Three Loves

by A. J. Cronin

  And now, conscious that hitherto she had handled Lennox with tact – already she saw glimmerings upon the horizon – she kissed Peter good night and hastened to her guests within the parlour.

  As she entered, Joe inevitably was in full blast. Throwing out a declamatory hand, he went on, with considerable emotion:

  ‘Let them call us the low-down Irish! We’re not much, they keep telling us. Am I contradicting them? Not a word! Just let them watch us. We’ll get on for all their talk. Ask anybody in Levenford about Big Joe Moore! They know me there. Right enough they do. I hadn’t the chances of the rest of the family, but I’ve made my way for all that, and made a bit of cash, by the same token. There was me, selling papers when I was a kid, and now – Director of the Green Football Club and Chairman of the local A.O. H. Not much, maybe, but good enough to be goin’ on with.’

  ‘Leave it to Joe,’ nodded Polly, with half-shut lids.

  Lennox contemplated the glass of whisky before him. He was a middle-sized, grey-bearded man of fifty, comfortable and comfortably assured, dressed in coarse grey tweed of good quality but execrable cut, his eye shrewdly hooded; his mouth small, pursed, his hands bulging his trouser pockets, his plain knitted waitcoat strangely aggressive with a remarkable battery of smoothly sharpened pencils. It was significant of the man that the pencils accompanied him out of office hours. Taciturn by inclination, cautious in disposition, he cultivated shrewdness as another might cultivate wit, existing exclusively, it seemed, for his solid little business. A guarded ‘ long-headedness’ epitomised his outlook: he could assume at moments an air of tremendous preoccupation. Without brilliance, without artifice, he was well served by a native penetration. That was Lennox: slow, solid, shrewd, secretive.

  ‘Ay, ay,’ said he in his odd dry voice, ‘you’re a remarkable man.

  No doubt about it. Not the slightest.’ Impossible from his manner to judge if a compliment was implied.

  ‘No! I haven’t done so bad,’ said Joe expansively. ‘You’ll taste as good a drop of John Jameson at the Shamrock Bar as you’ll find the length of the Clyde. And for all I’ve got on I don’t forget the poor. Bedam, no. There’s a hand in the pocket for St Vincent de Paul at Christmas. Nor I don’t forget the clergy neithers. Every time little Father Cassidy scrapes the kettle there’s a sovereign in his hand for luck; not that it’s necessary, mind you; I make him take it. Just a triflin’ kindness on my own part.’

  ‘Blow the trumpet hard, Joe,’ said Frank, staring at the ceiling, with a faint curl of his lip.

  ‘And why not, boy?’ grinned Joe boisterously. ‘Sure it plays a lovely tune.’

  ‘He’s a big-hearted man, is Joe Moore,’ said Polly, blandly easing her corsets.

  There was a moment’s silence; then Lennox threw a sly side-glance at Lucy.

  ‘And how is the Scottish element?’ he enquired; this, with an implication of confederacy, was how he sometimes designated her.

  ‘Well – as usual,’ she smiled. ‘Peter’s had a slight cold, though. Nothing much.’

  ‘A rasher of bacon,’ interjected Polly somnolently. ‘ Laid on the chest, it puts a coating on the lungs.’ No one took any notice of the remark; and she relapsed lethargically upon her chair.

  ‘The new idea, Mr Lennox?’ demanded Lucy, quick to seize an opportunity. ‘That’s going ahead?’

  ‘I’ve just been telling them,’ he indicated mildly. ‘I’m real set on it. I was through at Leith yesterday making arrangements at the docks.’

  ‘It’s going to be a big thing for you to manage alone,’ said Lucy, leaning forward with immense solicitude.

  Lennox caressed his pointed beard, now the most salient feature of his calculating face.

  ‘Maybe,’ he returned cannily. ‘Ay, maybe it will be.’

  A question trembled on her tongue, but before she could speak Joe broke in boisterously.

  ‘By the by, Anna,’ said he, ‘what are you doing with your own tin? Your old fella must have left you a bit.’

