The Judas Tree

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘I must introduce myself. My name is Moray – David Moray.’

  Her expression did not change. As she took the hand he held out to her, he could barely suppress a sharp breath of relief. She did not know of him, nor of his unedifying history. Why had he doubted? Mary would never have told her, the secret was still locked up in that poor broken heart, now stilled for ever, down there, six feet under his expensive hand-made shoes.

  ‘You have my name,’ she was saying shyly, while he still held her hand. ‘Kathy Urquhart.’

  He gave her, though still with quiet sadness, his most winning smile.

  ‘Then, if I may, as an old friend of your dear mother, and of all your family, I shall call you Kathy.’ He said it kindly, almost humbly, anxious to put her at ease, to make her feel at home with him. Then, standing aside in subdued fashion, with a sense of compunction and responsibility, conscious of his defects and deficiencies, of all his misdeeds of the past, he watched her as she placed her few chrysanthemums in a green enamelled vase before the Celtic cross and began, with a few touches, to move some fallen beech leaves from the sward.

  She was bareheaded, wearing a dark blue, noticeably shabby coat over her denim nurse’s uniform of lighter blue, and one of her shoes, he observed with a pang, was patched, a neat patch to be sure, yet an actual cobbler’s patch. These little economies, so apparent to his expert examining eye, moved him. We will change all that, he told himself, with a sudden burst of feeling. Yes, his opportunity was here, certain and predestined, he felt it in his bones.

  ‘There!’ she exclaimed, straightening herself with a confiding smile. ‘ We’re all tidy for the Sabbath. And now,’ she hesitated shyly, scarcely daring, yet venturing to say it, ‘… would you like to come away home with me for a nice cup of tea?’

  They walked down the pathway of the graveyard together.

  Chapter Four

  Seated by the window in the room above the dispensary while she went into the kitchenette to infuse the tea, he glanced about him, surprised by the want of comfort, the bareness of all that met his eye. Not even a rug on the scrubbed and polished wooden floorboards, the furnishings scanty, little more than a square deal table and some horsehair covered chairs, the fireplace blackleaded yet lacking coal, the walls white-distempered, relieved by only one picture and that a religious subject, a reproduction from the Christian Herald of a bad copy of Valdez Leal’s Transfiguration. There were a few books, mainly nursing manuals and a Bible, on a shelf. A hart’s-tongue fern in an earthenware pot stood on a blue saucer on the window-sill beside a work basket holding a piece of knitting, ready to be picked up. But while admitting its spartan neatness, and the touch of brightness which a vase of wild asters on the mantelpiece, caught in the yellow light of sunset, gave to it, he saw in the room, as in the little alcove bedroom, the door of which on entering she had quickly closed, disturbing evidence of straitened circumstances. On the tray, too, which hospitably she now brought in, the china was of poor quality and the single plate held nothing more than buttered slices of cottage loaf. He could not altogether understand it, yet with a sudden lift of mood he reasoned that the more help she needed the more would he be able to give her.

  ‘If only I’d known you were coming,’ a little flustered, pouring the tea, she reproached herself as she handed him his cup, ‘I’d have had something nice. When I’m busy I don’t bother about shopping till the Saturday. But never mind me, tell me about yourself.… You’ve been abroad.’

  ‘Yes, for many years. You may imagine what it’s meant to me, coming home.’ He sighed, then smiled. ‘Now that I am here I mean to make an extended stay.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Mostly in America.’

  ‘I almost hoped you’d say Africa.’ She half smiled to him, though her gaze, passing beyond, was remote. ‘Uncle Willie is out there – at Kwibu, on the border of northern Angola.’

  Although he gave no sign, he nevertheless experienced a strong sensation of relief. Willie would certainly have known him; any premature meeting might well have induced a most undesirable crisis.

  ‘You don’t surprise me a bit,’ he said pleasantly, with a light note of interest. ‘Even as a boy Willie was wild about Africa. Why, he and I walked practically every mile of the way with Livingstone, to Lake Victoria. And when Stanley found him you should have heard us cheer. But Angola, isn’t that rather primitive country?’

