Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘This game’s not won yet,’ echoed Brodie sardonically. ‘Well, well! I’m sorry to hear it. But I can tell ye a game that is won!’

  He glared round them all and, his anger rising at their indifference, shouted:

  ‘It’s the Latta I’m talkin’ about. Maybe ye think it’s like this rotten game of bowls that you’re watchin’ – not finished yet. But I tell you it is finished – finished and done wi’ – and it’s my Nessie that’s won it!’

  ‘Hush! man, hush!’ exclaimed Gordon, who sat immediately confronted by Brodie. ‘I can’t see the play for ye. Sit down or stand aside and don’t blatter the ears off us.’

  ‘I’ll stand where I like. Shift me if ye can,’ retorted Brodie dangerously. Then he sneered: ‘Who are you to talk, anyway? You’re only the ex-provost – you’re not the king o’ the castle any more – it’s our dear friend Grierson that’s got your shoes on now, and it’s him I’m wantin’ to speak to.’ He directed his sneering gaze at Grierson and addressed him: ‘Did you hear what I said about the Latta, Provost? No! dinna start like that – I haven’t forgotten about that braw son o’yours. I know well that he’s gone up for the Provost Grierson’s son is up for the Latta. God! it must be as good as in his pocket.’

  ‘I never said that yet,’ replied Grierson, provoked in spite of himself. ‘ My boy can take his chance! It’s not as if he was needin’ the money for his education, onyway.’

  Brodie ground his teeth at the sharp implication in the other’s careless words and tried fiercely to force his brain to contrive some devastating reply, but as always, when opposing Grierson, he could find no suitable expression of his wrath. The thought that he, who had advanced a moment ago in lordly indifference, had been rendered impotent by a word, goaded him, and, sensing also that he was not creating the impression upon them which he had wished, his temper overcame him and he shouted:

  ‘Why did ye ask me to withdraw my daughter if ye didna want your whelp to win it? – Answer me that, you sneakin’ swine! You stopped me at the Cross and asked me to keep back my Nessie.’

  ‘Tuts! don’t shout like that at my ear, man,’ retorted Grierson coolly. ‘I don’t like the reek o’ your breath. I told ye before I was thinkin’ of your Nessie. Somebody that’s qualified to speak asked me to mention it to ye. I wasna wantin’ to do it, and now I’m sorry I did mention it.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ bawled Brodie. ‘ You’re a damned mealy-mouthed liar!’

  ‘If ye’ve come here to force a quarrel on me, I’ll not let ye do it,’ returned Grierson. ‘There’s no lying about the matter and no secret either. Now that your daughter has gone up, I don’t mind tellin’ you it was Dr Renwick asked me to speak to ye.’

  ‘Renwick!’ exclaimed Brodie incredulously. He paused, then, as a light dawned upon him, he shot out: ‘ I see! I see it plain. You put him up to it. He’s hand in glove with you against me. He hates me just as much as you do – as much as ye all do.’ He swept his arm blindly around them. ‘I know you’re all against me, you jealous swine, but I don’t care. I’ll win through. I’ll trample over ye all yet. Have any of ye got a daughter that can win the Latta? Answer me that!’

  ‘If your daughter does win, the Latta,’ cried someone, ‘what the de’il does it matter to us? Let her win it and good luck to her. I don’t give a tinker’s curse who wins it.’

  Brodie gazed at the speaker.

  ‘Ye don’t care?’ he replied slowly. ‘ Ye do care – you’re leein’ to me. It’ll spite the faces off ye if a Brodie wins the Latta.’

  ‘Away home, man, for God’s sake,’ said Gordon quietly. ‘You’re not yourself. You’re drivellin’. You can’t know what you’re sayin’.’

  ‘I’ll go when I like,’ mumbled Brodie. The stimulation of the drink suddenly left him, his fierceness waned, he no longer desired to rush upon Grierson and tear him apart, and, as he gazed at their varying expressions of unconcern and disgust, he began to feel profoundly sorry for himself, to ask himself if this could be the same company which he had dominated and overawed in the past. They had never liked him but he had controlled them by his power, and now that they had escaped from out his grasp, his sympathy towards himself grew so excessive that it reached the point of an exceeding sorrow which sought almost to express itself in tears. ‘I see how it is,’ he muttered gloomily, addressing them at large. ‘Ye think I’m all over and done wi’. I’m not good enough for ye, now. God! if it didna make me laugh it would make me greet. To think that ye should sit there and look down your noses at me – at me that comes of stock that’s so high above ye they wouldna even use ye as doormats.’ He surveyed them each in turn, looking vainly for some sign of encouragement, some indication that he was impressing them. Then, although no sign came, he still continued, more slowly, and in a dejected, unconvincing tone: ‘Don’t think that I’m finished! I’m comin’ up again. Ye can’t keep a good man down – and ye’ll not keep me down, however much ye may try. Wait and see what my Nessie will do. That’ll show ye that stuff that’s in us. That’s why I came here. I don’t want to know ye. I only wanted to tell ye that Nessie Brodie would win the Latta, and now that I’ve done it I’m satisfied!’ His moody eye swept them, then, finding that he had nothing more to say, that they, too, were silent, he moved off; yet after a few paces he arrested himself, turned, opened his mouth to speak; but no speech came, and at length he lowered his head, swung round, and again shambled off. They let him go without a word.

  As he left the confines of the Green and proceeded along the road nursing bitterly his wounded pride, he suddenly perceived in the distance the figures of his two daughters approaching him from the station. He stared at them almost stupidly, at Nessie and Mary Brodie, both of them his children, as though the strange sight of them together in the public street confused him, then all at once he realised that Nessie was returning from her examination, that Mary had disobeyed him by meeting the train. No matter! He could deal later with Mary, but now he desired urgently to know how Nessie had fared, to appease his wounded vanity in the knowledge of her success, and, walking forward quickly, he met them, confronted them in the middle of the pavement. There, absorbing eagerly every detail of the younger girl’s tired face he cried:

  ‘How did ye get on, Nessie? Quick! tell me – was everything all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Everything was all right.’

  ‘How many books did ye fill? – was it two or three?’

  ‘Books?’ she echoed faintly. ‘I only wrote in one book, father.’

  ‘Only one book!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ye only filled one book for all the time ye’ve been away.’ He considered her in astonishment, then, his face slowly hardening, he demanded harshly: ‘Can ye not speak, woman? Don’t ye see I want to know about the Latta. I’m asking you for the last time. Will you tell me once and for all how ye got on?’

  With a great effort she controlled herself, looked at him out of her placating eyes and, forcing her pale lips into a smile, cried:

  ‘Splendid, father! I got on splendid. I couldn’t have done better.’

  He stared down at her for a long time, filled by the recollection of the arrogance with which he had proclaimed her success, then he said slowly, in an odd, strained voice:

  ‘I hope ye have done splendid. I hope so! For if ye haven’t then, by God! it’ll be the pity of ye!’

  Chapter Ten

  It was the Saturday following that of the examination for the Latta, the time half-past ten in the morning. Nessie Brodie stood looking out of the parlour window with an expression of expectation upon her face mingled, too, by a hidden excitement which made her eyes shine bright and large out of her small face, as though they awaited the appearance of some sudden, thrilling manifestation in the empty roadway that lay before them. The face, despite its ingenuous weakness, wore something of an unguarded look, for the consciousness that she was alone in the room and unobserved allowed a freer and more unrestrained display of these emotions that she had carefully con
cealed during the course of the past, uneasy week.

  During that week her father’s attitude to her had been insupportable, alternating between a fond complacency and a manner so disturbing and threatening that it terrified her, yet she had borne it, comforting herself in the knowledge that she possessed a strategy more subtle, more effective than all his bluster and his bullying. She thought she had won the Latta, had experienced, indeed, with the passage of each of the seven days since the examination, a growing certainty that she had won it. It was impossible that all her work, the compulsory toil, all these long cold hours of endurance in this same parlour could go unrewarded, and, although a feeling of dissatisfaction with her own paper had possessed her when she left the University last week, now her confidence was completely restored; she felt that she must have taken the Bursary – to use her father’s phrase – in her stride. Still, there was always the chance, the faint unreasonable chance that she might not have been successful! It was unthinkable, impossible, yet it was against this chance that by some strange, astute working of her mind she had so cleverly formulated her precaution. They thought, both Mary and her father, that the result of the Latta would not be announced for another week – she had told them so and they had believed her – but she knew better than that, knew that the result would reach her this morning. She was expecting it immediately, for the forenoon delivery of letters at eleven o’clock contained the Glasgow mail, and from enquiries which she had made at the University she knew that the results of the examination had been posted to each competitor on the evening of the day before. She smiled slyly, even now, at the consideration of her own cleverness in deluding them all. It had been a brilliant idea, and daring too – not unlike the sudden sending of that letter to Mary – yet she had accomplished it. Her father had so crushed and oppressed her with the preparation for the examination that she had wanted room to breathe, space to think; and now she had contrived it for herself. It was a triumph. She had a whole week to herself before he would demand threateningly to see the evidence of her success, an entire week during which she could think and cleverly contrive some means of escape from him should she have failed. But she had not failed – she had succeeded – and, instead of using every moment of that precious week to prepare herself against her father’s anger, she would treat it like a hidden happiness, treasuring her secret until she could no longer contain it, then delivering it unexpectedly, triumphantly, upon their astounded ears. They would not know until she enlightened them; nobody must know, not even Mary, who had been so good, so kind and loving to her. Surely she should have told Mary? No! That would have spoiled the entire plan. When she did speak she would tell her first, but now everything must be kept secret and sealed within her own mind; she wanted no one peering over her shoulders when she opened that letter, she must be alone, secluded from prying glances that might watch the trembling of her fingers or the eagerness of her eyes.

  As she stood there, suddenly she started, and a faint tremor passed over her as she observed an indistinct blue figure at the foot of the road – the postman, who would, in the slow regularity of his routine, reach her within the space of half an hour. In half an hour she would be receiving the letter, must, moreover, be alone to receive it undisturbed! With an effort she withdrew her eyes from the distant figure of the postman and involuntarily, almost automatically, turned and advanced to the door, altering her expression, so that her features lost their revealing look, became secretive, blank, then drew slowly into a frown. This troubled frown intensified as she entered the kitchen and went up to Mary when, pressing her hand against her brow, she exclaimed wearily:

  ‘That headache is on me again, Mary! Worse than ever this time.’

  Mary looked at her sister sympathetically.

  ‘My poor, wee Nessie!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry about that! I thought you had got rid of them for good.’

  ‘No! No!’ cried Nessie, ‘it’s come back. It’s hurting me – give me one of my powders, quick!’

  From under the cover of her hand she watched Mary as she went to the white cardboard box that stood always on the mantelpiece, observed her open the box and discover that it was empty, then heard her exclaim, condolingly:

  ‘They’re all finished, I’m afraid! I’m sorry, dear! I was sure you had one or two left.’

  ‘Finished?’ exclaimed Nessie. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t do without them. My head’s bursting. I must have one at once.’

  Mary looked at her sister’s lowered face with solicitude, as she remarked:

  ‘What can I do for you, dear? Would you like a cold cloth and vinegar on it?’

  ‘I told you these were no good,’ cried Nessie urgently. ‘You’ll need to get me a powder. Go out this very minute for me.’

  Mary’s expression grew doubtful and, after a pause, she said:

  ‘I can hardly go out just now, dearie. There’s the dinner to make and everything. Lie down a little and I’ll rub your head.’

  ‘Away and get the powder,’ the other burst out ‘Can ye not do that one, little thing for me – you that’s aye sayin’ you want to help me? I’ll not be right till I get one – ye know that it’s the only thing that eases me.’

