The Stars Look Down (44 page)

Joe had a great deal of vanity. He saw himself as a fine handsome dashing fellow. But did Laura see him that way?

Laura was interested in him. She seemed to recognise his possibilities, to take a sort of mocking interest in him. She had no illusions regarding his morality. Her unsmiling smile met all his protestations of good faith and high ideals; yet when, skilfully, he approached her on the opposite tack the result was quite disastrous. On one occasion at tea he had made a slightly vulgar joke. Stanley had laughed boisteroulsy, but Laura had turned blank, completely blank and frigid. Joe had blushed as he had never blushed before, the shame of it had nearly killed him. She was a queer one, Laura. She was not a type. She was herself.

The question of war-work illuminated Laura’s queerness pretty well. All the ladies in Yarrow were crazy about war-work, there was a rash of uniforms and a perfect epidemic of corps, committees and guilds. Hetty, Laura’s sister in Tynecastle, was never out of her khaki. But Laura would have none of it. She went only to the canteen at the new munition sheds at Wirtley because, as she put it ironically to Joe, she liked to see the beasts fed. She served coffee and sandwiches to the munition workers there, but no more than that. Laura kept to herself, and Joe, to his infinite exasperation, could not get near her.

June came and this state of affairs still went on. Then, on the 16th of the month, Stanley gave Joe the second staggering surprise of his life. It was a quarter-past twelve and Millington, who had been out all the forenoon, put his head round the door of Joe’s office and said:

“I want to see you, Gowlan. Come into my office.”

The serious quality in Stanley’s tone startled Joe. With a slightly guilty air he got up and walked into the private office where Stanley flung himself into a chair and began restlessly to shuffle some papers on his desk. Stanley had been very restless lately. He was a curious fellow. As far as could be made out he was extremely ordinary; spiritually he was full of clichés; he had the ordinary cut and dried ideas and he liked to do the ordinary things. He was fond of bridge and golf; he liked a good detective story or yams which dealt with buried treasure; he believed that one Britisher was better than any five foreigners; in peace time he never missed the Motor Show; he was a bore, too; he told the same stories over and over again; he would talk for hours on how, in his last year at St. Bede’s, the first fifteen had beaten Giggleswick. But through all this ran a curious strain of discontent, a buried complex of escape. He would arrive at the office, on a Monday morning, with a listless droop to his mouth, and his manner seemed to say, oh lord, must I still go on with this!

His business was flourishing and, at the beginning, that had sent the mercury soaring to the sky. He wanted to make money; and it had been
ripping
watching profits flow in at the rate of a round £1,000 a week. But now “money wasn’t everything.” His discontent grew when the Ministry of Munitions came into existence. Then Millington’s became part of the official scheme; they were sub-contracted to the new Hutton filling sheds at Wirtley; the pioneer work was
finished; everything was set, ordered and official; there was altogether less for Stanley to do; a sort of lull set in; and though he had grumblingly demanded ease, he did not like it when it came.

He began to feel troubled. Bands in particular began to trouble Stanley. Whenever a band went down the street blaring
Tipperary
or
Good-byee
, a faint flush would come to Stanley’s cheek, his eyes would kindle, his back straighten. But when the band was gone and the music stilled and the tramp of marching men an echo merely in his heart, Stanley would sigh and let his figure slump.

The notices worried him too. Yarrow had responded well to the call for men and a great many windows of the Yarrow houses bore the notice:
A MAN has gone from this house to fight for King and Country
. The
MAN
was in out-size letters and Millington had always prided himself on being an out-size man.

As for the posters, that stem look on Kitchener’s face and the finger, which pointed at him and would not let him alone, oh, when passing those posters Stanley fumed and fretted and flushed, and clenched his pipe between his teeth, and wondered how long he would be able to endure it.

It was not the pointing finger, however, but the Old St. Bedean’s Dinner which had brought Stanley to a head. The dinner had taken place at Dilley’s Rooms in Tynecastle upon the previous evening. And now Millington looked across his desk at Joe and announced gravely:

“Joe, there’s a great adventure taking place in France, and I’m missing it!”

Joe did not understand, his main feeling was relief that Stanley had not uncovered his antimony deals.

“I think you ought to know,” Stanley went on, his voice rising, a little hysterical, “I’ve made up my mind to join the army.”

