Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Martha’s frown deepened. She approved with all her heart Hughie’s spartan life, nothing could be better. But to what cause? To leave the pit! He, too, striving with all his soul to leave the pit. She had no faith in his glittering illusion and no fear that he might achieve it. Yet it worried her, this queer intensity of Hughie’s, oh yes, it harassed her.

Instinctively her eyes turned to Sammy, who still sat at the table, restlessly making patterns on the oilcloth with the back of his fork. He was conscious of her gaze for, after a moment, he laid down the fork and sheepishly got up. He hung about with his hands in his pockets, then went to the tiny square of mirror above the sink. He took the comb that lay always on the back of the enamel soap rack, wetted it, and carefully parted his hair. Then he took a clean collar, she had starched and ironed it only that afternoon, which hung on the rail by the fire. He put on the collar, arranged his tie freshly, smartened himself up. Then, whistling self-consciously, he whipped up his cap and moved jauntily to the door.

Martha’s hand, lying upon her knee, clenched so tightly the knuckles showed like bone.

“Sammy!”

Sam, half out the door, turned as if he had been shot.

“Where are ye going, Sammy?”

“I’m goin’ out, mother.”

She would not let his smile soften her.

“I know ye’re goin’ out. But where are ye goin’ out to?”

“I’m goin’ down the street.”

“Are ye goin’ down Quay Street?”

He looked at her, his plain honest face flushed and dogged now.

“Yes, I am goin’ down Quay Street mother, if ye want to know.”

Her instinct was true, then: he was going to see Annie Macer. She hated the Macers, distrusted them, the improvident father, that wild Plug Macer, the son. They were in the same category as the Leemings — not quite respectable. They were not even colliers, they were “fisherfoak,” part of that separate community which lived an uncertain life—“waste and wantry” Martha called it, faring on the fat of the land one month, boat and nets mortgaged the next. She had nothing against Annie’s character, some held she was a decent lass. But she was not the lass for her Sammy. She came from the wrong stock, she hawked fish in the open street, she had even gone to Yarmouth, one bad year, to retrieve the Macers’ fortunes, as a herring gutter. Sammy, her own dear son, whom she hoped one day to see the finest hewer in the Neptune, married to a herring gutter. Never. Never! She drew a long, deep breath.

“I don’t want ye to go out to-night, Sammy.”

“But you know, mother, I promised. Pug Macer and me was goin’ out. And Annie’s comin’ too.”

“Never mind that, Sammy.” Her voice turned harsh, strident. “I don’t want ye to go.”

He faced her; and in his loving, dog-like eyes she saw an unexpected firmness.

“Annie’s expecting me, mother. I’m sorry, but I’m going.”

He went out and very quietly closed the door.

Martha sat perfectly rigid; for the first time in his life Sammy had disobeyed her. She felt as if he had struck her on the face. Conscious of the covert glances of David and Hughie she tried to take command of herself. She rose, cleared the table, washed the dishes with hands that trembled.

David said:

“Shall I dry for you, mother?”

She shook her head, dried the dishes herself, sat down with some mending. With some difficulty she threaded her needle. She took up an old pit singlet of Sammy’s, so patched and darned scarcely any of the original flannel remained. The sight of the old pit singlet tore at her heart. She had been too harsh with Sammy, she felt suddenly that she had not taken him the right way, that she, not Sam, had been to blame. The thought pierced her. Sam would do anything for her, anything, if only she treated him properly.

With clouded eyes, she made to take up the singlet when all at once the pain in her back came on again. The pain was bad this time, transfixing her, and in the instant she knew it for what it was. Dismayed, she waited. The pain went, returned. Without a word she got up and went out of the back door of the kitchen. She walked with difficulty up the back. She went into the closet. Yes, it was that.

She came out, stood for a moment surrounded by the quiet darkness of the night, supporting herself against the low dividing fence with one hand, holding her swollen body with the other. It had come upon her then, while her husband was in prison, the last indignity. And before her grown sons. Inscrutable as the darkness which lay about her, she thought rapidly. She would not have Dr. Scott, nor Mrs. Reedy, the midwife, either. Robert had flung away their savings madly in the strike. She was in debt, she could not, she would not tolerate further expense. Within a minute her mind was made up.

She returned to the house.

“David! Run round to Mrs. Brace. Tell her to look in to me now.”

Startled, he looked at her questioningly. She was never a great one for David, who had always been his father’s boy, but now the expression in his eyes moved her. She said kindly:

“Never worry, Davey. I’m just not well.” As he scurried out she went over to the kist where she kept such linen as she had, unlocked it. Then, awkwardly, lifting one foot up to the other, she climbed the ladder to the lads’ room above.

Mrs. Brace, the neighbour, came in presently from next door. She was a kindly woman, short of breath and very stout: indeed, she looked, poor soul, as though she were going to have a baby herself. But it was not so. Hannah Brace was ruptured , as she phrased it, she had a big umbilical hernia, the result of repeated pregnancies, and, though her husband Harry faithfully promised her the article every Christmas, as yet no truss to restrain it: every night when she went to bed she solemnly pushed back the bulging mass, every morning when she got up the thing bulged out again. She had become almost attached to her rupture, it formed a topic of conversation, she spoke about it to her intimates as people do about the weather. She went up the ladder very cautiously too, and disappeared into the room above.

David and Hughie sat in the kitchen. Hughie had given over his cobbling, and now pretended to interest himself with a paper. David also pretended to read. But from time to time the two looked at each other, confronted by the mystery secretly unfolding in the room above, and in the eyes of each there was a strange shame. To think of it; and their own mother!

No sound came from the bedroom but the heavy thump of feet as Mrs. Brace moved about. Once she called down for a kettle of hot water. Davey handed it to her.

At ten o’clock Sam came back rather pale about the gills, his jaw set to meet a most tremendous row. They told him. He flushed, as he did so easily, and remorse flooded him. Sam never could bear ill will. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

“My poor mother,” he said. It was the most any of them dared to say.

At twenty minutes to eleven Mrs. Brace came down carrying a small newspaper package. She looked saddened and put out; she washed her red hands at the sink, took a drink of cold water; then she addressed herself to Sammy — the eldest:

“A little lass,” she said, “a bonny thing, but dead. Ay, still-born. I’d have done as well as Mrs. Reedy, don’t yon fret. But I niver had no chance. I’ll come in te-morrow an’ lay the littlin out. Take yer mother up a cup of cocoa now. She’s fair to middling; an’ I’ve my man’s bait to see to for the fore shift.” She lifted the package carefully, smiled gently at David who saw that red was coming through the newspaper, then she waddled out.

Sam made the cocoa and took it up. He remained about ten minutes. When he came down, his face was pale as clay, and the sweat had broken on his brow. He had come from his courting to look on death. David hoped that Sam might speak, say that their mother was comfortable. But all Sam said was: