Jonah

by Louis Stone

  Her spirits drooped suddenly as she remembered the obstacle that lay between her and the pride of openly sharing the triumphs of the Silver Shoe as she already shared its secrets. She thought with dismay of the furtive meetings drawn out for years without hope of relief unless the impossible happened. A watched pot never boils, and Ada was a young woman.

  She crossed the street and entered the shop, her eye scouting for Jonah as she walked to the foot of the stairs, for since the appointment of a manager, Jonah had found time to slip up to the room after the lesson to ask her to play for him, on the plea that the piano was spoiling for want of use. And he waited impatiently for these stolen moments, with a secret desire to see her beneath his roof in a domestic setting that gave him a keener sense of intimacy than the swish of waters and wide spaces of sea and sky. But today she looked in vain, and Miss Giltinan, seeing the swift look of inquiry, stepped up to her.

  “Mr Jones was called away suddenly over some arrangements for our sale that opens tomorrow. He left word with me that he’d be back as soon as possible,” she said.

  Clara thanked her, and flushed slightly. It seemed as if Jonah were excusing himself in public for missing an appointment. As she went up the stairs one shopman winked at the other and came across with a pair of hobnailed boots in his hand.

  “This’ll never do,” he whispered, “the boss missin’ his lesson. He’ll get behind in his practice.”

  “Wotcher givin’ us?” replied the other. “The boss don’t take lessons; it’s the kid.”

  “Of course he don’t,” said the other with a leer. “He learns a lot here by lookin’ on, an’ she tells him the rest at Mosman in the pale moonlight. If I won a sweep, I’d take a few lessons meself an’ cut him out.”

  He became aware that Miss Giltinan was standing behind him, and raised his voice.

  “I was tellin’ Harris that the price of these bluchers ought to be marked down; they’re beginning to sweat,” he explained, turning to Miss Giltinan and showing her some small spots like treacle on the uppers.

  “Mr Jones doesn’t pay you good money to talk behind his back; and if you take the trouble to look at the tag, you’ll see those boots have already been marked down,” she replied indignantly.

  The shopman slunk away without a word. Miss Giltinan was annoyed. It was not the first time that she had heard these scandalous rumours, for the shop was alive with whispers, some professing to know every detail of the meetings between Jonah and the music-teacher, naming to a minute the boat they caught on their return from Mosman. Jonah had contrived to avoid the faces that were familiar to him, but he had forgotten that he must be seen and recognized by people unknown to him. Miss Giltinan’s clear and candid mind rejected these rumours for lying inventions, incapable of belief that her idol, Jonah, would carry on with any woman. They talked about him going upstairs to hear the piano. What was more natural when he couldn’t play it himself? And she dismissed the matter from her mind and went about her business.

  Clara gave Ray his lesson, listening between whiles for a rapid step from below, but none came. She decided to go, and picked up her gloves. But as she passed the bedroom door on the landing, a voice that she recognized for Ada’s called out “Is that you, Miss Grimes?”

  “Yes,” said Clara, and paused.

  The voice sounded faint and thin, like that of a sick woman.

  “’Ow is it y’ain’t playin’ anythin’ today?” she continued.

  “Mr Jones is out,” replied Clara, annoyed by this conversation through the crack of a door, and anxious to get away.

  “Oh, is ’e?” said Ada, with an increase of energy in her voice. “I wish yer’d come in fer a minit, if ye’re not in a ’urry.”

  Clara pushed the door open, and went in. It was her first sight of the bedroom, and she recoiled in dismay. The place was like a pigsty. Ada was lying on the bed, still tossed and disordered from last night, in a dirty dressing-gown. A basin of soapy water stood on the washstand, and the carpeted floor was littered with clothes, a pile of penny novelettes, and a collection of odds and ends on their way to the rag-bag. In spite of the huge bedroom suite with its streaked and speckled mirrors, the room seemed half furnished.

  For a moment Clara was puzzled, and then her quick, feminine eye noted a complete absence of the common knick-knacks and trifles that indicate the refinement or vulgarity of the owner. She remembered that Jonah had told her that Ada pawned everything she could lay hands on since he stopped her allowance. But she was more surprised at the change in Ada herself. Months ago Ada had begun to avoid her, ashamed of her slovenly looks, and now Clara scarcely recognized her. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks had fallen in, and a bluish pallor gave her the look of one recovering from a long illness. The room had not been aired, and the accumulated odours of the night turned Clara sick. She was thinking of some excuse to get away when Ada began to speak with a curious whine, quite unlike her old manner.

  “I’m ashamed ter ask yer in, Miss Grimes, the room’s in such a state; but I’ve been very ill, with no one ter talk to fer days past. Not that I’m ter blame. I ’ope it’s niver your lot to ’ave a ’usband with thousan’s in the bank, an’ too mean ter keep a servant. ’Ere am I from mornin’ ter night, slavin’ an’ drudgin’, an’ me with a leg that bad I can ’ardly stand on it. I’ll just show yer wot state I’m in. It’s breakin’ out all over. Me blood’s that bad fer want of proper food an’ nourishment.” She began to unfasten a dirty bandage below her knee. Clara turned her head in disgust. The flesh was covered with ulcerated sores.

  “I don’t know ’ow you find ’im, Miss Grimes,” she continued, her voice rising in anger, “but if yer believe me, a meaner man niver walked the earth. I’ve ’ad ter pawn the things in this very room ter pay the baker an’ the grocer. That’s ’ow ’e makes ’is money. Starvin’ ’is own wife ter squeeze a few shillin’s for ’is bankin’ account. ’E knows I can’t go outside the door, ’cause I’ve got nuthin’ ter put on; but ’e takes jolly good care ter go down town an’ live on the fat of the land.”

  From the next room came the fitful, awkward sounds of a five-finger exercise from Ray. Clara listened with silent contempt to this torrent of abuse. She knew that it was false; that the more Jonah gave her, the more she spent on drink. And as she looked at Ada’s face, ravaged by alcohol, a stealthy thought crept into her mind that set her heart beating. Suddenly Ada’s anger dropped like a spent fire.

  “Did yer say Mr Jones was busy in the shop?” she inquired, feebly.

  “No,” said Clara; “I understand that he went down town on important business, and won’t be back till late.”

  “Thank yer,” said Ada, with a curious glitter in her eyes. “Would yer mind callin’ Ray in? I want ter send ’im on a message to the grocer’s.”

  Clara went into the next room and sent Ray to his mother, stopping for a minute to shut the keyboard and put the music straight. After every lesson she was accustomed to examine the piano as if it were her own property. When she entered the bedroom again, Ada was whispering rapidly to Ray. She looked up as Clara entered, and gave him some money in a piece of paper.

  “An’ tell ’im I’ll send the rest tomorrer,” she added aloud.

  Ray went down the back stairs, swinging an empty millet-bag in his hand. For another five minutes Clara remained standing, to show that she was anxious to get away, while Ada abused her husband, giving detailed accounts of his meanness and neglect. Suddenly her mood changed.

  “I’m afraid I mustn’t keep yer any longer, Miss Grimes,” she said abruptly; “an’ thank yer fer lookin’ in ter see ’ow I was.”

  Clara, surprised and relieved at the note of dismissal in her voice, took her leave.

  She went down the winding staircase at the rear of the shop, opposite the cashier’s desk. The pungent odour of leather was delightful in her nostrils after the stale smell of the room above, and she halted at the turn of the landing to admire the huge shop, glittering with varnish, mirrors, a
nd brass rods. Then she looked round for Jonah, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  The sight of Ada, ravaged by alcohol, had filled her with strange thoughts, and she walked up Regent Street, comparing Ada with her own father, who seemed to thrive on beer. There must be some difference in their constitutions, for Ada was clearly going to pieces, and…the thought entered her mind again that quickened her pulse. She had never thought of that! She was passing the Angel with its huge white globes and glittering mirrors that reflected the sun’s rays, when she caught sight of Ray coming out of the side door, swinging an empty millet-bag in his hand. A sudden light flashed on her mind. Ada’s invitation into the bedroom, the inquiry about Jonah, and her sudden dismissal all meant this.