An electric silence. The shock was so great that Joe became completely unnerved. He paled and blurted out:

“But you can’t. What about here?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Stanley said, pushing it away from him and speaking rapidly. “You can take it from me, I’m going. Last night convinced me. The dinner last night. My God, how I ever got through it I can’t imagine. Would you believe it—everyone but myself in uniform. All my pals in uniform and me there in civilians. I felt an absolute outsider. They all looked at me, you know—how’s the profiteer?—that
sort of thing. Hampson, who was in my form, a regular decent fellow, cut me absolutely dead. He’s a major in the Public Schools Battalion now. And there was Robbins, a little worm who wasn’t even in the second eleven, he’s a captain now with a couple of wound stripes. I tell you I can’t stand it, Gowlan. I’ve
got
to get into it.”

Joe took a trembling breath, trying to collect his scattered wits. He could not yet believe it, the thing was too good to be true.

“You’re doing work of national importance. They’ll never let you go.”

“They’ll have to let me go,” Stanley barked. “This place runs itself now. The contracts are automatic. Dobbie handles the accounts, and there’s you—you know it all backwards, Joe.”

Joe lowered his eyes quickly.

“Well,” he muttered, “that’s true enough.”

Stanley jumped up and began to march up and down the office.

“I’m not a spiritually-minded chap, I suppose, but I will say I’ve felt uplifted since I decided to answer the call. The spirit of St. George for England lives still, you know. It isn’t dead, you know, it isn’t really. We’re fighting for the right. What decent fellow could sit down under it, these air raids and submarine attacks, and innocent women raped, and shelling hospitals and babies even—O God, even to read it in the papers makes a man’s blood boil.”

“I know how you feel,” Joe said with his eyes on the floor. “It’s the devil. If I didn’t have this old knee of mine…” The knee, it may be remembered, was a complaint which Joe had discovered by visiting an obscure surgery in Commercial Road and planking down seven and six for a certificate, and it made Joe limp horribly whenever the air was military.

But Stanley, marching up and down, was solely occupied with Stanley.

“I’m qualified for a commission, you know. I was three years in the corps at St. Bede’s. It’ll take a few weeks to make my arrangements, then I’ll get into uniform with the Public Schools Battalion.”

Another silence.

“I see,” Joe said slowly; he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Millington won’t like this.”

“No, naturally, she doesn’t want me to go.” Stanley
laughed and clapped Joe on the back. “Cheer up, there’s a good fellow. It’s decent of you to be upset, but the bally old war won’t last long once I get into it.” He broke off, glanced at his watch. “Now look here, I’ve got to run down and meet Major Hampson for lunch. If I’m not back by three you might look over to Rutley’s and see them about these last grenades. Old John Rutley made the appointment, but you can tell him all there is to it.”

“All right,” Joe said sadly. “I’ll go.”

So Joe went over to Rutley’s and met old John in a tiresome and involved discussion upon blow-hole castings while Stanley tore down excitedly to have lunch with Hampson. At five o’clock when Stanley, several drinks to the good, lay back in a club chair convulsed by one of Hampson’s stories about a certain mademoiselle in a certain estaminet, Joe was shaking hands in a firm but deferential fashion with Rutley himself, while the old man thought, with grim approval, there’s a young fellow who knows what he’s about.

That night Joe went posting round to Mawson’s with the news. Mawson was silent for a long time, sitting upright in his chair, clasping his stomach with both hands, his high bald forehead creased, his small eyes fixed thoughtfully on Joe.

“Well,” he reflected. “This is goin’ to be helpful.”

In spite of himself Joe grinned.

“You and me’s goin’ to do well out of this, Joe,” Mawson said unemotionally, then raising his voice he bawled: “Mother, fetch me and Joe a bottle of Scotch.”

They finished the bottle between them, but towards midnight when Joe walked home the thrilling intoxication in his blood was not due to whisky. He was drunk with the sense of his opportunity, the chance of power, money, everything. He was in it at last, as Jim had said, absolutely set right up to the ear-holes in it, in with the big men, he only had to watch himself to be big himself,
bloody
big. O Christ, wasn’t it great! A great place, Tynecastle, wonderful air, wonderful streets, wonderful buildings—there was an idea now, property, he’d have property, a hell of a lot, some day. What a wonderful night it was. Look at the moon shining on that white place over there. What was it? Public lavatory, eh? Never mind—wonderful public lavatory! At the corner of Grainger Street a tart spoke to him.

