Beyond this place (31 page)

When they got back to the Windsor at six o'clock Paul, tired and dejected, sank into a chair in the sitting room. Mathry took his parcels, which he had carried jealously, into his bedroom. He was absent for twenty minutes. Then he came back, fully arrayed in his new garments, wearing the watch and chain, the signet ring, and an air of dogged vanity.

"You see," he exclaimed, "I'm not finished yet — in spite of them. I wish some of these swine could see me now — Hicks particularly. We ought to go out, have a spread and take in a theatre."

"We've only just come in," Paul said quickly. "We'll have dinner up here tonight."

Mathry looked at him, wrinkling the parchment brow.

"We'll have something to drink."

"Yes, of course," Paul agreed. "What would you like?"

"Whiskey."

Mathry stretched himself on the couch and opened the evening paper which he had made Paul purchase on the way back.

"I ought to be in there. They took photographs. I'm going to make them pay me for everything they print."

Paul pressed the bell and in a few moments a maid appeared, the same who had cleared the table earlier that afternoon. As Paul gave the order for dinner and a bottle of whiskey, Mathry, on the couch, in his new clothes, kept glancing at her over the top of the newspaper. She was a tall, foolish-looking girl with hollow cheeks,

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and this attention from one so prominent in the public eye made her blush and simper.

"She knows who I am," Mathry boasted, as she went out.

When dinner came Paul could scarcely touch it. Mathry, on the other hand, ate with voracity, and without speaking a single word. When he had finished he drew the cork from the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a stiff glass. He carried this and the bottle across the room and took his place in a high-backed chair which stood against the wall. He sat there erect, in absolute silence, staring straight ahead at nothing, with a lowering intensity of vision which was terrifying. From time to time he replenished his glass. Occasionally his lips moved, as though he were talking to himself. He seemed utterly oblivious to Paul's presence, and when the maid came to remove the cloth, to her manifest disappointment, he took no notice of her whatsoever.

As the silence continued, Paul gazed almost with panic at the grotesque and brooding figure of his father. How could this be the man, so gentle and elegant, who had led him by the hand to sail paper boats on Jesmond Dene, taken infinite trouble to amuse him by sketching and cutting out silhouettes, who never failed at the weekend to bring him some little toy, whose every action had bespoken love and consideration. What frightful process of bru-talization had changed him, brought him to this state? As Paul strove to envisage all the grinding miseries of these fifteen years — the close confinement of the narrow cell, the prison garb and wretched food, the iron bars, the hours of solitary darkness, the cries and stenches of the herd, the constant surveillance, the perpetual, back-breaking toil in summer and winter, in sunshine and snow, the joyless days and never-ending nights, a faint spark of pity strove, it seemed, to kindle itself within his breast. But it was stifled instantly by the awful reality of the physical presence, erect and staring, in the hard chair across the room.

Suddenly, almost caressingly, Mathry took out his watch. He looked at it a long time. Then he began to speak.

"Nine o'clock. They're all in the dark now ... on their nice plank beds. They've been in the quarry, sweating their guts out, in the rain. There was watery soup for supper . . . lucky if they got a bit of gristle in it . . . and spuds . . . spuds that taste like

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soap. Always these spuds, grey lumpy spuds . . . that turn your insides sour. It's all dark . . . but they can hear him outside in the gallery ... up and down, up and down, looking in at them through the spy-holes. Maybe it's Hicks on duty . . . they'll know all right if it's him. They all watch out for Warder Hicks.

"Some of them have smashed their fingers in the quarry, some have blisters and backache . . . they all have the rheumatism that goes with the infernal mist. But that don't matter beside what they're thinking. They're all thinking about the outside . . . lying on their planks trying to remember what it was like over the high walls, thinking about the good times they had, and a soft bed, and a steak dinner, and other things. The old lags are tapping on the walls, tapping the news . . . who got the cat, who's coming in, who's going out. But the most of them know they're never going out. They're in there for life. They have nothing to look forward to . . . they're just buried alive.

