Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
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Contents
A. J. Cronin
Book One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Book Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Book Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
A. J. Cronin
The Green Years
Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatter’s Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.
Book One
Chapter One
Holding Mama’s hand tightly, I came out of the dark arches of the railway station and into the bright streets of the strange town. I was inclined to trust Mama, whom, until to-day, I had never seen before and whose worn, troubled face with faded blue eyes bore no resemblance to my mother’s face. But in spite of the bar of cream chocolate which she had got me from the automatic machine, she had so far failed to inspire me with affection. During the slow journey from Winton, seated opposite me in the third-class compartment, wearing a shabby grey dress pinned with a large cairngorm brooch, a thin necklet of fur, and a black-winged hat which drooped over her ear, she had gazed out of the window, her head to one side, her lips moving as she maintained a silent yet emotional conversation with herself, from time to time touching the corner of her eye with her handkerchief as though removing a fly.
But now that we were out of the train she made an effort to put away her mood; she smiled at me and pressed my hand.
“You’re a good man not to cry any more. Do you think you can walk to the house? It’s not too far.”
Anxious to please, I replied that I could walk, so we did not take the solitary cab which stood outside the arches, but set off down the High Street, Mama attempting to interest me in the points of importance which we passed.
The pavement kept lifting and falling; the rough seas of the Irish Channel were still pounding in my head; I felt a little deaf from the thrumming of the Viper’s propellers. But opposite a handsome building, with polished granite pillars, set back from the street behind two iron cannon and a flagstaff, I heard her say, with gentle pride:
“These are the Levenford Municipal Offices, Robert. Mr. Leckie … Papa … works there, in charge of the Health Department.”
“Papa,” I thought, giddily. “ That is Mama’s husband … my mother’s father.”
My footsteps were already flagging and Mama was looking at me with solicitude.
“It’s too bad the trams are off to-day,” she said.
I was much more tired than I had thought; and rather frightened. The town, harshly lit by the grey September afternoon, was full of cobblestones and sounds far less reassuring than the familiar, steady hum of traffic flowing past the open window of my home in Phœnix Terrace. A great ra-ta-tap of hammers came from the Shipyard, and from the Boilerworks, which Mama pointed out with a cracked gloved finger, there arose terrifying spurts of flame and steam. They were re-laying tramway lines in the street. At the corners little gusts of wind eddied up the dust into my swollen eyes, started off my cough.
Presently, however, we left the noise and confusion behind, crossed an open common with a pond and a circular bandstand, entered a quiet suburb which seemed part of a small country village very pleasantly situated beneath a wooded hill. Here were trees and green fields, a few old-fashioned little shops and cottages, a smithy with a horses’ drinking trough outside, and prim new villas with painted cast-iron railings, neat flower beds, and proud titles like HELENSVILLE and GLENELG lettered in gilt on the coloured glass fanlights above the front doors.
We stopped at last, halfway along Drumbuck Road, before a tall semi-detached house of grey sandstone with yellow lace window curtains and the name LOMOND VIEW. It was the least imposing of the houses in the quiet street—only the facings of the doors and windows were of masoned stone, the rest had been left rough, an appearance vaguely unprosperous, yet redeemed by a front garden surprisingly aglow with yellow chrysanthemums.
“Here we are, then, Robert.” Mrs. Leckie addressed me in that same tone of anxious welcome, heightened by a sense of arrival. “A beautiful view of the Ben we get on a clear day. We’re nice and near Drumbuck village too. Levenford’s a smoky old town but there’s lovely country round about. Wipe your eyes, there’s a dear, and come away in.”
I had lost my handkerchief throwing biscuits to the gulls, but I followed obediently round the side of the house, my heart throbbing anew with the dread of things unknown. The matronly yet misguided words of our Dublin neighbour, Mrs. Chapman, as she kissed me goodbye that morning at the Winton docks, before surrendering me to Mama, rang in my ears: “What’ll happen to you next, poor boy?”
At the back door Mama paused: a young man of about nineteen, working on his knees in a newly turned flower plot, had risen at our approach, still holding a trowel. He had a ponderous and stolid air, heightened by a pale complexion, a bush of black hair, and large thick spectacles which condensed his nearsighted eyes.
“You’re at it again, Murdoch.” Mama could not restrain an exclamation of gentle reproach. Then, bringing me forward: “ This is Robert.”
Murdoch continued to gaze at me heavily, framed by the trim back-green with iron clothes poles at the corners—a bed of rhubarb at one side; on the other, a rockery of honeycombed grey lava, spread with soot to kill the slugs. At last, with great solemnity, he expressed his thought.
“Well, well! So this is him, at last.”
