by A. J. Cronin
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I am seeking a family who once owned a shop in this vicinity. The name is Douglas.’
They were of the age that construes the unusual as the absurd, and seemed prepared to giggle. But something, perhaps the excellence of his clothes, restrained them. One glanced at the other.
‘I never heard tell of any Douglas, did you, Jenny?’
‘Me neither,’ Jenny said, with a shake of her head.
There was a pause, then the first girl said:
‘Maybe old Mr Donaldson could help you. He’s been here a long time.’ Now she did giggle. ‘A lot longer than us.’
‘Donaldson?’ The name touched a chord of memory.
‘Our caretaker. If you go through the van entrance on the left you’ll find his wee house opposite the bakery.’
He thanked her and, following her directions, found himself in what had once been the Douglas yard, greatly enlarged now, with the big machine bakehouse on the left, a garage for motor vans facing him, and on the right the old stable converted to a small one-storey apartment. He rang the bell and after an interval slow steps were heard within. The door opened, revealing the stooping, steel-spectacled figure of a man of seventy in a cloth cap, worn back to front, a black alpaca apron and carpet slippers. When Moray questioned him, he remained silent for a moment, soberly reflective.
‘Know of James Douglas?’ he answered finally. ‘I think I should. I was his foreman for more nor twenty years.’
‘Then I hope you can give me news of him, and his family.’
‘Come in a minute,’ Donaldson said. ‘It’s nippy by the door, this time of year.’
Moray followed him into a small dark kitchen with a faint blink of fire in the grate, the stuffy, untidy room of an old man living alone. Donaldson pointed to a chair, then, still wearing his cap, shuffled to his own corner and sat down below the wooden pipe rack.
‘You’re a friend of the Douglases?’ he inquired, with caution.
‘Of long ago,’ Moray said hurriedly. ‘And now almost a complete stranger here.’
‘Well …’, the other said slowly, ‘the story of the Douglases is not a very cheery one. James, poor man, is dead and in his grave, lang syne, and Minnie, the sister-in-law, too. Ye may as well know that for a start. Ye see, James failed in his business and was made a bankrupt – there was queer work behind it, to do with condemning the property and making the new street, all by order of the town council. Anyhow, the disgrace just fair killed James, for he was an upright man and as honest as the day. Minnie, who was aye an ailing sort of body, soon followed him up the road to the cemetery. So that was that, and in place of James’s shop we got these grand premises, and pastries that would rot your bowels – not that I have anything against the company, mind ye, they kept me on and gave me this bit of a job.’
He broke off, lost momentarily in the past. Intently Moray pressed forward.
‘There was a daughter, was there not?’
‘Ay,’ the other nodded. ‘Mary … and she had her troubles too. When she was a lass she got engaged to some fly-by-night that away and left her. A sore, sore heart she had for many a day. When I cam’ out the auld bakehouse I used to see her greetin’ by her window. But in time she come to, got verra religious in fact, and some years later when the new young minister, Urquhart by name, came to the Longend church, and a fine man he was, she had the luck to marry him. And ’deed, a nice bairn she gave him a year or so after.’
Stunned, Moray sat rigid in his chair. She had married, forgotten him, or at least betrayed what he had believed to be a unique and lifelong love: more painful still, had borne another man a child. In his present state of mind it seemed a desecration. And yet, for all his chill dismay, reason had not entirely left him. Who was he to deny her the right to happiness, if indeed she had found it?
At last, in a strained voice, he said:
‘She is here, then, in the town, with her husband?’
‘No. She left Ardfillan with her daughter not long after the husband died.’
‘Died?’ he exclaimed.
The old man nodded.
‘He wasna’ one of the strongest, ye ken, and when we had the big Spanish ’ flu epidemic in thirty-four he was taken to his eternal reward.’
Unconsciously, Moray relaxed slightly, drew an easier breath. The situation was suddenly and to some degree ameliorated. Dreadful, of course, to have lost a young husband whom he, on his part, would never have wished the slightest harm. Still, the unfortunate fellow had apparently been weakly from the start; the motive on Mary’s side might well have been pity rather than love. Partially restored, and with renewed feeling, he put his final question.
