The Stars Look Down (62 page)

“They’re a stubborn pair,” Arthur explained. “I’ve done my level best to make Dan see I want him in with me at the pit. But they’ll have none of it. Independent as the devil—won’t take a penny either. All Grace’s doing of course. Grace found Winrush so successful for babies she’s trying it on with chickens and piglets.”

Grace said, quite untroubled:

“You must come and see us, Mr. Todd, I’m going to take paying guests.”

Todd gave Grace his rare, quiet smile, marvelling at her enthusiasm, her resolution. He thought it strange and fine and rather pathetic. It made him feel very old.

Here Aunt Carrie rose, with her head inclined, and noiselessly slipped out. There was no Harriet now, but another invalid to see to. Aunt Carrie’s dexterity in turning dirty linen and removing chamber pots was still required at the Law—but in another and more sacred cause.

The recognition of that stricken figure, helpless and imprisoned in his room, brought a sudden silence upon the table. Lunch broke up quickly. Arthur took Todd’s arm,
escorting him to the car which would carry him to the station. Todd had decided not to go up and see Barras—it might upset him, he wisely observed. For a moment Arthur and Todd stood beside the car.

“I’ll let you know about that equipment then,” Todd paused. “It’s a fine thing you’re doing, Arthur. You’ll have a model pit if you go ahead with it.”

The words thrilled in Arthur’s ears: a model pit!

“That’s what I’ve dreamed about,” he said in a low voice. “A model pit.”

There was a silence, then Todd shook hands and got into the car, which drove off, leaving Arthur standing in the drive. Instinctively he lifted his eyes towards the sky. The sun shone upon him, the world embraced him with its warmth, the awful past was buried and forgotten. He had arisen, miraculously, and his ideal lay before him. Oh, glorious resurrection!

He went upstairs slowly, happily, to make the daily visit which he paid his father. He entered the room and advanced towards the bed.

Barras lay upon his back, a flaccid hulk, inert and helpless and immobile. His right hand was contracted, the fingers of a purplish deadness. One side of his face was stiff and a little trickle of saliva ran down the furrow of his right cheek. He seemed wholly inanimate; only his eyes were alive, rolling towards Arthur as Arthur came into the room with a pitiful and almost animal recognition.

Arthur sat down beside the bed. All the hatred and bitterness he had felt for his father were dead. He felt a calm patience now. He began to talk to his father, to explain to his father a little of what was happening. The doctor had said this might assist his faculties. And, indeed, Arthur could see that Barras understood.

He went on speaking patiently, watching these dull, rolling eyes, the eyes of a pinioned beast. Then he stopped. He saw that his father was trying to speak. A word tried to get through those sealed lips. There were two words really, but the flaccid lips refused to let them through. Arthur bent down to listen to the words but the words would not come. He could not hear them. Not yet.

At six o’clock on the evening of Saturday, December 17th, the glorious peace brought David back again. The instant the train drew into Tynecastle Central he jumped out and hurried down the platform, looking expectantly towards the barrier, eager and excited for the sight of Jenny and Robert. The first person he saw was Sally Sunley. He waved; he saw that they had got his wire all right, and she waved back in a careful way. But he hardly noticed; he was busy explaining his voucher to the ticket collector. At last he was through, breathless, smiling.

“Hello, Sally! Where’s all the family?”

Under the vigour of his welcome she smiled too—but In that same difficult manner.

“It’s fine to see you back, David. I want to speak to you for a minute. How late your train was! I’ve been waiting so long I must have a cup of coffee.”

“Well,” he smiled, “if you want coffee let’s hurry along to Scottswood Road.”

“No,” Sally said. “I must have it now. Come in here.”

Uncomprehendingly, he followed her into the refreshment room. Sally bought two cups of coffee at the counter and carried them over to one of the round cold marble-topped tables. David watched her. He protested:

“I don’t want any coffee, Sally. I’ve just had tea on the train.”

She did not appear to hear him. She sat down at the table, which was ringed with wet where somebody had lifted and laid a dripping beer glass. He sat down too, bewildered.

She said:

“I want to talk to you, David.”

“Well, yes, but can’t we talk when we get there?”

“It isn’t convenient.” She took up her spoon and stirred her coffee but she did not drink the coffee. Her eyes remained fixed upon his—there was a tragic pity in these eyes but he did not see it. As he gazed at her heavy unattractive face, with its high cheek-bones and rather full chin, he began to feel that something was wrong with Sally.

