A Song of Sixpence

by A. J. Cronin

  The clanging of a bell summoned us from the tent. When we filed out I counted the runners: we were eight altogether. Outside, we drew lots from a hat for positions. My slip, number 4, was at least moderately good. Then we came through a narrow opening in the railings into the arena. Hitherto I had not realized the full size of the crowd; now, with intimidating force, it struck me as enormous: a great massed ring of watching faces. But strangely, that ring receded as we lined up on the curved white starting line. Leaning slightly forward, my eardrums tense for the starter’s pistol, I was conscious only of the sun shining on the grassy track stretching in a wide oval before me, and of the fact that three circuits made the mile.

  Crack! I was off with the shot, sprinting across to the inside of the track and, as I had intended, taking the lead from the start. The rapid pad of footsteps behind did not disturb me. I was ahead and meant to stay there. Moving freely in the cool fresh air, I felt I could go on like this for ever. How quickly the first circuit was completed. And now, as from a distance, but deliciously, in a foretaste of triumph, I began to hear my name shouted and repeated. I was halfway round on the second lap when a runner, neither Simms nor Purves, but an unknown and unfavoured contestant, unexpectedly thrust past me by a good three yards. Impossible to submit to such an insult. To the accompaniment of further wildly excited shouts I spurted hard, and with a burst of speed left him again behind.

  But now the air was suddenly less cool and the movements of my limbs scarcely so elegant or easy. Nevertheless, the second circuit was achieved, I was still ahead, and only the final lap remained. Head up, heart pumping, I pounded on, conscious that I was flagging but praying that I could hold my lead. Alas, that prayer produced no answer from the celestial powers to whom it was addressed. I was no more than half way home on the last round when, with a tremendous rush, Purves shot past me, his leathery legs going like pistons, elbows flailing the air. Slogging along closely behind him came Simms and two others. I tried but could not match this mass assault.

  My own legs, if indeed they now belonged to me, for they were entirely without feeling, would not respond. My lungs were bursting, my throat choked and raw. I knew that I was done. My name, no longer shouted, sunk in obloquy, was lost in the roar, dimly heard through the red haze that swam before me, of ‘ Purves, Daddy Purves!’

  Still going, but blindly now, I had the vague consciousness of more shadowy forms gliding past me. As I staggered across the broken tape, only a single runner, one lone laggard, the youth called Chuck, was behind me. I finished second last.

  Mercifully the changing-tent was near. Beat to the world, humiliated to the verge of tears, I tottered into it and hid myself. As I sat, bowed, with heaving chest, on the bench, Daddy Purves tried to console me.

  ‘The mile’s not your distance, boy. You’d have done well in the half. But never mind, you’ve years ahead of you.’

  I felt his kindness but could not respond to it. What a fool I had been, Terence too, to imagine that at my age, untrained, out of condition, I could compete with men, experienced runners, who did the Border Circuit, who were in a sense professionals. At last I pulled myself up, got into my clothes, flung my sodden togs into the bag and went outside.

  Immediately, I ran into Terence. He had been waiting for me and before I could utter one word of abject apology he took me by the lapel of my jacket.

  ‘What a time you’ve been!’ he exclaimed, urgently, and before I could speak went on: ‘Now listen, Laurence. You’re not to come near Donohue or any of us. Don’t come to the car. Not on any account.’

  ‘Why not?’ I faltered. ‘Because I didn’t win?’

  ‘No, you idiot!’ He hesitated, looked about him, and lowered his voice. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s been a spot of trouble over the bets. And it’s much safer for you to keep out of it. It’s all that damned Donohue’s fault. What I thought was just going to be a lark has turned nasty. So what you’ll do is this … you’ll walk quietly into the town now and wait for us at the Archway. Remember where we came into the town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, then. We’ll pick you up there with the car in less than an hour. Here’s a pound note if you want to have a snack or anything while you’re waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry I lost, Terry.’ Anguished. I managed to get it out at last.

