Another Year, page 7
He had been watching the future leaders of the club attentively, and was not very much impressed. There was a gaunt young man with wild eyes who had talked incessantly, waving his sandwiches to drive home his points. There was a lady with cropped grey hair who sat languidly on the sofa, smoking cigarettes from a long green cigarette-holder. There was a stout lady in a light blue dress who laughed so uproariously at feeble jokes that Mr. Matthews dreaded what might happen to her if somebody made a good one. There was a plump man in pince-nez who was being the life and soul of the party and a few quiet, lonely ones who stood timidly around hoping that somebody would speak to them.
He made a few introductory remarks, and threw the meeting open to discussion. The young man with the wild eyes jumped up. He advocated a Woodbank Symphony Orchestra and offered to conduct it. The lady with the long green cigarette-holder said she had taught elocution in Newcastle and offered to do the same in Woodbank. A nervous young man with a stammer, who had not said a word, suddenly stood up and made a twenty-minute speech on the pleasures of debating, and the plump man in pince-nez said he’d like to dance.
Mr. Matthews listened with an ebbing heart. In the end he proposed the wild-eyed young man as Organising Secretary of the Musical Society and the lady with the cigarette-holder as Chairman of the Drama Committee. They both made long speeches of acceptance, but both were astonished and openly disgusted when they were told there were no musicians or actors to organise at present, and it was up to them to find some. The lady in the bright blue dress was appointed Secretary of Whist Drives, and asked if anybody would like to have a game right away. The young man with the stammer proposed himself as Secretary of the Debating Society and the meeting terminated. They hovered for a little while around the crumbs on the empty plates, and then dispersed into the night.
“I hate being ungenerous,” said Mr. Matthews—“but they aren’t at all the people we’re looking for. In fact they’re utterly, hopelessly wrong. I bungled the whole thing: I ought to have met them, individually, before I called the meeting; as it was, I had to propose some of them as organising secretaries.”
“I don’t think any of them are likely to have wide circles of friends,” said Ruth.
“If their friends are anything like they are, I hope they haven’t,” he answered—“and as for attracting new people, I’m afraid they’ll frighten them away.”
Sitting in his silent study when Ruth had gone to bed, he understood more clearly Mr. Todhunter’s earnest desire to nurse his bronchitis in Little Stanton.
Little Stanton … with its woods and meadows and friendly people … what miles away it seemed that night.
Chapter Eight
One day a crocus bloomed in the Vicarage garden, but next morning the milkman left a bottle on it, and that ended the spring in Woodbank.
Summer came, and Mr. Matthews reached the last roads of his parish. He now went visiting in a straw hat: the flies became a bigger nuisance than the children, but otherwise things were very much the same. He had given up hope of gathering a steady stream of supporters as he went along, and now pinned everything on finding one super-supporter: one vigorous, influential man with a wide circle of friends who would join him and go forward with him in a grand crusade. But the super-supporter failed to appear, and the blight still lay on Woodbank like a sodden blanket.
He conducted every service at St. Peter’s Church with scrupulous regard, but no one ever came to the weekday services. He rang the bell and donned his surplice and read the lesson to himself in the empty church with the stagnant silence broken now and then by the hooting of the tugboats and the rattle of the cranes.
Sunday was, of course, the day of Mrs. Bannister Paget and her friends. At Matins she appeared in purple: at Evensong in black. There were thirty-nine of them and their numbers never varied. None ever seemed too ill to stay away or well enough to risk a Sunday off. They sat in the same places and wore the same clothes and looked so exactly the same every Sunday that it seemed as if time had ceased its onward progress and was now revolving in little cycles, coming back to the same place once a week like a gramophone record with a flaw that continually forces back the same small fragment of sound.
He gave great care to the preparation of his sermons, hoping by steady persuasion to bring a new feeling into his congregation, but he never saw a glimmer of response in their placid, cow-like eyes. If he had read a page of football results with a sing-song intonation it would have served as well as anything he said.
Mrs. Bannister Paget was polite and formal, unbending a little to say a word about the weather before departing. He never knew if she was aware of his attempts to start the club. She never gave any sign of it, but he felt fairly sure she knew all about it—including his abject failure. He was carrying out his duties like a model Vicar: so far as she was concerned he was following in the footsteps of Mr. Todhunter, and she had got him where she wanted him.
Life was lonely at the Vicarage. They rarely entertained, but one evening Mr. Matthews invited Mr. Cheesewright, the Churchwarden, to bring his wife to dinner. He liked the shy, sandy-haired little dentist, who more than once had gone out of his way to be friendly when none of the Church Council were about. He felt that Mr. Cheesewright was secretly on his side, and he wanted to get him alone and have a talk with him.
Mr. Cheesewright was pleased and flattered by the invitation, but during dinner he was nervous and ill at ease. So long as the conversation was not about the parish he was happy, but every time Mr. Matthews tried to talk about Woodbank, the little man would glance furtively at his wife, or at Mrs. Burgin, the housekeeper, if she happened to be in the room, as though he suspected her as a possible agent of the Bannister Paget party and was frightened of committing himself.
But after dinner, alone with the Vicar in the study and mellowed by a glass of port, he became easier, and presently approached the affairs of Woodbank on his own initiative.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you, Mr. Matthews,” he said, “ever since that unhappy meeting on the night you came here. I’ve wanted to tell you how ashamed I was of myself and the whole council—because I think your plans were splendid, and deserved the support of all of us.”
“Then why on earth didn’t you get up and say so!” exclaimed Mr. Matthews.
Mr. Cheesewright’s eyes roved unhappily round the room.
“You’ll despise me when I tell you,” he said. “And I deserve to be despised. My life is not a happy one, you see. My work is hard and I’m not very strong. Long hours of standing exhaust me rather, and my wife is impatient sometimes because I am not more successful. I understand her feelings. She deserves a better life than I can give her in a place like Woodbank, but of course it means hard words and unhappiness. Sometimes I wonder how I can find the strength to carry on, and the Church is the only thing I have to help me. To me the Church means peace and consolation—but if I had stood up and said what was in my mind that night it would not have meant peace any longer: it would have meant strife and bitterness and feuds that would have gone on for years—and I would not have had the strength to face it. That’s why I kept silent, Mr. Matthews, and I’m glad I’ve had this chance to explain, even if you despise me for it.”
“If I despised you,” said Mr. Matthews, “I would have to despise myself—because in your place I would have done the same. Peace in ourselves is too precious a thing to throw away on the long chance of another kind of victory: peace in ourselves is a victory of its own.”
Mr. Cheesewright looked gratefully at the Vicar—but his nervousness came back when Mr. Matthews threw a leading question at him—
“What do you think about Mrs. Bannister Paget?” he asked.
“I think,” said Mr. Cheesewright, “that she is a very lonely, unhappy woman. She is the last of the old gentry that used to dominate Woodbank, and she lives with her memories in a world that none of us can understand or share. In her own way she loves St. Peter’s Church: it is all that she has, and if it were taken away from her, she would have nothing.”
“The last thing I want to do is to take it away from her,” said Mr. Matthews. “I only want her to share it with others. Can’t we make her see what a happier town she would live in if more people shared St. Peter’s Church?”
Mr. Cheesewright shook his head.
“She sees things in a strange way,” he said. “She believes it is better that God shall be worshipped by a devoted few than by a crowd who have to be persuaded. Persuasion to worship, in her mind, is an insult to Christianity. That is why she was against your club. To wheedle people into church by means of dances and whist drives and concerts is to her a thing of sacrilege.”
“Even if the people who come by way of dances and concerts are ultimately faithful?”
“She is old,” said Mr. Cheesewright. “She has her creed, and I do not think it can be altered.”
