‘I’ll give you ten plagues of Egypt!’ Mrs Brindley menaced her spouse, as she wafted the boys from the room. ‘Mr Loring, do take some more of that cheese if you fancy it.’ She vanished.
Within ten minutes Brindley was conducting me to the doctor’s, whose house was on the way to the station. In its spacious porch he explained the circumstances in six words, depositing me like a parcel. The doctor, who had once by mysterious medicaments saved my frail organism from the consequences of one of Brindley’s Falstaffian ‘nights,’ hospitably protested his readiness to sacrifice patients to my pleasure.
‘It’ll be a chance for MacIlroy,’ said he.
‘Who’s MacIlroy?’ I asked.
‘MacIlroy is another Scotchman,’ growled Brindley. ‘Extraordinary how they stick together! When he wanted an assistant, do you suppose he looked about for some one in the district, some one who understood us and loved us and could take a hand at bridge? Not he! Off he goes to Cupar, or somewhere, and comes back with another stage Scotchman, named MacIlroy. Now listen here, Doc! A charge to keep you have, and mind you keep it, or I’ll never pay your confounded bill. We’ll knock on the window to-night as we come back. In the meantime you can show Loring your etchings, and pray for me.’ And to me: ‘Here’s a latchkey.’ With no further ceremony he hurried away to join his wife and children at Bleakridge Station. In such singular manner was I transferred forcibly from host to host.
II
The doctor and I resembled each other in this: that there was no offensive affability about either of us. Though abounding in good-nature, we could not become intimate by a sudden act of volition. Our conversation was difficult, unnatural, and by gusts falsely familiar. He displayed to me his bachelor house, his etchings, a few specimens of modern rouge flambé ware made at Knype, his whisky, his celebrated prize-winning fox-terrier Titus, the largest collection of books in the Five Towns, and photographs of Marischal College, Aberdeen. Then we fell flat, socially prone. Sitting in his study, with Titus between us on the hearthrug, we knew no more what to say or do. I regretted that Brindley’s wife’s grandmother should have been born on a fifteenth of February. Brindley was a vivacious talker, he could be trusted to talk. I, too, am a good talker – with another good talker. With a bad talker I am just a little worse than he is. The doctor said abruptly after a nerve-trying silence that he had forgotten a most important call at Hanbridge, and would I care to go with him in the car? I was and still am convinced that he was simply inventing. He wanted to break the sinister spell by getting out of the house, and he had not the face to suggest a sortie into the streets of the Five Towns as a promenade of pleasure.
So we went forth, splashing warily through the rich mud and the dank mist of Trafalgar Road, past all those strange little Indian-red houses, and ragged empty spaces, and poster-hoardings, and rounded kilns, and high, smoking chimneys, up hill, down hill, and up hill again, encountering and overtaking many electric trams that dipped and rose like ships at sea, into Crown Square, the centre of Hanbridge, the metropolis of the Five Towns. And while the doctor paid his mysterious call I stared around me at the large shops and the banks and the gilded hotels. Down the radiating street-vistas I could make out the façades of halls, theatres, chapels. Trams rumbled continually in and out of the square. They seemed to enter casually, to hesitate a few moments as if at a loss, and then to decide with a nonchalant clang of bells that they might as well go off somewhere else in search of something more interesting. They were rather like human beings who are condemned to live for ever in a place of which they are sick beyond the expressiveness of words.
And indeed the influence of Crown Square, with its large effects of terra cotta, plate glass, and gold letters, all under a heavy skyscape of drab smoke, was depressing. A few very seedy men (sharply contrasting with the fine delicacy of costly things behind plate-glass) stood doggedly here and there in the mud, immobilized by the gloomy enchantment of the Square. Two of them turned to look at Stirling’s motor-car and me. They gazed fixedly for a long time, and then one said, only his lips moving:
‘Has Tommy stood thee that there quart o’ beer as he promised thee?’
No reply, no response of any sort, for a further long period! Then the other said, with grim resignation:
‘Ay!’
