The Other Passenger

by John Keir Cross

  Eddie rose to his feet, blinking. He motioned the waiter to bring our bill.

  “It was morals, you see,” he said, as we made our way slowly to the cloakroom. “Morals. Just like I told you. Joe argued, you see, that Ann was his girl—she was his property, so to speak. He couldn’t keep Woody from muscling in if he wanted to—but he could do his damnest to make his property damned unattractive for anyone that did not want to muscle in. See what I mean? He felt he was entitled to do that—and I suppose he almost was—according to our sort of morals, at any rate. Of course, maybe you won’t understand that, but anyway, there it was.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” I said incredulously, “that Joe knew what he was going to do to Ann and then went and brought her flowers? My God!”

  “Why not?” shrugged the little man. “He had to clear himself somehow. Besides—he was an Irishman . . .”

  There was silence between us for a moment. Then Eddie sighed deeply.

  “Poor Woody,” he said. “He had his operation, of course—to the throat. God knows why he insists on singing these days—his voice has gone, if ever a voice had. It was just as well for Joe his razor-blade didn’t go any deeper. If he’d killed Woody he’d have swung, or at least had a sentence for Manslaughter—as it was he got away with a spell for Grievous Bodily Harm. He missed the jugular by a hairsbreadth . . .”

  At this moment, as we stood by the cloakroom of the Club putting on our coats, I saw, coming towards us along the corridor, Woody Hunter, the band leader. He was escorting the girl in the mauve frock—and she still wore her mask. They nodded to Eddie as they passed us.

  “Good night, Woody,” said the little man cheerfully. “ ’Night, Cyclamen darling.”

  “My God!” I whispered. “I’ve suddenly seen it! The mask! I see now why she wears it. Because of——”

  “Of course,” said Eddie. “Well, I ask you! You could hardly appear in public with a razor scar all down your face, now could you? Woody’s different, fortunately—his hardly shows if he keeps his head down. A wonderful girl, Cyclamen—wonderful. Of course, she’s married now.”

  “To Woody?” I asked.

  Eddie stopped short and stared at me. His blue eyes were wide, his brow was slightly puckered. He was Innocence personified—a little sad, a little puzzled, and very, very eager to explain.

  “Oh no,” he said. “You don’t understand. How could she have married Woody? I told you it was different—it’s all morals—all of it—and different morals. You’ll never understand anything if you don’t grasp that. It’s the way people behave, the way they really behave. I said they were ruddy queer . . . Ann married Joe Mulvaney. Who else could she marry? She was waiting for Joe the day he came out of prison. And they were married straight away by a special licence from the Bishop of London. A lovely wedding too, it was—I was there—I wrote a special song for them. The flowers! Oh boy—I never saw such flowers! And most of them was cyclamen plants. Ann was mad about cyclamens—so mad about ’em that we nicknamed her Cyclamen Brown. Everything was cyclamens—she wore cyclamen colour, she sunk some of her savings in a club and called it the Cyclamen Club. You see, when she got home from the hospital after that night—when she went up to the little flat in Wardour Street and saw all those cyclamens that Joe had brought for her—well, boy, I ask you! She couldn’t have done anything else but marry Joe—it would have been immoral . . .”

  We said good night to the thin dark man who had let us into the Club. The air was cold. Eddie threw away the butt of his cigarillo and pulled his coat round his shoulders closely.

  “Well anyway,” I murmured at length, as we made our way towards the Avenue, “Cyclamen seemed friendly enough with Woody Hunter to-night. I suppose they’ve all let bygones be bygones, eh?”

  For a long time Eddie did not reply. Then at last there came a sort of grunt from the darkness by my elbow.

  “Friendly? Yes—I suppose so . . . They’re friendly all right. As a matter of fact——” He broke off. There was a long pause. Then suddenly he burst out: “Oh what the hell! You might as well know. Of course Ann and Woody are friendly. They’re having an affair. They’re—well—living together.”

  “My God!” I said. “But what about Mulvaney—what about Joe?”

  “Oh Joe’s got his own band these days. He’s touring in the North of England. The Leeds and Manchester circuit, if I remember right.”

  “But—doesn’t he mind?”

  Another long silence. And the sound that came from my elbow this time in the darkness was a kind of sigh—quiet, and almost, perhaps, regretful.

  “Well . . . no. Why should he? It’s—it’s sort of different now, my dear. You know what I mean. Cyclamen is hardly Joe’s girl any more, now is she? It’s sort of difficult to explain. It’s not quite the same, you know. They’re—oh don’t you understand? They’re married now, you see . . .”

  If I had not known Eddie better I might have supposed that in the darkness by my side he was a little embarrassed.

  We walked on. Some drunks reeled past us. Far-off, in an alleyway, a woman screamed. We entered Shaftesbury Avenue. I said good night to Eddie, called a taxi, and went home.

  Couleur de Rose

  Hagerman washed his face with great care, puffing and blowing as he lathered. Then he groped about for a towel and dried himself. He felt infinitely better—infinitely clearer in the head.

  He smiled at himself in the shaving mirror. Now at last the long torment was finished. Charles had gone away. All his life he had wanted that one thing to happen—he had felt himself stifled by the man’s presence: his very existence was a menace, a discomfort.

  Hagerman slipped on his glasses and went through to his bedroom. He felt he could walk more easily and lightly than he had ever walked before—it was as if he had had a couple of glasses of champagne, or had huge pads of cotton-wool on the under soles of his shoes. He wanted to sing—at last he could sing: he could sing at the top of his voice (and it was, he had always secretly felt, a good voice), without hearing Charles’s complaining whine from downstairs:

  “Adrian, for God’s sake shut up! You know I can’t tolerate noise—my head aches so. You’re beastly thoughtless, Adrian, I must say—beastly thoughtless . . .”

  “Oh, Charles has gone away,”

  he sang—

  “Far, far away . . .”

  He held the “away” on a sustained note, then broke off with a chuckle. No whine from the study, no querulous grumble from his brother that he was—“as you know beastly well, Adrian”—in the middle of his new book. He had always hated Charles and his books. He was (he could admit it to himself) in some way jealous. What had he, Adrian, ever been but a sort of hanger-on to the other Hagerman? “Any relation to Charles Hagerman, the author?” people would say. “It’s an unusual name, isn’t it? . . .”

  Well, he had the house to himself now—at last. He could roam through every room without feeling any of the vague guilt that assailed him when Charles was about. It would belong to him: his mother would leave the house to the elder son—as she had left everything to the elder son. “He’s so much more sensible than you are, Adrian—you’re far too flighty to have responsibility . . .” Far too flighty—a phrase that had stuck. People called him “the other Hagerman—you know, my dear, the flighty one . . .”

  “Oh, Charles has gone away ”

  he sang—

  “Far, far away . . .”

  He stood at the bedroom window. The sun was shining gloriously. The whole world seemed to be smiling—the colours were brilliant and warm, the wonderful colours of autumn. Yet yesterday the scene had seemed dull and commonplace enough—yesterday, when he had been oppressed by Charles’s presence. He had stood there, he remembered, by that self-same window, listening to the thin mean sound of Charles’s flute coming up the stairs. That intolerable flute—his “recreation.” He grimaced at the memory of a phrase his brother had kept repeating over and over again, blowing the same sour note at every repeti
tion, so that he—Adrian—had grown to wait for it, grinding his teeth and clenching his knuckles from sheer hate of the man.

  But to-day there was no flute. The house was empty. The sun shone. The trees at the foot of the long garden were superbly tinted—wonderful, wonderful trees. The grass was warm—soft, beautiful. And the flowers . . . He could not express himself about the flowers. He had never had much time for flowers before—had never thought about them somehow. He felt a curious tightening in the chest, a little trembling round his heart as he surveyed the heavenly riot of colour.

  This was glory. This was—what was the saying?—looking at the world through rose-coloured spectacles . . .

