Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

The days passed, the final arrangements were completed, and at last the afternoon of Stanley’s departure for Aider-shot arrived. He had arranged to drive over to Carnton Junction and join the express direct, instead of taking a slow local from Yarrow. As a special sign of his regard he had asked Joe to come with Laura to the station to see him off.

It was a wet afternoon. Joe arrived too early at Hilltop, he had to wait ten minutes in the lounge before Laura came in. She wore a plain blue costume and a dark soft fur which gave her pale skin that queer luminous quality which always excited him. He jumped up from his chair, but she walked slowly to the window as though she did not notice him. There was a silence. He watched her.

“I’m sorry he’s going,” he said at last.

She turned and considered him with that secret look which always puzzled him. He felt that she was sad, perhaps angry too; she didn’t want Stanley to go; no, she didn’t want him to go.

Here Stanley entered breezily, as if a row of medals were already on his chest. He rubbed his hands cheerfully.

“Filthy day, isn’t it? Well, the wetter the day the better the deed, eh, Joe? Ha! Ha! Now what about the rum ration for the troops, Laura?”

Laura rang the bell and Bessie brought in a tray of sandwiches and tea. Stanley was dreadfully hearty. He chaffed Bessie out of her long face, mixed himself a whisky and soda, and walked up and down the room munching sandwiches and talking.

“Good sandwiches, these, Laura. Don’t suppose I’ll be getting this kind of stomach-fodder in a week or two. You’ll need to send me some parcels, Laura. A fellow was saying last night that they absobloomingutely look forward to getting parcels. Varies the jolly old bully beef and plum and apple.” Stanley laughed. He could now say plum and apple without a blush. He could laugh, really laugh at the Bairnsfather cartoons. He crowed: “Hampson, old dodger that he is—” another laugh, “was telling me of a scheme they have for making Irish stew in a ration tin. Some of the batmen are wonderful. Wonder what my luck will be. Did you see the Bystander this week? Good it was, oh, damned good!” Then he began to be patriotic again. Swinging up and down the room he talked glowingly of what the Major had told him — counter-attacks, gas-masks, pill boxes. Very lights, the musketry handbook, number nines and British pluck.

While Stanley talked Laura sat by the window, her almost sad profile outlined by the dripping laurel bush beyond. She was listening loyally to Stanley’s patriotism. Suddenly Stanley slapped down his tumbler.

“Well, we better get along now. Mustn’t miss the old joy waggon.” He glanced out of the window. “Better put your mac on, old girl, looks like more rain.”

“I don’t think I’ll mind,” Laura answered. She stood up, arresting all Stanley’s fussing by the perfect immobility of her manner. “Have you everything in the car?”

“You bet,” Stanley said, leading the way to the door.

They got into the car, not the office car, but Stanley’s own, an open sports model now two years old, which stood with the hood up in front of the porch. Stanley jabbed at the starter with his thumb, threw in the gear and they drove off.

The road ran uphill through the outskirts of Hillbrow, left the last isolated villa behind and stretched out across open country towards the moor. Stanley drove in a kind of exhilaration, using his cut-out on all the corners.

“Goes like an aeroplane, doesn’t she?” he threw out high-spiritedly. “Almost wish I’d joined the Flying Corps.”

“Look out you don’t skid,” Joe said, “the roads are pretty greasy.”

Stanley laughed again. Joe, alone in the back seat, kept his eyes on Laura’s calm profile in front. Her composure was both baffling and fascinating: Stanley driving like a mug, and she not turning a hair. She didn’t want to come to a sticky end yet, did she? He didn’t, at any rate not yet, by God, no!

They flashed past the old St. Bede’s Church, which stood grey and gauntly weatherbeaten, surrounded by a few flat, lichened tombstones, isolated and open on the edge of the moor.

“Wonderful old building,” Stanley said, jerking his head, “Ever been in, Joe?”

“No.”

“Got some wonderful oak pews. Some time you ought to have a look at them.”

They began to slip downhill, through Cadder village and a few outlying farms. Twenty minutes later they reached Carnton Junction. The express was late and after seeing to his baggage Stanley began to walk slowly up and down the platform with Laura. Joe, pretending to make affable conversation with the porter, watched them jealously from the corner of his eye. Damn it, he thought, oh, damn it all, I believe she’s in love with him after all.

A sharp whistle and the thunder of the approaching train.

“Here she is, sir,” the porter said. “Only four minutes behind her time.”

Stanley came hurrying over.

“Well, Joe, here we are at last. Yes, porter, a first smoker, facing the engine if you can. You’ll write to me, old man. I can leave everything to you. Yes, yes, that’s all right, splendid, splendid. I know you’ll do everything.” He shook hands with Joe — Joe’s grip was manly and prolonged — kissed Laura good-bye, then jumped into his compartment. Stanley was to the core a sentimentalist and now that the moment of departure had come he was deeply affected. He hung out of the window, feeling himself every inch a man going to the front, facing his wife and his friend. Quick tears glistened in his eyes but he smiled them away.

“Take care of Laura, Joe.”

“You bet, Mr. Stanley.”

“Don’t forget to write.”

“No fear!”

There came a pause; the train did not move. The pause lengthened awkwardly.

“It looks like more rain,” Stanley said, filling in the gap. Another hollow pause. The train started forward. Stanley shouted:

“Well, we’re off! Good-bye, Laura. Good-bye, old man.”

The train shuddered and stopped. Stanley frowned, looking up the line.

“Must be taking in water. We’ll be a few minutes yet.”

Immediately the train started again, pulled away smoothly and began to gather speed.

“Well! Good-bye, good-bye.”

This time Stanley was away. Joe and Laura stood on the platform until the last carriage was out of sight, Joe waving heartily, Laura not waving at all. She was paler than usual and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes. Joe saw this. They turned to the car in silence.

When they came out from the cover of the station and reached the car it was raining again. Laura went towards the back seat but, with an air of solicitude, Joe put out his hand:

“You’ll get all the rain in there, Mrs. Millington. It’s coming on heavy.”

She hesitated, then without speaking she got into the front seat. He nodded, as though she had done a most reasonable and sensible thing, then climbed in and took the wheel.

He drove slowly, partly because of the rain blurring the windscreen, but chiefly because he wanted to prolong the journey. Though his attitude was respectful, openly deferential, he was bursting with the knowledge of his position: Stanley tearing off to God knows where, every minute getting farther and farther away, Laura in the car with him, here, now. Cautiously, he glanced at her. She sat at the extreme end of the seat, staring straight in front of her; he could feel that every fibre of her was resentful, defensively alert. He thought how careful he must be, no gentle pressure of his knee against hers, a different technique, weeks perhaps or months of strategy, he must be slow, cautious as hell. He had the queer feeling that she almost hated him.

Suddenly he said, in a voice of mild regret: