by A. J. Cronin
He moved restlessly; conquered a sigh; then said at length:
‘Is that the man you call the Professor?’
‘’Tis the same,’ cried Jimmy, much upset. ‘Him that brung me out here, writin’ and askin’ me to join him; bustin’ wid promises an’ hivin knows what – Holy Mother pardon him in purgatory. An amusement-ground outside the bull-ring, a kind of a fair ye’d call it – that’s what he had – they’re strong on sich places out in them parts. Or so he told, God forgive him. And Bob had followed the big top all his life, ye see. But I wished ye’d see this place! By the powers, it’s a crooked deal that he was afther handin’ me, or I’m far cheated. I can’t get over it – to think that Bob would do me down.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jimmy made an anguished gesture with his arm.
‘Sure, Bob must have been on the slide when he wrote the letter. Up to eyes in throuble and over the ears in debt. And he’d borrowed money on the tale of me comin’ out to join him. Jumpin’ Janus! Can ye think of a better one than that? There was never a man like the Professor for puttin’ across the tale.’
‘You’d never promised to put money in his business?’
Corcoran was taken with a prolonged fit of coughing – a dreadful wheezy bout which turned his face quite red.
At last, looking up sheepishly, he said:
‘Ah! what are ye talkin’ about?’
Dead silence.
‘I see,’ said Harvey ironically. ‘Well, if the man’s dead, that’s the end of it.’
‘Sure and he’s dead all right,’ cried Jimmy. ‘He went down wid this blessed fever that’s in the town. If he’d only died decent like a month or two ago ’twouldn’t have been so bad. But to snuff out on me the very day before I come. Faith, it’s the height of bad manners.’ His indignation was so tremendous that, remembering those early protestations of ‘the grand business partnership’ and the ‘ Professor’s’ unimpeachable attainments, Harvey had to smile. He said:
‘You’ll have to come back on the ship with me. Is that what’s worrying you?’
‘Ah, I’m not worried at all. Faith, I’m not the worryin’ kind. I’m just sort of annoyed at the way things has wint wid me.’
‘You mean the way things have gone with Sinnott.’
‘Wid me, I said,’ Corcoran declared resentfully. ‘I told ye Bob owed a pocket of money. And I wished you’d seen the dago he owed it on. He was there, if ye please, with a gang of them yellow boys when I got to Bob’s place, waitin’ for me, primed wid the wire I’d sent from Las Palmas – and, well, a letter or two of me own besides. They come at me like I was Croysus, tryin’ to make out I was responsible for what Bob had borrowed. Me, if ye please, that’s got me own financial difficulties. Faith, they come at me like a pack of boar-hounds. And, by the powers, they’d have scragged me if I hadn’t took a wise discretion for me motto.’ He drew a long breath, reached for his glass, raised it to his lips, and added: ‘But here I am, ye see, sound as a drum. It’s a cliver man that gets the better of the argument with Jimmy C.’
Complacency began to flow into him again when suddenly he broke off; his jaw dropped; he set down the glass untasted.
Three men stood on the threshold of the tavern. They looked round without apparent interest; they looked everywhere but at Corcoran; then with a careful air they came in and arranged themselves at the table by the door.
‘Death and the divil,’ Jimmy muttered under his breath.
Harvey slewed round and gazed at the three men. They were an ill-looking group. One of them, who was short and powerfully built, with a tight drawn face, lit a cigarette and flicked the match insolently across the room. The other two loafed back on the bench with an air both insolent and languid, as if for the present they were content to watch. The taller had on a manto against the evening’s chill, and now he threw it off his shoulders with a swaggering conceit. The third man wore a dirty white sweater, burst canvas shoes, and a mangy peaked cap which drooped across his face like a broken wing.
Meanwhile the waiter had hurried over with extreme despatch. And with a deference equally significant he executed the order, brought to the table a bottle of wine. He uncorked the bottle, cleaned the glasses obsequiously upon his apron, poured out the wine; then he stood with lowered head whilst the thick-set man harangued him. He had a violent voice, the short man, and he spoke rapidly, with much thumb-pointing and derisive exclamation. Finally the waiter nodded his head, came over to Corcoran.
‘El Brazo,’ he said, keeping his eyes averted, ‘El Brazo say you will pay.’
‘Pay?’
