by A. J. Cronin
Arthur thought for another minute, then he asked:
“You haven’t seen Todd since we had the disaster at the pit?”
“No, I haven’t,” Barras replied shortly.
There was a pause.
“It always struck me as odd, father, that you didn’t ask Todd to come over and support you at the Inquiry.”
Barras turned sharply.
“Support! What do you mean, support? The findings were pretty satisfactory, weren’t they?”
“Satisfactory?”
“That’s what I said,” Barras snapped. He took out his handkerchief and flicked a fine spot of dust from the radiator. “Are you coming to Tynecastle or not?”
With his eyes on the ground Arthur said:
“Yes, I’ll come, father.”
There was a silence, then the gong sounded. Arthur followed his father in to lunch, Barras walking a little faster than usual. To Arthur it seemed almost as though he were hurrying; lately his father’s walk had briskened to a point where it simulated haste.
“A remarkably fine car,” Barras informed the table, looking down towards Aunt Carrie. “You must come for a spin one of these days, Caroline.”
Aunt Caroline coloured with pleasure but before she could answer Barras had picked up the paper, a special edition which Bartley had brought down from Tynecastle. Rapidly scanning the centre page he said with sudden satisfaction:
“Aha! Here is some news for you. And good news, too.” His pupils dilated slightly. “A serious repulse for the Germans on the Marne. Heavy losses. Enfiladed by our machine-gun fire. Enormous losses. Estimated at four thousand killed and wounded.”
It struck Arthur that his father seized upon these losses, upon the slaughter of these four thousand men with a queer unconscious avidity. A faint shiver passed over him.
“Why, yes,” he said in an unnatural tone, “it is enormous. Four thousand men. That’s about forty times the number we lost in the Neptune.”
Dead silence. Barras lowered his paper. He fixed his protruding eyes upon Arthur. Then in a high voice he said:
“You have an odd sense of values, to mention our misfortune at the pit in the same breath as this. If you don’t give over brooding about what is done with and forgotten you’ll become morbid. You must take yourself in hand. Don’t you realise we are facing a national emergency?” He frowned and resumed his paper.
There was another silence. Arthur choked down the rest of his lunch and immediately went upstairs. He sat down on the edge of his bed and stared moodily out of the window. What was happening to him? It was true enough, no doubt, what his father said. He was becoming morbid, horribly morbid, but he could not help it. One hundred and five men had been killed in the Neptune pit. He could not forget them. These men lived with him, ate with him, walked with him, worked with him. They peopled his dreams. He could not forget them. All this carnage, as his father named it, this horrible carnage, this slaughter of thousands of men by shells, bullets, bombs and shrapnel seemed merely to intensify and swell his morbid introspection. The war was nothing by itself. It was the echo, the profound reverberation of the Neptune disaster. It was at once a new horror and the same horror. The war victims were the pit victims. The war was the Neptune disaster magnified to gigantic size, a deepening of the first flood, a spreading of the morass in which was sunk the beautiful ideal of the preciousness of human life.
Arthur moved uneasily. Lately his own thoughts terrified him. He felt his mind a delicate flask in which terrific thoughts were agitated and convulsed like chemicals which might coalesce and suddenly explode. He felt himself unable to withstand the action and reaction of these chemically active thoughts.
What terrified him most of all was his attitude towards his father. He loved his father, he had always loved and admired his father. And yet he found himself repeatedly at his father’s elbow, watching, criticising, observing carefully and adding one observation to another like a detective spying upon God. He wanted with all his soul to abandon this unholy espionage. But he could not: the change in his father made it impossible. He knew his father to be changed. He knew it. And he was afraid.
He sat on his bed thinking for a long time. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. He felt tired suddenly as though he must have sleep. It was late afternoon when he awoke. As he recollected himself he sighed and got up and began to dress.