  After a moment’s hesitation during which she gazed compassionately at Nessie, Mary moved her hands slowly to the strings of her apron, and untied them even more slowly.

  ‘All right, dear! I can’t see you suffer like that. I’ll go and get them made up for you right away’; then, as she went out of the room, she added sympathetically: ‘I’ll not be a minute. Lie down and rest till I come back.’

  Nessie lay down obediently, realising with an inward satisfaction that the minute would be a full hour, that she would have ample time to receive her letter and compose herself again before Mary could make the journey to the town, wait tediously at the chemist’s for the compounding of the prescription, and return to her. She smiled faintly as she heard the front door close behind her sister; and this smile again unlocked her restraint, for that strangely artful expression returned to her face and she jumped up and ran eagerly into the parlour.

  Yes! there was Mary going down the road, hurrying – the poor thing – to secure the powders, as though there were not two still in the house hidden in the dresser drawer, and passing actually, without a sign, the postman as he made his way towards her. He had something in his bag that would bring more relief than all the powders that Lawrie could ever give her. How slow he was, though! It was, she perceived, Dan, the elder of the two postmen, who came upon this round, and the very one who used to hand in Matt’s letters with such an air of consequential dignity, exclaiming importantly:

  ‘Something worth while in that one by the look o’ it.’ No letter of Mart’s had ever been so important as this one! Why did he not hurry?

  As she remained there, she felt vaguely that under the same circumstances of excitement and anticipation she had once before stood at this window in the parlour, and she became aware suddenly, without consciously seeking in her mind, that it had been on that day when Mamma had received the wire that had so upset her. She recollected the delicious thrill it had given her to hold the orange slip within her hand and remembered, too, how cleverly she had manoeuvred to ascertain the ignorance of Grandma Brodie upon the matter. Now she did not fear that her letter would be discovered by the old woman who, half blind and almost wholly deaf, kept to her room except when the call of mealtimes withdrew her from it.

  Dan was getting nearer, leisurely crossing and recrossing the street, hobbling along as though he had corns upon every toe, wearing his heavy bag on his bent back like a packman. Still, how slow he was! Yet now, strangely, she did not wish quite so ardently that he should hurry, but rather that he should take his time, and leave her letter till the last. Everybody in the road seemed to be getting letters to-day, and all, as she desired, before she received hers. Would John Grierson have had his yet? Much good it would do him if he had. She would have liked dearly to see the chawed look upon his face
when he opened it As for herself, she did not now want a letter at all; it was upsetting, and she knew so well she had won the Latta, that it was not worth the trouble of opening an envelope to confirm it. Some envelopes were difficult to open!

  Yet here was Dan actually advancing to her house, causing her to tremble all over, making her gasp as he passed the gate carelessly – as if aware that there could now be no letters for the Brodies – then, as he stopped suddenly and returned, sending her heart leaping violently into her throat.

  An age passed before the door bell rang; but it did ring and she was compelled, whether she now wished it or not, to pull herself away from the window and advance to the door – not with the skipping eagerness that she had displayed when fetching the telegram – but slowly – with a strange detached sense of unreality – as though she still stood by the window and watched her own form move deliberately from the room.

  The letter, long, stiff, and important with a blue shield upon the back, was in Dan’s hand and her gaze became fixed upon it as she stood, unconscious of the smile which crinkled his veined, russet cheek and showed his tobacco-stained teeth, almost unconscious of the old postman himself – yet dimly hearing him say, even as she expected: ‘Something worth while in that one, by the look o’ it.’

  Now it was her hand which was cognisant of the letter, her fingers sensitively perceiving the rich, coarse texture of the paper, her eyes observing the thin, copper-plate inscription of her own name which ran accurately across the centre of its white surface. How long she regarded her name she did not know, but when she looked up Dan had gone, without her having thanked him or even spoken to him, and, as she glanced along the vacant roadway, she felt a vague regret at her lack of courtesy, considered that she must make amends to him in some fashion, perhaps apologise or give him some tobacco for his Christmas box. But first she must open this that he had given her.