Crescendo

by Phyllis Bentley

  Imagination was one of Richard’s strong suits, and he had only too clear a picture of Dorothea racked by pain, her crisp dark curls damp with the sweat of agony. Oh no, this Gay could not be left in that condition; he could not leave the matter so; it was intolerable. Something must be done. But what?

  That wretched husband, too, thought Richard—a note in the Principal’s voice had somehow conveyed the impression that the Principal did not very much care for Peter Trahier, but what of that? Common humanity overrode such considerations in times of trouble. Richard imagined the young man sitting at ease in the lumbering bus, unaware of the tragic possibilities which hung over him. He would reach his home, and find it at best empty, with wife and father-in-law gone to hospital—which would drive him mad with anxiety, even if they thought to leave an explanatory note—or at worst, with his father-in-law dead and his wife in premature labour. It really was not to be borne. One could not just sit back and leave one’s fellow-humans to perish.

  But what Richard Cressey, a slightly lame schoolmaster down in Ashworth, could do about a situation on a high hillside several Pennine miles away, Richard could not imagine. If only he had a car! A big, powerful car. Then he could dash along the valley to Blackstalls Bridge and drive slowly along the road thence towards Hudley and stop every bus and find Peter Trahier on one of them and pick him off and whisk him up to High Royd. A big, powerful car, driven by a skilled and spirited driver, a powerful authoritative man who would not hesitate to stop buses or race up hills in chase of ambulances: that was what was necessary in this situation. One had only to find such a man with such a car.

  Richard laughed suddenly. He had remembered where he could find just such a man with just such a car. That the man was Richard’s enemy was irrelevant; all that mattered was whether he would be willing to rush his precious car up and down narrow hillside lanes, on an unlikely humanitarian errand, through an unpleasantly wet dark night. Richard took up the telephone and in a somewhat sardonic tone, speaking with grim precision, asked the operator to connect him with Mr. Arnold Amos Janna Barraclough of Holmelea Hall.

  IV

  Arnold Barraclough

  1

  The Moment the telephone rang Jerry sprang up and went out to the extension in the hall.

  “He hopes it’s Chillie,” thought Arnold bitterly.

  The Barracloughs were sitting together in uneasy silence in the library. Meg had had a fire lighted, for the evening had become wet and cold. At one point Jerry had turned on the television, but almost immediately went off restlessly to do his packing—he was due back at school next day. Meg followed him to supervise the packing operation; Arnold turned off the instrument; for a few moments the voices of mother and son could be heard upstairs, giving an illusion of happy family life which made Arnold’s heart ache. When they returned, Meg looked sad and perplexed, and Jerry looked cross and uneasy. Arnold, who was reading a rather uncomfortable discussion about proposed American tariffs against wool textile imports, in the columns of the morning newspaper, folded the newspaper and laid it down at once, with the air (he hoped) of a father eager to talk to his son on the last night of his half-term leave. No conversation, however, seemed to be forthcoming. His son was silent, and Arnold himself could think of nothing to say.

  “Want the telly on again, Jerry?” he said after a moment.

  Jerry shook his head. He stretched out a hand and took up a weekly from a nearby table, and began to turn its pages.

  “He won’t even speak to me,” thought Arnold.

  For a moment he felt hot and angry. He shook the newspaper open again viciously. Damn the Americans! Damn wool textiles! Damn Chillie! Damn everything! But presently his anger subsided into heartache. There they sat, the three of them, he thought: Meg knitting, Arnold and Jerry reading, feet stretched to the fire, clean, well dressed, well fed—the dinner, especially chosen by Meg no doubt for Jerry’s last evening, had been excellent—the picture of a normal happy family; and yet they were all as wretched as could be. Arnold gave an exasperated sigh, and it was at this moment that the telephone rang.

  Jerry returned looking disappointed.

  “It’s for you, father.”

  Father again, thought Arnold with a pang.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” muttered Jerry. He seemed then to perceive that he had been lacking in initiative, and added rather less sulkily: “Man with an educated voice, who said it was urgent.”