“You little bitch,” said Joe kindly, “get out!” He strode on, laughing, wide awake, exultant. Better than that, he
thought, much better than that. He gloated upon Laura, her fastidiousness, her aloof charms. To hell with tarts. Women like Laura were different, see,
different
. His idyllic fancy took him far with Laura that night, especially when he reached his lodgings and went to bed.

But next morning he was at Platt Lane upon the tick of nine, fresh as a daisy and more deferentially alert towards Stanley than ever. There was an astonishing number of things to be gone into. Joe was thoroughness itself: nothing escaped him.

“Good lord, Joe,” Stanley exclaimed, yawning, after they had been hard at it for a couple of hours. “You’re a regular tartar. I’d no idea you’d got such an eye for detail.”

He patted Joe on the shoulder gaily. “I appreciate it immensely. But in the meantime I’m going out to have a spot with Hampson. See you later.”

There was a queer look on Joe’s face as he watched Stanley’s figure disappear briskly through the office door.

The days passed, the final arrangements were completed, and at last the afternoon of Stanley’s departure for Aider-shot arrived. He had arranged to drive over to Carnton Junction and join the express direct, instead of taking a slow local from Yarrow. As a special sign of his regard he had asked Joe to come with Laura to the station to see him off.

It was a wet afternoon. Joe arrived too early at Hilltop, he had to wait ten minutes in the lounge before Laura came in. She wore a plain blue costume and a dark soft fur which gave her pale skin that queer luminous quality which always excited him. He jumped up from his chair, but she walked slowly to the window as though she did not notice him. There was a silence. He watched her.

“I’m sorry he’s going,” he said at last.

She turned and considered him with that secret look which always puzzled him. He felt that she was sad, perhaps angry too; she didn’t want Stanley to go; no, she didn’t want him to go.

Here Stanley entered breezily, as if a row of medals were already on his chest. He rubbed his hands cheerfully.

“Filthy day, isn’t it? Well, the wetter the day the better the deed, eh, Joe? Ha! Ha! Now what about the rum ration for the troops, Laura?”

Laura rang the bell and Bessie brought in a tray of sandwiches and tea. Stanley was dreadfully hearty. He chaffed Bessie out of her long face, mixed himself a whisky and
soda, and walked up and down the room munching sandwiches and talking.

“Good sandwiches, these, Laura. Don’t suppose I’ll be getting this kind of stomach-fodder in a week or two. You’ll need to send me some parcels, Laura. A fellow was saying last night that they absobloomingutely look forward to getting parcels. Varies the jolly old bully beef and plum and apple.” Stanley laughed. He could now say plum and apple without a blush. He could laugh, really laugh at the Bairnsfather cartoons. He crowed: “Hampson, old dodger that he is—” another laugh, “was telling me of a scheme they have for making Irish stew in a ration tin. Some of the batmen are wonderful. Wonder what my luck will be. Did you see the
Bystander
this week? Good it was, oh,
damned
good!” Then he began to be patriotic again. Swinging up and down the room he talked glowingly of what the Major had told him—counter-attacks, gas-masks, pill boxes. Very lights, the musketry handbook, number nines and British pluck.

While Stanley talked Laura sat by the window, her almost sad profile outlined by the dripping laurel bush beyond. She was listening loyally to Stanley’s patriotism. Suddenly Stanley slapped down his tumbler.

“Well, we better get along now. Mustn’t miss the old joy waggon.” He glanced out of the window. “Better put your mac on, old girl, looks like more rain.”

“I don’t think I’ll mind,” Laura answered. She stood up, arresting all Stanley’s fussing by the perfect immobility of her manner. “Have you everything in the car?”

“You bet,” Stanley said, leading the way to the door.

They got into the car, not the office car, but Stanley’s own, an open sports model now two years old, which stood with the hood up in front of the porch. Stanley jabbed at the starter with his thumb, threw in the gear and they drove off.

The road ran uphill through the outskirts of Hillbrow, left the last isolated villa behind and stretched out across open country towards the moor. Stanley drove in a kind of exhilaration, using his cut-out on all the corners.