by A. J. Cronin
At that instant, before I had adjusted myself to the Interior gloom, I received a smashing blow on the chest which jerked the hot Ovaltine into my eyes and threw me violently against the door, which Instantly slammed shut. Almost blinded –the high, grilled roof light gave only the feeblest gleam – I nevertheless saw enough to recognise my danger and to realise what a fool I had been to incur it. There was raging mania in Blair’s expression and in an indescribable menace in his posture as he rushed as me again, tore the empty cup out of my hand, and smashed it down on my head.
‘Geordie … for God’s sake … don’t you know who I am …? Your friend …’
He did not answer, but drove at me again. Then, with a shudder, I became aware that I was locked up with a homicidal lunatic in the place most dagerous, most dreaded in the whole asylum, a cell so isolated, so Insulated and impervious to sound, that my cries for help would never reach the gallery.
A cold wave of fear and horror swept over me. I could feel the blood from my lacerated scalp trickling down by neck. But at all costs I must try to defend myself. As Blair advanced I hit him with all my strength. Although the blow staggered him, I might as well have tried to halt a rushing bull.
I can lay no claim to be a fighter. Caution has always been the keynote of my character, and I shall have to disclose, later on, instances of lack of courage which still cause me to wince. Yet I had studied the art of self-defence and, during my service in the Navy, had been fortunate enough to spar many rounds with Seaman Hall, lightweight champion of Britain, who was then my shipmate in the destroyer Melampus.
Everything I had learned from Hall I brought out now with the intensity of desperation. Keeping away from Blair as best I could, I hit him repeatedly with a straight left and crossed my right to the jaw. He was an easy target, making no effort to guard himself, yet all that I could do failed to stop him. Normally he had far greater strength than I, and in his present state of dementia – a state which, while rendering the nervous system impervious to pain, excites the muscles to their highest pitch of action – he completely outmatched me. Again and again he charged in with flailing arms, and although many of his wild swings missed, the weight of these attacks was overwhelming. Terrifying, too, was his congested face, the look of indescribable malice in his eyes, the hoarse panting of his breath as he pressed against me. Utterly spent, I felt my head turn giddy as, with a final rush, he hurled himself upon me and flung me to the floor. Sick and dizzy, I was conscious of his fingers on my throat, compressing my windpipe, despite my struggles, choking the breath from my body. Sparks shot before my eyes, I recollected dimly how he had throttled his cousin.
At that second, while my senses swam, I vaguely heard the door burst open and, as in a dream, saw Currie, followed by two young male attendants from the adjoining gallery, dash into the cell. Even as they threw themselves on Blair and the agonising pressure on my throat relaxed, I realised that old Currie, by going first for adequate help rather than coming to the cell himself, had saved my life. And then I fainted.
Later that night Dr Gavinton put ten stitches in my head – I still have the scar – and for days afterwards my throat was so painful I could scarcely swallow.
One morning in the following month, as I walked down the avenue to attend Professor Stockman’s lecture at the Western Infirmary, a gay and cheerful greeting made me turn my head. It was Geordie – brisk, smiling, affectionate as ever. As I stood there he ran up to me and warmly, glowingly, shook my hand.
‘How are you, my dear fellow? Wonderful to see you again … simply wonderful. You know, I hated to have to knock you out. But really, it was very wrong of you to make such horrible proposals to my sister.’
I stared at him aghast, but had wit enough to mutter:
‘I’m terribly sorry, Geordie … I was carried away … I’ll never do it again.’
Often, after that, Geordie begged me to play tennis and racquets with him or stood disconsolately with the football hoping for the resumption of our Saturday games. But during the remainder of my sojourn at Lochlea I was wise enough to keep my distance.
Shall I say that I had learned never to trust a man who believes he has a sister, when he happens to be an only child?
Chapter Three
As we left the cross-channel steamer at Dun Laoghaire and hailed a jaunting car to drive us to the city, my heart expanded in the soft evening mist, filled with the intimations of spring, with the exquisite fragrance of peat smoke and that indefinable sense of growing green things which somehow is the mark and charm of Ireland. All my Irish blood effervesced as the lights of Dublin came into sight and we spanked over the Liffey Bridge down O’Connell Street towards the Rotunda.