  Arnold threw down his newspaper and strode out into the hall. More trouble, he thought; the mill’s on fire I shouldn’t wonder. That would just about match the rest of the day.

  “Arnold Barraclough speaking.”

  “This is Richard Cressey. I don’t know whether you remember me—I was one of the unsuccessful candidates for the Holmelea headmastership this afternoon.”

  “I remember you,” said Arnold grimly. “My God,” he thought, “is this smooth-tongued fellow trying to lobby for a change of decision about that appointment? If so he’s come to the wrong man, and I shall enjoy telling him so.”

  “You may be surprised that I should telephone you.”

  “I am rather,” said Arnold even more grimly.

  “I’m applying to you because I noticed this afternoon you had a powerful car and were a skilful driver.”

  “What is all this leading up to?” said Arnold. He spoke roughly but with less contempt; he was now genuinely puzzled.

  “An old artist named Francis Freeman, who lives up at the top of Blackstalls Brow in a house without a telephone, has attempted to commit suicide.”

  “Suicide!” exclaimed Arnold.

  At this word the whole wretched and sordid episode of his father’s death, which had lain in his mind all day owing to his worry about his son, became vividly present to him. He was sorry for anyone who had anything to do with a suicide, and that was a fact.

  “Suicide!” he repeated. “Well—is there something I can do, do you mean?”

  “Freeman’s young daughter, who is several months pregnant, is alone in the house with him. The Hudley ambulance has left for Blackstalls, but her husband, ignorant of what has happened, is returning home from the Hudley Technical College by bus. He’ll be an hour on the way unless we can get hold of him.”

  “Jerry!” shouted Arnold. “Get out the car! Hurry! Now listen, Cressey,” he said urgently: “Where are you, eh? Well, look; that’s on my way to Ashworth. Come to the end of your road and I’ll pick you up and you can tell me the rest of the story as we go. Hurry, now; I shall be there in two minutes.”

  He ran to the table in the hall and picked up a large electric torch which customarily lay there. The front door stood open, cold wet air pouring in.

  “The boy’s jumped to it,” thought Arnold with satisfaction.

  Meg came running to him, her kind face drawn with alarm.

  “Is it the mill, Arnold?”

  “No, no. Nothing to do with us really. Man tried to suicide up by the moors, pregnant daughter alone with him, we must get hold of the husband who doesn’t know.”

  “Oh,” said Meg. Relief showed for a moment on her face, to be succeeded by pity. “Take your raincoat,” she cried, throwing it after her husband as he ran down the steps.

  Not to waste time, Arnold caught it, and threw it into the back of the car, which now leaped up to the steps with lights blazing, Jerry at the wheel. The boy slid over and Arnold took his place and they flew out of the Hall drive and down the hill at considerable speed.

  “Is it the mill, father?” enquired Jerry.

  Two aspects of this remark warred in Arnold’s heart. On the one hand, he was still relegated to the icy fringe of fatherhood, apparently; on the other, it seemed that Jerry at least cared enough for Holmelea Mills to enquire about their safety. He sighed, perplexed. But the excitement of the chase had loosened his tongue, and as they raced along the road to Ash-worth he told Jerry the object of their excursion as far as he knew it.

  “Don’t y
ou know Francis Freeman at all, then?” said the boy in a tone of surprise.

  “No. Never heard of him.”

  “I have,” said Jerry unexpectedly. “He was quite a good stage designer in his day.”

  “That’s not the point, however,” said Arnold. “The point is, he’s a man in trouble.”

  “Oh, quite. It was pretty cool of this Cressey type to expect you to go to the rescue of a complete stranger, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all. He rang me because he knew I had a powerful car,” said Arnold, pressing the accelerator.

  “Especially when you practically lost him his job this afternoon,” pursued Jerry. “I heard you telling mother. I mean, you’re practically enemies.”

  “Well, that’s England for you,” said Arnold, dismissing the matter. “But what the dickens are you doing here, Jerry? I didn’t intend you to come. You’d better get out when we stop for Cressey, and take a bus home.”

  “Oh, please let me come!” said Jerry.

  They were now in the main road close to Ashworth, and in the greenish-purple light of the overhead lamps Jerry’s young face, turned towards his father, looked pale and earnest.

