Hatter's Castle

by A. J. Cronin

  She was, however, strangely disinclined to move, but remained with her head averted from him, her gaze drawn to Mary’s dark and tender eyes, her lower lip drooping slightly, her thin fingers interlocked and twisting nervously. The clear skin of her face, denuded of its one-time colour almost to a pale transparency, seemed stretched tightly over the puny framework of her features, its pallor accentuated by the fine-spun sheen of the flaxen hair which, now unplaited, invested loosely the small, drawn countenance. She stood inert, realising that the climax of her endeavours was at hand and that she was loath to face it; then, suddenly appearing to forget the presence of her father, she advanced close to Mary and murmured in a low, almost inaudible tone: ‘ I’m not wanting to go, Mary. I’ve got that band, round my brow again. I would rather stay at home.’ Yet almost in the same breath, as though she were unaware that she had uttered these whispered words, she cried:

  ‘I’m ready then, father. I’ve got everything I want. I’m as right as the mail and ready to stick into it.’

  He stared at her, then relaxed slowly.

  ‘Come on, then, and look sharp about it. What are you moonin’ about her for? No more of your silly dawdlin’ or you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘I’ll not miss it, father,’ she cried eagerly, breaking away from Mary without looking at her – as though she had not heard her sister’s last murmur of encouragement, or the promise to meet her at the station on her return. ‘No! No!’ she exclaimed, ‘that wouldn’t be like me to do a thing like that. I haven’t worked all these months for nothing. What an idea!’ She drew back her narrow shoulders and, demonstrating her willingness by passing him and hastening into the hall, she went to the front door and opened it wide. ‘I’m away then, father,’ she cried loudly and in a fashion something after his own manner, ‘I’ll be back when you see me!’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ he exclaimed, with a frown, lumbering after her. ‘I said I was goin’ to see ye to the door, did I not? What’s come over ye that you’re rushing like this.’ He surveyed her for a moment from beneath his heavy eyebrows, then, reassured by the brightness now manifested in her eyes, he cried: ‘You’ll do, though – you’ve got the look on ye as if ye couldna get to that examination quick enough. Away wi’ ye, then. I’ll warrant ye’ll put your back into it. I’ve got ye just in the right fettle. Ye canna help but win it now.’ He clapped his hands together as though shooing her off, exclaiming: ‘Off with ye now and put salt on that Grierson’s tail.’

  ‘Trust me,’ she returned lightly. ‘I’ll put so much salt on him that I’ll pickle him!’

  ‘Good enough,’ he cried delightedly, following her fondly with his eyes as she went out of the gate and down the road. She did not once look back. As he stood at his door watching her slight figure dwindling into the distance he was filled momentarily by a powerful return of his old, proud, disdainful complacency. Gad! but she was a smarter, was his Nessie! As clever as you make them, with the sharpness of a needle, a sharpness that would prick that big, swollen bladder of a Grierson until the wind rushed out of him like a burst bagpipe. He had primed her well for the event too, made her as keen as a young greyhound to get out of the leash, and when she had left him just now there had been a gleam in her eye that had fairly warmed him. He had done that by his firm handling of the lass, forcing some of his own fire into her blood, filling her with a determination to succeed. ‘Stick into it, Nessie!’ – that had been his slogan, and one which was more than justified! She would walk away with the Latta, putting a hundred miles, or marks, or whatever it might be, between Grierson and herself. Grierson might even be last! With a grim smile at the relish of his thoughts he slowly turned, sniffed the clear air with an added appreciation from his freedom, mounted the steps and went into the house.

