by A. J. Cronin
They stood outside for a moment, opposite the entrance to Bow Street Station.
‘You’re sure you won’t even have a drink?’
‘No thanks. I’ll get along to Oxford Street for my bus.’
‘I shall be seeing you soon. And by then I’ll have some interesting news for you.’
It was the strongest hint that Glyn, during the course of the evening, had ventured to throw out, but, like the others, it seemed to pass over Stephen’s head. Still, Richard felt that definite progress had been made.
They shook hands, Glyn set off for the Strand and Stephen turned away in the opposite direction. As he did so he almost collided with a woman emerging alone from the foyer of the theatre. Instinctively he stepped back, with an exclamation of apology, and in the same instant saw that it was Claire.
‘You!’ The word came from her in a whisper.
From her expression, startled, suddenly fixed, he knew how painful was this recognition, and in this position, on the almost deserted pavement, they remained motionless, gazing at each other in silence, rather like two wax figures in the not too distant establishment of Madame Tussaud. This thought, indeed, occurred to Stephen, but before he could end a silence that struck him as ridiculous, Claire broke into a nervous flow of words.
‘Stephen. I can’t believe it. Who would have imagined meeting you here? You’ve been to the opera?’
‘Did you think I’d come from across the street?’
He could not resist that ironic reply, but the change in her expression, at once grave and subdued as she glanced towards the blue police lamp, caused him to add: ‘Yes, I have been, for once. I suppose you come pretty regularly.’
‘Every night, during the season. Music is a great joy to me.’
Her tone did not suggest joy, but rather consolation, an emotion confirmed by her serious face, which, deprived of its youthful colour and contours, had become almost angular, the eyes shadowed, the nose more prominent, the chin a trifle elongated. Her black dress too, while in admirable taste, was devoid of all ornament and, worn with a black lace scarf draped across her hair, produced an effect restrained to the point of severity.
‘Are you alone?’ she asked, after another difficult pause.
‘Now, I am. My friend has gone.’
She hesitated, gathered her courage.
‘Then won’t you come up to my place for a chat? We can’t stand here in the street. I’m quite near, in Knightsbridge.’
The invitation was issued in a matter-of-fact voice, and because of this, although he was anxious to get home, perhaps also because the change in her aroused his interest, he made a gesture of acquiescence. Her car, a dark-blue Daimler landaulette, was waiting a short distance down the street, and presently they were being driven west at a good pace through the empty streets.
‘This is luxury, Claire.’ He spoke lightly. ‘Rather better than your old De Dion.’
‘It’s a hired car,’ she answered. ‘I don’t own one now. I get this from the mews. At night I can’t quite face the underground. But during the day I take it … to and from my work.’
Her suggestion of personal mortification, of grace acquired in braving the discomfort of the London tube, fell oddly on his ears. But he merely said:
‘You have a job?’
She inclined her head.
‘At the St Barnabas Settlement for Destitute Girls. I am the honorary secretary. Under our dear vicar, Father Loftus.’
‘Loftus!’ he exclaimed.
‘Such a splendid person. He has been …’ she hesitated ‘… a tremendous spiritual help to me.’
He made to speak, but remained silent. And presently they reached her flat, situated on the top storey of a converted house in Sloane Street. She admitted him to the drawing-room, which was long and somewhat narrow, but restful, softly carpeted, decorated in shades of silver, quietly furnished. And on the two end walls, framed in carved stripped pine, were his paintings which she had purchased seven years before.
‘They look well, don’t they?’ she remarked, as he gazed towards them, and before he could answer ran on, with a vivacity which did not ring true but was, more likely, a cloak for some inner agitation: ‘ Perhaps you recognise some of my old things. Most of them I brought from Broughton. I spend most of my time here. Except for the children’s holiday. Nicholas is at Wellington, you know, and Harriet at Roedean. There they are on the bureau.’
She indicated a silver-framed photograph, and while he examined it, removed her wrap and gloves, then moved to a small Pembroke table on which were set out a Thermos jug and a napkin-covered plate.
‘Can I offer you a drink? Do sit down. There’s hot milk here. But perhaps you’d prefer a whisky and soda.’
He could have sworn she looked relieved when he indicated his preference for milk. Despite the briskness of her manner, he sensed that she was acutely nervous, inclined to be distrustful, desperately afraid of compromising herself. Unobserved, while she poured the milk, he studied her. There were lines of disappointment running down from her nostrils. She talked much more than of old and had a queer air of driving herself on. On the desk he had noticed files, note-books, a list of appeals, the miscellaneous papers of charitable effort, and above, beside the photograph of the children, a large studio portrait of a clergyman – handsome, high-browed, radiating a lofty serenity – indisputably Loftus. He went over and studied it.
‘So this is the vicar of St Barnabas?’
‘You know Father Loftus?’
‘I did once. He was hard on Jenny … my wife … when she worked at the Settlement.’ Absently, he added, ‘He looks well-fed now.’
‘Oh, how can you, Stephen? Just look at the nobility of that face.’
‘You can do anything with a photograph, Claire.’ He smiled, quite without malice. ‘ If I painted him I’d get beneath that layer of fat.’ Suddenly he burst out laughing, a short spasm which ended in a fit of coughing. He wiped his eyes with a paint-stained handkerchief. ‘Sorry. I was just thinking how near I came to ending up like that.’
As she did not reply, nor express the obvious thought that came to mind, he seated himself again.
‘How is Geoffrey?’
She coloured painfully, but answered calmly.
‘Well, I believe. We have not met for some months.’
It was not difficult for him to fit the pieces together. If she were not actually separated from Geoffrey, at least she saw him as seldom as possible and, instead, filled her life, a little too desperately perhaps, with good works, committee meetings, well-bred philanthropy. Yet how many lonely moments had she known in this lovely room, so cool now after the heat of the theatre, and smelling of lavender?
The silence threatened constraint – which above all must be avoided. She came forward, offering him a sandwich, thin triangular white bread, the crusts cut off, enclosing cream cheese and chopped olives.
‘They’re not very substantial, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ he answered. ‘I had a bowl of tripe and onions before the opera.’
She glanced at him quickly with a faint flush. Why need he obtrude this unnecessary coarseness? Was it unconscious or deliberate? And with a queer interior sinking, a qualm almost of dismay, she asked herself why she had invited him to the retreat she had, with such difficulty, created for herself, so inviolate that no man, except Father Loftus – and he of course as a minister of religion need not be considered in the masculine sense – had crossed the threshold. Could this be Stephen Desmonde? In that dreadful ready-made suit and those cheap brown shoes – bought with care, though she knew it not, by Jenny at the East London Emporium – he was dressed exactly like a working man – a labourer out for the evening. His head, poised and erect, had a certain distinction, but the cropped hair, emphasising the bony structure of the skull, held for her an intimidating quality, stressed by the ironic calmness of his eyes. His beautiful hands were roughened, the nails uncared for, ragged and stained with pigment.
‘Stephen.’ She spoke impulsively. ‘Where have you been living all these years?’
‘In the East End,’ he answered vaguely. ‘By the river.’
‘Down by the Docks?’
‘Yes. Cable Street, Stepney. Why not?’
Shocked, she gazed at him.
‘Don’t you think it’s time you made a change? I mean … what sort of life is it for you in such an environment … mixing with that class of people?’
‘An artist belongs to no class. And I like the people.’
‘But you should be amongst beautiful things … in the country … even if it were only a little cottage.’
‘And paint the roses round the door? No, Claire, I get my inspiration from the good Thames mud. Please don’t pity us. We have our amusements. Most Saturdays nights we go for a pint to the local pub. Occasionally we have an outing to the Heath. Then in the summer we spend a fortnight at Margate with my wife’s sister-in-law. She keeps a fish shop, her jellied eels are something to remember.’
Claire bit her lip. Was he trying to provoke her, or had he really lapsed to these common standards and degraded tastes? The thought of him living in squalid intimacy with that low servant-girl of whom Father Loftus spoke in such scathing terms and whose abandoned instincts doubtless were responsible for dragging down Stephen and, yes, devitalising him, roused in her a cold sickness.
‘I would have imagined …’
He smiled in something like his old manner.
‘Don’t worry, Claire. It makes no difference where I live, so long as I can paint. Only one thing matters. I must be free to work when and how I like.’
‘Then,’ she said slowly, ‘you won’t go back to Stillwater?’
‘Never.’
‘Don’t you ever think of them there?’
‘It may shock you … I don’t.’
‘You don’t even know what’s been happening … at the Rectory?’
He shook his head.
‘Not a word.’
‘Suppose they wanted you … needed you?’
‘Impossible.’
‘There have been changes, Stephen … great changes … and not for the better.’
The solemnity of her manner – almost portentous – was too much for him, and at his quiet smile she flushed again, hurt and offended at his indifference. Was he proof against everything? Or was it that, in his submerged existence, living in this unnatural vacuum, communicating with no one, receiving no letters, reading no newspapers – otherwise he must surely have come across some item relating to his mother’s case – he was completely insensible, oblivious to everything but the act of transferring pigment to a square of canvas? For a moment she was tempted to strike back, to hurt him by revealing the full extent of the misfortunes that had fallen on Stillwater. But once more she restrained herself, less from a motive of Christian charity than from the feeling that it was not her responsibility and, indeed, that such action on her part might make matters worse.
A little French clock chimed softly on the mantelpiece, and at the sound Stephen stirred.
‘It’s late. I mustn’t keep you up any longer.’
She did not answer. He rose and held out his hand. As she took it, a sense of sadness, of something wasted, and of pity overcame him. Quite unexpectedly, he rested his arm on her shoulder.
‘We are friends still, aren’t we?’
The look on her face, which he had half anticipated, shocked, almost panic-stricken at his nearness, made his eyes spark.
‘I’m glad, Claire. You don’t care any more.’
He released her. They went into the little hall.
‘You must come again,’ she said weakly, striving for a semblance of normality.
He smiled without answering and the next minute was gone. She had the sudden conviction that she would never see him again. Slowly, with dropping head, she went into her bedroom, once again as white, as freshly virginal, as in the days of her maidenhood, stared unseeingly at her reflection in the mirror. He had looked so worn – bodily, emotionally and mentally overworked – and in many ways so strange. Was it true that everything she had felt for him was dead? She did not know. Tears welled from her eyes, flowed slowly down her cheeks.
‘At least I know where he lives. I must speak to Caroline about him. I really must.’
Chapter Three
For over seven years nothing of consequence had disturbed the tranquillity of Stephen’s life, but now, set in motion by Glyn’s visit, a sequence of unexpected events began to harass him. Some twelve days after his meeting with Claire a letter arrived at Cable Street bearing the Stillwater postmark. Jenny, who had a strong regard for family feeling and, being quite without pride, often wished privately that he might be reconciled with his relations, even though she herself should remain excluded, placed it on Stephen’s plate to await his return from the river.
When he came in and had seated himself he took up the letter, thinking it came from Glyn – for Richard’s insistent hints had prepared him for a communication of some sort – but observing the handwriting on the envelope, he put it down with a faint frown. However, when he had eaten his supper, he opened it, then, some moments later, observing her look of eager interest, he said:
‘It’s from Caroline.… She wants me to meet her.’
‘You will, won’t you?’
‘What on earth good will it do …?’
‘Surely it’s good to see your sister.’
‘But it’s such a waste of time.’
‘She’s your own flesh and blood.’
His brows relaxed, he had to smile. Not only at the reproach, but at the earnestness with which she delivered it. He touched her hand with his. Her reasonableness, the open simplicity of her nature seemed always to bring him back from that strange country into which he strayed alone. Not for the first time, he deeply realised how much he owed not only to her abundant, cheerful, healthy good temper, her good humour, and self-control, but to her understanding, her instinctive knowledge of human nature. The sympathy, unspoken, that flowed from her when he was depressed, was like a healing balm. Her so modest tastes and ambitions, whether for a ‘nice strong cup of tea’ or a new hearthrug for the kitchen, her lack of envy, her childlike interest, ungrudging, in those richer and more fortunate than she, as revealed in the picture periodicals, which she studied intently, were to him unutterably touching. And how splendid, too, were her calm, efficient activities in the house, her presence of mind in a crisis. She was the real romance, the romance of commonsense and kindliness, of a woman you could sleep with in a warm bed. The home she had given him, a refuge, fixed and stable, made all his wanderings and unhappy strivings seem stupid and futile.
‘I love you, Jenny. And because of that I’ll go.’ He added, to conceal his feelings: ‘It’s what I deserve for going to that damned opera.’
She smiled at him with a grave sympathy, comfortably, and sensibly.
On Wednesday of the following week, although with reluctance, he set out for Victoria, where, under the central clock, Caroline had said she would await him. The morning was wet and overcast, conditions which made work impossible and tempered somewhat his unwillingness to make this quite unnecessary concession to family sentiment. During the past few days he had felt unaccountably tired. The fog of the London autumn always upset him, and as his cough had kept him awake part of the night, his mood was not altogether effervescent as he approached the station.
When he got off the bus and pushed through the crowded platforms it was past eleven o’clock, and he asked himself if Carrie, the soul of punctuality, might actually be late. Then, by the bookstall, he saw a short, middle-aged woman, her hair streaked with grey, dressed in an ill-fitting tweed costume which touched a familiar chord of recollection. When she caught sight of him, her broad anxious face lighted up,
she came forward and, with a little nervous gasp, greeted him. Although he scarcely recognised her, it was his sister.
‘What a morning!’ she exclaimed, finding safety in a remark about the weather. ‘Regular cats and dogs.’
‘I expect you had a wet drive to Halborough.’
‘Yes, it was wet. There wasn’t a bus, so I walked. My brolly blew inside out.’ Again, attempting a deprecating laugh, she gave that slight gasp, demonstrating the umbrella, a wreck of tattered black silk and twisted frame, that she carried. She added: ‘It will mend, though … I think.’
There was a pause, then he said:
‘You’d be glad of a cup of coffee. Shall we go to the buffet?’
She seemed to shrink from the rush and bustle of the station restaurant.
‘We couldn’t talk in there. It’s too noisy. There’s a homemade place … the Copper Kettle … just across the road, near the Palace.’
They went out of the station, through the bus terminal, and in a backwater off Victoria Street entered an establishment painted a watery apple-green where, in the window amidst some pots of jam and a wire tray of stale buns, a large black cat was asleep. Upstairs, In a little chilly room, empty at this hour, they sat down at a fumed-oak table on which stood an unsteady vase of paper flowers, a contribution box for Dr Barnardo’s Homes and a Swiss cow-bell. Stephen rang the bell, which emitted an unearthly tinkle, and presently a woman in a grey cardigan haughtily appeared, brought, after an interval, two cups of a greyish, tepid beverage and a stand of palid cakes.
In the presence of the proprietress Caroline had brightly initiated a purely fictitious conversation relating to the weather, the condition of the crops, and the prospects of the cubbing season, but once they were alone her shoulders sagged, she stirred the fluid in her chipped cup mournfully.