by A. J. Cronin
“That’s all, youngsters, for the time being. Shake hands. It was a dam’ good scrap. Now run in for the hall-door key, somebody. This little brat is bleeding like a pig.”
I lay flat on my back on the playground with the huge cold key pressed in at the back of my neck while Gavin knelt beside me with a smeared, concerned face. My clothes were sopping, the big boys were worried that the bleeding did not stop. At last, by plugging my nostrils with shreds of a torn-up handkerchief soaked in salt and water, they were successful.
“Lie still for twenty minutes, young ‘ un, and you’ll be right as the mail.”
They went away. All my classmates had gradully drifted off, all except Gavin. We were alone in the strangely empty playground, a battleground, stained, scarred and kicked up by our feet. Dreamily, I tried to smile up at him, but my plugged nose and the stiff film on my face prevented me.
“Don’t move,” he said, softly. “ I didn’t mean to hit you with my head. It was a foul.”
I shook my head in disagreement, almost starting the bleeding again. Somehow, I managed to smile. “ I’m sorry your eye got closed.” He explored the shut optic tenderly, then smiled, his warm beautiful smile, which radiated through me like sunshine.
Carefully, when the little tails of handkerchief hanging from my nose ceased to drip, he pulled them out. Then he helped me to my feet. Together in silence we began our pilgrimage to Drumbuck Road.
Halley’s Comet still flashed about the sky. Opposite his house he paused. “You can’t go home like that. Come in and have a wash.”
I accompanied him diffidently between the twin entrance lamp-posts, insignia of the Provost’s residence, each with the town coat of arms painted on the glass, then up the carefully raked drive, with shrubs on either side. The garden was large and splendidly maintained: a handyman was working beside a wheelbarrow in the distance. At the back of the villa we approached a large coach-house with an outside water tap. As we started to get the worst off, a maid in a neat black-and-white uniform viewed us nervously from the window and, presently, a lady in a brown dress came hurrying out.
“My dear boys. Have you had an accident?” She was Julia Blair, Gavin’s grown-up sister, who had kept house for his father since his mother died. After her first inquiring glance she stopped asking questions. She took me up to Gavin’s room—a beautiful room of his own full of photographs, rods and fishing tackle, and fretwork pieces he had made himself. There she made me strip off my clammy garments and, while the maid took these away, not without disgust, to wrap them in a brown paper parcel, she made me put on a good grey tweed suit of Gavin’s.
“I knew your mother very well, Robert,” she said in her kind, matronly voice. “Why don’t you come round to see Gavin when …” She glanced round, but he had been detained in the kitchen to have treatment for his eye. “ When you’re both better.” Downstairs, as she handed me my parcel at the front door, a flush came over her mature, earnest face. “We certainly don’t want Gavin’s suit back, Robert. He has quite grown out of it.” She stood alone on the steps for a considerable time watching me vanish into the dusk.
I came up the road slowly towards Lomond View. Now I felt my full weariness. I ached all over, my head was whirling, I could scarcely move my dragging limbs. And with this growing lassitude, my spirits also drooped. Gavin’s grand house had depressed me. That peculiar despondency which, in my later life, was to follow swiftly, and thus spoil, even my most apparent successes now began to gnaw at me. From the standards of perfection I viewed my recent performance with increasing dissatisfaction. After all—if the big boys had not stopped the fight …
I reached the gate and there, alone, waiting for me, was Grandpa.
A long pause. His look encompassed my pale strained features. His voice was gentle.
“Did ye win?”
“No, Grandpa.” I faltered. “ I think I lost.”
Without a word he took me to his room, and seated me in his own armchair. I broke out:
“I wasn’t feared … not after we had started …”
He drew from me, haltingly, the story of the fight. I could not understand his excitement. When I had finished, he shook me, in a kind of exaltation, by the hand. Then he rose and, taking the brown paper parcel which contained the cause of my misery, cast it square upon the fire. My green suit took an awful time to burn and made a bad smoke in the room. But at last it was gone.
“You see now,” said Grandpa.
