The Stars Look Down (21 page)

He swallowed hard, choking down his resentment with an
effort. In silence he made the best of “a cup in his hand,” Murchison’s damp seed-cake, stringy shop bread streaked with bought jam. For a split second he couldn’t help thinking of the tea his mother used to set before him when he was working, earning a wage not half what he earned now: a home-baked crusty loaf to hack at will, a big pot of butter, cheese and home-made blueberry jam—bought jam, like bought pastry, was never in Martha’s home. But the very disloyalty of that swift vision brought him swiftly back to Jenny. He smiled tenderly at her.

“In your own inimitable words, Jenny, you’re a scream.”

“Oh, I am, am I? You’re coming round, I see, Mister Man. Well, what’s been happening at the school to-day?”

“Nothing much, Jenny, darling.”

“It’s always nothing much!”

“Well, Jenny…”

“Well, what?”

“Oh, nothing, dear.”

He filled his pipe slowly. How could he tell her the dull tale of his struggle and rebuffs. Some might like that, but not Jenny. She expected some glittering story of success, of how the head master had commended him, of a dazzling stroke which would bring him quick promotion. He didn’t want to upset her. And he couldn’t lie to her.

A short silence followed, then, lightly she switched to another perilous topic.

“Tell me, then. Have you made up your mind about Arthur Barras?”

“Well… I’m not eager to take him on.”

“But it’s such a chance,” she protested. “To think you were asked by Mr. Barras himself.”

He answered shortly:

“I think I’ve had too much to do with Barras. I don’t like him. I’m sorry in a way I ever wrote to him. It’s hateful to feel that I’m indebted to him for my job.”

“You’re so stupid, David. He’s got such influence. I think it’s splendid he should have an interest in you, asking you to tutor his son.”

“I don’t take it as an interest. He’s a man I’ve no time for, Jenny. It’s merely an attempt to make his benevolence convincing.”

“And who should he want to convince?”

Quite sharply he answered:

“Himself!”

Pause. She had no idea what he meant. The fact was that Barras, meeting David in Cowpen Street on the previous Saturday, had stopped him with an air of patronage, questioned him with an aloof interest and finally asked him to come to the Law three nights a week to brush up Arthur’s mathematics. Arthur was weak in mathematics, and would need tuition before he could sit the final examination for his certificate.

Jenny tossed her head.

“I don’t think,” she informed him, “that you know what you’re talking about.” She looked for a minute as if she might add something. But she said no more, and in a huff gathered together the tea things, carried them out of the room.

Silence in the little room with the new wood fire and the new wood furniture. Then David got up, laid his books out upon the table, stirred up the fire with the poker. He made an effort. Deliberately he closed his mind to the Barras affair and sat down to work.

He was behind the schedule he had mapped out for himself and it worried him. Somehow he did not find the opportunities for study he had expected. Teaching was hard, much harder than he had imagined. He was often tired when he came home; he was tired to-night; and distractions had a way of cropping up. He gritted his teeth, propped his head up with both hands, fastened his attention firmly upon Jusserand. He must, he simply must work for this confounded B.A.: it was the only way to get on; to lift up Jenny and himself.

For half an hour he worked splendidly, undisturbed. Then Jenny slipped in and perched herself upon the arm of his chair. She was repentant for her petulance, kittenish, coy.

“David, dear,” she slipped her arm round his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was cross, really I am. I’ve had such a dull day, p’raps that’s why I’ve been looking forward to to-night ever and ever so much.”

He half-smiled, pressed his cheek against her round young breast, his eyes still firmly upon the book.

“You weren’t cross and it is dull for you.”

She stroked the back of his head, coaxing.

“It has really been dull, David. I’ve hardly spoken to a soul but old Mr. Murchison in the stores and the woman where I priced some silk, oh, and one or two people who came to the door. I… I was thinking we might go out to-night to cheer ourselves up.”

“But I’ve got to work, Jenny. You know that as well as I do.” Eyes still fastened upon the book.

“Oh… you haven’t always got to bury yourself in these stupid old books, David. You can take to-night off… you can work some other time.”

“No, honestly, Jenny, it’s important.”

“Oh, you could, David, you could if you wanted to.”

Astounded, perplexed, he lifted his eyes at last and studied her for a moment.

“But where on earth can you want to go to? It’s cold and wet outside. Home’s the best place.”