At six o’clock he went downstairs and found his father waiting for him in the hall. As Arthur approached Barras looked at his watch significantly, lately he had acquired a perfect mannerism with his watch, flicking it open and frowning at the dial like a man pressed for time. Indeed time seemed to have acquired a new significance for Barras now, as though every moment must be utilised.
“I was afraid you were going to be late.” And without waiting for an answer he led the way to the car.
When Arthur got into the car with his father and they glided off in the direction of Tynecastle he felt less despondent. It was, after all, rather pleasant to be going out like this. He hadn’t seen Hetty for ages, his spirits rose at the thought of seeing her. The car behaved beautifully too, he was not insensible to the gracious springing, the smooth flow of movement. He glanced sideways at his father. Barras was seated upright with a pleased expression on his face, an intent expression, like a child with a new toy.
They drove into Tynecastle. The streets were crowded, reflecting a certain movement and unrest which seemed to gratify Barras. At the Central Hotel the head porter opened the door of the car with a kind of flourish head porters reserve for expensive cars. Barras nodded to the hotel porter. The porter saluted Barras.
They went into the lounge, which was crowded and rather restless like the streets. Many of the men were in uniform. Barras let his eye rest upon the men in uniform with approval.
Then Hetty signalled them gaily from a corner of the lounge, a good corner by the fireplace, and Alan her brother stood up as Barras and Arthur came over. The first thing Barras said was:
“Where is your father?”
Alan smiled. He looked very well in his second lieutenant’s uniform and very light-hearted because he was already a few drinks to the good.
“Father’s got the old complaint. A touch of the jaundice, Sent his regrets.”
Barras looked put out, his face fell.
A distinct silence followed; but Barras quickly recovered himself. He smiled vaguely at Hetty. In a moment the four of them went in to dinner.
In the restaurant Barras picked up his napkin and let his eyes go round the room, which was filled with people and gaiety. Most of the gayest people were in khaki. He said:
“This is very pleasant. I’ve had a certain amount of strain lately. I’m glad to have some recreation for a change.”
“You’re glad it’s all settled,” Alan said, looking at Barras rather knowingly.
Barras said shortly:
“Yes.”
“They’re just a lot of twisters,” Alan went on. “They’d twist you if they got the chance. I know that Heddon, he’s a swine. He’s paid to be a swine, but he is a natural-born swine as well!”
“Alan!” Hetty protested, with her little pout.
“I know, Hetty, I know,” Alan said airily. “I’ve had to do with men. You’ve got to get them down or else they’ll get you down. It’s self-preservation.”
Covertly, Arthur looked at his father. Something of the old frozen expression was back on Barras’s face. He seemed trying to adapt himself to a new outlook. With a definite attempt to turn the conversation he said:
“You leave on Monday, Alan?”
“That’s right.”
“And glad to get into it, I suppose?”
“Certainly,” Alan agreed loudly. “It’s a regular lark.” The wine waiter came over. Barras took the red-covered list and meditated over it. Yet he was not so much debating with the wine list as debating with himself. But at length he took a decision.
“I think we ought to have a little celebration.
After all this is an occasion.” He ordered champagne and the waiter bowed himself away.
Hetty looked pleased. She had always been slightly in awe of Barras, his formality and aloof dignity had somehow intimidated her. But to-night he was surprising, with his sudden exciting hospitality. She smiled at him, the sweetest, respectful smile.
“This is nice,” she murmured. She fingered her beads with one hand and the stem of her full wine-glass with the other. She turned to Arthur: “Don’t you think Alan suits his uniform beautifully?”
Arthur forced a smile:
“Alan would look well in anything.”
“Oh, no, but seriously, Arthur, don’t you think the uniform sets him off?”
Arthur said with stiff lips:
“Yes.”
“It’s the very devil answering salutes,” Alan remarked complacently. “Wait till you get into the Women’s Emergency Corps, Hetty, you’ll know all about it.”
Hetty took another tiny sip of her champagne. She reflected, her pretty head atilt.
