I
It was deep dusk when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs train arrived at Black Moor Junction. He could see the street lamps twinkling on the hills, and here and there trams crawling up and down like golden beetles. The train stopped several minutes at Black Moor, as it always does, and then, having lost all its enthusiasm, it slowly chuff-chuffed into the gloom until at last it came to a standstill in Bruddersford Station. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stepped out, carrying the small suitcase that for some time had replaced the famous little basket trunk, and made his way to the exit with all the easy dispatch of a travelled man. He could dismiss railway stations with a glance now, having been so long and so far on the road, all the autumn and winter, from Sandybay as far up as Middleford. This was really the first time he had come back to Bruddersford since he began his travels, for though he had visited Ogden Street just after Christmas, he had only gone by tram from Luddenstall, and that did not count. He had often seen himself coming back like this, arriving by train and so on, having a bit of a holiday like, smoking a leisurely pipe in Woolgate long after everybody else had clattered off to work, slipping round to the Working Men‚Äôs Club at night to tell some of the chaps where he had been and what he had seen. But now it was all different. This trip had a shaky and darkish look about it. As he crossed the end of Market Street to get into Woolgate, the great black tower of the Town Hall jerkly shook out the notes of Tom Bowling, a very melancholy tune on the chimes. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had never admired it, but now he suddenly decided he hated it. How folk put up with such a din was a mystery.
“Here, lad,” he cried, at the corner of Woolgate, “ ’ave you got t’Evening Express?” Buying a paper made him feel a little more cheerful.
Walking up Woolgate, he had a shock. Buttershaw‚Äôs, the tripe and music shop, was closed, empty, to let. Something must have happened there. When was it he had been talking to Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, something about Lily and how she used to go there for pantomime songs? Yes, on a tram, it was, one Saturday. And Joe Buttershaw had been there five-and-twenty year to his knowledge; everybody knew Joe‚Äôs; and now it wasn‚Äôt there. It made everything look uncertain, strange, as if half the street had gone.
Not a sign of anybody in at 51. It was hardly time for Leonard to be home, if he was still working at Gregson’s, but it did not look as if anybody was there. He knocked, though he knew somehow before he put his hand to the door that it was useless, for the place had a real shut-up look about it.
‚ÄúEh, it‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden was looking out of the house next door. ‚ÄúJust a minute, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. I‚Äôve got t‚Äôkey.‚Äù
She opened the door and marched in with him. There was a bit of fire in the grate, and the table was laid for a late tea. Mrs.¬ÝSugden, happily bustling about the room, talked with gusto. ‚ÄúDid your Leonard send for yer? I told him he‚Äôd ‚Äôave to send. And I‚Äôve been doing a bit o‚Äô tidying up for him, an‚Äô getting him his tea. A lad like that can‚Äôt look after hissen, can he? An‚Äô I‚Äôve been right sorry for him, I‚Äôave.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, very uneasy now, asked where his wife was.
‚ÄúEh, didn‚Äôt your Leonard tell yer?‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝSugden, staring at him. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs in t‚ÄôInfirmary. They took her away‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh, when was it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFriday or Saturday‚ÅÝ‚Äîay, it were Friday, ‚Äôcos I were just paying me insurance, I‚Äôd got t‚Äôbook in me ‚Äôand, when they come for her. They ‚Äôad t‚Äôoperate right sharp‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh, she were that bad. She‚Äôd left it so long. She‚Äôd been badly for weeks and weeks. Got a pain ‚Äôere.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden put a hand on her ample side. ‚ÄúI could see she were bad. ‚ÄòEh,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyer can‚Äôt let it go like that, yer mun see t‚Äôdoctor.‚Äô ‚ÄòNo doctors for me, Mrs.¬ÝSugden,‚Äô she says. ‚ÄòI can manage.‚Äô Ay, that‚Äôs just what she said. ‚ÄòI can manage.‚Äô An‚Äô I could see wi‚Äô me own eyes she were bad. At t‚Äôupshot, I calls to your Leonard‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat were t‚Äôbeginning o‚Äô last week‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I says to ‚Äôim, ‚ÄòEh, Leonard, you‚Äôll ha‚Äô to mak‚Äô your mother see t‚Äôdoctor. It‚Äôs no way o‚Äô going on, this isn‚Äôt. She‚Äôs poorly.‚Äô ‚ÄòI think she is,‚Äô he says, ‚Äòthough she‚Äôs said nowt to me.‚Äô ‚ÄòI knaw she is,‚Äô I says. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll get one,‚Äô he says. But no doctor come that day nor t‚Äôday after. Next morning she couldn‚Äôt get up out o‚Äô bed, she were that bad, an‚Äô I come in for a bit an‚Äô your Leonard fetched t‚Äôdoctor to her, an‚Äô he said they‚Äôd ‚Äôave t‚Äôoperate soon as they could. It were owd Doctor Mackintosh‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôim ‚Äôat sees ‚Äôem at t‚Äôclub‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîeh!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wor in a state about ‚Äôer. Nivver seen him in sich a stew. He were fairly boiling an‚Äô sweating.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs it she‚Äôs got?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. His voice was so hoarse that he had to clear his throat and repeat the question.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs summat like appendis,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝSugden, ‚Äúonly it‚Äôs farther on like. Your Leonard said summat about perry‚ÅÝ‚Äîperry-totitis, but I couldn‚Äôt quite mak‚Äô it out.‚Äù
“And what about this here operation, did it come off all right?”
