A FATAL ACCIDENT
As Clara crossed the tunnel at Cleveland Street, she found that she had
a few minutes to spare, and stopped to admire the Silver Shoe from the
opposite footpath. Triumphant and colossal, treading the air securely
above the shop, the glittering shoe dominated the street with the
insolence of success. More than once it had figured in her dreams,
endowed with the fantastic powers of Aaron's rod, swallowing its rivals
at a gulp or slowly crushing the life out of the bruised limbs.
Her eye travelled to the shop below, with its huge plate-glass windows
framed in brass, packed with boots set at every angle to catch the eye.
The array of shining brass rods and glass stands, the gaudy ticket on
each pair of boots with the shillings marked in enormous red figures
and the pence faintly outlined beside them, pleased her eye like a
picture. To-day the silver lettering was covered with narrow posters
announcing that Jonah's red-letter sale was to begin to-morrow. And as
she stared at this huge machine for coining money, she remembered, with
a sudden disdain, her home with its atmosphere of decay and genteel
poverty. She was conscious of some change in herself. The slight
sense of physical repugnance to the hunchback had vanished since his
declaration. He and his shop stood for power and success. What else
mattered?
Her spirits drooped suddenly as she remembered the obstacle that lay
between her and the pride of openly sharing the triumphs of the Silver
Shoe as she already shared its secrets. She thought with dismay of the
furtive meetings drawn out for years without hope of relief unless the
impossible happened. A watched pot never boils, and Ada was a young
woman.
She crossed the street and entered the shop, her eye scouting for Jonah
as she walked to the foot of the stairs, for since the appointment of a
manager, Jonah had found time to slip up to the room after the lesson
to ask her to play for him, on the plea that the piano was spoiling for
want of use. And he waited impatiently for these stolen moments, with
a secret desire to see her beneath his roof in a domestic setting that
gave him a keener sense of intimacy than the swish of waters and wide
spaces of sea and sky. But to-day she looked in vain, and Miss
Giltinan, seeing the swift look of inquiry, stepped up to her.
"Mr Jones was called away suddenly over some arrangements for our sale
that opens to-morrow. He left word with me that he'd be back as soon
as possible," she said.
Clara thanked her, and flushed slightly. It seemed as if Jonah were
excusing himself in public for missing an appointment. As she went up
the stairs one shopman winked at the other and came across with a pair
of hobnailed boots in his hand.
"This'll never do," he whispered, "the boss missin' his lesson. He'll
get behind in his practice."
"Wotcher givin' us?" replied the other. "The boss don't take lessons;
it's the kid."
"Of course he don't," said the other with a leer. "He learns a lot
here by lookin' on, an' she tells him the rest at Mosman in the pale
moonlight. If I won a sweep, I'd take a few lessons meself an' cut him
out."
He became aware that Miss Giltinan was standing behind him, and raised
his voice.
"I was tellin' Harris that the price of these bluchers ought to be
marked down; they're beginning to sweat," he explained, turning to Miss
Giltinan and showing her some small spots like treacle on the uppers.
"Mr Jones doesn't pay you good money to talk behind his back; and if
you take the trouble to look at the tag, you'll see those boots have
already been marked down," she replied indignantly.
The shopman slinked away without a word. Miss Giltinan was annoyed. It
was not the first time that she had heard these scandalous rumours, for
the shop was alive with whispers, some professing to know every detail
of the meetings between Jonah and the music-teacher, naming to a minute
the boat they caught on their return from Mosman. Jonah had contrived
to avoid the faces that were familiar to him, but he had forgotten that
he must be seen and recognized by people unknown to him. Miss
Giltinan's clear and candid mind rejected these rumours for lying
inventions, incapable of belief that her idol, Jonah, would carry on
with any woman. They talked about him going upstairs to hear the piano.
What was more natural when he couldn't play it himself? And she
dismissed the matter from her mind and went about her business.
Clara gave Ray his lesson, listening between whiles for a rapid step
from below, but none came. She decided to go, and picked up her
gloves. But as she passed the bedroom door on the landing, a voice
that she recognized for Ada's called out "Is that you, Miss Grimes?"
"Yes," said Clara, and paused.
The voice sounded faint and thin, like that of a sick woman.
"'Ow is it y'ain't playin' anythin' to-day?" she continued.
"Mr Jones is out," replied Clara, annoyed by this conversation through
the crack of a door, and anxious to get away.
