God Is an Englishman (57 page)

“No,” the Colonel said, “I never did, for that wasn’t my way. But others did. I’ve seen men flogged senseless for a trivial act of insub ordination, and others hanged for looting on enemy soil. But that kind of ordinance has been expunged from Queen’s Regulations, as I said it would be at the time. However, I didn’t come here to dis cuss social reform but your responsibilities as husband and father and employer of labour. Pull yourself together, man, and begin by telling Henrietta that you don’t identify her with that brute Millward.”

“In a way, I do.”

The Colonel lifted his shoulders. “Then you’re more of a fool than I took you for,” he said, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

It was, he supposed, reasonable advice, and despite his denial it must have made some kind of impact on him, for that night, for the first time since Luke Dobbs had been carted away, he came out of the bedroom along the corridor that he had been occupying and went to her.

She was sitting up in bed reading one of her trashy novels and looked, he thought, small and pathetic under that vast canopy. She glanced up hopefully, throwing her book aside, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry.

Then, apparently deciding that he had not come here in search of tears, she forced a smile and he thought, fleetingly, “Damn it, the old man is right. It GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 300

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Study in Soot
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hasn’t touched her. She blames anybody but herself and that’s her way. She’s Sam Rawlinson’s daughter all right, and her mental age is ten,” and suddenly he felt a terrible need to commune with a woman whose thoughts and actions and responses were not at the mercy of her emotions, who was capable of helping him to get this thing into focus. She said, chirpily, “Don’t let’s sulk, Adam. It’s so silly letting something like this come between us. Surely you understand how dreadful it was for me at the time, and how much I would have given to prevent it, but how was I to know…”

He cut her short with a gesture that expressed not so much im patience as a kind of hopelessness, although she saw it as an impulse more characteristic of him, and obligingly wriggled over to her side of the bed. She waited until he turned out the lamp before indulging herself in the luxury of a suppressed giggle, reflecting that she must have been a fool to imagine that a man as lusty as he could sulk in definitely. But later, when he had turned away, and seemed to be sleeping, she wasn’t sure that it was as uncomplicated as it seemed, for he had used her in a way that was strange to her, absentmindedly, and entirely without that affectionate boisterousness to which she had grown accustomed and which she took for granted. It was as though he was performing a duty urged upon him by his loins, and was in a hurry to accomplish it and retreat within himself once again, and because of this, or perhaps because her mind was still preoccupied with the long, smouldering quarrel, she took no pleasure in him, despite all her efforts to please. Then she found comfort in the reflec tion that he had his pride and this, no doubt, was his way of capitu lating without too much loss of face.

Reconciliation, she supposed, would have to be accomplished in stages, spaced over a week or two, and so long as she kept her mouth shut, and went to work on him with her body, she was confident it could be achieved without much bother.

At all events, even this was better than having him skulk ing out of her reach, and in the moment before sleeping she felt grate ful to the dear old Colonel for his intervention. Men were an odd lot and he was more odd than most, shunning her and turning the house topsy-turvy because of an accident involving the death of someone who was not even a relation. It was almost as though little Alexander had choked in the chimney, and she was the one who had ordered him to climb it. Thinking this she gave a little shudder and then, as was her way with all unpleasant thoughts, she shooed it out of mind and slept.

He did not sleep. Her body had done nothing to release the tensions in him for they were not physical tensions and even had they been she, at the time, would GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 301

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have been an imperfect instrument for the pur pose. Presently, into his mind, unbidden but persistent, the longing for an adult confidant returned, someone who could attempt to answer some of the questions he had been asking himself since he had stood looking down at the bundle of rags on the hearthrug, and he remembered Edith Wadsworth, whose commonsense he always appreciated when he went into the Crescents. The thought of her brought him a tincture of relief, and he wondered, vaguely, what she would make of it, whether she would be likely to think him the senti mental ass that Avery thought him, or the enigma he must seem to a man like Tybalt. He did not know but, as he lay there pondering, it seemed to him essential that he should find out, for here at least was something more positive than mooning about like a man with a permanent hangover.

At the first glimmer of light he slipped out of bed and along the corridor to the room where he had left his clothes. No one was astir when he went down the backstairs to the yard and saddled the bay mare he had hired at Croydon three weeks ago. When she was ready he led her through the arch and across the grass verge, the sound of her hooves muffled in dew-soaked grass. Beyond the first copper beeches he mounted and rode on down the long winding drive. The early morning air was rich with the scent of hawthorn and an enor mous hare, alerted by the clink of iron on gravel, bounded from a tussock near the gate and went scudding across the road to the ash coppice opposite. The sense of oppres-sion that had weighed so heavily upon him began to lift, slightly but appreciably.

He filled his lungs and spurred the mare into a trot.

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Three

RiveRsiDe

conFessional

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He had the devil’s own job to find her, and by the time he did the whole of his eastern system was aware that he was seeking her. This did not worry him at all, and he had, in fact, been slightly amused by young Rookwood’s knowing look when he told him Miss Wadsworth was unlikely to be found at her base in the Crescent Central, hav ing moved north a fortnight ago to relieve her father in the sector above.

“She might be at Whitby, sir,” he said, managing to convey the im pression that he was aware of his employer’s real reasons for going north, and that whatever business was transacted between them would be unlikely to involve the counting-house staff.

“How the devil do you keep track of all these local movements?” he asked, noting the youngster’s perception, and Rookwood, main taining his poker face, said that Mr. Tybalt had introduced a map system by which clerks were required to record information of this kind with flags, marked with the names of base managers.

