Crescendo Page 12
However, in the following autumn, who should turn up in Naseby Terrace but Charles M. Martin, dressed in khaki if you please, a young man of nearly nineteen, enlisted for this Hitler’s war which had just begun. He resembled his father now quite closely, having sparkling dark eyes just like those Charlie had turned on Ethel before he went off to world war one. Taller than his father, though, and more of a man than Ethel remembered Charlie to have been. For a moment Ethel’s heart quite turned over, and she invited the lad into the house in quite a flutter. But he would not come in further than the hall. Standing there stiffly, with his heels together, and speaking with a kind of anger in his tone which was really quite uncalled for in the circumstances, thought Ethel, he offered her first four five-pound notes to repay the debt, and then two pounds twelve shillings and fivepence in small change by way of compound interest. Ethel was quite taken aback as he stood there counting pennies into her hand. She accepted the five-pound notes, naturally, but suggested the lad should retain the rest for himself, as he was going off to the war and everything. He refused, very sharply as Ethel thought.
“He’ll change his mind if he comes back only half a man, like his father,” she said on a grumbling note to Mrs. Clapham.
(Mrs. Clapham, her next-door neighbour and tenant, being the wife of a man who for health reasons had been demoted to a part-time job, could be patronised, and thus was a useful listener.)
However, none of the Martin children were killed or maimed in Hitler’s war. The two boys came home safely and got good jobs, one in engineering and the other in textiles, and the two girls both married quite well and rather young, and they all had lots of children. It was really disgusting, as Ethel said, how many children those Martins had. Showed you what kind of people they were at bottom. But what did it matter to Ethel Eastwood? She had her property; she prospered.
It was after the war was over that things began to go not quite so well with Ethel.
Fred Eastwood’s property was old. One or two of the houses stood in slum property scheduled for clearance—they had been scheduled thus for so many years that Ethel had come to view the likelihood of anything happening to them with derisive disbelief; but now they were duly requisitioned and pulled down. Ethel received compensation, of course, and obtained good advice on how to reinvest the money; but it was not the same. Meagre dividend cheques with enormous income tax sums deducted, were not the same to Ethel as the solid cash she had taken week by week from tenants’ hands. Income Tax you could fiddle a bit under those conditions, but when it was taken off before you started, as you might say, where were you? And living expenses going up and up, all the time. Because of some stupid law she could not put up her tenants’ rents; yet all the time they were asking for outside paint, and roof repairs, and new sinks, and pipes repaired, and pointing. Pointing! Her own house, the house she lived in, stood at the end of Naseby Terrace. At one time she had been proud of the extra size and distinction which this position conferred, but now she was maddened by the area of that exposed side wall. It was horribly beaten upon by the wind and rain which came sweeping from the west across Ashworth Municipal Park. Yes, that wall would need to be pointed soon, as sure as fate. And its size! And the amount workpeople charged nowadays! Outrageous! It wasn’t as if they worked hard, either; their working day was nothing but talk and tea. Taking one thing with another, she was quite glad to take the Dean girl as lodger—it was a kind act, as she explained to Mrs. Clapham, and the girl was well-behaved if a little hoity-toity, and punctual on the dot with her rent. Of course Ethel wouldn’t have kept her a week if she hadn’t been punctual with her rent—“not a week,” she told Mrs. Clapham emphatically. Mrs. Clapham believed her.
Of course Ethel saw at once what was up when Dot Dean began going out with that Mr. Cressey.
“She’s head over heels for him,” she said to Mrs. Clapham with relish, laughing her coarse loud laugh. “Yes, head over heels. Though I’m sure I can’t tell you why. I don’t think much to him myself, and that’s a fact. He’s nothing much to look at, and these schoolmasters don’t get much pay.”
Mrs. Clapham opined that Mr. Cressey was always very kind and polite.
“Well, yes, though he was very sharp with me once when I asked Dot what film they were going to. There was a rather hot one on, I’d been told, and I gave her a hint not to go. ‘That is for Miss Dean to decide,’ he said. Such airs and graces! And what is he, after all? I don’t think much to him. He’s lame, you know. He limps. Oh, not much, I grant you; it doesn’t show much, I daresay he takes pains enough for that, he doesn’t do it always, it’s more a sort of a pause than a limp, but there it is.”