"Oh, is 'e?" said Ada, with an increase of energy in her voice. "I
wish yer'd come in fer a minit, if ye're not in a 'urry."
Clara pushed the door open, and went in. It was her first sight of the
bedroom, and she recoiled in dismay. The place was like a pigsty. Ada
was lying on the bed, still tossed and disordered from last night, in a
dirty dressing-gown. A basin of soapy water stood on the washstand,
and the carpeted floor was littered with clothes, a pile of penny
novelettes, and a collection of odds and ends on their way to the
rag-bag. In spite of the huge bedroom suite with its streaked and
speckled mirrors, the room seemed half furnished.
For a moment Clara was puzzled, and then her quick, feminine eye noted
a complete absence of the common knick-knacks and trifles that indicate
the refinement or vulgarity of the owner. She remembered that Jonah
had told her that Ada pawned everything she could lay hands on since he
stopped her allowance. But she was more surprised at the change in Ada
herself. Months ago Ada had begun to avoid her, ashamed of her slovenly
looks, and now Clara scarcely recognized her. Her eyes were sunken,
her cheeks had fallen in, and a bluish pallor gave her the look of one
recovering from a long illness. The room had not been aired, and the
accumulated odours of the night turned Clara sick. She was thinking of
some excuse to get away when Ada began to speak with a curious whine,
quite unlike her old manner.
"I'm ashamed ter ask yer in, Miss Grimes, the room's in such a state;
but I've been very ill, with no one ter talk to fer days past. Not
that I'm ter blame. I 'ope it's niver your lot to 'ave a 'usband with
thousan's in the bank, an' too mean ter keep a servant. 'Ere am I from
mornin' ter night, slavin' an' drudgin', an' me with a leg that bad I
can 'ardly stand on it. I'll just show yer wot state I'm in. It's
breakin' out all over. Me blood's that bad fer want of proper food an'
nourishment." She began to unfasten a dirty bandage below her knee.
Clara turned her head in disgust. The flesh was covered with ulcerated
sores.
"I don't know 'ow you find 'im, Miss Grimes," she continued, her voice
rising in anger, "but if yer believe me, a meaner man niver walked the
earth. I've 'ad ter pawn the things in this very room ter pay the
baker an' the grocer. That's 'ow 'e makes 'is money. Starvin' 'is own
wife ter squeeze a few shillin's for 'is bankin' account. 'E knows I
can't go outside the door, 'cause I've got nuthin' ter put on; but 'e
takes jolly good care ter go down town an' live on the fat of the land."
From the next room came the fitful, awkward sounds of a five-finger
exercise from Ray. Clara listened with silent contempt to this torrent
of abuse. She knew that it was false that the more Jonah gave her, the
more she spent on drink. And as she looked at Ada's face, ravaged by
alcohol, a stealthy thought crept into her mind that set her heart
beating. Suddenly Ada's anger dropped like a spent fire.
"Did yer say Mr Jones was busy in the shop?" she inquired, feebly.
"No," said Clara, "I understand that he went down town on important
business, and won't be back till late."
"Thank yer," said Ada, with a curious glitter in her eyes. "Would yer
mind callin' Ray in? I want ter send 'im on a message to the grocer's."
Clara went into the next room and sent Ray to his mother, stopping for
a minute to shut the keyboard and put the music straight. After every
lesson she was accustomed to examine the piano as if it were her own
property. When she entered the bedroom again, Ada was whispering
rapidly to Ray. She looked up as Clara entered, and gave him some
money in a piece of paper.
"An' tell 'im I'll send the rest to-morrer," she added aloud. Ray went
down the back stairs, swinging an empty millet-bag in his hand. For
another five minutes Clara remained standing, to show that she was
anxious to get away, while Ada abused her husband, giving detailed
accounts of his meanness and neglect. Suddenly her mood changed.
"I'm afraid I mustn't keep yer any longer, Miss Grimes," she said
abruptly; "an' thank yer fer lookin' in ter see 'ow I was."
Clara, surprised and relieved at the note of dismissal in her voice,
took her leave.
She went down the winding staircase at the rear of the shop, opposite
the cashier's desk. The pungent odour of leather was delightful in her
nostrils after the stale smell of the room above, and she halted at the
turn of the landing to admire the huge shop, glittering with varnish,
mirrors, and brass rods. Then she looked round for Jonah, but he was
nowhere to be seen.