My fellow traveller was a classmate, Hugh Devers, and before sitting the final professional examination in June we had come to take a three months’ midwifery course at the Rotunda Hospital, which was then, under the mastership of Dr Fitzgibbon, the finest obstetrical school in Europe. Fresh from Lochlea, with forty guineas of my honorarium still remaining in my pocket, I was ready to make the most of the experience. Devers was an American who had been sent to Glasgow University because his father, a doctor in Texas, had worked at one time with Professor Ralph Stockman and wished his son to study in the wards of his old friend. In Hugh’s nature, however, there was nothing of the respectful acolyte. Tall and rangy, with a wide smile that revealed strong white teeth, he had an independent, happy-go-lucky disposition which made him the best companion in the world.
In the days which followed we stole some hours, mostly at Hugh’s prompting, from our lectures and the heavy schedule of practical work. We found time to visit the Abbey Theatre, at Leopardstown we lost a few shillings on the races, and by borrowing some clubs we played a round of golf on the famous Port-marnock Links. We even drove out to the River Boyne one afternoon and tried, without success, to poach a salmon.
But it was in the slums, in the pulsing and sorrowful heart of Dublin, that most of our days and not a few of our nights were spent. This was the district served by students from the Rotunda. The work was incredibly hard. Often when we had come in, tired out from a long vigil at a protracted confinement, and were on the point of getting to bed, word would come in that we were wanted for another case, and with a burst of profanity, off we would trudge, with our black bag, along the ill-lit streets, climbing the dark stone stairs of a high tenement to a poor single room where, again, we would officiate wearily, perhaps clumsily, yet with willing care, at the great mystery of birth.
In addition, we had, thereafter, to visit our patients twice daily for a period of two weeks to wash and change the newborn babe, to learn all that pertained to the postnatal care of mother and child. Such close contact in this dreadful environment with the dolorous realism of motherhood could not but have its effect on us. Gradually we lost our earlier exuberance, became attuned to a more sober mood. Indeed, it was here, in the slums of Dublin, that I became aware, for the first time, of the patience and endurance, the sublime fortitude of the very poor. Many moving instances of courage and self-sacrifice came to our notice, and one in particular, so tender and so tragic, made a lasting impression upon me.
We first saw her on Loughran Street, fetching water from the public tap with the baby in her arms, a heavy infant of nine months, bound to her skimpy person by a tattered shawl. Her name was Rose Donegan, and she was about fourteen, red-haired, with deep blue eyes which somehow seemed enormous in her serious little face. Three other children, their ages between five and nine, hung about her skirt, a certain similarity of feature and the uniform redness of their hair proclaiming them to be Donegans also.
The contrast between the squalor of her background and the intrepid brightness of her gaze aroused our curiosity. We began by wishing her good morning, and after a few days this greeting drew from her a grave and bashful answering smile. Gradually – for her reserve was not easy to overcome – we progressed to terms of friendship.
We learned then that Rose, the three y
ounger children, and baby Michael had lost their mother eight months before. They lived with their father, Danny Donegan, in a basement in the teeming warren of Loughran Street. Danny, who worked occasionally at the docks, was a weak, utterly good-natured character. Soft-spoken and full of the best intentions, he spent most of his time and money at the adjacent Shamrock Bar. Thus it fell upon Rose to sustain the burden of the household, to keep the two rooms clean and tidy, to manage her errant father, to salvage the remnants of his earnings as best she could, to cook and attend to the children.
Although there was affection for all of them in Rose’s heart, beyond everyone she adored baby Michael. As she carried him on sunny afternoons to the outskirts of Phoenix Park she staggered under his weight, but that did not daunt her. Nothing daunted her. As we saw her go resolutely along the crowded, unsavoury pavement, bent on some errand, to bargain with the butcher for an end of ham or coax the baker to extend her credit for an extra loaf, we marvelled at the temper of her spirit. She was not blind to the sights around her. She had the slum child’s elemental knowledge – an absolute unblushing understanding of the hard mysteries of life, mingled with an innocence that was sublime. Those wide, reflective eyes, set in that small grimy face, held the wisdom of the ages. But more than that – they held a fathomless fount of love.
