Crescendo (24 page)

Dorothea's eyes filled with tears; she followed the deep impulse of her heart and telephoned to Richard.

1

“Richard Cressey speaking,” snapped Richard sharply.

“Forgive me for troubling you, Richard,” began Dorothea.

There were tears in her voice, and Richard's bitter mood broke at once into tender distress.

“Dorothea! Is anything wrong, my dear?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens, what? I'll come round at once,” said Richard. (A self-denying ordinance against attempting to marry a girl did not preclude helping her in time of trouble.)

“No, no. I'm not in difficulties myself. It's Mrs. Eastwood's tenant out at High Royd, just below Blackstalls Brow. His name is Francis Freeman.”

“Is that Freeman the stage designer, the artist?”

“I don't know. He's an old man and he's tried to gas himself.”

“The hospital. 999. I'll ring them,” began Richard.

“Mrs. Eastwood's done that at a kiosk—they've no telephone themselves.”

“They?”

“There's a daughter, Gay, married to a Peter Trahier. He's at a class at the Hudley Technical College. Mrs. Eastwood wants to get him to High Royd quickly, because she's afraid Gay may have a miscarriage.”

Richard exclaimed.

“I tried to get Peter Trahier at the Tech, but I only spoke to a young clerk, and there are so many students, I don't feel sure she'll find him. It struck me that they would take a lot more notice of you because you're a schoolmaster, so I hope you don't mind me asking you to help, Richard.”

“I'm honoured that you thought of me,” said Richard sincerely.

“Will you try to trace Peter Trahier and tell him to hurry to High Royd?”

“Immediately,” said Richard.

2

As Dorothea had suggested, it was easy for Richard Cressey to get into touch with more powerful authorities at the Hudley Technical College than she had reached—in fact he knew the Principal slightly, and was soon explaining the situation to him. The Principal's hand was strong, and Richard guessed that he caused staff members actually to spring about the corridors doing his bidding, for it was not many minutes before he was able to provide the necessary information.

“I'm sorry, Trahier's gone. Left some time ago. He slipped out just before the class finished, I'm told. But the lecturer who takes that economics course tells me Trahier usually goes straight down into town and catches a bus.”

“So he's already on his way home?”

“Yes. But I'm afraid he'll be a long time before he gets
there. I understand he has to change buses at Blackstalls Bridge and catch a bus there which goes up the hill. It's quite a long way.”

“How long does the whole journey take?”

There was a pause for consultation at the Principal's end.

“About an hour.”

“An hour! Good lord!”

“My economics lecturer here volunteered to go down to the bus terminus in his car and find Trahier and tell him, and drive him out to High Royd.”

“Good man.”

“He set off at once. But I'm afraid it's only too likely that he'll miss him. Trahier's probably already in a bus travelling to Blackstalls Bridge. There's a frequent service from here to Ashworth which goes through the Bridge village.”

“I see.”

“There's nothing else we can do, I'm afraid,” said the Principal. “You said the ambulance was already on its way?”

“Yes. I'll check it, just to make sure. Well, thanks very much.”

“Not at all. Sorry we couldn't do more. But the ambulance men will probably give Mrs. Trahier advice if she requires it.”

Richard rang off, and checked with the Hudley hospital that the ambulance had, in fact, departed.

“Though whether it'll have got there yet or not, is more than I can say,” said the porter. “It's an awkward place to get at, is Blackstalls Brow, and the directions weren't very precise. But they won't be long, sir, you can rely on that.”

3

Richard however felt thoroughly dissatisfied with what he had accomplished of Dorothea's request.