  She looked at him with a pleasant, speculative eye.

  ‘Well, Joe,’ she said softly, ‘as you’ve just remarked, there’s the bit, I might found a hospital – for Polly, you know.’ Then, always charity. And there’s always the clergy. But if it came to rising suddenly, she looked at Lucy.

  ‘I’m tired, Lucy. Do you mind if I go upstairs? Don’t bother to come.’

  ‘But I will come,’ said Lucy warmly, getting to her feet; it pleased her unreasonably that Anna should thus call her by her Christian name. ‘Everything’s ready for you.’

  They went out of the parlour together.

  ‘My God!’ said Polly, sitting up dramatically, undulating with agitation. ‘Did you hear that about the hospital?’

  Joe slid his hand across the roll of fat that bulged over the back of his collar.

  ‘Ah, she’s better nor she used to be,’ said he pacifically. ‘Her and me have got on fine this last fortnight.’

  ‘Too fine!’ said Polly, still quivering. ‘ She’s a queer one, Joe Moore, and you’re well aware of it.’

  There was a pause; then Joe raised his head slowly and fixed his brother with a look more direct than usual.

  ‘Does Lucy know – about her ladyship?’ he asked pointedly, and he jerked his head in the direction of the vanished Anna.

  Frank coloured uncomfortably, thrust his hands in his pockets.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ he answered defensively, ‘ and there’s no point in telling her this time of day.’

  ‘Quite right, boy. Quite right,’ said Joe smoothly. ‘No cause to chew that fat over again. No cause at all, at all.’

  ‘I must say –’ said Lennox, looking cautiously at his pipe. ‘I must say I’ve found her very sensible over the settling up of the business affair. Yes, I’ll say that for her.’

  ‘Ah! you’ll never make the leopard change its spots,’ declared Polly with unusual poetic fancy. ‘And deed you’ll never make Anna shift hers.’

  ‘Easy on, now,’ said Joe; ‘we’re only human. No, bedam. We can’t be canonised until we’re corpsed.’

  As he spoke the door swung open and Lucy came into the room. And as she entered it seemed to her that a look of understanding passed between the four: a singular flash which irked her, then suddenly was gone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, smiling from one to the other. ‘You look as if you’d all been dreaming. Come along. Draw round your chairs.’

  ‘No, Lucy,’ said Joe regretfully. ‘It’s getting dark. We’ll need to be off.’

  ‘But surely!’ she protested quickly. ‘ It’s very early. Can we not have a little music?’ Often, indeed, Lennox would demand of her ‘a tune’. Often, too, Polly would insist that she – Polly – must sing; she had a touching ballad interweaving subtly the sentiments of piety and patriotism, which began:

  A poor Irish soldier, a Catholic dragoon,

  Was – a – writing to his mother by the light of – a –

  the moon!

  Now, however, Joe shook his head.

  ‘I’m bound to be back to count my takin’s,’ he said, as he heaved up his bulk. ‘Come on, Polly.’

  Lennox finished his whisky, and looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ll be moving too,’ he said. ‘Elders’ hours for me, you know.’

  She protested, aware that her party was breaking up too soon, yet somehow unable to prevent its dissolution.

  ‘You’ll come in to supper next week, then, Mr Lennox?’ she urged. ‘For sure now.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Lennox, with his own dry humour. It was for him tantamount to an emphatic acceptance; yet she had a vague sense of frustration. Reluctantly she accompanied them to the gate, where, taking Frank’s arm, she stood whilst Joe heaved Polly into the wagonette, lighted the dips within the lamps, and shook up the shivering nag. When they had driven off valiantly into the night, Lennox took his less dramatic departure. He had promised to come for supper on the following Sunday. With that she
contented herself. But because she felt the evening had not been too patently a success, she remarked after a moment:

  ‘It went off all right, don’t you think, Frank?’

  ‘Might have been worse.’

  ‘But Anna,’ she meditated. ‘I expect it’ll take some time to know her. She’s a little reserved. Isn’t she?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her to come, my dear!’ he said, with unusual feeling.

  She made no reply, but looked at him quietly, a little curiously; then slowly she smiled at him, and he smiled at her.

  Together they stood at the gate, conscious of the grey quiet which seemed to press downwards with the falling darkness.

  ‘It’s pleasant out here together,’ she said suddenly. Through the stillness the thin thread of a mouth-organ’s music came from outside Bowie’s yard, where a coterie of youths had their meeting-place; sometimes a low note of laughter broke through the melody as some wench sailed past under a united and gallantly derisive stare; sometimes the muffled greeting of decent bodies – dim shapes passing in the dusk – came to them quietly; and through it all the faint stir of moving water in the estuary beyond drifted inwards with the darkness.

  Square patches of yellow light were beginning to spring out along the street, hurrying the pace of the coming night. Doors that had been open to admit the evening’s coolness swung shut. Suddenly, from the vague void of the firth, came the beam of the Linton lighthouse, a flashing meteor across their vision, linking them for an instant to reality, leaving the darkness greater and the stillness deeper than before.

  They did not speak: the mysterious invocation of the hour was towards a universal silence. There was no moon, no dust of stars, the darkness richer thus, the silence deeper. A bat’s wing brushed invisibly the air that was heavy with the rising fragrance of dewed grass; from a distant field the wafted breath of cut hay came cool and damply moist, drifting around them dreamily. The sweet languor that was in the evening seemed all at once to flood her, and with a rush of tenderness she leaned against him. They had their tiffs, had Frank and she. But still she did – yes, there was no denying of her love. She leaned against him. Possessively she slipped her arm around his shoulders.

  ‘It’s late, Frank,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Come in to home.’

  Chapter Three

  Next morning, as Lucy sat at breakfast with her husband and her son – in hospitable regard for that fatigue expressed overnight, she had sent a tray to Anna’s room – the telegram from Richard arrived.

  A telegram in this household was an event of staggering dimensions, and as Lucy tore nervously at the thin envelope – she it was who dealt with the matter – already she was primed for some calamity. But it was not calamity, merely annoyance, and her gasp had in it a mingling of irritation and relief.

  ‘Bother!’ she exclaimed, her eyes bright now with vexation. ‘Isn’t that too bad!’ With her slight youthful figure intent, her smooth forehead creased, she exhibited an almost girlish dismay.

  ‘Look, Frank,’ she repeated. ‘Isn’t that a nuisance?’

  Moore read the proffered slip aloud: ‘“Dear Lucy please come few days Eva unwell Richard.”’ There was a pause whilst he looked at her with raised brows. ‘Of all the damned cheek!’ he declared. ‘“Dear Lucy” – that’s rich, that is.’

  ‘It’s most annoying,’ she agreed in a provoked voice. ‘Most especially with Anna to be entertained. What on earth she’ll think –’

  ‘But – you’re not dreaming of going?’

  She picked up the telegram again.

  ‘A few days,’ she read out meditatively. ‘Till Tuesday, perhaps.’ She sighed and said: ‘ Well, I suppose I must!’

  ‘Surely!’ he expostulated. ‘ You know they only make use of you. That’s the one time you hear from that brother of yours. A couple of years ago, wasn’t it, the same thing happened? Then, after they’d used you, they dropped you like a hot potato. A Christmas card in blessed thanksgiving – wasn’t that what they sent you?’

  She flushed at his tone.

  ‘I’ve got a sense of duty, Frank,’ she returned firmly. ‘ It’s not what Richard does that concerns me. It’s what I do. Eva is ill. Besides, he’s my brother.’

  ‘My love to the Pope,’ he exclaimed rudely. ‘I want you here. You don’t have to go.’

  But quite tranquilly she brushed aside both his rudeness and his objection; she was not one to ignore her obligations; Richard, her brother, had appealed to her in some necessity. Though the inconvenience of this duty was manifest, already her mind was made up.

  ‘It’s fortunate in a way that Anna’s here,’ she reflected evenly. ‘She’ll be able to look after you.’