Mrs. Clapham thought that Mr. Cressey might be one of those who had been ill in childhood; they called them spastics.
“Spastics!” exclaimed Ethel scornfully. “Such fancy names! Why don’t they call them cripples outright and be done with it? Cripples, that’s what they are. I like to give things their proper names,” she concluded virtuously.
All the same, when there was this talk of Dot Dean’s leaving Ashworth and going to her sister in Scarborough, Ethel was vexed, for the girl was well-behaved and punctual with her rent and always looked clean and smart, quite a credit to her landlady. Besides, who would Ethel get as a tenant, in her place? As things stood nowadays, she couldn’t afford to be without a lodger in the house. It was really a very great relief when after the Easter holidays Dot seemed to change her mind and decide to remain in Ashworth.
“It’s that Mr. Cressey,” said Ethel shrewdly. “Though what she can see in him! And it’ll never come to anything, you know. Mark my words, it’ll never come to anything. It’ll just go on and on, you know, without ever coming to anything. But why should I worry? She won’t give up hope easily, Dot won’t. She’ll stay on, hoping against hope, as they say,” said Ethel, laughing heartily.
Mrs. Clapham said she thought there was a possibility that Dorothea and Mr. Cressey might get engaged.
“He’s not the kind to do anything wrong,” she suggested.
“Oh, there’ll be nothing wrong” said Ethel with crushing emphasis. “Not in my house, I can tell you. No, there’ll be nothing wrong. But if they did by some strange chance get engaged, it’d be years before they could marry—schoolmasters don’t get much pay, you know. Why should they? Their year’s work is half holiday. But I don’t think they’ll get engaged. Still, they might. There’s no telling what foolishness folks will get up to when they think they’re in love. But I shall be surprised if it comes to anything.”
As the weeks went on, however, she somewhat modified this view.
“You might be right about our Dot and that Cressey,” she told Mrs. Clapham, nodding confidentially. “They’re still going strong.”
“Well, I hope he does and I hope she’s happy,” said Mrs. Clapham with an air of defiance.
Mrs. Eastwood snorted.
There came a sunny evening when Ethel, hearing steps on the stairs, heaved herself quickly out of her chair—she had grown bulky and heavy of late, though still a fresh-cheeked, well-looking woman—and hurried out to intercept her lodger. She returned to Mrs. Clapham, who was having a cuppa with her to pass the time till her husband came home, chuckling sardonically.
“Yes, I think you’re going to be right,” she said. “Madam’s just gone out dressed up to the nines, everything clean on her. I will say that for Dot, she’s always spruce and clean. But such a look on her face! She’s right down besotted with him.” She chuckled. “I wished her luck,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Ethel,” said Mrs. Clapham. “Young folk don’t like having these things touched on.”
Mrs. Eastwood laughed.
“What will you do for a lodger if she gets engaged?” said Mrs. Clapham.
“I shall have plenty of time to find somebody else, before it comes to a wedding,” said Ethel with confidence.
“Well, I must be off and get my old man his tea,” said Mrs. Clapham, rising.
“It’s awkward for you, him coming in at such awkward times,” said Ethel.
Her voice oozed sympathy, but under its cover she was really giving Mrs. Clapham a little dig about her husband’s inferior job, in return for Mrs. Clapham’s uncalled-for comment about her good wishes to Dot Dean. Ethel was skilful at thus planting a barb under the pretence of defending its recipient—she prided herself on giving, as she said, as good as she got, always. Mrs. Clapham, fully aware of her hostess’s intention, coloured a little as she wished her cheeribye and slipped out by the back door, which stood open.
2
It was not much more than an hour later that Ethel to her surprise heard the front door latch turn. Who could it be? She heaved herself up quickly and hurried out into the hall, alert to defend her property. She had not been quite quick enough to intercept the intruder, however, for her lodger was already halfway up the stairs.
“Dot! Is that you? You’re home early,” exclaimed Ethel.
“Am I?” said Dot in a spiritless tone. She stood with her back to Ethel, not moving, one hand resting on the banisters.
At once Ethel knew what was the matter. She knew. She guessed. You couldn’t deceive Ethel.
