Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Earlier on that same Saturday night Sammy walked down the Avenue with Annie Macer. Every Saturday night for years Sammy and Annie had taken this walk. It was part of the courtship of Sammy and Annie Macer.

About seven o’clock every Saturday night Sammy and Annie met at the corner of Quay Street. Usually Annie was there first, strolling up and down in her thick woollen stockings and well-brushed shoes, strolling quietly up and down, waiting, waiting for Sammy. Sammy always was the late one. Sammy would arrive about ten past seven, dressed in his good blue suit, very newly shaved about the chin and very shiny about his nobby forehead.

“I’m late, Annie,” Sammy would remark, smiling. He never expressed regret for being late, never dreamed of it; Annie, indeed, would have felt it very out of place if Sammy had said that he was sorry he had kept her waiting.

They had set out for their walk “up the Avenue.” Not arm in arm, there was nothing like that in the courtship of Sam and Annie, no holding of hands, or squeezing, or kissing, none of the more exuberant manifestations of affection. Sam and Annie were steadies. Sam respected Annie. In the darkest part of the Avenue Sam might quietly and sensibly encircle Annie’s waist as they strolled along. No more than that. Sammy and Annie just walked out.

Annie knew that Sammy’s mother “objected” to her. But she knew that Sammy loved her. That was enough. After they had walked up the Avenue they would come back to the town, Sammy nodding to acquaintances “How do, Ned,” “How again, Tom,” back along Lamb Street and into Mrs. Wept’s pie-shop where the bell went ping and the loose glass pane in the door rattled every time they went in. Standing in Mrs. Wept’s dark little pie-shop they would each eat a hot pie with gravy and share a big bottle of lemonade. Annie preferred ginger ale but Sam’s favourite drink was the lemonade and this meant, of course, that Annie always insisted on lemonade. Sometimes Sammy had two pies, if he was flush after a good week’s hewing, for Mrs. Wept’s pies were the last word. But Annie refused, Annie knew a woman’s place, Annie never had more than one. She would suck the gravy from her fingers while Sam made inroads upon the second pie. Then they would have a chat, maybe, with Mrs. Wept and stroll back to Quay Corner where they stood for a while watching the brisk Saturday night movement in the street before they said good night. And as he walked up the Terraces Sammy would think what a grand evening it had been and what a fine girl Annie was and how lucky he was to be walking her out.

But to-night as Sam and Annie came down the Avenue it was plain that something had gone wrong between them. Annie’s expression was subdued while Sammy, with a harassed look, seemed to struggle to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, Annie,” kicking moodily at a stone which lay in his way. “I didn’t think you’d take it that sore, lass.”

In a low voice Annie said:

“It’s all right, Sammy, I’m not minding that much. It’s quite all right.” Whatever Sammy did was always all right with Annie; but her face, seen palely in that dark avenue of trees, was troubled.

Sammy took a kick at another stone.

“I couldn’t stand the pit no longer, honest I couldn’t, Annie. Goin’ down every day thinkin’ on dad and Hughie lyin’ inbye there, it’s more nor I could stand. The pit’ll never be the same to me, Annie, never, it won’t, till dad and Hughie gets brought out.”

“I see that, Sammy,” Annie agreed.

“Mind you, I’m not exactly wantin’ to go,” Sammy worried on. “I don’t hold with all this ruddy buglin’ and flag flappin’. I’m just makin’ it the excuse. I’ve just got to get out that pit. Anything’s better’n the pit now, anything.”

“That’s right, Sammy,” Annie reassured him. “I see what you mean.”

Annie saw perfectly that Sammy, a fine hewer who liked, and was needed in, his job, would never be going to the war but for the disaster in the Neptune. But the sadness in Annie’s acquiescence set Sammy more at cross-purposes than ever.

“Ah, Annie,” he exclaimed with sudden feeling. “I wish’t this thing had never happened on us in the Neptune. As I was bringin’ out my tools at the end of the shift the day, that’s just what I kept thinkin’. There’s our Davey, now. I’m proper put down ower what it’s done to him. I’m worrit, lass, at how he’s took it.” He went on with sudden heat: “It wasna fair the way they sacked him out of the school. Ramage done it, mind ye, he’s always had his knife in wor lot. But God, it was shameful, Annie.”

“He’ll get work some other place, Sammy.”

But Sammy shook his head.

“He’s done wi’ the schoolmasterin’, lass. He’s got in wi’ Harry Nugent someways. Harry took a heap of notice of Davey when he was up, something’ll come out of that, I’m thinkin’.” He sighed. “But there’s a proper change come ower him, lass.”

Annie made no reply: she was thinking of the change which had come over Sammy too.

They walked along the Avenue without speaking. It was now almost dark, but as they passed the Law, the moon sailed out from a bank of cloud, and threw a cold hard light upon the house which sat there square and squat, with a self-complacency almost malignant. Beside the big white gate, under one of the tall beeches which flanked it, two figures stood together — the one a young fellow in uniform, the other a bareheaded girl.

Sammy turned to Annie as they reached the end of the Avenue.

“Did you see that?” he said. “Dan Teasdale and Grace Barras.”

“Ay, I saw them, Sammy.”

“I’m thinkin’ it wouldn’t do for Barras to see them there.”

“No, Sammy.”

“Barras!” Sammy jerked his head aside and spat. “He’s come out of the sheugh all right. But I’ll not work for him no more, no, not if he came and begged us.”

Silence continued between Annie and Sammy as they walked towards Mrs. Wept’s shop. Annie was bearing up, but the thought that Sammy was going to the war paralysed her; anyone but Annie would have refused to go to the shop. Yet Annie felt that Sammy wanted to go, so Annie went and struggled gamely with her pie. To-night Sammy had only one pie and he left half a tumbler of his lemonade.

As they stood at the corner of Quay Street Sammy said, with an effort at his old smile:

“Don’t take on, Annie, lass. The pit hasn’t done that much for me after all. Maybe the war’ll do a bit more.”

“Maybe,” Annie said: and with a sudden catch in her breath: “I’ll see you to-morrow, Sammy. I’ll see you for sure before you go.”

Sammy nodded his head, still holding his smile, then he exclaimed:

“Give us a kiss, lass, to show you’re not angry wi’ us.”

Annie kissed Sammy, then she turned away for fear Sammy should see the tears that were in her eyes. Holding her head down she walked rapidly towards her home.

Sammy climbed the Terraces slowly. He was a fool, he knew he was a fool to be leaving Annie and his good job for a war that did not interest him. And yet he couldn’t help himself. The disaster had done something to him — ay, just like it had to David. Where he was going didn’t matter; all that mattered was that he was getting out of the pit.

When he reached Inkerman his mother was sitting up for him as usual in her own hard, straight-backed chair by the window and the minute he came in she rose to get him some hot cocoa.

She gave him his cocoa, and, standing by the grate where she had just put the steaming kettle, she watched him, her hands folded beneath her breast, elbows rather gaunt, eyes sombre and loving.

“Will I cut you a piece of cake, son?”