The sight of Ada, ravaged by alcohol, had filled her with strange
thoughts, and she walked up Regent Street, comparing Ada with her own
father, who seemed to thrive on beer. There must be some difference in
their constitutions, for Ada was clearly going to pieces, and...the
thought entered her mind again that quickened her pulse. She had never
thought of that! She was passing the "Angel" with its huge white
globes and glittering mirrors that reflected the sun's rays, when she
caught sight of Ray coming out of the side door, swinging an empty
millet-bag in his hand. A sudden light flashed on her mind. Ada's
invitation into the bedroom, the inquiry about Jonah, and her sudden
dismissal all meant this.
"Did you get what your mother wanted?" she asked the child, with a
thumping sensation in her heart.
"No," said Ray carelessly; "the man wouldn't give me the medicine. He
told me to go home and fetch the rest of the money."
"How much more do you want?" asked Clara, in a curious tone.
"Eighteen pence," said Ray, showing two half-crowns in his hand.
Clara hesitated, with parched lips. She remembered Ada's face, ravaged
by brandy. She was a physical wreck, and six months ago...perhaps
another bottle...
The thought grazed her mind with a stealthy, horrible suggestion. She
felt in her purse with trembling fingers, and found a shilling and a
sixpence.
"Go and get your mother's medicine," she whispered, putting the money
into Ray's hand; "but don't tell her that you met me, or she may scold
you."
Ray turned in at the side door, and Clara, white to the lips, hurried
round the corner.
It took Ray half an hour to cover the short distance between the Angel
and the Silver Shoe, with a bottle of brandy swinging carelessly in the
millet-bag. Cassidy himself, all smiles, had carefully wrapped it in
paper. Ray had promised to hurry home with the medicine for his
mother, but, as usual, the shop windows were irresistible. Some of his
early trips to the "Angel" had taken half a day.
Meanwhile Ada lay on the bed in an agony of attention, atrociously
alert to every sound, hearing with every nerve in her body. Her nerves
had collapsed under the repeated debauches, and the scream of an engine
shunting in the railway yards went through her like a knife. The
confused rumble of carts in Regent Street, the familiar sounds from the
shop below, the slamming of a door, a voice raised in inquiry, the
monotonous, kindly echoes of life, struck on the raw edges of her
nerves, exasperating her to madness.
And through it all her ears sought for two sounds with agonizing
acuteness--the firm, rapid step of Jonah mounting the stairs winding
from the shop, or the nonchalant, laggard footfall of Ray ascending
from the stairs at the rear. Would Cassidy send the bottle and trust
her for the other eighteen pence? Would Jonah hurry back to meet Miss
Grimes? Presently her ear distinguished the light, uncertain step of
Ray. Every nerve in her body leapt for joy when she saw the bottle.
She looked at the clock, it was nearly four. She had at least an hour
clear, for Jonah would be in no hurry now that he had missed the
music-lesson. She snatched the bag from the astonished child.
"Go an' see if yer father's in the shop. If 'e ain't there, yer can go
an' play in the lane till 'e comes back," she cried.
Her hands shook as she held the bottle, but with a supreme effort she
controlled her muscles and drew the cork without a sound, an
accomplishment that she had learned in the back parlour of the Angel.
She poured out half a glass, and swallowed it neat. The fiery liquid
burnt her throat and brought the tears to her eyes, but she endured it
willingly for the sake of the blessed relief that always followed. A
minute later she repeated the dose and lay down on the bed. In ten
minutes the seductive liquid had calmed her nerves like oil on troubled
waters. She listened to the familiar sounds of the shop and the street
with a delicious languor and sense of comfort in her body. In an hour
she had reached the maudlin stage, and the bottle was half empty.
She felt at peace with the world, and began to think kindly of Jonah.
Hazily she remembered her bitter speech to Miss Grimes, and wondered at
her violence. There was nothing the matter with him. He had been a
good husband to her, working day and night to get on in the world. She
felt a sudden desire to be friendly with him. Maudlin tears of
self-reproach filled her eyes as she thought how she had stood in his
way instead of helping him. She would mend her ways, give up the drink
which was killing her, and take her proper position, with a fine house
and servants. With a fatuous obstinacy in her sodden brain, she
decided not to lose a minute, but to go and surprise Jonah with her
noble resolutions.