The waiter turned to the group by the door for support; sustained by much nodding of the head from the three he said:
‘El Brazo says you will pay for the wine.’
Corcoran sat upright, threw out his chest; the heated, angry look flew back to his face; he elbowed the air like he was pressing forward in a crowd.
‘So they think I’m buyin’ the company,’ he muttered; and to the waiter, but so loudly that all could hear: ‘Tell them I’ll pay none. Tell them I’ll see them in fire and brimstone first.’
Harvey interposed.
Everyone in the place was sitting up and taking notice. He felt disturbance brewing in the air.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said sharply, ‘you don’t want a row in here.’
‘Row be damned!’ cried Jimmy. ‘I’ve had enough of them dagos!’ His blood was up. He buttoned his coat, corrugated his brow at the waiter. ‘Tell Brazo from me that he’s a dirty yellow hound. Sabe? Tell him dirty, yellow, and a hound. Tell him further that I don’t like his face. And tell him finally that he won’t get one red peseta out of me.’
The waiter shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
‘Perhaps you like to tell. El Brazo says you owe money. El Brazo is matador. He has killed many bulls.’
‘He has that,’ said Jimmy, ‘and then some more.’
‘Yes,’ said the waiter in mimicry. ‘Some more.’
Meanwhile the short man had arisen. Followed by his friends, he came over, lounging, one hand thrust behind his coat. On his face was a wicked look.
‘So,’ he said, sneering. ‘ You are going to pay me for what your partner has appropriated. From me, El Brazo, noted for retirement and courage, he has appropriated one hundred pesetas. Yes, you are going to pay me?’
A tension fell on the room; a sigh of bated expectation went up. Harvey rose; so, too, with a bellicose clatter of his chair, did Corcoran.
‘Get away,’ he cried, thrusting forward his chin, ‘or I’ll hit ye where ye belong.’
Instantly the other made a movement with his arm. But Corcoran was first. His enormous fist caught El Brazo full on the chin. The crack of the blow echoed in the room, and El Brazo retired with courage upon the floor. As he toppled, a look of vague surprise was in his eyes, then he hit the hard stone surface and was forgotten. Instantly there was uproar; everybody shouted and surged forward. The waiter leaped over the bar; someone flung a bottle. And Harvey made with Corcoran for the door.
They were half-way out when suddenly, through an opening in the scuffle, the long man who was El Brazo’s companion flung a knife. It all happened in a flash. Harvey saw the gleam, then the knife was quivering in Jimmy’s arm. He pushed forward, slipped, then someone swung a chair and hit him hard over the head. Everything went dark. He had a stupid sense of stamping, shouting people pressing round, of Corcoran dragging him savagely through the crowd. He felt the cool night air. And, inexplicably, through his whirling mind, he had an instant’s comprehension. He had been right. Not chance! But in the pattern of it all – the antic pattern of his fate. Dimly he felt Corcoran supporting him down the street. Then everything went black again.
Chapter Sixteen
Harvey opened his eyes. He was on a red plush sofa in a small room that smelt warmly of hot coffee, onions, and tobacco smoke. His neck was painfully stiff and his head ached dizzily. Lying quite still he let the room swi
m out of the haze into some definite perspective. Objects grew clearer. Upon the mantelpiece stood a green marble clock, a box of cigars, two china spaniels with fawn ears and fixed ingratiating smiles, and, above, a needlework text: ‘God bless our happy home.’ The walls, papered in painful maroon, were hung with violet gilt-framed art: Ormonde winning the Derby; a polychrome Madonna with two attendant seraphs; a nautical gentleman with a beard, in oils; an alluring photogravure of a lady all naked, smiling and unashamed.
He stopped looking. Surely he was dreaming: it was too awful to be real.
But he was not dreaming. Clear sunlight flooded the room through the tightly shut window. It was morning. Cautiously he moved his head. There, at the littered breakfast-table, her short legs crossed, her lips daintily enclosing a cigar, her beady eyes busy with a newspaper, sat Mother Hemmingway.
Harvey stared at her, moistened his lips, then at last he exclaimed:
‘How did I get here?’
She did not look up; went on luxuriously with her paper and cigar. But in a moment, with inimitable malice, she reflected:
‘So you’ve woke up, byby dear. ’Ad a nice shut-eye?’ And she crackled the paper to another column as though her interest lay entirely upon the printed page. ‘ I do ’ ope and pray you’ve slept proper and comodo. If you ’aven’t, we’ll complyne. Stryte, we’ll complyne to the management. W’ich is me.’
