Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“If you’d only written to me, Jenny!”

“I read about you,” she said. “I read about you ever so much in the papers. Do you know, David”—her voice took on a sudden animation—“do you know once you passed me in the street? In the Strand it was; you passed me as close as close.”

“Why didn’t you speak to me?”

“Well — I thought I would, then I thought I wouldn’t.” She coloured slightly again. “I was with a friend, you see.”

“I see,” he said.

A silence came.

“You’ve been in London,” he said at last.

“That’s right,” she agreed humbly. “I got to like London something terrible. The restaurants and the shops and that like. I’ve been getting along all right, very well in fact. I wouldn’t like you to think I’ve been down on my luck all the time. I’ve had a lot of good times.” She paused. She stretched out her hand for the drinking-cup that stood beside her bed. He reached quickly for the cup and gave it to her.

“Funny,” she said. “Like a little tea-pot.”

“Are you thirsty?”

“Well, no, it’s just in my stomach. It oughtn’t to take long to put right. Dr. Barras is going to operate on me when I’m strong enough.” She said it almost proudly.

“Yes, Jenny,” he agreed.

She handed him back the drinking-cup and looked at him. Something in his eyes made her own eyes fall. There was a silence.

“I’m sorry, David,” she said at last. “I’m sorry if I didn’t treat you right.”

Tears started into his eyes. He could not speak for a moment, then he whispered:

“You get better, Jenny, that’s all I want you to do.”

She said dully:

“You know what this ward is?”

“Yes,” he said.

There was a silence. She said:

“They’ll give me treatment before my operation.”

“Yes, Jenny.”

Another silence, then all at once she began to cry. She cried silently into her pillow. Out of her eyes, that were like the eyes of a beaten dog, the tears welled silently.

“Oh, David,” she gasped, “I’m ashamed to look at you.”

The sister came up.

“Come, come now,” she said. “I think that should be all for to-night.” And she stood there, dispassionate, formidable.

David said:

“I’ll come again, Jenny. To-morrow.”

She smiled through her tears:

“Yes, come to-morrow, David, do.”

He rose. He bent forward and kissed her.

The sister saw him to the swing doors. She said coldly:

“You ought to know, it’s hardly wise to kiss anyone in this ward.”

He did not answer. He went out of the hospital. In Canon Street outside a barrel organ was playing You are my heart’s delight .

Towards ten o’clock Aunt Caroline looked out at the fine October day from the window of her room in Linden Place and decided pleasurably that she would take “a little walk.” Twice a day now, forenoon and afternoon, when the weather was favourable, Aunt Caroline took a little walk. Foremost amongst the pleasures of being in London were these little walks which Aunt Caroline so quietly and gently took.

Yes, Aunt Caroline was in London. Strange indeed to find herself in that mighty hub of Empire which had always puzzled and intimidated her from afar! Yet was it so strange? Richard was dead, the Neptune sold, reclaimed and restarted by Mawson, Gowlan & Co. The Law, alas, was gone too, for Mr. Gowlan had himself taken up residence in the house and was reported to be spending enormous sums upon its reconstruction and its gardens. Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt Caroline winced at the thought of rude hands laid upon her asparagus bed. How could she have borne these changes and have still remained in Sleescale? Nor had she been invited to remain. Arthur, turned sullen and morose, engaged as underviewer at the pit, had not invited her to share the small house he had rented in Hedley Road. Indeed, she would never forget that dreadful night when he returned from Tynecastle the worse for drink and harshly told her she must now “shift for herself.” Poor fellow! He little knew how his words had cut her. Not, mind you, that she would have dreamed of dragging on, the victim of odious sympathy, within the ambit of her former dignity. She was only sixty-four. She had £120 a year. It was independence — and London, city of intellect and culture, lay waiting. Gasping at her audacity, she had nevertheless reasoned it out in her own careful fashion. In London she would be near Hilda, who had lately been kind to her, and not far distant from Grace, who had always been kind to her. Dear Grace — thought Aunt Carrie — still simple and unassuming and poor, living a carefree life with her husband and her brood of children, careless of money and all material things, but happy, healthy and happy. Yes, she would certainly spend a month or two at Barnham every year. And there was Laura, too, Laura Millington, settled through all those years with her invalid husband at Bournemouth. She must certainly look Laura up. Altogether prospects in the South of England looked bright for Aunt Carrie. The last thirty years of her life she had lived chiefly in the sick-rooms of Harriet and Richard. Perhaps in her secret heart Aunt Carrie was a little tired of sick-rooms and the turning of dirty linen therein.

Bayswater, naturally, was the district towards which she was drawn. No one knew better than Aunt Carrie that Bayswater had “come down”—but then she had a certain proud consciousness of having come down herself. The remnants of gentility in Bayswater awoke a sentimental echo in her heart and made her head incline with not unhappy resignation. And Linden Place was so very suitable, the green of the trees in spring was delicate and charming against the faded yellowish paint upon the old stuccoed houses and there was a church at the end of the street which afforded both atmosphere and solace. Lately Aunt Carrie had turned even more devout and, in St. Philip’s, matins and evensong, which she regularly attended, often drew tears of voluptuous tenderness from her eyes. From the spire of St. Philip’s a high clear bell rang occasionally, and the milkman called pleasantly in the street and the smell of roasting mutton came from many basements. Mrs. Gittins’s house, No. 104c, where after full investigation Aunt Carrie had selected her room, was of an eminent respectability and the bath, though cracked and flaking its enamel, was always clean. The twopence in the slot geyser gave excellent hot water and, most properly, the washing of clothes in the bathroom was strictly prohibited. All Mrs. Gittins’s people were elderly ladies except for one young Indian gentleman, a law student, but even he, though coloured, kept the bath meticulously clean.

Conscious of her manifold advantages, Aunt Carrie turned from the window, and surveyed her room. Here she was in comfort, surrounded by her own things, her treasures — what a blessing that in all her life she had never thrown anything out! — the room was furnished practically with her precious and valued possessions. On the table stood the model of the Swiss chalet which Harriet had brought her forty years ago from Lucerne; the carving was really delightful and there were models of little cows inside — and to think that once she had almost sent it to the St. James’s Jumble Sale! There, too, hanging from the black bell-handle by the marble mantelpiece were the three postcards which Arthur had once sent her from Boulogne and which she herself had framed a long time ago in passe-partout . She had always liked these postcards, the colouring was cheerful and of course the foreign stamps, still upon the back, might, in time, be valuable. And there, on the other wall, was the poker-work memorial she had done for dear Harriet fourteen years before. The poetry, beginning Auspicious day when first you breathed , was quite beautiful and the poker work! — well, she had been considered an adept at poker work in her time.