A Song of Sixpence (7 page)

That evening, as we were seated by the fire, variously engaged, the front door bell pealed. An unusual sound. Looking up from the pursuit of knowledge in
Pears' Cyclopaedia,
I wondered, in mild alarm, who had come to breach our little castle. But Mother, knitting placidly, merely said:

‘That'll be Maggie's mother. Run, Laurie, and ask her to come in.'

I went to the door, and presently returned.

‘She says she'd rather not come in.'

Mother looked surprised but, rolling up her knitting and spiking it with her needles, she immediately got up. I followed her halfway to the door. Already I surmised that something was wrong but nothing had prepared me for the violence or the virulence of the attack.

‘You're not to have my Maggie.'

Mother seemed dumbfounded.

‘If it's a question of a little more money … I'm quite willing …'

‘Not all the money in the world will buy my Maggie.'

Was she drunk? No, peering into the darkness, I saw a face possessed, distorted by rage and spite. I shall not attempt to recreate the stupid and malicious abuse she launched at Mother. When I first contemplated this story of my childhood I pledged myself to record no ill of anyone. But Maggie's mother was that unfortunate creature, a woman so envenomed by misfortune she sustained herself on hatred. Maggie had always been her drudge, the outlet for her rankling grudges, the living, ragged evidence of her own ill usage. She could hot bear to think of her escaping to a happier and more comfortable life. Mother was trembling now under a fresh tirade in the midst of which, after the words ‘you and your papist medals', I saw something thrown, a small silver disc, that hit the floor and rolled on its edge to my feet. The lucky charm I had given Maggie. As I picked it up I saw that Father had come silently forward, still holding the
Herald
which somehow increased his air of studied calm.

‘My good woman.' He spoke moderately, without rancour, yet in a voice of ice. ‘You have said enough. We are all fond of your daughter here. Anything we have done or proposed to do has been with the best intentions. But as you so obviously dislike and distrust us, we can only yield to your wishes. And now will you please withdraw.'

She was silenced. She had expected invective and was prepared for it, not for this dignified restraint. Before she could collect herself, Father quietly closed the door.

How I admired Father at that moment. Knowing him to be capable of the most inflammatory tempers, of truly majestic displays of contemptuous satire, he might well have reduced the incident to a vulgar brawl. But we ourselves were unduly silent for the rest of that evening. On Mother's account Father was obviously put out, the measure of which was that he lit a cigarette. He did not smoke—he hadn't the inclination, or perhaps he was vain of his beautiful teeth and did not want to discolour them—but in rare moments of stress he would resort to a Mitchell's Special No. 1. And now, puffing inexpertly, with one eye half closed against the smoke and the other directed at intervals reassuringly towards Mother, he sought to compose himself and her. Next day at school news of Maggie's predicament had reached the playground and obliquely, from the corner of my eye, I could not fail to note the ring of her tormentors. But Maggie, though downcast, was tough and could give back as good as she received. After class she waited and, taking my hand, walked down the road with me.

‘Anyway, we're still friends, Laurie. And one of these days I
will
come and work for your mother.'

But Mother was still upset. She had not the heart to practise for the concert. However, on the evening of the last day of the month, after she had prepared supper, she went to the piano while waiting for Father's return. I was in my place at the window, yet so absent in my thoughts that the whistle of Father's train reached me from another world. Yet vaguely I had begun to be aware that he was a long time in coming from the station when I heard the familiar nightly click of the front door. Mother immediately broke off and went to meet him. As I turned away it was almost dusk outside. Suddenly, through the side window, I saw two men moving slowly up the road. Pressing close to the glass and rubbing away the mist of my breath I made out Jim, the station porter, and the signalman who worked the level-crossing gates. They were passing now very slowly, in single file, with bent heads, carrying something between them. Was it a long plank, covered with a blanket? At first I did not take it in, yet I received so sinister an impression from that sagging elongated thing and from the slow pace of the men who bore it that suddenly I was terribly afraid. I ran to tell Father. He was standing in the lobby with Mother. He had not taken off his hat or coat. His face was white with shock. In a voice I did not recognize he was saying to Mother:

‘Her foot must have caught in the points, the train comes in so slow. But, Grace,' his voice broke, ‘ if you'd seen the poor thing we lifted up.'