"But maybe they're not so cosy, maybe they're not in their nice little cell. Suppose they made a mistake, did something wrong. Then they're in solitary, eight by six, down below, in the basement. It's black as pitch down there. And not even lumpy spuds. Bread and water . . . diy bread and water. Not even room to turn round . . . just two steps and you bang your skull against the concrete. That's where you really start to think ... to wonder who you are . . . and where you are . . . and what the hell you've done to get there. That's where you tell yourself that if the walls split open, you'll get your own back . . . make somebody pay for what you've suffered . . . hate the whole cursed world . . . grab everything for yourself ... if only the walls split open.

"Well, by God, they split open for me. So now you can guess what I'm out to do."

When he had finished he stood up and, without saying goodnight, not even looking at Paul, went out of the room. His heavy tread was audible as he tramped along the corridor to his bedroom. There was a short silence. Then Paul heard the faint buzz of a bell followed by the sound of lighter footsteps traversing the corridor. Although he tried to break his rigid attitude, he could not do so, he listened, listened with straining ears. The footsteps did not return.

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A groan broke from Paul's lips. He dared not venture to the other door to confirm his suspicions but, by some subconscious process or association, his mind flashed back to a moment, late that afternoon when, as they left Dron's, his father had knocked against him in the crowd. Instinctively his hand flew to his inside pocket. All that remained of the money, some fifteen pounds, was gone.

CHAPTER XIV

NEXT day, the same brilliant weather prevailed and in the clear morning light the outlook seemed less sombre. Contrary to his expectations, Paul had slept well, and when he awoke he was ready to face his difficulties with new determination. His mother was due to arrive from Belfast at eleven o'clock, and as he shaved and dressed he felt hopeful that this additional support would materially improve the situation. After all, it was inevitable that prison should have changed his father — only his natural eagerness had made him overlook that fact! — but time and kindness and family affection must soften and regenerate the hardest heart.

He took breakfast downstairs in the restaurant, alone, then went up and along the corridor to the other bedroom where, not without some recurrence of his misgiving, he tried the door. It opened easily and, relieved, he entered. Mathry was still asleep, lying as though dead, his dirty grey head buried in his arm, the sheets rumpled and disordered, the pillows discarded, on the floor. With a fresh stab of pity, Paul gazed at the huddled figure of his father, so defenceless in this oblivion. He decided not to rouse him. Taking a sheet of the hotel notepaper from the bureau in the corner he wrote out a message: I have gone to meet the train. Hope you will be ready when we arrive. Paul. He placed this conspicuously upon the chair on which were draped the new clothes. Then he went out.

On the way to the city it was fresh and invigorating — his road lay along the canal, a lively scene, with a string of cargo barges

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loading at the quay and actually a little pleasure launch preparing for departure. At the station the express was late, but at twenty-five minutes past the hour, the engine came steaming round the bend, drew up at the main platform. And there, leaving the foremost compartment, was a little group — his mother, Ella, and Emmanuel Fleming.

Paul started perceptibly — he had not expected to see the pastor and his daughter, indeed they had been so long absent from his thoughts he felt embarrassed and ill at ease. But he had no time for reflection, they had already seen him — Fleming had his arm upraised and Ella was fluttering her small white handkerchief. In a few moments they had passed the barrier and were pressing close to him, greeting him with enthusiasm, all speaking at once, in a confusion of disjointed phrases. His mother's eyes were moist, Ella seemed loath to remove her gloved hand from his, while the minister, standing somewhat in the background, smiled at him with understanding and approval.

As they set off along the street to the tramway stop, Fleming and his mother led the way while, as seemed expected of him, he followed behind with Ella. An excited colour tinged her wax-clear complexion, her short glossy hair had been recently shampooed and curled. She wore a new dove-grey costume and a neat little grey hat beneath which her eyes gleamed. She began, immediately, in a confident tone, taking his arm.

