by A. J. Cronin
‘Mary!’ he exclaimed, starting violently, hardly able to believe his eyes.
‘Yes! It’s me, Matt, and thank God it’s you! I thought it was father at first.’
‘But – But what on earth are you out for at this time of night?’ he cried, in shocked amazement. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Never mind just now, Matt,’ she gasped. ‘Let us get in quick before father. Please, Matt, dear! Don’t ask me anything!’
‘But what have you been up to? Where have you been?’ he repeated. ‘What will Mamma think?’
‘Mamma will think I’ve gone to bed, or that I’m reading in my room. She knows I often do that when I’m sitting up for you.’
‘Mary! This is a terrible escapade. I don’t know what to do about it. It’s shameful to find you out in the street at this time of night.’ He moved on a few steps then, as a thought struck him, stopped abruptly. ‘I wouldn’t like Miss Moir to know about this. It’s disgraceful! Such a going-on by my sister might prejudice me in her eyes.’
‘Don’t tell her, Matt! Don’t tell anybody! Only let us get in. Where is your key?’ Mary urged.
Muttering under his breath, Matthew advanced to the front steps, and while Mary gasped with relief to see that the outer door was unbolted, which meant that her father had not returned, he opened the door.
The house was still, no one awaited her, no recriminations or accusations were hurled at her, and realising that she was miraculously undiscovered, in a transport of thanksgiving Mary took her brother’s hand, and in the darkness they crept noiselessly up the stairs.
Inside her own room she drew a deep breath, and as she felt her way securely about its known confines, the very touch of familiar objects reassured her. Thank God she was safe! Nobody would know! She tore off her clothes in the dark and crept into bed, when instantly the cool sheets soothed her warm weariness and the soft pillow caressed her aching head. Her hot, tired body relaxed in an exquisite abandon, her trembling eyelids closed, her fingers uncurled from her palms, her head drooped towards her shoulder, and with her last waking thought of Denis, her breathing grew regular and tranquil. She slept.
Chapter Three
James Brodie awoke next morning with the sun streaming in through the window. He had especially designated this room at the back of the house as his bedroom because, with an animal appreciation of sunshine, he loved the bright morning rays to strike in and waken him, to soak through the blankets into his receptive body, and saturate his being with a sense of power and radiance. ‘There’s no sun like the morning sun,’ was one of his favourite sayings, one of his stock of apparently profound axioms which he drew upon largely in his conversation and repeated with a knowing and astute air. ‘The mornin’ sun’s the thing! We don’t get enough o’ it, but in MY room I’ve made sure o’ all that’s goin’.’
He yawned largely and stretched his massive frame luxuriously, observed with half-opened yet appreciative eyes the golden swarm of motes that swam around him, then, after a moment, blinked questioningly towards the clock on the mantelpiece, the hands of which marked only eight o’clock; becoming aware that he had another quarter of an hour in bed, he put his head down, rolled over on his side, and dived beneath the blankets like a gigantic porpoise. But soon he came up again. Despite the beauty of the morning, despite the brosy odour of the boiling porridge which his wife was preparing downstairs and which, arising, gently titillated his nostrils, his present humour lacked the full complacency which he felt it should have held.
Moodily, as though seeking the cause of his discontent he turned and surveyed the hollow on the other side of the big bed, which his wife had left a full hour ago when, according to custom, she had arisen in good time to have everything in order and his breakfast ready upon the table the moment he came down. What good, he reflected resentfully, was a woman like that to a man like him? She might cook, wash, scrub, darn his socks, brush his boots, aye, and lick his boots too; but what kind of armful was she now? Besides, since her last confinement, when she had borne him Nessie, she had been always ailing, in a weak, whining way, offending his robust vigour by her flaccid impotence, and provoking his distaste by her sickly habits. Out of the corner of his eye when she thought herself unobserved, as in the early hours of the morning when she left the bed before him, he would contemplate her almost stealthy dressing with disgust Only last Sunday he had detected her in the act of concealing some soiled garment, and had roared at her like an angry ram: ‘Don’t make a midden of my bedroom! It’s bad enough for me to put up with you without havin’ your dirty clothes flung in my face!’ She had, he considered bitterly, long since been repugnant to him; the very smell of her was obnoxious to him, and had he not been a decent man, he might well have looked elsewhere. What had he dreamed last night? He thrust out his lower lip longingly and stretched his legs powerfully as he played with the vision of his sleep, thinking of the tantalising young jade he had chased through the woods who, though he had run like a stag, had been saved by the fleetness of her foot. She had run, faster than a deer, her long hair flying behind her, and with not a stitch on her back to cumber her, but still, despite her speed, had turned to smile at him enticingly, provokingly. If he had only gotten a grip of her, he thought, allowing his erotic fancy to riot delightfully as he lay back, basking his ponderous body in the sun, his parted lips twitching with a half lewd, half sardonic amusement, he would have made her pipe to a different tune.
