by A. J. Cronin
‘I’ll no deny I ken how many beans make five, Provost, but it’s a handy things these days wi’ so much hardship and poverty about.’
But Brodie, upon his throne, the already warmed pith of him flaming under the potent whisky, neither heard nor heeded the innuendo as, filled with a wild elation, the desire to act, to liberate his strength, to smash something, seized him, and raising his empty glass high above his head, he suddenly shouted, without point in the conversation: ‘To hell with them! To hell with these measly Mungo swine!’ and shattered the heavy tumbler violently against the wall.
The others, now mellow for his mood, responded gleefully.
‘That’s the spirit!’
‘Another round, gentlemen.’
‘No heeltaps.’
‘Gie us a song, Wullie.’
‘Speech! Speech!’ came their shouts.
At this point a discreet knock upon the door, followed by the noiseless entry, felt-slippered yet formidable, of the landlady interrupted the fluid current of their hilarity.
‘Ye’re merry the night, gentlemen,’ she said with a thin, tight-lipped smile which inferred that their gaiety was not entirely becoming to them or wholly pleasing to her. ‘I hope ye’ll no’ forget the good name o’ the house.’ Much as she valued their connection she was too remote, too virtuous, altogether too much of an institution to be imposed upon by them. ‘ I didna like to hear the smash o’ glass,’ she added, acidly.
‘Tits, Phemie, woman, it’ll be payed for,’ cried Brodie. She nodded slightly, as though to convey to him that she had already taken that for granted, but in a slightly mollified tone she remarked:
‘What’s the occasion?’
‘Just a little celebration given by our esteemed member at the head o’ the table,’ murmured Grierson. ‘I dinna ken what it’s to celebrate exactly, but ye micht ca’ it a beanfeast without any beans.’
‘Never mind him, Phemie, send us in another hauf mutchkin,’ cried a voice.
‘Will ye have a wee hauf yersel’, Phemie?’ remarked the Provost, breezily.
‘Come awa’and sit on my knee, Phemie,’ cried one of the erstwhile draughts players – now, alas, incapable of differentiating a crowned man from a peppermint oddfellow.
‘Send in the whisky, Phemie,’ demanded Brodie. ‘I’ll make them a’ behave themselves.’
She reproved them individually and collectively with her glance, raised a warning forefinger, and padded out as silently as she had come, murmuring as she went:
‘Dinna forget the name o’ the house. I’ll send ye in the speerits, but ye maun keep quiet, ye maun mind the good name o’ the house.’
When she had gone the ball of their gaiety rolled off again, quickly gathered speed, and bounded more exuberantly than before.
‘Never mind Phemie,’ cried a voice, ‘ her bark is waur than her bite, but her face is waur than the two o’ them thegither.’
‘Ye wad think this public o’ hers was a tabernacle o’righteousness,’ cried another, ‘she’s that uncommon godly about it. She wad have ye drink like ye were in the kirk.’
‘There’s a braw, wee tittle in the front pews, onyway,’ replied the more bibulous draughts player. ‘They say Nancy, the barmaid, is as obleegin’ as she’s bonnie.’ He winked round the assembly knowingly.
‘Tits, man, tits!’ cried the Provost reprovingly. ‘Don’t file the nest that you’re sittin’ in.’
‘That’s the cuckoo ye wad be meanin’,’ replied the other agreeably; ‘but I’m no’ that.’
‘Would ye like me to give ye a verse o’ Burns?’ called out Paxton. ‘I’m just ripe to let ye have “The Devil amang the Tailors.”’
‘Our chairman promised us a bit speech, did he not?’ remarked Grierson, insinuatingly.
‘Ay! Come awa’ wi’ that speech ye were goin’ to give us,’ cried the Provost.
‘Speech!’ they insisted again. ‘Speech from the chairman.’
Brodie’s soaring pride, wafted higher by their tipsy cries, reached upward to a sublimated region where his limitations ceased, in the refined air of which his tongue seemed fluent, his incapacity for the articulate utterance of his inner thoughts forgotten.
‘Very well,’ he called out, ‘I’ll give ye a speech.’ He rose, inflating his chest, widening his eyes at them, swinging slightly from side to side on the fulcrum of his feet, wondering, now that he had risen, what he should say.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began at length, slowly, but amidst ready applause, ‘ye all know who I am. Brodie, James Brodie, and what that name means, maybe ye can guess.’ He paused, surveying each member of the group in turn. ‘Ay, I’m James Brodie, and in the Royal Borough of Levenford, and beyond it, too, it is a name that is respected and esteemed. Show me the man that says a word against it and I’ll show you what these two hands will do to him.’ He shot out his huge hands wildly and let them throttle the vacant air before him, missing in his emotion the general apathy, the gloating relish in Grierson’s satirical eyes, and seeing only reverence. ‘If I but chose I could tell you something that would startle ye to the very core.’ Then, as his eyes swept round the table, he lowered his voice to a hoarse, confidential whisper, shook his head cunningly. ‘But no! I’m not goin’ to do it! Guess if ye like but I’m not goin’ to tell ye now – ye may never know. Never!’ He shouted the word. ‘But it’s there; and so long as I breathe breath into this body o’ mine I will uphold my name. I’ve had an unco’ trouble lately that would have bent a strong man and broken a weaker one, but what has it done to me? I’m still here, still the same James Brodie, but stronger, more determined than before. “ If your hand offend ye cut it off” says the Scriptures – I’ve had to cut my own flesh and blood, ay but it was without flinchin’ that I used the axe. I’ve had trouble within and trouble without, sneakin’ rogues and thievin’ swine at my very ain’ door, false friends and dirty enemies round about me, ay and sly, sleekit backbiters as weel.’ He looked grimly at Grierson. ‘But through it all and above it all James Brodie will stand hard and fast like the Castle Rock, ay and wi’ his head as high above the air,’ he shouted, thumping his chest with his big fist and concluding in a loud full voice: ‘I tell ye I’ll show ye all! I’ll show every one o’ ye.’ Then, having reached the climax of his feelings, for the spontaneous words had rushed from him unknowingly at the urge of his emotions, he sat down heavily, saying in a natural undertone: ‘And now we’ll have another dram all round.’
The last part of his speech was appreciated, loudly cheered, applauded by a rattle of glasses upon the hard table, echoed by Grierson’s suave drawl:
‘Good! I havena enjoyed a speech like that since Drunken Tam harangued the Baillies through the windae o’ the jail.’
They drank to him, to his oration, to his future; someone sang in a broken falsetto; Paxton protested, unheeded, that he, too, wanted to make a speech; the second draughts player attempted to tell a long, involved, and unseemly story; there were several songs with shouted choruses. Then, abruptly, Brodie, who had, with altered mood, remained cold, impassive, and disdainful amongst their mirth, jerked back his chair and got up to go. He knew the value of these sudden departures, felt the restrained dignity of his leaving the sodden dogs to sing and rant in the fashion that fitted them, whilst he departed at the moment when he could so retire with majesty and honour.
‘What’s the matter, man? Ye’re not awa’ hame yet,’ cried the Provost. ‘ It’s not near struck the twal’ yet!’
‘Bide a wee and we’ll punish another haulf mutchkin atween us a’.’
‘Is the wee wifie waitin’ on ye, then?’ whispered Grierson blandly.
‘I’m away,’ he cried roughly, buttoning up his jacket and stamping his feet, and, ignoring their profuse protests, he looked at them solemnly, saying:
‘Gentlemen! Good night.’
Their shouts followed him out of the room into the cool night wind, and filled him with a thrilling elation which increased inversely as the sounds of their
homage weakened; the cries were like hosannahs, diminishing, yet pursuing, on the cold, sweet air that rose like frosted incense from the rimed streets. It had been a night, he told himself, as he made his way homewards amongst the white-limned houses that stood like silent temples in a deserted city, and, as he swelled with self-esteem, he felt he had justified himself in his own and in their eyes. The whisky in him made his step elastic, springy, and youthful; he wanted to walk over the mountains in this crisping exaltation that sparked equally within him and in the delicious atmosphere around him; his body tingled and he thought in terms of wild, erotic, incoherent desires, peopling the dark rooms of every house he passed with concealed yet intimate activity, feeling, with a galling sense of injustice, that he must in future find some outlet for the surge of his suppressed and unattracted flesh. The short distance which he traversed to his home whetted his appetite for some fitting termination to the glorious evening and, almost in expectation, he let himself into his house and shot home the lock of the outer door with a flourish of the heavy key.