“You’d look simply gorgeous in uniform yourself, Arthur.”
Arthur went absolutely cold inside. He said:
“I don’t see myself in uniform, somehow.”
“You’re slim you see, Arthur, you’ve really got a good figure for a Sam Browne. And your colouring, too. You’d be marvellous in khaki.”
They all looked at Arthur. Alan said:
“It’s a fact, Arthur. You’d have knocked ’em good and proper. You ought to have been coming out with me.”
For no reason that he could determine, Arthur felt himself trembling. His nerves were overstrung, he saw the whole evening as abnormal and abominable. Why was his father here, sitting in this crowded hotel drinking champagne, sanctioning Alan Todd’s patriotic bluster, so restless and unlike himself?
“D’you hear, Arthur?” Alan said. “You and I ought to be in the show together.”
Arthur compelled himself to speak. He struggled to speak lightly.
“I expect the show will get on without me, Alan. I’m not very keen on it to tell you the truth.”
“Oh, Arthur!” Hetty said, disappointed. Because she regarded Arthur as her own property she liked him always to show up well, to shine, as she phrased it. And this last remark of Arthur’s was not a very shining one. She screwed up her vivacious little face, fascinating and disapproving. “That’s a ridiculous way to talk, Arthur. Why, anyone that didn’t know you would imagine you were scared.”
“Nonsense, Hetty,” Barras said indulgently. “Arthur just hasn’t had time to think it out. One of these days you may see him making a dash for the nearest recruiting office.”
“Oh, I know!” Hetty said, warmly casting down those ingenuous eyes, a little sorry for having spoken.
Arthur said nothing. He sat with his eyes on his plate. He refused champagne. He refused dessert. He let the others talk on without him.
An orchestra struck up at the far end of the room where there was a clear space of floor waxed and ready for dancing. The orchestra played “God save the King” very loudly, and everyone stood up with a loud clatter of chairs and there was loud and prolonged cheering at the end, then the orchestra began not so loudly to play dance music. They always had dancing at the Central on Saturday nights.
Hetty smiled across at Arthur: they were both good dancers, they loved dancing together. Hetty had often been told what a charming couple she and Arthur made when dancing together. She waited for him to ask her to dance. But he sat there with his eyes glumly fixed on his plate, and he did not ask Hetty.
His moodiness became quite obvious at last and Alan, always ready to oblige, leaned across to Hetty.
“Care to take the old war-horse for a walk, Hetty?”
Hetty smiled with more than her usual vivacity. Alan was a bad dancer, a heavy dancer, he did not like dancing, and it was not the least pleasure for Hetty to dance with him. But Hetty pretended that she was pleased; she got up, and she and Alan danced together.
While they were dancing Barras said:
“She is a nice little thing, Hetty. So modest and yet so full of spirits.” He spoke pleasantly, more restfully; since his dinner and the champagne he seemed more quiescent.
Arthur did not answer; out of the corner of his eye he watched Hetty and Alan dancing and he tried hard to overcome his incomprehensible mood.
When Hetty and Alan came back, he did, for politeness’ sake, ask her to dance. He asked her stiffly, still chilled and hurt inside. It was wonderful dancing with Hetty, she was soft in his arms and the perfume that was herself seemed to flow into him with every movement of her body, yet because it was so wonderful he swore perversely he would dance this one dance and no more.
Afterwards Hetty sat beating time to the music with her neat slippered foot, until at last she could bear it no longer. With that fetching expression of vivacious distress:
“Is nobody going to dance tonight?”
Arthur said quickly:
“I’m tired.”
There was a silence. Suddenly Barras said:
“If I were any use to you, Hetty, I’m at your disposal. But I’m afraid I don’t know any of these new steps.”
She stared at him doubtfully, rather taken aback.
“But it’s quite easy,” she said. “You simply walk.”
He had the new smile, the vague, rather pleased, smile upon his face.
“Well, if you are not afraid, by all means let us try.” He rose and offered her his arm.
Arthur sat perfectly rigid. With a set face he stared at the figures of his father and Hetty moving slowly in each other’s arms at the end of the room. His father had always treated Hetty with a patronising aloofness and Hetty had always been timid and deferential to his father. And now they were dancing together. He distinctly saw Hetty smile, her uplifted flirtatious smile, the smile of a woman who is flattered by the attention she is receiving.
Then he heard Alan speak to him, asking him to go out, and mechanically he rose and went out with Alan. Now Alan was certainly not sober. He glowed. In the lavatory he faced Arthur, wavering slightly on his feet.
“Your old man’s loosened up a treat to-night, Arthur; I wouldn’t have believed it; given the old war-horse a marvellous send off.”
He turned on both taps so that they ran at full strength into the basin, then he swung round to Arthur again. He said with great confidence:
“Y’know, Arthur, my old man was pretty sick at your old man for not asking him over to back him up at the Inquiry. Never said much, but I know, the old war-horse knows, Arthur.”
Arthur stared at Alan uneasily.
“No need to worry, you know, Arthur.” Alan waved a hand with wise and friendly confidence. “Not the slightest need to worry, Arthur. All between friends you know, all between the best of old friends.”
Arthur continued to stare at Alan. He was speechless. A great confusion of doubt and uncertainty and fear rushed over him.
“What are you trying to say?” he asked at length.
Suddenly the lavatory basin overflowed and all the water came gushing over the floor, flowing, flowing over the floor.
Arthur’s eyes turned to the flooding water dazedly. The water in the Neptune pit had flooded like that, flooded through those tortuous and secret channels of the mine, drowning the men in horror and darkness.
His whole body was shaken by a spasm. He thought passionately: I mean to discover the truth. If it kills me I will discover the truth.
THREE
In the car on the way home Arthur waited until they were clear of the traffic of Tynecastle, then as they hummed along the straight stretch of silent road between Kenton and Sleescale he said quickly:
“There’s something I want to ask you, father.”
Barras was silent for a moment; he sat in his corner supported by the soft upholstery, his features masked by the interior dimness of the car.
“Well,” he said, unwillingly. “What is it you want?”
“It’s about the disaster.”
Barras made a movement of displeasure, almost of repugnance. Arthur felt rather than saw the gesture. There was a silence, then he heard his father say:
“Why must you keep on with that subject? It’s extremely distasteful to me. I’ve had a pleasant evening. I enjoyed dancing with Hetty, I’d no idea I should master these steps so well. I don’t want to be bothered with something which is completely settled and forgotten.”
Arthur answered in a burning voice.
“I haven’t forgotten it, father. I can’t forget it.”
Barras sat quite still for a moment.
“Arthur, I wish to God you would give this over.” He spoke with a certain restraint as though forcing this restraint upon a rising impatience; the result was the injection of a gloomy kindness into his words. “Don’t think I haven’t seen it coming. I have. Now listen to me and try to be reasonable. You’re on my side of the affair, aren’t you? My interests are your interests. You’re nearly twenty-two now. You’ll be my partner in the Neptune very shortly. Whenever this war is over I intend to see to it. When every living soul has forgotten about the disaster don’t you think it’s madness for you to keep harping on it?”
Arthur felt sick. In reminding him of his interest in the Neptune it was as if his father had offered him a bribe. His voice trembled.
“I don’t look on it as madness. I want to know the truth.”
Barras lost his self-control.
“The truth,” he exclaimed. “Haven’t we had an Inquiry? Eleven days of it, with everything investigated and settled. You know I was exonerated. There’s the truth for you. What more do you want?”
“The Inquiry was an official inquiry. It’s very easy to suppress facts at that kind of Inquiry.”
“What facts?” Barras burst out. “Have you gone out of your mind?”
Arthur stared straight in front of him through the glass partition at the stiff outlines of Bartley’s back.