  He stared at me in a curious manner then, without a word, swung round and hurried off.

  For a moment I stood watching him disappear in the crowd then, with bent head, carrying the Gladstone bag, I slunk out of the ground by the golf course exit and started to trudge along the field road towards the town.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The road ahead, to my relief, was almost clear. Since the Sports did not finish until five o’clock and the time now was not more than half past four, only a few spectators had begun to leave the ground. Dead tired, I walked slowly, so sunk in my own gloom that at first I had no consciousness of the figure, walking with equal languor, not far ahead of me. But suddenly, I saw who it was and, hurrying forward, called out:

  ‘Nora.’

  ‘It’s you!’ She had turned, surprised. ‘Have you left the others?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘Terence told me to keep away from them. I’m to meet them at the Archway in the town.’

  ‘Why to keep away from them?’

  ‘They’re having trouble over my bets.’

  She considered me palely, but with compressed lips.

  ‘Did you win the race?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Nora. I was practically last. They were all men, far older than me. I didn’t have a chance, in spite of all it said in the paper.’

  ‘What paper?’

  We were now moving along the road together. I took the Berwick Advertiser from my pocket, unfolded it and showed her the box paragraph.

  She read it, looked at me, read it again then stared straight ahead. Under her breath she murmured something with such anguished bitterness, I felt relieved not to hear it. After that she was silent for a moment, then she seemed to draw herself together.

  ‘My poor Laurence. You’re not going to meet them at the Archway. You’re coming home in the train with me.’

  This was an unexpected, brightening prospect.

  ‘But won’t they … keep on waiting for me?’

  ‘They won’t! Don’t worry about them, for they aren’t worrying about us.’

  ‘When is the train, Nora?’

  ‘Ten minutes to six.’

  ‘Won’t we have to change at Edinburgh?’

  ‘No. Luckily, it’s a through express. Before we leave we’ll have time to get you something to eat.’

  ‘You, too, Nora.’ When she did not answer, I added anxiously: ‘Are you still sick?’

  ‘I’m not altogether at the top of my form, dear Laurie. But I’m doing my best to get over it.’ She moistened her lips and made a fair attempt at a smile. ‘We’ve both been messed about a bit lately, but if we stick together we’ll come out of it all right.’

  Taking it very slowly, for Nora apparently did not wish to hurry, nor for that matter did I, we reached the town. I had thought that all of Berwick had gone to the Sports but here the streets were swarming with people, many of whom appeared to have come in from the surrounding country, and in an open space near the central square a sort of fair, with roundabouts, had been set up.

  ‘It’s fearfully busy,’ Nora said. ‘It must be some kind of holiday.’

  Looking around for a place where we could have a meal, she stopped outside a small restaurant with a bill in the window marked: Tweed Salmon, Boiled or Grilled, 1/ 6 the cut.

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Very much,’ I said. ‘Especially grilled.’ I had not tasted salmon since the days of the affluent lunches, now seemingly so distant, with Miss Greville.

  We went inside. It was a simple eating-house, steamy from the kitchen, and so full that we had difficulty in finding places. Nora ordered salm
on for me and a pot of tea for herself.

  ‘Eat something, Nora,’ I begged her. ‘Please do.’

  She simply shook her head.

  While we were waiting to be served, I said:

  ‘I still can’t understand why Terence said they were in trouble.’

  ‘Laurence, dear,’ she said. ‘ We won’t go into it now. It was simply a dirty little trick to make some dirty money. They knew all along you had no chance of winning. But don’t blame Terence too much—he’s soft and selfish, but he’s not a bad sort at heart. It was just fun to him. Donohue’s the one who’s to blame. He thought it all out.’ Her voice hardened. ‘ I hope he gets well beaten by the crowd. But he won’t. He’ll get away with it, as usual.’

  She took out her handkerchief and wiped her forehead. She was breathing quickly.

  My salmon came at last. Served with a dish of potatoes boiled in their jackets, and slapped down before me by a man in his shirtsleeves, it was a noble cut from as good a fish as ever came out of the Tweed. I suddenly discovered that I was starving, and for a brief but active interlude my troubles receded. Only when I had practically finished did I observe that Nora had pushed her tea away untasted.

  ‘It’s so hot in here,’ she said, by way of excuse. ‘I think I’ll go and wash.’

  I watched her with concern. She was so unlike herself, even in her way of walking, that I decided that the sooner we were in the train the better. While she was away I asked the man for the bill. This came to 2/ 9 and I paid it with the note Terence had given me, adding a threepenny tip from the change.

  We started up the main street for the railway station. Unfortunately, this was situated at the summit of the incline on which the town was built. Although she made no remark, I could feel that Nora did not like the climb. But presently we arrived and found the booking office open. I told myself that she would be all right when we were in the train.

  Nora took out her purse and asked for two third-class singles for Winton.

  ‘Thirty-two and ninepence, please.’

  The clerk selected two pasteboard tickets from the rack, twirled the little black stamping machine on the ledge and was about to snap the two tickets into the slot when he looked up.

  ‘You want them dated for Monday? The early train leaves at seven fifteen a.m.’

  ‘Monday!’ Nora exclaimed. ‘We’re going with the ten to six train tonight.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There’s no ten to six tonight.’

  ‘But there is,’ Nora protested. ‘I looked it up specially in Murray’s Diary.’

  Silently he produced a timetable, leaned, forward and, removing the pencil from behind his ear, pointed to the page.

  ‘You see that little star, miss. Except Sundays and bank holidays. And today, Fair Saturday, is the biggest bank holiday of the lot.’

  Watching Nora anxiously, I saw what a shock this was to her. She seemed to shrink into herself.

  ‘Surely there’s another train?’

  ‘Nothing, miss. And nothing tomorrow either.’ Detaching himself from us completely he began to add up figures on a pad.

  Nora supported herself against the ledge. I thought she was going to faint. An icy shiver contracted my skin.

  ‘Nora, we’ll have to hurry back to the Archway. Terence might still be waiting there.’

  ‘No,’ she said hopelessly. ‘They’re sure to have gone.’

  ‘We must try. We must.’

  The Archway was not far from the station. We were soon there and for nearly an hour we stood waiting, straining our eyes for the red car, never speaking a word, elbowed by the passing crowds, while the holiday traffic of the main street rolled and rattled past. Now it was almost dark.

  ‘It’s no use.’ Nora spoke at last in a beaten voice. ‘ They probably had to run for it, and they have.’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’ I said desperately. ‘Can we hire a car to Edinburgh? And take a train from there.’

  ‘Even if we could, I couldn’t stand the journey.’ All at once she broke down and began to cry. ‘Laurence, I’ve kept up all day feeling like death, but I can’t, I can’t go on any longer. I’ve got such a bad stitch in my side if I don’t lie down soon I’ll drop. We must find some place to stay the night.’

  A sensation of unutterable consternation left me dumb. All sorts of weird contingencies flashed through my mind. Would that booking clerk allow us to stay in the station waiting-room, or could we perhaps find some sort of shelter in the local park? Then I saw her look of collapse as she stood with one hand pressed against her side. I knew that she must find a room in a hotel.

  The hotel in the main square behind the fairground, despite Terry’s slighting comment, had seemed altogether reputable. I took Nora by the arm—she now seemed incapable of voluntary movement—and brought her down the street to the square. The hotel had a sign: The Berwick Cockle. Streams of boisterous country folk were moving in and out yet I managed to steer Nora through the crush into the red-carpeted hall. After the street it seemed a blessed sanctuary. But the man in the little glass office scarcely looked at us. The hotel was full, he said, full to the doors, they had been turning people away all day.

  We went out. Across the square was a much smaller inn, the Masons’ Arms. Leaving Nora outside, with instructions not to move, I squeezed my way into the crowded, smoke-filled lobby. It was packed with groups of men standing with glasses in their hands, laughing and talking at the pitch of their lungs. No one took the least notice of me. I spoke to several men, asking for the office, before one pointed with his pipe to a plump, yellow-haired woman in a black dress whom, from her general air of sociability, I had assumed to be part of this convivial gathering. I pushed my way towards her and with some difficulty succeeded in catching her eye. She had a red, amiable face that encouraged me. But my heart sank as she shook her head.

  ‘You’ll not find a room in Berwick tonight, lad. Not one.’

  ‘Is there no place you can think of?’ I pleaded. ‘Anywhere at all.’

  ‘You might try Spittal, across the river,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘There’s a pub there, just over the bridge, called the Drovers’ Rest. They might give you a bed.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Turn second on the right. Down Cooper’s Alley. It’s just over the old bridge.’

  Outside again, I took Nora’s arm. She was silent, unresistant, almost lost, hand still pressed against her side. The town was now in a ferment, crowds milling in the square, the fair in full swing, music from the roundabouts splitting the night air. Twice I took the wrong turning and had to get back to the main street but in the end I found Cooper’s Alley. And there at the foot of the hill was the river, dark and smooth, rushing out with the tide. We crossed a narrow humpbacked bridge and came to Spittal village. Here a merciful sense of quiet prevailed, a smell of seaweed and the blessed coolness of salt air. The masts of fishing smacks stood out against the glare of Berwick as I helped Nora along the cobbled quay.

  Quite soon we came to the Drovers’ Rest. It was an old brick building, poorly lit and with few signs of accommodation. With nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary public house it did not give me much hope. Inside we were faced with a narrow stone passage that led to the bar. The sounds of voices, raised in discussion, emerged. I did not want to take Nora there. On the right was a door marked Private. I knocked, and presently an old man appeared. He was in his slippers, wearing a long knitted blue spencer and he had in his hand a dog-eared copy of Chambers’ Journal. So overstrained were my sensibilities, I registered these unessential details as, simultaneously, desperately, I burst out:

  ‘We’ve been to the Sports and missed our train home. Please give my cousin a room. She’s not feeling well. I’ll sleep any-where you like.’

  While, with palpitating heart, I held out the Gladstone bag conspicuously as evidence of our respectability, he examined us over his spectacles. He glanced from one to the other of us and I knew in m
y bones that he was about to refuse. I saw it in his face.

  Just then a woman came out of the bar. She was about thirty, plainly dressed in a blouse and skirt, carrying an empty tray under her arm. She had a decent, competent look.

  ‘What’s the rub, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘This pair want a room.’

  ‘What!’ she exclaimed, shocked. ‘Together?’

  ‘No, m’am,’ I burst out. ‘Only for my cousin. I’ll walk about outside if you like.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Ye say you’ve been to the Sports,’ the old man said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ To authenticate the fact I martyred myself. ‘Harry Purves won the mile.’

  The woman had been looking at Nora, then at me.

  ‘They’re all right, Father,’ she said suddenly. ‘She can have Number 3, and the boy’ll shake down in the boxroom. But no tricks, mind you, or I’ll throw you both out myself.’

  My chest heaved, I gave a great gasp of relief. Before I could thank her she had gone back into the bar. The old man shuffled into the room and brought out a key. We followed him upstairs where he opened the door of a small single room. It was a poor room, sparsely furnished, with faded wallpaper, and a cracked ewer, but the floor-boards were scrubbed and the bed-linen fresh and clean. Altogether my survey assured me, with relief and pride, that in our extremity I had done well for Nora.

  ‘You’ll sleep well here.’ I said, forced to keep my tone impersonal. ‘And be all right in the morning.’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, Laurie.’ She managed a faint, pale smile. ‘Just to be able to lie down and rest.’

  ‘Don’t you want to leave that with her?’ The old man was eyeing the bag, which I still clutched in a permanent spasm.