She got to her feet, and saw the brandy bottle. Ah! Jonah must not
know that she had been drinking, and with the last conscious act of her
clouded brain she staggered into the sitting-room and hid the bottle
under the cushions of the sofa. Then, conscious of nothing but her
resolve, she lurched to the top of the stairs. It was nearly dark, and
she felt for the railing, but the weight of her body sent an atrocious
pain through her leg, and to ease it she took a step forward to put her
weight on the other. And then, without fear, and without the desire or
the power to save herself, she stepped into space and fell headlong
down the winding staircase that she had always dreaded, rolling and
bumping with a horrible noise on the wooden steps down to the shop,
where the electric lights had just been switched on. She rolled
sideways, and lay, with a curious slackness in her limbs, in front of
the cashier's desk. One of the shopmen, startled by the noise, turned,
and then, with a look of horror on his face, ran to the door. He
bumped into Jonah, who was coming from the ladies' department.
"Wot the devil's this?" cried Jonah.
The man turned and pointed to the huddled heap at the foot of the
stairs.
"It's yer missis. She fell from the top. 'Er face is looking the
wrong way."
Jonah ran forward and shouted for a doctor. Then he knelt down and
tried to lift Ada into a sitting posture, but her head sagged on one
side. And Jonah realized suddenly, with a curious feeling of
detachment, that he was free. When the doctor arrived, he told them
that death had been instantaneous, as she had broken her neck in the
fall.
The next day the "Silver Shoe" was closed on account of the funeral.
The Grimes family sent a wreath, but Jonah looked in vain for Clara
among the mourners. He was disappointed but relieved, fearing that the
exultation in his heart would betray him in the presence of strangers.
He dwelt with rapture on the moment in which he would meet her face to
face, free to love and be loved, willing to lose some precious hours
for the sake of rehearsing schemes for the future in his mind. He
listened without emotion to the conventional regrets of the mourners,
agreeing mechanically with their empty remarks on his great loss, a
mocking devil in his brain.
The day after the funeral the Silver Shoe returned to business, and
Jonah spent the morning in the shop, too nervous to sit idle. He had
spent a sleepless night debating whether he should go to Clara or wait
till she came to him of her own accord. The shop was alive with
customers, drawn by the red-letter sale, but there was no sign of the
one woman above all he desired to see. Suddenly he decided, with a
certainty that astonished him, that she would come in the afternoon.
After dinner he stayed in the sitting-room, fidgeting with impatience.
He looked for something to do, and remembered that he had still to
clear up the mystery of Ada's drunken bout. All the shop-hands had
denied lending her money, and the mystery was increased by his finding
no bottle in the usual hiding places. Ray, when questioned about
brandy, had stared at him with bewildered eyes. And to calm his nerves
he made another search of the rooms.
He turned out the drawers and cupboards, meeting everywhere evidence of
Ada's slovenly habits. And at the sight and touch of the tawdry laces
and flaring ribbons he was surprised by an emotion of tenderness and
pity for his dead wife. He realized that the last link had snapped
that bound him to Cardigan Street and the Push. Something vibrated in
him as he thought of the woman who had shared his youth, and he
understood suddenly that no other woman could disturb her possession of
the years that were dead. Clara could share the future with him, but
half his life belonged irrevocably to Ada.
He had searched every likely nook and corner of the rooms, and found
nothing. The absence of the bottle set him thinking. He became
certain that the hand of another was in this. Ada had never left her
room; therefore the bottle had been brought to her. And the one who
brought it had taken it away again. Clara had been the last one to see
her alive, and of course...He stopped with an unshaped thought in his
mind, and then smiled at it for an absurdity. Tired with his
exertions, he sat on the sofa, digging his elbow into the cushion, and
instantly felt something hard underneath. The next moment he was on
his feet, holding in his hands the bottle of brandy, half empty. He
stared stupidly at the bottle that had sent Ada to her death and set
him free, wondering who had paid for it and brought it into the house.
As he turned the bottle in his hands, examining it with the morbid
interest with which one examines a bloodstained knife, he heard a light
tap on the door.
"Come in," he cried, absorbed in his discovery.
He turned with the bottle in his hands, to find Clara standing in the
doorway with a tremulous smile on her lips. But, as Jonah turned, her
eye fell on the bottle.
"I've been a day findin' this," said Jonah; "but now..."
An extraordinary change in Clara's face stopped the words on his lips.
The tremulous smile on her parted lips changed to a nervous grin, and
her colour turned to a greyish white as she stared at the bottle, her
eyes dilated with horror. For some moments there was a dreadful
silence, in which Jonah distinctly heard Miss Giltinan giving an order
downstairs. Slowly he looked from Clara to the bottle. Again he stared
at the frightened woman, and his mind leapt to a dreadful certainty.
