A Disturbing Influence

by Julian Mitchell

  My sermon was topical, about the many blessings we have to be thankful for, and I made good use of the current heat wave to make my point. So much of the time people expect God to answer their particular desires, and the vicar to pray for whatever vagary of weather the farmers may want—and it differs from farmer to farmer and from week to week—but a really fine spell is something everyone appreciates, provided it doesn’t go on too long, and we should be grateful when one comes. And I pointed out how people become much more agreeable and charitable when there’s a good spell of fine weather, and that we shouldn’t make this charitableness a seasonal thing, dependent on cyclones and anti-cyclones, but should try to follow Christ’s example and make fine-weather charity and agreeableness an all-the-year-round habit. It’s not a difficult metaphor to develop, and I ended comparing Christ to the sun, circling us always, even when He seems invisible because of clouds or darkness.

  Afterwards James Gilchrist came up to me outside and said: ‘That was an excellent sermon, Vicar, really very good.’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you for taking on the second lesson at such short notice.’

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ he said, modestly. ‘We haven’t seen much of your nephew lately. Where have you been keeping him?’

  ‘It was such a pity, pulling a muscle like that,’ I said. David wasn’t there for the moment. ‘He really enjoyed playing tennis with Jane.’

  ‘He wasn’t bad at all,’ said Jane.

  Just then David came out of the church and blinked round at us in the bright sun.

  ‘Where have you been? Mr Gilchrist was wondering why he hasn’t been seeing much of you recently.’

  ‘I was just taking a last look at those misericords,’ he said. Then he shook hands with Gilchrist and Jane. (Mrs Gilchrist never came to church, she said she couldn’t bear to listen to her husband reading the lesson, it seemed all wrong somehow.)

  ‘Well, young man,’ said Gilchrist, ‘I hope you’re not responsible for these goings-on down at the gravel-pits, eh?’

  ‘Not my sort of entertainment, sir,’ said David, smiling.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with the young these days,’ said Gilchrist. ‘No spunk in them, no guts. Now I’d never tell him, but if I knew Edward had been doing something like that I’d be tickled to death.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ said Jane. ‘You know you’d be furious.’

  ‘I’d be furious, yes. But secretly I’d be tickled to death. Now when I was young there used to be some guts around. We didn’t go round smashing up people’s bathing huts, but we did know how to live. They don’t know how to live these days.’

  ‘Do you really think so, sir?’ said David, politely. He did seem to have a little of that mockery in his smile that I found so disturbing at times, but then under the circumstances he had the right to be a little mocking.

  ‘Our only hope is the young of the country,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Young men like you and Edward. God help us if they’re all like Edward. You people have got to take on where we left off and go farther. If you can’t do that we’re finished as a country.’

  ‘Daddy, you sound just like a politician at times,’ said Jane, looking at David. He smiled at her, the smile of the league of youth. Actually, I believe he was rather fond of her, and she of him.

  ‘I don’t agree at all,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I think youth is a terrible scourge. They really visit the sins of the fathers on the fathers’ heads. My Boy Scouts are simply impossible. It’s only since I’ve had David in the house that I realized there were some young people who weren’t absolutely intolerable.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear you don’t find David intolerable, too,’ said Gilchrist. ‘That’s what they’re for, the young. To push us old buffers out of the way. I’m sorry you weren’t one of Hobson’s vandals, David.’

  ‘He seemed to think I was.’

  Jane never took her eyes off his face, and it occurred to me that the pulled muscle might have been an excuse to cover up some quarrel they’d had—some silly thing, probably, in which neither could give in because of youthful pride, but which both wished had never happened. If I was right, it seemed a pity.

  Just then Evangeline Hobson joined us, saying: ‘I’m terribly sorry about the Brigadier, Raymond.’ She always called him ‘the Brigadier’ as though she was still an army wife and we were all junior officers. ‘He doesn’t feel too well today.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘He’s a damned fool,’ she said. ‘He’s been sitting out by that lake for the last three nights with a shot-gun, trying to catch those hooligans. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got pneumonia.’

  ‘He told me that he felt too old to go after them himself.’

  ‘He did,’ said Evangeline, ‘until they swiped the second hut and planted it on that island. That was too much for the old boy. Well, I must be getting home to see how he is. He hates being in bed, but he’s really not too good today.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ we all said, though I suspect that some of us were really quite amused. I thought I saw a decided glint in David’s eye.

  ‘Well, ’morning all,’ said Evangeline, and walked briskly off.

  ‘Good for Hobson,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Now you see what I mean about the modern generation. They don’t have the sort of guts you need to sit up all night trying to catch hooligans. No spunk in them.’

  ‘He seems to have kept them away, anyway,’ said Jane. ‘They haven’t done anything recently, have they?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of, thank goodness,’ I said. She was a very pretty girl. It was a pity about David’s pulled muscle, real or imaginary.

  ‘We must get back,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Sunday lunch without a couple of sherries as appetizers just isn’t Sunday lunch. We’ll see you at Mendleton again soon, I hope,’ he said to David.

  ‘Well, actually I’m leaving tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But it’s extremely kind of you to ask. And it was great fun to visit Mendleton.’

  They shook hands, Gilchrist saying: ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Jane’s even sorrier, I expect. She says you’re the only person within ten miles who can give her a decent game of tennis.’

  ‘Yes,’ said David, turning to her, ‘I shall miss that very much. It was great fun. But I’m sure she’ll find someone better.’

  ‘Good-bye,’ said Jane. She looked, I thought, very taken aback indeed.

  We all shook hands again, and they went off, while David waited outside for me to change and pay Jim Nelson. Then we walked back to the vicarage. It really was a joy to see people sitting in their gardens enjoying the sun. Outside the Brunswick Arms there were a good many cars, too, and one could see through the passageway that people were having a good time in the neat little garden Sam Palmer kept there, with benches and tables. It wasn’t till we were almost home that we heard the bad news.

  Bob Ransome, who was the porter at the station, was on his way to the pub, and he stopped to say ‘Good morning’ and tell us about it. Apparently the island in the middle of the largest gravel-pit had burnt to a cinder during the night. No one knew whether it had been caused by Teddy boys or was a natural catastrophe, but as Bob said: ‘It doesn’t seem likely to have just caught fire of itself, does it?’ I had to agree. It was really very bewildering. But at least it was only an island, and no one owned it or had anything on it. There was an owner somewhere, I suppose, but the gravel-pit had become public property almost by default since the gravel company had moved away. It did seem a senseless piece of destruction, though, whether by the hand of man or nature.

  ‘Didn’t anyone see it?’ said David. ‘It must have made quite a blaze.’

  But apparently no one had, it had burned invisibly.

  *

  Next day David left by the morning train. He still seemed rather thin, and he wasn’t very sun-burned, though he had spent a good deal of time swimming and being outdoors, but he assured me he really felt very much better.

  I couldn’t decide
whether I was sorry to see him go or not. The religious doubts that were plaguing me more and more demanded that I spend a good part of my day alone, trying to make up my mind. Doubt is a sort of disease, a wasting disease, and one is aware of it all the time as though one has some growth which interferes with one’s consciousness at all moments of the day and night. So I wished to be alone for a while, and for that reason I was not sorry to see him go. But at the same time I knew that I should be even more lonely after his departure than I had been before he came. To have another person in the house with one, even when that person is much younger, makes one feel in contact with—well, with the real world. Cartersfield seemed more and more remote to me that summer, after he had gone, and Mrs Crawley seemed only to emphasize my loneliness, my lack of connection. As the hot weather continued I found myself increasingly unable to sleep, and I ceased to notice how troubled the usually placid surface of Cartersfield life had become. There was a curious outbreak of drunkenness among the young men and pointless smashing of windows and fences. One or two people went away. Perhaps a heat-wave, as I’d said in my sermon, was only a blessing if it didn’t go on too long. Everyone seemed restless. When it rained at last, briefly, in September, breaking a serious drought, I think everyone was extremely relieved. England without a good deal of rain, even in summer, doesn’t seem altogether natural.

  8

  ‘I’M GOING tomorrow,’ he said.

  Four men stirred in the shadows.

  ‘It’s been fun,’ said David. ‘But now it’s good-bye.’

  ‘Nothing tonight, then?’ said Dick Thomson.

  ‘No. I’ve got you a couple of bottles, though, if you want them. Here you are.’

  Jack Tarrant took the bottles and said: ‘Thanks, David.’

  ‘I’d keep clear of the gravel-pits for a week or two. People seem upset about the damage down there.’

  Dennis Palmer chuckled.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Allen.

  ‘London. Then—anywhere. I don’t know. I’m recovered now, you see. I’ll have to get myself some work to do. Abroad, probably.’

  ‘You don’t have to work.’

  ‘My father wouldn’t agree with you about that, Allen.’

  They stood in silence round the car, then Jack said: ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘We could go down by the canal,’ said Dennis.

  ‘No,’ said Allen, suddenly and violently. ‘Not there.’

  ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Allen.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, David,’ said Dennis. ‘We’ll be seeing you.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said David. ‘Have a good time.’

  The three disappeared into the shadows, leaving Allen and David. David listened to them go with an odd expression almost of regret on his face.

  ‘David, if I came to London, do you think you could find me a job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t you? Please. I’d like to get away from here. I’m sick of this place.’

  ‘I can’t find you a job, Allen. I don’t have one myself.’

  ‘But I’ve got to get away from here, really I have.’

  ‘Why? What have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. I just want to get away. And when you were talking about those places last night I knew I just couldn’t stay here all my life, repairing cars at Trinder’s. That’s no life. And then Ruth keeps getting after me. She wants me to marry her.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-one. I don’t want to tie myself down. Kids all over the place. I’ve seen that happen to others. I don’t want to start changing the baby yet. There’s plenty of time for that later. I want to get out. Like you were saying last night. I want to see some of the world.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ said David.

  ‘Oh yes, you did,’ said Allen. ‘I want to try some of that life. I’d like to go to Texas, all those places.’

  ‘I can’t find you a job in Texas,’ said David.

  ‘I’ll work my way there. I’ll join the merchant service. I’ve been in the Army. I might as well try what it’s like at sea. I reckon I can put up with most things.’

  ‘But I can’t get you a Seaman’s Union card, Allen.’

  ‘I know that. But I’d like to go to London first. Look around a bit. Can’t one of your friends find me anything?’

  ‘You really enjoyed it last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had a terrible head this morning,’ said Allen, smiling foolishly. ‘But I remembered what you said.’

  A curious look of inward glee came over David’s sallow face, and his smile seemed even more crooked than usual as he said: ‘I tell you what, Allen. I’ll give you the address of a friend of mine. He might be able to help you. He may offer you some pretty odd jobs. Do you mind that?’

  ‘I can do anything.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I meant.’

  Allen looked away and said: ‘If I can only get away from here for a bit.’

  ‘All right.’ David wrote something on a slip of paper and gave it to Allen. ‘Just tell him I sent you.’

  ‘Thanks a million, David.’

  ‘Just ring him up and mention my name, and he’ll find something for you, I’m sure.’

  Allen said: ‘Thanks, David. I don’t know why, but today I just felt it so strongly. I’ve really got to get away.’

  ‘Well, I hope you get where you want,’ said David. He rested his arm for a moment on Allen’s shoulder. ‘So long.’

  ‘So long, David.’

  The car moved off, heading away from Cartersfield. Allen looked at the piece of paper with a name and address which he had never heard of. Then he slipped it carefully between the folds of his handkerchief, put the handkerchief in his pocket, and disappeared into the shadows towards the canal, where the others would have arrived by now.

  *

  ‘Where’ve you been these last few days?’ said Ruth.

  ‘I’ve been around.’

  ‘You weren’t in church yesterday, and you weren’t at the dance Saturday night. What’s up with you?’

  ‘I’ve been minding my own business.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been down at the gravel-pits, setting the place on fire, by any chance?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. I was out with some of the boys, that’s all.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Ruth. She rearranged some tubes of lipstick in the showcase.

  ‘Listen, it’s none of your business where I spend my time. Where I go is my business.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, Allen Bradshaw. I’ve been going with you for a long time, now, and I’ve put up with a lot. I’m not putting up with much more. Understand?’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Allen. ‘I’m going away, anyway. I’m going up to London. There’s no way to get on here.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’m going up to London.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Cartersfield? It’s suited you pretty well up to now, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t suit me any longer, that’s all’

  ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t suit you?’

  ‘I’m going away, Ruth, that’s all. There’s no point in arguing about it. I want to see a bit of the world before I settle down in some mouldy town like Cartersfield. Maybe I’ll be a merchant seaman.’

  ‘You didn’t like the Army much. What makes you think you’ll like being at sea?’

  ‘I want to see a bit of the world, that’s all,’ he said stolidly.

  Mr Hudson came into the shop and looked at them for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders angrily and went back into the prescription department.

  ‘What’s got into you, Allen? You never used to be like this.’

  ‘Nothing’s got into me. I told you. I want to see——’

  ‘You want to see a bit of the world,’ she said angrily. ‘You talk such nonsense. What do you want to go seeing the world for?’

  ‘I want to see
it, that’s all.’

  ‘I suppose you’re tired of me. You’ve got another girl, that’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t be so daft.’

  ‘Who is she, I’d like to know. I’d wring her neck if I could get my hands on her. Putting silly ideas in your head. Who is she?’

  ‘There isn’t any she. And no one’s been putting ideas in my head. Stop imagining things.’

  ‘Is it because I went out with that nephew of the vicar’s?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. I told you.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Oh, leave me alone, can’t you?’ said Allen. ‘I told you. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ruth. She stared at him hard. ‘And here you’ve been telling me all these years that you love me. We’d better get a few things straight, you and me. If you think I’m going to sit here cooling my heels while you go gadding about the world you’ve got another think coming, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’m going tomorrow morning.’

  She looked at him, then burst into tears and rushed into the back of the shop.

  Allen stood there a moment, looking after her, then he shrugged his shoulders and went out into the street. It was still hot, it had been hot for so many weeks now that no one commented on it any longer. He lit a cigarette and started off towards Trinder’s.

  *

  At eleven o’clock that night Dr Nye’s phone rang, and he leaned across his wife to answer it.

  ‘Old Hobson’s had a stroke, I think,’ he said. ‘Poor old boy.’

  ‘Poor Evangeline,’ said Marjory Nye.