by A. J. Cronin
Today, indeed, the minister justified this eulogy in full. As he took his stance, heaving his flesh upon the edge of the pulpit, he sensed the tension in the church, and his eye, roving nimbly among his flock, fell upon the intruder—Gracie, alone in the pew.
So tha-at was it! Wha-at an opportunity! Wha-at a chance for drama and a moral! Without scruple or hesitation Mowat abandoned the sermon he had prepared on Isaiah 41 and 6 and, pursing out his big wet lips, declaimed instead:
“Proverbs 7 and 10. ‘And behold there came a woman with the attire of an harlot!’”
Dead silence, the bated silence of expectation, then the Reverend Mowat began his sermon. And what a sermon! Even the Provost, who detested Mowat, was forced to admit its power. As for the rest, they swallowed it with rapture.
Creishy had his own reasons, beyond the chance to enhance his oratorical reputation, for the attack. Like most full-bodied men anchored sternly to an unattractive wife, “ the bust of the flesh”, as he imagined them, invariably unleashed in him a blustering violence.
Besides, he had always nourished a grudge against the Lindsays—old Tom, in the days of the past, had tried hard to get his brother-in-law, Daniel Nimmo, into the pulpit now occupied so worthily by himself. He knew, too, something of the inner situation between his esteemed friends the Waldies and David Murray—there was little that Mowat did not know—and, to cap everything, only the other day the wife of his bosom had come to him with the ominous whisper that she had caught Edward, only son of his loins, “mooning around that Lindsay woman at the Khedive office”. Flies and honeypot—yea, verily!
Thus the Reverend Mowat let himself go. He was cautious, mind you, beyond everything Creishy was astute. He had, in his own mind, nothing against Daniel that he would openly declare. Even his strictures against Gracie, if unmistakable, were veiled. He thundered in hyperbole, launched his shafts from Holy Writ itself.
“For the commandment is a lamp to keep thee from the evil woman, from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman. Lust not after her beauty in thine heart: neither let her take thee with her eyelids. For by means of a whorish woman”—a thrill of suppressed delight ran through the congregation—“a man is brought to a piece of bread”.
“Can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burnt? Can one go upon hot coals and his feet not be burnt? With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him. He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter or as a fool to the correction of the stocks. Hearken unto me now therefore and attend to the words of my mouth. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death!”
Seated there among them, Gracie heard it all. At first she scarcely understood. And then she saw it was for her, each word a stone hurled at her head. She could not move. There was something frightening in her immobility, for chaos was within her, and such a revulsion of feeling as was almost insupportable. She had come here to pray, to find tolerance and understanding. And this was what they did to her.
It was over at last. With a sigh of repletion the congregation got up and the church began to empty. Had Gracie been wise she would have risen at once. As it was she remained a few moments, trying to collect her scattered forces, forgetful that outside the people would collect to gossip and exchange their views upon the minister’s achievement of the day. Thus, when she did take her leave she was forced to confront them all, more intimately, more cruelly than before.
Down the steps she came, between the various groups. She came slowly, hoping to find one friendly face, someone with whom she might exchange a single word of greeting. But there was no one. The conversation died as she went past. Heads were turned away. Not one soul came forward to acknowledge her. A little choking sob rose in Gracie’s throat. With her head down, she turned and went back to her lodging.
That afternoon the sun came out, melting the grey clouds and intensifying the stillness of the holy day. In her room, seated in the wicker chair, Gracie stared unseeingly at the drab vista of chimney pots before her.
If only Frank Harmon had been in town he, at least, would have proved a standby, a distraction, but he had gone to London for a week on business. When darkness fell she was still there, nor did she stir until Mrs Glen, in some concern, toiled up the stairs and knocked upon the door to inquire solicitously what ailed her.
“This’ll never do at all.” The landlady entered, her face slightly flushed, her breath heavy with the smell of spirits. “I cannot bear to see you sitting alone. Come away down to my fireside.”
