Beyond This Place

by A. J. Cronin

  "Lena," he exclaimed, making his tone especially light. "Why don't you and I take a small outing to ourselves . . . tomorrow afternoon?"

  As she did not answer he continued: "A chap in my digs gave me two privilege tickets for the Botanical Gardens. It won't be wildly exciting, but it might break the monotony of our young lives."

  Her expression had changed perceptibly, and for a moment she stood very still.

  "What is it?" Puzzled and vexed, he attempted a joke. "Afraid the orchids will bite you?"

  She smiled faintly. But her stiff facial muscles barely relaxed and that look of fear, a fear of the world and of human beings, remained in her eyes.

  "It's very kind of you," she said, with her head averted. "I don't often go out. . . ."

  He could not understand her confusion, so completely out of proportion to his casual invitation. And the store was filling up again.

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  "Think it over," he said, swinging the piano stool round to the keyboard. "You can let me know if you'd like to come."

  Lena went slowly back to her counter, strangely excited. During these past six months, since coming to Wortley, she had not once encouraged or accepted the slightest attention from any man. There had been difficulties, of course, unpleasant ones, too. Harris, for instance, had pestered her when she had first come to the Bonanza, but her rigid indifference had gradually shaken him off. Then, not infrequently, she was accosted and followed in the streets as, like a young Juno, she strode home in the evenings — occasions which caused her a sickening revival of her dread, making her hasten on, with a rigid, frozen face. But this, today, was altogether different, perhaps on that account more likely to be dangerous. Had she not made for herself a rule of life, placed upon her emotions an inflexible restraint?

  And yet, as the afternoon wore on, she told herself that there could be no great harm in accepting Paul's invitation. Obviously it meant nothing to him — for that matter his attitude towards her was invariably no more than frank and friendly — he had not once given her an intimate glance, had never even touched her hand. Oh, she must not carry to excess a resolution taken under great stress and anguish of mind. When business slackened and she had an opportunity, she crossed the aisle and told him she would be glad to go, if he could call for her at two o'clock.

  Thus, after lunch, on the following day, which was fine and sunny, Paul found himself strolling along Ware Place. The locality, though near the store, was quiet and respectable. Many of the tall soot-stained houses had painted window boxes, a feature which brightened up the old-fashioned street. As he reached No. 61 the door opened and Lena, wearing a dark Sunday coat and hat, come down the short flagged path between the green iron railings to the street. In the doorway, behind, was the elderly woman he had seen that evening outside the store and who. after a moment, seemed suddenly to decide to come out to the pavement and make herself known to Paul.

  "I'm Mrs. Hanley." She smiled, holding out a hand crippled by arthritis. "I've heard about you from Lena."

  She was about fifty, grey-haired, of less than medium stature,

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  and so bent by rheumatism she had to tilt her head back to look at Paul. Despite her stiffness, she had a brisk and cheerful air, enhanced by the bird-like brightness of her eyes.

  "I'm told you are a great musician," she remarked, still searching his face with those bright eyes.

  Paul laughed outright.

  "I pound the piano a little. I'm no more a musician than the organ grinder who turns the handle of a hurdy-gurdy."

  "Anyway, I'm glad you're taking Lena out. She doesn't get about half enough. I don't want to keep you — just wanted to say 'How do you do.'" As though satisfied, Mrs. Hanley withdrew her gaze from Paul and gave Lena a tender, encouraging smile. "Have a good time."

  She hobbled back to the house, helping herself up the steps by the railings.

  When the door closed, Paul and Lena set out together. The red tram took them along Ware Street — steeped in Sunday quiet — across Leonard Square and out into the suburban grandeur of Garland Road, where red brick villas stood behind banks of laurels and prickly monkey-puzzle trees. The Botanical Gardens lay on the outskirts of this district, and at the terminus they descended and entered the big ornamental gates.

  "Might be worse." Paul smiled to Lena, after a brisk survey of the pleasant rolling lawns, the avenue of shapely chestnut trees leading to a distant lake, and the numerous ornamental greenhouses spaced within the extensive domain. "There won't be much to see outside this time of year, but let's take a walk before we do the green-houses. Incidentally, Lena, may I tell you that today you are looking extremely nice."

  She made no answer to this casual compliment. Yet it was perfectly true, and he had been conscious of it ever since she had appeared, just as he was conscious now of the interested glances which she attracted from the people who passed them as they strolled towards the lake. He had never seen her in anything but her uniform and her worn everyday coat, never properly realized what natural grace and individuality she possessed. She was a different person today — so unusual, too, with her warm complexion and thick honey-coloured hair, her graceful figure and easy car-

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  riage. Her eyes, which he had never observed before in clear daylight, were of a dark, flecked hazel. Most striking of all was the complete unawareness of her manner, a simplicity of bearing and expression which was both dignified and touching. A sudden curiosity to know more of her took hold of him.

  "Tell me about yourself, Lena . . . about your family . . . your home."