The conversation ceased, having made a little oasis in the dismal desert of their silent scrutiny of the car. Except for an occasional stamp of the foot they never moved. They just doggedly and indifferently stood, blown upon by all the nipping draughts of the square, and as it might be sinking deeper and deeper into its dejection. As for me, instead of desolating, the harsh disconsolateness of the scene seemed to uplift me; I savoured it with joy, as one savours the melancholy of a tragic work of art.
‘We might go down to the Signal offices and worry Buchanan a bit,’ said the doctor, cheerfully, when he came back to the car. This was the second of his inspirations.
Buchanan, of whom I had heard, was another Scotchman and the editor of the sole daily organ of the Five Towns, an evening newspaper cried all day in the streets and read by the entire population. Its green sheet appeared to be a permanent waving feature of the main thoroughfares. The offices lay round a corner close by, and as we drew up in front of them a crowd of tattered urchins interrupted their diversions in the sodden road to celebrate our glorious arrival by unanimously yelling at the top of their strident and hoarse voices:
‘Hooray! Hoo—bl—dy—ray!’
Abashed, I followed my doctor into the shelter of the building, a new edifice, capacious and considerable but horribly faced with terra cotta, and quite unimposing, lacking in the spectacular effect; like nearly everything in the Five Towns, carelessly and scornfully ugly! The mean, swinging double-doors returned to the assault when you pushed them, and hit you viciously. In a dark, countered room marked ‘Enquiries’ there was nobody.
‘Hi, there!’ called the doctor.
A head appeared at a door.
‘Mr Buchanan upstairs?’
‘Yes,’ snapped the head, and disappeared.
Up a dark staircase we went, and at the summit were half flung back again by another self-acting door.
In the room to which we next came an old man and a youngish one were bent over a large, littered table, scribbling on and arranging pieces of grey tissue paper and telegrams. Behind the old man stood a boy. Neither of them looked up.
‘Mr Buchanan in his—’ the doctor began to question. ‘Oh! There you are!’
The editor was standing in hat and muffler at the window, gazing out. His age was about that of the doctor – forty or so; and like the doctor he was rather stout and clean-shaven. Their Scotch accents mingled in greeting, the doctor’s being the more marked. Buchanan shook my hand with a certain courtliness, indicating that he was well accustomed to receive strangers. As an expert in small talk, however, he shone no brighter than his visitors, and the three of us stood there by the window awkwardly in the heaped disorder of the room, while the other two men scratched and fidgeted with bits of paper at the soiled table.
Suddenly and savagely the old man turned on the boy:
‘What the hades are you waiting there for?’
‘I thought there was something else, sir.’
‘Sling your hook.’
Buchanan winked at Stirling and me as the boy slouched off and the old man blandly resumed his writing.
‘Perhaps you’d like to look over the place?’ Buchanan suggested politely to me. ‘I’ll come with you. It’s all I’m fit for to-day … ’Flu!’ He glanced at Stirling, and yawned.
‘Ye ought to be in bed,’ said Stirling.
‘Yes. I know. I’ve known it for twelve years. I shall go to bed as soon as I get a bit of time to myself. Well, will you come? The half-time results are beginning to come in.’
A telephone-bell rang impatiently.
‘You might just see what that is, boss,’ said the old man without looking up.
Buchanan went to the
telephone and replied into it: ‘Yes? What? Oh! Myatt? Yes, he’s playing … Of course I’m sure! Good-bye.’ He turned to the old man: ‘It’s another of ’em wanting to know if Myatt is playing. Birmingham, this time.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old man, still writing.
‘It’s because of the betting,’ Buchanan glanced at me. ‘The odds are on Knype now – three to two.’
‘If Myatt is playing Knype have got me to thank for it,’ said the doctor, surprisingly.
‘You?’
‘Me! He fetched me to his wife this morning. She’s nearing her confinement. False alarm. I guaranteed him at least another twelve hours.’
‘Oh! So that’s it, is it?’ Buchanan murmured.
Both the sub-editors raised their heads.
‘That’s it,’ said the doctor.
‘Some people were saying he’d quarrelled with the trainer again and was shamming,’ said Buchanan. ‘But I didn’t believe that. There’s no hanky-panky about Jos Myatt, anyhow.’
I learnt in answer to my questions that a great and terrible football match was at that moment in progress at Knype, a couple of miles away, between the Knype Club and the Manchester Rovers. It was conveyed to me that the importance of this match was almost national, and that the entire district was practically holding its breath till the result should be known. The half-time result was one goal each.
‘If Knype lose,’ said Buchanan, explanatorily, ‘they’ll find themselves pushed out of the First League at the end of the season. That’s a cert … one of the oldest clubs in England! Semi-finalists for the English Cup in ’78.’
‘ ’79,’ corrected the elder sub-editor.
I gathered that the crisis was grave.
‘And Myatt’s the captain, I suppose?’ said I.
‘No. But he’s the finest full-back in the League.’
I then had a vision of Myatt as a great man. By an effort of the imagination I perceived that the equivalent of the fate of nations depended upon him. I recollected, now, large yellow posters on the hoardings we had passed, with the names of Knype and of Manchester Rovers in letters a foot high and the legend ‘League match at Knype’ over all. It seemed to me that the heroic name of Jos Myatt, if truly he were the finest full-back in the League, if truly his presence or absence affected the betting as far off as Birmingham, ought also to have been on the posters, together with possibly his portrait. I saw Jos Myatt as a matador, with a long ribbon of scarlet necktie down his breast, and embroidered trousers.
‘Why,’ said Buchanan, ‘if Knype drop into the Second Division they’ll never pay another dividend! It’ll be all up with first-class football in the Five Towns!’
The interests involved seemed to grow more complicated. And here I had been in the district nearly four hours without having guessed that the district was quivering in the tense excitement of gigantic issues! And here was this Scotch doctor, at whose word the great Myatt would have declined to play, never saying a syllable about the affair, until a chance remark from Buchanan loosened his tongue. But all doctors are strangely secretive. Secretiveness is one of their chief private pleasures.
‘Come and see the pigeons, eh?’ said Buchanan.
‘Pigeons?’ I repeated.
‘We give the results of over a hundred matches in our Football Edition,’ said Buchanan, and added: ‘not counting Rugby.’
As we left the room two boys dodged round us into it, bearing telegrams.
In a moment we were, in the most astonishing manner, on a leaden roof of the Signal offices. High factory chimneys rose over the horizon of slates on every side, blowing thick smoke into the general murk of the afternoon sky, and crossing the western crimson with long pennons of black. And out of the murk there came from afar a blue-and-white pigeon which circled largely several times over the offices of the Signal. At length it descended, and I could hear the whirr of its strong wings. The wings ceased to beat and the pigeon slanted downwards in a curve, its head lower than its wide tail. Then the little head gradually rose and the tail fell; the curve had changed, the pace slackened; the pigeon was calculating with all its brain; eyes, wings, tail and feet were being co-ordinated to the resolution of an intricate mechanical problem. The pinkish claws seemed to grope – and after an instant of hesitation the thing was done, the problem solved; the pigeon, with delicious gracefulness, had established equilibrium on the ridge of a pigeon-cote, and folded its wings, and was peering about with strange motions of its extremely movable head. Presently it flew down to the leads, waddled to and fro with the ungainly gestures of a fat woman of sixty, and disappeared into the cote. At the same moment the boy who had been dismissed from the sub-editor’s room ran forward and entered the cote by a wire-screened door.
‘Handy things, pigeons!’ said the doctor as we approached to examine the cote. Fifty or sixty pigeons were cooing and strutting in it. There was a protest of wings as the boy seized the last arriving messenger.
‘Give it here!’ Buchanan ordered.
The boy handed over a thin tube of paper which he had unfastened from the bird’s leg. Buchanan unrolled it and showed it to me. I read: ‘Midland Federation. Axe United, Macclesfield Town. Match abandoned after half-hour’s play owing to fog. Three forty-five.’
‘Three forty-five,’ said Buchanan, looking at his watch. ‘He’s done the ten miles in half an hour, roughly. Not bad. First time we tried pigeons from as far off as Axe. Here, boy!’ And he restored the paper to the boy, who gave it to another boy, who departed with it.
‘Man,’ said the doctor, eyeing Buchanan. ‘Ye’d no business out here. Ye’re not precisely a pigeon.’
Down we went, one after another, by the ladder, and now we fell into the composing-room, where Buchanan said he felt warmer. An immense, dirty, white-washed apartment crowded with linotypes and other machines, in front of which sat men in white aprons, tapping, tapping – gazing at documents pinned at the level of their eyes – and tapping, tapping. A kind of cavernous retreat in which monstrous iron growths rose out of the floor and were met half-way by electric flowers that had their roots in the ceiling! In this jungle there was scarcely room for us to walk. Buchanan explained the linotypes to me. I watched, as though romantically dreaming, the flashing descent of letter after letter, a rain of letters into the belly of the machine; then, going round to the back, I watched the same letters rising again in a close, slow procession, and sorting themselves by themselves at the top in readiness to answer again to the tapping, tapping of a man in a once-white apron. And while I was watching all that I could somehow, by a faculty which we have, at the same time see pigeons far overhead, arriving and arriving out of the murk from beyond the verge of chimneys.
‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’ said Stirling.
But I imagine that he had not the faculty by which to see the pigeons.
A reverend, bearded, spectacled man, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and an apron stretched over his hemispherical paunch, strolled slowly along an alley, glancing at a galley-proof with an ingenuous air just as if he had never seen a galley-proof before.
‘It’s a stick more than a column already,’ said he confidentially, offering the long paper, and then gravely looking at Buchanan, with head bent forward, not through his spectacles but over them.
The editor negligently accepted the proof, and I read a series of titles: ‘Knype v. Manchester Rovers. Record Gate. Fifteen thousand spectators. Two goals in twelve minutes. Myatt in form. Special Report.’
Buchanan gave the slip back without a word.
‘There you are!’ said he to me, as another compositor near us attached a piece of tissue paper to his machine. It was the very paper that I had seen come out of the sky, but its contents had been enlarged and amended by the sub-editorial pen. The man began tapping, tapping, and the letters began to flash downwards on their way to tell a quarter of a million people that Axe v. Macclesfield had been stopped by fog.
‘I suppose that Knype match is over by now?’ I said.
‘Like to go?’ Stirling asked.
‘Well,’ I said, feeling adventurous, ‘it’s a notion, isn’t it?’
‘You can run Mr Loring down there in five or six minutes,’ said Buchanan. ‘And he’s probably never seen anything like it before. You might call here as you come home and see the paper on the machines.’
III
We went on the Grand Stand, which was packed with men whose eyes were fixed, with an unconscious but intense effort, on a common object. Among the men were a few women in furs and wraps, equally absorbed. Nobody took any notice of us as we insinuated our way up a rickety flight of wooden stairs, but when by misadventure we grazed a human being the elbow of that being shoved itself automatically and fiercely outwards, to repel. I had an impression of hats, caps, and woolly overcoats stretched in long parallel lines, and of grimy raw planks everywhere presenting possibly dangerous splinters, save where use had worn them into smooth shininess. Then gradually I became aware of the vast field, which was more brown than green. Around the field was a wide border of infinitesimal hats and pale faces, rising in tiers, and beyond this border fences, hoardings, chimneys, furnaces, gasometers, telegraph-poles, houses, and dead trees. And here and there, perched in strange perilous places, even high up towards the sombre sky, were more human beings clinging. On the field itself, at one end of it, were a scattered handful of doll-like figures, motionless; some had white bodies, others red; and three were in black; all were so small and so far off that they seemed to be mere unimportant casual incidents in whatever recondite affair it was that was proceeding. Then a whistle shrieked, and all these figures began simultaneously to move, and then I saw a ball in the air. An obscure, uneasy murmuring rose from the immense multitude like an invisible but audible vapour. The next instant the vapour had condensed into a sudden shout. Now I saw the ball rolling solitary in the middle of the field, and a single red doll racing towards it; at one end was a confused group of red and white, and at the other two white dolls, rather lonely in the expanse. The single red doll overtook the ball and scudded along with it at his twinkling toes. A great voice behind me bellowed with an incredible volume of sound:
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 65