"Come in, an' shut the door," he said. His voice was little more than
a whisper.
Clara obeyed him mechanically.
"Sit down," he added, putting the bottle on the table.
For a while each stared at the other, too stunned to move or speak.
Jonah's world had fallen about his ears, and Clara's dreams of wealth
mocked at her and fled.
Suddenly, in the deadly silence, Jonah began to speak.
"So it was you, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder what
brought yer 'ere just as I found this? They say murder will out, an' I
believe it now. If this 'appened to anybody else, 'e'd go mad. But I
can stand it. I'm tough. I fought my way up from the gutter. An'
ye're the woman that I worshipped....For God's sake, woman, speak!
Make up something that I can believe. Say yer never 'ad a 'and in
this, an' I'll kiss the ground yer walk on. No, it wouldn't be any
use. I couldn't believe the angel Gabriel, if he looked at me with
that face. Yer paid for that bottle an' brought it 'ere. I saw that
the moment yer set eyes on it. Yer thought Ada wasn't goin' ter hell
fast enough, an' yer'd give 'er a shove. An' I see now why yer did it.
Yer wanted ter step into 'er shoes, an' 'andle my money. It wasn't me
yer wanted. I might 'ave known that. It was the shop that yer were
always talkin' about. An' if yer 'adn't walked in at that door just
now, I should never 'ave suspected. Screamin' funny, ain't it? She
wasn't much loss, but she was a thousand times better than the ladylike
devil that killed her. I don't know 'ow the law stands in a case like
this. Yer may be safe from that, but yer've got me ter deal with
first. Yer led me on with yer damned airs to believe in things I've
never dreamt of before. An' now yer've killed the best in me as sure
as yer murdered my wife. Well, yer must pay for that, too."
Clara sat on the chair like one in a trance. She understood in a
numbed kind of way that something dreadful was going to happen. O God,
she had never meant to do wrong! And if this was the punishment, let
it come quickly. Jonah had been walking backwards and forwards with
nervous steps, and she noted every detail of his person with a fixed
stare. The early repugnance to his deformity returned with horror as
she studied the large head, wedged between the shoulders as if a
giant's hand had pressed it down, the projecting hump, and the
unnaturally long arms ending in the hard, hairy fist of the shoemaker.
She felt that he was going to kill her. She wanted to speak, to cry
out that she was not so guilty as he thought, but her tongue was like a
rasp. Suddenly Jonah stopped in front of her. Her stony silence had
maddened him, and in a moment he was transformed into the old-time
larrikin, accustomed to demand an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
He rushed at her with a cry like an animal, and caught her by the
throat with his powerful hands. But the contact of his fingers with
that delicate flesh that he had never dared to touch before brought him
to his senses. A violent shudder shook him like ague, his fingers
relaxed, and with a sobbing cry, dreadful to hear, he dragged the
fainting woman to her feet and pushed her towards the door, crying "Go,
go, for God's sake!"
She walked unsteadily through the shop with a face the colour of chalk,
hearing and seeing nothing. The red-letter sale was in full swing. A
crowd of customers jostled one another as they passed in and out; the
coins clinked merrily in the till. Miss Giltinan caught sight of her
face, and wondered. Half an hour later, growing suspicious, she ran
upstairs, and knocked at the door on a pretext of business. Hearing
nothing, she opened the door, with her heart in her mouth, and looked
in. Jonah was crouching motionless on the end of the sofa, his head
buried among the cushions, like a stricken animal. Puzzled, but
reassured, she closed the door gently and went downstairs.
* * * * *
Jonah never saw Clara again. He spent a week in the depths, groping
blindly, hating life for its deceptions. Then, one day, his passion of
hatred and loathing for Clara left him suddenly, as a garrison
surrenders without a blow. He took a cab to her house, and knocked at
the door. A curtain moved, but the door remained unopened. A month
later he learned that she had married her old love, the clerk in the
Lands Department, transferred by request to Wagga, beyond the reach of
Dad and his reputation. The following year Jonah married Miss
Giltinan, chiefly on account of Ray, who was growing unmanageable; and
on Monday morning it was one of the sights of Regent Street to see the
second Mrs Jones step into her sulky to drive round and inspect the
suburban branches of the "Silver Shoe" which Jonah had opened under her
direction.
Chook and Pinkey did not need to stare at sixpence before spending it,
but their fortune was long in the making. Meanwhile Chook consoled
himself with the presence of a sturdy son, the image of Pinkey, with a
mop of curls the colour of a new penny.