  Inside he halted, aimlessly, in the hall, losing something of the first flush of his elation in the realisation that, although it was not yet eleven o’clock and he was to-day a free man, he did not quite know what to do with himself; but after a moment he went into the kitchen and gravitated to his chair, where he sat watching Mary, out of the corner of his eye, as she went about her morning tasks. She made no comment upon his absence from the office and was, as always, quiet and composed, though to-day an added darkness lay in and around the pools of her eyes. In her manner she gave him no indication of the nature of her inward thoughts. He opened his lips to speak to her, to make some scathing comment upon the disparity between Nessie and herself barbed with a bitter innuendo concerning her past history, but he did not utter the words, knowing that whatever he said would be met by the same impenetrable silence. He would not speak yet! She could, he thought, be as dour as she liked and as quiet as she liked, but he knew what was at the back of her mind in spite of all her assumption of indifference. She was after his Nessie, interfering whenever she could, obstructing his intentions, laying herself out slyly at every turn to defeat his purpose. Let her wait though! He, too, was waiting and if ever she directly opposed him with Nessie, it would be a sad day for her!

  As, without appearing to observe her, he followed the smooth, graceful movements of his daughter, an association of ideas confronted him suddenly with the memory of another woman whom he had loved as much as he hated this one – Nancy, the ultimate object of his waking, yes, even of his dreaming, mind. Now, however, he clenched his teeth firmly and shook the obsessing vision of her from his head, determined that nothing should mar the triumph of this day. It was Nessie that he wanted to think of – Nessie, his solace – who would now be sitting in the train, resolving in her clever brain some of these lessons which he had kept her at so assiduously, or considering, perhaps, the last exhortation he had given her. He had always felt that this would be a great day for him, and now he was aware that he must not let himself become depressed, that he must sustain his spirits at that high level to which they had risen earlier in the morning. He would have a drink – just to liven him a little.

  His eye brightened as he arose from his chair and went to the dresser, where he opened the small cupboard on the left, drew out the familiar black bottle and – now kept always in readiness beside it – his own small tumbler. With the tumbler in one hand and the bottle in the other he sat down again in his chair, poured himself out some whisky and at once savoured it gratefully, appreciatively, holding the liquor for a moment between his palate and his tongue. The first drink of the day always passed over his lips with a richer and more satisfying flavour than any other, and now it trickled so warmly down his gullet that he was impelled to follow it quickly by a second. The first had been to himself – this would be in honour of Nessie! She might now be out of the train if she followed, as she undoubtedly would, his directions to get out at Partick Station, and might at this very moment be ascending the steep slope of Gilmorehill towards the grey pile of the University on its summit. He was conscious that this noble building, breathing of erudition, was well suited for the holding of the Latta examination, well worthy for the making of his daughter’s mark within it. The professors might already have heard of her cleverness in some stray manner, for reports of brilliant scholars were circulated in devious but far-reaching ways in the academic world, and, even if this were not so, she had a name which they would recognise at once, which was a passport to her, there and anywhere she might choose to go. He drank to the University, to Nessie, and again to the name of Brodie.

  This was better! To-day his mind reacted to the whisky in a different manner from the mere dulling of his morose despondency which had lately been the result of his potations; now, the old-time exhilaration of the early days of his toping was returning to him, and as he became aware of this delicious fact, his spirits rose, and he began to cast about in his mind for some channel into which he might direct his new-found animation. It was unconscionably dull for a cheerful man to sit under the sombre eye of his melancholy daughter, and, perceiving that he would have to seek his amusement out of the house, he considered for a moment the idea of visiting the office, not, of co
urse, to work, but merely, in an informal way, to divert those two young sprigs in his room, and to tweak the offensive nose of the upstart Blair. Being Saturday, however, it was a half-day at the office – which meant that they would soon be stopping work and going home – and he felt, too, that the occasion demanded a more appropriate celebration than merely a return to the scene of his daily labour. He abandoned this idea with only a faint regret, which vanished completely as he drowned it in another glass of Mountain Dew.

  Dew! Dew upon the grass – green grass – the bowling green! Ah! he had it at last! Who said that there was not inspiration in that famous blend of Teacher which he always favoured? His face lit up with a lively delight at his aptness in remembering that the summer tournament of the Levenford Bowling Club was to be held at the Wellhall Green this afternoon, and he smiled broadly as he considered that all the worthies would be present – present for a certainty – from wee Johnnie Paxton up to the Lord High Provost Grierson himself.

  ‘Gad!’ he muttered, slapping his thigh, in quite his old manner, ‘that’s the ticket, right enough! I’ll have them all boxed up in that one place and I’ll throw the Latta in their teeth there and then. I’ll show them I’m not feared o’ them. It’s high time I was makin’ myself heard again. It strikes me I’ve been over long about it.’

  He crowned his satisfaction with a bumper, then, raising his voice, cried:

  ‘Hurry up with my dinner in there. I’m wantin’ it quick. I’m goin’ out this afternoon and I want something inside of me first. Let it be some decent food too, and none o’ that swill ye were foistin’ off on Nessie this morning.’

  ‘Your dinner’s ready, father,’ Mary replied quietly. ‘You can have it now, if you wish.’

  ‘I do wish, then,’ he retorted. ‘Get on with it and don’t stand glumphin’ at me like that.’

  She quickly laid the table and served him with his meal, but, though this was to his taste, and, indeed, infinitely better than any which Nancy had ever prepared for him, he gave neither praise nor thanks. He did justice to it, however, and with an appetite stimulated by the whisky, for once ate heartily, dividing his thoughts, as he masticated vigorously, between his plans for the afternoon and the further consideration of Nessie. She would have begun, actually, the examination by this time, and would be sitting driving her pen over page after page of paper whilst the others, and particularly young Grierson, chewed the wooden ends of theirs and stared at her enviously. Now he saw her, having entirely finished one exercise book, rise from her place and, her small, self-conscious face glowing, advance to demand another from the examiner. She had used up one book already, the first in the room to do so – Nessie Brodie, his daughter – whilst that young snipe Grierson had not even filled half of his yet! He chuckled slightly at her remarkable prowess and bolted his food with an added gusto from the vision of the other’s discomfiture. His thoughts ran chiefly in this strain during the rest of the meal and, when he had finished, he arose and drank again, emptying the bottle to the hope that she would require, not two, but three books to convey to the professors the wide extent of her knowledge.

  It was still too early for his descent upon the Wellhall Bowling Green, for he wished to allow a full congregation of the notables to collect, and realising that he was not yet ripe with the careless rapture best suited to such an adventure, confronted, too, by the mere hollow shell which had held the Mountain Dew, he decided to adventure out and rest himself for an hour in the Wellhall Vaults which conveniently adjoined the Green.

  Accordingly, he left the house and proceeded down the road not, however, with the set, morose face but unseeing stare which marked him lately in the streets but, fortified by his mood and the knowledge of his daughter’s success, with a freer, easier carriage which again invited inspection. Few people were about as yet, but when he had crossed Railway Road he observed on the other side of the street the stately figure of Dr Lawrie, not driving, but walking, and immediately he crossed over and accosted him.

  ‘Good day to you, Dr Lawrie,’ he cried affably. It had been ‘Lawrie’ in the old days and without the affability. ‘I’m pleased to meet ye.’

  ‘Good day,’ returned the other, thinking of his unpaid bill and speaking with the small store of curtness he possessed.

  ‘It’s well met for us just now,’ retorted Brodie. ‘Well met! Do ye know what’s happening at this very moment?’

  Lawrie eyed him warily, as he uttered a cautious: ‘No.’

  ‘My Nessie is up at the University winning the Latta for me while you and me are talkin’ here,’ cried Brodie. ‘It’s a justification of your own words. Don’t ye mind what ye told me – that she had a head on her in a thousand?’

  ‘Indeed! Indeed!’ returned Lawrie pompously, and with a slight degree of cordiality. ‘I’m gratified to hear that. Winning the Latta. It all helps. It’ll be a little more grist to the mill, I suppose.’ He looked sideways at the other, hoping that he would take the hint, then suddenly he looked directly at Brodie and exclaimed: ‘ Winning? – did ye say she had won the Latta?’