‘Where did they go, Mary and her daughter?’
‘A village in the Lothians. Markinch they call it. The daughter wanted to train for a nurse and they sought a place that was near to Edinburgh. But what’s come of them since I cannot tell ye. They werena’ in the best of circumstances, and they’ve never looked near Ardfillan since the day they left.’
A long silence followed while Moray, with bent head, tried to reassemble his thoughts. Then, still visibly affected, he stood up and with a word of thanks pressed a note into Donaldson’s hand. The old man, after feigning reluctance to accept it, was peering at his visitor across his spectacles with growing curiosity.
‘My sight isna’ what it was,’ he remarked, as he accompanied Moray to the door. ‘But I have an odd notion that I’ve seen you before. I’d like fine to ken who ye are?’
‘Just think of me as someone who means to do well for Mary Douglas and her daughter.’
He made the statement firmly, with the consciousness of a new honesty of purpose and, turning, made his way back to the car. Now he perceived how illusory his hopes had been, how an his imaginings had been falsely based on a romantic re-creation of the past. Had he actually expected, after thirty years, to find Mary as on the day he had abandoned her, sweet with the freshness of youth, tenderly passionate, still virginal? God knows he would have wished it so. But the miracle had not occurred and now, having heard the history of a woman who wept for him late and long, who married, though not for love, then lost an invalid husband, who suffered hardships, ill-fortune, perhaps even poverty, yet sacrificed herself to bring up her daughter to a worthy profession – knowing all this, he had returned to reality, to the calm awareness that the Mary he would find at Markinch would be a middle-aged woman, with work-worn hands and tired, gentle eyes, bruised and beaten by the battle of life, but because of that the more willing, perhaps, to forgive and accept his generous attentions.
His heart warmed to these thoughts as he drove back to Winton through the fascination of the deepening river dusk. Then, all at once, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask Donaldson about Willie. Inexcusable omission! What, he now wondered, had happened to that bright little boy, the eager inquirer of their evening hours? Well, he would find out soon enough, and from Mary herself.
Seven o’clock was striking when he reached the hotel, and having eaten little all day he was thoroughly sharp set. After a quick wash and brush-up he descended to the grill room, ordered a double rump steak, onions, baked Arran Chief potato, and a pint of the local Macfarlane’s ale – all with such aplomb that he might never have been away. Afterwards he proposed to yield to the rich seductions of golden syrup tart. How good these native dishes were. He attacked them hungrily, secure in the knowledge that he would leave for Edinburgh and Markinch first thing tomorrow.
Chapter Three
Although the car was not running particularly well, misfiring occasionally on one cylinder, he decided to retain it rather than face a chafing delay at the agency, and at eleven o’clock on the following morning, having settled his bill at the Central, he set out for Edinburgh. According to his road map, Markinch lay some five miles inland from Dalhaven on the east coast, a small village apparently – at least he had not heard of it – and its limited population would undoubtedly facilitate his search.
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The day was grey and breezy, with woolpack clouds tumbling about the sky, but in the early afternoon, when he reached Edinburgh, a low sun broke through, sending shafts of brilliance from the Castle ramparts across the gardens of Princes Street. A good omen, he thought, setting his course along the eastern road to Portobello. Here the traffic was held up for a few minutes at the Cross to let the Portobello Girls’ Pipe Band go through, on their way, he fancied, to some local gathering. It did him good to see the bonnie Scots lassies swing past to the strains of ‘Cock o’ the North’, their kilts swishing about their hurdles, Glengarry ribbons streaming in the blast of the chanters. Scotland’s natural resources, he told himself, with a smile, his discriminating eye singling out several most promising little pipers. But the hooting of cars behind recalled him and he drove on, through Musselburgh and Newbigging. He struck the coast beyond Gosford Bay and, drawing up beside a deserted beach, ate the sandwiches they had packed for him at the Central. Then he was off again. The sea had a sparkle, and a keen wind blew across the cropped links and the yellow dunes fringed with sharp-edged, bleached grass and tangled aromatic wrack. Offshore on his left the Bass Rock came in sight, and far ahead, on the landward side the green cap of Berwick Law. Gulls were wheeling and calling above the blowing sands. He could taste the salt in the spray-filled, gritty air; the tang of it against his teeth was the very feel of home.
He had fixed on Dalhaven in advance, as a convenient centre, but when he arrived and circled the town seeking an inn, he could find nothing that looked suitable. The low, windswept houses, built of red sandstone, cowered about the fishing harbour with an inhospitable air, while the inhabitants, confronted with a stranger, proved dourly uncommunicative. Eventually, however, he found a friendly native and was directed with strong recommendations to the Marine Hotel, which stood above the golf course two miles beyond the town. This he discovered to be altogether superior, an establishment of the first class, where he was quietly welcomed by the manageress and shown to an excellent front room.
When he had washed he made inquiry as to the exact route, and after a short drive inland through winding country roads lined with hawthorn trees came to the village of Markinch, which as from an inner voice, he knew suddenly to be his true and final objective.
This conviction calmed his nerves, as he drove slowly down the single deserted street. Whitewashed cottages stood on either side, climbing nasturtiums still flowering against their walls. Not a soul in sight, only an old collie half asleep, one eye open, by the kerb. There was a general store and post office combined, then came a smithy, an oldfashioned shop with bottle-glass window panes and the sign: Millinery above, then across the way what looked like a small dispensary with the notice outside: Welfare Centre. In which of these should he make his inquiry? Perhaps the store and post office, although this would, unfortunately, bring notice of his arrival into the public domain. At the end of the street he was about to turn when some distance ahead he saw the village church and the adjoining manse. A thought struck him, induced by the recollection of a remark of Donaldson’s, and by the desire also for privacy and discretion. He continued towards the church, which was of Scots baronial design with a square tower instead of a steeple, parked the car opposite, then advanced towards the manse, a small but decent greystone dwelling, and pulled the brass handle of the bell.
After a considerable interval the door was opened, and by the minister himself, a small sallow man with extremely short legs and an oversized head topped by a bush of grey hair. His old black suit and the frayed edge of his clerical collar gave him a disheartened appearance, confirmed by the cast of his features, A pen in one hand and a heavily corrected manuscript in the other suggested that he had been disturbed in the preparation of his sermon, but his manner was civil enough.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘If I may trouble you, I am seeking a lady by the name of Urquhart.’ Now the new name came more easily to Moray; at first it had wounded him to think of her as other than Mary Douglas. ‘I understand she lives in your parish.’
‘Ah, you must mean our excellent district nurse.’ The little man’s expression cleared, showed willingness to assist. ‘She lives above the welfare centre you’ve just gone by. She is a very busy young person but if she’s not at home you will find her in the dispensary from five until six.’
‘I’m much obliged to you,’ Moray said, well satisfied. ‘ You are obviously speaking of my friend’s daughter. I presume that her mother lives with her?’
‘Her mother?’ The minister paused, studying the other. ‘You are a stranger in these parts?’
‘I’ve been away for many years.’
‘Then you’d no idea how ill she had been.’
‘Ill?’
The minister made a gesture of affirmation.
‘I fear I must prepare you for sad news. I buried Kathy’s mother in our churchyard just nine months ago.’
The words, spoken with professional condolence, were reinforced by the church bell which now, like a passing knell, struck the hour with a harsh cracked note. There could be, there was, no mistake … it was the finish of his seeking, the end. Not disappointment alone but actual shock must have shown in Moray’s face, painful shock, that drove the blood from his heart and forced him to lean against the lintel of the door.
‘My dear sir … come in and sit down for a minute. Here in the lobby.’ Taking Moray’s arm he led him to a chair in the hall. ‘I see it has affected you deeply.’
