by A. J. Cronin
‘But surely your husband likes more comfort than this?’ suggested Lucy.
‘True enough,’ agreed the other pleasantly. ‘He was fond of his own good comfort, was my man, but he’s been away for two, year now. Five year he got altogether. This gentleman’ – another nod – ‘is just staying with me.’
‘I see,’ said Lucy, and her gaze ranged from the pallid children to the six months’ infant whose paternity was thus, alas, so rudely called in question. But the infant didn’t mind, nor did the children; nor, least of all, did the gentleman.
‘Give the lady a song, Alfie,’ said he suddenly, turning to the eldest upon the floor. He wiped his mouth and glanced at Lucy. ‘He’s great, that one, at a tune.’ Lucy looked at Alfie. She was in a hurry; she had her work; but
again Mr Shaw prevailed.
‘Go on,’ she said suddenly. ‘Sing and I’ll give you a penny.’
Alfie – he was about five – smiled unblushingly, moistened his
lips, and said: ‘I’ll give you “Maggie Murphy” – I like it best.’
Then he raised his precocious pipe in this short ballad:
‘On Sunday night ’tis my delight
And pleasure, don’t you see,
Meeting all the boys and girls
Who work down town with me.
There’s an organ in the parlour
Just to give the house a tone,
And you’re welcome any ev-en-ing
At Maggie Murphy’s home.’
It was a strange, disturbing scene in that bare room: the thin voice of the rickety, hopelessly deformed child arising to the fog; the cheerful, grinning ‘gentleman’; the glass eye glowing with maternal pride; the infant dribbling on the straw; the whippet fallen back upon its own resources; and through it all the unconcerned movement of the lice wandering about in ceaseless, unmolested ease.
‘That’s all,’ chirped Alfie, when he had finished. ‘Good, wasn’t it?’ And, reaching out his claw, he received the coin.
Something rose up in Lucy’s throat. She wasn’t fitted for this work, really she wasn’t: it was too bad, this indescribable, overwhelming misery. With an effort she collected herself, moved to the door. There was an exchange of compliments, then Lucy said: ‘This time next week.’ She nodded, and went out of the room.
She had to go on. There was no help for it: it was her livelihood.
Resolutely she tapped upon the adjacent door, which with surprising alacrity swung open to disclose a room different indeed from that which she had quitted. It was cosy, cosy as the fire that leaped within the grate, cheerful as those flames sparkling across the china dogs upon the yellow chest of drawers. And, despite its poverty, comfortable – comfortable as the ample little woman who stood with her tatooed arms akimbo at the door.
She had a battered, ruddy face, and roguish, contumacious eyes, like beads of jet; upon her hair a black hat sat, and round her neck was clipped a straggling string of mangy fur. Lucy had never seen, and never was to see, this honest soul without her hat and mangled necklet. She wore them out of doors and in; almost indeed, it seemed, as though she slept in them; the reason being that in White Street the touchstone of quality was a hat so worn – not a shawl flung cow-like upon the head – and a fur so clipped. The fur, indeed – it touched the very acme of the mode – was not discarded even when the wearer went about her charring.
‘The rent again, is it, miss?’ said Mrs Collins. ‘ Truth, ’tis never paid but it’s round again.’
‘Every Tuesday,’ said Lucy, gazing at Mrs Collins and at Mrs Collins’s son – a lumpish young fellow who, couched beneath the blankets in the alcove bed, threw a captivating eye across his mother’s back.
‘Ah! ’tis the oftenest day of the week,’ said Mrs Collins. Following Lucy’s eye, she swung her head round and exclaimed: ‘Ben, there, he’s on the night shift now. That’s why he’s laid down like that. Think of it, too, only fifteen shillin ’a week he brings in. And eats double.’
She turned testily to obtain her rent-book, which, despite the protest, lay ready with the money on the table. Lucy marked the book, accepted the money.
‘You’ll not forget that bit of charring you pledged me?’ pursued the other, after she had reclaimed and inspected her book. ‘ I’m cheap for stairs and suchlike.’
‘I’ll remember you,’ returned Lucy. ‘I expect I’ll want you when my son comes home.’
She came out of the house; then she knocked at the next. Tap, tap, tap went her pencil on the door.
She tapped, indeed, at every door in that foul and gloomy entry; she marked the soiled books, collected the greasy money, wheedled and demanded, heard excuses and complaints; her bag grew heavier and her head – because she was not yet habituated to the work – grew lighter. Each visit occupied, upon the average, three minutes of her time: more than an hour and a half was spent within the dwellings opening from that first close, and it was after noon when she emerged into the narrow street. Yet her work was not finished. It had merely begun; and without hesitation she entered the next close, knocked immediately at the nearest door, waited, uttered her formula: ‘Henderson & Shaw!’ And so it went on. What work for her to be doing, she somewhat bitterly reflected – she, a woman who had once had her own little villa, her maid, her garden with its apple-tree, its pansies and petunias! She sighed, shifted her heavy coin-filled bag, and beat another insistent tattoo. ‘From Henderson & Shaw!’ It was like a password, admitting her to a dark and weary citadel. The almost unbelievable dirt, the vile odours, the squalid congregation of all the miseries of humanity, relieved but rarely by a cheerful face, became to her at times a nightmare.
It was after three when she had gone through the tenement completely. She should, of course, have taken her hour for lunch, but somehow her inclination lay towards finishing the work without a break. Miss Tinto had agreed, too, that this was the wiser tack, and sanctioned it with her benign authority. Now, however, as she came out of White Street and left its nauseating smells behind she felt unaccountably hungry. At the corner she boarded a slow-moving tram, which swam out of the fog with its lights ablaze. With her bag upon her knees, she sat upon the smooth wooden seat, resolving the possibilities of the cuisine. Her appetite was healthy, and for five hours she had been working hard. Various dishes passed seductively before her mind; then finally she decided. At Kelvinbank she got off the tram, and, entering a small butchers’ shop which she had already patronised, she demanded a mutton chop. The butcher – Tutt he was by name – was fat and hearty: he seemed, moreover, to know her now as ‘regular’. Perhaps he felt her eye upon him as he sliced and swung his chopper. At any rate, the chop was prime, well over weight; and his manner agreeably polite.
From the greengrocer next door she obtained two pennyworth of potatoes – she was just ‘out’ of potatoes; at the baker’s she purchased a loaf.
It was awkward carrying the parcels with the bag; and the loaf was clumsily wrapped in newspaper, which flapped open as she walked. Still, she had her lunch, and the sight of a woman so burdened was neither here nor there in Flowers Street.
Her house, gaining by contrast with those she had just quitted, had at this hour a quiet and restful solitude. She let her eyes wander. It was, after all, ‘ not too bad for the time being.’
Her first movement was towards the bath, where, standing in all her clothing, she thoroughly shook her garments. These fleas were a nuisance – but you couldn’t avoid them in White Street; even now three leaped the air agitatedly from the bath. Still, with care she kept free from the slower and more loathsome vermin.
She stepped out of the bath, turned on the tap, washed her face and hands. Then, removing her hat and coat, she lit the gasring and began to cook the chop. It was a bother having to set about these preparations, yet there was no alternative. For the time being she must forget the refinement of a well-cooked, appetising meal awaiting her arrival. Still, whilst she waited, the odour of the grilling meat sharpened her appetite further; and
when at last it was ready – browned exactly to her liking – she sat down and began to eat with all the relish of a hungry woman. How good it tasted! Subconsciously she approved her choice of Mr Tutt.
The warm food filled her with a new comfort. It was amazing how this simple meal restored and fortified her. Insensibly her outlook altered. With the bulk of the day’s work behind her, she had a satisfactory sense of accomplishment. Instinctively her thoughts turned to her son; always an indication of her cheerful mood.
When she had finished, she sat for a moment, still meditating. It would have been pleasant, she thought, not to go out again into that fog; but, with a glance towards the clock, she rose rather reluctantly. This time she left the dishes; she would be back again at six.
She went out, clasping again that inevitable bag. She hated it, but she could riot escape it.
At half-past four she entered the office.
‘What a fog!’ said Miss Tinto. ‘We’ve never had the lights off all day here.’
‘It’s not so bad indoors,’ returned Lucy mildly, ‘but it’s really dreadful out. I was glad to get through.’
Miss Tinto nodded her head, almost with satisfaction; reaching out her hand for the bag, she declared:
‘I’m glad you’re getting into the work. It comes hard at first.’
For a moment Lucy was silent: she had a sudden vision of that tenement wrapped in squalor and misery; then, with a sudden tinge of bitterness, she exclaimed: ‘Who owns that property – the one I did today?’
‘That property?’ repeated Miss Tinto in some surprise. ‘It belongs to a man – Tully. He has that shop in. Alston Street. As a matter of fact, he lives in Ralston – out my way. Yes, Tully’s his name.’ She paused. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘I was just thinking,’ returned Lucy. She remembered that shop – a jeweller’s shop – it’s great windows grilled and crammed with silver plate, but, around the corner, above the narrow side-entrance, the ominous sign – three brass balls! ‘If ever I meet Mr Tully,’ she declared slowly, bitterly, ‘I’ll let him know what I think of him!’
Chapter Fifteen
Slowly she walked towards the end of the platform, waiting with an outward calm which cloaked the intensity of her eagerness. The warm June sunset glowing through the city’s haze poured into Central Station with an amber light, gilding familiar objects, making of them a mirage both luminous and remote. Facing her, arched by the vaulted roof, a segment of open sky shone with a secret glory. Like a spell, it was, the strange unreality of that light, blinding her, drawing her by it swimming radiance.
She was waiting for Peter. Miss Tinto, with that brusqueness which masked her sudden generosities, had virtually commanded her to leave the office at half-past four, thus enabling her to rush home, to smarten herself up, and to be here in time to meet the three o’clock from Laughtown. She had been, indeed, too early, running rather breathlessly to be confronted by an indicator which informed her that the express would be five minutes late; but now, turning to retrace her measured, impatient pacing, a whistle shrilled, and into that mellow glow the long darkness of the train wound with a tired clanking, slowed with a last expulsive hiss. She paused, her figure taut, her eyes seeking, vivid with her emotion. Then she saw him swinging out of his compartment, advancing in the crowd towards her: not now the little boy who had taken her hand and trotted beside her upon this very platform, but, by some miracle of time and fortune, a neat, upstanding youth, who walked with a confidence beyond her guiding. She did not move, but stood watching him, a smile trembling upon her lips, waiting until he should see her. Then, indeed, that smile leaped into her pale face, and instantly transfigured it.
‘Hello, mother!’ he cried at once. ‘ Sorry we’re so late.’ And the grace with which he raised his hat to her, his mother, enraptured her. She felt weak, suddenly, as she kissed him.
‘You’re back then, Peter.’
‘Back for good now,’ he agreed cheerfully. She looked at him, seriously now and absorbedly, whilst he grinned down at her with that same ingenuous candour of his childhood.
‘What about my luggage?’ he demanded, at length.
‘Yes – your luggage,’ she echoed, and stirred slowly. He took her arm spontaneously as they walked up towards the guard’s van and again she felt that thrill of physical happiness traverse her like a sweet languor: the joy of having him back for good, as he had said – it was unbelievable!
‘There it is!’ he exclaimed.
The familiar trunk, no longer shining – the leather cracked, the initials yellowed but still bravely decipherable – lay upon the platform before them. How small it seemed! Once, when it stood upon its end, it had dwarfed him into insignificance. He exclaimed, indicating a porter. ‘Will he put it on a cab for us?’
She hesitated; it cost her an effort; still, she said: ‘I think – yes, I think we’ll have it delivered by the van.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘But it might as well come with us, mother.’
‘We’ll take the tram,’ she returned, with a reasonable air. ‘It’s really handier for us that way.’
With a reassuring nod, she went over and quietly made arrangements with the porter for the delivery of the trunk; then she closed her purse with an imperious snap, turned, and remarked briskly: ‘ That’s settled!’
As they moved off towards the station exit she continued, in the same manner: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get down for the breaking up. I hope you didn’t mind?’
‘No. Oh, no.’
‘I’m pleased you did so well again.’
‘We ought to be used to that now,’ he returned, rather abstractedly.
Indeed, a silence fell between them whilst they came down the incline into Young Street, and paused at the tramway stop, a silence which persisted as they boarded a red car and sat down upon the narrow wooden seat upstairs. Only when the conductor had punched the two tickets, and she had surrendered the penny piece in payment, did he remark slowly; ‘You haven’t said much in your letters about – about the change, mother. You told me about Miss Hocking and about the new work, but what exactly does it all mean?’
‘Nothing much, really,’ she declared, with a careless air; she knew that he must be told, but she would spare him the damaging details at all costs. ‘We haven’t quite so much to live on, dear, but we’ll manage – we’ll manage perfectly.’
‘It’s not going to interfere with my – with –’
‘Oh, no,’ she cut in confidently. ‘ That’s going to be done at all costs. You mayn’t find things so – so nice’ – it was a convenient word – ‘as at Ardfillan, but we can put up with them for a bit. We’ll be together, and we’ll soon be out of the wood.’
‘I see,’ he said. His look cleared, and he gazed over the edge of the tram as it bumped its way westwards.
Nearing the corner of Kelvinbank Street, she rose. ‘Here we are, then,’ she exclaimed briskly, and, pointing from the top of the swaying tram like one who demonstrates unquestionably the momentous, she added, ‘Near enough to that for you, anyway.’
They both looked towards the building which she indicated, a long grey building, with a central tower that stood upon the summit of a hill, above the Park of Kelvingrove. Touched upon its high hill by a level slant of sunlight, the cold, dark grimness of the stone dissolved, and the tracery of the tower, enriched, became delicate, tenuous as a web of gossamer. It was at that moment a lovely sight, and for Lucy it was more: a passionate incentive, a hope, an inspiration which was reflected in her eyes and on her shining face.
‘Doesn’t it stir you?’ she exclaimed suddenly, with bright eyes.
‘That’s the place right enough,’ he agreed slowly; but the look upon his face was different: more meditative and detached it was, with an inward calculation which made his gaze a scrutiny, unemotional, almost acquisitive. ‘When I’m finished with that place, I’ll be ready to make my way right enough.’
She gave him another quick smile, and, turning, began to des
cend the steps. They got off the car.
And now with a sudden inward qualm, she led the way towards. Flowers Street. Never, she thought with a swift unhappiness, had the street appeared so crowded or so objectionable, and somehow she felt a sudden responsibility for all its imperfections. She had wanted Peter to see it in quietness – at its best – but now the warm night had drawn the inhabitants to the outer air, like rabbits from a warren. Children played and capered upon the pavements, some smaller infants sprawling with such exuberance as to expose their persons and their sorry soiled underclothing; they laughed and shrieked and fought, raising shamelessly their happy din. Women stood at the close mouths, with folded arms and flapping tongues, pausing to stare curiously at passers-by or to shout a caution to their writhing progeny. At open windows men in shirt-sleeves sucked pipes and read their papers, lifting now and then contentedly a brimming beer-can or spitting with casual complacency into the convenient street. At the corner, too, the dance-hall was in full and noisy session. Through the doors, swung wide for the heat, the thumping of feet and the jingling of a piano came mingling with a clapping of hands from the Master of Ceremonies, and the occasional cheerful – or was it odious – shout: ‘Swap judies and burl!’ Moreover, outside the hall a gang of youths stood knowingly, with shoulders slouched and caps pushed down upon their eyes, the very droop of their cigarettes epitomising the wisdom of the ages. They stared as Lucy and her son went past, and then they laughed with all the derision of a rich experience.
‘This is terrible, mother,’ said Peter, in a voice suddenly constrained. ‘I had no idea! Really, I had no idea it was like this.’
‘It’s not always so – so busy as this,’ she replied in a low voice.
‘Busy! It’s not the busyness. The whole place – it’s terrible. Terrible!’
She made no reply, but continued to look straight in front of her until they reached the entrance to No. 53. They went up the stairs in silence; then she took her key and threw open the door of the house.