He limped impatiently up and down, banging one fist into
the palm of his other hand, considering. It seemed to him unlikely that the economics lecturer would catch young Trahier at the bus terminus. He imagined the young wife waiting alone in the dark at High Royd beside her dying father, while the ambulance took wrong turnings and Mrs. Eastwood trailed slowly up the hill on her puffy ankles. Would a girl in such a situation mention her own condition to two bustling ambulance men? Richard doubted it. Would Mrs. Eastwood (who on the other hand would have no such qualms of delicacy) reach High Royd while the ambulance was there? Would the ambulance pick her up
en route
? It was all possible, but all doubtful, and the thought that the life or death of this unknown girl and her child might hang on such uncertainties fretted Richard beyond endurance. He was only too familiar with the protracted effects that one moment's uncertainty might produce—if his own foot hovering on the cellar step had been halted by a look, a word, a gesture, how different would his life have been! And this unknown girl who was in danger, this Gay—a charming name, thought Richard—had become in his imagination Dorothea; she had Dorothea's face as he had seen it tonight, pale, sad and wistful.

Imagination was one of Richard's strong suits, and he had only too clear a picture of Dorothea racked by pain, her crisp dark curls damp with the sweat of agony. Oh no, this Gay could not be left in that condition; he could not leave the matter so; it was intolerable. Something must be done. But what?

That wretched husband, too, thought Richard—a note in the Principal's voice had somehow conveyed the impression that the Principal did not very much care for Peter Trahier, but what of that? Common humanity overrode such considerations in times of trouble. Richard imagined the young man sitting at ease in the lumbering bus, unaware of the tragic possibilities which hung over him. He would reach his home, and find it at best empty, with wife and father-in-law gone to hospital—which would drive him mad with anxiety, even if they
thought to leave an explanatory note—or at worst, with his father-in-law dead and his wife in premature labour. It really was not to be borne. One could not just sit back and leave one's fellow-humans to perish.

But what Richard Cressey, a slightly lame schoolmaster down in Ashworth, could do about a situation on a high hillside several Pennine miles away, Richard could not imagine. If only he had a car! A big, powerful car. Then he could dash along the valley to Blackstalls Bridge and drive slowly along the road thence towards Hudley and stop every bus and find Peter Trahier on one of them and pick him off and whisk him up to High Royd. A big, powerful car, driven by a skilled and spirited driver, a powerful authoritative man who would not hesitate to stop buses or race up hills in chase of ambulances: that was what was necessary in this situation. One had only to find such a man with such a car.

Richard laughed suddenly. He had remembered where he could find just such a man with just such a car. That the man was Richard's enemy was irrelevant; all that mattered was whether he would be willing to rush his precious car up and down narrow hillside lanes, on an unlikely humanitarian errand, through an unpleasantly wet dark night. Richard took up the telephone and in a somewhat sardonic tone, speaking with grim precision, asked the operator to connect him with Mr. Arnold Amos Janna Barraclough of Holmelea Hall.

1

The Moment the telephone rang Jerry sprang up and went out to the extension in the hall.

“He hopes it's Chillie,” thought Arnold bitterly.

The Barracloughs were sitting together in uneasy silence in the library. Meg had had a fire lighted, for the evening had become wet and cold. At one point Jerry had turned on the television, but almost immediately went off restlessly to do his packing—he was due back at school next day. Meg followed him to supervise the packing operation; Arnold turned off the instrument; for a few moments the voices of mother and son could be heard upstairs, giving an illusion of happy family life which made Arnold's heart ache. When they returned, Meg looked sad and perplexed, and Jerry looked cross and uneasy. Arnold, who was reading a rather uncomfortable discussion about proposed American tariffs against wool textile imports, in the columns of the morning newspaper, folded the newspaper and laid it down at once, with the air (he hoped) of a father eager to talk to his son on the last night of his half-term leave. No conversation, however, seemed to be forthcoming. His son was silent, and Arnold himself could think of nothing to say.

“Want the telly on again, Jerry?” he said after a moment.

Jerry shook his head. He stretched out a hand and took up a weekly from a nearby table, and began to turn its pages.

“He won't even speak to me,” thought Arnold.

For a moment he felt hot and angry. He shook the newspaper open again viciously. Damn the Americans! Damn wool textiles! Damn Chillie! Damn everything! But presently his anger subsided into heartache. There they sat, the
three of them, he thought: Meg knitting, Arnold and Jerry reading, feet stretched to the fire, clean, well dressed, well fed—the dinner, especially chosen by Meg no doubt for Jerry's last evening, had been excellent—the picture of a normal happy family; and yet they were all as wretched as could be. Arnold gave an exasperated sigh, and it was at this moment that the telephone rang.