She drank her coffee very slowly: she seemed to want to
spin out her coffee; but at last she had nearly finished. And struggling with his impatience he reached for his haversack.

“Let’s get along, then! Do you realise it’s nine months since my last leave. I’m dying to see Jenny and the baby. How is the kid—Robert, my boy?”

She lifted her dark eyes to his once more with sudden decision.

“David, it wasn’t really Jenny’s fault.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t because she was doing war-work or anything like that.” She paused. “You knew the baby was never very strong, David. I want you to understand it wasn’t really Jenny’s fault.”

He sat looking at her in the smoky refreshment room across the wet-ringed marble-topped table. Outside there came a noise of people cheering, welcoming the brave boys back. An engine shrieked derisively.

He did not have to say a single word. He knew why Sally was gazing at him that way. He understood that, although he had looked forward to seeing him so much, he would not see Robert after all.

While, low-voiced, she told him about it—an attack of enteritis in August, a bare two days’ illness, Jenny’s dread of letting him know—he listened in silence, gritting his teeth together. In the war he had at least learned to keep himself under control. When she had finished he remained curiously still for quite a long time.

“You won’t be hard on Jenny,” she pleaded. “She asked me specially…”

“No, I won’t say anything.” He rose, flung his pack over his shoulder and held the door open for her. They walked out of the station and along Scottswood Road. Outside No. 117 she halted.

“I’ll not come in now, David. I’ve got something to do.”

He stood looking after her, as she went on along the street, conscious, through the pain ringing in his heart, of her kindness in meeting him. What a decent little soul Sally was! Perhaps she knew he hadn’t wanted Jenny to take that job at Wirtley, to bring Robert from the clean sea air of Sleescale, to this congested city district. He swung away from the thought. Forcing the darkness from his face he went into the house.

Jenny was alone in the living-room, curled up on the old horsehair sofa, with her shoes off, penitentially caressing
her small silk-stockinged toes. The sight of Jenny paying this familiar tribute to her crushed toes touched a throbbing chord of memory. From the doorway he said:

“Jenny!”

She looked up with a gasp, then held out her arms emotionally.

“Oh, David,” she cried. “At last!”

He walked over slowly. In a kind of paroxysm she flung her arms round him and, burrowing her cheek into his coat, she began to weep:

“Don’t look at me like that, oh, don’t be cross with me, David dear. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t really. He was running about, the poor little mite, and I was at work, and I never thought to get the doctor, and then his sweet little face all seemed to shrink and he didn’t know me, and then—oh, David, how I suffered when the angels took him, oh dear, oh dear…”

Sobbing pitifully, she expatiated on the misery she had endured, unconsciously disclosing the details of the death of her unwanted child. He listened, with a set face, in silence. Then, with a little rush, she cried:

“My heart would really be broken if you wasn’t back, David. Oh, it’s so wonderful. You don’t know how—oh dear, oh dear—all these months—say you understand, David, please, please, it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t bear it, I’ve suffered so much.” A big gulp. “But everything’s all right now that you’re back, my big brave man back from the war. Oh, I haven’t been able to sleep or eat—”

He soothed her as best he could. Then, while she sobbed on the sofa, detailing her sufferings, her agonies at the loss of Robert, her pitiful waiting for his return, a cushion slid to the floor, disclosing a large box of chocolates, half finished, and a snappy magazine. Still trying to quieten her he silently replaced the cushion.

She lifted her head at last, a smile breaking through her tears.

“You are glad to be back to me? Say you are, David?”

“Yes, it’s glorious to be back, Jenny.” He paused. “The war’s over and we’re going to start straight away and get down to a new beginning.”

“Oh, we will, David,” she agreed, with a little quaver in her voice. “I want to. Oh, you’re the best husband that ever was! You’re going to take your B.A. and be a headmaster in no time.”

“No, Jenny,” he said queerly. “No more teaching. That’s a blind alley. Finished. I should have chucked it long ago.”

“What then, David?” she asked almost tearfully. There were new lines round David’s eyes and a new hardness about his face which almost startled Jenny.

“Harry Nugent has given me a letter to Heddon at the Federation Offices in Tynecastle. It’s pretty well a certainty my getting a job there, Jenny. It won’t be much, to be sure; clerical work for a start, but it will be a start. It’s the beginning, Jenny.” A passionate eagerness crept into the flatness of his voice. “This is going to be the real thing at last.”

“But, David…”

“Oh, I know the money will be small,” he interposed. “Two pounds a week if I’m lucky. But it’ll be enough for us to get along on. You’ll start out for Sleescale to-morrow, Jenny dear, and open up the house while I go over and fix things with Heddon.”

“But, David,” she gasped again in dismay. “Two pounds a week and I’ve… I’ve been earning four.”

He gazed at her fixedly.

“The money doesn’t matter a hang, Jenny. I’m not out for money. There’s no compromise this time.”

“But couldn’t I—” she pleaded, twiddling in the old way with the lapel of his tunic. “Couldn’t I just go on with my job a little longer, David; it’s such good money?”

His lips drew together firmly and his brows drew down:

“Jenny darling,” he said quietly, “we must understand each other once and for all—”

“Oh, but we do understand each other, David,” she gulped with sudden meekness, once again pressing her head into his coat. “And oh, you know I do love you!”

“And I love you, Jenny,” he said slowly. “So we pack up and leave for Sleescale and our own home to-morrow.”

“Yes, David.”

He stared straight ahead as though into the future.

“I’ve got real work to do this time. Harry Nugent’s my friend. I start in with the Federation and I stand for the Town Council, see! If I make good…”

“Oh yes, David… the
Town Council
, that would be wonderful, David”—lifting moist, admiring eyes.

Already, she saw herself a town-councillor’s wife. A pleased look came into her face and instinctively she smoothed her dress. She really was tastefully, quite beautifully dressed: a heavy silk jumper, smart skirt tight to the hips, a couple of
rather pretty rings. Her attractiveness was beyond doubt. Perhaps she had been working a little too hard lately. Under the faint layer of powder on her cheeks he saw just the finest little threading of reddish veins. It was like a bloom, a queer exotic bloom under the powder, almost pretty.

She looked up at him, head on one side, her full lips parted, conscious of her charm.

“Well?” she inquired. “Do you still like me?” She gave a little suggestive smile. “Pa and ma have gone down to Whitley Bay. Sally got them tickets for the entertainers there. They won’t be in till late.”

Abruptly, he got up and moved towards the window, where he stood staring out into the yard. He did not answer.

Jenny’s lip drooped. She had to admit to herself that David had changed in some subtle way; he was harder, more resistant and sure, his old boyish stubbornness turned to a firm determination.

Later, when Alfred and Ada came in she saw the change in David more plainly. David was perfectly pleasant about it, yet he established the fact beyond doubt, in the face of Ada’s aggrieved air, that Jenny and he were leaving for their own home in Lamb Lane on the following day.

And Jenny, if she had hoped to do so, could not shake him from his resolution. Next morning she departed for Sleescale by the nine forty-five train while David set out to have his interview with Heddon.

The local offices of the Federation were in Rudd Street quite near to Central Station: two simple rooms, an outer office where a grey-haired man with the blue pitted face and hands of the old miner was standing filing cards at a big cabinet, and a small inner room marked Private. There was no linoleum or carpet, merely the bare and very dusty boards; nothing on the walls but a couple of charts and a map of the district, and a notice
Don’t spit on the floor
. When Tom Heddon came out of his inner office he took a short pipe from his mouth and, though his intention was towards the empty fireplace, he disobeyed the notice immediately.

“So you’re Fenwick,” he said. “I remember you before the war at the Inquiry. I knew your father too.” He shook hands with a quick grip and waved away David’s letter of introduction. “Harry Nugent wrote me himself,” he added sourly. “Don’t show me that unless there money in it.”

He gave David a dour smile. He was a dour man, Tom
Heddon, a short black fiery man with a shock of thick black hair and thick black eyebrows and a sallow dirty skin. He had a tremendous vitality. He sweated, spat and swore. He had a ferocious capacity for food, drink, work and profanity. His favourite was “bloddy.” He was a grand stump speaker, full of clichés and a terrific gift of repartee. He had very little brain, a trifling defect which had kept him, a disappointed man, at the local branch in Sleescale for fifteen years. He would never go further and he knew it. He did not wash very often. He looked as though he slept in his underwear. In fact, he did.