‚ÄúOh, they operated, straight off. They ‚Äôad to. Eh, I believe she‚Äôs ‚Äôad another sin‚Äô then, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. I believe she ‚Äôas,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden added, with mournful gusto.
He stared at her in horror. ‚ÄúShe‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe mun be bad then,‚Äù he stammered finally.
‚ÄúEh, she is, poor soul! Your Leonard‚Äôs nobbut seen her once, an‚Äô I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt set eyes on her sin‚Äô she were ta‚Äôen away, but Mrs.¬ÝFlather‚ÅÝ‚Äîher little lass is in‚ÅÝ‚Äîtowed me she were in a bad way, one o‚Äô nurses ‚Äôad said summat to her about it. But we mun hope for t‚Äôbest, that‚Äôs all. An‚Äô standin‚Äô here talkin‚Äô. Sit yer down, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, an‚Äô I‚Äôll mak‚Äô yer a bit o‚Äô tea. Your Leonard‚Äôll be here in a minute‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs his time‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô I allus mak‚Äô him a bit. I‚Äôve been bakin‚Äô today. I‚Äôll fetch a curran‚Äô cake an‚Äô a piece o‚Äô fatty cake in, if you‚Äôll just watch t‚Äôkettle a minute.‚Äù
Ten minutes later, she had come and gone again, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was sitting at the table with his son, Leonard, a very subdued Leonard indeed. The dandy huntsman who had marked and captured bright feminine prey in so many social-and-dance halls, cinemas, and cheap caf√©s, had vanished, and in his place was a troubled, frightened lad with a trembling lower lip, a lad who had caught a glimpse of another and dreadful huntsman. He could add very little to the information already supplied by Mrs.¬ÝSugden.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found relief in a sudden spurt of anger. ‚ÄúYer gurt fathead,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúwhy didn‚Äôt you let me know afore ‚Äôat your mother was so poorly? Haven‚Äôt sense you were born wi‚Äô!‚Äù
“I couldn’t,” Leonard mumbled miserably.
“Ar, d’you mean you couldn’t? Course you could!”
“I couldn’t. I told you, I didn’t know at first, and then when Mar was taken so bad, she said, ‘Don’t tell yer father.’ It’s last thing she did say to me.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs anger fell away from him. He stared down at the table. ‚ÄúWhat did she want to say that for?‚Äù he asked quietly, at last.
“Nay, I don’t know,” his son muttered. “Except she didn’t want you to know.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed away his cap, and made a little sad clicking noise. ‚ÄúWhen I come at Christmas, I knew she were poorly then, an‚Äô I towd her so. An‚Äô I towd our Lily she wor in a letter I wrote. Eh, dear!‚Äù For a moment he surveyed in silence the whole melancholy confusion of this life. ‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll go to t‚ÄôInfirmary i‚Äô t‚Äômorning. Happen they‚Äôll let me see her. What did they say when you asked today?‚Äù
“Said she was just about the same. She’s bad. Father; she is bad.” He got up from the table and turned away.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd automatically filled his pipe with Old Salt, but did not light it. He remained where he was at the table, flattening his cheek against his fist, and sank into a troubled reverie. Leonard went upstairs, came down again, smoked a cigarette over the fire.
