Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“It’s you… Caroline.”

In the inexpressible rapture of it she almost fainted, like a mother with the first speech of her first-born.

“Yes, Richard”—clutching her breast—“it’s Caroline… Caroline.”

He mumbled:

“What did I say?” Then he lost interest. But after that it did not matter. He had spoken.

Intoxicated by this auspicious sign, she had redoubled her attentions upon him, washing him all over carefully twice a day and rubbing his back with methylated spirits every night before dusting him with talcum. It had been difficult to prevent bedsores, changing the wet sheets sometimes four times in the day, but she had done it. She was getting Richard right. His movements started to return slightly, the movements of the paralysed side, and she would rub the right arm for an hour on end just as she had brushed Harriet’s hair. While she rubbed him, his dull eye would roll up and down her figure, not without a certain slyness, and often he mumbled:

“You’re a fine woman, Caroline… But they are tampering with me… electricity….”

It was one of his delusions that they were sending electrical currents through his body. At night now he always asked Caroline to pull his bed away from the wall so that they could not send electricity through from the adjoining room. He asked her slyly, slurring and mumbling the syllables, mixing up his consonants, sometimes missing out words altogether.

There might be something in these electrical notions, or there might not — Aunt Carrie would not commit herself. She could not dream of questioning Richard’s judgment. Her idea was to interest him, take him out of himself, and this made her think of Mrs. Humphry Ward, her favourite author whom in times of spiritual stress she had found to be a true healer. So she began, every forenoon, and every evening, to read aloud to Richard, commencing with Lady Rose’s Daughter , perhaps a little selfishly, as this was her own favourite, and when she came to the great moment of renunciation tears dropped down Aunt Carrie’s cheeks. And Richard would stare at the ceiling or pick at his clothes or put his finger into his mouth and at the end of a chapter he would remark:

“They’re tampering with me,” and then in a low voice, “Electricity!”

With the coming of the fine weather she had wheeled Richard into the good fresh air, and as he sat upon the lawn she advanced one stage further, putting the open book into his left hand and letting him have the pleasure of reading Mrs. Ward for himself. He seemed to enjoy Mrs. Ward very much. He began by placing Lady Rose’s Daughter on his knee, pulling out his watch, looking at his watch and putting back his watch. Next he took a pencil and very clumsily, and with great effort, wrote with his left hand on the margin of the book: Start 11.15. Then he counted four pages forward and wrote at the foot of the page: 12.15×4 End of the shift . And after that he stared at the shaky, almost indecipherable writing with an air of childish triumph.

But this bright May morning, whenever he was settled, before he could ask for his book, Aunt Carrie seated herself on the stool beside him and remarked:

“I have a letter from Hilda this morning, Richard. She has passed another of her examinations. Would you like to hear what she says?”

He reflected vacantly towards the great yellow blossom of the laburnum tree.

“Hilda is a fine woman… you are a fine woman yourself, Caroline.” He added, “Harriet was a fine woman.”

Aunt Carrie, adept at glossing over such little eccentricities, went on pleasantly:

“Hilda’s progress has really been splendid, Richard. She writes that she is extremely happy in her work. Listen, Richard.” She read out Hilda’s letter, dated May 14th, 1920, and written from an address in Chelsea, reading slowly and distinctly, trying her gentle best to keep Richard interested and informed. But the moment she had finished he whimpered:

“Why don’t I get letters? …never any letters. Where is Arthur? He is the worst offender… What is he doing at the Neptune? Where is my book? …I want my book.”

“Yes, Richard.” She soothed him hurriedly and handed him his writing book. “There now.”

With the book on his knee he watched her slyly until she had picked up and was busy with her needlework, then he shielded the book against spying eyes with his curved, paralysed hand. Left-handed he wrote:

In defence of the Neptune, notes further to those composed Memorandum —a stumbling secret look at his watch—12.22×3.14 and considered thereafter…

But here a sound disturbed him and in a perfect panic of suspicion he broke off and clumsily shut the book. Ann was coming across the lawn with his milk. He watched Ann approaching and gradually his face cleared, his eye brightened until he was smiling and nodding at her — Ann was a fine woman too. Ann seemed conscious of his smile and the bobbings of his head for she gave the tray to Aunt Carrie, carefully avoiding Richard altogether, and went quickly away.

His face fell ridiculously; he became angry; he refused to drink his milk.

“Why does she go away? Why doesn’t Arthur come? What is he doing? Where is he?” The questions tumbled incoherently from his lips.

“Yes, Richard, yes,” she murmured. “He’s at the pit, of course. You know he’ll be here for lunch presently.”

“What is he doing?” he repeated. “What is he hiding from me?”

“Nothing, Richard, absolutely nothing. You know he talks to you and tells you. Do drink your milk. Oh, look, you’re spilling it all. There now! Shall I give you your book again? That’s right.”

“No, no, it isn’t right. He doesn’t understand. No head at all… and tampering with things. He’s trying to keep me here. Electricity… through the walls. If he’s not careful,” the dull eye rolled cunningly towards her, “if he’s not careful he’ll be landing himself in trouble. An accident… a disaster… an inquiry. Extremely foolish!”

“Yes, Richard.”

“I must speak to him again… I must insist… no time like the present.”

“No, Richard.”

“Take this glass then and stop talking. You talk and talk. It keeps me from my work.”

Here another sound disturbed him and this time it was Arthur coming up the drive. With the same furtive haste he handed Aunt Carrie his empty glass, then he waited upon Arthur with a great pretence of unconcern. But underneath he was trembling, shivering with resentment and distrust.

Arthur crossed the lawn towards the laburnum tree. He wore his knickerbockers and heavy pit boots and his shoulders drooped as though he had been working hard. He had, indeed, for more than a year, been pushing forward at full pressure, conscious of his own nervous tension, yet determined not to relax until he had seen it all through. At last, however, the improvements at the Neptune were near completion, the new pithead baths finished, while the combined drying and locker rooms, modelled on the latest type instituted by the Sandstrüm Obergamt, would be ready by the end of June. The entire bank stood reorganised, the old Pierce-Goff ventilators scrapped and modern air pumps substituted, the closing apparatus and winding ropes renewed, the headstocks bedded in concrete cones and fed from the new power-house. Impossible almost to recognise this new Neptune — it had lost the old slovenliness, it looked trim, efficient and secure.

What effort he had put into it! And what money! But the splendour of his creation more than repaid him; sustained him when he got worried and depressed. There had been difficulties occasionally. The men were dubious of his intentions; his war record made him an object of suspicion. Besides, his temperament often betrayed him into bouts of causeless melancholy when he felt unsupported and alone.