Suddenly he observed that it was quarter past eight and, without warning, he jumped out of bed, put on his socks, trousers, and slippers and pulled off his long nightgown. His naked torso gleamed sleekly and the muscles of his shoulders and back undulated like pliant knotted ropes under the white skin which shone like smooth satin, except where the thick brown hair was felted on the chest, dense and adherent as lichen upon a rock. For a moment he stood thus, placed before the small mirror above the washstand, admiring his clear eye, his strong white teeth, and running his fingers with a bristling sound over the stubble on his heavy jaw. Then, still stripped to the waist, he turned, took up a mahogany box of razors wherein lay seven special hollow ground Sheffield blades with their ivory handles marked each with a day of the week, carefully picked out the one inlaid with the word Friday, tried the temper appreciatively against his thumb nail and began to strop it slowly upon the leather thong which hung near from its appointed hook. The strap was thick, and, as Matthew and Mary had testified in their younger days, of an enduring toughness, and as Brodie worked the razor slowly up and down upon its tan surface it set the true blade to an infinite keenness. When he had adjusted the edge to his satisfaction, he went to the door, picked up his hot shaving water which was there, steaming, to the minute, returned to the mirror, lathered his face copiously, and began to shave with long, precise movements. He shaved meticulously, leaving his chin and cheeks as smooth as silk, cautiously avoiding the glossy curl of his moustache and sweeping the razor against his tense skin with such firm, measured strokes that it filled the silence of the room with a regularly intermittent rhythm of crisp, rustling sound. Shaved, he cleaned the razor upon a slip of paper taken from a specially cut pile, which it was Nessie’s duty to prepare and replenish, re-stropped it and replaced it in its case; then, decanting the large ewer into its basin, he washed extravagantly in cold water, splashing it upon his face and slicing lavish handfuls about his chest, head and arms. This prodigal use of cold water even on the iciest mornings of winter was his inflexible habit, maintaining, he claimed, his perfect health, and saving him from the catarrhal colds which so frequently affected his spouse. ‘I slunge myself in cold water,’ he would often boast, ‘as cold as I can get it. Ay! I wad break the ice to dook myself and the more frozen it is the warmer it makes me after. It doesna make me chatter or snivel wi’ a red nose, like some folks I could mention. No! No! It makes me glow. Give me plenty cold, cold water – there’s health in it’; and now, as he vigorously applied a coarse rough towel to his body, whilst he hissed between his
teeth like an ostler, he felt a ruddy glow sweep through him and dispel in part the rankness of his early mood.
He finished his dressing by assuming, with scrupulous care, a shirt of fine, expensive linen, starched Gladstone collar and bird’s-eye cravat fixed with a gold horseshoe pin, embroidered grey waistcoat, and long coat of superfine broadcloth. Then he went downstairs.
Breakfast he invariably ate alone. Matthew left the house at six, Nessie at half-past eight, his mother was never up before ten o’clock, Mrs Brodie and Mary took their morning meal privately and when they chose in the dim regions where cooking was performed, and it fell therefore that Brodie sat down to his large bowl of porridge in solitary dignity. He enjoyed all his meals, but to breakfast in particular he brought, in the freshness of morning, a more lively appetite, and he now addressed himself eagerly to his porridge, and after, to the two fresh eggs lightly boiled to the requisite second and shelled into a large cup, to the large soft rolls and thick fresh butter, and to his coffee, a beverage of which he was inordinately fond and one permitted to no one else in the household.
As Mary passed soundlessly in and out of the room during the meal to serve him he noticed from beneath his lowered lids how pale she looked, but he made no remark, for it was his policy not to encourage his womenfolk to consider themselves ill; it gave him, nevertheless, an inward satisfaction as he attributed the subdued look and dark circles under her eyes to the shrewd attack he had launched on her on the previous night.
According to custom, when he had breakfasted, and that in silence, he left the house at nine-thirty precisely, and stood for a moment at his front gate looking back appreciatively at his property. His proud glance swept the small domain, observing that not a weed sprouted in the gravelled yard, not a spot disgraced the paintwork, not a blemish marked the grim grey stone, and approving with intense complacency the work of his own creation. It was his! Five years ago he had bought the land and approaching Urie the builder, had spoken to him at length, drawn rough diagrams, and described fully the nature of the house he desired. Urie, a blunt man and a man of substance, had looked at him in astonishment, saying:
‘Man alive! you’re not a stone-mason or you wouldna let your ideas run awa’ wi’ you like that. Your head must be in the clouds. Do ye realise what that sketch would look like in stone and mortar?’
‘I’m going to live in it, Urie – not you,’ Brodie had replied.
‘But there’s so much unnecessary work on it. Just take the expense o’piercin’ this wee piece o’ parapet! What good is it?’ and Urie flicked the pencilled outline before him.
‘I’m payin’ for it, Urie – not you,’ again replied Brodie.
The builder had pushed his hat over his ears, scratched his head uncomprehendingly with his pencil, and expostulated: ‘You’re not serious, Brodie! It would be all right if it were ten times as big, but you’re only wantin’ a six room and kitchen house. It’s preposterous. You’ll make yoursel’ the laughin’ stock o’ the town.’
‘I’ll attend to that,’ cried Brodie grimly. ‘God help the man that laughs at James Brodie to his face!’
‘Come, come now, Brodie,’ the other had conciliated, ‘let me put you up a solid respectable bit villa, not this wee kind o’ sham castle that you’re haverin’ about.’
Brodie’s eyes took on a strange expression, as though a dark fire flickered there, and he shouted out:
‘Damn ye, Urie! Keep your tongue civil when ye speak to me. I want none o’ your smug bandboxes. I want a house that befits me’; then in a flash he had recovered himself and in a normal, quiet tone added: ‘If you don’t like it ye needna touch it. I’m givin’ ye the chance, but if ye don’t wish to take it there are other builders in Levenford.’
Urie stared at him and whistled.
‘Sits the wind in that quarter. Well! Well! If you’re set on it I’ll get a plan and an estimate out for you. A wilful man maun have his way. But don’t forget I warned ye. Don’t come and ask me to take the house down again once it’s up.’
‘No! No! Urie,’ Brodie had sneered. ‘I’ll only come back to ye if ye don’t give me what I’m askin’ for, and then it’ll not be pleasant hearin’ for ye. Get ahead wi’ it now and don’t blabber so much.’
The plans had been prepared, passed by Brodie, and the building begun. From day to day he had seen it grow, going along in the cool, evenings to the slowly mantling building, observing the exact adherence to his design, gloating over the smooth, white stone, testing the mortar between his fingers, caressing the shining lead pipes, weighing and fingering approvingly the heavy square slates. Everything had been of the best materials, and though this had taken heavy toll upon his purse, had in fact drained it – for he had always spent money freely upon himself, would indeed never have saved but for this one object – he was proud to have achieved it, proud to have left the rented house in Levengrove Place, proud in the possession of the inmost desire of his heart. He was right too. Nobody laughed openly. One night, shortly after the house had been completed, a loafer at the Cross stepped out from the toping gang that loitered there, and accosted Brodie.
‘Good evening, Mr Brodie,’ he hiccoughed, looking round at his fellows for approbation, then back at Brodie. ‘And how is the castle to-night?’
Brodie looked at him calmly. ‘Better than you,’ he replied, and smashed his fist with terrific violence into the rowdy’s face, then, taking the clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping the blood from his knuckles, he threw it contemptuously on the ground beside the fallen man and walked quietly away.
Certainly Brodie’s position in the town had altered sensibly in these last five years, and since the building of his house he was regarded with more significance, detachment, and misgiving; his social value increased at the price of singularity, and he became gradually a more notable figure with many acquaintances and no friends.
Now he took a final look at his property, squared his shoulders, and set off down the road. He had not proceeded far before he caught a glimpse of a peering face from behind the front-room curtains of one of the semi-detached houses further down, and he jeered inwardly to see that it was little Pettigrew, the grocer, who had recently moved into the select neighbourhood, and had at first sought to establish himself by walking ingratiatingly to the town with Brodie. The big man had tolerated this liberty for the first day, but when on the second morning he found the diminutive, unimportant grocer again waiting for him, he had stopped short. ‘Pettigrew,’ he had said calmly, ‘I’m afraid I’m not seein’ so weel this mornin’. You’re kind o’wee and shilpet to me the day and to-morrow I mightna see you ava’. Besides I’m a fast walker. Gang your own gait, man, but don’t strain your bandy wee legs keepin’ pace with me. Good morning to you.’ Now he smiled sardonically as he passed the house, reflecting that since then the nervous Pettigrew had avoided him like a plague and had formed the habit of watching him well out of sight before venturing into the street.
Soon he had traversed the quieter residential district and entered the town where, at the south end of Church Street, an artisan carrying his bag of tools touched his cap to him in passing. Brodie’s chest expanded at this act of deference, accorded only to the most important figures in the town. ‘Good morning to you,’ he cried affably, setting his head further back in a proud geniality, marching round the corner into the High Street with his stick over his shoulder, and tramping up the incline like a soldier until he reached the crest of this main thoroughfare. There he stopped opposite an inconspicuous shop. The shop was old and quiet with a narrow, unostentatious front marked by a small single window that displayed no merchandise, but masked its face discreetly behind an interior screen of fine-meshed wire, which, though it veiled the window, revealed the hidden secret of the shop by bearing upon its drawn grey filigree, in faded gilt lettering, the one word – Hatter. It was, then, apparently a hat shop, but although it held the most commanding situation in the town, it not only disguised its character but seemed to
remove itself from public observation, receding slightly from the common frontage of the street, and permitting the adjacent buildings to project beyond and above it, as though it wished to remain, despite the fixed solidity of its position, as unobserved and unobtrusive as it might, reserving its contents, and striving to conceal itself and all that lay within from vulgar, prying eyes. Above its doorway the sign, too, was bleached by age and weather, its paint finely cracked by sun, and smoothly washed by rain; but, still distinguishable upon it in thin sloped letters across its surface, was the name – James Brodie. This was Brodie’s shop. Each morning, as he regarded it, the fact that he should possess it never failed to amuse him, and for twenty years he had inwardly regarded his business with a tolerant derision. It was of course the sole means of his livelihood, the unimpressive source of his stately and inspiring habitation, its solid, steady business the origin of his fine clothes and the money he rattled so easily in his pockets; yet his attitude towards it was that of a man who views with an indulgent yet contemptuous air some trifling and unbecoming foible within his own nature. He – Brodie – was a hatter! He was not ashamed of the fact, but gloried in its ridiculous incongruity, revelled in the contrast between himself and the profession of his adoption which he knew must continually present itself to the world at large. He turned and surveyed the street from his elevated position like a monarch offering himself freely to the public gaze. He was only a hatter! The richness of the absurdity of his position was always before him, inevitably appealed to him, and now an internal diversion shook him as he moved into his shop to start an other day’s work.
Inside, the shop was dark, neglected, and almost dingy, its dim interior bisected by a long counter which ran the length of the room, acting as a barrier between the public and the private divisions of the establishment and bearing upon its worn, indented surface at one end a graduated series of tarnished brass stands each supporting a hat or cap of different style and colour. At the other distant end, the counter joined the wall as a ledge capable of elevation, thus permitting ingress to a short row of steps leading to a door with a ground glass window on which was inscribed the word Office. Running backwards, beside and underneath this elevated compartment, was a small L-shaped cupboard of a back shop that, deprived of its original dimensions by the more recent imposition of the Office, contained with some difficulty in its limited extent an ironing-board and an iron stove which, with its perpetual blast, dried more thoroughly the already sapless and vitiated air. In the shop itself the walls were covered in a drab crimson paper upon which hung several old prints; although few hats were to be seen, and upon these no prices were displayed, behind the counter stood a series of wide mahogany drawers for caps, and a long line of shelves upon which stacks of cardboard boxes ranged from floor to ceiling.