Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

She stood with David by the open door of her compartment, her corner seat facing the engine reserved by a little pile of papers and a magazine. She thought it good of David to have bought her the magazine — not that she approved much of his choice but it was the correct thing for a lady to set out on a journey with a magazine. And Jenny was never happier than when doing the correct thing . She chatted away to David, darting tenderly pathetic glances at him from time to time, indicating her contrition and a sincere desire for amendment. He was very silent. She often wondered what he thought about… well… what she had so foolishly “let out.” Sometimes she felt vaguely that he had forgotten about the whole thing, or that he disbelieved it entirely, for he had never once referred to it. At any rate, she was sure he had forgiven her, and that flattered her vanity. She had no conception of the frightful blow which her disclosure had been to David. He had believed her entirely faithful to him. He had cherished the memory of little Robert with a great tenderness. And in one drunken sentence she had smashed it all. He suffered abominably, but because he did not accuse her, cross-examine her, wrest every sordid detail from her and then beat her within an inch of her life, Jenny felt that he did not suffer. She did not really know David. She could not appreciate the strength and fineness of character which kept him silent. And in her secret heart she was puzzled, pleased, perhaps a little scornful.

She looked at the big clock at the end of the station.

“Well!” she said, “it’s nearly time!” She got into the compartment and he shut the door. The whistle blew. She gave him a big hug. Her last words were:

“You’ll miss me, David, won’t you?”

Then she settled herself with a pleased sigh. It was a long journey but it passed quickly between her magazine and the sandwiches and an interesting examination of her fellow passengers. Jenny took great pride in her ability to place people: at one shrewd glance she could tell what they had on, what the hat cost, whether that diamond was real or false, whether or not “they were real class.”

At two o’clock Jenny changed trains, at three she went along the corridor and had a cup of tea and a refined conversation with a nice fair young man at the same table. Really at the next table, he was, but he came over and sat down. Funny he should be a commercial traveller! — with a little inward giggle she remembered the bald-headed commercial she had created for David’s benefit on the honeymoon at Cullercoats. Dear David! She was really quite distant to the nice fair young man, only politely interested when he told her he travelled for surgical appliances — oh, she was extremely as she should be, shaking hands ever so ladylike when he said good-bye.

At half-past four she reached Barnham Junction and Dan met her at the station. Dan looked big and healthy and happy — he wore an old army shirt open at the neck, leggings and corduroy breeches. Dan had a little Ford runabout shaped like a lorry at the back, and swinging her suit-case up as if it had been a feather, he drove down to Winrush and the farm.

The farm delighted Jenny and Grace’s welcome delighted her even more than the farm. Grace had a splendid tea ready with new-laid eggs and a sponge cake and lots of little shortcakes which were lovely and which Grace said were Sussex griddle cakes. They all sat in together, Jenny, Grace, Dan, little Caroline Ann and Thomas the new baby — who answered to the name of Dickery Dock — perched in his high chair to the right of Grace. There they sat, in the big stone-flagged kitchen, and Jenny went into raptures over the griddle cakes and the new-laid eggs and Dickery Dock. Jenny went into raptures about everything. Everything was so nice, Jenny said.

After tea Grace took Jenny round the farm, explaining to Jenny that it was a very small place, only forty acres, which they had rented from old Mr. Purcell. Grace made no concealment of what shrewd little Jenny had already clearly seen. Grace said with perfect simplicity that Dan and she were extremely hard up. Chicken-farming, which was what Dan chiefly went in for, was hard work and small profit. But they would have a number of paying guests in the summer and paying guests, Grace smiled, did pay. Grace smiled often: she was extremely happy with Dan, Caroline Ann and Dickory Dock; she had to work like a nigger but she was happy. She had got Dan out of the Neptune, far, far away from the wretched pit, and that was what counted. As for money, Grace added, money doesn’t matter a dump!

Touched by Grace’s confidences Jenny warmly agreed. Why, she simpered, with a little thrill at being able to cap Grace’s argument, why, that’s exactly what my David says about money.

Tired out by her journey, Jenny went to bed early that night. She slept like a top and wakened to bright sunshine and green trees waving in the breeze and the sound of a mooing cow. Oh, it’s nice, thought Jenny, lying luxuriously. A knock came to the door.

“Come in,” Jenny sang out, feeling wonderful.

A rolypoly of a girl — Grace’s one maid, a daily from the village — entered, bringing Jenny her tea. The girl’s name was Peg. Her cheeks were as red cherries and her short trotters massive as piano legs. Jenny knew she would get a lot of fun out of Peg’s legs — Peg’s legs were a scream!

After she had sipped her tea Jenny got up, slipped on her dressing-gown and her green mules with the pretty marabout trimming. Fluffy, like her dressing-gown, and nice . She pattered to the bathroom. It was an old house with big bare polished boards and no paper on the walls but Grace had been busy with her paint-brush. The vivid painted walls were extremely effective against the old dark wood. The bathroom was pleasant, too, very plain and enamelled. Jenny took her bath. At home, Jenny never bathed in the morning but when one was staying with people, of course… well… naturally.

After breakfast Jenny wandered round the farm by herself, discovering fresh enchantments at every turn. The cute little chickens, the lovely smell of the bam, dear Grace’s rock garden full of sweet saxifrage, the darlingest school of piglets which fled before her, flicking their tails and leaping, leaping like a pack of miniature hounds. Oh, isn’t the country too wonderful, Jenny breathed in an ecstasy of romance.

At eleven Grace asked Jenny if she wanted a swim. Grace said that in the summer Dan and she and “the family” went for a dip every day, no matter how completely or infernally busy they might be. Smiling, she said that Dan and she had solemnly taken an oath to this effect. Jenny couldn’t swim but she went gaily with them to the beach — a short strip of sandy beach bordering their land.

Jenny stood watching on the beach while Grace and Dan and “the family” went in. Dan carried Caroline Ann and Grace carried six-months-old Dickery Dock. There was enormous fun in the shallow water; then while the two infants lay sprawling on the warm soft sand Grace and Dan swam out. They swam far out, quite a wonderful swim, and when they came back they looked exactly like the picture on the front cover of Jenny’s magazine. A queer catch took Jenny by the throat. Grace’s strong slender figure was tanned and upright and careless. She was playing a game with Dan now, tossing Dickery Dock between them like a ball, and didn’t Dickery Dock like it! Caroline Ann ran about in the buff, shrieking with delight, imploring her mummy and daddy to let Dickery Dock fall. But mummy and daddy wouldn’t and finally Dan pulled Caroline Ann’s legs away from her, and there was a glorious mix up on the sand.

Then Dan’s half-hour was up and he dashed back to drive the Ford into Fittlehampton. Jenny returned with Grace thoughtfully. What did money matter to these happy people? They had wonderful health, fresh air to breathe, the sea to bathe in and the sun to shine on them.