  ‘It’s as good as won,’ replied Brodie comfortably. ‘ She’s at it the now – this very minute. I took the day off to see that she got away in the best o’ fettle. She went off with a glint in her eye that spoke for victory. She’ll fill three books ere she’s done!’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Lawrie again, and eyeing the other strangely, he drew insensibly away, remarking: ‘ I’ll have to be getting along now – an important consultation – my horse just cast a shoe along the road there – I’m late!’

  ‘Don’t go yet, man,’ remonstrated Brodie, buttonholing the embarrassed Lawrie firmly. ‘I havena told ye half about my daughter yet. I’m real fond o’ that lass, you know. In my own way. Just in my own way. I’ve wrought hard with her for the last six months.’

  ‘Pray let me go, Mr Brodie,’ cried Lawrie, struggling to free himself.

  ‘We’ve burned the midnight oil between us, have Nessie and I,’ retorted Brodie gravely. ‘ It’s been a heap o’ work – but by gad, it’s been worth it!’

  ‘Really, sir,’ exclaimed Lawrie in a shrill, indignant tone, wrenching himself free and looking round to see if his contact with this ruffianly looking individual had been observed, ‘you’ve taken a great liberty! I don’t like it! Take care how you address me in future.’ Then, with a last, outraged look he reinflated his cheeks and bounced off quickly down the road.

  Brodie gazed after him in some amazement. He failed to detect anything in his recent conduct which could have aroused indignation, and finally, with a shake of his head, he turned and resumed his way, reaching, without further encounters, the haven of the Wellhall Vaults. Here, he was not known and he remained silent, but drinking steadily, filling himself with liquor and further visions of his daughter’s prowess, until three o’clock. Then he got up, set his hat well back upon his head, drew in his lips, and swaggered into the open once more.

  The mere step to the Wellhall Green he accomplished with hardly a falter, and soon he was inside the trim enclosure where the smooth square of green lay vivid in the sunshine, marred only by the dark, blurred figures of the players wavering across it before his eye. What a game for grown men, he thought contemptuously; to roll a few balls about like a gang of silly bairns. Could they not take out a gun or a horse, like he had once done, if they wanted their exercise or amusement.

  His gaze, however, did not remain long upon the green but, lifting quickly, sought the small group that sat upon the veranda of the pavilion at the further end of the ground, and he smiled with a sardonic gratification as he observed that, even as he had foretold, they were all there – from simple John Paxton to the Lord High Provost of the Borough. He gathered himself together again and advanced deliberately towards him.

  For a moment he proceeded unobserved by this small gathering – for they were all concentrating upon the game before them – but suddenly Paxton looked up, observed him and gasped in amazement:

  ‘G
uidsakes – just look what’s coming!’ His tone drew their attention at once, and following his startled gaze, they, too, regarded the strange uncouth, strutting figure as it bore down upon them, and they exclaimed variously:

  ‘Good God! it’s Brodie. I havena seen him for months!’

  ‘He’s as fou as a lord by the looks o’ him.’

  ‘Losh! it’s the drunken earl himsel’.’

  ‘Look at the face o’ him and the clothes o’ him.’

  ‘Ay, but look at the swagger o’ the thing!’

  They were silent as he drew near, directing their eyes away from him towards the green, disowning him, but still failing to perturb him as, oscillating slightly, he stood encompassing them with his sneer.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ he snickered, ‘we’re very engrossed in watching the wee, troolin’ balls. It’s a grand, excitin’ pastime. We’ll be lookin’ on at a game o’ peever next if we’re not careful, like a band o’ silly lassies.’ He paused and queried pertinently: ‘Who has won, Provost? Will ye tell me – you that’s such a grand spokesman for the town?’

  ‘This game’s not finished yet,’ replied Grierson after a moment’s hesitation, and still with his eyes averted. The spite which he had once entertained against Brodie now found nothing in the other’s wretched condition with which to justify itself and seemed suddenly to have evaporated. Besides, was he not the Provost? ‘Nobody has won yet,’ he added more affably.