CHAPTER ONE
THE UNHAPPIEST LAD IN LONDON
THE woman he used to call aunty kept a rooming house on Balmoral Circus, and the boy’s earliest memories were of domestic drudgery. He cleaned boots until nearly midnight, smudging with grimy knuckles his sleepy eyes. He slept in a cupboard at the rear of the hall, along with dirty brushes, smelly dusters and lymphatic cock-roaches. As he grew taller he learned to make beds and to take care of the rooms. Aunty nagged at him continually and he had to dodge occasional blows.
She was an unwieldy woman with a tart tongue and tight varnished hair. Every afternoon she would put on a battered bonnet and go forth for what she called “a breff of fresh air.” She would return about five, smelling of gin and very affable. He preferred her cuffs to her kisses.
Uncle would come home at a quarter past six. He was a French-cleaner, a monosyllabic man who loved his pipe. One evening he broke his stoic silence.
“Missis, it’s time that boy ’ad some schoolin’.”
“Schoolin’! the ideer! And tell me ’oo’s goin’ to do the work of this ’ouse while he’s wastin’ ’is time over a lot o’ useless ’istry an’ jography?”
“I tell you, missis, he’s got to have some eddication. He’s goin’ on for nine now and knows next to nothin’.”
“Well, you know wot it means. It means payin’ some lazy slut of a ’ouse-maid sixteen bob a month.”
“Well, and why can’t you pay it out of that five ’undred pounds ’is mother gave you to look after ’im?”
“’Eaven ’ear the man! And ’aven’t I looked after ’im? ’Aven’t I earned all she gave me? ’Aven’t I bin a second muvver to ’im? Didn’t I nurse ’er like a sister, and ’er dyin’ of consumption? There ain’t many ’as would ’ave done wot I did.”
The difficulty of his education, however, was solved by the second-floor back, Miss Pingley, who undertook to give him lessons for two hours every day. She was the cousin of a clergyman and excessively genteel, so that his manners improved under her care.
Once he began to read his imagination was awakened. More than ever he hated the sordid life around him. He began to think seriously of running away, and would no doubt have done so, had not Uncle again intervened. One evening the silent man laid down his pipe.
“I’ve got a job for the boy, Missis. He begins work on Monday.”
“Wot!”
“I say get a gel for the work. That lad’s goin’ into business on Monday.”
“Well, I never!”
“Yes, Gummage and Meek, the cheese people. You ’ear, Hugh?”
“Yes, Uncle. Thank you, Uncle.”
Aunty began to make a fuss, but Uncle promptly told her to shut up. As for the boy the thought of getting away from dust pans and slop pails was like heaven to him; so the following Monday, with beating heart, he presented himself at the office of Gummage and Meek.
Mr. Ainger, the cashier, sat on his high stool, and looked down at a slim lad, twisting a shabby cap. Mr. Ainger was a tall man of about fifty, his hair grey, his face fine and distinguished. It was said that in his spare time he wrote.
“Well, my boy,” he said kindly, “what do you call yourself?”
“Hugh Kildair.”
The gaze of Mr. Ainger became interested. He noted the dark eyes that contrasted so effectively with the light wavy hair, the sensitive features, the fine face stamped with race. Centuries of selection, he thought, had gone to the making of that face.
“A romantic name. So, my boy, you are making a start with us. I don’t know that it’s what you would choose if you had any say in the matter. Probably, you’d rather have been a corsair or a cowboy. I know I would at your age. However, very few of us are lucky enough to do the things we’d like to do. Life’s a rotten muddle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, my young friend, I do not know if the horizon of your ambition is bounded by cheese, if it inspires you with passion, with enthusiasm. Still you might have made a worse choice. You might have been in oils and varnishes, for instance, or soap. Imagine handling those compared with that exquisite ivory curd—transmuted by bovine magic from the dew and daisies of the field. I tell you there’s romance in cheese; there’s even poetry. I’m sure a most charming book could be written about it. Pardon me, but you’re not by any chance thinking of writing a book about cheese, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Now I think of it I might as well do it myself,—a whimsical Belloc-sort of book with glimpses of many lands. But there. Let us return to the subject of your future. All I can say is: Do your best; we’ll do the rest. Now go; and believe me, our discriminating gaze is upon you.”
In the years that followed, although he saw little of Mr. Ainger, he was conscious of a protective and sympathetic eye. As for the work he did not dislike it. It was pleasant in the cool gloom of the warehouse where cheeses of all shapes and colours made strange lights and shadows. He had more liberty too, than he would have had in the office. He was able to make pen and ink sketches of his companions in his spare moments. At the end of every month he handed over his pay to Aunty who returned him a trifle for pocket-money.
At the beginning of his fifth year his salary was raised to fifty pounds. On the day he received his first instalment he did not return to Balmoral Circus. Instead he went to a small room in Hammersmith, carrying his few belongings in a cricket bag. He then wrote to Aunty, saying he was “on his own,” and he would never see her again.
At last, at last he was free.
How hard that first winter was! Fifty pounds went much further in those days than it does now, but even then he had to go without many needful things. An overcoat, for one. You can picture him a tall, thin pale youth, with a woollen comforter and a shabby suit far too small for him. He was often cold and hungry. A cough bothered him.
One day Mr. Ainger came down to see him.
“Hullo, young man. You haven’t written that book yet?”
“No, sir.”
“I am surprised. Assailed as you are by a dozen pungent odours do you not realize that under the cork-trees of Corsica the goats browse on the wild thyme in order that those shelves may be replenished with green veined Roquefort; that cattle bells jingle in the high vivid valleys of the Jura to make for us those grind-stone like masses of cavernous Gruyère; sitting here are you not conscious of a rhythm running through it all, of a dignity, even of an epic—cheese?”
