III
He did what had to be done without protest. He helped Leonard to put something in the paper. He saw the undertaker and the insurance man. He sent a cable to Lily, and this alone of all his duties brought about a thaw inside his numbed self. When the man explained how it could be sent and when it would probably get there, he felt a sudden warmth and wanted to cry. For the rest, he did what he had to do, but was so quiet that his wife‚Äôs relations, who came pouring in with her sister, Alice Bairstow, at their head, did not know what to make of him. Noisy and red-eyed but secretly rejoicing in their own immortality, they discussed him in corners. It was Mrs.¬ÝSugden‚Äôs opinion that he was ‚Äútaking it ‚Äôard,‚Äù but though her position as sympathetic neighbour and tea-brewer to the bereaved was recognized, it was held that her opinion on this matter was uncalled-for and therefore of no consequence. Mrs.¬ÝBairstow was heard to say that what really troubled her brother-in-law was remorse, as well it might. He had gone off God knows where and left her to it, and this is what had come of it. But she did not go so far as to say this to him. All she did was to deal with him in a spirit of large but strained tolerance, and make a great fuss of Leonard. Once or twice Mr.¬ÝOakroyd glowered at her and was obviously on the point of saying something sharp, but most of the time he simply humped about, looking grey and wooden, and nodded agreement to everything she said. What she did say chiefly concerned the funeral, which was to be in the best traditions of Ogden Street. She sent out a host of invitations, and pledged the forthcoming insurance money royally.
It was on the morning of the funeral that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd received a letter. For a moment, he thought it must be from Lily, and his heart leaped up, but as soon as he saw it was not, he lost interest at once and stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. There would be plenty of time for that afterwards, when all the black fuss and bustle was over. This being a funeral in the grand tradition, it was a very lengthy affair. The assembly of the carriages and the mourners took some time. Then there was the long slow drive out to Dum Wood Cemetery, where serious Bruddersfordians go walking on fine Sunday afternoons, many a year before they are taken there to await the last trump. Then followed a service in the cemetery chapel, where the Rev. J. Hamilton Morris, B.A., of Woolgate Congregational Chapel, tried to dwell upon the virtues of the deceased and found it very difficult because he knew very little about her. He did what he could, however, looked manfully at the tear-stained or grim faces, and finally asked the grave where its victory was. And when all was done, there was the long drive back, not to 51 Ogden Street, but to Caddy‚Äôs in Shuttle Street, where a funeral tea had been ordered. Caddy‚Äôs, being old-fashioned, still made a speciality of these repasts, and on their business cards might be seen, sandwiched between Catering and Wedding Cakes the announcement: Funeral Teas. Mourners, mostly relations, still come considerable distances, and not only must they be refreshed but they must also be provided with an opportunity to exchange news, for many scattered families only meet at a funeral. It is not perhaps true to say that these teas are the most jovial functions known to elderly Bruddersfordians, but it must be admitted that they are generally a success, going with a swing that many social events in Bruddersford never know. Everybody has that pleasant feeling of having carried through a painful duty; after a sight of the open grave, it is good to return to life, to eat and drink and swap news with uncles and cousins; and, moreover, what with long rides, services, and standing about in cemeteries, to say nothing of the havoc wrought by the emotions, a mourner develops a real appetite and funeral teas are good solid meat teas. That is the reason why the comedian who plays the Dame in the Bruddersford pantomime never fails‚ÅÝ‚Äîhas not failed these last thirty years‚ÅÝ‚Äîto bring down the house with the remark: ‚ÄúI buried ‚Äôim with ‚Äôam.‚Äù On this occasion, Mrs.¬ÝBairstow had ordered Caddy‚Äôs to provide a sound specimen of their knife-and-fork tea, and they had disappointed neither her nor any of her hopeful guests.
Among those who did full justice to both the ham and the tongue was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs old friend and our old acquaintance, that independent craftsman and keeper of hens, Mr.¬ÝSam Oglethorpe. Here was one person Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could talk to, and though actually he did not do much talking, he kept close to Sam from the moment they all tramped up Caddy‚Äôs stairs.
‚ÄúWell, Jess,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô to be off. I‚Äôve getten t‚Äôhens to see to, tha knaws. Farls can‚Äôt wait if fowk can.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd disconsolately. Then he brightened up. ‚ÄúHere, Sam, I‚Äôm coming wi‚Äô yer.‚Äù
‚ÄúWon‚Äôt they want yer?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe. They had wandered away from the tables now.
“If they do, they mun want on. Ther’s nowt I can do here nar.”
‚ÄúRight, owd lad,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe cheerfully. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll get t‚Äôtram.‚Äù
They said little or nothing, either on the tram or on the walk to Wabley from the terminus, but they smoked companionably all the way, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did at least lose the feeling that he was wandering in an ugly dream. Sam might not be one of the brightest or have much to say for himself, but he was a comfortable sort of chap to be with at a time like this.
‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell yer what,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe suggested, when he had finished attending to his fowls, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll ha‚Äô a sup o‚Äô beer. Tha doesn‚Äôt want to go on to T‚ÄôAnglers? I thowt not. Well, I‚Äôll fetch a sup and we‚Äôll car quiet a bit i‚Äô t‚Äôhen-hoil. Nay, don‚Äôt you come; I‚Äôll fetch it mysen.‚Äù
This was that same combined henhouse and workshop where he had sat and talked to Sam and his nephew Ted, of the lorry, on a Sunday night that now seem years and years away. It was while he was waiting in there that he remembered the letter in his pocket. It was from Miss Trant:
Dear Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,
I was so sorry to learn that your wife was ill and that you had to go home. I do hope that by this time you have better news of her. I have some news for you. Mr.¬ÝGooch has seen this man Ridvers, and he has frightened him into agreeing to pay the claim for damages. I don‚Äôt know whether this is a very legal thing to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîit doesn‚Äôt seem like it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it is only right he should pay for his stupidity. It will cost him a good deal too, which means that I have been saved a good deal‚ÅÝ‚Äîthanks to you. Please remember this when you hear from Mr.¬ÝGooch, as you will very shortly. The other news is that Dr.¬ÝMcFarlane and I are to be married very soon. We shall live just outside Gatford for a time. I‚Äôm afraid this means that a plan I had for offering you some work at Hitherton won‚Äôt be possible now, though it was only vague. But will you please come and talk over your plans‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless you have already fixed something up for yourself? I have just had a very excited letter from Susie in London. She has begun rehearsing already and likes her part.
He read this letter through twice, very carefully. He was glad that Miss Trant would not have to pay. He was also glad that she was marrying the big doctor chap. He told himself he was glad, yet he was conscious of feeling only a vague disappointment. The letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fine letter too‚ÅÝ‚Äîought to have cheered him up, but it did not cheer him up. He was still numb, frozen, with just the tiniest bit of an ache somewhere.
There was a cosy gossiping look about Sam when he returned with his jugful. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wanted to feel like that too, but somehow he couldn‚Äôt manage it.
‚ÄúWell, Jess,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, in his usual slow, meditative Jobbing Work style, ‚Äúan‚Äô ar yer‚Äôve been finding things down South?‚Äù
‚ÄúNay,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúwe‚Äôve had a bit o‚Äô bother just lately, bit of a mix-up, you might say.‚Äù A week ago, he would have plunged at once into an account of the whole affair, but now he couldn‚Äôt, not without an effort. It all seemed such a long way off, like a tale in a book.
‚ÄúAy, I dare say,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, nodding and frowning judicially. Obviously it would not surprise him what happened down South. ‚ÄúBeen i‚Äô the‚Äëater line, haven‚Äôt yer, Jess? I did hear. An‚Äô what is there to do i‚Äô that line o‚Äô business? Be a change from Higden‚Äôs, eh? Diff‚Äôrent altogether, I‚Äôll be barnd?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted that it was, and decribed briefly what he had been doing for the past six months. If he had been describing fairyland, his hearer could not have been more astonished and delighted, but though he felt a faint warmth at this reception of his news, a reception long anticipated, often imagined, he could not really be kindled. And it was just the same when they came to talk of his travels.
‚ÄúAn‚Äô Bristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer, Jess,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, ‚Äúdid yer ivver get theer?‚Äù
“Bristol and Bedfordshire?” he repeated, puzzled.
‚ÄúNay, lad, don‚Äôt yer remember? I mind it as well as if it wor nobbut yesterda‚Äô. Yer come here, it wor t‚Äôlast time yer ivver wor here, an‚Äô yer wanted to be off somewhere‚ÅÝ‚Äîdown South‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I says ‚ÄòWell, wheer d‚Äôyer want to go,‚Äô an‚Äô yer says, ‚ÄòBristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer,‚Äô an‚Äô I laughs. An‚Äô then‚ÅÝ‚Äîby gow!‚ÅÝ‚Äîafore I can turn rahnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer‚Äôve gone. Eh, I‚Äôve had monny a good laugh ower it. I‚Äôve been dahn to Bruddersford, we‚Äôll say, an‚Äô one o‚Äô t‚Äôchaps o‚Äô the t‚Äôclub has assed ‚ÄòWhere‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd, Sam?‚Äô an‚Äô I‚Äôve towd them. ‚ÄòBristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòAr d‚Äôyer mean?‚Äô they says. ‚ÄòWell, he come here,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòan‚Äô he says to me he‚Äôd like to go to Bristol an‚Äô Bedfordsheer, an‚Äô t‚Äônext minute he wor off,‚Äô I says. Don‚Äôt tell me yer nivver went, Jess.‚Äù
‚ÄúI remember,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd slowly. ‚ÄúWell, I nivver got to Bristol, Sam, though I‚Äôve nivver given it a thowt. I may ha‚Äô seen Bedfordshire, but I don‚Äôt knaw fairly. We‚Äôve been all ower t‚Äôshop, up an‚Äô down an‚Äô across, on t‚Äôroad, yer knaw. Ay, I‚Äôve seen a deal.‚Äù
‚ÄúThen yer owt to be satisfied nar, lad,‚Äù observed Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, with a suggestion of irony. ‚ÄúTell us wheer yer‚Äôve been an‚Äô what yer‚Äôve seen.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a big order, Sam,‚Äù he began doubtfully. ‚ÄúWhen yer‚Äôve been about, a bit, places‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe stopped him at once. He looked very reproachful, though waggish. ‚ÄúNar, Jess,‚Äù he cautioned, ‚Äúyer not goin‚Äô to tell me ‚Äôat places is all alike when yer come to know ‚Äôem.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, summat o‚Äô t‚Äôsort,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd muttered.