  ‘It’s all that. Since Uncle went out he’s had some terrible rough years. But things are going better now. I’ve all sorts of interesting snaps I can show you. They give a good idea of the conditions out there.’

  At this stage he thought it wise not to enlarge on the question of Willie’s pioneer activities – whether mining or engineering he could not guess – so he refrained from pressing the matter.

  ‘When you’ve time I’ll enjoy seeing the photographs. But what I really want to hear about is your own work here.’

  She made involuntarily a shy, disclaiming gesture.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing much. Just the usual run of district nursing, health visiting, and the like. I go round the countryside on my bicycle, sometimes on foot. Then there’s the Welfare Centre for pre- and post-natal care, with a clinic – we call it the milk bar – for the babies. And odd times I do a turn at the Cottage Hospital in Dalhaven.’

  ‘All that sounds as if they work you much too hard.’ He had already noticed that her hands were rough and badly chapped.

  ‘It’s nice to be busy,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And they’re very decent. I have Thursday afternoons off and three weeks’ holiday in the year – I still have two weeks of it to go, in fact.’

  ‘Then you like your job?’

  She simply nodded, with a reserve more convincing than any outburst of enthusiasm. ‘At the same time, there isn’t quite enough scope here. But – well, I have something much better in view.’

  At this remark, and the reserve with which she made it, a disconcerting thought crossed his mind. Although he knew it to be bad taste, he had to say it.

  ‘You mean to get married?’

  She laughed outright, showing even white teeth against healthy pink gums, a wonderful laugh that fell sweetly, reassuringly on his ears.

  ‘Good gracious, no,’ she exclaimed, composing herself at last. ‘Who would I find round here but a few farm laddies that think of nothing but their Saturday night dances and the movies in Dalhaven? Besides,’ she continued, slowly and very seriously, ‘ I’m– well, so set on my work, I scarcely think I could ever give it up for anything – or anyone.’

  All this was exactly as he would have wished it. Quite alone and without encumbrances, sensibly though not permanently attached to a worthy but dull and unrewarding profession, she could not have been a more perfect subject for his affectionate and philanthropic attention. His thoughts flashed ahead. Unacquainted with the law, he wondered if she might be made his ward: adoption seemed to him unfeasible, reminiscent of orphanages and partaking of frustrated parenthood. Be that as it may, his heart swelled with genuine feeling. He was, always had been, a most generous man, no one could deny him that slight virtue. What couldn’t he do for her! He mustn’t force things unduly least he alarm her, since it was apparent that she had taken him for a man of moderate means. Yet this was an aspect of the situation which struck him as being rich, in the double sense of that word, with the most delightful possibilities of revelation and fulfilment.

  In the silence that had fallen between them, he considered her as, with lowered gaze, she put together the used tea things on the tray. She was, after all, not quite the living replica of her mother he had fancied in that first emotional shock. She had the same fresh complexion, dark brown eyes and short slightly thickened nose, the same soft chestnut hair clustering naturally on her neck. Yet her expression was different, reflective, almost reserved, the mouth wider, fuller, more sensitively curved, and in the set of the lips he saw evidence of a nature less given to gaiety. There was a certain aloofness a
bout her that he liked – a sense of detachment. She smiled rarely, yet when she did it was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. But what struck him most was her touching look of youthfulness. Mary had been a sturdy lass with rounded breasts and well marked hips. This girl was slender, almost undeveloped – an immaturity contrasting with her serious air that strongly aroused his most protective instincts. He meant no injury to the dead when he concluded that this sweet child, equal in looks, had more depth, perhaps even greater capacity for feeling.… He came to himself. A hint of emabrrassment, something in her manner which she was unwilling to express, made him suddenly recollect that Fotheringay, the minister, had told him her dispensary began at five. Glancing at his watch, he discovered it to be ten minutes past the hour. He rose precipitously.

  ‘My dear Kathy, I’ve stayed much too long,’ he apologised. ‘I’m keeping you from your patients.’

  ‘They’ll not mind waiting a few minutes. It’s not every day I have visitors.’