Chapter Seven
In the wintry weeks which followed, with hard frost and long dark evenings, the feud between my two great-grandparents, which had its origin in different viewpoints and unequal privileges, continued to manifest itself in a silent struggle for possession of me.
Grandma was very cross indeed about the change of suits; she gave me a good slap and, at night, as we lay in bed together, lectured me soundly on the baseness of ingratitude, telling me I must do much better if I wished to remain “ her boy.” Her fears for my health, always grave, seemed to deepen, and I could not sneeze without her endowing me with an inflammation of the lungs against which she dosed me freely with a dark horehound-and-senna physic of her own compounding. In spite of this I was happier than I had been before.
At the Academy, my fight had helped me greatly; perhaps less my fight than my Homeric loss of blood. This threatened to become historic, for already boys spoke of events in relation to it: as before, or after, “the day Shannon had his nosebleed.” At all events, decently clad in grey, for which I blessed Miss Julia Blair, I was no longer derided. Indeed, Bertie Jamieson and his allies went out of their way to offer me signs of their regard. It was recognized that Gavin was my friend.
Gavin, as I have implied, stood apart from the other boys, not in a snobbish sense because he was better off than they—his father had an old-established corn-chandler’s business—but in his character and disposition—really, in his interior life. He played all the ordinary games skilfully, yet sparingly, for he had other tastes and recreations far beyond the common lot. In the bookcase of his cozy room were volumes of natural history crammed with glossy coloured pictures of birds, insects and wild flowers, the names printed underneath. He had a superb collection of birds’ eggs. On one wall was a framed photograph of himself, in knickerbockers, holding a great fish—his father, a noted angler, frequently took him to Loch Lomond, and the previous autumn, Gavin, not yet nine, had brought to the gaff a twelve-pound grilse.
Yet these magnificent accomplishments were as nothing beside that inner fibre, that spiritual substance for which no words suitable can be found. He was a silent boy, silent and Spartan. The firm line of his mouth, the small resolute chin, seemed to say to life, quietly: “ I will never give in.”
On the Friday following our encounter he had waited for me after class and, without words, with only a shy smile, fell into step beside me, along the High Street. After weeks of fleeing down the back ways, how I thrilled to this distinction! We stopped for half an hour at his father’s warehouse, where, in the stables at the back, we watched Tom Drin, the head vanman, dose a sick horse, recovering from the hives. Provost Blair beckoned us, on our way out through the big storerooms full of forage and cornbins, piled sacks of meal, beans, and oats, with white-aproned handymen bustling about.
“You two came together the right way.” He gave us his dark smile, an Olympian, godlike smile—and a double handful of the sweet carob pods which we called “locusts.”
As we ate our “ locusts” together, on our way home in the dusk I tried to tell Gavin how wonderful, how lucky, it was to have a father like his, which made him flush with pride—the best thing I could have said. Then, as we stood at the gate of Lomond View, he gazed towards his boots, gently kicking the pavement edge.
“When it’s spring I’m going nesting … in the Winton Hills … for a golden plover’s egg, if you’d like to come …”
Oh, the joy of being chosen, the picked companion of Gavin for these promised rambles amongst the Winto
n Hills! And a golden plover’s egg! That night I could scarcely sleep for thinking of it. A prospect of tremulous wonder was opening out before me.…
But wait.… Before I pass to these delights I must record, dutifully, a visit which introduced me to the last member of the Leckie family.
At the beginning of January, Mama, on her evening pilgrimage to the letterbox, gave a cry of joy, as if she had received a message from the archangels.
“From Adam.” She bore the letter into the kitchen, where we sat at high tea. “ He’s coming Saturday at one o’clock. A flying visit. On business.”
Reluctantly, she surrendered the letter as Papa jealously reached out. It went round the house. Only Grandpa, who seemed to set little store by the news, and Kate, whose forehead was again sulkily gathering, remained unmoved.