“I knew it in a flash,” she heard herself saying to Mrs. Clapham. “That Cressey hasn’t come up to scratch. He’s disappointed her. He’s made it clear he doesn’t intend matrimony, and wasn’t Madam Dot disappointed! I’ve always been pretty quick in the uptake, you know, and I guessed it as soon as I saw her. Talk about drooping! She looked right down wilted! Or perhaps I’d better say jilted!”
She could not help grinning.
Dot turned towards her.,
“By the way, Mrs. Eastwood,” she said in a high uneven tone: “I was going to tell you on Friday, but I may as well mention it now. Will you take a fortnight’s notice from Friday, please? I’ve decided to join my sister in Scarborough immediately.”
She ran up the stairs and into her room and bolted the door behind her.
Ethel stood gaping. Then a gust of anger swept over her. Who did Dot Dean think she was, giving Mrs. Ethel Eastwood notice in an offhand way like that? Standing halfway up the stairs! Throwing it out without any reason given, as cool as a cucumber.
“No reason given,” she heard herself explaining to Mrs. Clapham. “Not a single word of any reason. That’s what annoyed me, Mrs. Clapham. Not a word of excuse or reason. Of course it was all due to that Cressey you’re so fond of—he’s let her down. But that doesn’t excuse her throwing me off like that, does it? ‘Join my sister in Scarborough immediately.’ Hoity-toity! After all I’ve done for her, too. These young people nowadays have no gratitude, Mrs. Clapham, no decent feeling at all. Look at those Martins! And now Dot Dean. No consideration for me, having to get another lodger at short notice, no consideration at all.”
At this her anger suddenly fell from her, and fear took its place. The money, crisp new notes, which Dot had paid her so regularly every week for the last two years, would cease in a couple of weeks. Its absence would leave a terrible gap in Ethel’s budget.
All her worries rushed forward, clamouring, beating upon her mind with painful blows. A new lodger. And who could she find? You read such awful things nowadays about men lodgers murdering their landladies and stealing their money; not that Ethel was fool enough to keep much in the house, but that didn’t seem to prevent the murders. On the other hand, women lodgers were usually pernickety, wanting this or that and continually grumbling. Who could she find? Where could she look? Should she advertise? No; that was sure to bring one of those murdering thieving men down on her. Who could she consult? And there was that side of the house which really must be pointed before the winter rains. And the sink at Number 17 which was badly cracked, you couldn’t say otherwise, and the shop which needed outside painting. There was her income tax and her Schedule A, and the ball tap upstairs which was behaving badly, and her bank balance which was lower than it ought to be. Dot’s defection had hit her in her most sensitive spot. Her financial position was threatened.
She sighed and came to herself and found she was still standing at the foot of the stairs, just where Dot had left her. Vexed, she shook her head irritably and moved with ponderous steps towards the kitchen. On the way she caught sight of herself in the hall-stand mirror. Her large square face, usually so set and firm, looked weak and frightened. How thin and grey her hair was nowadays! She was growing old. Old and poor. Panic seized her. She sank heavily into the kitchen rocking chair, a horsehair relic of Fred’s mother’s days. Too dispirited to rock, she sat forward motionless, her hands spread on her knees, her shoulders hunched, brooding.
3
After a while she began to rally from the first shock of the blow. Well! She wasn’t going to be knocked over by a chit of a girl giving notice. Not she. Not Ethel Eastwood. If she couldn’t find another lodger to her liking, she’d have to make up the money in other ways. When this new Rent Act came in she’d be able to put up all her tenants’ rents—not before it was time, either, thought Ethel virtuously. She stirred, and began to rock herself slowly backwards and forwards. Meanwhile … Was there anything she could do meanwhile? Anything to make up the loss of Dot’s money?
Yes! She rather thought there was! Ethel smiled, and began to rock more vigorously. Tenants needn’t think they could put her off with silly presents instead of paying their rent, thought Ethel with a virtuous sniff—for it was only a present, after all, whatever he might say. He said it would more than pay a month’s rent, but that was nonsense. She’d take it back, and ask for her money in exchange. After all that was what she had meant in accepting it—simply to hold it as a kind of pledge, for him to redeem with the rent money when he was able. He’d better be able now. Because Mrs. Ethel Eastwood couldn’t wait any longer for her rightful money, not with Dot leaving and everything. She’d go up there first thing tomorrow morning, you could bet on that.