She had it all ready, arranged, carefully planned. She brought it out with a rush.

“We could take the train to Tynecastle; the six-ten. There’s a popular concert in the Eldon Hall, something really nice. I looked up the paper and some of the Whitley Bay entertainers are to be there; that’s what they do in the winter, you know. There’s Colin Loveday, for instance, he’s got such a lovely tenor. The tickets only cost one and three, so the money’s nothing. Oh, do let’s go, David, we’ll have a lovely time. I’ve been so down, I do want a bit of a fling. Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud.”

There was a short silence. He did not wish to be an old stick-in-the-mud. He was tired, obsessed by the necessity for study; it was, as he had said, a wet, inhospitable night outside; the concert did not attract him. Suddenly an idea, a grand idea, struck him. His eyes lit up:

“Listen, Jenny! How about this! I’ll take to-night off, like you suggest. I’ll run up and fetch down Sam and Hughie. We’ll bank up the fire, make a hot-pot supper and play rummy. Talk about your entertainers… they’re not in the hunt with Sam. Our Sammy’s the best you ever heard, he’ll keep you in stitches all the time.” It honestly was, he felt, a great idea: he had been worried over his estrangement from his family, he wanted to be one with his brothers again, this was a marvellous opportunity to break the ice. But as his face brightened, Jenny’s fell.

“No,” she said coldly, “I wouldn’t like that at all. Your family hasn’t treated me right, David. I’ll not have them make a back door of my house.”

Another silence. He compressed his lips firmly. He felt that she was unreasonable and unjust, it was not fair to ask him to go into Tynecastle on a night like this. He would not go.
Suddenly he saw tears rise smarting to her eyes. That did it. He could not bully her into tears.

He sighed, rose up, closed the book.

“Right, Jenny. Let’s got to the concert then if you feel you’d like it.”

She gave a little trill of delight, clapped her hands, kissed him excitedly.

“You are nice, David darling, really you are! Now you wait a minute, I’ll run up and put on my hat. I won’t be long, we’ve plenty of time to catch the train.”

While she was upstairs he went into the kitchen and cut himself a wedge of bread and cheese. He ate this slowly, staring into the fire: Jenny, he reflected with a wry smile, had probably made up her mind to drag him to the concert days ago.

He had just finished eating when a knock came to the back door. Surprised, he opened it.

“Why, Sammy,” he exclaimed delightedly. “You old dog.”

Sammy, with the hardy grin irremovably fixed on his pale healthy face, rolled into the kitchen.

“Me and Annie was just passin’,” he announced, not—despite the grin—without a certain shyness. “I jest thought I’d look ye up.”

“That’s great, Sammy. But, man… where’s Annie?”

Sam jerked his head towards the outer darkness. The etiquette was perfect. Annie was waiting outside. Annie knew her place. Annie was not sure of her welcome. David saw it all: the obscure figure of Annie Macer strolling quietly, contentedly, outside the house waiting until she be judged worthy to enter. He cried instantly:

“Tell her to come in at once, you big idiot. Go on! Fetch her in this minute.”

Sammy’s grin broadened.

Then Jenny, all dressed to go out, walked into the room. Sammy, on his way to the door, hesitated, not quite sure, gazing at Jenny, who advanced on him with her best company manners.

“This is a great pleasure,” Jenny remarked, smiling ever so politely. “And such a stranger too. What a shame you’ve caught David and me just going out.”

“But Sammy’s dropped in to see us, Jenny,” David broke in. “And he’s brought Annie. She’s outside.”

Jenny’s eyebrows went up; she paused for just the appropriate time; smiled sweetly at Sam.

“Isn’t that a pity! Too bad, really it is, that you should have caught us on the way to the concert. We’ve promised to meet some friends in Tynecastle and really we couldn’t disappoint them. You must look in another time.”

Sammy clung tenaciously to his grin.

“Ah, that’s all right. Annie and me never have much to do. We can come any old time.”

“You’re not to go, Sammy,” burst out David. “Fetch Annie in. And both of you stop and have a cup of tea.”

Jenny threw a pained look towards the clock.

“Not at all, lad.” Sammy was already on his way to the door. “Aw wouldna stop you an’ the missus from goin’ out for anything. Annie an’ me’ll just take a stroll up the Avenue. Good night to ye both.”