Mama nodded, nervous sadness again touching her eyes; and a moment later Murdoch held out to me, almost dramatically, a large hand, encrusted and stiff with good earth.
“I’m glad to meet you, Robert. You can depend on me.” He turned his big lens
es earnestly upon Mama. “ It’s just these asters I got given me from the Nursery, Mama. They didn’t cost a thing.”
“Well anyway, dear,” Mama said, turning, “see you’re washed up before Papa comes in. You know how it riles him to catch you out here.”
“I’m just finishing. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Preparing to kneel again, Murdoch further reassured his mother as she led me through the doorway. “I set the potatoes to boil for you, Mama.”
We passed through the scullery to the kitchen—arranged as a living-room with uncomfortable carved mahagony furniture, and diced varnished wallpaper which reflected the furious echoes of a “waggity” clock. Having told me to sit down and rest, Mama removed the long pins from her hat and held them in her mouth while she folded her veil. She then pinned hat and veil together, hung them with her coat in the curtained recess and, putting on a blue wrapper that hung behind the door, began with greater confidence to move to and fro over the worn brown linoleum, giving me soft encouraging looks while I sat, stiff and scarcely breathing in this alien house, on the edge of a horsehair-covered chair beside the range.
“We’re having our dinner in the evening, dear, seeing I was away. When Papa comes in, try and not let him see you crying. It’s been a great grief for him as well. And he has a lot to worry him—such a responsible position in the town. Kate, my other daughter, will be in any minute, too. She’s a pupil teacher.… Maybe your mother told you.” As my lip drooped she went on hurriedly: “ Oh, I know it’s confusing, even for a big man like yourself, to be meeting all his mother’s folks for the first time. And there’s more to come.” She was trying, amidst her preoccupations, to coax a smile from me. “There’s Adam, my oldest son, who is doing wonderfully in the insurance business in Winton—he doesn’t stay with us, but runs down when he can manage. Then there’s Papa’s mother.… She’s away visiting some friends just now … but she spends about half of her time with us. And lastly, there’s my father who lives here always—he’s your great-grandpa Gow.” While my head reeled with this jumble of unknown relatives her faint smile ventured forth again. “It isn’t every boy who has a great-grandpa, I can tell you. It’s quite an honour. You can just call him ‘Grandpa,’ though, for short. When I have his tray ready you can take it upstairs to him. Say how do you do, and help me at the same time.”
Beside laying the table for five, she had, with a practised hand prepared a battered black japanned tray, oval-shaped and with a rose painted in the centre, setting upon it a moustache cup of ribbed white china filled with tea, a plate of jam, cheese, and three slices of bread.
Watching her, I wondered, aloud, rather huskily: “Does Grandpa not eat his food downstairs?”
Mama seemed slightly embarrassed. “No, dear, he has it in his room.” She lifted the tray and held it out to me. “ Can you manage? Right up to the top floor. Be careful and not fall.”
Bearing the tray, I climbed the unfamiliar stairs shakily, confused by the steep treads and the shiny, waxcloth “runner.” Only a fragment of the dwindling afternoon was admitted by the high skylight. On the second landing opposite a boxed-in cistern, I tried the first of the two doors. It was locked. The other, however, yielded to my uncertain touch.
I entered a strange, interesting, dreadfully untidy room. The high brass bed in the corner, with its patchwork quilt and lopsided knobs, was still unmade; the bearskin hearthrug was rumpled; the towel on the splashed mahogany washstand hung awry. My eye was caught by a black marble timepiece of the “ presentation” variety lying upon its side on the littered mantelpiece with its inside in pieces beside it. I felt a queer smell of tobacco smoke and past meals, a blending of complex and intricate smells, forming, as it were, the bouquet of a room much lived-in.
Wearing burst green carpet slippers and dilapidated homespun, my great-grandpa was sunk deeply in the massive ruin of a horse-hair armchair by the rusty fireplace, steadily driving a pen over a long thick sheet of paper which lay, with the original document he was copying, on the yellow-green cover of the low table before him. On one hand stood a formidable collection of walking sticks, on the other a box of newssheet spills and a long rack of clay pipes, with metal caps, filled and ready.
He was a large-framed man, of more than average height, perhaps about seventy, with a pink complexion and a mane of still faintly ruddy hair flying gallantly behind his collar. It was, in fact, red hair which had lost a little of its ardour without yet turning white, and the result was a remarkable shade, golden in some lights. His beard and moustache, which curled belligerently, were of the same tinge. Though the white of his eyes were peculiarly specked with yellow, the pupils remained clear, penetrating and blue, not the faded blue of Mama’s eyes, but a virile and electric blue, a forget-me-not blue, conspicuous and altogether charming. But his most remarkable feature was his nose. It was a large nose, large, red and bulbous; as I gazed, awestruck, I could think of no more apt simile than to liken it to a ripe, enormous strawberry, for it was of the identical colour, and was even peppered with tiny holes like the seed pits of that luscious fruit. The organ dominated his entire visage; I had never seen such a curious nose, never.