He raised his hand to his head, felt it carefully. Immediately, as though she had awaited the action, she swung round and grinned at him.
‘Well, well,’ she declared with relish. ‘Does it ’urt? Did a cruel man ’it ’im? Shyme, oh, shyme indeed. W’y can’t people be polite and well-be’aved w’en they meet a hexquisitely mannered gen’leman like yourself?’
His look still dwelled upon her.
‘How did I get here?’
‘’Andsome Jimmy brought you. Any port in a storm. See the idea. And a fine’igh-tiddley-’ighty’e made of it. Spoiled the evening’s tryde and bled shockin’ all over my drawin-’room carpet. Lucky it’s plum shyde. ’Ere! ’ave some breakfast.’ She made a sudden movement towards the table. ‘Sit in and ’ ave your pick. W’y I does it I don’t know. I’ll wyke up with a pair of wings some d’y – so ’elp my bleedin’ ’eart.’
‘Where is Corcoran?’ he asked.
‘’E’s all right. Right as ryne, ’e is. Downstairs in bed. Nothing but a sham. ’Is arm’s scratched, that’s all. ’Ad his breakfast a ’our ago. Ate about a pound of ’am, too, the greedy ’og.’
Harvey sighed and stood up. Then, gingerly, he advanced to the window and looked out. The room was high, and before him, across the quiet street, lay the water-front, the bay, the jutting mole on which his gaze, moving uneasily, was suddenly arrested.
For a long time he stared at the gap where yesterday the ship had berthed, then a sharp exclamation rose to his lips. Lifting his head instinctively towards the horizon, he made out a tiny blur of smoke that might have been a ship. That, perhaps, was the Aureola. He did not know; he only knew the ship was gone.
He turned slowly, met her eyes, which had all the time been fastened on him with sly avidity.
‘Why didn’t you let them know?’ he said heavily. ‘Renton – anyone. You might at least have done that.’
She tittered; broke suddenly into her boisterous laughter; slapped the table with her hand.
‘’Ark at ’ im,’ she declared vociferously. ‘Just ’ark at ’im. W’y don’t you see that’s old ’Emmingway’s joke? It’s the funniest thing since Noah got stuck on Harrarat. Carajo! It’ll kill me.’ She held her sides. ‘I knew – I knew Renton wouldn’t wait for Gawd Almighty. I saw the ship syle from that very window. But I saw you was tired, ducky. So I lets you sleep.’ She squirmed with laughter, then, altering her tone abruptly, she rattled the plates invitingly. ‘Come on, do. Don’t be down’earted. ’Ave some chow. I’ve ’ad mine, so I don’t mind. There’s sausidge and tomato. A little of wot you fancy does you good.’
He contemplated her with a wrinkled brow, then, still looking at her, drew forward a chair and sat down at table.
‘That’s the ticket,’ she cried, pressing food upon him. ‘Gawd bless my soul but I didn’t think w’en you was so polite to me on the boat I’d get the chance to return the syme with interest. Carajo, no. ’ Ere! This coffee’s gone wishy. I’ll get some ’ot.’
‘Thanks! It may surprise you, but I’m hungry.’
Whilst Harvey buttered a roll, she made a long arm and pulled upon a hanging bell-rope. There was a pause, then a Spanish girl entered. She wore a bright pink petticoat, no stockings, and high-heeled shoes; her hair hung over her generous young bosom in two glossy, untidy plaits; she smiled first at Mother Hemmingway, then lingeringly at Harvey.
‘Hey, Cuca. Bring some coffee. Hot coffee. Presto, pronto.’
‘Si, señora.’
‘And tyke off the smile, Cuca. It don’t myke no beans with this señor.’
‘Si, señora.’ But Cuca was smiling as she went out of the door, and still smiling when she returned with the steaming coffee-pot. It was not an amused smile, but simply a look of unconquerable amiability which seemed fixed as though she could not put it off.