  “Suicides are sordid and unpleasant affairs,” said Arnold. “There’s nothing exciting or glamorous about them, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “I might be useful to run messages, dad,” pleaded Jerry.

  It was really not possible for Arnold to refuse a request couched in such terms; to have risen to the status of dad again warmed him all over.

  “Well, all right,” he said gruffly. “But you’ll have to ride in the back and keep out of the way. There’s Cressey now; get out and get him in beside me as quick as you can, there’s a good lad.”

  2

  It proved a simple matter to find Peter Trahier. They reached Blackstalls Bridge and examined all the buses from Hudley which were clustered there, and the queue, already forming, of passengers for Blackstalls Brow. Trahier was not there, but they left messages everywhere in case they had missed him. Everyone they addressed was kind and helpful and promised their best service. They then drove along the valley road towards Hudley. Whenever they saw a bus approaching in the distance, its lights gleaming through the rain, they turned round and made speed to the nearest bus stop. Cressey dismounted and waited; the bus stopped for him; he climbed on and called out: “Is Peter Trahier on this bus?” in his resonant schoolmaster’s tones. The third bus they accosted like this—it was about halfway to Hudley—contained Peter. He came pushing his way down the crowded aisle with a look of anguish on his agreeable face, and seizing Cressey by both arms, cried:

  “Is it Gay? It’s Gay, I know it is!”

  “There’s trouble at your home. We have a car here,” said Cressey. “We tried to catch you earlier, at the Technical College, but unluckily you had left.”

  The bus passengers looked on sympathetically, and the conductor held the young man’s arm and helped him to alight, lest he should stumble, for indeed he seemed to have gone quite to pieces. He stood in the pouring rain, gesticulating and exclaiming, instead of getting into the car like a sensible man, thought Arnold impatiently, and when at last Cressey and Jerry between them had stowed him into the front seat, he still kept on exclaiming and had to be recalled by Arnold to the business of directing the car to Blackstalls.

  “If only I hadn’t left early! But why should he do it? He was quite happy with us. And Gay all alone with him! She’ll be in the dark there, we haven’t any electricity. Surely she won’t forget and strike a match to light the gas!” cried Trahier in agony. “If only I hadn’t left the Tech early, I should be there by now!”

  “Right or left here?” said Arnold.

  “Right, right. Across the bridge and then right. Oh no, left here, round this bend. Now right.”

  The car soon left the bus from which they had taken Trahier out of sight—clear proof, reflected Arnold, that Cressey’s appeal to him was justified—flew along the valley road and turned up the hill across Blackstalls Bridge. The blue and white Jaguar was conspicuous, and several people who had a few minutes ago received Cressey’s enquiries, pointed it out to their neighbours and nodded after it approvingly, knowing its errand. The feeling here was therefore one of hope and excitement, but as the car left the lighted village and mounted the dark hillside, the nocturnal landscape—trees rustling, wind sighing, rain pouring heavily, hills rising and falling in sombre folds, old cobbles gleaming in the light from the rare gas-lamps—seemed to him to take on a more sinister and less hopeful air, so that Arnold’s spirits sank. This unease was increased by Trahier’s lack of control, for he poured the whole history of his admiration for Freeman, his love for Freeman’s daughter, their courtship and marriage and hopes of a child, into the embarrassed ears of Arnold, who wondered uncomfortably what Jerry was making of all this—“Well, it’s his own fault for coming and mine for allowing him to come, after all,” he reflected—and also what use a fellow of this kind could be to a woman in a crisis. Trahier talked too much and expressed what he meant too clearly, for Arnold’s liking; a more silent grief would have pleased his Yorkshire taste better, seemed more sincere.

  “Here!” said Trahier suddenly.

  The Jaguar’s lights had already illuminated a large greyish van standing at the side of the road, its back doors open.

  “The ambulance,” said Cressey with satisfaction.

  “But where’s the house?” demanded Arnold.

  “It’s at the top of this bank—there’s a lane at the side but it’s too steep and rough for motor vehicles,” replied Trahier, who was wrestling with the unfamiliar handle of the Jaguar’s door.