By this time he had ceased to write and, bestowing his pen behind his ear, he turned slowly to regard me. The broken springs of the seat, despite the brown paper stuffed around them, twanged musically at the shifting of his weight, as though ushering in the drama of our acquaintance. We stared at each other in silence and, forgetting the momentary fascination of his nose, I flushed to think of the wretched picture I must make for him standing there in my ready-made black suit, one stocking falling down, shoelaces loose, my face pale and tear-stained, my hair inescapably red.
Still silent, he pushed aside his papers, made a gesture, nervous but forceful, towards the cleared space on the table. I put the tray down on it. Barely taking his eyes off me, he began to eat, rapidly, and with a sort of grand indifference, partaking of cheese and jam indiscriminately, folding over his bread, soaking his crusts in his tea, washing everything down with a final draught. Then, wiping his whiskers with a downward sweep, he reached out instinctively—as though the business of eating was a mere preamble to tobacco, or even better things—and lit a pipe.
“So you are Robert Shannon?” His voice was reserved, yet companionable.
“Yes, Grandpa.” Though my answer came strained and apologetic, I had remembered the instruction to omit his “ great.”
“Did you have a good journey?”
“I think so, Grandpa.”
“Ay, ay, they’re nice boats, the Adder and the Viper. I used to see them berth when I was in the Excise. The Adder has a white line on her understrake, that’s how you tell the difference between them. Can you play draughts?”
“No, Grandpa.”
He nodded encouragingly, yet with a trace of condescension.
“You will in due course, boy, if you stay here. I understand you are going to stay.”
“Yes, Grandpa. Mrs. Chapman said there was no place else for me to go.” A forlorn wave, warm with self-pity, gushed over me.
Suddenly I had a wild craving for his sympathy, an unbearable longing to unbosom myself of my terrible predicament. Did he know that my father had died of consumption, the spectral family malady which had carried off his two sisters before him—which had infected and with terrible rapidity, destroyed my mother—which, it was whispered, had even laid a little finger, beguilingly, on me …?
But Grandpa, taking a few musing puffs, looking me through and through with an ironic twist of his lips, had already turned the subject.
“You’re eight, aren’t you?”
“Almost, Grandpa.”
I wished to make myself as young as possible, but Grandpa was implacable. “It’s an age when a boy should stand up for himself.… Though I will say there might be more of ye. Do you like to walk?”
“I’ve never tried it much, Grandpa. I walked to the Giant’s Causeway when we went on our holidays to Portrush. But we took the minia
ture railway back.”
“Just so. Well, we’ll take a few turns, you and me, and see what good Scottish air does to us.” He paused, for the first time communing with himself. “I’m glad you have my hair. The Gow ginger. Your mother had it too, poor lass.”
I could no longer hold back that warm tide—almost from habit I burst into tears. Ever since my mother’s funeral the week before the mere mention of her name produced this reflex, fostered by the sympathy it always brought me. Yet on this occasion I received neither the broad-bosomed petting of Mrs. Chapman nor the snuff-scented condolences which Father Shanley of St. Dominic’s had lavished upon me. And soon the consciousness of my great-grandpa’s disapproval made me painfully confused; I tried to stop, choked, and began to cough. I coughed and coughed, until I had to hold my side. It was one of the most impressive bouts I had ever had, rivalling even the severest of my father’s coughs. I was, to be truthful, rather proud of it and when it ceased I gazed at him expectantly.
But he gave me no solace, uttered not a word. Instead he took a tin box from his waistcoat pocket, pressed open the lid, selected a large flat peppermint, known as an “ oddfellow,” from the number within. I thought he was about to offer it to me but to my surprise and chagrin he did not, placing it calmly in his own mouth. Then he declared severely:
“If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a greeting bairn. Robert, your tear-bag seems precious near your eye. You must pull yourself together, boy.” He removed the pen from his ear and threw out his chest. “ In my life I’ve had to contend with a wheen of difficulties. Do you think I’d have won through if I’d laid down under them?”
Grandpa seemed about to launch forth on a profound and rather pompous dissertation; but at that moment a hand-bell tinkled on the ground floor. He broke off—disappointed, I thought—and with the stem of his pipe made a wave of dismissal, indicating that I should go below. As he resumed his writing, I took up the empty tray and crept, abashed, towards the door.