“Well,” he went on, “I’ve come to hale you from all this source of inspiration to a more sordid environment. There’s a spare stool in the counting-house I think you might ornament.”
“I’ll be glad of a change, sir.”
“Good. By the way, where are you living?”
“Hammersmith, sir.”
“Ah, indeed, I have a cottage on the river. You must come and see me.”
A fortnight later he took Hugh to his little villa. It was the only real home the lad had even seen, and was a revelation to him. Mrs. Ainger was the first sweet woman he had ever met, and he immediately worshipped her. There were two fine boys and a most fascinating library.
The Aingers had a great influence on Hugh’s development. Through them he met a number of nice fellows and instinctively picked up their manners. He played football, cricket, and tennis,—at which games he was swift and graceful, but somewhat lacking in stamina. He studied French, and Mr. Ainger was at great pains to see that he had a good accent. But best of all, he was able to attend an art school in the evenings and satisfy a growing passion for painting.
Then the war broke out. He went to France with the First Hundred Thousand. In the wet and cold of the trenches he contracted pneumonia and his recovery was slow. As soon as he was well again, he was transferred to the transport service and drove a camion in the last great struggle. When he was demobilized he returned to the office at a comfortable salary.
Everything looked well now, everything but his health. He suffered from a chronic cold and was nearly always tired.
Then one raw day in early Spring he saw a poor woman throw her child over the Embankment.
“She was quite close to me,” he told Mr. Ainger afterwards, “so of course I went in. It was instinctive. Any other chap would have done the same.
“Well, I grabbed the kid and the kid grabbed me, and there I was treading water desperately. But it was hard to keep afloat; and I thought we must both go down. I remember I felt sorry for the little beast. I didn’t care a hang for myself. Then just as I was about to give up, they lifted us into a boat. There was a crowd and cheering, but I was too sick to care. Some one took me home in a taxi and my landlady put me to bed.”
The chill that resulted affected his lungs. All winter he had fits of coughing that made him faint from sheer exhaustion. He awoke at night bathed in cold sweat. In the morning he was ghastly, and rose only by a dogged effort. One forenoon, after a hard fit of coughing Mr. Ainger said to him:
“Cold doesn’t seem to improve.”
“No, sir.”
“By the way, ever had any lung trouble in your family?”
“Yes, sir. My mother, I’ve been told, died of it.”
“Look here, take the afternoon off and see our doctor.”
The doctor was a little bald, rosy man. He looked up at Hugh’s nigh six feet of gaunt weariness.
“You’re not fit to be out, sir. Go home at once. I’ll see you there.”
So Hugh went to his bed, and remained in it all summer.
One day in late October he lay on his bed staring drearily at the soiled ceiling, and wondering if in all London there was a lad more unhappy than he.
“A lunger,” he thought bitterly. “Rotten timber! A burden to myself and others. Soon I must take up the fight again and I’m tired, tired. I want to rest, do nothing for a year or two. Well, I won’t give in. I’ll put up a good scrap yet. I’ll——”
Here a knock came at the door. It was the little doctor cheery and twinkling.
“Hullo! How’s the health to-day?”
“Better, doctor; I’ll soon be able to go back to the office.”
The doctor laughed: “If you remain in London another six months you’ll be a dead man.”
“Go away. Live in a warm climate. Egypt, Algeria, the Riviera.”
“And if I go away how long will I live?”
“Oh, probably sixty years.”
“Quite a difference. Well, doctor, I expect I’ll have to stick it out here. You see, I’ve no money, no friends. Even now I’m living on the charity of the firm. They’ve been awfully decent, but I can’t expect them to go on much longer.”
“Have you no relatives?”
“None that I know of. I’m absolutely alone in the world.”
“Well, well! We’ll see about it. Surely something can be done. Don’t get down-hearted. Everything will come out all right.”
The little doctor went away, and Hugh continued to stare at the soiled ceiling. There came to him a desperate vision of palms and sunshine. But that was not for him. He must stay in this raw bleak London and perish as many a young chap had perished....
Next morning came another knock at the door. It was Mr. Ainger.
“Well, my lad, how are you feeling?”
“A little better. I hope I’ll soon be able to get back to my ledger.”
“Nonsense, my boy! You’ll never come back. You’re expected to hand in your resignation. The doctor holds out no hope. You can’t go on drawing on your salary indefinitely.”
Hugh swallowed hard. “No, that’s right. You’ve treated me square. I can’t complain.”
“Complain, I should say not; look here....”
With that Mr. Ainger took from his pocket a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes and began to spread them out on the bed.
“Twelve of them. Ten pounds each. All yours. We collected sixty pounds in the office and the firm doubled it. And now you’re going to eternal sunshine, to blue skies, to a land where people are merry and sing the whole day long. You’ve escaped the slimy clutch of commerce. Gad! I envy you!”
“Do you really, sir?”
“Yes. I wanted to live in Italy, Greece, Spain; to roam, to be a vagabond, to be free. But I married, had children, became a slave chained to the oar. One thing though,—my boys will never be square pegs in round holes. They’ll have the chance I never had.”
“Perhaps it’s not too late.”
“No, perhaps not. Perhaps some day I’ll join you down there. Perhaps when I get things settled, I’ll live under those careless skies where living is rapture. I’ll get back by own soul. I’ll write that book, I’ve tried all my life to write. Perhaps ... it’s my dream, my dream....”
Mr. Ainger turned abruptly and went out, leaving Hugh staring incredulously at the counterpane of notes that covered his bed.