  He moved back to the wardrobe and started to look out his clothes. Curious, he thought as he worked, what an extraordinary difference the mere absence of an enemy could make. His whole outlook was different now that Charles had gone—he was, literally, a different man. Yet it had always been so, he recollected. He had never felt truly himself while Charles was about. Odd, then, that he lived with him all these years. Why indeed had he never struck out on his own? His weakness, his flightiness. It was easier to cling to Charles. Because of old ties, perhaps. Their mother had encouraged him to rely on Charles. If their father had lived, thought Adrian, would it have been different? Would he have been the “father’s boy”? Would he have had a better chance? Would he have been more independent?—less . . . flighty?

  Charles Hagerman, author . . . Adrian Hagerman, hanger-on . . .

  He undressed slowly before the mirror. He looked different now that Charles had gone. There was a glory about him, too, just as there was a glory about the garden. The rose-coloured spectacles again, he thought with a smile . . .

  Looking back he tried for a moment to discover why he had always hated Charles so. Yet it was hideously understandable. He remembered the gibes the older boy had thrown at him about his being unwanted—and those when he was only eight and Charles twelve. Their mother had evidently taken Charles into her confidence—at that age. “Charles is my boy,” she always said, when people called, fondling him. Even when Charles was eighteen, and his first book of poems had been published, she still said that sort of thing. He remembered that book, “that slim but competent volume,” as the advertisements had called it. He had hated it—hated the ostentatious way in which their mother had left copies lying about the house for people to see. “My clever Charles,” she always said, with an arch smile, when someone made a comment. “My clever, clever boy—and don’t forget, dear—he’s only eighteen . . .”

  That was more than twenty years ago now, but of all Charles’s books he still hated that first one the most. It had been called (and he saw clearly the ornate lettering on the fly-leaf): Couleur de Rose . . .

  Couleur de Rose indeed! And here was he talking of looking at the world through rose-coloured spectacles! The irony of it—the incredible irony of it!

  He laughed, straightening his tie. Well, it was all an old tale now. He had the house to himself. Charles had gone at last, after all these years. He could roam through the old place at will, into every room—into the room that had once been their nursery, into the room that had once been their mother’s bedroom . . .

  He stopped in the movement he was making of putting away his dirty clothes. His mother’s bedroom. It was a room he somehow had never dared enter while Charles was about—yet God knows he had often, secretly, wanted to. Why not go to it now? There was nothing to stop him—nothing. The house was empty, quite empty . . .

  He went out to the corridor. Through habit he made as if to close the door of his room quietly behind him, then, recollecting, he grinned and gave it instead a vicious slam. Then, whistling, he stamped along the passage and down the small annexe stair-case at the end of it. For a moment he paused before the door of their old nursery. He had a sudden crazy notion that if he opened it, it would be to see, crouching on the floor, at play, two little boys. “Hullo, Charles,” he would call, “hullo, Adrian . . .” And go, quickly, before they had time to look up . . . Crazy, crazy, he thought, smiling and passing on. The rose-coloured spectacles. Crazy . . .

  And now he reached the dark door of the bedroom—the sacred room. He paused for a long time on the threshold. The old house was silent, terribly silent. Suppose—just for a moment—suppose . . . that Charles came back? Suppose, standing there, he heard, coming up the stairs, the sound of that loathsome flute? No. Foolish, foolish. A weak fancy—typical.

  The old door creaked strangely in the silence as he opened it. Even now—even when he knew he was alone—there was an unaccountable reluctance . . .

  The room was exactly as she had left it ten years before, when she died. Quiet—ineffably quiet. It seemed misty to him as he stood there, timidly looking round. The sun, coming through the window, rested in squares on the worn and faded carpet. Over there, in the corner, was the little work-table he had seen her use so often. Her treadle sewing machine. On the wall the samplers she had worked as a girl. One of them, he remembered, was embroidered with her own lovely hair—the one she had made just after becoming engaged to his father. His name, twined with flowers. “Edward Hagerman.”

  Her little nursing chair—inlaid mahogany. The set of doll’s crockery she had kept as a rememberancer of her own mother. The blue and gold French china. The ormolu clock. The mother-of-pearl card case. The Spanish shawl cast so casually over the end of the bed . . . And over all, ineffable, ghostly, the delicate lost scent of her, conjuring up an infinity of memories and hopes—and bitternesses.

