A Song of Sixpence (25 page)

For more than the specified time we tacked monotonously up and down outside the harbour. My captors had practically no English but they had the Gaelic and in this, to me, outlandish tongue they conversed continuously in low derisive voices, gazing from me to the castle, then back again to me. Although I could not understand a word of their ghastly lingo I sweated with shame, fully aware that they were discussing me, my correct attire, my pallid looks which, because of the movement of the boat, betrayed that I was on the verge of nausea, above all—and this was the hardest to bear—the obvious beastly reason why I had been shanghaied by the
gentlemans
.

At last there came a hail from the beach. The despicable couple had reappeared, and with a final sadistic tack into the wind to prolong my misery, I was returned to the harbour.

‘Have a good time, old chap?'

‘Yes, thank you.' I met his ingratiating gaze with a prim unsmiling politeness I had resolved to assume.

Mother, who seemed flushed and agitated, was looking at me nervously yet with an earnestness that told me her one desire was to make up with me.

‘I don't think you'd have liked the castle, dear.'

‘I don't think I should.'

‘It was very old.'

‘It looks old.'

‘And damp.'

‘I thought it might be.'

‘You weren't too cold on the water?'

‘Not at all, thank you.'

‘Were the boys nice?'

‘Delightful.'

There was an awkward pause before our unnatural dialogue could be resumed.

‘Well,' exclaimed Sommen, with an effort at heartiness, ‘it's about time we were off. I'll go and dig the cabby out of the pub.'

On the way up from the pier Mother tried to take my arm but I pretended to stumble and kept away from her.

We got into the carriage and drove off. Up on the box again I decided that neither of them were quite themselves. Something undoubtedly had happened. Even now they were unusually silent. Was this an omen favourable to me? I longed to turn round but pride forbade me, though I kept my ears well cocked. And still they weren't speaking, no, not a word. They've quarrelled, I thought, with a surge of joy. I could resist no longer. Cautiously moving my head I squinted over my shoulder. The cigarette-maker, leaning towards Mother, with an arm round her waist, was kissing her. Oh, God, my own mother spooning in the open, in full public view, with that cad … I nearly fell off the box.

When we got back to the boarding-house I removed myself in silence and went directly to my room. I was seated on the edge of my bed staring at the faded roses on the wallpaper when I heard the handle of the door turn and hesitantly, almost timidly, Mother came in. She sat down beside me and put an arm round my shoulders. From her manner, her apologetic caress, I thought for one wild moment that she had repented and was going to ask my forgiveness for the injury she had done, not to me alone, but to our love. Instead she said:

‘Laurence, dear. Charley … Mr Sommen has asked me to marry him.'

I did not answer for some time. Shock had silenced me. I felt a fearful burning in my heart that made me want to cry out, abjectly: ‘Don't, Mother, I beg of you, for pity's sake. You know we have always been together, how much we mean to one another. Don't, please don't let anyone come between us.'

But the vision of that hateful public embrace choked back the words. It hardened me.

‘And will you?' I said coldly.

‘I think I should, dear.'

‘Why?' My tone was slightly contemptuous. ‘Are you what's called in love with him?'

‘I like him, dear. And I think he is in love with me. Of course, he's a queer sort of chap, not altogether what you might call a … well, the sort of person you're used to, but he's generous and kind. He's so gay too, and that's good for me. He's got a good heart. Besides, it would be so much better, for our future, yours as well as mine. It's been hard for me, trying to keep things going, alone. This way, we wouldn't have to separate, you needn't go to Uncle Leo. We could be together, in London. Charley, Mr Sommen, says there are all sorts of good schools for you there. He likes you, dear.'

‘I don't want him to like me. I hate him.' I disengaged myself from her arm, and although my breast was torn with wounded love, I stared at her cruelly. ‘He's an utter bounder, an absolute outsider, a common masher. What's come over you, a woman of your refinement! Baillie Nicol says he's nothing but a counter-jumping cockney. I suppose you know that the whole boarding-house is talking about the way you're behaving, and how silly you are, running after a man younger than yourself, and all heated up about it.'

‘Laurence!'

‘And what do you really know about him beyond the fact that he's got a cigarette factory and flings his money around like a would be lord? Two weeks ago you didn't even know he existed. And what have you told him about us? Is he aware that we're practically in the poorhouse?'

‘I won't have you speak to me like that.' She had drawn back to the end of the bed and was facing me with a look of pained anger. ‘Mr Sommen would never dream of asking me about our circumstances.'

‘Well, he as good as asked me,' I sneered. ‘Not long after we came he tried to pump me about Father's business. I bragged of course, and said Father had built up the finest yeast agency in Scotland. So he probably thinks the sweet, soft little widow is rolling. And that's why he's swarming all over you.' My voice broke suddenly. ‘I saw him in the carriage, the vulgar cad.'

Provoked beyond endurance, Mother gave a little moan and struck me a ringing box on the ear that almost knocked me off the bed. We stared at each other in a terrible silence. I could not remember that she had ever hit me before.

‘You're a wicked boy,' she gasped. ‘A wicked, wicked boy. Trying to spoil the one little bit of happiness I've had since your father died. And in spite of all you say, and all the fibs you tell, I'll do exactly as I please.'

I stood up. Through the singing in my head I shouted:

‘Go ahead and do it, then. I'm only warning you. You'll be sorry.'

I walked straight out of the house, my ear burning and hurting like mad, and although I hated the place now, somehow I found myself at the pool. I sat down on a rock, and clamped my head between my fists. This woman, sole possessor of my heart, whom I had loved exclusively from the moment I first opened my infant eyes, or perhaps when first she offered me her breast, had betrayed me. My immediate impulse was to desert her, to inquire the road to Winton of the first amiable stranger and set out by forced marches for Uncle Leo who, after all, expected me. Yet there was a flaw in this course of action that held me back. I wanted justice, and more, I wanted revenge. Revenge on Mother and on this … this mountebank—the word consoled me slightly—who had supplanted me. If only there was someone to whom I could turn for help. I racked my brains, dismissing one after another the Carroll relations, all uninterested, inept. I even considered the possibilities of Baillie Nicol. And then I thought of Stephen—safe, sure, reliable, Stephen could always be depended on. And Stephen, now established at the Ministry of Labour, was in London.

The possibilities of my idea sent a shiver down my spine. I bounded to my feet. Hurrying back to Ardshiel I begged some notepaper from Miss Ailie, then locked myself in my room. Stretched out on the floor I took a pencil and dashed off a letter to Stephen. Within half an hour I had posted it in the town. I even remembered to send it express.

When all this had been accomplished, a sudden calm descended upon me, perhaps the realization that, whatever the outcome, I had displayed determination and resource. In the days that followed I maintained a steady reserve. Although I watched ‘them' secretly at meal-times, I assumed indifference, and when they went off on their excursions I no longer shadowed them, I could afford to wait. On several occasions Mother attempted to reopen the matter, and to break down the barrier I had erected but always without success. I refused to allow myself to be cajoled.

Yet I was anxious, beneath these pretences, and as time drew on with no word or apparent sign of action from Stephen, my nervousness increased. Ardshiel, being some distance from the centre of the town, was served by only one delivery of mail and every afternoon towards three o'clock I hung about the porch, waiting for the postman. At last, one wet afternoon, a letter was handed to me. Yes, it was stamped with the London postmark. Feverishly. I locked myself in the downstairs lavatory and tore it open.

Dear Laurence
,

It was extremely awkward for me to take time off but, as I judged your letter important, I have done so.

The telephone directory revealed five Sommens, of whom one was listed as Tobacconist & Newsagent, at 1026a, The Mile End Road, E.C. I thereupon took a bus to that unsalubrious quarter—not quite a slum, but almost. The shop proved to be a small drab affair, newspapers, including racing sheets, on one side, cigarettes on the other. I entered and bought—guess what?—the News of the World! I was served by an elderly arthritic dame in a worn spencer, buttoned up to the neck. In the back shop a girl—dark, untidy hair, wearing a grubby overall—was rolling cigarettes on a small hand machine. Emerging, I entered the nearest pub—very near, three doors down, where information was readily forthcoming.