Right to the end Sammy’s grin persisted; but beneath it, David saw that Sammy was bitterly hurt. Out Sammy would go to Annie and mutter:

“Come on, lass, we’re not good enough for the likes o’ them. Since our Davey’s turned schoolmaster he fancies himself too much, I’m thinking.”

David winced, tom between his desire to run after Sammy and his promise to take Jenny to the concert. But Sammy was already gone.

Jenny and David caught the six-ten for Tynecastle, a slow, crowded train which stopped at every station. They went to the Eldon Hall. The tickets cost two shillings each, the cheaper seats being filled when they reached the hall. They sat through three hours of steamy performance.

Jenny adored it, clapping with the rest for encores, but to David it was ghastly. He tried not to be superior; tried hard to like it; but the entire concert party defeated him. Oh! They’re first rate, Jenny kept breathing enthusiastically. But they were not first rate. They were fourth rate: the leftovers from holiday pierrot troupes, the comedian relying mainly upon his mother-in-law and Colin Loveday upon a fruity vibrato and a hand laid soulfully upon his heart. David thought of Sally’s little performance in the parlour of Scottswood Road, so vastly superior to this; he thought of his books lying unopened; he thought of Sammy and Annie Macer strolling arm in arm down the Avenue.

When the performance was over Jenny nestled up to him as they came out of the hall.

“It’s an hour till the last train, David; we must take that, it’s such a quick one… first stop Sleescale. Let’s run round
to the Percy Grill for something. Joe always used to take me there. Only a port or that, we can’t wait at the station.”

At the Percy they each had a port. Jenny was delighted to be back, recognised familiar faces, chaffed the napkin-stuffed waiter whom, recalling a joke of the red-nosed comedian, she called Chawles.

“A scream, wasn’t he?” she added, giggling.

The port made things a little different for David, outlines less incisive, colours rosier, atmosphere a trifle hazy. He smiled across at Jenny.

“You’re a reckless imp,” he said, “and what an influence on a poor man! I see I shall have to take to coaching young Barras after all.”

“That’s the way to look at it, darling.” She approved warmly, instantly. She enticed him with her eyes, pressed her knee against his under the table. And with a gay daring she ordered Chawles to bring her another port.

After that they had to run quickly for the train. Quickly, quickly, they caught it in a whirl, flung themselves into an empty smoker.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” Jenny giggled, panting. “That was a scream, David darling, wasn’t it now?” She paused, recovered her breath, saw that they were alone, remembered with a queer catch deep down in her that the train did not stop until Sleescale… another half-hour at least. She liked queer places, always had, even with Joe. Suddenly she snuggled up close to him: “You’ve been so good to me, David, I can’t thank you enough. Pull down the blinds, David… it’s cosier that way.”

He looked at her doubtfully, closely, as she lay in his arms; her eyes were shut—under the lids they seemed full; her pale lips were moist and a little apart as if vaguely smiling; her breath held the generous fume of port; her body was soft and very warm.

“Go on,” she murmured. “Pull down the blinds.
All
the blinds.”

“No, Jenny… wait, Jenny…”

The train jolted a little; shook up and down as it took some point on the track. He rose and pulled down all the blinds.

“That’s wonderful, David.”

Afterwards she lay against him; she fell asleep; she snored gently. He stared straight in front of him, a curious look upon his set face. The carriage reeked of stale pipes, port
and engine smoke; someone had thrown orange peel upon the floor. Outside it was black as pitch. The wind howled, battered the heavy rain against the carriage window. The train thundered on.

At the beginning of April, when David had been coaching Arthur Barras at the Law for close on three months, he received a message from his father. Harry Kinch, a small boy from the Terraces, brother of that little Alice who had died of pneumonia nearly seven years before, brought the note to David at New Bethel Street school one morning.
Dear David will you come up the Wansbeck—trouting Saturday yours Dad.
It was clumsily written in copying-ink pencil on the inside of an old envelope.

David was deeply touched. His father still wished to go fishing with him as in those days when he had taken him, a little boy, up the Wansbeck stream! The thought made him happy. For ten days Robert had been out the pit with a flare-up of tubercular pleurisy—he passed it off lightly as “inflammation”—but he was up now and about. Saturday would be his last free day; he wished David to spend it with him. The invitation came like a peace offering straight from his father’s heart.