‘I had hoped so much to see her,’ Moray muttered. ‘A very dear friend.’
‘And a truly worthy woman, my dear sir, among the chosen of my flock. Don’t grieve, you will meet her in the hereafter.’
The afflicted man had not much confidence at that moment in the promise of the hereafter. She was gone, carrying with her to the grave the memory of his unfaithfulness. To the end, he had remained for her despicable, a festering wound in her memory. And now he could never redeem himself, never break the hateful complex which perpetually threatened his peace of mind, must continue to bear the burden of his guilt. Bowed with sorrow, disappointment, and a welling self-pity, he heard the parson run on, extolling the dead woman.
‘Her daughter, too,’ the other continued, ‘has the same high standards, a most devoted girl. But now, if you’re more composed, perhaps my wife could offer you a cup of tea.’
Moray straightened and, though still not master of himself, had the wisdom to decline.
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Then I feel sure you would like me to show you where she lies.’
They went to the graveyard behind the church. The grave, marked by a simple Celtic cross, was indicated, and the minister, lingering a moment, between sympathy and curiosity, said:
‘You are of our persuasion, I trust. If so I hope we may see you at divine service on Sunday. The Word is a great healer. Are you residing in the neighbourhood?’
‘At the Marine,’ Moray mumbled.
‘Ah, an excellent hotel – Miss Carmichael, the manageress, is a good friend of ours.’ The credentials of the stranger thus established, he introduced himself with an almost pathetic eagerness to be of service. ‘My name is Fotheringay – Matthew Knox Fotheringay, B.A. of Edinburgh, at your disposal, sir, should you require me further.’
With a bow, he moved discreetly away. Alone, Moray still gazed down upon the green sward of which a long rectangle, the turf annealed yet still slightly elevated, presented a sad, significant outline. There lay that sweet body which in youth he had caressed. And in the form of sweet youth he now visualised her – as on that day upon the moor, while the lark sang above the heather, and the stream rippled over its fretted, pebbled bed. Clearly he saw her, fresh and glowing, with her trim figure, her red-brown hair and peat-dark eyes, with youth, youth pulsing through her, alive. Overcome, he supported himself against the granite monument and closed his smarting eyes.
How long he remained bent and motionless he never knew. A slight
sound, a footstep on the gravel path, disturbed him. He turned, raised his head; then almost collapsed. There, risen from the grave, Mary Douglas stood before him, Mary, exactly as he knew her, as he had dreamed of her a moment ago, the fearful, ghostly illusion heightened by the spray of white flowers clasped to her breast. He tried to cry out, but he could make no sound. Dizzily, with swimming head, he realised that it was Mary’s daughter, the mortal image of her mother.
‘I must have startled you.’ She came towards him, concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said, confusedly. ‘But thoroughly ashamed of myself … behaving so stupidly.’ And seeking an excuse, he added: ‘I – was quite unprepared … You see …’.
She look at him understandingly.
‘I met our minister, on the way in. You were a friend of my dear mother’s.’
He inclined his head, indicating respectful sadness.
‘And of all your family. They were very good to me when I was a poor … and homeless student.’
Her face expressed sympathy and kindness. It was evident that his grief at the grave had strongly predisposed her in his favour.
‘Then you knew James, my grandfather?’
‘A wonderful man … I could see that, though I was a heedless young fellow then.’
‘And Uncle Willie?’ she asked, with a warmer sympathy.
‘Willie and I were the best of friends,’ he said, with a half sigh of recollection. A sudden inspiration led him to validate their association. ‘ We often bunked together. Long talks we had at night. He was a fine boy.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can believe that.’
There was a pause, during which he could not bring himself to look at her. His mind was not yet clear, not fully adjusted to this extraordinary turn of the wheel. He still regretted the mother and all that her loss entailed, yet it had begun to dawn on him that in the daughter he might still find the opportunity he sought. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t the end of his journey; at least, in sudden anxiety, so he fervently hoped. With an effort he maintained an air of calm.