  ‘Look after me! I don’t want her looking after me.’ A wealth of protest rang through his tone. But now, as always, that protest merely struck sparks from her resolution.

  ‘The ten o’clock is a good train!’ she murmured calmly, conclusively, as though in effect she said: ‘I’ve decided, Frank. And when I’ve done that you know surely –’

  No more was said, but as he rose abruptly and struggled into his coat he declared:

  ‘Your own way. Your own way. And nothing but your own way. It’s going to land you somewhere one of these days.’

  ‘It’s not as if I wanted to go, Frank,’ she murmured reasonably. ‘And it’s only till Tuesday.’

  He looked at her for a moment, then gradually a smile broke into his glum face; he shook his head.

  ‘It’s well seen I’m fond of you,’ he said, ‘or I’d never let you tug the reins so hard.’

  ‘That’s better,’ she answered, smoothing his collar. Kissing him affectionately, she went to the window and watched his figure dwindling down the road until finally it vanished. Then immediately she went up to Anna’s room, her small face suddenly concerned as she tapped upon the door and entered.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Anna,’ she exclaimed, and, half frowning, half smiling, sitting on the edge of the other’s bed, she explained the awkwardness of her predicament. ‘ It’s an atrocious thing to do. But I don’t see now I can avoid it. I’ve got the feeling my brother needs me.’

  ‘It’s all one to me,’ said Anna, when she heard; and she began to plait a loose end of hair which hung over her yellow dressing-jacket, observing her fingers as she did so. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘You’re not upset?’

  ‘What for?’ She abandoned her plaiting, not tossing back the thick coarse braid, but allowing it to lie quite without coquetry.

  ‘Well –’ said Lucy, flushing a little at the expressionless reception of her news. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave on the ten o’clock.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Anna pleasantly, quietly raising her full brown eyes, which were deep against the smooth ivory of her face.

  There was a silence between the two women: the one open, eager, and warmly intent; the other indolent, lymphatic, composed.

  ‘You’ll look after Frank!’ said Lucy at length as she rose. ‘Don’t let him get into the dumps.’

  ‘We’ll rub along all right,’ said Anna carelessly. ‘Frank knows me, and I know him.’

  Why, thought Lucy as she went downstairs, could not Anna have said spontaneously: ‘ I’m sorry you’ve got to go. But of course you must. Your sister-in-law is ill. Still, I’ll manage beautifully until you come back.’ But no. Anna had not said that, and in failing to afford this satisfaction had somehow epitomised her character. For a moment Lucy revolved this elusive equation with a certain vexation. She liked so palpably to grasp a thing, it irked her to leave the enigma unsolved. But it must be, she felt, that Anna resented naturally the defection of her hostess – however unavoidable this might be – and as such Lucy accepted the answer, dismissing it finally from her mind.

  She shook away her stupid thoughts, turned to the need of breaking her departure to her son.

  ‘Peter!’ she called out suddenly.

  He emerged from his bedroom, in the process of concl
uding his dressing: as a greater convenience to his mother and, indeed, to himself, he breakfasted on week-days after his father had gone. She looked at him, hiding the fondness in her eyes

  ‘Netta is going to give you your lunch today,’ she declared tactfully. ‘And Anna will be here with you for a bit. I’ll – I’ll be away.’

  He stared up at her.

  ‘What on earth for, mother?’

  ‘It would be good fun, wouldn’t it?’ she evaded, straightening his tie, and adding suggestively: ‘Will you promise to look after Anna?’

  Visibly he toyed with the idea, finding in it something important, unique; yet with a calculating, ingenuousness which she found engaging, which, indeed, she now almost expected, he said:

  ‘If I do, will you give me’ – he hesitated – ‘a – you know’ – he spelled out the word – ‘if I do? For my jug?’

  Of course she would – a penny; it was nothing; and he was not the boy to spend it upon cheap and trashy confectionery. No, he saved these pennies with a commendable prudence which could be only reassuring to her maternal heart.

  He was given the penny – how indeed could she have refused it? – and a warm and lingering embrace. Netta, too, received her full instructions; then finally Lucy departed.