Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  At length the limits of the room became inadequate, failed to contain him. Insensibly he passed out of the doorway and began to wander about the house. He ascended the stairs, moved across the top landing, opened the door of his mother’s room and flung an objectionable remark at her, chuckled to himself, entered Matt’s bedroom, where he viewed with disgust the array of toilet lotions and hair pomades, and, having lit every gas so that the house blazed with light, finally he stood within his own apartment. Here, drawn by a hidden force, he went slowly forward to the chest of drawers where Nancy kept her clothing and, a sly leer mingling with his shamed consciousness, he commenced to pull out and examine the fine embroidered garments which she had bought with the money he had given her. He handled the smooth lace-edged vestments, touched soft lawn, fingered thin cambric, held the long empty stockings in his ponderous grasp, and his mouth curved with an upward slant while he invested the fragrant garments with the person of their owner. His shot eye, fixed upon the whiteness before him, saw actually the alabaster of her body, always to him a source of wonder and delight, and to his mind the texture of the stuff he handled seemed to have absorbed its colour from contact with that milky skin. As he remained there, displaying with stretched arms and for his sole enjoyment these flimsy articles of finery, he looked like some old and uncouth satyr who, stumbling upon the shed raiment of a nymph, had seized upon it and now, by contemplation, whetted his worn fancy capriciously.

  At length he closed the drawers by a pressure of his knee and glancing sideways as he walked, moved stealthily from the room, shutting the door silently behind him. Outside, it was as though he had accomplished successfully and without detection some secret enterprise, for his shamed shyness dropped from him, he rubbed his hands noisily together, puffed out his cheeks, and heavily descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the parlour door, and cried, with a facetious assumption of gravity:

  ‘Can I come in, ma’am? or are ye not at home?’ Then without waiting for the reply, which indeed she did not utter, he entered the parlour, saying in the same manner: ‘ I’ve been round my house to see that everything’s in order, so there’ll be no burglars to trouble ye to-night. Lights in all the windows! A fine splore o’ illumination to show a’ the rotten swine that we’re gay and bricht in the Brodie house.’ She did not in the least understand what he meant but watched him with her blue placating eyes that now seemed to be enlarged, to stand out from her cold, stiff face. With arms crossed and shivering, her thin-stockinged legs curled under her for warmth, having lost all sensation but that of numbness in her feet and hands, and her impressionable mind stamped by the scene she had witnessed in the kitchen, having failed completely to make headway with her study, she now regarded him fearfully.

  ‘How are ye gettin’ on?’ he continued, looking at her closely. ‘Have ye enough quietness here to suit you? What have ye done since ye came in?’

  She started guiltily, knowing that she had done nothing, unable to conceal anything from him.

  ‘I haven’ got on very well, father,’ she replied humbly. ‘It’s so terribly cold in here.’

  ‘What! Ye havena got on well – and me that’s been keepin’ as quiet, as quiet for ye. What are ye thinkin’ of?’

  ‘It’s the cold room,’ she repeated again. ‘I think it must be freezing outside.’

  ‘The room!’ he cried, raising his brows with a tipsy gravity. ‘ Did ye not beg and beseech me to bring ye in here? Did I not carry in your books in my own hands, and light the gas for ye, and set you down to it? Ye wanted in here and now you turn on me and complain!’ Here his flushed face indicated an aggrieved and exaggerated disapproval. ‘Not got on well, forsooth! Ye better get a bend on and look sharp about it.’

  ‘If there had been a fire!’ she ventured diffidently, observing now that he was not in his severe vein towards her. ‘I’m all goose flesh and shivering.’

  Her words penetrated, struck some responsive chord in his soaked brain, for he started and, with a complete change of manner, cried with profuse pathos:

