by A. J. Cronin
‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed hurriedly, though it was no use to either of us.
I wanted to say more to Nora, beyond everything I longed to kiss those soft blanched lips, gently, with all the tenderness of my loving heart. But the old man still had his eye on us, though now with less suspicion. I simply said good night, and went out of the room with him. As we moved along the passage, I heard the closing of the door.
Chapter Thirty-Three
My futile exertions in that disastrous race and the struggle to find a lodging had left me almost dead with fatigue. The mattress on which I lay, on the floor of the boxroom, was not uncomfortable. Yet I couldn’t sleep. Round and round, inextricably tangled, the events of this most unnatural day kept spinning inside my head. What a fool I had been, what a soft mark, so easily, willingly duped, flattered into the belief that I was a paragon who must win today. And what ironic diversion my idiotic credulity must have afforded Terence and Donohue as, from that first farcical trial at the Harp football ground, they led me on, with serious faces, stuffing me for the slaughter. Why did I lack the common sense to see that while I might run well enough for my age, competition against seasoned professionals who habitually made the rounds of all the Border sports was lunacy? From the beginning it had been a hoax and it ended as a swindle. Donohue had planted the paragraph in the local paper and by offering excessive odds against me, had cashed in heavily on my defeat. If only I had won, and made him pay out five times over, ruined him in fact, what a triumph it would have been, not for me alone but for Nora too, since from her own words, I knew that she must hate him. But that, like most other things I had wanted in my life, was beyond me, an achievement realized only in my dreams, never by accomplishment.
Tortured by my own inadequacy I turned restlessly on the mattress. It was evident that I had been born to fail and to be imposed upon. A sudden recollection, as from a distant world, of the Ellison added to my distress, less on account of the difficulty in getting to the University on Monday—the early train would be in Winton at least by noon—than from the settled conviction that, as I had failed in the race, I would fail there too. Pin had led me on, not like Donohue, but from the best motives, merely to improve the standard of my education.
At this point, I drifted into a troubled sleep, but not for long. Suddenly my brain snapped back to consciousness with the startled impression that someone was calling my name. I raised myself on my elbow, listening in the darkness. Sounds from the bar beneath and the distant hum of the fair in Berwick both had ceased. The faint scratching of a mouse somewhere in the room intensified the stillness. I was about to lie down again, convinced that I was mistaken, when again I fancied I heard someone call.
I jumped up, knocking my shins hard on the sharp of an unseen object, and felt my way to the door. Undecided, I stood there, listening with my ear against the panel, but hearing nothing. Yet if someone had called me it could only be Nora. Guardedly I opened my door. The corridor was in darkness, but halfway along a faint silver of light showed beneath the door of her room.
I had not undressed, having merely taken off my jacket and my boots. Now, moving softly in my socks, I advanced to the lighted door and tapped on it with a finger-nail. There was no response.
‘Nora,’ I whispered. ‘Are you there?’
Her voice came back to me, indistinctly yet with an unmistakable appeal. I turned the handle and went in.
She was lying sideways on the bed with nothing on but her chemise, which had rucked up above her knees. Her eyes were shut and her hands half clenched. The sheets and blankets of the bed, tumbled in a heap, were bunched in disorder on the floor. Worst of all was the strained, sunken greyness of her face. She looked older, almost ugly, scarcely recognizable.
‘Nora,’ I faltered. ‘You called me.’
She half opened her eyes.
‘I couldn’t stand it alone any longer. I’ve such a pain.’
‘Where, Nora?’
She made a gesture towards her stomach, but lower. She was obviously in severe pain. A fear that had hovered in the back of my mind during the day now took formidable shape. I might be a fool and a failure but, thank God, I had enough sense to know about appendicitis. I went forward to the bed.
‘Do you still feel sick?’
‘Yes. I feel awful.’
‘Nora.’ I tried not to alarm her. ‘We’ll have to get help.’
Still pressing her side, she did not answer. I took her free hand. It was hot, the palm moist with sweat.
‘We’ve got to find out, it’s dangerous not to. You must have the doctor.’
‘Oh, not yet.’ She gasped in another spasm. ‘ We’ll wait for a bit.’
‘We must,’ I pleaded.
‘It’s the middle of the night. You’ll get no one to come. I’d rather stick it out by myself. Just stay with me.’
‘But, Nora …’ I broke off, aghast that she wouldn’t let me go for assistance.
‘Please stay. If only you’ll get me up to walk about the room, that might get rid of the pain.’
She raised herself on one elbow and put her other arm on my shoulders. While I supported her, I was conscious of a bad, unhealthy smell in the room. Then I noticed that the Gladstone bag was open and empty. My white singlet and shorts were lying, sodden and terribly soiled, a dirty brownish colour, in the corner.
I thought she had been sick on them and that decided me. I put her back on the pillow. Without a word I went out and downstairs to the room marked Private. I knocked hard on the door, then, as no one answered, I turned the handle and went into the room, found the switch and put on the light. I was in a small comfortably furnished sitting-room. A clock, ticking on the mantelpiece, caught my eye. The time was half past two o’clock in the morning. Another door, almost hidden by a curtain, led me into the kitchen where, starting up from its basket before the red embers of a fire, a small dog began to bark and growl at me. Suddenly a sharp voice called out.
‘Who’s there?’
I called back, saying who I was, and that I needed help at once. For some minutes nothing happened, then, to my immense relief, the woman, who was the old man’s daughter, entered the kitchen. Still tugging at the cord of her wrapper, she quietened the dog and stared at me angrily, her eyes swollen with sleep, her hair, in a thick plait tied at the end with tape, hanging down her back.
‘My cousin’s terribly ill and in great pain.’ I got it out before she could start on me. ‘I’m sure it’s appendicitis.’
This silenced her: she was still angry, but could not quite bring herself to abuse me.
‘Oh, Lord,’ she groaned. ‘Why did I ever let you in?’
‘It’s awful to have to trouble you. But please come and see her. Or phone for the doctor now.’
Another silence, then she said:
‘I’ll have a look at her. Go on, you clown. Don’t keep me standing here all night.’
I led the way upstairs and opened the door of Nora’s room. The woman went in, at least she paused, one step beyond the threshold. Her gaze took in Nora, the disordered bed, the tumbled blankets, my soiled singlet in the corner, even the half full chamber-pot and some alarming stains on the sheets, which I had not noticed before. Then, in quite a different manner, a voice that suddenly chilled me, she said:
‘Go to your room, you. And don’t stir inch out of it till I send for you.’ She shut the door in my face.
I could not disobey her, yet, back in the boxroom, I sat close to the door, in the darkness, listening, with every sense quivering and alert, afraid, dreadfully afraid for Nora. I shivered as I thought of her chalk-white face, so drained and sunken. I prayed that the doctor would come quickly. The operation for appendicitis was in itself serious and I knew also that if an inflamed appendix was not quickly removed it would burst, with fatal consequences.
The woman was still in the room with Nora; for perhaps ten minutes she had been there. Suddenly I heard her go downstairs. The boxroom was directly above the lower passage and i
ts old floor-boards bare of any covering. Flattened out and straining my ears, I heard her go into what I guessed was the sitting-room. Almost at once she began to talk and although I could not distinguish the words I gave a quick sigh of relief. She was telephoning for the doctor. This went on for some time and when it ended I heard her come upstairs again.
An interval elapsed, insufferably long, before the doctor arrived. He was not long in Nora’s room. Almost at once he went down to the telephone. I knew, with a slight shudder, what that meant. Then I heard him on the stairs again.
Now a few streaks of dawn were beginning to creep into the boxroom, revealing a dusty clutter of boxes, mops, pails, odd pieces of broken furniture and other lumber. I went to the single window to watch for the ambulance. But when it swung into the still, grey street, I could bear it no longer. Retreating from the window I listened to the sounds of Nora’s removal. I could not bring myself to look.
At last all was quiet again. I put on my boots and jacket, and half opened the boxroom door. I could hear nothing. Surely I couldn’t be expected to go on enduring this suspense. Cautiously I came along the corridor. The woman was in Nora’s room, with her sleeves rolled up and her hands on her hips, surveying a scene of appalling disorder.
Only one thought was in my mind. I said:
‘Will she be all right?’
She spun round. Her face was a deep red, mottled and distorted with anger.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. You young blackguard, bringing that slut in here, messing up all my bed-linen, mucking the room so it must be scrubbed, and keeping me up half the night, and all for a two-faced little bitch you pretended was your cousin. I ought to turn you over to the police, that’s what I ought. And I will too. Just like they’ll be after her.’
I might be scared, yet I had to stand up for Nora.
‘She couldn’t help it.’
‘Couldn’t she? I’ll swear she brought it on herself.’
What on earth did she mean? She must be mad with rage.
‘Brought on what?’
‘You young twister, don’t pretend you don’t know. She’s had a filthy miss.’
I did not understand.
‘A what?’ I said.
‘A lowdown dirty abortion from taking pills.’ She shouted and caught me a stunning box on the ear that nearly knocked me down. But the brutal force of her words stunned me worse than the blow. Unable to speak, I stared at her dully, so shocked I lost all sense of where I was, or what was making me shake all over. Then something within me gave way. I covered my face with my arm and leaned against the passage wall.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The train, gathering speed after its stop at Glaisend, was on the last stage of its journey to Winton. Alone in the corner of the end third-class compartment I sat with commendable stillness, my hands on my knees, devoid of all sensation but that of profound apathy. For three hours I had been sitting like this, looking fixedly out of the window, dulled by the swift, confused passage of the landscape which served to block off or at least submerge the sluggish current of my thoughts. I hoped this state of blankness would not leave me. I encouraged it, when the scenery failed me, by staring at the advertisements on the opposite side of the compartment until they merged gradually into a mesmerizing blur. Now I’m looking at nothing, I thought, as though this sensation of visual and mental vacuum represented the summit of achievement.
Yet this stupor, a defence against the state of acute shock that I was in, did not always save me. And from time to time, fragments of fear and horror floated up like foul refuse to the surface of my mind. Then, the experience to which I had been subjected struck at me again. The net of deception that had entangled me was not the hardest to bear. Worse than that, worse even than my interrogation and detention by the police, when everything had come out, even the faking of the race, was the thought of Nora. I shuddered as once again the woman’s voice rang through my head: ‘ Good-for-nothing little slut … fetch the police … tampering with herself … a mucking abortion …’ Life was sordid and hateful, could I ever believe in anyone or anything again?
The suburbs of Winton were now drifting past, the train had begun to slacken speed, and the ticket inspector, sliding open the corridor door, was again in my compartment. With a start, I surrendered the ticket the police sergeant had given me that morning and which had already been punched three times.
‘Winton next stop.’ He was disposed to talk, since obviously he did not know that I had spent Sunday in Berwick gaol. ‘You’ve had a long journey, lad. And an early start.’
I had to think a moment before I could find an answer.
‘You have too, Inspector,’ I said at last.
He laughed.
‘That’s my job. Are you going on holiday?’
‘No,’ I said immediately, as though a button had been pressed, releasing the fixed idea in my mind. ‘I’m on my way to the University to sit an examination, at two o’clock.’
‘Are you now?’ he said, impressed.
‘I am. I’ve been working for it for three months.’
‘I thought you looked a bit hard done by. Well, good luck to you, lad.’
I thanked him. He gave me a friendly nod and went out.
It was true, and I felt a strange relief to have openly established my intention. Perhaps, in my present state, this was no more than an obsessive compulsion, the reflex to those months of constant preparation. Yet I knew that I had given my word to Pin, and after the shambles of that shameful week-end I must try to keep it. Nevertheless, while I understood what I must do, while my movements were directed almost involuntarily towards the objective, I occasionally had difficulty in identifying myself with the individual who must perform them. This tendency of my personality to fade out into a sort of exterior wasteland was a frightening sort of thing in which I seemed to lose myself completely and to wander alone, all identity gone, in a strange shadowy landscape. Yet it was not persistent, and when it passed, as now, I was again Laurence Carroll, possessed by the necessity of attending the University Hall, Gilmore Hill, W.1, at two o’clock precisely this afternoon.
The engine, with a last hissing expulsion of steam, jerked to a stop in Winton North British Station. Obscurely, I felt relieved that we had not come into the Central. I got out of my compartment and walked along the platform to the Queen Street exit, taking pains, as I did so, to confirm that the train had arrived at 12.40, only five minutes late. I had no need to hurry, everything would be performed in a well-regulated manner. Although my ticket had been given up, I still had some coins in my pocket and, as it seemed correct to sustain myself before taking the examination, it became obligatory for me to have lunch. Not far down, on the other side of the street, I saw a Rombach, one of a chain of modest Winton restaurants. I crossed over and entered.
The menu, in light blue typing, offered a choice of mutton chop, boiled ox tongue, or steak and kidney pie. Unhesitatingly I selected the chop and, when it was served, with peas and mashed potatoes, I ate it as though complying methodically with a fixed routine, quite unconscious of any appetite or sense of taste. Although I could not realize this, all my actions were now controlled by an automatism, certain prelude to nervous disintegration, which, even had I tried, I could not have resisted. A clock on the wall of the restaurant above the entrance kept me informed of the time and at twenty past one I asked for my check, paid it at the cashier’s box and went out.
A green tram would take me to the foot of Gilmore Hill. They ran frequently on this route and presently one appeared. Although it was crowded with workers going home for lunch, I boarded it handily. But I had to stand during the journey and when we arrived at Gilmore Hill I was not feeling quite so competent, particularly in the management of my legs. I climbed the hill slowly, from necessity rather, than choice. It had apparently turned warmer and I was also experiencing a strange retarding tightness at the top of my head. Even when I reached the coolness of the cloisters this feeling persisted. Th
e clock in the tower struck two o’clock as I entered the University Hall.
‘Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’ the man at the desk said as he ticked my name off on the list. He handed me the test paper, gave me an odd look and pointed to a vacant desk. I sat down and glanced about me, observing that the other competitors, about twenty in number, contorted in assorted attitudes of concentration, were already writing hard. I refused to be hurried. In an orderly manner I opened the exercise book on my desk and took up the test paper to study the question.
The Ellison Essay
Write an apologia of not less than two thousand words exonerating, as best you can, Mary, Queen of Scots, for her conduct in relation to Lord Darnley and with particular reference to the night of February 9th, 1567.
I might have smiled—the temptation was almost irresistible—not because, at the back of my mind, something, or perhaps someone, had suggested that this, or a comparable subject, might turn up, but solely from the absurdity of the idea that in my present state I could ever bring myself to defend that royal adventuress, even if it were to win the Ellison for me a hundred times over.
Calmly, aware that I was wrecking my chance of success, I dipped my nib in the inkwell and began to write. I did not hesitate, words flowed from my pen, and every word I wrote sprang from the hurt I had received. The period in Scotland covering the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had been my special study, I knew the full history of the unhappy Queen and now, invested with this urge from my subconscious, almost with malice, I scarified her mercilessly and with a subtlety of which I could not have believed myself capable. Under the pretence of defending her, one by one favourable arguments were advanced then ruthlessly demolished, extenuating circumstances suggested, only to be crushed by the hard facts of history.
In this manner I made it obvious that her misguided marriage to the youthful, foolish Darnley, ostensibly a love match, had been conceived for no other reason than her ambitious hatred of her cousin Queen Elizabeth—only one year later the outlawed Earl of Bothwell was her adulterous lover. Estranged from her husband—who lay ill and disfigured, longing for a reconciliation, in the city of Glasgow—was it wifely solicitude that caused her to decree, after a secret meeting with Bothwell, that he might more conveniently recover his health in the lonely, half-ruined house of Kirk o’ Fields? Once Darnley was installed, not with comfort perhaps, for it was a miserable dwelling for a sick man, nothing could have been more virtuous than the assiduous attentions of the young and beautiful Queen who devotedly sat through the day with him on her red velvet cushion and at night slept in a bed in the room below.