  He sighed and turned to go. Just inside the door was a small occasional table and on it a book. He picked it up idly and flicked open the cover. Then, with his sigh cut short on his lips, he cast it down angrily on the floor and went out, slamming the door. Couleur de Rose . . .

  He went back to his own room, striding quickly along the corridor past the door of the nursery. Damn them all, then, he felt—God damn them all. He didn’t care. What if Charles had had all the success, what if he had been “her” boy? For him, now that Charles had gone, the world was, in its own way, brighter—was different. He knew it was. There was glory. It had been a weakness to go into her room—a damnable weakness. He wouldn’t give in again—he wouldn’t be flighty.

  He entered his bedroom and seized his attaché case. Then, singing defiantly, he ran downstairs and went out into the garden, the sunshine. He strode across the grass, past the wonderful flaming flowers and so through the trees to the road.

  And all the glory was on him again. He threw back his head and laughed at the sky. This was himself. Now, and for always, he looked at the world through rose-coloured spectacles . . .

  * * * *

  On the station platform people stared at him curiously, half-frightenedly. But he didn’t care. He was beyond them. He looked through the rose-coloured spectacles.

  When the train puffed into the platform, throwing out clouds of steam, he saw it, gloriously, through rose-coloured spectacles.

  And when, just as he was stepping into the carriage, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, he turned and stared at the serious-faced policeman who confronted him—through rose-coloured spectacles.

  He had stabbed Charles insanely, driving the knife again and again into his chest and throat—so hellishly insanely, indeed, that the warm blood had spurted out all over his face. And a dry, caking film of it remained—on his spectacles.

  That to him, was the glory of it all.

  The Lovers

  It was you, talking about ghosts, that put me in mind of it. She’s the only ghost I ever saw, and I didnae ken she was a ghost till after I saw her. At least—I think she was a ghost. When I cast my mind back I don’t rightly see what else she could’ve been. Yet the way that man sat there beside her, quite joco—och, it was no’ canny, it was no’ canny.

  But I’ll tell ye the story as best I can. I’m no’ a tale-maker, but sitting here at our crack over a dram, I’ll ha’e a shot at gi’eing ye an account o’ it. And if
I use the wrong words and suchlike, well, ye’ll just have to put up wi’ that. Ye’ll mind I’m no’ an educated man—I had to leave the school when I was twelve to get apprenticed to my trade. We were a big family, you see, and my mother was sair put to it to get enough to fill a’ the mouths in the house. So when the chance came for me to be apprenticed to old Mr. MacIlwham the Electrician in Stirling, my mother took it, and I started haudin’ tools for the repair men at seven and six a week.

  Of course, you must understand that this was all a long time ago. In those days there was not a great lot of houses in Scotland that had the electricity. But it was comin’ in—it was like motor cars, it was fair sweeping the land. So old MacIlwham got a good business going in the end—we were aye kept hard at it, not only in Stirling itself, but travelling all over the countryside, you see, because there was so few electricians—and in them days too you hadn’t the Corporation to put the current in your house, you had to have all the fitments put in by private firms like ours. (By the way, it was queer me mentioning motor cars just now. This man I’m going to tell ye about had something to do wi’ motor cars, if I remember right. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it’s in my mind that he was someway connected wi’ that trade . . . Anyway, we’ll come to that later.)

  Well now, at the time that this happened that I’m telling ye about, I had been wi’ MacIlwham for nigh on eight years. I was a repair man myself by this time, and since I was young and guid i’ the health, I got the part of the job going over the country. I liked it fine—I was aye a lad for seeing the sights and meeting folk. And there was plenty o’ that—the auld man had mair business than he could rightly handle. We were aye on the go—I’ve often thought that mebbe it was because I was gey tired and overworked at the time that I saw yon woman at all . . . Oh well—let’s not bother with trying to explain it—ye cannae really explain some things. At least—the likes o’ me can’t—I’m an ordinary working electrician—and I wasn’t even that in those days, but just a mechanic repair man that could hardly even sign his ain name and certainly couldn’t understand any of the big words folk use when they’re talking about this kind o’ thing.