Our first interest in this child turned gradually to deep concern. We felt we must do something for her, and having discovered by chance that her birthday was imminent, we had a parcel delivered to her from an outfitter’s in O’Connell Street. It was good to think of her in a warm tweed dress, with sound shoes and stockings, everything to match.
We kept out of the way for a few days, but we chuckled as we pictured her in her finery, marching proudly to Mass on Sunday, her shoes squeaking magnificently down the aisle. Yet when we saw her the following Monday, to our dismay, she was still wearing her ragged clothing, still bound by her tattered shawl to the infant.
‘Where are your new clothes?’ Devers exclaimed.
She coloured to the roots of her hair, then said:
‘It was you.’ After a long pause, not looking at us, she added simply, ‘They’re pawned. There was nothing in the house. Michael had to have his milk.’
We stared at her in silence. Would she always sacrifice herself, yield everything that was hers to this baby brother? Not if I could prevent it. Next day I went to Father Walsh, who had charge of the Loughran Street parish.
His face lit up when I spoke of Rose, and after I had made my plea he considered for a few moments, then slowly nodded assent.
‘We might get her to the country for a bit. I have friends … the Carrolls … good people … in Galway. But you’ll have a job to persuade her.’ He smiled wryly as he accompanied me to the door. ‘She’s a perfect little mother. That’s the force that fills her life.’
A week later, after an exchange of letters, I went determinedly to Loughran Street. The children sat around the table while Rose, with a worried frown, was slicing the remnants of a loaf.
‘Rose,’ I said, ‘ you are going away.’
She gazed up at me without comprehension, pushing back the strand of hair that fell across her puckered brow.
‘To Galway,’ I went on, ‘for a fortnight. To a farm, where you’ll have nothing to do but feed the chickens and run wild in the fields and drink gallons of milk.’
Momentarily, expectation flooded her face, but it swiftly faded. She shook her head.
‘No, I have to see to the children … and Dad.’
‘That’s all arranged. The Sisters will take care of them. You must do it, Rose, or you’ll have a breakdown.’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t leave the baby.’
‘Confound you, then. You can take him with you.’
Her eyes sparkled. They shone even brighter when, on the following day, we packed her and her charge into the train. As the engine pulled out she was dandling the baby on her bony knees and whispering in his ear:
‘Cows, Michael …’
It was good to have news of them from the Carrolls. Rose was putting on weight, helping in the farmyard. Her own misspelled postcards breathed a happiness she had never known before – and ended invariably with a glowing account of how well the country suited Michael.
The two weeks slipped away. Then, near its end, came the bombshell. The Carrolls wanted to adopt Michael. They were a middle-aged couple, childless and prosperous. They had grown fond of the child and could offer him advantages far beyond anything he would have at home.
Danny, of course, thought the opportunity ‘stupendous’. But there was Rose to consider, and the decision was left to her. None of us knew what that decision was, or how much it cost her to make it, until she came back – alone.
She was glad to see the other children and her father, but all the way from the station she sat silent and withdrawn.
‘It’s for his benefit,’ she sighed at last. ‘ I wouldn’t stand in his way.’
At Loughran Street she pulled herself together and gradually took up her old position. She was, indeed, more conscientious than before. Under her promptings Danny actually signed the pledge. There was no guarantee of permanence in his regeneration; still, while he kept sober and in steady employment, Rose was able to redeem the pledged household goods, so that the basement rooms actually took on an air of home. Some Saturdays she managed even to tuck away a few shillings in the tea canister on the mantelpiece.
Good news came of the baby’s progress. Michael’s foster parents spared no effort to make him happy; already they spoke of him as their own. Then one morning a different letter arrived. Michael was down with pneumonia. With pale cheeks and compressed lips Rose sat staring at the letter. Then she moved rigidly to the canister on the mantel, counted out the money for her railroad fare.
‘I’m going to him.’
She brushed aside all opposition. Didn’t they know that she could do anything with the child – make him take nourishment when he was feverish and his medicine when he was fretful? Why, by stroking his forehead, she could even send him to sleep. With a fixed expression she made herself ready for the journey, arranged with a neighbour to care for the children, then set out by train for the station.
That same evening at the Carroll farm, taking no denial, she established herself as Michael’s nurse. From Father Walsh we learned afterward what took place.
It was a serious attack. The coughing was the worst. With her arm round Michael’s neck, heedless of the danger to herself, she supported him until the spasm was over. She spent herself upon him, day and night.
At last the crisis passed; she was told that Michael would recover. She rose dizzily from beside the bed, pressing both hands against her brow.
‘Now I can rest.’ She smiled. ‘I have such an awful headache …’
She had caught the germ from Michael. But it did not attack her lungs. What happened was worse. She developed pneumococcal meningitis and never recovered consciousness. As I have indicated, she was just fourteen years of age.
Many years later I made a pilgrimage to Rose’s grave. In the lonely moorland churchyard, a soft west wind was blowing from Galway Bay, carrying from nearby whitewashed cottages the tang of turf smoke – the breath, the very soul of Ireland. There were no wreaths upon the narrow mound of green, but, half hidden in the grass, I saw a tiny shoot of brier, bearing upon the thorny stem a single white wild rose. And suddenly, from behind grey clouds, the sun came forth and shone with all its radiance upon the white flower, upon the small white tablet that bore her name.
Chapter Four
‘Look, my dear! Did you ever in your life see such an absurdly comic creature!’
A smartly dressed woman, first-class passenger on the Ranaganji, about to sail from Liverpool on the long voyage to Calcutta, made this remark, in a high, ‘ well-bred’ voice, to her companion, a young man with a military yet foppish air, as they stood before me on the liner’s upper deck. Following their amused gaze, my eye
s came to rest upon a squat, very ugly native seaman, with short legs and a large disproportionate head, scarred by a cicatrice which ran from ear to temple, whom I recognised as the Indian serang, or quartermaster of the ship. He was quietly superintending the crew of lascars now completing the loading of baggage into the hold from the Mersey lighter alongside.
‘Looks hardly human,’ agreed the man of Mars, twisting his embryo moustache, with a superior smile. ‘Inclines a chap to believe, don’t you know, that dear old Darwin was not altogether wrong … what?’
I turned away silently and went below to my cabin. Three weeks before, to my inexpressible joy, I had taken my medical degree. Never shall I forget that breathless moment when, in a fever of anxiety and suspense, scanning the list pinned upon the University notice board, knowing that my small store of money was finally exhausted, that I had neither the funds nor the energy to repeat that culminating effort – sitting up night after night over my textbooks with a wet towel round my forehead till the crack of dawn – I discovered, not only that I had passed, but that the examining board had given me honours as well. Nor am I ashamed to confess to the moisture that rushed into my eyes, almost blinding me, although ‘Doggy’ Chisholm, who stood beside me and who had also passed, commented ironically as he gripped my hand.
‘Slight lachrymal-gland activity this morning, Doctor. May I prescribe a hundredth of atropine? Or a good glass of beer?’
He could afford to be lighthearted. His father, provost of Winton, owned the Laughlan steelworks.
And then, as if this were not enough, I had been fortunate enough, through the good offices of my old chief, Professor Stockman, to be appointed temporary ship’s doctor on the S.S. Ranaganji. While he was putting me through my medical ‘oral’ Stockman had decided that I was extremely run down, that the trip to India and back would set me up again.
The voyage began favourably in calm, clear weather. We crossed the Bay of Biscay without suffering unduly from the turbulent waters of that shallow sea and soon were through the Strait of Gibraltar, traversing the tranquil Mediterranean under azure skies. The Ranaganji was a stout old tub, manned by white officers, with an entirely native Indian crew. She had done fine work in the war, but since her coal-burning engines had not been lately reconditioned, she was exceedingly slow – capable, indeed, of a bare ten knots. This, however, was no defect to the young physician, for whom every day of balmy breezes, of brilliant sunshine and entrancing novelty – swift visions of foam-girt islands, the mysterious African coastline, distant white-walled villages, porpoises gambolling in the creamy wake – was an added source of sheer delight.
