Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Joe really felt himself blood brother to Jim Mawson; he was not obliged to disguise his motives in Mawson’s company; and he had an idea that Mawson was drawn to him in much the same way. After their preliminary talk on the subject of antimony Mawson invited Joe to his house in Peters Place, a large untidy mansion — a mortgage which Mawson had foreclosed upon and moved into — full of ponderous yellow furniture, slovenly stair-carpet and dirt. There Joe met Mrs. Mawson, who was frizzy-haired and elderly and shrewd, and took pride in the fact that she had once owned a pawnshop. Joe exerted himself with Ma Mawson, he greeted her with jovial deference, bending over her be-ringed shop-soiled hand as though he could have licked it. Supper consisted of a ferocious beef-steak and onions served out of the pan, and several bottles of stout, and after supper Mawson slipped Joe a quiet tip on the Exchange. Speaking out of the corner of his mouth, sitting placid and laconic in a big leather armchair, Mawson said: “Hm. Might buy yourself a few Franks’ Ordinary. They wassent worth a damn afore the war. They make the mouldiest biscuits outa chokey. Y’wouldn’t give them to a dog. But they’re goin’ great in the trenches. They’re coming out with a fifteen per cent divvy. Better get in afore the dividend gets out.”

Buying on margin Joe cleared three hundred pounds on Mawson’s tip and, rejoicing, he visioned the future in Mawson’s co-operation. This was only the beginning, too. The war was going on for a long time yet and it was going to be the making of him. It was the most wonderful war he had ever seen; he hoped it would go on for ever.

Only one flaw marred the splendour of Joe’s prospects — Laura. Whenever Joe thought of Laura, and that was often, his brow registered a puzzled and frustrated frown. He could not, simply could not fathom her. He was convinced that in some subtle way he owed his present position to Laura; indeed he owed her more than his position. Unconsciously he found himself taking hints from Laura, puzzling things out and modelling himself to her standard, wondering how she would like this… or that. He was still ignorant, but he did not do badly. The brilliantine was stopped, that strongly scented hair dressing which had made one eyebrow of Laura’s faintly lift; the brown boots were worn only with the brown suit; the ties became less florid; the watch chain now stretched between the bottom pockets of his waistcoat; the bunch of near-gold seals and the imitation pearl had been flung, one dark evening, into the Tyne. And in matters of more intimate detail this unseen influence of Laura prevailed. For instance, after one look at the bathroom at Hilltop with its bath-salts, crystals, toilet ammonia, loofah and spray, Joe had gone straight to the chemists and resolutely bought himself a tooth-brush.

But the trouble was that Laura remained so wickedly inaccessible. They met frequently, but always in Stanley’s company. He wanted to be alone with her, he would have given largely to charity to be alone with her, but he was afraid to make the first move. He was not completely sure; he was terrified of making a horrible mistake, of losing his wonderful position and his more wonderful prospects. He did not dare.

At nights he sat in his room thinking about her, wanting her, conjuring up her image, wondering what she was doing at that especial moment: taking a bath, doing her hair, pulling on her long silk stockings. Once the situation so fevered him, he jumped up and rushed out to the nearest telephone box. With a bumping heart he rang her number; but it was Stanley’s voice which answered from the other end; and in a cold panic Joe dropped back the receiver and slunk back to his room.

It was maddening. He felt towards Laura as towards the first sexual experience of his life: she represented something strange and new, something he wanted to find out. But he could not find out. She remained, thus far, an enigma. He tried terribly hard to probe into her character and occasionally vague glimmerings of understanding came to him. He suspected, to begin with, that Laura was tired to death of Stanley’s gush, of his bouts of moody grumbling, and of his patriotism, which had lately become intense. She was bored to tears with his public-school spirit, high ideals and the special brand of baby talk which Stanley preserved for their moments of endearment. “How is my little kittikins?” he had once heard Stanley murmur and he could have sworn that Laura stiffened. Yet Laura was loyal to Stanley — that, Joe repeated, was the curse of it.

Joe had a great deal of vanity. He saw himself as a fine handsome dashing fellow. But did Laura see him that way?

Laura was interested in him. She seemed to recognise his possibilities, to take a sort of mocking interest in him. She had no illusions regarding his morality. Her unsmiling smile met all his protestations of good faith and high ideals; yet when, skilfully, he approached her on the opposite tack the result was quite disastrous. On one occasion at tea he had made a slightly vulgar joke. Stanley had laughed boisteroulsy, but Laura had turned blank, completely blank and frigid. Joe had blushed as he had never blushed before, the shame of it had nearly killed him. She was a queer one, Laura. She was not a type. She was herself.

The question of war-work illuminated Laura’s queerness pretty well. All the ladies in Yarrow were crazy about war-work, there was a rash of uniforms and a perfect epidemic of corps, committees and guilds. Hetty, Laura’s sister in Tynecastle, was never out of her khaki. But Laura would have none of it. She went only to the canteen at the new munition sheds at Wirtley because, as she put it ironically to Joe, she liked to see the beasts fed. She served coffee and sandwiches to the munition workers there, but no more than that. Laura kept to herself, and Joe, to his infinite exasperation, could not get near her.

June came and this state of affairs still went on. Then, on the 16th of the month, Stanley gave Joe the second staggering surprise of his life. It was a quarter-past twelve and Millington, who had been out all the forenoon, put his head round the door of Joe’s office and said:

“I want to see you, Gowlan. Come into my office.”

The serious quality in Stanley’s tone startled Joe. With a slightly guilty air he got up and walked into the private office where Stanley flung himself into a chair and began restlessly to shuffle some papers on his desk. Stanley had been very restless lately. He was a curious fellow. As far as could be made out he was extremely ordinary; spiritually he was full of clichés; he had the ordinary cut and dried ideas and he liked to do the ordinary things. He was fond of bridge and golf; he liked a good detective story or yams which dealt with buried treasure; he believed that one Britisher was better than any five foreigners; in peace time he never missed the Motor Show; he was a bore, too; he told the same stories over and over again; he would talk for hours on how, in his last year at St. Bede’s, the first fifteen had beaten Giggleswick. But through all this ran a curious strain of discontent, a buried complex of escape. He would arrive at the office, on a Monday morning, with a listless droop to his mouth, and his manner seemed to say, oh lord, must I still go on with this!

His business was flourishing and, at the beginning, that had sent the mercury soaring to the sky. He wanted to make money; and it had been ripping watching profits flow in at the rate of a round £1,000 a week. But now “money wasn’t everything.” His discontent grew when the Ministry of Munitions came into existence. Then Millington’s became part of the official scheme; they were sub-contracted to the new Hutton filling sheds at Wirtley; the pioneer work was finished; everything was set, ordered and official; there was altogether less for Stanley to do; a sort of lull set in; and though he had grumblingly demanded ease, he did not like it when it came.