeded. He glowed as he thought of his slow rise in importance and consequence, of his recognition by the Council, his election to the Philosophical Club, of the gradual conception of his house, of its building, and, since that date, of the growing and subtle change in his situation to that unique, isolated, notable position which he now held in the town. It was, he told himself, the good blood that ran in his veins which had done that for him, which had brought him to the top, where he belonged, despite the handicaps which had beset him in his youth, that blood of his ancestors which – as in a noble horse – would always tell, and which would not fail him now.

  Waves of anger at the injustice of his present position swept in on him, and he jumped to his feet. ‘Let them try to take it from me,’ he cried aloud, raising up his fist; ‘let them all come! I’ll wipe them out like I destroy all those who offend me. There was a rotten branch on the tree of my name,’ he shouted loudly, ‘and I cut it off. I’ll smash everybody that interferes with me. I am James Brodie, and be damned to everybody and everything. Let them try to hinder me, to thieve my trade from me, try to take all I’ve got; let them do it! Whatever comes, I am still myself.’

  He subsided in his chair, unconscious of the fact that he had arisen, unaware that he had shouted to the empty room but hugging only, with a gloating satisfaction, that last precious thought. He was himself – James Brodie – no one but he understood, could ever comprehend, the full comfort, the delicious pride which that possession gave him. His thoughts rioted away from his present vicissitudes into a land of exalted dreams and longings, and, with his head sunk in his chest, he lost himself in the sublime contemplation of some future day when, unchecked, he would unleash the uncontrolled desires of his pride, when he would appease to satisfaction his craving for eminence and homage.

  At last he sighed and, like a man awakening from the dreams of a drugged sleep, he blinked and shook himself. He looked at his watch, realised with a start that the end of this day, and of his self-ordained seclusion, was approaching. He arose slowly, yawned prodigiously, stretched himself, and, banishing from his features all traces of his recent, indulgent reverie, hardened his face again into a mask of hard indifference and went into the shop to review, as was his custom, the business of the day. This was invariably a pleasant duty, into which he infused a lordly dignity, giving himself the air of a feudal ruler receiving tribute from his vassal. Always Perry had a heap of gleaming silver, often a few gleaming sovereigns, and sometimes a rustling bank note to be transferred to the master’s deep, hip pocket; and, when this had been effected, Brodie would run a casual eye over the lists of sales – casual, inasmuch as he recognised that Perry would never cheat him – it would, in his own words, ‘have been a pity for the little runt had he tried’ – would slap his bulging pocket, assume his hat and, with a last curt command, be off, leaving Perry to close up and shutter the shop.

  But, to-night, an unusual air seemed to cling to Perry, giving him an aspect at once blurred and disconsolate. Usually he opened the cash drawer with a proud and subservient flourish, as though to say: ‘We may not be much, but this is what we’ve done
for you to-day, Mr Brodie, sir’; now, however, he pulled the drawer timidly open, with a faint deprecating twitch.

  ‘A very quiet day, sir,’ he said meekly.

  ‘The weather’s been good,’ remonstrated Brodie testily. ‘What have you been playin’ at? There’s been plenty of folks about.’

  ‘Oh! there’s been a stir on the streets,’ replied Perry, ‘but quite a number – that’s to say, a few have gone in –’ He faltered. ‘ They had an attractive window,’ he concluded lamely.

  Brodie looked down at the drawer. Only six, miserable, silver shillings lay in the till.

  Chapter Four

  The Levenford Philosophical Club was in convocation. Although to-night the session was by no means a plenary one, the room was comfortably filled by smoke and by a gathering of six members who, now ranged in comfortable chairs around the cordial fire which blazed upon the hearth, philosophised in this congenial atmosphere at their ease. Of those present two were engaged upon a silent game of draughts, easy, harmonious, relaxed, whilst the others lay back, smoked, talked, and wooed the inspiration of worthy thoughts by frequent, comforting sips of their grog.

  The conversation was sporadic, the pauses, despite the choice richness of the language employed, sometimes more pregnant than the actual spoken words, the wave of a pipe more pungent than a pithy adjective, the glances of the members abstract, cogitative, and intellectually remote. Wearing modestly the distinction of their higher cerebration, they sat within the hallowed precincts of the club – the rallying-point of all these burghers in Levenford who might claim to be more notable than their fellow men – and, in the consciousness of their distinction, were at least content. To have achieved this club was, in itself, a feat which immediately conferred a cachet upon these happy individuals and rendered each the envy of less fortunate beings. To these the member would remark, of an evening, with, perchance, a nonchalant yawn: ‘Well! I think I’ll away down to the club. There’s a bit discussion on the night,’ and saunter off, whilst jealous eyes followed him down the street. To outsiders, those not of the elect, the social prestige of the club loomed largely, but so, also, did the suggestion of its profound intellectual significance, for the sonorous name – Philosophical – breathed of the rarer and more refined realms of pure reason. True, a classical master who had come to the Levenford Academy, bearing the letters of a degree of Oxford University after his name, had remarked to a colleague: ‘I was keen to join when I heard the name but, to my disgust, I discovered, it was nothing more than a smoking and drinking clique.’ What did he know, the ignorant English clown? Was he unaware of the six lectures, followed by lengthy debates, which took place at regular intervals during the winter? Had he not seen the neatly printed syllabus, which, like an amulet, reposed invariably in each member’s top, right-hand, waistcoat pocket, containing the titles of this year’s subjects of information and discussion? Had he but chosen he might have cast his grudging eyes upon such profound themes as:

  ‘Our Immortal Bard – with Readings,’

  ‘The Homing Pigeon in Health and Sickness,’

  ‘The Growth of Shipbuilding in the Royal Borough on the

  Clyde,’

  ‘Scottish Wit and Humour – with Local Anecdotes,’ or even,

  ‘From Rivet-boy to Provost – the Life Story of the Late

  Respected Mathias Gloag of Levenford.’

  Such, indeed, were the weighty lectures to be delivered, but if, on these evenings when the associates’ brains were not taxed by these deep matters, and their minds disengaged from solving the problems of race and nation, some trifling relaxation occurred – what disgrace lay in a gossip or a smoke, a game of the dambrod or even whist? And, as Phemie’s tidy house was convenient to the back door, what harm was it to send round occasionally for a bit glass or even to adjourn at times to the ‘wee back parlour’?

  Such arguments were, of course, unanswerable! It was, in addition, the function and practice of this unofficial town council to discuss in detail, and sit in deliberation upon, the people of the Borough, and their affairs. The ramifications of this subsidiary branch of their philosophising ranged from such diverse matters as the shrewish temper of Gibson’s wife to the appropriate remonstration to be made to Blair of the Main’s Farm, regarding the insanitary propensities of his cows upon the public-highway; and a singularly reassuring feature, speaking volumes for Levenford equity, was the fact that the very members themselves had no prerogative or privilege immunising them from discussion by their fellow commentators. To-night, James Brodie was the subject of the discussion initiated by a chance glance at the empty chair in the corner, a contemplative pause, and the remark:

  ‘Brodie’s late to-night. I wonder will he be comin’.’

  ‘He’ll be here, right enough,’ remarked Provost Gordon. ‘I’ve never known him so regular. He maun keep up his morale, ye ken.’ He looked round for approval at the use of this appropriate and noble-sounding word. ‘What I mean to infer,’ he explained, ‘is that he’s got to put a face on things now, or else go under a’ thegether.’

  The others sucked at their pipes and nodded silently. One of the draughts players moved a man, then looked up reflectively into the warm aromatic air, and said:

  ‘Dod! time passes like a flash! It must be nearly a year now since he flung out that daughter o’ his, on the night o’ the big storm.’

  Paxton, who had the reputation of a head for figures, remarked:

  ‘It’ll be a year exactly in a fortnight’s time; but it might be a single day for all that Levenford’s seen o’ Mary Brodie since then. I aye maintained, and I still maintain, that it was a bitter cruel thing that James Brodie did that night.’

  ‘Where is the lassock now?’ queried someone.

  ‘Weel,’ responded Paxton, ‘the story was that the Foyles of Darroch got her a position; but that’s a’ nonsense. She went off all by herself. The doctor wished to help her but she just up and away. It’s said now that she’s got a post in a big house in London – nothin’ more nor less than a servant she would be – puir thing. The Foyles didn’t do a thing for her afore they went back to Ireland.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the second draughts player; ‘old Foyle was fair broken up by the loss o’ that boy o’ his. ’Twas an awfu’ thing, and no mistake, that Tay Bridge disaster. I’ll never forget that night. I had been out at the guid sister’s and had to get back hame in the teeth o’ the wind, when a flyin’ slate skiffed my ear by an inch. It nearly took ma heid off.’

  ‘That wad have been a worse calamity to the town than the loss o’ the Bridge, John,’ sniggered Grierson from his corner. ‘We would need to ha’ put ye up a braw monument at the Cross, like the braw new Livingstone statue in George Square up in the city. Think what ye’ve missed. If it had struck ye, man, ye would have been another o’ Scotland’s heroes.’

  ‘Weel, the new bridge maun be a bit stronger before they get me to gang across it. ’Twas a perfect scandal that a’ they good lives were flung awa’. I contend there should have been a punishment for them that was to blame,’ said the first draughts player, covering the discomfiture of his companion.

  ‘Man! Ye canna punish the Almighty,’ drawled Grierson; ‘’twas an act of God, and ye canna claim damages off Him – at least not successfully.’

  ‘Wheesht, man, Grierson,’ admonished the Provost – by virtue of his position. ‘Watch that tongue o’ yours; that’s downright blasphemy ye’re talkin’.’

  ‘Na! Na! Provost,’ soothed Grierson. ‘It’s just the law – a wee bit o’ the law ye ken. No offence to the company, or the Almighty, or yourself,’ he added, with a leer.

  There was an uncomfortable pause, when it looked as if the harmony of the discussion might be destroyed, but eventually the Provost continued:

  ‘Brodie maun be losing trade hand over fist these days. I never see a soul in his shop.’

  ‘The prices the Mungo Company’s sellin’at wad empty anybody’s shop that tried to compete wi’ t
hem,’ said Paxton, with some show of sympathy. ‘ They’ve made up their minds to feenish him first and make their profits after. He’s got on the wrang side o’ the fence a ’thegether. It looks to me gey like ruin.’

  ‘Ruin is the richt word,’ drawled Grierson, who from his corner looked knowingly as if he could, if he chose, disclose a large, ripe plum of information on the subject.

  ‘But he maun be a warm man though, Brodie. He’s aye free o’ his money – splashin’ it about like water, spendin’ it on anything that might take his fancy. He has the best o’ everything, and then ye wad think that wasna good enough for him. Look at his dress, look at his braw new tiepin and signet ring, and besides,’ the speaker looked round cautiously before he uttered the next words, ‘look at his graund country-castle.’ A slight smirk seemed to traverse the entire party, and covert glances of well-subdued amusement were exchanged.

  ‘Look at his auld wife’s boots, her elegant clothes, and braw appearance,’ replied Grierson. ‘ Look at his bank balance – his wee Nessie was a fortnight late wi’ her fees at the Academy this quarter. Look at the flicker in his proud eye when he thinks ye’re not watchin’ him. I tell you that the big, big man – that he thinks he is – is beginnin’ to feel a wee bittie vexed about things.’ An intense undercurrent of innuendo lay behind the words as he continued: ‘I may be wrong but, in my humble opinion, I consider that James Brodie is goin’ through the worst time o’ his life. And if he’s not careful he’ll be down where he’s flung many another man – right down in the gutter!’