  “Did you get what your mother wanted?” she asked the child, with a thumping sensation in her heart.

  “No,” said Ray carelessly; “the man wouldn’t give me the medicine. He told me to go home and fetch the rest of the money.”

  “How much more do you want?” asked Clara, in a curious tone.

  “Eighteen pence,” said Ray, showing two half-crowns in his hand.

  Clara hesitated, with parched lips. She remembered Ada’s face, ravaged by brandy. She was a physical wreck, and six months ago…perhaps another bottle…

  The thought grazed her mind with a stealthy, horrible suggestion. She felt in her purse with trembling fingers, and found a shilling and a sixpence.

  “Go and get your mother’s medicine,” she whispered, putting the money into Ray’s hand; “but don’t tell her that you met me, or she may scold you.”

  Ray turned in at the side door, and Clara, white to the lips, hurried round the corner.

  It took Ray half an hour to cover the short distance between the Angel and the Silver Shoe, with a bottle of brandy swinging carelessly in the millet-bag. Cassidy himself, all smiles, had carefully wrapped it in paper. Ray had promised to hurry home with the medicine for his mother, but, as usual, the shop windows were irresistible. Some of his early trips to the Angel had taken half a day.

  Meanwhile Ada lay on the bed in an agony of attention, atrociously alert to every sound, hearing with every nerve in her body. Her nerves had collapsed under the repeated debauches, and the scream of an engine shunting in the railway yards went through her like a knife. The confused rumble of carts in Regent Street, the familiar sounds from the shop below, the slamming of a door, a voice raised in inquiry, the monotonous, kindly echoes of life, struck on the raw edges of her nerves, exasperating her to madness.

  And through it all her ears sought for two sounds with agonizing acuteness—the firm, rapid step of Jonah mounting the stairs winding from the shop, or the nonchalant, laggard footfall of Ray ascending from the stairs at the rear. Would Cassidy send the bottle and trust her for the other eighteen pence? Would Jonah hurry back to meet Miss Grimes? Presently her ear distinguished the light, uncertain step of Ray. Every nerve in her body leapt for joy when she saw the bottle. She looked at the clock; it was nearly four. She had at least an hour clear, for Jonah would be in no hurry now that he had missed the music-lesson. She snatched the bag from the astonished child.

  “Go an’ see if yer father’s in the shop. If ’e ain’t there, yer can go an’ play in the lane till ’e comes back,” she cried.

  Her hands shook as she held the bottle, but with a supreme effort she controlled her muscles and drew the cork without a sound, an accomplishment that she had learned in the back parlour of the Angel. She poured out half a glass, and swallowed it neat. The fiery liquid burnt her throat and brought the tears to her eyes, but she endured it willingly for the sake of the blessed relief that always followed. A minute later she repeated the dose and lay down on the bed. In ten minutes the seductive liquid had calmed her nerves like oil on troubled waters. She listened to the familiar sounds of the shop and the street with a delicious languor and sense of comfort in her body. In an hour she had reached the maudlin stage, and the bottle was half empty.

  She felt at peace with the world, and began to think kindly of Jonah. Hazily she remembered her bitter speech to Miss Grimes, and wondered at her violence. There was nothing the matter with him. He had been a good husband to her, working day and night to get on in the world. She felt a sudden desire to be friendly with him. Maudlin tears of self-reproach filled her eyes as she thought how she had stood in his way instead of helping him. She would mend her ways, give up the drink which was killing her and take her proper position, with a fine house and servants. With a fatuous obstinacy in her sodden brain, she decided not to lose a minute, but to go and surprise Jonah with her noble resolutions.

  She got to her feet, and saw the brandy bottle. Ah! Jonah must not know that she had been drinking, and with the last conscious act of her clouded brain she staggered into the sitting-room and hid the bottle under the cushions of the sofa. Then, conscious of nothing but her resolve, she lurched to the top of the stairs. It was nearly dark, and she felt for the railing, but the weight of her body sent an atrocious pain through her leg, and to ease it she took a step forward to put her weight on the other. And then, without fear, and without the desire or the power to save herself, she stepped into space and fell headlong down the winding staircase that she had always dreaded, rolling and bumping with a horrible noise on the wooden steps down to the shop, where the electric lights had just been switched on. She rolled sideways, and lay, with a curious slackness in her limbs, in front of the cashier’s desk. One of the shopmen, startled by the noise, turned, and then, with a look of horror on his face, ran to the door. He bumped into Jonah, who was coming from the ladies’ department.

  “Wot the devil’s this?” cried Jonah.

  The man turned and pointed to the huddled heap at the foot of the stairs.

  “It’s yer missis. She fell from the top. ’Er face is looking the wrong way.”

  Jonah ran forward and shouted for a doctor. Then he knelt down and tried to lift Ada into a sitting posture, but her head sagged on one side. And Jonah realized suddenly, with a curious feeling of detachment, that he was free. When the doctor arrived, he told them that death had been instantaneous, as she had broken her neck in the fall.

  The next day the Silver Shoe was closed on account of the funeral. The Grimes family sent a wreath, but Jonah looked in vain for Clara among the mourners. He was disappointed but relieved, fearing that the exultation in his heart would betray him in the presence of strangers. He dwelt with rapture on the moment in which he would meet her face to face, free to love and be loved, willing to lose some precious hours for the sake of rehearsing schemes for the future in his mind. He listened without emotion to the conventional regrets of the mourners, agreeing mechanically with their empty remarks on his great loss, a mocking devil in his brain.

  The day after the funeral the Silver Shoe returned to business, and Jonah spent the morning in the shop, too nervous to sit idle. He had spent a sleepless night debating whether he should go to Clara or wait till she came to him of her own accord. The shop was alive with customers, drawn by the red-letter sale, but there was no sign of the one woman above all he desired to see. Suddenly he decided, with a certainty that astonished him, that she would come in the afternoon. After dinner he stayed in the sitting-room, fidgeting with impatience. He looked for something to do, and remembered that he had still to clear up the mystery of Ada’s drunken bout. All the shophands had denied lending her money, and the mystery was increased by his finding no bottle in the usual hiding places. Ray, when questioned about brandy, had stared at him with bewildered eyes. And to calm his nerves he made another search of the rooms.

  He turned out the drawers and cupboards, meeting everywhere evidence of Ada’s slovenly habits. And at the sight and touch of the tawdry laces and flaring ribbons he was surprised by an emotion of tenderness and pity for his dead wife. He realized that the last link had snapped that bound him to Cardigan Street and the Push. Something vibrated in him as he thought of the woman who had shared his youth, and he understood suddenly that
no other woman could disturb her possession of the years that were dead. Clara could share the future with him, but half his life belonged irrevocably to Ada.

  He had searched every likely nook and corner of the rooms, and found nothing. The absence of the bottle set him thinking. He became certain that the hand of another was in this. Ada had never left her room; therefore the bottle had been brought to her. And the one who brought it had taken it away again. Clara had been the last one to see her alive, and of course…He stopped with an unshaped thought in his mind, and then smiled at it for an absurdity. Tired with his exertions, he sat on the sofa, digging his elbow into the cushion, and instantly felt something hard underneath. The next moment he was on his feet, holding in his hands the bottle of brandy, half empty. He stared stupidly at the bottle that had sent Ada to her death and set him free, wondering who had paid for it and brought it into the house. As he turned the bottle in his hands, examining it with the morbid interest with which one examines a bloodstained knife, he heard a light tap on the door.

  “Come in,” he cried, absorbed in his discovery.

  He turned with the bottle in his hands, to find Clara standing in the doorway with a tremulous smile on her lips. But, as Jonah turned, her eye fell on the bottle.

  “I’ve been a day findin’ this,” said Jonah; “but now—”

  An extraordinary change in Clara’s face stopped the words on his lips. The tremulous smile on her parted lips changed to a nervous grin, and her colour turned to a greyish white as she stared at the bottle, her eyes dilated with horror. For some moments there was a dreadful silence, in which Jonah distinctly heard Miss Giltinan giving an order downstairs. Slowly he looked from Clara to the bottle. Again he stared at the frightened woman, and his mind leapt to a dreadful certainty.