But wait a minute. Why not go now? She wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink all night unless she did something to offset Dot’s notice. When money worries harassed her mind she was apt to toss and turn in a perfect stew for hours. So why not go tonight? It was a nice light evening. She could take the Hudley bus as far as Blackstalls Bridge, change there into the Black-stalls Brow bus, get off at Brow Lane and walk up to High Royd, get her money and come down the lane and catch the bus on its return journey, just as she had done before. (Though it was a shame to have to spend four bus fares to get her rightful rent, still, for the sake of peace of mind, she’d do it for this once, and teach that Freeman a lesson.) Of course it might take a little longer than it had before to get her money, with the present coming into it and all that. But not much longer. She rather fancied she was a match for Mr. Francis Freeman. More than a match, she rather thought.
She laughed aloud, and rising from her chair began to bustle about the house making preparations. There was no sound from Dot’s room as she passed the door.
“Probably sobbing her heart out beneath the bedclothes,” thought Ethel, smiling. “Well, she needn’t think I shall beg her to stay, because I shan’t.”
She took out Freeman’s present from her wardrobe drawer and without troubling to wrap it up wedged it into her big shopping bag. (It was small enough to fit in fairly easily; that in itself showed you how little value the thing had, didn’t it? Quite a small thing. She’d been a ninny ever to accept it, even as a mere pledge, a token; but she’d been feeling pretty well off at the time and the old man had a way with him.) She put on her good flowered print and her off-white coat and hat and her chamois gloves and black court shoes, and decided as she looked in the glass that although her hair was thinning and her bust swelling, she was still a smart good-looking woman, equal to anybody.
She caught the Hudley bus without any rush, made the transfer to the Blackstalls bus at Blackstalls Bridge successfully, secured a good front seat, and clasping her bag firmly in her ample lap, was borne away up and up among the hills that surrounded Ashwo
rth and Hudley.
“It must be awkward driving up these hills in the winter,” reflected Ethel, as she had done the last two months when she had visited Mr. Freeman. “I shouldn’t like to be a driver on this route. But then, of course, they’re paid for it.”
At Brow Lane she dismounted. The bus rolled away along the flank of the hill.
Ethel stood considering. There were two routes up to High Royd. The main way led up Brow Lane, a steep cobbled causeway which curved round the slope of the overhanging brow from which its name was derived and brought you to the side of the farmstead before meeting a gate and degenerating into a mere bridle path over the moors to Blackstalls. (This was the old route to the upland township of Blackstalls, Ethel had heard say, but it was so steep and rough that later road-makers had rejected it with a shudder and taken the longer way round.) There was, however, another route to the house available for pedestrians which was even shorter and steeper than the lane; namely some steps through a stile in the wall and a flagged pathway straight up the rocky, grassy, heathery bank itself. This pathway was certainly much shorter, reflected Ethel; if she took the pathway, she would have more time in which to extract the rent money from Freeman. But it was really appallingly steep. And then again, possibly the fact that the interview must be very short because she must leave quickly to catch the bus might be useful in the interview with Freeman. She could perhaps more easily bustle him into it. She turned up Brow Lane.
Soon she came in sight of the old stone house. It was very old: stone lettering above the porch gave its date as 1672. Its twin-gabled roof was made of stone tiles. As she approached Ethel eyed these suspiciously; but apart from a little moss here and there they looked in good condition.
The appearance of High Royd vexed her. She had let it very cheaply because it was almost a ruin, but now it looked quite smart, “all poshed up,” Ethel described it to herself, with glossy black and white paint, and old tubs painted black standing by the door with cheap flowers, nasturtiums and such, growing in them. Of course she ought to have been pleased because her property had certainly increased in value under Mr. Freeman’s care, but somehow it annoyed her. She disliked all that arty, highbrow stuff. She felt at once snubbed and contemptuous in its presence. Who had ever authorised that expenditure on paint, anyway? Certainly not Ethel; as far as she knew she had ordered simply the minimum number of coats of a respectable drab. No doubt Freeman had painted it all himself—just like his cheek. The inside of the house was just as bad, too, she remembered sourly; some of the walls were painted different colours, and others had pictures actually painted on them. Such nonsense! There was one very long picture, for instance, a kind of panorama of what you could see from the front windows of the house, showing the hills and the valley and Ashworth and Hudley down at opposite sides in the distance, with mill chimneys smoking. As if mill chimneys were proper things to be put in pictures!