by A. J. Cronin
She got up from the beach and, feeling that she must do something, she decided to walk to Barnham. At Barnham she bought another packet of cigarettes and a morning paper, then she called in at the Merrythought and had a glass of port. What a hole! Did they really have the nerve to call it a hotel? And she was looking her best, too, she saw from a mirror advertising Bass on the opposite wall. Looking her best and no one to see her but the gnarled old woman in the Merrythought who glanced at her suspiciously and almost refused to serve her. The old woman had been feeding her hens. O Lord, thought Jenny, amn’t I ever to get away from these blessed hens?
She walked back in quite a paddy and went straight up to her room and began to read the paper. It was a London paper. Jenny adored London, she had been to London four times in her life and had loved it every time. She read all the London society news, then she read the advertisements. The advertisements were really interesting, really they were, especially those referring to experienced saleswomen wanted. Jenny went to bed thoughtfully that night.
Next day it was raining.
“O Lord,” said Jenny, staring blankly at the rain. “A wet Sunday!” She refused to go to church, mooned about the place and was snappy to Caroline Ann. In the afternoon Grace lay down and Dan went into the bam to trim some hay. Five minutes later Jenny wandered into the barn.
“Hello, you!” she called up brightly to Dan, flashing a sprightly glance at him, her feet planted coquettishly apart.
Dan looked down at her, very simple and unsmiling.
“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm, and turning his back he re-engaged himself vigorously with the hay.
Jenny’s face fell. She stood for a minute saving her pride. She might have known that Dan had no eyes for anyone but Grace, he was nothing but a turnip. Then she wandered out into the rain. Turnip, she muttered, blessed turnip.
Next day was again wet. Jenny’s discontent grew. How long had she to endure it here in this rotten beastly hole? Twelve more days; she’d never do it, never. She wanted a bit of life, a bit of fun, she wasn’t cut out for this mangelwurzel misery. She began to blame David for sending her here, even to hate him for it. Yes! it was all very well for him. He was having a gay time no doubt in Tynecastle; she knew what men were when their wives were away from them, having a rare old time while she was stuck here, here in this hole.
And in her own way Jenny began to turn the whole question of her relations with David over in her mind. She wasn’t going to stand it. Why should she? She could earn four pounds a week off her own bat and enjoy London into the bargain. She didn’t really love David in any case.
Next day the sun came out, a glorious sun, but it brought no answering warmth to Jenny’s face. The doors and windows of the farm were wide open, the lovely breeze blew in. Grace was making cherry jam, lovely cherry jam with cherries from her own orchard. Flushed and happy she moved about the big kitchen. She thought Jenny looked a little down and when she milked the one Guernsey cow she put a glass of the rich foaming milk on the table for Jenny.
“I don’t like milk,” Jenny said and walked out sulkily into the sunny yard. The bees hummed about the flowers, down in the corner Dan was chopping firewood—the axe made a lovely flashing arc—and across the fields cattle lay chewing in the shade. It was beautiful.
But not to Jenny. She hated it now, hated it and hated it. She longed for London, she had set her heart on London, she yearned for the noise and bustle and glamour of the streets. With her head in the air she marched down to Barnham and bought a paper. She stood outside the shop reading the advertisements, ever and ever so many advertisements; she was positive she could land one of them. Just for fun, she walked to the station and she inquired about the trains to London. An express left at four o’clock. In a flash Jenny’s decision was taken. That afternoon while Grace was busy making tea Jenny packed her bag and slipped out. She caught the four o’clock for London.
When Grace went to call Jenny and found out that she had taken her things and gone she was dreadfully upset. She ran down to the kitchen.
“Dan!” she said, “Jenny has gone. What have we done?”
Dan paused in spreading some of the new cherry jam upon a large slice of bread.
“So she’s gone, eh?”
“Yes, Dan! Have we offended her? I’m vexed.”
Dan resumed his interest in the bread and jam. He took an enormous bite; then, munching slowly:
“I wouldn’t be vexed, Grace dear. I don’t think she was much good, that one.” This indicated perhaps that Dan was less of a turnip than Jenny had believed.
That evening Dan squared his shoulders over a letter to David. He regretted very much, he wrote, that Jenny had been obliged to cut short her stay at Winrush and trusted that she would get home safely.
David received that letter on the evening of the following day and it caused him a definite uneasiness. Jenny had not arrived. He looked across at his mother who had come down to keep house for him. But he said nothing. He felt that Jenny must arrive next day. In spite of everything he still loved Jenny; surely she would come.
But Jenny did not come.
FIVE
Gently and tenderly Aunt Carrie wheeled Richard in the Bath chair right up to the laburnum tree on the lawn. The day was warm and sunny, and the yellow blossom dangled thick on the laburnum, turning the tree to a great yellow flower which cast a pleasant shade upon the shorn turf. In this shade, with many fussings, Aunt Carrie began to settle Richard. First there was the little plank she had made Bartley saw specially for his feet, and the hot-water bottle, an aluminium bottle since that kept the heat longest, then the Jaeger rug tucked in carefully the whole way round. Aunt Carrie understood exactly what Richard liked and it was joy for her to humour him in every whim, especially as she knew that he was “getting on” at last.
Aunt Carrie would never forget the first real indication that Richard was getting on, that day, three months and a week ago precisely, when he had spoken to her. In bed, like a great log, dumb and heavy, his eye rolling in his head as it followed her movements about the room, that dull yet living eye, a basilisk, he had mumbled:
“It’s you… Caroline.”
In the inexpressible rapture of it she almost fainted, like a mother with the first speech of her first-born.
“Yes, Richard”—clutching her breast—“it’s Caroline… Caroline.”
He mumbled:
“What did I say?” Then he lost interest. But after that it did not matter. He had spoken.
Intoxicated by this auspicious sign, she had redoubled her attentions upon him, washing him all over carefully twice a day and rubbing his back with methylated spirits every night before dusting him with talcum. It had been difficult to prevent bedsores, changing the wet sheets sometimes four times in the day, but she had done it. She was getting Richard right. His movements started to return slightly, the movements of the paralysed side, and she would rub the right arm for an hour on end just as she had brushed Harriet’s hair. While she rubbed him, his dull eye would roll up and down her figure, not without a certain slyness, and often he mumbled:
“You’re a fine woman, Caroline… But they are tampering with me… electricity….”
It was one of his delusions that they were sending electrical currents through his body. At night now he always asked Caroline to pull his bed away from the wall so that they could not send electricity through from the adjoining room. He asked her slyly, slurring and mumbling the syllables, mixing up his consonants, sometimes missing out words altogether.
There might be something in these electrical notions, or there might not—Aunt Carrie would not commit herself. She could not dream of questioning Richard’s judgment. Her idea was to interest him, take him out of himself, and this made her think of Mrs. Humphry Ward, her favourite author whom in times of spiritual stress she had found to be a true healer. So she began, every forenoon, and every evening, to read aloud to Richard, commencing with Lady Rose’s Daughter, perhaps a little s
elfishly, as this was her own favourite, and when she came to the great moment of renunciation tears dropped down Aunt Carrie’s cheeks. And Richard would stare at the ceiling or pick at his clothes or put his finger into his mouth and at the end of a chapter he would remark:
“They’re tampering with me,” and then in a low voice, “Electricity!”
With the coming of the fine weather she had wheeled Richard into the good fresh air, and as he sat upon the lawn she advanced one stage further, putting the open book into his left hand and letting him have the pleasure of reading Mrs. Ward for himself. He seemed to enjoy Mrs. Ward very much. He began by placing Lady Rose’s Daughter on his knee, pulling out his watch, looking at his watch and putting back his watch. Next he took a pencil and very clumsily, and with great effort, wrote with his left hand on the margin of the book: Start 11.15. Then he counted four pages forward and wrote at the foot of the page: 12.15×4 End of the shift. And after that he stared at the shaky, almost indecipherable writing with an air of childish triumph.
But this bright May morning, whenever he was settled, before he could ask for his book, Aunt Carrie seated herself on the stool beside him and remarked:
“I have a letter from Hilda this morning, Richard. She has passed another of her examinations. Would you like to hear what she says?”
He reflected vacantly towards the great yellow blossom of the laburnum tree.
“Hilda is a fine woman… you are a fine woman yourself, Caroline.” He added, “Harriet was a fine woman.”
Aunt Carrie, adept at glossing over such little eccentricities, went on pleasantly:
“Hilda’s progress has really been splendid, Richard. She writes that she is extremely happy in her work. Listen, Richard.” She read out Hilda’s letter, dated May 14th, 1920, and written from an address in Chelsea, reading slowly and distinctly, trying her gentle best to keep Richard interested and informed. But the moment she had finished he whimpered:
“Why don’t I get letters? …never any letters. Where is Arthur? He is the worst offender… What is he doing at the Neptune? Where is my book? …I want my book.”
“Yes, Richard.” She soothed him hurriedly and handed him his writing book. “There now.”
With the book on his knee he watched her slyly until she had picked up and was busy with her needlework, then he shielded the book against spying eyes with his curved, paralysed hand. Left-handed he wrote:
In defence of the Neptune, notes further to those composed Memorandum—a stumbling secret look at his watch—12.22×3.14 and considered thereafter…
But here a sound disturbed him and in a perfect panic of suspicion he broke off and clumsily shut the book. Ann was coming across the lawn with his milk. He watched Ann approaching and gradually his face cleared, his eye brightened until he was smiling and nodding at her—Ann was a fine woman too. Ann seemed conscious of his smile and the bobbings of his head for she gave the tray to Aunt Carrie, carefully avoiding Richard altogether, and went quickly away.
His face fell ridiculously; he became angry; he refused to drink his milk.
“Why does she go away? Why doesn’t Arthur come? What is he doing? Where is he?” The questions tumbled incoherently from his lips.
“Yes, Richard, yes,” she murmured. “He’s at the pit, of course. You know he’ll be here for lunch presently.”
“What is he doing?” he repeated. “What is he hiding from me?”
“Nothing, Richard, absolutely nothing. You know he talks to you and tells you. Do drink your milk. Oh, look, you’re spilling it all. There now! Shall I give you your book again? That’s right.”
“No, no, it isn’t right. He doesn’t understand. No head at all… and tampering with things. He’s trying to keep me here. Electricity… through the walls. If he’s not careful,” the dull eye rolled cunningly towards her, “if he’s not careful he’ll be landing himself in trouble. An accident… a disaster… an inquiry. Extremely foolish!”
“Yes, Richard.”
“I must speak to him again… I must insist… no time like the present.”
“No, Richard.”
“Take this glass then and stop talking. You talk and talk. It keeps me from my work.”
Here another sound disturbed him and this time it was Arthur coming up the drive. With the same furtive haste he handed Aunt Carrie his empty glass, then he waited upon Arthur with a great pretence of unconcern. But underneath he was trembling, shivering with resentment and distrust.
Arthur crossed the lawn towards the laburnum tree. He wore his knickerbockers and heavy pit boots and his shoulders drooped as though he had been working hard. He had, indeed, for more than a year, been pushing forward at full pressure, conscious of his own nervous tension, yet determined not to relax until he had seen it all through. At last, however, the improvements at the Neptune were near completion, the new pithead baths finished, while the combined drying and locker rooms, modelled on the latest type instituted by the Sandstrüm Obergamt, would be ready by the end of June. The entire bank stood reorganised, the old Pierce-Goff ventilators scrapped and modern air pumps substituted, the closing apparatus and winding ropes renewed, the headstocks bedded in concrete cones and fed from the new power-house. Impossible almost to recognise this new Neptune—it had lost the old slovenliness, it looked trim, efficient and secure.
What effort he had put into it! And what money! But the splendour of his creation more than repaid him; sustained him when he got worried and depressed. There had been difficulties occasionally. The men were dubious of his intentions; his war record made him an object of suspicion. Besides, his temperament often betrayed him into bouts of causeless melancholy when he felt unsupported and alone.
Such a mood hovered above his shoulder as he drew up beside Barras. It made his tone gentler, more tolerant than was usual.
“Well, father,” he said.
Barras peered up at him, with a grotesque assumption of authority.
“What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been inbye in Globe, this morning,” Arthur explained mildly, almost glad to have a word with his father. “That’s where we’re cutting now.”
“In Globe?”
“That’s right, father. There’s not a big demand for our coal at the moment, father. We’re getting out parrot chiefly—at fifty-five shillings a ton.”
“Fifty-five shillings.” A momentary gleam of intelligence came into Barras’s eye: he looked outraged, the old quality of injured probity. “I got eighty shillings for that coal. It’s wrong… wrong. You’re up to something… hiding something from me.”
“No, father. You must remember that prices have fallen.” He paused. “Pithead coal dropped another ten shillings last week.”
The light died out of Barras’s face but he continued to stare at Arthur suspiciously while the struggling of his crippled mind went on. He mumbled at last:
“What was I saying?” And then, “Tell me… tell me… tell me what you’re doing.”
Arthur sighed.
“I’ve tried to explain before, father. I’m doing my best for the Neptune. Safety and efficiency—a decent policy of co-operation. Don’t you see, father, if you give the men a fair deal they’ll give you one. It’s the first principle of reason.”
Barras’s reaction was violent. His hands began to shake, he seemed about to burst into tears.
“You’re spending money. You’ve spent far too much money.”
“I have only spent what ought to have been spent years ago. You surely know that, father!”
Barras pretended not to hear. “I’m angry,” he whined. “I’m angry with you for spending all that money. You have spent all that money wrong.”
“Please, father, don’t upset yourself. Please, you can’t stand it.”
“I can’t stand it!” The blood rushed to Barras’s face. He stammered, “What do you mean? You’re a fool. Wait till I get back to the pit next week. You wait and I’ll show you next week.”
“Yes, fath
er,” Arthur said gently. Back in the house the gong sounded for luncheon. He turned away.
Barras waited, trembling with exasperation, until Arthur disappeared through the front porch. Then his expression changed back to one of childish cunning. He fumbled beneath his rug and with a covert look towards Aunt Carrie he took out his book and wrote:
In defence of the Neptune. Inquire next week as to money spent against my wishes. It is essential to remember I am in command. Memorandum. During temporary absence from pit keep close watch upon chief offender.
When he had finished he stared at what he had written, childishly pleased. Then, with furtive innocence, he signed Aunt Carrie to wheel him towards the house.
SIX
David awoke that morning to the pleasant thought that he was meeting Harry Nugent. Usually his first waking thought was of Jenny—the strange recollection that she was gone, dissevered from him, vanished into the unknown. But this morning it was Harry. He lay for a minute thinking of his friendship with Nugent, of those days in France, Nugent and himself bent at the double, linked by the flopping stretcher, then plodding back with the stretcher heavy and sagging between them. How many of these silent journeys he had made with Harry Nugent!
The sound of his mother moving downstairs and the smell of crisping bacon recalled him. He jumped up and shaved and washed and dressed and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. Though it was not yet eight o’clock, Martha had been up an hour and more, the fire was lit, the grate black-leaded, the fender freshly emeried; the white cloth was on the table, his breakfast of egg and rashers—dished from the pan that minute—waiting for him.
“Morning, mother,” he said, sitting in and lifting the Herald from beside his plate.
She nodded without speaking—she had no habit of good morning or good night; all Martha’s words were useful words and never wasted. She took up his shoes and began to brush them silently.
He went on with the paper for a minute: the day before Harry Nugent with Jim Dudgeon and Clement Bebbington had been opening the new Institute at Edgeley; there was a picture of Harry with Bebbington stuck well in the foreground beside him. Suddenly he looked up and saw Martha brushing his shoes. He coloured and remonstrated: