A Song of Sixpence (37 page)

A sensation of unutterable consternation left me dumb. All sorts of weird contingencies flashed through my mind. Would that booking clerk allow us to stay in the station waiting-room, or could we perhaps find some sort of shelter in the local park? Then I saw her look of collapse as she stood with one hand pressed against her side. I knew that she must find a room in a hotel.

The hotel in the main square behind the fairground, despite Terry's slighting comment, had seemed altogether reputable. I took Nora by the arm—she now seemed incapable of voluntary movement—and brought her down the street to the square. The hotel had a sign: The Berwick Cockle. Streams of boisterous country folk were moving in and out yet I managed to steer Nora through the crush into the red-carpeted hall. After the street it seemed a blessed sanctuary. But the man in the little glass office scarcely looked at us. The hotel was full, he said, full to the doors, they had been turning people away all day.

We went out. Across the square was a much smaller inn, the Masons' Arms. Leaving Nora outside, with instructions not to move, I squeezed my way into the crowded, smoke-filled lobby. It was packed with groups of men standing with glasses in their hands, laughing and talking at the pitch of their lungs. No one took the least notice of me. I spoke to several men, asking for the office, before one pointed with his pipe to a plump, yellow-haired woman in a black dress whom, from her general air of sociability, I had assumed to be part of this convivial gathering. I pushed my way towards her and with some difficulty succeeded in catching her eye. She had a red, amiable face that encouraged me. But my heart sank as she shook her head.

‘You'll not find a room in Berwick tonight, lad. Not one.'

‘Is there no place you can think of?' I pleaded. ‘Anywhere at all.'

‘You might try Spittal, across the river,' she said doubtfully.

‘There's a pub there, just over the bridge, called the Drovers' Rest. They might give you a bed.'

‘How do I get there?'

‘Turn second on the right. Down Cooper's Alley. It's just over the old bridge.'

Outside again, I took Nora's arm. She was silent, unresistant, almost lost, hand still pressed against her side. The town was now in a ferment, crowds milling in the square, the fair in full swing, music from the roundabouts splitting the night air. Twice I took the wrong turning and had to get back to the main street but in the end I found Cooper's Alley. And there at the foot of the hill was the river, dark and smooth, rushing out with the tide. We crossed a narrow humpbacked bridge and came to Spittal village. Here a merciful sense of quiet prevailed, a smell of seaweed and the blessed coolness of salt air. The masts of fishing smacks stood out against the glare of Berwick as I helped Nora along the cobbled quay.

Quite soon we came to the Drovers' Rest. It was an old brick building, poorly lit and with few signs of accommodation. With nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary public house it did not give me much hope. Inside we were faced with a narrow stone passage that led to the bar. The sounds of voices, raised in discussion, emerged. I did not want to take Nora there. On the right was a door marked
Private.
I knocked, and presently an old man appeared. He was in his slippers, wearing a long knitted blue spencer and he had in his hand a dog-eared copy of
Chambers' Journal.
So overstrained were my sensibilities, I registered these unessential details as, simultaneously, desperately, I burst out:

‘We've been to the Sports and missed our train home. Please give my cousin a room. She's not feeling well. I'll sleep any-where you like.'

While, with palpitating heart, I held out the Gladstone bag conspicuously as evidence of our respectability, he examined us over his spectacles. He glanced from one to the other of us and I knew in my bones that he was about to refuse. I saw it in his face.

Just then a woman came out of the bar. She was about thirty, plainly dressed in a blouse and skirt, carrying an empty tray under her arm. She had a decent, competent look.

‘What's the rub, Father?' she asked.

‘This pair want a room.'

‘What!' she exclaimed, shocked. ‘Together?'

‘No, m'am,' I burst out. ‘Only for my cousin. I'll walk about outside if you like.'

There was a silence.

‘Ye say you've been to the Sports,' the old man said.

‘Yes, sir.' To authenticate the fact I martyred myself. ‘Harry Purves won the mile.'

The woman had been looking at Nora, then at me.

‘They're all right, Father,' she said suddenly. ‘She can have Number 3, and the boy'll shake down in the boxroom. But no tricks, mind you, or I'll throw you both out myself.'

My chest heaved, I gave a great gasp of relief. Before I could thank her she had gone back into the bar. The old man shuffled into the room and brought out a key. We followed him upstairs where he opened the door of a small single room. It was a poor room, sparsely furnished, with faded wallpaper, and a cracked ewer, but the floor-boards were scrubbed and the bed-linen fresh and clean. Altogether my survey assured me, with relief and pride, that in our extremity I had done well for Nora.

‘You'll sleep well here.' I said, forced to keep my tone impersonal. ‘And be all right in the morning.'

‘Oh yes, thank you, Laurie.' She managed a faint, pale smile. ‘Just to be able to lie down and rest.'

‘Don't you want to leave that with her?' The old man was eyeing the bag, which I still clutched in a permanent spasm.

‘Yes, of course,' I agreed hurriedly, though it was no use to either of us.

I wanted to say more to Nora, beyond everything I longed to kiss those soft blanched lips, gently, with all the tenderness of my loving heart. But the old man still had his eye on us, though now with less suspicion. I simply said good night, and went out of the room with him. As we moved along the passage, I heard the closing of the door.

My futile exertions in that disastrous race and the struggle to find a lodging had left me almost dead with fatigue. The mattress on which I lay, on the floor of the boxroom, was not uncomfortable. Yet I couldn't sleep. Round and round, inextricably tangled, the events of this most unnatural day kept spinning inside my head. What a fool I had been, what a
soft mark
, so easily, willingly duped, flattered into the belief that I was a paragon who must win today. And what ironic diversion my idiotic credulity must have afforded Terence and Donohue as, from that first farcical trial at the Harp football ground, they led me on, with serious faces, stuffing me for the slaughter. Why did I lack the common sense to see that while I might run well enough for my age, competition against seasoned professionals who habitually made the rounds of all the Border sports was lunacy? From the beginning it had been a hoax and it ended as a swindle. Donohue had planted the paragraph in the local paper and by offering excessive odds against me, had cashed in heavily on my defeat. If only I had won, and made him pay out five times over, ruined him in fact, what a triumph it would have been, not for me alone but for Nora too, since from her own words, I knew that she must hate him. But that, like most other things I had wanted in my life, was beyond me, an achievement realized only in my dreams, never by accomplishment.

Tortured by my own inadequacy I turned restlessly on the mattress. It was evident that I had been born to fail and to be imposed upon. A sudden recollection, as from a distant world, of the Ellison added to my distress, less on account of the difficulty in getting to the University on Monday—the early train would be in Winton at least by noon—than from the settled conviction that, as I had failed in the race, I would fail there too. Pin had led me on, not like Donohue, but from the best motives, merely to improve the standard of my education.

At this point, I drifted into a troubled sleep, but not for long. Suddenly my brain snapped back to consciousness with the startled impression that someone was calling my name. I raised myself on my elbow, listening in the darkness. Sounds from the bar beneath and the distant hum of the fair in Berwick both had ceased. The faint scratching of a mouse somewhere in the room intensified the stillness. I was about to lie down again, convinced that I was mistaken, when again I fancied I heard someone call.

I jumped up, knocking my shins hard on the sharp of an unseen object, and felt my way to the door. Undecided, I stood there, listening with my ear against the panel, but hearing nothing. Yet if someone had called me it could only be Nora. Guardedly I opened my door. The corridor was in darkness, but halfway along a faint silver of light showed beneath the door of her room.

I had not undressed, having merely taken off my jacket and my boots. Now, moving softly in my socks, I advanced to the lighted door and tapped on it with a finger-nail. There was no response.

‘Nora,' I whispered. ‘Are you there?'

Her voice came back to me, indistinctly yet with an unmistakable appeal. I turned the handle and went in.

She was lying sideways on the bed with nothing on but her chemise, which had rucked up above her knees. Her eyes were shut and her hands half clenched. The sheets and blankets of the bed, tumbled in a heap, were bunched in disorder on the floor. Worst of all was the strained, sunken greyness of her face. She looked older, almost ugly, scarcely recognizable.

‘Nora,' I faltered. ‘You called me.'

She half opened her eyes.

‘I couldn't stand it alone any longer. I've such a pain.'

‘Where, Nora?'

She made a gesture towards her stomach, but lower. She was obviously in severe pain. A fear that had hovered in the back of my mind during the day now took formidable shape. I might be a fool and a failure but, thank God, I had enough sense to know about appendicitis. I went forward to the bed.

‘Do you still feel sick?'

‘Yes. I feel awful.'

‘Nora.' I tried not to alarm her. ‘We'll have to get help.'

Still pressing her side, she did not answer. I took her free hand. It was hot, the palm moist with sweat.

‘We've got to find out, it's dangerous not to. You must have the doctor.'

‘Oh, not yet.' She gasped in another spasm. ‘ We'll wait for a bit.'

‘We must,' I pleaded.

‘It's the middle of the night. You'll get no one to come. I'd rather stick it out by myself. Just stay with me.'

‘But, Nora …' I broke off, aghast that she wouldn't let me go for assistance.

‘Please stay. If only you'll get me up to walk about the room, that might get rid of the pain.'

She raised herself on one elbow and put her other arm on my shoulders. While I supported her, I was conscious of a bad, unhealthy smell in the room. Then I noticed that the Gladstone bag was open and empty. My white singlet and shorts were lying, sodden and terribly soiled, a dirty brownish colour, in the corner.

I thought she had been sick on them and that decided me. I put her back on the pillow. Without a word I went out and downstairs to the room marked
Private.
I knocked hard on the door, then, as no one answered, I turned the handle and went into the room, found the switch and put on the light. I was in a small comfortably furnished sitting-room. A clock, ticking on the mantelpiece, caught my eye. The time was half past two o'clock in the morning. Another door, almost hidden by a curtain, led me into the kitchen where, starting up from its basket before the red embers of a fire, a small dog began to bark and growl at me. Suddenly a sharp voice called out.

‘Who's there?'

I called back, saying who I was, and that I needed help at once. For some minutes nothing happened, then, to my immense relief, the woman, who was the old man's daughter, entered the kitchen. Still tugging at the cord of her wrapper, she quietened the dog and stared at me angrily, her eyes swollen with sleep, her hair, in a thick plait tied at the end with tape, hanging down her back.

‘My cousin's terribly ill and in great pain.' I got it out before she could start on me. ‘I'm sure it's appendicitis.'

This silenced her: she was still angry, but could not quite bring herself to abuse me.

‘Oh, Lord,' she groaned. ‘Why did I ever let you in?'

‘It's awful to have to trouble you. But please come and see her. Or phone for the doctor now.'

Another silence, then she said:

‘I'll have a look at her. Go on, you clown. Don't keep me standing here all night.'

I led the way upstairs and opened the door of Nora's room. The woman went in, at least she paused, one step beyond the threshold. Her gaze took in Nora, the disordered bed, the tumbled blankets, my soiled singlet in the corner, even the half full chamber-pot and some alarming stains on the sheets, which I had not noticed before. Then, in quite a different manner, a voice that suddenly chilled me, she said:

‘Go to your room, you. And don't stir inch out of it till I send for you.' She shut the door in my face.

I could not disobey her, yet, back in the boxroom, I sat close to the door, in the darkness, listening, with every sense quivering and alert, afraid, dreadfully afraid for Nora. I shivered as I thought of her chalk-white face, so drained and sunken. I prayed that the doctor would come quickly. The operation for appendicitis was in itself serious and I knew also that if an inflamed appendix was not quickly removed it would burst, with fatal consequences.

The woman was still in the room with Nora; for perhaps ten minutes she had been there. Suddenly I heard her go downstairs. The boxroom was directly above the lower passage and its old floor-boards bare of any covering. Flattened out and straining my ears, I heard her go into what I guessed was the sitting-room. Almost at once she began to talk and although I could not distinguish the words I gave a quick sigh of relief. She was telephoning for the doctor. This went on for some time and when it ended I heard her come upstairs again.