  ‘Then just let me say quickly what a joy it’s been for me to … to discover you. I hope this fortunate meeting will be the first of many, for you must understand that I’ve much to repay for the kindness of your family.’

  When she had seen him to the door he walked to his car, and drove back to the hotel meditating emotionally on the events of this extraordinary, this memorable afternoon. Sadness mingled with a kind of exhilaration. Here he had come, from the highest motives, and instead of an ageing woman who might have met him with reproaches, even rancour, remaining unresponsive to his offers of amendment and assistance, he had found a poor, hard-working girl who stood in need of, and must benefit by, his help. He deplored the loss of the mother, it had been a blow, yes, had cut him to the heart. But there was compensation in this dear child, who might, but for unavoidable circumstances, have been his own daughter, and on her, in reparation for the past, he would bring to bear, readily and freely, a benign influence, wise, helpful, paternal. The ways of Providence were indeed wise and inscrutable, beyond the mind of man.

  Chapter Five

  That evening after dinner he arranged with the manageress of the hotel to have a sitting-room. Fortunately there was one adjoining his bedroom, a large comfortable apartment with a good fireplace which Miss Carmichael confidently assured him ‘drew well’. This settled, he put through a trunk call to his villa, in Switzerland.

  When Arturo answered, almost comically delighted to hear his voice, Moray instructed him to dispatch golf clubs and additional clothing by air freight from Zurich. As to mail, he should use his discretion and forward those letters which seemed important. Was there any news? Everything was going well, Arturo replied, the weather kept fine, they had picked the damsons and the plums, Elena had made ten kilos of jam, one of the pier-master’s children had been sick but was well again, and Madame von Altishofer had telephoned twice asking for his address: should he give it? Although gratified by her solicitude Moray, after considering for a moment, indicated that he would be writing to Madame himself.

  But later, as he prepared for bed, his mood changed unexpectedly. Reviewing this eventful day he was struck, suddenly, by a chilly wave of self-condemnation. How quick he had been to find consolation in the prospect of exercising his charity on Kathy. How wrong to forget his own dear Mary, to accept the daughter and forget the mother, with no more than momentary sorrow. An ageing woman who might have received him with rancour – had he actually thought of her in such terms a bare hour after viewing her lonely grave? Never, never, would she have met him with anything but forgiveness and love. Standing in his long silk monogrammed sleeping-jacket, one of the individual coats specially tailored for him by Gruenmann in Vienna, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and swore he would make reparation openly, tomorrow. The thought comforted him.

  Next day, true to his vow of the previous evening, he obtained from Miss Carmichael the name of Edinburgh’s premier florist and telephoned his order. Presently there arrived by special delivery a great gorgeous wreath of arum lilies. This he took personally to the cemetery and placed reverently beneath the Celtic cross. Then, setting forth freely, swinging his stick, he turned towards the sea and walked upon the links, taking deep breaths of the bracing air. Resisting all inclination, he did not go near Markinch, wisely reflecting that whatever Kathy might be to him he was to her still more or less a stranger. However, on the day after, which was Sunday, he dressed in a dark suit and sombre tie, ascertained the time of morning service from the invaluable Miss Carmichael, and set out for the village kirk.

  He had not been to church for more years than he could readily remember. On Sundays in America he had played golf with Bert Holbrook, gone through the routine of the usual exurbia weekend at the local Country Club, where the course bore the surprising name of Wee Pinkie Burn. The members, for the most part New York executives who bedecked themselves in remarkable sporting attire, ranging from chartreuse shorts to scarlet tam-o’-shanters, were a friendly and congenial group. But he had never felt quite at home there. He was not the type who could readily be at ease in the exuberant bonhomie of mass masculine society; and besides, he felt that they all knew of his unfortunate domestic situation and must therefore pity him. Still, it was a good course and he enjoyed the golf, at which he excelled. When the Sunday was too wet for play he usually went to the laboratory at the works. On one rainy and fortunate Sunday he had come up with the formula for, of all things, a new perfume, which Bert, with his unerring instinct for a selling name, had immediately christened Church Parade, and which, marketed as a sideline, had made a small fortune for the firm. It must, he estimated, be a matter of fifteen years since, on that Friday when Doris was finally certified and taken away to Wilenski’s clinic at Appletree Farm, he had sneaked into the back seat of St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue. On his way to the University Club almost next door his eye had fallen on the sign: ‘Open all day for prayer and meditation.’ He was feeling so abject, almost psycho himself, that he had thought it might help him to go in. But it hadn’t: although he had crouched in a back seat, gazing furtively towards the dim altar, and had even shed a few miserable tears – for he could weep on appropriate occasions – he emerged without the faintest sense of benefit or improvement, obliged to fall back on his original intention: a Turkish bath at the Club.