  “Oh, pooh!” said Arnold.

  With a swing of the wheel he skirted the ambulance and put the Jaguar at Brow Lane. The car flew up, throwing its passengers about as it bounced over the rocky surface. Arnold swung it partly round to face High Royd. The headlamps poured light on the house side and figures were revealed through the sloping spears of rain: Gay leaning against the wall, a couple of men in uniform stooping over a stretcher which lay on the ground between them. Arnold leaned across Trahier and pressed the door catch so that the door swung open, and the young man scrambled out and rushed to his wife and put his arms round her.

  “Gay! What’s happened? Why did he do it? Are you all right? Surely he was happy with us? How is he?”

  “Peter,” sighed Gay. She staggered, and let her head drop to his shoulder.

  “She’s at the end of her tether,” thought Arnold.

  He got out of the car and strode up to the little group, taking his electric torch with him. Cressey and Jerry also dismounted, but stood by the car, not wishing to intrude.

  “Is this Mr. Freeman, then?” said Arnold, looking at the crumpled bundle, covered by a grey hospital blanket, on the stretcher at his feet.

  “Yes, sir. We can’t get him round. We shall have to take him to the hospital—he needs oxygen,” replied one of the ambulance men.

  “Well, get on with it, then,” said Arnold impatiently.

  “He’s a very heavy man, sir,” said the other man on a note of apology. “We’re doing our best.”

  “We’ll give you a hand. Then there’ll be six of us,” said Arnold, looking round. “Cressey, you take this torch and walk ahead and light the way—it’s no use wasting time trying to turn the car—the lamps won’t shine round the bend in the lane. Trahier, you take that side with one of the ambulance men. The other man, take the head. My son and I will take this side. Jerry! Come on now, all; are you ready? Lift!”

  The old man certainly is heavy, thought Arnold, as the little procession went slowly down the hill. But we couldn’t have got him into the car without a lot of difficulty; it would have wasted time to try and we might have hurt him; besides, that gate gives no room to turn, I should have had to back down and that takes time. He noticed with satisfaction that his allotment of posts had been the right one; Cressey’s slender physique and slight limp were
no detriment to his task of lighting the path, which he performed with care and skill. Trahier was of very little use, as he kept exclaiming and jerking about to look at his wife, who followed the group in silence, so that it had been wise to put him beside the experienced ambulance man. Jerry had a strong grip and did as he was told, avoiding stones when his father warned him of them. The group accordingly reached the foot of the bank and slid the stretcher along the proper rails into the ambulance, without mishap. The ambulance driver leaped into the front and started the engine; Trahier climbed hurriedly into the back; the second ambulance man began to close the doors.

  “Mrs. Trahier must go too,” said Arnold, gently pushing the young woman forward.

  “No, no. You stay here and go to bed, Gay,” said Trahier, leaning out of the ambulance.

  “The house is pretty well clear of gas now, sir,” said the ambulance man. “No real danger. No point in Mrs. Trahier coming down with her father.”

  He gave Arnold a significant glance and silently mouthed the words: “He’s gone.”

  Arnold was sorry; in spite of the strange pink flush which marred Freeman’s face, he had taken a liking to the old man.

  “Mrs. Trahier requires medical attention herself,” he said firmly. “My wife had a miscarriage once—we don’t want anything like that to happen.”

  “Good God, no!” exclaimed Peter, leaping out of the ambulance.

  At this moment Cressey very sensibly turned the light of the torch full on Gay. The ambulance man for the first time looked intently at her. His face changed—and no wonder, thought Arnold, for she appeared scarcely conscious, white, obviously pain-racked, swaying on her feet.

  “Give me a hand, sir,” said the ambulance man to Arnold.

  Between them they lifted Gay into the van. Jerry gave Trahier an impatient shove up the steps; the man closed the doors from within; the van drove off.

  Arnold became aware that the three members of the rescue party were standing in drenching rain; Cressey wore a raincoat but Jerry and himself lacked that protection. He turned and led the way briskly up Brow Lane towards the shelter of the car, remarking that the rain was growing heavier.