I found myself growing excited as Mama related what a boy Adam had been for winning marbles; how his “ head was screwed on the right way,” how he bought and sold a bicycle at a profit of ten shillings before he was thirteen; how a year later he went into Mr. McKellar’s office with no advantages whatsoever; how, after hours, he did evening collecting work for the Rock Assurance Company, how he saved all his money; how, not yet twenty-seven, he was himself established in the insurance business, representing both the Caledonia Company and the Rock, with an office in the Fidelity Building in Winton, and earning at least four hundred pounds a year, even more—Mama held her breath—than Papa, himself.
Mama also showed me, proudly, his gift: her very yellow gold brooch which—Adam himself had told her—was worth a great deal of money.
At a few minutes before one o’clock on Saturday a motor car drove up to the door. Let me create no false impressions, no false hopes—it was not Adam’s. Still—a motor car! An early Argyll model, bright red in colour, having a small brass-bound radiator stamped with the Argyll blue lion, a high wide body with handsome side seats and a door at the back…
Adam entered, confident and smiling, wearing a coat with a brown fur collar. He embraced the waiting Mama, who had been up since dawn preparing for him, shook hands vigorously with Papa, suitably acknowledged the rest of us. He was dark-haired, of medium height, and already beginning to be burly, with a fine blood in his clean-shaven cheeks from his wintry drive. As he sat down to the steak, cauliflower, and potatoes which Mama, with fervent prodigality, whipped out of the oven and put before him, he explained that Mr. Kay, a partner in the new Argyll works, had given him a lift from Winton on his way to Alexandria. They had done the fifty miles in under two hours.
While we all sat round and watched his solo banquet—we had eaten our dinner of shepherd’s pie an hour ago—he told us that he had already spent half an hour in the town, and transacted some insurance business with Mr. McKellar. His eye, small like Papa’s, but of a clear brown colour, caught mine, almost jocularly. I blushed with pleasure.
Mama, having stolen out to the hall to examine her son’s beautiful new fur-collared coat, was back, serving him adoringly.
“One thing we must discuss.” Adam interrupted his talk to smile up at her. “The old man’s policy.”
“Yes, Adam.” Papa, who was taking time off from his work, drew his chair into the table close to Adam’s. His voice was confidential, respectful.
“It’s about due now.” Adam spoke thoughtfully. “ February seventeenth … Four hundred and fifty pounds net, payable, as agreed, to Mama.”
“A nice sum,” Papa breathed.
“Very tidy.” Adam concurred. “ But we could do even better.”
Smiling a little at Papa’s earnest perplexity, he went on to explain. “If we continued the existing policy—which I could easily arrange—the amount, payable at the age of seventy-five or death if earlier, would run, with profits, to something like six hundred.”
“Six hundred!” Papa echoed. “ But that means we wouldn’t touch the cash now.”
Adam shrugged. “It’s there. The Rock Assurance is safe as the Bank. It’s a gilt-edged opportunity. What do you say, Mama?”
Mama was looking very unhappy, her hands fluttering about.
“I’ve said before … I don’t like making money out of my father … not that way…”
“Oh, come now, Mama.” Adam’s smile was indulgent. “We straightened that out long ago. He owes you it for board and lodging. Besides, look at the history of the policy. When Grandpa started it years ago, it was only a miserable five-shillings-a-month collection affair with the old Castle Company. And you know it had lapsed and was lying buried with the Castle Company when I went in with the Rock. It would still be there if I hadn’t dug it up, and persuaded McKellar, as a personal favour, to make it the basis of a new endowment on Grandpa’s life.”
Mama sighed but did not speak.
“Would you want your commission on the extension?” Papa asked guardedly.
“Well, naturally.” Adam laughed, not in the least offended. “Business is business all the world over.”
There was a reflective pause; then Papa spoke with cautious decision. “Yes … Yes, Adam. I think we should extend.”
Adam nodded approval. “You’re wise.” He opened the bag at his feet and brought out a folded document. “Here’s the policy all drawn. I’ll leave it with you, Mama. Get Grandpa to sign before the seventeenth.”
“Yes, Adam.” There was still a shade of reproach in Mama’s voice.