"Well, I must say, Paul, we owe you an abject apology. We ought to go down on our bended knees to you. And we will, too, if you like. At least, I will." She gave him a bright, intimate glance. "Of course we had no idea, or it would naturally have been quite different. We thought you were just ruining your splendid career and blighting your life all for nothing. And to those of us who love you that was the worst thing possible. We felt if we helped or encouraged you it would only make things worse. As I say we never dreamed. . . . And then, look what happened, yes, just look what you did, you wonderful person. When the news came out I nearly fainted, with joy, I mean. I was in the kitchen, making some cocoa, when Father came in from the district and told me. I had to lie down. Oh, Paul dear, I must tell you I haven't been at all well myself, I nearly had a breakdown through worry-

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ing about you, and the disgrace, and everything. But I don't want to talk about poor little me, though I suffered too in my own quiet way. It's you, Paul, you're the great wonderful person. If you only read the Belfast papers, and I'm sure they're the same here, you'd see what people think of you. All over the country, your name is on everyone's lips. Naturally one wouldn't wish to be vulgar or sensational at a time like this, I was really glad there were no photographers at the train, though I must say I expected them. Do you like my new costume, dear? I think it's spring-like, but subdued and appropriate to the occasion. As I was saying, it's your triumph, Paul, and I want you to enjoy it to the full. Naturally prayer must have been responsible, too, we both know that, and never a night passed but I made supplication for you to the Throne." Her gaze grew fonder and — as always happened when she spoke of religion — the clear greenish whites of her eyes turned up.

"It's so wonderful, Paul, that we're together again, with all our future before us. Of course in all the joy of our reunion we mustn't forget your father. The poor, poor man. My heart just bleeds for him. It's hard for us to understand how such a thing should be permitted to happen. But I suppose certain things are sent from on High to test and try us, to refine and purify our spirit. I can scarcely wait to meet him to express my sympathy and sorrow. And I want to assure you, Paul, that if there is anything I can do in any way, to help him, you have only to command."

She broke off, with another upturned glance, as they joined the others at the tramcar. He bit his lip at this prolonged possessive monologue, so vain and shallow, so indicative of a cheap and petty nature. Was he really as deeply committed to her as she made out? It amazed him that he could ever have cared for her — how greatly he had changed. He thought of Lena and his heart sank. When they had all four seated themselves, outside, on the upper deck of the tram, he felt he must at least inform them of the change which had taken place in Mathry. The pastor, more reserved than usual, staring out of the window as though debating some question in his mind, and frowning slightly as Ella resumed her flow of gossip, seemed alone to harbour a secret doubt. But the two women were, as he himself had been, obviously unprepared. It

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was his duty to warn them. Yet, as the tram lumbered forward, bringing them every minute nearer to the hotel, he remained stiffly silent. There was in Ella's facile enthusiasm, even in the primly nervous anticipation that he discerned in his mother, who was also dressed in her best, with even a touch of matronly coquetry, a quality which, in some peculiar fashion, antagonized him and aligned him, not on their side, but with that dulled and brutalized man who awaited them at the hotel. Yes, they must find out for themselves.

When they dismounted at the Windsor, he led the way into the hotel without a word. Upstairs, with a compression of his lips that was almost satiric, he threw open the door of the sitting room and ushered them in.

Mathry had finished his breakfast and was smoking a cigarette. Clad in trousers and braces, his shirt unfastened at the neck, his new brown shoes, unlaced for comfort, gaping wide on his feet, he sat at the table which was still covered with soiled dishes. His expression, as he turned slowly to face the newcomers, was more inscrutable than ever. Watching them, he raised his coffee cup. His wrinkled navvy's throat worked up and down as he swallowed the dregs. Then setting down the cup, he turned to Paul, as the one person he recognised and tolerated.

"What do they want?"

Thus appealed to, Paul sought for an answer which would not provoke an outburst.

"You know, Father . . . they want to be with you."

"I don't want to be with them. You at least did something. They did nothing. They left me to rot for years. And now I'm out, they want to crawl back to lick my boots and see what they can get."

The pastor took a step forward. He was pale, yet he seemed less discomposed than the others by this reception — perhaps, as Paul had surmised, he had anticipated it. In a low persuasive voice he said: