James Hilton: Collected Novels Read online

  So a few days later, amidst pouring rain that had already flooded the low-lying districts of Browdley, Dr. Whiteside had his old coachman-chauffeur drive him up to Stoneclough. Admitted by Watson, he was glad to find Livia out, and made his own way across the hall to the drawing room. He walked in without ceremony, being both in the mood and at an age when such things were possible. John Channing sat alone by the fireside, with a white wire-haired terrier on his lap. It was one of the almost lucid intervals, less frequent now and more fragmentary; the younger man shook hands, invited the doctor to sit down, remarked on the weather, and in all ways but one seemed perfectly normal. The exception lay in the fact that though he clearly did not recognize Dr. Whiteside, he showed no surprise that a stranger should walk in unannounced.

  It would have puzzled a man less subject to freaks of behavior than Dr. Whiteside himself. “Good God, man, don’t you remember me?” was all he exclaimed. “Whiteside…Doctor Whiteside. I’ve been meaning to look you up for a long while…How are you getting on?”

  “Oh not so badly, thanks. Yes, of course I remember you now. It’s—it’s just that I don’t see very well.”

  “Still the same trouble?”

  “No. It never was what you diagnosed.”

  “You don’t say?” Dr. Whiteside was somewhat discomfited. “Well, of course, I’m not a specialist. I hope you consulted one.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That’s my business, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why…certainly. I beg your pardon.” But by this time Dr. Whiteside’s interest, both private and professional, was thoroughly aroused. He was not really a stupid doctor, only a rather perfunctory one when people came to him with vague complaints, such as “a little trouble with my eyes.” On the occasion of that visit several years before, he had discovered a few symptoms of strain and had recommended a local oculist who would make a more detailed examination. As he never heard that Channing visited the oculist, he had concluded that whatever was wrong had got right of its own accord, as so many ailments do; but now, staring closely, he detected other symptoms—much more serious ones. Of course he couldn’t be sure, but if what he instantly thought of were possible, then it was rather appalling…

  He continued, automatically turning on the jaunty air that he always adopted at such moments, yet at the same time reflecting that the real object of his visit was now more necessary than ever: “Matter of fact, I didn’t come to talk about you at all.”

  “Good—because it’s the one subject I try not to be interested in. What did you come to talk about?”

  Dr. Whiteside answered bluntly: “Livia.”

  “Livia? Fine—go ahead. Too bad she’s out shopping now, or you could talk to her yourself…What about her, though?” Then with sudden darkening urgency: “She’s not ill, is she? There’s nothing happened to her?”

  Dr. Whiteside saw a loophole into the argument which he knew had to come. “If she were ill, John, or if anything were to happen to her…and I’m telling you this frankly, mind…it would be nobody’s fault but yours.”

  “But she’s not ill…tell me…tell me…”

  “No, she’s not exactly ill. She’s just in a rather nervous state…”

  “I know—she ought to go away. Matter of fact it was all arranged—”

  “Yes, Richard told me, but he didn’t tell me she hadn’t gone.”

  “He doesn’t know that yet…But she’s not ill?…You’re not keeping something from me?”

  “I’ve said she’s in a rather nervous state. That describes it pretty well. A very nervous state…as apparently you are yourself.”

  “Oh never mind me. Leave me out of it.”

  “But I can’t entirely—in what I have to say.”

  “Then for God’s sake get on with saying it!”

  After a pause Dr. Whiteside resumed: “She’s very fond of you, isn’t she?”

  The question seemed to bring instant calm to the discussion.

  “I daresay. I am of her too. She’s kind to me. You’d never believe how kind to me she is. I often wonder why, because—as I’ve told her—I never did anything for her except bring her into the world, and that’s a doubtful privilege…but she’s so kind—so wonderfully kind.”

  Dr. Whiteside cleared his throat; he would soon be on delicate ground. “Has it ever occurred to you…” He hesitated, then leaned forward to pat the head of the terrier and was disconcerted when the animal growled at him. “A faithful dog, I can see.”

  “Livia gave him to me. Becky, his name is. She gave me this pipe too—though I can’t smoke any more—it hurts my head to have a pipe in my mouth. She doesn’t know that—please don’t tell her. She’s always giving me things. I give her things too, but I can afford so little nowadays…and those records were never returned. The railway people never found them. They were Mozart records—she loves Mozart.”

  Dr. Whiteside nodded grimly. Presently he said, beginning afresh: “Has it ever occurred to you that she never remembered you as a child…so that when she saw you a few years ago it was like meeting a stranger for the first time?”

  “Why, of course. That’s what makes it so remarkable. Two strangers. And very much at odds with the world—both of us. We’ve managed to get along pretty well. But I agree with you—that is, if the point you’re making is about her health…a long holiday…Richard’s right…she needs it. Sarah says so too…” Then suddenly, in a changed voice: “Dr. Whiteside, I’m not well—I have to admit that. In fact, there are times when I’m very far from well. Will you please tell me—quickly, please—because there’s not a great deal of time…exactly what are you driving at?”

  Half an hour later Dr. Whiteside left the house, having discovered a great deal more than he had allowed the other to realize, and having said perhaps more than he himself had intended.

  Livia’s shopping was considerably delayed that afternoon. She was not temperamentally a very good driver of a car, and after such rain as had fallen during several consecutive days there were extra hazards in traveling to and from Stoneclough. It was quite a phenomenal rain; all the streets near the river were under water, with basements engulfed and families living in upper floors; the Advertiser and the Guardian both reported it as the worst flood within living memory. This would have been enough for Browdley to gossip about, yet when Livia entered shops to make her purchases she could feel she was changing the subject of scores of conversations. For the town was already full of rumors about Stoneclough. A few words from Watson had been sufficient; their very fewness gave larger scope to theory, interpretation, pure invention. The whole history of the Channing family, their crimes, scandals, and downfall, was revived under a new spotlight. It was impossible not to wonder what secrets lay behind the eyes of a girl who looked and talked as if she were half a child and half an adult, but nothing at all of an eighteen-year-old.

  She shopped at the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the pastry cook’s. It was remembered afterwards (by individuals) that she had bought some pipe tobacco at the tobacconist’s, and some lengths of colored ribbon in the drapery department of the Co-operative shop. She was quick-spoken, as always; knew exactly what she wanted, what it should cost, and if it were of good quality. A true Channing in that respect, at least.

  After dusk she set out on the return journey. The old Citroen spluttered slowly uphill with water leaking under the hood; it was a car that did not take the hill too easily at the best of times, but now both wind and rain were beating against its progress, and every cross street sent rivers of muddy flood waters swirling against the wheels. It was all she could do to hold the road, and no more easily as she climbed, because the stream through the clough had become a torrent breaking bounds in places. She hoped Martin would be asleep by the time she reached the house, because if not, he might be worrying about her safe arrival. He usually dozed off about dusk and would often wake again past midnight, when it was her habit to cook a small meal which they wo
uld eat in the kitchen; after which they would talk until he felt like dozing again, or sometimes, in fine weather, they would pace upland down the garden in the darkness.

  The strain of the drive had tired her, and when she finally slewed the car into the garage she saw with relief that there was no chink of light at the drawing-room window. That meant he had already gone to bed and might well be asleep. Suddenly as she closed the garage door she noticed tire marks in the yard that were not from the car, or from Watson’s motorcycle; and a moment later, seeing Watson wheeling his machine out of the shed where he kept it, she asked if anyone had called during the day.

  “Only Dr. Whiteside.”

  “He called? Why?”

  “Oh, for a chat, I suppose. He didn’t stay long.”

  She remembered then that when she had recently met the doctor in Browdley he had said something about calling round to see her father; though she hadn’t expected him to do so with such promptness, especially during the rain. “You’d better be careful,” she warned Watson. “The road’s nearly washed out down the hill.”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right, miss.”

  He jumped on his machine and was off. She idly wondered where he could think of going on such a night; she was as far as ever from guessing that Stoneclough’s inhabitants were beginning to get on his nerves.

  She entered the house through the kitchen. As she passed Sarah’s room, near by, she heard a voice and listened; but it was only Sarah herself, praying aloud in a curious wheezy whine. The whine was based on jumbled recollections of Methodist local preachers whom Sarah, in the past, had admired; the wheeze was merely asthmatic. Sarah had always prayed aloud before going to bed, and it brought back to Livia memories of a thousand childhood nights when she herself (at Sarah’s command) had done the same, kneeling and shivering in a nightdress, and how the nightdress popping over her head just before she began had become a symbol of prayer, so that the words “Night is drawing nigh” in the hymn had meant “Nighties drawing nigh” to her until long after she began to read.

  She went upstairs to her own bedroom and was asleep within minutes. She did not pray; somehow the act of prayer seemed more fitting before a whole night’s sleep, not just a few hours until midnight. And besides, she was apt to pray harder during the day, while she was doing other things as well.

  But that night, had she known, she might have said an extra prayer, for when she awoke it was almost dawn; from utter exhaustion she had slept eight hours. Immediately—and perhaps it had wakened her—she heard the bark of a dog in the distance, the little white dog whom Martin had called Becky, because (they had both noticed) it never seemed to follow them when they walked, but liked to run on ahead and then turn round, as if beckoning.

  The bark continued, giving her a sudden premonition of tragedy. She hurried through the dark house and across the garden, following the sound, and Becky came running forward to meet her at the top of the clough.

  Martin’s body was wedged between rocks where the river poured in spate; she made the discovery quickly because Becky jumped into the torrent near the exact spot. She tried to drag the body out of the water, but lacked the strength. She noticed later that where the path came nearest to the rocks there had been a small landslide.

  It was full dawn as she returned to Stoneclough. Sarah was still asleep, Watson had been out all night; the house was cold and gray and silent. Entering it she knew she could not tell anyone yet; she felt herself spinning into unconsciousness as she flung herself on a couch in the drawing room. Just a little while to gain control, and then hold it for a lifetime—just half an hour, maybe, until the sun was up, until Sarah, taking tea to his room, would herself discover the absence. Presently she noticed that Becky was wet and shivering, and the dog’s simple need roused her to equally simple action. But a moment later, while she was in the kitchen rubbing him with a towel, some men appeared in the yard outside. They were Browdley Council workmen, in charge of an engineer; they had walked up the clough to see if the flood water was abating; and in so doing they had found Martin’s body.

  One of the workmen claimed afterwards that when Livia was given the news she said in a low voice “Yes, I know—” but she denied this later in the morning to Dr. Whiteside, and under his tactful handling the matter was not raised at the inquest, though it was freely gossiped about in the town. She was so distracted, anyhow, that (as all the men agreed) she might not have known what she was saying even if she had said it. But it was still a little odd, as were a great many other things.

  Part Three

  CHRISTMAS AND THE CHRISTMAS number of the Guardian came a few weeks later, and George Boswell summarizing the local events of the year in a special article, then wrote as follows:—

  …In November Browdley suffered its worst floods within living memory, while in the same month the death, under suspicious circumstances, of Mr. John Channing, of Stoneclough, recalled the Channing Mill crash of a generation ago—an event notable in the history of our town both on account of the number of its victims and the sensational criminal trial that followed it…

  When George handed this to Will Spivey, his sub-editor, printer, proofreader, ad salesman, and general all-purposes assistant, the latter scrutinized it, grunted, then carefully blue-penciled the word “suspicious.”

  “You can’t say that, George.”

  “Why not? Isn’t it true?”

  “Have ye never heard ‘the greater the truth the greater the libel’?”

  “Libel? Who’s libeling who?”

  “The verdict at the inquest was ‘accidental death.’ ”

  “Aye, and everybody knows why—because old Whiteside was coroner and made ’em believe what the girl said…As if anyone sober or in his right mind would be taking walks in the clough at night during the worst storm for years—”

  “I know, George. And there’s some say he wasn’t sober and there’s others say he wasn’t in his right mind and I’ve even heard it whispered that—”

  “Nay—I’m not saying or whispering anything, because I simply don’t know and I refuse to believe gossip. I’m just content with the word ‘suspicious.’”

  “No good, George. The jury found it was accidental—you can’t contradict ’em. Change to ‘tragic’ and you’ll be safe.”

  George reluctantly made the substitution. It was his first year as editor and he did not want trouble. Already he had discovered that the written word had more pitfalls than the spoken, and that the Guardian was a rather sickly infant whose survival could only be contrived from week to week by the most delicate nursing.