‘Nice little bit is Cuca,’ said Mother Hemmingway when the girl had gone. She poured the frothing coffee and passed the cup. Then she sucked her teeth reflectively. ‘Been with me five year come Ash We’nsday. ’ Appy as a lark. Refined, too, in ’er own quiet w’y. Put on weight, she ’as, since she been with me. Sancta Maria, but ’er figure’s come up a treat. You should ’ave seen ’er when I took ’er. My ’at, she was thinner’n a rat’s tyle. You wouldn’t believe it, the upbringing she’d ’ ad. Yes. ’ Adn’t it been neglected shockin’? W’y, she ’ adn’t even been confirmed w’en I took ’er. Yes, mister, call me a liar to my fyce if I didn’t ’ave Cuca confirmed the first week she was in this ’ ouse.’
Harvey, slicing cold sausage upon his roll, said nothing.
‘You wouldn’t believe it, I sye,’ repeated Mother Hemmingway with unctuous vehemence. ‘I treat all my gals ’andsome, so ’elp me, criminy. I don’t run no Sunday-school class ’ere, I’ll admit it. But I runs it stryte. See? Fair wind and no fyvour. And them that don’t like it can vamos.’
Vaguely Harvey had suspected the latitude of Mother Hemmingway’s establishment. And now that suspicion was amply confirmed. But the knowledge awoke in him neither scorn nor disgust. Within him something had changed. There came over him, instead, from deep down in the roots of his soul, a curious acquiescence. Life must be accepted, not scorned. The run of his misfortunes had wakened in him a tolerance he long had needed, a saving humility he had sadly lacked before.
‘This coffee is good,’ he said, looking across at her. ‘And so are these rolls. Almost better to have missed the ship than this breakfast.’
Caught by the unexpectedness of the remark, she drew herself up, instantly on guard.
‘’Ere! wot’s wrong with you, cocky? No funny-bones ’ere. None-of your ’umbuggin’ sarcasm for me.’
‘I’m not sarcastic. I appreciate your hospitality more than you seem to think.’
She tossed her earrings with a wounded air.
‘You ain’t generous. That’s the trouble with you, mister. You thinks you know the whole issue. ’Igh up on the throne, superior like. But you’ve a lot to learn. Believe me, you ’ave. ’Ere I ups and tips you a free feed, friendly. And you turns round and spits in my eye. Be broad, cawn’t you? Try and learn something that ’asn’t come out of a book.’ And she picked up her paper in a huff, began indignantly to read it.
He studied her with a wry smile.
‘Perhaps I’ve learned more than you imagine. Perhaps I’ve been doing a little thinking these last few days.’
She threw him a suspicious look, went back to her paper.
‘P’raps you’ve thought out wot you’re going to do in Santa, cocky. P’raps you’re clever enough to think that one out.’
‘Have you any suggestions?’
Still distrustful, she answered with a sniff:
‘Stay ’ ere if you like. Then you’ll find I’m not so black as you paint me. You think the worst of everybody, you do. If you want the truth, I didn’t know the bloomin’ boat ’ad gone. Thought it wasn’t leavin’ till the afternoon. Dropped me all of an ’eap w’en I saw it in the bay, ’al an ’our ago. I don’t wish you no ’arm. Stay ’ere if you like. Tyke it or leave it, as the lydy said w’en she threw a banana to the sea-lion.’
He sat with a phantom smile upon his lips, his manner quite devoid of animosity. There was a long pause. Then she looked up and, gazing at him closely, she suddenly tapped the paper in front of her.
‘If you’re ’ard up for a job, w’y don’t you ’it out for Laguna? You’re a doctor, ain’t you? Leastways, if we believe all we ’ear. And there’s a rare rampagin’ fever up there. Passing out like twelve o’clock they are. The Spañola medico ’as just took wings – it’s in this mornin’s Gaceta. ’ E’s the second to go flyin’ after ’is ’ arp. And the rest don’t seem to like the destajo mucho mucho. W’y not try that, mister?’
He stopped crumbling a fragment of his roll; there was a silence.
‘Yes, why not?’ he echoed.
The malicious look lurked once more in her button eyes as she scrutinised his face.
‘You don’t mind w’ether they tyke you away in a nice black box,’ she suggested insidiously. ‘Not you! You don’t mind nothing like that.’
He hardly heard her words. Filled by that new fatalism, he sat considering his position.
He would go – yes, he would go. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Something deeper than circumstance had arranged it. He had the strange sensation that this was a moment he had long awaited.