Gracie shook her head.
“I’d be poor company for you, Mrs Glen.”
“Tut, tut, my dear, I’ll not take no. Never mind what they say about you. I’ll give you a drop that’ll cheer you up.”
For an instant Gracie hesitated, then she stood up. After all why should she not accept this kindly hospitality? A drink would do her good. What did she care? If the saints of the town had disowned her, then she must consort with sinners. She submitted as Mrs Glen slipped an arm about her waist and escorted her downstairs.
Chapter Four
In the summer months Daniel enjoyed the early morning more than any other part of the day. He rose at six, and when he had taken Kate her cup of tea, moving silently in his old carpet slippers about the quiet, blind-drawn house, he would slip into his garden, his trousers braced over his nightshirt, with an old brown working jacket buttoned across his spare chest, and there he would savour the dew-drenched sweetness of the dawn.
As the long veils of vapour melted from the Winton hills before the yellow sun, and the still beauty of the summer landscape swam to reality through the mist, Daniel worked in his garden. The cows from Drummers Farm, new milked, streamed into the fields, lowing gently. Great beads of dew winked and gleamed in the calceolaria flowers. And Daniel, his heart overflowing, felt the imprint of the Creator’s hand fresh upon the earth.
But on this Monday morning, a week after Gracie’s departure from his house, Daniel’s heart was troubled. His garden had never looked better. His sweet peas were giant high, a glorious line of white, pink and mauve—four, five, even six blooms to a stem, with budding shoots holding promise of more splendid things to come.
Yet Daniel’s gaze was absent, his mind apprehensive and disturbed. The objective upon which he had set his heart, which now more than ever had become vital and immediate, seemed no nearer his attainment.
All through these past weeks he had explored every avenue in his search for Gracie’s child, his quest for information as to the present whereabouts of the woman Lang. And all in vain. Again and again, on some illusory clue, he had journeyed to neighbouring towns and cities, only to have his hopes dashed rudely to the ground.
In a despondent frame of mind he re-entered the house, took his breakfast, and set out for work. He was a trifle behind his usual time, for the town clock struck half-past eight as he passed the Cross. Instinctively he hastened his pace. And then, as he turned Hay’s corner, the postman, already on his forenoon round, stopped him and handed him a letter. It was an official-looking letter, the envelope blue in colour, and with a queer pricking of his skin Daniel opened it.
County Court, Winton, July 29th, 1911.
Dear Sir,
With regard to your inquiry of the 7th ult., we have lately had access to the files of the City Court and are now in a position to advise you that Mrs Annie Lang, late of Methven, Perthshire, is at present residing at 17, Clyde Place, Kirkbridge. Recently Mrs Lang appeared before the lower court on a charge of contravening Statute 15a of the Child Welfare Act and was placed on probation by the S.P.C.C.
If we can be of further service to you in this matter do not hesitate to get in touch with us.
I am, sir, your obedient servant, Andrew Ross Clerk to the Winton Sessions,
A stifled cry broke from Daniel, a cry of joy and triumph. At last, at last, he was on the right track. Despite the faintly disquieting tone of the letter, the news whi
ch it contained was positive and official. After all his fruitless forays he greeted it like a shining beacon in a dark and stormy sea. There was not a moment to be lost. He would not open the studio today. Suffused by a new confidence, a new strength, he looked at his watch, and without hesitation swung round and started towards the railway station.
Here, after only a short wait, he took his place in a third-class compartment of the nine o’clock train for Winton. As the engine laboured through the low-lying country of the valley he sat tense and eager, his eyes directed unseeingly towards the rush-fringed marshland where a few cattle browsed stolidly in the drizzling rain.
He reached Kirkbridge after noon, when the cotton-thread mills which constituted the main industry of this large industrial outpost of the city of Winton were disgorging their workers for the dinner-break. Hundreds of women, with shawls over their heads, streamed through the big gates like an army on the march. Over this sombre scene the rain fell steadily from a leaden sky, turning the cobbled road into a sea of mud.