  “There you are then,” he muttered, handing back the corrected copy. “And if I’m safe, that’s more than Channing’s ever was….”

  Ever since he could remember, the Channing name had been part of his life. He had known that his father worked at “Channing’s” before he had any idea what Channing’s was, and when he was old enough to associate the word with the humming three-storied soot-blackened cotton mill at the end of the street, it had taken shape in his mind as something fixed, universal, and eternal. As a child the rows of windows had seemed endless to him as he walked under their sills, and it became an exciting dream to think that as he grew up he would presently be tall enough to see through them. When that time did come he found there was nothing to see—just the faint suggestion of moving wheels behind the wired and murky glass, with the humming louder when he put his ears to it. He had grown up to feel that work at Channing’s was in the natural order of events, like play along the canal bank and chapel on Sundays. Indeed, it was the shrill Channing’s “buzzer” that marked Time, and the Channing’s brick wall that marked Space, in his own small boy’s world.

  Even after the death of his parents, when he had gone to live with his uncle in another part of the town, Channing’s merely acquired an extra attribute, for Uncle Joe called it “safe.” George soon learned that it paid his uncle, who did not work there, just as regularly as it had paid his father, who had work
ed; though why this should be, he could not imagine. It was, however, of importance because his uncle had promised to send him to Browdley Grammar School and pay the fees out of “the Channing’s money.” Then suddenly disaster struck. Even to an intelligent schoolboy it was all rather incomprehensible, for the mill still stood, not a brick disturbed, not a cadence lost from the call of its early morning and late afternoon siren; and yet, in a way that undoubtedly hurried Uncle Joe to his grave, Channing’s proved no longer “safe.”

  So George, because of this, had left an elementary school when he was thirteen, and had taken various jobs that gave him nothing but a series of pointless and not always pleasant experiences, and then had come the war, with more pointless and not always pleasant experiences—in France and elsewhere. During this time, however, his dissatisfactions had acquired a pattern, and the pattern had acquired a trend; so that on seeing Browdley again, war-injured but recovering, at the age of thirty-one, he had known what he wanted to do and had begun right away to do it. At a Council by-election he won a victory that surprised even himself, while about the same time he took over the almost bankrupt Guardian.

  And after several months the Guardian was still almost bankrupt. For one reason, it had no monopoly (the Browdley Advertiser, one of a chain of local papers, enjoyed a far bigger circulation), and Browdley folk remained obstinately fixed in their reading habits even when an increasing number of them favored George’s political opinions. He would have been badly off indeed but for the small printing establishment (two hand-presses with three employees), which not only put out the regular weekly edition but also received official printing jobs from the Browdley municipality. And here, of course, lay an obvious opening for George’s political opponents, some of whom whispered “graft” whenever the Council (George scrupulously absenting himself from the vote) decided to hand him another contract. That they did so at all, however, testified to his rising popularity as well as to the fact that the enmities he made were rarely bitter or lasting. The truth was, as an enemy once remarked, it was damned hard to hate George, and whispers of graft did not stick very well because, graft or no graft, it really was quite obvious that he was not lining his pockets with any considerable success. He lived modestly in the oldish, inconvenient house which, adjoining the printing works, he had acquired when nobody else wanted either; and he often found it as hard to pay his newsprint bills as to collect from some of his customers. He dressed rather shabbily and rode a bicycle except when official business entitled him to the use of a municipal car. The local bank manager and income-tax assessor knew all these and other pertinent details, but as they belonged to the opposition party they were constrained to attack him in reverse: if, they argued, George succeeded so meagerly with his own small business, how could Browdley feel confidence in his capacity to run the town? But humbler citizens were not much influenced by this. Most of them knew George personally and felt that his total lack of prosperity made him all the more human, municipal contracts or not. They liked him, in fact, and a great many fought his battle, and if a few of them fought it bitterly, he would sometimes reward them with a speech that made them think he was secretly as bitter as they were. But in that they were wrong, for George was just fiery, effervescent, genuinely indignant over much that he saw around him, but incurably romantic about what he saw in his own mind. He was also naïve in the way he tackled his opponents—first of all overwhelming them with a sort of Galahad impetuosity, then wondering if perhaps he had been a little unfair, and later—as often as not—making some quixotic gesture of retraction or conciliation.