Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“The Tribunal, Richard?” Aunt Carrie faltered.

“Yes, indeed,” Richard declared, studiously avoiding Arthur’s eye. “And I shan’t stand any nonsense, I assure you. This is serious at last and the sooner everyone realises it the better. I was discussing it with Hetty only the other day. She feels pretty strongly that it’s high time the slackers were wakened up. And weeded out.”

Arthur raised his eyes slowly and looked at his father. Barras was dressed in a new grey suit and he wore a flower in his buttonhole. Lately he had ordered himself a number of new suits, much smarter than his usual style — Arthur suspected him of having changed his tailor in Tynecastle — and he had taken to wearing a buttonhole regularly, a pink carnation usually, picked from the new plants in the conservatory. His appearance was exaggeratedly spruce, his eye bright, he had an intent, oddly excited air.

“You wait and see, Caroline,” he laughed, with immense satisfaction, “what a rush to the colours when the tribunals get busy!”

There was a silence while Aunt Carrie, in an access of distress, fluttered her glance from one to the other. Then Barras looked at his watch; the usual gesture. “Well,” he remarked in a conscious tone, “I must get along now, Caroline. Don’t let anyone trouble to stay up for me. I shall be late I expect. I’m taking Hetty to the King’s. Must carry on in spite of the war. It’s ‘The Maid of the Mountains,’ very good I’m told, the full London company. Hetty is tremendously keen to see it.” He rose, fingering the flower in his buttonhole. Then, ignoring Arthur, but with a brisk nod to Caroline, he strode out of the room.

Arthur remained seated at the table, perfectly still and silent. He was well aware that Hetty and his father went about together a great deal: the new suits, the buttonhole, the spurious veneer of youth were all indicative of that fact. It had begun in an attitude of reparation — Arthur had treated Hetty shamefully, and the obligation of “making it up to Hetty” had devolved upon Barras. Yet Arthur suspected that the relationship had progressed beyond the bounds of mere amendment. He did not know. He sighed heavily at his own thoughts. That sigh made Aunt Carrie stir uneasily.

“You’ve eaten scarcely anything to-night, Arthur,” she murmured. “Why don’t you have some of this trifle?”

“I’m not hungry, Aunt Carrie.”

“But it’s so good, my dear,” she remonstrated in her troubled voice. He shook his head silently, seeing her through his pain. He had a sudden impulse to unburden himself to her, to pour out the whole affliction that lay upon his mind. But he restrained himself, he saw clearly that it would be purposeless. Aunt Carrie was kind, she loved him in her own way, yet her timidity, her awe of his father, rendered her incapable of helping him.

He got up from the table and went out of the dining-room. In the hall he stood with head bent, undecided. At a moment such as this his gentle nature thirsted for sympathy. If only Hetty had been here… a lump came into his throat… he felt lost and helpless. Turning, he went slowly upstairs. And then, as he passed his mother’s room, he stopped suddenly. With a spontaneous gesture he put his hand upon the door knob and entered the room.

“How are you to-night, mother?” he asked.

She looked round sharply, propped up on her pillows, her pale fat face both querulous and questioning.

“I have a headache,” she answered. “And you gave me such a start opening the door so sharp.”

“I’m sorry, mother.” He sat down quietly on the edge of the bed.

“Oh no , Arthur,” she protested. “Not there, my dear, I can’t bear anyone sitting on my bed, not with this headache, it worries me so.”

He stood up again, flushing slightly.

“I’m sorry, mother,” he said once more. He made himself see her point of view, refusing to let himself be hurt. She was his mother. Out of subliminal depths a memory of early tenderness affected him, a vague sensation of her bending over him, her lace gown open and drooping upon him, enclosing and protecting him. Now he yielded to that childish recollection and, craving her loving kindness, he exclaimed in a broken voice:

“Mother, will you let me talk something over with you?”

She considered him querulously.

“I have such a headache.”

“It won’t take long. Oh, I do want your advice.”

“No, no, Arthur,” she protested, closing her eyes as though his eagerness startled her. “Really, I can’t. Some other time perhaps. My head does ache so frightfully.”

He drew back, silenced, his whole expression altered by the rebuff.

“What is it, do you think, Arthur,” she went on with closed eyes, “that keeps on giving me these headaches? I’ve been wondering if it’s the gun-fire in France, the vibrations, you know, travelling through the air. Of course I can’t hear the firing, that I do fully understand, but it has occurred to me that the vibrations might set up something. Naturally that wouldn’t explain my backache and that has been quite bad lately, too. Tell me, Arthur, do you think the gun-fire has any influence?”

“I don’t know, mother,” he answered heavily and paused, collecting himself. “I should hardly think it could affect your back.”

“Mind you, I’m not complaining too much about my back. The liniment Dr. Lewis has given me helps it tremendously. Aconite, belladonna and chloroform. I read the prescription, three deadly poisons. Isn’t it strange that poison should be so beneficial externally? But what was I saying? Oh yes, the vibrations. I was reading in the paper only the other day that they were responsible for the heavy rain we’ve been having lately. That seems to prove my point. It shows that they are, well, about. And Dr. Lewis tells me there is a distinct condition known as gun headache. Of course the root cause of the whole thing is nerve exhaustion. That’s always been my trouble, Arthur dear, sheer nerve exhaustion.”

“Yes, mother,” he agreed in a low voice.

There was another slight pause, then she began to talk again. For half an hour she talked of her own condition, then raising her hand suddenly to her head she begged him to leave the room as he was tiring her. He obeyed in silence. Fifteen minutes later as he came back along the corridor he heard the loud sound of her snoring.

The sense of being isolated in his own trouble grew upon Arthur as the days passed, the sense of being cut off from the other people, almost of being outcast. Instinctively he began to curtail the sphere of his activities. He went out only to his work, and even there he caught strange glances directed towards him — from Armstrong and Hudspeth, from certain of the men. In the streets on his way to and from the Neptune abuse was frequently shouted after him. His differences with his father were common knowledge and were attributed to his refusal to join up. Barras had not hesitated to define his views openly; his firm and patriotic attitude was applauded on all sides; he was considered to be doing a fine thing in refusing to allow his natural feeling to interfere with his sense of what was due in this great national emergency. It paralysed Arthur to realise that the whole town was watching the conflict between his father and himself.

During February things steadily got worse, then in the middle of March the Sleescale Tribunal came into action. The Tribunal was made up of five members, James Ramage, Bates the draper, old Murchison, the Rev. Enoch Low of New Bethel Street Chapel and Richard Barras, who, by a unanimous vote, was elected Chairman. Besides these five there was the Military Representative, Captain Douglas from Tynecastle Barracks, a standing Counsel on behalf of the Army authorities. Rutter, the clerk to the Sleescale Town Council, acted as clerk to the Tribunal.