  A moment passed, then, gazing ahead towards the silver shimmer of the lake, between the tall leafless trees, in a few brief phrases she told him that she had been born in the East coast fishing town of Sleescale — probably her Swedish forebears had settled there many vears before. Her father, widowed when she was a child of seven, had been part owner of a herring trawler and, as such, he had shared in all the misfortunes of a waning industry. The seasons grew gradually worse and sometimes the boats would bring in only a few crans between them. But for the produce of their farm they would often have fared badly and this small property, set on a stony headland overlooking the North Sea, proved in the end insufficient to hold the family together. When the father died her two brothers sailed to seek their fortune on the great wheat plains of Manitoba — and they had now succeeded in acquiring a promising tract of land in Canada. While she, before they left, had secured a satisfactory position, relieving any anxietv they might have felt on her behalf. At the age of eighteen she had come to the resort town of Astbury, which lay some twenty miles east of Wortley, to work in the reception office of the County Arms Hotel.

  There was a pause when she concluded.

  "So you are the only one of your family left?"

  She inclined her head.

  "Didn't you like Astbury?" Paul asked, after a moment.

  "Very much."

  "But you left?"

  "Yes."

  There was a definite pause. He felt that she could have told him more, a great deal more, but she did not do so.

  "Then you came to live with Mrs. Hanley?"

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  "Yes." She turned and looked at him directly with an unusual depth of feeling in her wide-pupilled eyes. "I can't tell you how good she has been to me."

  "Does she rent out rooms?"

  "Not really. But she lets me have two at the top of the house. Her husband is away at sea a good deal — he's chief engineer in a tanker."

  It seemed odd that she should abandon a promising career as hotel receptionist in favour of her present position in a cheap cafeteria. Yet that was her affair, and since, despite the frankness of her gaze, her manner had become withdrawn, he relinquished the subject and, rising, escorted her towards the glass-houses where, tier upon tier, above the thick steam pipes in the warm, humid air, masses of exotic blossoms were banked.

  As they we
nt round the beautiful collection, Paul, who had no more than a cursory interest, was struck by the reaction of his companion. For once the cloud of sadness that hung over her was lifted. Taken out of herself, she began to talk with animation and an unsuspected delicacy of feeling. She noticed many things which escaped his observation, and what she lacked in learning she made up for in common sense. Her appreciation was natural, without affectation. When they stood before a young orange tree in the arboretum which bore both fruit and blossoms, she gazed at it in silence, with an unguarded air of wistfulness and wonder as though its fragrant beautv had pierced her through and through. It seemed as if she could not bear to leave that lovely tree. Watching her, he saw two tears form like crystal beads beneath her lashes. Unexpectedly, his heart swelled and he too became silent.

  They had tea in the Japanese pagoda which served as a restaurant. It was a draughty little place, full of chilly bamboo, the tea was weak and tepid, the seed-cake fit only for the sparrows which hopped expectantly about their feet. But their sense of comradeship loosened their tongues, made them forget the inadequacies of the meal. She was a restful companion, a sympathetic listener, ready to be interested in the things that interested him, and always with a sensible remark which showed him that she had understood his meaning.

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  "You haven't asked why I'm at the Bonanza." he spoke suddenly, unexpectedly, after a pause, "Perhaps you think that's where I belong?"

  "No," she answered, with downcast gaze, and added: "I imagine you have a reason for being there."

  "I have."

  She raised her eyes.

  "Some kind of trouble?"

  He nodded.

  "I hope it's going to be all right," she said in a low voice.

  Something in the simple words touched him. Her profile, serene and sad, like that of a young Madonna, her lashes casting a soft shadow upon her cheek, was lit by the lingering twilight.

  Presently they left the Gardens and set out on the journey back to Ware Place. Now Lena's expression had grown more pensive, she seemed to be debating some question in her mind. Once or twice she glanced at him as though about to speak. But no words passed her lips.

  He did not speak either for, on his part also, he was conscious of a return to reality. Outside Mrs. Hanley's house he drew up and held out his hand.

  "It's been a wonderful afternoon," she said slowly. "I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for taking me."

  There was an interval during which her glance travelled indecisively towards the windows. He wondered if she were about to ask him to come in. But she did not do so. The silence became oppressive, and still she hesitated, her eyes searching his face, her breath coming faster as though that inner desire to communicate with him had suddenly become intense.

  "Paul ..." It was the first time she had used his Christian name.

  "Yes?"

  She glanced at him, then away, affected by a painful tenseness, an actual physical distress.

  "Oh, it doesn't matter. Never mind."

  Whatever it was that she wished to say, she simply could not say it. Instead, hurriedly, she murmured:

  "Goodnight."

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  Then she turned and walked quickly up the flagged path, between the railings, to the house.

  Paul stood for a moment, even after the door had closed, perplexed by this disappointing ending to the afternoon, a little depressed, and vaguely disturbed. At last he moved off, retracing his steps through the quiet Sunday streets.

  It was about six o'clock when he got back to his lodgings. Upstairs, in his room, the Sunday Courier lay upon the table and, when he had lit the gas and washed, he opened it with his usual anticipation.

  At first he thought he had again drawn blank. But, at the foot of the last column, his eye was caught by the name he had been seeking. It leapt at him from the printed page. His heart turned over with a great joyful throb then, as his eyes dimmed, it slowly sank, like lead, within him.

  The paragraph was quite short.

  In the House of Commons, Mr. George Birley (Wort-ley, C.) raised the question of the case of Rees Mathry now undergoing a term of life imprisonment in Stoneheath Prison. Was it not a fact, asked the right honourable gentleman, that the new evidence which he had brought fores

  ward might demand a reconsideration of the case? Moreover, in view of the fact that Mathry had already served fifteen years in prison was the man not now due to be pardoned?

  Replying, Sir Walter Hamilton (Secretary of State) stated that the answer to both questions was in the negative. In the first place, having carefully considered the right honourable gentleman's submissions, he saw no reason whatsoever to interfere with the normal processes of justice, and in the second, the prison record of the man Mathry was so bad, involving several floggings for flagrant insubordination, he had thereby forfeited any right to pardon. The matter should be considered as finally and completely closed.

  Paul laid the newspaper on the table. He did not look up as Mrs. Coppin came into the room, gave him a swift glance,

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  placed a special delivery letter on Iris plate. It had just come in. Paul opened the letter, read it through steadily. It was from George Birlev, amplifying and confirming the statement in the Courier. Birley had kept his word, had done everything in his power, only to be met by an unconditional refusal. Further action, he wrote, would be utterly useless. He softened the blow as best he could, urged "his young friend" to put the whole unhappy affair out of his head forever. It was a good letter, well-meaning and unquestionably kindly. It nearly broke Pauls heart.

  CHAPTER XVII

  NEXT morning, after a sleepless night, Paul automatically drank a cup of coffee, then passed through the slushy streets to the Bonanza where he sat at the piano and began doggedlv to hammer out cheap music. The white lights, which in bad weather were kept on continuously in the store, dazzled his heavy eyes but he noticed a bunch of marigolds standing on his piano, four or five yellow flowers in a small earthenware jar — Lena, obviously, had bought them and placed them there.

  Such was Paul's bitterness he made no acknowledgement of this modest reminder of their outing, nor could he guess how long Lena had struggled with herself before she made it. But when she brought his lunch he mumbled a few words of thanks.

  His manner troubled her and, after a moment, she forced herself to look at him directly.

  "Has anything gone wrong?"

  "Yes," he answered, in a strained voice. "Everything."

  At that point, before she could question him further, she was called back to the cafeteria. As she moved away, Paul caught Harris watching out of the corner of his eye, making plav with the quill toothpick. Presently the manager strolled over, with an odd

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  expression, a mixture of malice and hostility. His tone was conversational.

  "So you and the lady friend made a little expedition yesterday?"

  "Expedition?" Paul's eyebrows contracted.

  "Sure. The girls told me you was out together. Though I must say it surprised me." Something between a sneer and a smirk spread over Harris's face. He leaned over the piano. "I thought I'd warned you about Andersen. Don't you know what we all know?"

  Paul did not answer.

  "Don't you know she had a child? And not married, either. Yes, a little bastard, that was deaf and dumb, and died in some kind of a fit — if you can believe it. Quite romantic! Talk it over, next time you go gadding out with her. She might give you the details while you're holding hands."

  In the pause which followed the sneer became predominant, then Harris nodded meaningly and, with the toothpick cocked between his teeth, walked away.

  Paul remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on the manager's retreating back. Oh, heaven, what a dirty slimy beast. So that was the reason of Lena's fits of sadness. Poor girl! He could not have believed it of her. Pity flowed into his heart, yet this pity was strangely cold, and somehow
it quenched the small warm flame that had been kindled there. All the puritan in him, the Sabbatarian strain that was the product of his upbringing was jarred and outraged by this revelation. He could not but feel that, with her quiet expression, her virginal serenity, she had imposed on him. To have kept silent upon such a matter was surely the limit of deception. He turned his face away, deliberately avoiding her eyes. God, was there no end to the misery of this day?

  That afternoon, as he sat plugging his way through the latest tango, wave after wave of bitterness swept over him. Poor Swann had been right — all hope of official help was futile, he must see this thing through on his own. And, by heaven, he would see it through. His jaw set with nervous intensity. He was not defeated. He had only begun to fight. Whatever the risk, he must make a fresh approach to Burt — now she represented his

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  only chance. If the authorities had rapped Mark Boulia over the knuckles, they had no grounds lor doing so with Burt. It was just possible that she had not been warned.

  In the evening he went straight back to his lodging, took a plain paper pad and an envelope, and wrote:

  Dear Louisa,

  I was very upset at missing our previous engagement but it was not my fault. I hope you forgive me for since we met I've been thinking of you every day. That being so, will you meet me next Wednesday at the Oak? My friend won't be with me. Be there for sure Louisa, round about seven o'clock. Looking forward to the pleasure of your society, and assuring you that I won't disappoint you as I unavoidably did the last time.