There was nothing to be gained by talking any more about Mrs. Bannister Paget and Mr. Matthews dropped the subject. “You’ve worked here as a dentist for many years,” he said, “and you know a lot of people. Why is it that I can’t raise a glimmer of response in them? I’ve done my best. I’ve tried every way, but they just don’t seem to care. I’m afraid it’s something in my manner that’s wrong, and I want you to tell me honestly, as a friend, what it is.”
Mr. Cheesewright smiled rather sadly. “No,” he said. “It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the men who built this town … what we call ‘the new town’. It’s such a dreary, hopeless place. There’s nowhere for people to go except the pictures and the pubs and the dog-racing. They hardly know the meaning of the open air. There ought to be a promenade beside the river, or some gardens for them—but there’s nothing. There’s a little recreation ground behind the station that was given to the town by Mrs. Bannister Paget’s grandfather, but he put such a big memorial on it to commemorate his gift that it left no room for the people to sit down. When you wonder why people do not come to church, you must ask yourself what there is to thank God for in Woodbank.”
The clock struck nine, and Mr. Cheesewright rose to go. “It’s been a wonderful evening for me, Mr. Matthews,” he said—“a memorable evening—and I wish I could be of more help to you. But I’m afraid there’s so little to be done. To change these people you would have to change the town, and it’s too late for anybody to do that now.”
It was not until his guest was on the point of leaving that Mr. Matthews got some really useful information. He told Mr. Cheesewright about the Boys’ Club he had organised in Little Stanton. “Even if it’s too late to do anything about the older people,” he said, “I could do something for these boys if I could find some way of getting to know them.”
He explained the kind of club he would like to organise for the older boys in Woodbank. Mr. Cheesewright listened patiently, and shook his head again with a gentle smile.
“You will never do anything with the boys in Woodbank,” he said, “so long as Joe Briggs is proprietor of ‘The Fighting Cocks’. Joe Briggs was Heavyweight Boxing Champion of London at one time: the boys hero-worship him, and he’s got them in the palm of his dirty hand. He runs what he calls a ‘Boxing Club’ but he degrades the boys who go there. He makes them drunk—fighting drunk—and offers them big prize-money. He’s clever, and keeps on the right side of the police—but there’s dreadful stories told of those drunk lads, fighting till they half kill each other. When Mr. Todhunter was Vicar he thought it was his duty to interfere—but it wasn’t his duty, and he shouldn’t have done it.”
“What happened?” asked Mr. Matthews.
Mr. Cheesewright did not answer. The fate of Mr. Todhunter appeared to be too painful for words. He fumbled with his hat and looked at the door.
“I want to know because it’s my business to know,” said Mr. Matthews.
“It’s not your business!” burst out Mr. Cheesewright with unexpected spirit. “It’s the business of the Magistrates and the Police!”
“What happened to Mr. Todhunter?” persisted the Vicar.
“He was badly hurt. No one knows how badly, because he stayed behind the closed doors of this house till he was well again. They say his nose was broken and his arm was dislocated—but he tried to hush it up for the sake of the church. What hurt him more were the horrible, obscene things written on the garden wall. He had them wiped off every morning but they were written up again, night after night, and it was terrible for all of us who had the good name of St. Peter’s Church at heart. For the sake of yourself, and of all of us, Mr. Matthews—leave Joe Briggs alone. It isn’t your business. You would only bring more insults on the Church and harm to yourself.”
Mr. Matthews walked down to the gate with his guests to see them off. It was a warm summer night and the twilight lingered around the cranes and derricks on the river side. He heard the half-hour strike from the Town Hall as he watched his guests go down St. Peter’s Lane. The public-houses closed at ten in Woodbank and it was barely a five minutes’ walk to “The Fighting Cocks”.
He went back to the house and took his hat and walking-stick from the hall and called out to his wife that he was going for a stroll before he settled down to work.
Chapter Nine
As he drew near the bottom of St. Peter’s Lane, Mr. Matthews saw the bright lights of “The Fighting Cocks” ahead of him, and he was nearly at the swing doors of the public bar before he began to wonder what he was going to do when he got inside.
The news of Joe Briggs and his “Boxing Club” had come like a stream of light to a man who had groped for months in darkness.
There had always been something about the Woodbank boys that he had not understood. He had met a few insipid youths on his parish calls, but the type he wanted to meet—the type that had formed the backbone of his club in Little Stanton—had eluded him. He knew they went to the football on Saturdays and the dog-racing on Thursdays, but what they did with the rest of their spare time was a mystery until Mr. Cheesewright had enlightened him.
He was exhilarated by the discovery. He strode down St. Peter’s Lane like a Crusader, burning to come to grips at last with one of the evil things of Woodbank, but he eased up a little when he got within a few yards of the public-house, and decided to walk by and calm down before he joined battle with the iniquitous Joe Briggs.
He went as far as the High Street and stood there for a while, wondering what he was going to say to Joe Briggs when he got inside. He also wondered what Joe Briggs was going to say to him. A full moon was rising, and he thought how much nicer it would be to go for a long, quiet moonlight walk instead. He could hear voices in the public bar and a loud piano, and he began to wonder whether it really was a matter for a Vicar of the Church to interfere in. To see a Magistrate and get some legal action going might be better, and the more he thought about Mr. Todhunter’s broken nose the more inclined he felt towards the idea of leaving it to the Magistrate.
The Town Hall clock chimed out the three-quarter-hour. In a little while “The Fighting Cocks” would close. He knew that it was now or never. If he left it until another day he would have thought up a dozen new reasons for shirking the job. He stopped thinking about it, braced himself and walked back and pushed open the swing doors.
There were not many people in the public bar. An automatic piano was playing away by itself in a corner, two bargees in blue jerseys were drinking beer at the counter and a few men and women were sitting round tables in the alcoves by the walls. It was a gaudy, ugly place, with a lot of hard bright lights and brass fittings, but it looked clean and respectable enough. Mr. Matthews strolled across to the bar and said “Good evening” to the two bargees. They looked him up and down in some surprise, murmured “Good evening” and went on with their conversation. The people at the tables stopped talking and nudged one another, but when Mr. Matthews behaved quite normally they settled down again and took no further notice of him.
The barmaid was pushing some bottles about on a shelf behind the bar when Mr. Matthews entered, and she looked quite startled when she turned round and saw a clergyman at her elbow. She was a youngish woman with gay blobs of rouge and bright yellow hair that was coming up a mousey colour at the roots. A long wave in front was trained to fall languorously over one eye in imitation of Veronica Lake, the film star, serving a double purpose in concealing a slight squint.
Mr. Matthews ordered a glass of beer and she served him without comment. He mentioned that the night was warm for May, and she said it was indeed. He told her he was the new Vicar of St. Peter’s Church, and she said “Oh, yes?” and moved away to serve the bargees with another round of beer. She was guarded and, it seemed, a little puzzled—but no more so, thought Mr. Matthews, than any barmaid would naturally be on the sudden appearance of a clergyman.
Left by himself he began to feel an anti-climax. There was no sign of Joe Briggs or any boys. The place looked so normal and ordinary that he began to wonder whether Mr. Cheesewright’s dramatic story was a wild exaggeration of some isolated incident—distorted and enlarged, no doubt, by prejudice and rumour. He had keyed himself for something so breath-taking that he felt quite disappointed and let down.
When the barmaid was free again he said:
“I believe Mr. Briggs is proprietor here?—I’d like to meet him if he’s free.”
“He’s not here,” she said—and moved away to serve some new arrivals.
There was nothing to be done about it. The whole thing had fizzled out. He stood there alone beside the bar, and the longer he stood there the more conspicuous he felt. The new arrivals were having a good stare at him now, and he decided to go. But just as he was on the point of leaving, things began to happen. They happened so quickly and so startlingly that they quite took his breath away.