Although it conveyed to me a deep impression of Adam’s business acumen, I had not in the least understood this conversation. Afterwards when Papa had returned to the office, Adam found time to have a word with me, alone, before leaving for the two-thirty express.
“I hope you’ll see me to the station, Robert.” He stood up, using a quill toothpick, his small eyes genial with friendship. “I’d like to make you a little present. Commemorate our first meeting. See this.” From the coin case at the end of his watch chain he pressed out a half-sovereign and held it up between his finger and thumb. “Money … fresh from the Mint … a fairly useful commodity in spite of the disparaging remarks of those who haven’t got it. Not a bad idea to get a notion of the value of money while you’re young, Robert. Don’t mistake me. I’m not one of your stingy ones. I like to get the good of my money … eat the best, wear the best, stop at the best hotels, have everybody running after me. That’s my side of the picture. For the other … Well, look at Grandpa … not a farthing to bless himself with, bread and cheese in the attic, dependent even for his half-ounce of shag …” He broke off, glancing at his watch, smiling so infectiously I could not help smiling in return.
Waiting for him in the lobby, I found myself in warm agreement with his views on the gravities of life and the importance of money. I longed for that moment when, with jingling pockets, I, too, should walk into a restaurant and, in lordly style, order myself beefsteak, while the waiters scurried at my behest. I trembled, in joyful anticipation of the present he would buy me with that lovely half-sovereign.
“You won’t mind carrying my bag?” Adam lightly asked me, as Mama helped him into his coat.
I fervently expressed my desire to serve him and picked up the Gladstone bag, which, showing lumps that could be neither books nor papers, was more burdensome than I had expected. Mama kissed Adam again. We departed for the station, Adam walking with a springy step, while I, half running, continually changing the bag from hand to hand, managed to keep pace with him.
“Now what sort of present would you like?”
“Anything, Adam,” I gasped, politely.
“No, no.” Adam insisted. “It’s to be something you’d like, young fellow my lad.”
What generosity! What understanding! Thus encouraged, I dared to express my preference. The Common pond was safely “ bearing,” covered with four inches of good ice and, on my way to and from the Academy, I had paused to watch the skaters with the regard of one who could not attain such happiness.
“I would be very glad of a pair of skates, Adam. They have them in Langland’s window in the Hig
h Street.”
“Ah! Skates! Well, I don’t know. You can’t skate in the summer, can you?”
Disappointed, I still had to admit the logic of his argument.
“A football might be better.” He went on. “ Only trouble is you’ve got to share it with the other boys. They boot the life out of it, burst it, lose it. The thing isn’t really your own. How about a pocket knife?” Adam suggested next, acknowledging a greeting from across the street. “No, you might cut yourself. Dangerous. Think of something else.”
The heavy bag was killing me, as I sweated after him, in lopsided fashion, one shoulder weighted to the ground.
“I … I can’t think, Adam.”
“I tell you what!” he exclaimed, reflectively. “ It would please Mama if I gave you something useful. In fact——” His tone quickened with enthusiasm. “ Now I think of it, I have the very thing!”
“Oh, thank you, Adam.” I hoped that with this burden I should reach the station alive.
He looked at his watch. “Just two minutes off the half hour. Quick, youngster. And don’t bump the bag.”
He pressed ahead while I toiled up the station steps behind him. The train was already at the platform. Adam leaped into a first-class smoking compartment, took the bag, which I surrendered with a sob of relief, and burrowed in its depths. Then he leaned from the window and placed in my small damp palms a solid brass calendar, rough-hewn like a nugget, shiny as Mama’s brooch, with knobs for turning the days of the week and handsomely engraved:
Rock Assurance Company
Semper Fidelis
“There,” said Adam, as though handing me the crown jewels. “Isn’t that handsome?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Adam!” I answered in a startled voice.
The guard blew his whistle; he was off.
I came away from the station grateful to Adam, yet vaguely disconsolate, a trifle bewildered by this new possession, and the rapid strangeness of the day. When I got home I went upstairs and displayed my trophy to Grandpa, who viewed it in silence, with oddly elevated brows.