Mother, with a terrible cry, covered her face with her hands.

Dumb with horror, I knew no immediate pain, only that Maggie had done with the milk cans for good.

How sad and confused, above all how unforeseen, was the period that followed. Even now, disentangling it from memory, I still cannot view it without pain. Surely no one could have blamed Mother for Maggie's death. On that same night Father had gone back to the level crossing with a lantern from the signal box and found, wedged in the switch ‘points' of the rails, the torn-off heel of Maggie's boot. My poor friend, trapped in this vice, had clearly made a frantic effort to free herself. At the inquiry the procurator fiscal had made it clear that if Maggie had wished to destroy herself she would not first have carefully inserted her foot in the switch then tried to tear it loose. And I knew too from Maggie's last hopeful remark to me that no such intention had ever entered her mind. And yet, despite the evidence, the certainty of accident was rejected by the village in favour of the more awful alternative and Maggie, exalted by tragedy, became a martyr to our interference.

The theme was played with variations. Father, bitterly reporting the latest gossip as we sat at dinner, did not spare us. If we had not come between a devoted mother and her only child, dangling false promises, arousing illusory hopes, if only we had ‘let the poor girl
be
' she would still be alive and happy. And, of all people, what need had we of a servant!

Mother, who had not stirred from the house for days, and who now at our evening meal was barely touching her food, pressed her hands together.

‘We'll have to leave, Conor.'

‘Leave?' Father stopped eating.

‘Yes. Get away from this wretched Ardencaple. You've always wanted to.'

‘What!' Both Father's eyebrows shot up dangerously. ‘Run away! Bolt like a rabbit! What do you think I am? There's nothing wrong with Ardencaple
itself.
I like the place and country here. Now especially, nothing would make me leave. Besides …' He spoke slowly, with special meaning. ‘Don't forget you have an engagement at the concert.'

‘That!' Mother cried, all the softness in her nature shrinking from the mere idea. ‘I'm going to no concert, never, never.'

‘But you are, Grace.'

‘No, no. I can't face it.'

‘You must.'

‘I'm mot capable of it. I'd break down.'

‘You won't.'

‘But, Conor … to be up there, before them all, alone.'

‘You won't be alone. I'll be with you. And so will Laurence. Don't you see, lass,' he was looking at her grimly, ‘if you don't go it'll be a clear admission of guilt. We are utterly blameless for poor Maggie's accident. So we
must
go, all of us, stand up for ourselves, and show, that we don't give a tinker's curse for what they say.'

Already I was shaking at a prospect that had suddenly reached out chilly arms towards me. Yet while, like Mother, I sat dismayed, Father faced us with a calm, remote determination.

‘You'll see,' he said, as though talking to himself. ‘ Yes, you … will … see.'

On the afternoon of the concert Father came home by an earlier train. Under his arm he carried a long stiff cardboard box, the contents of which were revealed to me when, at half past six, Mother came slowly, almost unwillingly, downstairs looking lovely, but oh, so fearfully pale, and wearing a new blue silk dress, cut low in the neck and with a long pleated skirt.

‘Yes,' Father said in a hard voice, after studying her critically. ‘Exactly the colour of your eyes.'

‘It's beautiful, Con,' Mother said faintly, ‘and must have cost a ransom. But oh, I feel so nervous.'

‘You won't, lass,' Father said, in that same gritty tone. Then, to my amazement—for I had never seen such a thing in the house before and knew my father to be of a most temperate habit that rarely took him beyond a glass of beer with his customers—he produced a flat bottle distinctly labelled:
Martell's Three Star Brandy.
Carefully, as though measuring out a medicine, he poured a substantial draught into a glass, added a sudden generous splash, then held it out to Mother.

‘No, Con, no.'

‘Get it down,' Father said implacably. ‘It'll put new heart in you.'

While Mother hesitated there came the clop-clop of horses'hooves and the rattle of a cab drawing up at our gate. Trembling at the sound, she feverishly snatched the glass and, while I watched wide-eyed, emptied it at a gulp that made her choke.

The darkness of the cab brought a temporary relief. I sat on the edge of the seat, stiff in my starched collar and Sunday suit. Father was wearing his best clothes too, and his moustache had been trimmed and curled so that the points had a combative upward sweep. At least we were showing a brave front to whatever lay ahead. And suddenly, as the red glare from the smithy fire lit up the interior of the cab, I saw Mother reach out and press Father's hand.

‘I'm not afraid, now, Con. I feel all warm and strong. I know I can do my best.'

Father laughed softly, yes, to my shivering amazement the man actually laughed.

‘Didn't I tell you, dearest lass?'

‘Yes, Con darling.' Mother's voice held a strange note. ‘Only … I feel I want you to kiss me.'

Was the woman mad too? To my shamed horror, unmindful of me and of the chasm that confronted us, they embraced each other closely, after which Mother gave a sustained, comforted sigh.

It was a minor relief to get her safely delivered at the performers side door, then Father took my hand and we went round the building to the front entrance. The hall was full, already people were standing at the back, but at the front, immediately beneath the platform, places had been reserved for relatives of the performers. Towards there Father advanced, with his head high in the air, so high indeed, that while himself conspicuously visible, he need recognize nobody. However, despite this strategic posture, he had not failed to note the crowd, made up mostly of young men, at the back of the hall, for he hissed cryptically into my ear:

‘Outsiders from Levenford … there'll be trouble.'

Our entry had been well timed. We had barely taken our seats when the proceedings were opened by Lady Meikle, who bustled on to the stage, made a short speech indicating the purpose of the concert and asked the audience to be receptive towards the artists.

‘These good people,' she concluded, ‘are giving their services free, for a most worthy cause. I want you to welcome them, every one,
without exception.
'

At these emphatic words Father turned to me with a meaning self-satisfied glance and murmured:

‘That's for us, my boy. She distinctly caught my eye. You'll see, Mother'll be all right.'

Unfortunately, while her ladyship's request was greeted with restraint from the body of the hall, it met with exaggerated applause from the rear and as she went off someone exploded a paper bag. The loud bang was partly drowned by the hired accompanist who, by way of an overture, had begun to hammer out ‘Land of Hope and Glory'.

After this the first vocalist appeared—a tall, thin young man draped in a borrowed outsize dress suit. Met with shouts of derisive recognition from the back, he began nervously to sing ‘Thora'.

Speak, speak, speak to me. Thora,
Speak once again to me.

It was not a success. Indeed, the young man was loudly advised to gargle his throat, to have a bath, to take his suit back to the pawn, and finally, to go home to Thora and put her in a sack.

Next to come on was a violinist who, upset by frequent interruptions and urgings to put the cat out of pain, struggled through ‘Träumerei'. By this time Father was moving restlessly in his seat. The chilly ‘village' reception he had feared for Mother was nothing to what she might suffer from this rowdy mob, now recognizable as apprentices from the shipyard at Levenford who were known trouble-makers. Father's feeling had been communicated to me, and as the disturbance continued my agitation increased so pitifully that actually my head began to quiver on my shoulders. I sat sweating and shivering for my poor dear mother who undoubtedly would burst into tears since, of all things, I knew she had chosen to play that difficult classical piece, Debussy's ‘La Mer'. Nothing could have been more unsuitable, more likely to provoke abuse. Nothing worse.

But now she was there, actually on the stage. My spasm ceased, I was frozen. She seemed small on the wide platform and so ridiculously young and pretty that my fear deepened. What a tender morsel to be thrown to the lions! A storm of whistles had greeted her and now a voice shouted something that made Father bristle. He was sitting erect with his most steely look. For a moment I dared not look at Mother but when I forced my eyes upwards I saw that she had seated herself at the piano and, half turned, had actually waved a friendly greeting towards the back of the hall. Good heavens! What had come over her? She did not look like my mother at all but, disregarding the whistles and the catcalls, she was smiling now at her tormentors. Suddenly, as I shrank down in my seat waiting for the first feeble whimper of ‘La Mer' to destroy her, her hands descended hard on the keyboard, startling me with the stirring strains of one of Sousa's
Besses o' the Barn
marches: a favourite of Father's entitled ‘ Washington Post'.