His friend instantly banged the table. “Them’s t’words, very words, ’at our Ted used i’ this very place that Sunda’,” he roared. “Very words he said. An’ yer said ‘Nay, I’ll be damned if I’ll ha’ that.’ And I backed yer up. Our Ted wor only talking abart it t’other week here, when he wor wondering where yer’d got to. Well, well, well! That caps t’lot. We live an’ we learn, we live an’ we learn. Nay, Jess!”
‚ÄúHowd thi noise, Sam!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested good-humouredly. But he looked, and felt, confused. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mean all places is alike. Your Ted wor wrong. He went too far, too far bi half, he did. What I think is this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Nay, Jess, leave it, lad, leave it nar. Say ner more. Here, have another sup o’ beer. Bit better ner like, this beer. If they don’t look aht, they’ll be puttin’ some malt an’ hops in it agen, same as they used to, instead o’ just colourin’ t’reservoy watter an’ fillin’ t’barrels wi’ that. Well, what’s t’next job then, lad? Still in t’the‑ater line?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not know, and he hardly seemed to care. He had asked himself this question several times, but somehow had found it quite easy to leave it unanswered. It was as if something inside him had just snapped. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt knaw,‚Äù he replied, blowing out his breath in what was recognized to be the Bruddersfordian equivalent of a sigh. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt, Sam. There was a bit o‚Äô talk about me gettin‚Äô summat else i‚Äô t‚Äôsame line, but I don‚Äôt knaw what‚Äôll come of it. I haven‚Äôt thowt about it. I suppose I mun be looking round.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe nodded sagely. Then he looked very grave. ‚ÄúKeep aht o‚Äô t‚ÄôJoinery an‚Äô Jobbing i‚Äô this neighbourhood, Jess, that‚Äôs all. Way things is nar, it‚Äôs nowt‚ÅÝ‚Äînowt at all, it isn‚Äôt. It‚Äôs just like t‚Äôhens scrattin‚Äô for a bit o‚Äô summat.‚Äù
‚ÄúIs it war ner it wor?‚Äù inquired Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúNay, trade‚Äôs so bad and ther‚Äôs so monny either stopped or on short time, they‚Äôll ha‚Äô nowt done, d‚Äôyer see, Jess? They‚Äôd let t‚Äôplaces go to rack an‚Äô ruin afore they‚Äôd have owt done. Sitha, I can‚Äôt put me nose in onnywheer withart seeing hawf-a-dozen little jobs ‚Äôat wants doing. But fowk hasn‚Äôt bit o‚Äô brass to spare. They can‚Äôt thoil it, lad. I‚Äôve nearly made as mich aht o‚Äô t‚Äôhens. I‚Äôve been keepin‚Äô farls nar for fowerteen year, an‚Äô I shan‚Äôt be capped if at finish t‚Äôfarls is keepin‚Äô me. So don‚Äôt set up for thysen on t‚ÄôJoinery an‚Äô Jobbing i‚Äô these parts, Jess. Might be different dahn South, I dare say, but here‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs nowt. Keep to t‚Äôthe‚Äëater line, I say, ‚Äôcos fowk seems to ha‚Äô brass to spend on the‚Äëaters an‚Äô t‚Äôanimated picters an‚Äô suchlike these days when they haven‚Äôt a sixpence for owt beside. Has ta ‚Äôad onny young actresses i‚Äô tow, Jess?‚Äù
‚ÄúNay, Sam, who d‚Äôyer think I am?‚Äù But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was not shocked. He had replied almost mechanically.
It occurred to Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe then that this was hardly the time for such badinage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe clay of Dum Wood Cemetery being hardly dry on their boots yet‚ÅÝ‚Äîand hastily and awkwardly he changed the subject. But he could not change his friend‚Äôs heavy and abstracted mood, and soon their talk dwindled to nothing; Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned home accompanied by a dark confusion of thoughts and memories, in which his adventures on the road, all the ups and downs of the Good Companions, had their place. Yet they were only like shadows flickering on a wall. He wanted to see them all again, these Good Companions; he could dwell affectionately on his thought of them; but nevertheless they were little figures, far away, and he realized, in his own dumb obscure fashion, that it was not they who had the power to wake him back to life. Nor was it anybody or anything in Bruddersford. He walked slowly through the familiar streets, a shrunken figure in an ill-fitting suit of black, solitary beneath the street lamps that only intensified the great dark above, a man alone. No, not entirely alone, for keeping step with him were immense vague shapes, so many configurations of mystery, pain, and death.