Jerry returned looking disappointed.

“It's for you, father.”

Father
again, thought Arnold with a pang.

“Who was it?”

“I don't know,” muttered Jerry. He seemed then to perceive that he had been lacking in initiative, and added rather less sulkily: “Man with an educated voice, who said it was urgent.”

Arnold threw down his newspaper and strode out into the hall. More trouble, he thought; the mill's on fire I shouldn't wonder. That would just about match the rest of the day.

“Arnold Barraclough speaking.”

“This is Richard Cressey. I don't know whether you remember me—I was one of the unsuccessful candidates for the Holmelea headmastership this afternoon.”

“I remember you,” said Arnold grimly. “My God,” he thought, “is this smooth-tongued fellow trying to lobby for a change of decision about that appointment? If so he's come to the wrong man, and I shall enjoy telling him so.”

“You may be surprised that I should telephone you.”

“I am rather,” said Arnold even more grimly.

“I'm applying to you because I noticed this afternoon you had a powerful car and were a skilful driver.”

“What is all this leading up to?” said Arnold. He spoke roughly but with less contempt; he was now genuinely puzzled.

“An old artist named Francis Freeman, who lives up at the
top of Blackstalls Brow in a house without a telephone, has attempted to commit suicide.”

“Suicide!” exclaimed Arnold.

At this word the whole wretched and sordid episode of his father's death, which had lain in his mind all day owing to his worry about his son, became vividly present to him. He was sorry for anyone who had anything to do with a suicide, and that was a fact.

“Suicide!” he repeated. “Well—is there something I can do, do you mean?”

“Freeman's young daughter, who is several months pregnant, is alone in the house with him. The Hudley ambulance has left for Blackstalls, but her husband, ignorant of what has happened, is returning home from the Hudley Technical College by bus. He'll be an hour on the way unless we can get hold of him.”

“Jerry!” shouted Arnold. “Get out the car! Hurry! Now listen, Cressey,” he said urgently: “Where are you, eh? Well, look; that's on my way to Ashworth. Come to the end of your road and I'll pick you up and you can tell me the rest of the story as we go. Hurry, now; I shall be there in two minutes.”

He ran to the table in the hall and picked up a large electric torch which customarily lay there. The front door stood open, cold wet air pouring in.

“The boy's jumped to it,” thought Arnold with satisfaction.

Meg came running to him, her kind face drawn with alarm.

“Is it the mill, Arnold?”

“No, no. Nothing to do with us really. Man tried to suicide up by the moors, pregnant daughter alone with him, we must get hold of the husband who doesn't know.”

“Oh,” said Meg. Relief showed for a moment on her face, to be succeeded by pity. “Take your raincoat,” she cried, throwing it after her husband as he ran down the steps.

Not to waste time, Arnold caught it, and threw it into the back of the car, which now leaped up to the steps with lights blazing, Jerry at the wheel. The boy slid over and Arnold took his place and they flew out of the Hall drive and down the hill at considerable speed.

“Is it the mill, father?” enquired Jerry.

Two aspects of this remark warred in Arnold's heart. On the one hand, he was still relegated to the icy fringe of fatherhood, apparently; on the other, it seemed that Jerry at least cared enough for Holmelea Mills to enquire about their safety. He sighed, perplexed. But the excitement of the chase had loosened his tongue, and as they raced along the road to Ash-worth he told Jerry the object of their excursion as far as he knew it.

“Don't you know Francis Freeman at all, then?” said the boy in a tone of surprise.

“No. Never heard of him.”

“
I
have,” said Jerry unexpectedly. “He was quite a good stage designer in his day.”

“That's not the point, however,” said Arnold. “The point is, he's a man in trouble.”

“Oh, quite. It was pretty cool of this Cressey type to expect you to go to the rescue of a complete stranger, though, wasn't it?”