The father is dead, the business, negligible and declining, kept going, barely, by the widow. There are three daughters, one of whom is the cigarette maker. Father had some connections for this brand, now practically nil. Debts were mentioned. Mother, girls and son all live above the shop.

The son, your man, takes no part in the business, is described as a good sort, generous, would do anything for a pal, but flashy, a fancy dresser, and soft. Bit of a singer and performs at ‘smokers'. Likes to bet, which he does with occasional success, and when he pulls something off, takes a holiday in style. His job—he is a waiter at the Metropolitan Sporting Club in the West End.

I trust this information will quash the incipient romance. Give my love to your mother and tell her please not to be foolish.

Yours
,
Stephen

A thrill of fearful joy electrified me. Holding my breath I stared at the damning words—a waiter at the Metropolitan—then, unbolting the door, I rushed towards the staircase. I could not wait an instant before avenging myself for all I had, suffered by delivering this fatal blow, not only to my mother's hopes, but to her pride.

During the past two days of rain Mother had drawn more within herself, resting and reading in her room after lunch. I knew that she was there now. A cruel, an unholy triumph intoxicated me, sent the blood rushing to my head as I knocked at her door, with the letter in my hand.

‘Come in.'

She was not reading, but standing at the window, wearing that look of abstraction, a kind of meditative sadness, which, in later years, came over her more and more. She half turned, ventured a smile.

‘Mother …' I went forward. Her expression, tender and, for some reason, forgiving, unnerved me. Not only that, before I could prevent her she actually took my hand and pressed it against her cheek. Yet I was not to be deterred by such sentimental tricks. I was trembling now and sweating all over, but I made myself go on. ‘There's something I have to show you …'

‘Yes, Laurie, dear.'

Still holding my hand she was again looking out and down. Instinctively my gaze followed hers. A station cab stood at the front door and luggage was being heaped upon its roof. Then, hurriedly, bent as if to avoid the plashing rain, a figure, familiar though untartaned, emerged from the porch and dived into the cab. The door slammed, the cabby mounted the box and drove off.

There was a mortal silence in that little bedroom.

‘He's gone?' I stammered.

She nodded slowly and turned to me.

‘I've sent him away.'

‘Why?'

‘There was your father, Laurence. And now there's you. I suddenly discovered there wasn't room for anyone else.'

Something in my throat tied itself into a knot so that I could not speak or swallow. I stared at her, then in my free hand I crushed the letter to shapeless pulp and blindly flung myself upon her breast.

The habitat of my Uncle Leo was a four-storey warehouse somewhat peculiarly named Templar's Hall and situated in that unsalubrious district of Winton known as the Gorbielaw. The building, which occupied one comer of two mean, narrow cobbled streets, was old and in poor repair with the side windows plastered over and painted a dingy black, but as it stood in the centre of the city, adjacent to Argyle Street and convenient for the docks, it presumably had for my uncle advantages of a commercial nature. As a residence it had less to offer. The top floor, consisting of a long dark passage with a great many rooms opening off on either side, served as the living quarters. However, as I had arrived late the night before I had as yet no idea of the nature of these rooms, only that my own, furnished with an iron bed, a washstand and a burst cane chair, was at the far end of the corridor, and the kitchen, where a sort of general servant to my uncle, Annie Tobin, had given me bread and cheese for my supper, at the other.

I had slept intermittently, disturbed by the clanging of the Argyle Street trams and by an unmanly heartache for my mother, whom I had seen off at the Central Station on the previous afternoon. The prospect of a separation for at least a year—despite Mother's assertion that it would quickly pass—had made it a difficult parting. But the morning brought the promise of new experiences. I got up, washed and dressed, then, opening my door, moved circumspectly in search of breakfast.

Mrs Tobin stood at the kitchen stove. She was a shapeless woman of about fifty-five with a bright-red face, pitted by acne, small deep-set blue eyes and wild grey hair that seemed to be standing on end. An old brown wrapper was tied about her middle. Scuffed carpet slippers adorned her feet.