by A. J. Cronin
“Laura,” he gasped. “Laura.”
“No, no,” she panted. “I want to go, I want…” As she spoke his arms went round her. They clasped each other wildly, their lips seeking each other’s. She gave a moan. Even before her mouth opened to his he knew that she was mad about him, had been fighting it all these months. A wild intoxication mounted in him. Linked together they moved to the foremost pew, cushioned and wide as any bed. Their hands moved together, her lips were moist with desire. The rain drummed upon the roof and the darkness of the church reddened and enclosed them. When it came, her cry of physical exaltation rose before the altar. The figure on the cross looked down on them.
ELEVEN
When the Derby Scheme came into force the situation between Arthur and his father had become intolerable, it was a state of unconcealed hostility. Arthur’s name was on the National Register, yet although he received his papers under the new Scheme he did not attest. His failure to attest produced no immediate comment. At the Law, by coming in late for all his meals, he avoided Barras as far as he was able, while at the Neptune he spent most of his time underground, arriving early and getting inbye with Hudspeth before Barras reached the pit. But in spite of his precautions it was impossible to escape the inevitable encounters, full of animosity and strain and conflict. When he entered the office, dirty and tired at the end of the day, Barras pretended to ignore him in great flurry of business, conveying to Arthur the unmistakable sense of how little he was needed at the pit. And then, lifting his head from a mass of papers, Barras would appear suddenly to discover Arthur and frown as though to say: “Oh, you’re there, still there?” And when Arthur turned away in silence Barras would follow him with his eyes, fuming, drumming his fingers rapidly upon the desk, wearing that flushed look of injury and high displeasure.
Arthur saw that his father hated having him about the pit. Towards the beginning of January he was forced to complain about the quality of the new timber props in Five Quarter Seam. Barras flared instantly.
“Mind your own business and leave me to mind mine. When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”
Arthur made no reply. He knew that the props were inferior, some of them quite perished at the base. He was appalled at the quality of the material his father was using. With mounting prices and feverish production money flowed into the Neptune. Yet, despite the lesson of the disaster, nothing was being spent to ensure better and safer conditions in the pit.
That same evening the Tynecastle Argus announced in double headlines that the Military Service Act had become law.
When he read the news Barras could not conceal his satisfaction.
“That’ll shake the shirkers up a bit,” he announced from the head of the table. “It’s high time we had a comb out. There are too many of them tucked away in their funk holes.” He gave a short triumphant laugh. “This’ll give them something to think about.”
It was supper, one of the rare occasions when Arthur was present; and although Barras addressed his remarks to Aunt Carrie the sting in them was for Arthur.
“It’s quite scandalous, Caroline,” he went on loudly, “the number of able-bodied young men who ought to be fighting for their country. They’ve got out of it so far by digging themselves into jobs where they’re not wanted. They’ve refused to take the hint, don’t you see, to join the army. Well, upon my soul, it’s high time they were kicked into it.”
“Yes, Richard,” Aunt Carrie murmured, with a trembling glance towards Arthur, who kept his eyes fixed upon his plate.
“I knew it was coming of course,” Barras continued in the same tone. “And I’ve no doubt I shall have a hand in the working of it. Between ourselves I’ve been approached to sit on the local Tribunal.”
“The Tribunal, Richard?” Aunt Carrie faltered.
“Yes, indeed,” Richard declared, studiously avoiding Arthur’s eye. “And I shan’t stand any nonsense, I assure you. This is serious at last and the sooner everyone realises it the better. I was discussing it with Hetty only the other day. She feels pretty strongly that it’s high time the slackers were wakened up. And weeded out.”
Arthur raised his eyes slowly and looked at his father. Barras was dressed in a new grey suit and he wore a flower in his buttonhole. Lately he had ordered himself a number of new suits, much smarter than his usual style—Arthur suspected him of having changed his tailor in Tynecastle—and he had taken to wearing a buttonhole regularly, a pink carnation usually, picked from the new plants in the conservatory. His appearance was exaggeratedly spruce, his eye bright, he had an intent, oddly excited air.
“You wait and see, Caroline,” he laughed, with immense satisfaction, “what a rush to the colours when the tribunals get busy!”
There was a silence while Aunt Carrie, in an access of distress, fluttered her glance from one to the other. Then Barras looked at his watch; the usual gesture. “Well,” he remarked in a conscious tone, “I must get along now, Caroline. Don’t let anyone trouble to stay up for me. I shall be late I expect. I’m taking Hetty to the King’s. Must carry on in spite of the war. It’s ‘The Maid of the Mountains,’ very good I’m told, the full London company. Hetty is tremendously keen to see it.” He rose, fingering the flower in his buttonhole. Then, ignoring Arthur, but with a brisk nod to Caroline, he strode out of the room.
Arthur remained seated at the table, perfectly still and silent. He was well aware that Hetty and his father went about together a great deal: the new suits, the buttonhole, the spurious veneer of youth were all indicative of that fact. It had begun in an attitude of reparation—Arthur had treated Hetty shamefully, and the obligation of “making it up to Hetty” had devolved upon Barras. Yet Arthur suspected that the relationship had progressed beyond the bounds of mere amendment. He did not know. He sighed heavily at his own thoughts. That sigh made Aunt Carrie stir uneasily.