A light, he observed, still burned in the kitchen, a manifestation at once unusual and disturbing, as, when he came in late, all lights had been extinguished save that which burned faithfully in the hall, waiting to illuminate his return. He looked at his watch, saw the time to be half-past eleven, then viewed again the light which winked at him in the dim hall as it shone from beneath the closed door. With a frown he replaced his watch, stalked along the lobby, and seizing the door-handle firmly, with one push burst into the kitchen; there he stood erect, surveying the room and the figure of his wife as she sat crouching over the dull embers of the fire. At his entry she started, oppressed, although she awaited him, by the sudden intrusion into her dejected reverie of his frowning, unspoken disapproval. As she looked round in trepidation, showing red, inflamed eyes, he glared at her more angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, emphasising the last word like a gibe. ‘What are ye doin’ up at this hour wi’ your bleary, baggy een like saucers?’
‘Father,’ she whispered, ‘ye’ll not be angry, will ye?’
‘What in God’s name are ye snivelling for?’ Was this the kind of homecoming that he merited, and on such a night as this had been? ‘Can ye not be in bed before I come in,’ he gnashed at her. ‘I don’t have to look at ye there, ye auld trollop. You’re a beautiful specimen o’ a thing to come hame to, right enough. Did ye expect me to tak’ ye out courtin’ on this braw, moonlight night? You that’s got as much draw in ye as an auld, cracked pipe.’
As she looked upwards into his dark, disgusted face she seemed to shrink more into herself, her substance became less than a shadow, coherent speech failed her, but tremblingly, indistinctly, she articulated one word: ‘Matt!’
‘Matt! Your dear, wee Matt! What’s wrong wi’ him next?’ he leered at her. ‘Has he swallowed another plum stane?’
‘This letter,’ she faltered. ‘ It – it came for me this mornin’. I’ve been feared to show you it all day,’ and, with a shaking hand, she handed him the crushed sheet of paper which she had all day hidden against her terrified, palpitating breast. With a derisive growl he rudely snatched the letter from her fingers and slowly read it, whilst she rocked herself to and fro distractedly, wailing with a tongue which was now loosed in the defence of her son: ‘I couldna keep it to mysel’ a minute longer. I had to sit up for ye. Don’t be angry wi’ him, father. He doesna mean to vex you, I’m sure. We don’t know the facts and it must be a terrible country out there. I knew something must be wrong wi’ the boy when he stopped writin’ regular. He’ll be better at hame.’
He had finished reading the few scrawled lines.
‘So your big, braw, successful son is comin’ hame to ye,’ he snarled. ‘Hame to his loving mother, and all her loving care.’
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be glad to have him back and nurse him back to strength if he needs it.’
‘I ken you’ll be glad to have him back, ye auld fool – but I don’t give a damn for that.’ He again considered the crushed sheet with aversion before compressing it into a ball within his shut fist and jerking it furiously into the fireplace.
‘What’s the reason o’ him throwin’ up his good job like this?’
‘I know no more nor yourself, father, but I think he must be poorly in himself. His constitution was aye delicate. He wasna really fitted for the tropics.’
He showed his teeth at her.
‘Fitted, your silly, empty head. ’Twas you made him a milk and water softie with all your sapsy treatment o’ him. “Matt dear,” he mimicked, “ come to your mother and she’ll gie ye a penny. Never mind your father, lambie dear, come and Mamma will pet ye, dearie.” Is’t that what brings him fleein’ back to your dirty apron strings? If it is I’ll string them round his neck. ‘ P.S. Please tell father,”’ he sneered, quoting the burnt letter. ‘He hasna even the gumption to write to me himself, the washy, pithless pup. He’s got to get his sweet, gentle mother to break, the guid news. Oh! he’s a right manly whelp.’
‘Oh! James, would ye no’ comfort me a little?’ she implored. ‘I’m that downright wretched. I dinna ken what has happened and the uncertainty is fair killin’ me. I’m feared for my bairn.’
‘Comfort ye, auld wife!’ he sang at her. ‘I would look well, would I not, puttin’ my arm round a bag like you?’ Then, in a harsh tone of repugnance, he continued: ‘I canna thole ye! Ye know that! Ye’re as much good to me as an empty jeely jar. Ye’re just about as much a success o’ a wife as ye are o’ a mother. One o’ your litter has made a bonnie disgrace o’ ye, and this one seems to be on his way. Ay, he seems well on his way. He’s a credit to your upbringing o’ him.’ Then his eyes darkened suddenly. ‘ Take care though ye don’t interfere wi’ my Nessie. She belongs to me. Don’t lay a finger on her. Keep your soft fiddle faddle away from her or I’ll brain ye.’
‘Ye’ll give him a home, father,’ she moaned. ‘Ye’ll not show him the door?’
He laughed hatefully at her.
‘It would kill me if ye turned him out like – like –’ She broke down completely.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he replied, in an odious tone, revelling in the thought of keeping her in suspense, diverting against her all his indignant displeasure at Matthew’s sudden defection and thrusting the entire blame upon her of this failure of her son. Hating her already in his defeated desire for the pleasure she could not give him, he loathed her the more inordinately because of this failure of her son, and he would, he told himself, let her pay for it dearly, make her the chopping block for the keen blade of his wrath. The fact that Matthew should have given notice and be sailing for home was entirely her offence; invariably the faults of the children made them hers, their virtues his.
‘You’re too just a man not to hear what he’s to say, or what he wants, father,’ she persisted, in a ridiculous, wheedling voice. ‘A fine, big man like you wouldna do onything like that. Ye would give him a hearin’, let him explain – there’s bound to be a reason.’
‘There’ll be a reason right enough,’ he sneered at her. ‘ He’ll want to come and live off his father, I’ve no doubt, as if we hadna enough to do without feedin’ his big, blabby mouth. That’ll be the reason o’ the grand home comin’. I’ve no doubt he thinks he’s in for a grand soft time here, wi’ me to work for him and you to lick the mud off his boots. Damn it all – It’s too much for a man to put up wi’.’ A gust of passion mixed with a cold sleet of antipathy caught him. ‘It’s too much,’ he yelled at her again. ‘ Too blasted much.’ Raising up his hand as though to menace her with its power, he held it there for one tense moment, then with a sudden gesture he directed it towards the gas, turned out the light and, throwing the effacing darkness around her, went heavily out of the room.
Mrs Brodie, left in the obliterating blackness, the last dying spark of the cinders of the fire barely silhouetting the amorphous outlines of her contracted figure, sat cowed and still.
For a long time she waited, silent and reflective, while her sad thoughts flowed from her like dark waves, oppressing and filling the room with a deeper and more melancholy obscurity. She waited whilst the embers grew cold, until he would be undressed, in bed, and perhaps asleep, then she moved her set, unwilling frame, crept out of the kitchen, like a hunted animal from its cave, and crawled warily upstairs. The boards which had groaned and creaked when Brodie ascended were noiseless under her frail weight, but, though her movements were soundless, a faint sigh of relief emanated from her into the darkness as, at the door of the bedroom, the heavy sound of her husband’s breathing met her. He slept, and, feeling her way into and about the room she shed her shabby, spotted garments; laying them in a heap on her chair ready for the morning, she crept cautiously into bed, fearfully keeping her wilted body away from his, like a poor weak sheep couching itself beside a sleeping lion.
Chapter Five
‘Mamma,’ said Nessie, on the following Saturday, ‘ what is Matt coming back for?’
She was playing about the house and dragging after her mother in the desultory, querulous manner of a child to whom a wet Saturday morning is the worst evil of the week.
‘The climate wasna suitable to him,’ replied Mrs Brodie shortly. It was deeply rooted in the mind of Mamma as an essential tenet of the Brodie doctrine that from the young must be kept all knowledge of the inner workings of the affairs, relationships, and actions of the house, the more so if they were disagreeable. To questions concerning the deeper and more abstract aspects of Brodie conduct and, indeed, of life in general the consoling answer was: ‘You’ll know some day, dear. All in good time!’ and, to divert interrogations, the issue of which could not be avoided, Mamma considered it no sin to lie whitely and speciously to maintain inviolate the pride and dignity of the family.
‘There’s dreadful fevers out there,’ she continued; and a vague idea of improving Nessie’s natural history made her add, ‘and lions, tigers, elephants, and giraffes, and all manner o’ curious beasts and insects.’