Daniel asked a policeman the way to Clyde Place and, turning up his collar, plunged into the crowd. At the end of the main street he turned left and, passing an iron statue of one of the great mill-owners of the district, he entered a poorer part of the town.
Daniel had never before seen such dreary shops. The gutters ran with evil-smelling liquid, the effluent from the dye-works. In the courts grubby washing hung from the lines. Almost every doorway led to a bar, or to a bookmaker’s office.
Daniel’s worst fears were realised. Mrs Lang, the guardian of Gracie’s son, had fallen even lower than he had already feared.
Crossing a cobbled square he entered a narrow street, like a canal between the high buildings. This gutter, running with stinking mud, carried a chipped blue enamel plaque—Clyde Place.
Daniel was taken by a sinking weariness, physical and spiritual. The smell, the stench of the alley, the slum, dwellings which rose on each side, turned him cold.
It was so dark, too, that even on the brightest day few gleams of sun could ever penetrate. It was like the bottom of a well. It made Daniel want to slink away, to, fly to some wide open heath and there to purify his being with the country air.
But Daniel’s nervous excitement, now amounting almost to hysteria, would not let him draw back. He entered the passage leading to No. 17 and began to mount the stairs. The stair was no worse than was ordinary in that district—since the tenement was built on the back-to-back principle, there were no windows, light or air. The gas brackets were plugged, and a cracked pipe had stained one landing.
Up three flights Daniel went, gathering his resources in a breathless prayer, when suddenly he stumbled and almost fell. A child was sitting upon the stairs, a boy. Daniel stared at him through the fog-like gloom. He seemed to be passing the time in a philosophical fashion, by playing with some small round stones which he tossed in the air and caught on the back of his hand.
But Daniel hardly noticed that. It was the boy himself that held his startled eye. Daniel knew about rickets, knew also that rickets in those slum places, from poor diet and lack of sunlight, was a prevailing sickness. And now he saw quite plainly how this child’s legs were curled under him and how small he was, how his head seemed too heavy for him to hold up. He held it with one hand, bracing his elbow against his knee. His eyes were dark and serious in his pinched face. His skin was the colour of tallow, dull and without lustre. He didn’t seem to wear many clothes—just bits and pieces of garments that had been made down for him. He might have been seven years of age
Sitting there, he took Daniel in with his grave, rather tired eyes. Then Daniel found his tongue.
“Does Mrs Lang live here?”
After a pause the boy nodded, seriously.
“I’d like to see her,” Daniel said.
“Is it the rent you’re after?” asked the little boy. “ I’m afraid she cannot pay you.”
“I don’t want to be paid. I only want to speak to her.”
The child hesitated, considering Daniel in his own attentive fashion. Then he said slowly:
“All right. I’ll show you.”
He got up. He did this like all rickety children, holding on to his legs and struggling clumsily to an erect position. It was difficult. But at last it was done and, limping, he led the way upstairs.
On the top landing he stopped before a door. From the boy’s manner Daniel saw it was his own door. Then, as he swung round and looked up, the light from the broken skylight fell upon him.
For the first time Daniel really saw the child’s face. He gave a stifled exclamation and a heavy wave of emotion broke over him—he felt it strike him as a ship might feel the buffeting of a heavy wave. That upturned face, although so frail and pallid, was unmistakable in its likeness to Gracie’s face.
Foreshortened, caught by the grey light, the face emerged from its drab background and seemed to swim with a quality luminous and visionary, as though Gracie herself were hazily evoked before him. The eyes especially, those wide hazel eyes, so gravely fixed upon him, could never be denied. Daniel swallowed dumbly. Indistinctly he said:
“What is your name?”
The boy answered: “ I’m called Robert.”
“But your other name?” In his emotion, Daniel was speaking brusquely. “Is it Lang? Is Mrs Lang your mother?”
“Yes, Annie Lang’s my mother,” Robert said vaguely. “Anyhow, I stop with her.” As though unwilling to be questioned more, he pushed the door open, the door of his house.
It was a single room. At the end of the room a woman sat cross-legged on a flock mattress stretched on the bare linoleum. She was stitching rapidly some cloth which lay in her lap, her needle flying with a deadly, automatic monotony.
Even in the turmoil of his mind Daniel took in the poor furnishings of the apartment, the rusted stove, cracked china and torn blinds.
In the near corner three children, all younger than Robert, were playing with the lid of an old tin can. Beside the mattress lay a pile of half-finished coarse serge trousers.
Robert went over to the woman: then, with the carefulness which marked all his actions, he moved his eyes towards Daniel and murmured in her ear.
Mrs Lang bit off a length of black cotton from her reel, glancing first at Robert, then at Daniel.
“Can folks not let us be?” she complained. “ What harm have I done?”
“It’s not that,” Robert pacified her. “The man just wants to talk to you.”
Before she could answer he turned, rounded up the playing children and packed them through the door. As he limped after them he turned to Daniel with a grave air of achievement, and nodded as if implying that he might now proceed in private with his business. There was something in that gesture, so wistful, yet so wise, which made Daniel’s eyes smart. But the woman’s voice broke in on him.
“What is it you want? You see I’m busy. I must finish this work by seven.”
Daniel fastened his earnest gaze on Annie Lang. She was a poor raddled creature, not old, yet worn out, it seemed, by ill-living and adversity. On each of her cheeks was a hard flush and beneath her eyes were tiny bluish pouches. Her ankles, visible beneath the hem of her tattered skirt, were swollen and shapeless. She sat with a shawl pulled about her shoulders. Not for a second had she stopped stitching since he entered the room.
Daniel cleared his throat, swallowed convulsively.
“I came about that boy,” he said. “The boy you call Robert.”
There was a pause. She did not speak, made no effort to help him. It was not easy for him to continue with her furtive glances darting towards him. Yet somehow he went on, making plain why he had come and what he wished of her.
At first her expression remained dull and fretful, but as he proceeded it altered, revealing in turn emotions which she tried clumsily to hide—surprise, slow comprehension, then a quick and calculating shiftiness. She stopped sewing, letting her work fall into her lap, braced herself to meet Daniel’s eye
s.
“Well,” she said at last, “I’ll not deny he’s the boy you are seeking. He’s the Lindsay child right enough.”
He had not doubted that: he had known it five minutes ago on the landing. He pressed on eagerly, hurriedly:
“Then let me take him away with me. I’ll take him back today.”
She shook her head decisively and answered, speaking rapidly:
“No, no! I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even think of it. The child was made over to me. I have the papers to prove it. And I couldn’t do without him. He helps me in a heap of different ways. He goes all over the place for my messages. You can see for yourself how wise he is. I’m not strong now, you know. I’ve had a hard time of it since my husband died. Ever since we left the farm it’s been a struggle to keep alive. Besides, I’m fond of Robert. He’s a good little thing. And the money I’ve spent on him, with him being delicate and needing physic in the winter—ay, ay, I’ve got to take that into consideration. You’ll understand, of course, that when the old man Lindsay passed away there was never another penny of help for me.”
She broke off as though she had said enough, and began, with contracted lips, to sew again. Yet Daniel, for all his simpleness, had read her face. He did not hesitate.
“How much do you want? I’ll pay you if you let me have the boy.”
She dropped her sewing again, her veined hands, the fingers blue-stippled by innumerable needle pricks, clutching nervously at her shawl. Though she made an effort to conceal it, his words agitated her profoundly. For her piecework sewing, her sole support in these past two years, she received on an average 1s. 3d. a day, out of which she was obliged to purchase cotton and sometimes buttons. But now, by a stroke of fortune, had come this opportunity. Fearful of demanding too much, yet desperately afraid of not asking enough, she hovered in a pitiable indecision.