  Now, however, his state of mind was altogether more propitious. He approached the little country church, to which a sparse congregation was being summoned by the discordant pealing of a cracked bell, in a mood of keen anticipation. And immediately, as he entered, he had the satisfaction of Kathy’s swiftly lowered glance of recognition. When the service began with a hymn, sung rather uncertainly, and later, during Fotheringay’s sermon, which was long and dull, a truly laboured effort, he had the privilege of observing her, though always discreetly, as she sat with the village children. He was struck by the competence with which she controlled her restless charges and by the patience she brought, sitting very erect, to the tedious discourse. Her profile had a purity of outline that reminded him of an Italian primitive – Uccello, perhaps, no, no – her sweetness of expression suggested a much later canvas – Chardin’s The Young Teacher, he decided finally, pleased to have hit it exactly, but wincing at an increasing volume of disharmony from the choir.

  His reward came afterwards when, outside the church doors, he waited for her. She came out with Mrs Fotheringay. The minister’s wife was a short, stout woman with a downright manner and a broad, plain, honest face, her lined but keen blue eyes set behind highly coloured cheekbones – a Raeburn face, Moray thought instinctively. She wore her ‘Sunday best,’ an antique black feathered hat and a dark grey costume that had seen much service and was now too tight for her. Moray was introduced and presently, after a few moments’ conversation, they were joined by Fotheringay. Immediately, Moray congratulated the minister on his sermon.

  ‘Most edifying,’ he said. ‘Listening to you, sir, I was reminded of a spiritual experience I had in the church of St. Thomas’s in New
York.’

  At the implied comparison with the great city Fotheringay reddened with pleasure.

  ‘It was good of you to come to our country service. We are a small congregation and our poor old bell does not attract many people from the outside world.’

  ‘I did notice,’ Moray raised his brows deprecatingly, ‘that the tone was not particularly clear.’

  ‘Nor loud,’ the other said, glancing upwards towards the church tower with sudden irritation. ‘The bell fell last year from a rotted cross-beam. It will take near to eighty pounds to recast it. And where is a poor parish to find that siller?’

  ‘At least there is nothing wrong with your voice,’ Moray said diplomatically. ‘I found you most eloquent. And now,’ he went on agreeably, ‘ I’m going to take the liberty of inviting all three of you to Sunday dinner. I’ve made arrangements at the hotel. I hope you are free to come.’

  A brief, rather blank pause ensued: such invitations were not current in the district. But almost at once Fotheringay’s expression cleared.

  ‘You’re very kind, sir. I must confess that when I come out of the pulpit I always seem to be sharp set.’ He glanced almost jocularly at his wife. ‘What do you say, my dear? Our little roast will do tomorrow, and you won’t have to wash up today.’

  From the start, with the blunt look of a woman who must be convinced rather than persuaded, she had been openly taking stock of this newcomer who had arrived so dramatically from the unknown. But her first impressions seemed not unfavourable and the prospect of emancipation from those menial duties imposed by the meagreness of her husband’s stipend was a mollifying one. She gave Moray a dry sort of smile.

  ‘It’ll be a treat for me. If Matthew gets his appetite in the pulpit, I lose mine by the kitchen stove.’

  Kathy looked pleased, less perhaps at the prospect of her own visit to the Marine than at this hospitable treatment of her old friends. After Moray had settled them in the car, the minister and Kathy behind, Mrs Fotheringay beside him in front, he drove off. From the outset he had realised that the Fotheringays must be won over, if necessary propitiated, and everything seemed to be going well.