“It saves a lot of crossed mail,” he added, and for the first time in a month Adam experienced a flicker of interest in the business, and asked Rookwood to show him the map. Studying the back of his head, as the boy rolled back the covers, Adam remembered that Rookwood was one of Keate’s originals, an impudent, rollicking pink-faced urchin, who seemed always to be enjoying a secret joke of the kind he was relishing at this moment. Adam saw him then as a prototype of Dickens’ Artful Dodger, and his fellow-clerk, Willie Vetch, as Charley Bates. He said, briefly, “Right, Rookwood, tell Mr. Tybalt my whereabouts and that I wholly approve of this map. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it years ago.”

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“Are you likely to be in the north long, sir?” Rookwood asked. “Mr. Tybalt is sure to want to know.”

“A week at least, but only a day in the Crescents. Tell him I shall probably move across to the Polygon to see Mr. Catesby, and then down to the Southern Square and home. I’ll keep in touch by telegram.” He paused and went on, “Tell him I’ll tackle the backlog the minute I return. That’ll cheer him up.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, saluting, “he’s…er…been rather low lately, sir, and so has Mr. Keate.”

He took a cab to Kings Cross, buying a ticket for York and mus ing, as he waited for the train to start, how much tittle-tattle must circulate in the yard concerning the confidence he reposed in Edith Wadsworth and whether, in fact, serious-minded men like Tybalt and Keate put Rookwood’s construction on it. He thought not, for he was known to have his favourites among the managers, and had made no secret of the fact that he extended more trust in the Wadsworths, Catesby, and Bryn Lovell than in men like Fraser, in the Border Triangle, Abbott in the Square, or Ratcliffe in the West.

He felt more cheerful already and it occurred to him that he had been a fool to potter about at home all this time, as though his pres ence within range of that chimney could bring Luke Dobbs back to life. Contentedly, he watched the northern suburbs slide past, as the great Sturrock locomotive settled to the run and then, more re laxed than he had been for a long time, he slept, to be nudged awake by the guard at York. He made inquiries concerning the cross country journey to Whitby, eating lunch in the station restaurant whilst awaiting the York and Scarborough train, and learning that he would have to change to the Pickering-Whitby spur about halfway. The sun was setting as he leaned from the window and sniffed the sea but a disappointment awaited him here, for when he called in at the yard, and asked the depot-manager if Miss Wadsworth was about, he learned that she had taken an empty frigate to Yarm, and was then going on to Richmond, one of the drivers on the dairy run there having broken a leg and damaged his vehicle.

“I don’t think she’ll come back this way, sir,” the man added. “She said something about taking the repaired waggon back to Crescent Centre. It’s one of theirs, you see, that was on loan to us up here.” Adam considered. He was not tired, having slept at least five hours in the two trains, and it was a mild night, with a full moon rising over the bay. He said, “Is there a livery stable handy?” and the manager said there was, Baverstock’s, in the adjoining street, where he could hire a hack and ride on a stage if he was so minded.

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Riverside Confessional
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Even when he was on legitimate business Adam Swann travelled light and the luggage he carried could be accommodated in a saddle bag. He went down to Baverstock’s and hired a piebald gelding, telling them who he was, and promising to leave the animal at Yarm or Richmond, depending upon where he overtook the waggon. Then filling his pocket flask with brandy, he set out, crossing a tract of unfamiliar country and heading due east over the old coach road to Guisborough, a stage of around fifteen miles.

He thought, as he jogged along, that many would regard this ex pedition the ultimate in idiocy, a man in his mid-thirties, with a wife, a young family, and a business employing three hundred wag gons and as many men, riding through the night in pursuit of a girl before whom he proposed laying self-doubts concerning the death of a chimney sweep. And yet, in another way it did not seem in the least ridiculous but an instinctive groping for a friend, whose advice was likely to be unprejudiced. For years now, ever since he had become so absorbed in the enterprise, he had not felt the need for friendly counsel. Avery, when they first set up their partnership had admitted to such a need, but he had not used Adam’s availability and they had never been more than business associates. The Colonel had always been at hand, with his quiet courtesy and restrained affection, but the Colonel’s world was dead, and the old man had never adjusted to the new age and a fresh set of values. Henrietta, in this particular sense, had been a disappointment, for he still found it impossible to treat her as anything more than a mascot, with her stupid prejudice against his involvement in trade, and her obsession with the make-believe role of Lady of Tryst.

Out here, alone in the bright moonlight, with the whiff of the sea competing with the tang of heather, he was able, at long last, to separate Henrietta from the recent turmoil on his doorstep and modify his irritation concerning her. He saw now that he had be haved illogically and impulsively. He did not regret having compelled her to help him wash that corpse, for this had obliged her to face life as it was lived, and not as she liked to pretend in her story-stocked mind, but it was manifestly unjust to blame her for positive inadequacies. She had had no education and no upbringing, and if she was spoiled from the moment he had married her then it was he who had done the spoiling. The fact was, he thought, he had come to regard her more as a mistress than a wife, and so long as he continued to do so she would remain one, able to beguile his idle hours, and re lieve him of the necessity of hunting up a woman every so often, as men like Avery preferred to do, and in this role at least she had been an unexpected success. But this surely ran contrary to all a man should seek in a wife. He had demolished her GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 305

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false modesty and enabled her natural high spirits to find an outlet whenever he was on hand to summon them, but he had failed in encouraging her to mature, and this, he supposed, was the real cause of her blindness as regards what he thought of as essentials.

His thoughts passed from the particular to the general, and he began to thaw at the prospect of remounting the helter-skelter of competitive business that had now taken too firm a grip on his imagination to be discarded like a shirt.

Moneymaking, and the risks attending were well enough, and most of his contemporaries seemed to find complete fulfilment in it, but something important was still missing, and if he was unable to say what it was perhaps a down-to-earth woman like Edith Wadsworth could tell him.