  ‘My Nessie shiverin’! Here am I as warm as toast and my own, wee lassie freezin’ and wantin’ a fire! And what for no? It’s reasonable. It’s more than reasonable. Ye shall have a fire this minute if I’ve got to get it with my own hands. Sit still now, and wait and see what your father’ll do for ye.’ He held up an admonishing finger to bind her to her seat and, moving unwieldily out of the room and into the cellar that adjoined the scullery, he fumbled in the dark amidst the coal and finally secured what he sought, a long, iron shovel. Then brandishing this like a trophy, he advanced to the kitchen fire, and knocked down the front bars of the grate; thrusting the shovel under the glowing coals, he secured a flaming heap of red-hot cinders which he bore triumphantly back to the parlour, leaving a smoky trail behind him. Flinging the burning embers into the cold fireplace he cried, in a knowing voice: ‘Wait a minute! Just wait a minute! Ye havena seen it a’ yet,’ and again disappeared, to return immediately with a huge bundle of sticks in one hand and the shovel, replenished this time with coal, in the other. Kneeling down clumsily he laid the sticks upon the cinders, and lying flat on his stomach, blew them stertorously until they blazed to his satisfaction. With a grunt he now raised himself and sitting within the confines of the hearth like a playful bull within its stall he fed the flames sedulously with coal so that he achieved, eventually, a high crackling pyramid of fire. With both hands and one full glowing cheek grimed by smoke and coal dust, and his knees somewhat soiled by soot, he nevertheless surveyed his masterpiece with supreme approval, and cried: ‘Look at that, now! What did I tell ye! There’s a fire for ye – fit to roast an ox. Ye couldna be cold at a blaze like that. On wi’ the work now that ye’ve got your fire. There’s not many a man would take such a trouble for his daughter, so don’t let a’ my bother be wasted. On ye go. Stick into the lessons.’

  Following this exhortation he seemed loath to get up and remained gazing at the leaping flames appreciatively, murmuring from time to time: ‘A beautiful fire! It’s a bonnie blaze!’; but eventually he heaved himself up, and kicking the shovel to one side, muttered: ‘I’ll away and bring my dram in beside ye,’ and went out of the room. As he departed Nessie – who fully realised from the unnatural manner of his conduct that her father was once again drunk – threw a quick glance, deeply charged with apprehension, at his retreating back. She had not done a stroke of work all evening and was now becoming thoroughly alarmed at her father’s extraordinary behaviour. Although his treatment of her had lately been more peculiar – acts of sudden and unaccountable indulgence interpolating his perpetual coercion of her to study – she had never seen him so odd as he appeared tonight. At the sound of his step, when he returned with the remainder of the bottle of whisky, she sat rigid, pretending, with pale moving lips, to be engrossed in her work although she could not see the page which she held so closely before her.

  ‘That’s right,’ he muttered. ‘I see you’re at it. I’ve done my bit for ye – now you do yours for me. That’s another thing doun on my account for ye to settle when ye win the Latta.’ He subsided in a chair by the fireside and began again to drink. It seemed to him now that the evening had been long even as a year, during which he had experienced a variety of profound and moving sensations, a period which had been a delightful prolongation of accomplishment and anticipation to be capped shortly by his reunion with Nancy. He became more joyful than ever. He wanted to sing! Fragments of tunes ran deliciously through his head, making him nod extravagantly and beat time with his foot and hand to this internal harmony. His small eyes seemed to protrude from his head as they roamed the room seeking some outlet for his culminating beatitude. Suddenly they lit upon the piano. Laud’s sake! he told himself, what was the good of that if it wasn’t to be used, that fine burr walnut instrument that had come from Murdoch’s – bought and paid for these twenty years! It was a scandal to see it lying idle there, when a man had spent money on music lessons for his daughter.

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p; ‘Nessie,’ he shouted, making her jump with fright ‘You’ve got a’ that book off by heart now. Put it away. You’re goin’ to have your music lesson now and I’m the teacher.’ He guffawed, then corrected himself: ‘No! I’m not the teacher – I’m the vocalist.’ He threw out his arm with a sweeping gesture. ‘We’ll have some guid Scotch songs. Away – away over and give us “o’ a’ the airts the wind can blaw” for a start.’

  Nessie slipped off her chair and looked at him doubtfully, knowing that he had forbidden the piano to be opened for months, feeling that she must obey, yet fearful of doing so; but as she stood indecisively he cried vehemently:

  ‘Come on! Come on! What are ye waitin’ for? “ o’ a’ the airts the wind can blaw,” I tell ye! I havena felt like this for months. I’m ripe for a sang!’

  It was after ten o’clock and, as it was past her bedtime and she was worn by the strain of the long evening, she felt exhausted, but she was too terrified, too much in awe of him, to protest; and going, therefore, to the piano, she opened it, found the Scottish Song Book that had been Mary’s, sat down, and began to play. Her small trembling fingers brought out at best they could the air that he demanded whilst from the seat by the fire, waving his pipe in undulating curves, Brodie sang the words boisterously.

  ‘o’ a’ the airts the wind can blaw,

  I dearly lo’e the west.

  It’s there the bonnie lassie lives,

  The lassie I lo’e best.’

  ‘Louder! Louder!’ he shouted. ‘Hit it harder! I’m singin’ about my Nancy. We maun give it pith! “ By day and nicht my fancy’s flight is ever with my Jean”!’ he roared at the pitch of his voice. ‘By God! that was good. If we call her Jean – ye’re none the wiser. Come on. Give us the second verse again, and sing yoursel’. Sing! Sing! Are ye ready! One, two, three! –

  ‘I see her in the dewy flower.’

  She had never seen him like this before and in a panic of shame and fear she joined her quavering voice to his bellow so that together they sang the song.

  ‘That was graund!’ he cried, when they had finished. ‘I hope they heard us at the Cross! Now we’ll have “ My Love is like a red, red Rose,” although mind ye she’s more like a bonnie white rose. Have ye not found it yet? You’re awfu’ slow and clumsy the nicht. I’m as light as a feather though. I could sing till dawn.’

  She struck painfully into the song which he made her play and sing twice, and after that she was forced through ‘The Banks and Braes,’ ‘O Rowan Tree,’ and ‘Annie Laurie,’ until, with her hands so cramped and her head so giddy that she felt she must fall from the stool, she turned imploringly, and with tears in her eyes, cried:

  ‘Let me go, father. Let me go to my bed. I’m tired.’ He frowned upon her heavily, her interruption cutting in rudely upon his blissful state. ‘So ye can’t even play for your father,’ he exclaimed, ‘ and after he’s taken all the trouble to go and put on a fire for ye, too. The minute it’s on ye want away to your bed. That’s gratitude for you. Well, if ye’ll not do it for right you’ll do it for might. Play! Play till I tell ye to stop, or I’ll take the strap to ye. Play my first song over again!’

  She turned again to the piano and wearily, with eyes blinded by tears, began again, ‘o’ a’ the airts the wind can blaw,’ whilst he sang, emphasising every discord which her agitation led her to produce by a black look directed towards her bowed and inoffensive back.

  They had proceeded half-way through the song when suddenly the parlour door opened and Nancy – her eyes sparkling, the cream of her cheek tinted by a faint colour from the cold, her hair crisping under her attractive toque, the neat fur tippet setting off her – firm bust to perfection – Nancy – his Nancy, stood before him. With mouth wide open and pipe poised in mid air he stopped singing, regarding her stupidly, realising that he had failed to hear the opening of the front door, and he continued to stare thus while the unconscious Nessie, as though accompanying his silent astonishment and admiration, played through the song to its end, when silence descended upon the room.

  At length Brodie laughed, a trifle uncomfortably. ‘We were just singin’ a wee song to ye, Nancy, and troth ye deserve it for you’re lookin’ as bonnie as a picture.’

  Her eyes sparkled more frostily and her lips tightened as she replied:

  ‘The noise comin’ up the road was enough to draw a crowd round the house – and lights blazin’ out o’ every window. And ye’ve been at your soakin’ again and then ye’ve the impertinence to make me the grounds for it a’! You’re a disgrace! Look at your hands and face. You’re like an auld coal-heaver. What a thing for me to come home to, after an elevatin’ evenin’ like I’ve had.’

  He looked at her humbly, yet drinking in, even at its coldness, the freshness of her young beauty, and in an attempt to change the subject, he murmured heavily:

  ‘Did ye have a nice time at your aunt’s? I’ve missed you, Nancy. It’s like a year since I saw ye last. Ye were a long time comin’ to me.’

  ‘And I wish I had made it longer,’ she exclaimed, with a hard glance at him. ‘ When I want music I know where to get it. Don’t bawl at me and don’t drink to me – ye black-faced drunkard.’

  At these terrible words Nessie, sitting petrified upon the piano stool, shrank back, expecting her father to rise and fling himself upon the mad woman who had uttered them: but to her amazement he remained passive, drooping his lip at Nancy and muttering:

  ‘I tell ye I’ve been missin’ you, Nancy. Don’t turn on a man that’s so fond o’ ye.’

  Disregarding his daughter’s presence entirely, he continued blatantly, with an almost maudlin sentiment ‘You’re my white, white rose, Nancy. You’re the breath in my body. I had to pass the time somehow! Away up and take off your things and dinna be cross wi’ me. I’ll – I’ll be up mysel’ in a minute.’

  ‘Oh! you will!’ she cried, with a toss of her head. ‘You’re drinkin’ like a fish, you rough, big bully. Go up any time ye like for all I care. It makes no odds to me – as you’ll soon see,’ and she flounced up the stairs out of his sight.

  With lowered head he sat quite still, filled by the melancholy thought that she was angry with him, that when he went upstairs he would have to appease her, pacify her, before she manifested her kindness towards him. In the midst of his dejected meditations he suddenly realised his daughter’s presence and, considering moodily that he had betrayed himself to her, he muttered thickly, without looking up:

  ‘A way up to your bed, you! What are ye sittin’ there for?’ And when she had slipped like a shadow from the room he continued to sit by the rapidly dying embers of the fire until he adjudged that Nancy might be in bed, and more amenable to his advances. Then, blind to the complete reversal of his position in the house since the days when he had left his wife to brood by the dismal remnants of a dead fire, anxious only to be beside his Nancy, he got up and, having turned out the gas, passed slowly and as lightly as he could, up the stairs. He was consumed by eagerness, eaten by desire, as he entered his lighted bedroom.

  It was empty!

  With unbelieving eyes he gazed round until it slowly dawned upon him that this night she had kept her word and forsaken him; then, after a moment, he turned and, moving silently across the dark landing, tried the handle of the door of that small room to which his wife had retired – the room, indeed, where she had died. This, as he expected, was locked. For one instant a torrent of resentment surged within him and he gathered himself together to hurl himself against and through the door, to batter it down by the strength of his powerful and desirous body. But immediately came the realisation that such a course would not benefit him, that inside the room he would still find her bitter, more bitter and unyielding than before, more icy, more determined to oppose his wish. She had enslaved him, insidiously yet completely, and for that reason was now stronger than he. His sudden fury died, his hand dropped from the door and slowly he re-entered his own room and shut himself within it. For a long time, he remaine
d in sullen silence, then impelled by an irresistible impulse he went to the drawer he had opened earlier in the evening, slowly pulled it out once more, and with a heavy brow stood staring inscrutably at the contents within.

  Chapter Three

  Matthew Brodie came out of Levenford Station, leaving the platform, splashed with its pale yellow lamplight, behind him and entered the cold, exhilarating darkness of the frosty February night with a lively feeling of elation. His steps upon the hard ground rang out quick and clear, his face, blurred in the surrounding obscurity, radiated nevertheless a faint excited gleam; the fingers of his inquiet hands twitched continually from the suppression of his pervading exultation. He walked rapidly along Railway Road, through the tenuous low-lying haze above which the tops of trees and houses loomed like darkly smudged shadows against the lighter background of the sky. Towards his expanded nostrils came, from across the open space of the Common, the faint aromatic odour of a distant wood fire and, as he sniffed it, filling his lungs deliciously with the tingling savour of the air, he was permeated by a vivid sense of the zest of living. Despite the forward thrust of his mood, memories rushed across him at that acrid, yet spicy breath, and he became enveloped in a balmy dusk that was filled with strange quiescent sounds, fragrant subtle scents, and the white and liquid shimmer of a tropic moon. His drab and evasive existence of the last six months fell away from his recollection while he considered the glamour of his life abroad, and as if to answer the appeal of such a free and enchanting land, he further accelerated his pace and swung along the road with impetuous eagerness in the direction of his home. This haste, in one who, when approaching the house in the evenings, displayed usually a flagging step, indicative of his disinclination to encounter his father, seemed to betoken an important change in the current of Matt’s life. He was indeed, at this moment, bursting with the news of that change, and as he rushed up the steps, opened the front door of the house, and entered the kitchen he trembled, actually, with his excitement.