“Me Aunt Alice came last night,” Leonard remarked, breaking the long silence.
‚ÄúAy, she did, did she?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd left the table now and lit his pipe. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô ar‚Äôs she gettin‚Äô on then?‚Äù His wife‚Äôs sister, this Alice, was married to a railwayman, and lived at the other side of Bruddersford. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had not seen her for years. As a matter of fact, he disliked both her and her husband.
“All right,” said Leonard indifferently. “Me cousin Mabel’s gettin’ married soon.”
“Well, well! Last time I saw Mabel she were nobbut a bit of a kid wi’ a mucky pinafore, as you might say. And nar she’s gettin’ wed. Who’s t’chap?”
‚ÄúJohnson, they call him. He works in the railway office‚ÅÝ‚Äîpen-pusher. You might think he owned it, to hear him talk. Lot o‚Äô swank! And Mabel‚Äôs no kid now. She‚Äôs over a year older than me, nearly as old as our Lily.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou haven‚Äôt said owt to our Lily yet, have you?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd anxiously.
Leonard shook his head. “I haven’t written her a letter for two months. She doesn’t write to me. You’ll be writing, won’t you?”
What was he going to write? The thought chilled him, but warmth returned with the thought of Lily herself. If only she were here with him! But no, she was better out of it. He stared about him, then suddenly remembered something. “Here,” he cried, “where’s Albert? I’d forgotten him.”
“Gone. Went a fortnight since.”
“Well, that’s summat, anyhow. A bit o’ yon Albert’s talk nar ’ud just about put finishing touch on it. An’ what’s happened to him then?”
‚ÄúGettin‚Äô married this week.‚Äù And Leonard grinned sardonically. ‚ÄúGot caught all right, Mr.¬ÝTuggridge did. Told him he would, but he wouldn‚Äôt leave her alone. They didn‚Äôt give him any option, neither, when they knew. Her father come to see him. Poor old Albert!‚Äù Yes, his days as a wandering gallant were over. No more ogling and pursuing and picking up for him. He had picked up once too often. He had ‚Äúgot caught‚Äù and would soon be seen with a perambulator.
‚ÄúPoor owd nothing!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd scornfully. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry for t‚Äôlass as weds him. Gurt clever head‚ÅÝ‚Äîgasbag! An‚Äô that‚Äôs no way for you to talk, neither, lad,‚Äù he added severely. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄòGot caught‚Äô! It makes me fair shamed to hear a lad o‚Äô mine talking that way. If I‚Äôd said owt o‚Äô that sort in front o‚Äô my father, he‚Äôd ha‚Äô ta‚Äôen a stick to my back, he would that. D‚Äôyer think t‚Äôlasses is nobbut for you to go follerin‚Äô round an‚Äô laking wi‚Äô? What d‚Äôyer think they are‚ÅÝ‚Äîbits o‚Äô toys?‚Äù He regarded his son sternly for a moment. ‚ÄúAr yer doin‚Äô at yer work? Still wi‚Äô Gregson‚Äôs?‚Äù
“Yes,” Leonard replied, rather sulkily. “Doing all right. Got the second chair now and a lot of reg’lar customers. I’m making nearly four pounds a week.”
“That’s the style. Well, happen you’ll be better off when you ‘get caught’ as you call it. Might knock a bit o’ sense into you if a decent lass gets howd on you. You nivver knaw.”
‚ÄúChap offered me a job in Manchester the other day,‚Äù Leonard mumbled, ‚Äúand I‚Äôd like to have taken it. More money and a change. I‚Äôm getting sick of Bruddersford. If‚ÅÝ‚Äîif owt happens to me mother I shall go.‚Äù He swallowed hard.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd relaxed the severity of his expression. ‚ÄúAy, lad, you mun do whativver you think best. I‚Äôve no call to be tellin‚Äô you what to do. An‚Äô whativver else you‚Äôve done, you‚Äôve noan been a bad lad to your mother.‚Äù
Having said this, he cleared his throat, and looked sternly at the evening paper, as if he knew very well he could not believe a word it said. Leonard, muttering something about ‚Äúa walk round,‚Äù disappeared. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd read the paper through carefully, unhopefully, smoked a pipe or two and stared solemnly at the fire, then went to bed.