“You’ve eaten scarcely anything to-night, Arthur,” she murmured. “Why don’t you have some of this trifle?”
“I’m not hungry, Aunt Carrie.”
“But it’s so good, my dear,” she remonstrated in her troubled voice. He shook his head silently, seeing her through his pain. He had a sudden impulse to unburden himself to her, to pour out the whole affliction that lay upon his mind. But he restrained himself, he saw clearly that it would be purposeless. Aunt Carrie was kind, she loved him in her own way, yet her timidity, her awe of his father, rendered her incapable of helping him.
He got up from the table and went out of the dining-room. In the hall he stood with head bent, undecided. At a moment such as this his gentle nature thirsted for sympathy. If only Hetty had been here… a lump came into his throat… he felt lost and helpless. Turning, he went slowly upstairs. And then, as he passed his mother’s room, he stopped suddenly. With a spontaneous gesture he put his hand upon the door knob and entered the room.
“How are you to-night, mother?” he asked.
She looked round sharply, propped up on her pillows, her pale fat face both querulous and questioning.
“I have a headache,” she answered. “And you gave me such a start opening the door so sharp.”
“I’m sorry, mother.” He sat down quietly on the edge of the bed.
“Oh no, Arthur,” she protested. “Not there, my dear, I can’t bear anyone sitting on my bed, not with this headache, it worries me so.”
He stood up again, flushing slightly.
“I’m sorry, mother,” he said once more. He made himself see her point of view, refusing to let himself be hurt. She was his mother. Out of subliminal depths a memory of early tenderness affected him, a vague sensation of her bending over him, her lace gown open and drooping upon him, enclosing and protecting him. Now he yielded to that childish recollection and, craving her loving kindness, he exclaimed in a broken voice:
“Mother, will you let me talk something over with you?”
She considered him querulously.
“I have such a headache.”
“It won’t take lo
ng. Oh, I do want your advice.”
“No, no, Arthur,” she protested, closing her eyes as though his eagerness startled her. “Really, I can’t. Some other time perhaps. My head does ache so frightfully.”
He drew back, silenced, his whole expression altered by the rebuff.
“What is it, do you think, Arthur,” she went on with closed eyes, “that keeps on giving me these headaches? I’ve been wondering if it’s the gun-fire in France, the vibrations, you know, travelling through the air. Of course I can’t hear the firing, that I do fully understand, but it has occurred to me that the vibrations might set up something. Naturally that wouldn’t explain my backache and that has been quite bad lately, too. Tell me, Arthur, do you think the gun-fire has any influence?”
“I don’t know, mother,” he answered heavily and paused, collecting himself. “I should hardly think it could affect your back.”
“Mind you, I’m not complaining too much about my back. The liniment Dr. Lewis has given me helps it tremendously. Aconite, belladonna and chloroform. I read the prescription, three deadly poisons. Isn’t it strange that poison should be so beneficial externally? But what was I saying? Oh yes, the vibrations. I was reading in the paper only the other day that they were responsible for the heavy rain we’ve been having lately. That seems to prove my point. It shows that they are, well, about. And Dr. Lewis tells me there is a distinct condition known as gun headache. Of course the root cause of the whole thing is nerve exhaustion. That’s always been my trouble, Arthur dear, sheer nerve exhaustion.”
“Yes, mother,” he agreed in a low voice.
There was another slight pause, then she began to talk again. For half an hour she talked of her own condition, then raising her hand suddenly to her head she begged him to leave the room as he was tiring her. He obeyed in silence. Fifteen minutes later as he came back along the corridor he heard the loud sound of her snoring.
The sense of being isolated in his own trouble grew upon Arthur as the days passed, the sense of being cut off from the other people, almost of being outcast. Instinctively he began to curtail the sphere of his activities. He went out only to his work, and even there he caught strange glances directed towards him—from Armstrong and Hudspeth, from certain of the men. In the streets on his way to and from the Neptune abuse was frequently shouted after him. His differences with his father were common knowledge and were attributed to his refusal to join up. Barras had not hesitated to define his views openly; his firm and patriotic attitude was applauded on all sides; he was considered to be doing a fine thing in refusing to allow his natural feeling to interfere with his sense of what was due in this great national emergency. It paralysed Arthur to realise that the whole town was watching the conflict between his father and himself.
During February things steadily got worse, then in the middle of March the Sleescale Tribunal came into action. The Tribunal was made up of five members, James Ramage, Bates the draper, old Murchison, the Rev. Enoch Low of New Bethel Street Chapel and Richard Barras, who, by a unanimous vote, was elected Chairman. Besides these five there was the Military Representative, Captain Douglas from Tynecastle Barracks, a standing Counsel on behalf of the Army authorities. Rutter, the clerk to the Sleescale Town Council, acted as clerk to the Tribunal.
With a strained and painful interest Arthur watched the early activities of the Tribunal. He was not long in doubt of its severity; case after case was refused exemption. Douglas was a hardened autocrat, he had a way of browbeating applicants, then looking up and declaring summarily: “I want that man”; Ramage and his father were both swollen with unbridled patriotism; the others were of little account. The line taken was extreme. The Tribunal argued that since the applicant had to prove an objection to combatant service it was only from combatant service they could exempt him. Combatant service became the vital issue; and the alternative to service was prison.
As the days passed Arthur’s indignation rose passionately against the arbitrary methods of the Tribunal. With a pale suppressed face he observed his father return from the administration of justice. Barras’s mood was invariably elated, and for Arthur’s benefit he often described to Caroline the choicer incidents of the session. On the last day of March Barras came home in exactly this fashion, late for tea, but in an even greater flow of spirits than usual. Ostentatiously disregarding Arthur he sat down and helped himself largely to hot buttered toast. Then he led off with the case which had most engaged him that afternoon: a young divinity student claiming exemption on religious grounds.
“Do you know what Ramage’s first question was?” he remarked with his mouth full of soft toast. “He asked him if he ever took a bath.” He paused in his mastication to laugh triumphantly. “But Douglas went one better than that. Douglas gave me a side look, then he barked at him: ‘Do you know that a man who refuses military duty is liable to be shot?’ That got him all right. You should have seen him crumple up. He agreed to join up. He’ll be in France in three months.” He laughed again.
Arthur could stand it no longer. He jumped up from the table, pale to the lips.
“You think it’s amusing, don’t you? You like to feel you’ve shoved a gun into his hands against his will. You’re glad you’ve forced him to go out and shoot, kill, murder somebody in France. Kill or be killed. What a lovely motto. You ought to have it made into a banner and hung above your seat at the Tribunal. It suits you. I tell you it suits you. But I’ve got some respect for human life if you haven’t. You won’t frighten me into killing. You won’t, you won’t.” Panting, Arthur broke off. With a hopeless gesture he swung round and made for the door, but as he did so Barras stopped him.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You and I have got to have a talk.”
Arthur turned; he heard Aunt Carrie catch her breath.
There was a pause.
“Very well,” Arthur said in a suppressed voice. He came back and sat down again.
Barras helped himself to more toast and ate steadily with his eyes in front of him. Aunt Carrie had turned a sickly grey. She endured the silence for a few moments in a palpitating agony; then she could bear it no longer. She excused herself in a trembling voice, rose hurriedly and went out of the room.
Barras finished his tea, wiped his mouth with a restless movement, then fixed Arthur with that full, injected eye.
“It’s just this,” he said in a contained tone. “For the last time, are you going to join the army?”
Arthur returned his father’s look; his face was very pale but quite determined. He answered:
“No.”
A pause.
“I’d like to make it quite clear that I don’t need you at the Neptune.”
“Very well.”
“Doesn’t that help you to change your mind?”
“No.”
Renewed pause.
“In that case, Barras said, “you might as well know that your case will come up before the Tribunal on Tuesday of next week.”
A sickening sense of apprehension rushed over Arthur. His eyes fell. In his secret heart he had not expected his father to go as far as this. Though he had no official position at the Neptune he had imagined himself outside the scope of the present Act.
“It’s about time you realised that being my son isn’t going to protect you,” Barras went on heavily. “You’re a young, fit man. You have no excuse. My views are well known. I’m not going to have you hide behind my back any longer.”
“You imagine you can force me into the army that way,” Arthur said in a shaking voice.
“I do. And it’s the best thing that could happen to you.”
“You’re quite mistaken.” Arthur felt himself trembling violently inside. “You think I’m afraid to go before the Tribunal?”
Barras gave his short laugh.
“Exactly!”
“Then you’re wrong. I’ll go. I’ll go.”
The blood rose to Barras’s brow.
“In that case you’ll be dealt with like any
ordinary shirker. I’ve talked it over with Captain Douglas. There’ll be no preferential treatment. My mind is made up. You’ll have to go to the army just the same.”
There was a silence.
“What are you trying to do to me?” Arthur asked in a low tone.
“I’m trying to make you do your duty.” Barras rose abruptly. He stood for a moment by the sideboard, erect, with his chest thrown out. “Get into Tynecastle to-morrow and join up. For your own sake. Join up before you’re made to. That’s my last word.” And he walked out of the room.
Arthur remained seated at the table. He still felt himself trembling and he leaned his elbow upon the table, supporting his head upon his hand.
Aunt Carrie, stealing back into the room ten minutes later, found him in this attitude. She came forward and slipped her arm round his bowed shoulders.
“Oh, Arthur,” she whispered, “it’ll never do to go against your father. You must be reasonable. Oh, for your own sake you must.”
He did not answer but continued to stare palely in front of him.
“You see, Arthur dear,” Aunt Carrie went on appealingly, “there’s some things you can’t stand out against. No one understands that better than me. You’ve just got to give in whether you like it or not. I’m so fond of you, Arthur. I can’t see you ruin your whole life. You must do what your father wants, Arthur.”
“I won’t,” he said, as though to himself.
“Oh no, Arthur,” she pleaded, “don’t go on like that. Please, please. I’m afraid something awful will happen. And think of the disgrace, the terrible disgrace. Oh, promise me you’ll do what your father wants.”