NOCTURNE
§ 1
ON a certain bitterly cold night in November, Catherine stood on the
doorstep of No. 24, Kitchener Road, with her overcoat and hat in her
hands. Despite the chilliness of the atmosphere her cheeks were hot
and flushed, and her sensations took no notice of the blustering wind
that raged along the road. For several moments she stood still on the
doorstep, with heaving breast and head flung back defiantly. Then,
still carrying her hat and overcoat, she went out into the street,
omitted to shut the gate behind her, and walked at a terrific pace in
the direction of the Bockley High Street.
It was eleven p.m. Her steps rang loudly along the deserted pavements;
occasionally she lurched forward as if desiring to increase her pace,
and this disturbed the rhythmic beat of her steps. She passed nobody,
except at the junction of Hanson Street, where a couple of belated
revellers slunk past with the furtive attitude of those who know they
ought to have been home long since. They were too intent upon their
destination to notice her. Only where there were large front gardens
did her passing excite attention, and here congregations of cats,
gathered for midnight revelry, dispersed with mournful sound as her
footsteps approached.
At the corner of the High Street she stopped. It seemed to occur to
her for the first time that to carry one’s hat and overcoat upon such
a night was in some degree unusual. With careful deliberation she put
them on. Then she laughed softly, and her laugh was a strange mingling
of rapture and defiance. That which she had thought impossible had come
to pass. After years of undeviating placidity fate had at last done
something dramatic with her.
She had been turned out of the house at No. 24, Kitchener Road.
Her father had done what he had never before been known to do: he had
lost his temper, and lost it thoroughly.
He had said: “My God, Cathie, I won’t stand that! ... Out you go!” He
had pushed her into the lobby, and while she was reaching for her hat
and coat he had struck her on the face with the back of his hand.
“Out you go!” he repeated, and Catherine saw that his temper had not
yet reached its height. “I’m done with you! ... Are you going?” He
actually picked up an umbrella and began brandishing it with his hand
grasping the ferrule.
Catherine had opened the front door in vague terror of what he was
going to do. The door was banged after her with a vicious kick from
within. Then her cheek where he had struck her began to hurt....
§ 2
The cause of the altercation had been Catherine’s determination to
accept a situation which he did not wish her to accept. She had
answered the advertisement, interviewed her prospective employer, and
received word that she had been appointed before even mentioning the
matter to him. Then at teatime on a Friday afternoon she casually
remarked:
“By the way, I’ve decided to get some work.”
He looked up at her as if the word were unfamiliar to him. “Work?” he
said, astounded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve applied for a job and been offered it.”
He seemed to have difficulty in comprehending what she said.
“A job? What job?”
“They want a pianist at a cinema. Good salary. Only work in the
evenings....”
“But, my dear girl----”
“Well?”
“Don’t cut me short like that.... I was about to say....”
“Oh, I know what you’re about to say. You’re hopelessly against it,
aren’t you?”
“Well, if I am, you----”
“Why are you?”
“I do wish you’d give me time to speak, Catherine. You spring this
on me so suddenly.... I had no idea you were ever thinking of such
a thing, to begin with. Even now it seems incredible to me. I can’t
understand it.”
“Can’t understand what?”
“Why you want to do it ... it’s ... it’s unnecessary. Haven’t you
enough money?”
“Oh, it’s not a question of money. I want to have some work to do,
something to get interested in.”
“But you have the work of the house to carry on with. Surely that’s
enough.”
“Oh, _that’s_ enough. In fact, that’s a great deal too much. I’m
sick and tired of housework. Some girls may like it, but I don’t. I’d
sooner pay some girl who likes it to do it for me. Besides, I want to
be independent.”
He gave a start of surprise. “What’s that you said?” he asked,
incredulously.
“I said, independent.”
There was a tense pause.
“Somebody’s been putting some silly modern ideas into your head. All
that bosh about independence, I mean. A girl’s place is in the home,
when she’s got one. Until you make a home of your own your place is
here.”
“I suppose you think I ought to get married.”
“Married? ... Heavens, no! ... You’re only nineteen! Why, I never even
_met_ your mother until I was twenty-four! Don’t you worry your
head about marriage. Let it alone until the right feller comes along. I
expect you’ve been reading too many trashy novels lately, that’s what
it is.”
An angry light leapt into her eyes.
“Well, if you think I’m going to scrub floors and wash dishes until the
right feller comes along, as you call it, you’re jolly well mistaken.
I wouldn’t do it even if I was sure the right feller _would_ come
along. I’m not made that way. I want a bit of liberty. I want to live.”
“My dear Catherine, you have everything you need. I can’t see what
you’re making all this fuss about. Really I can’t.... You’re a good
deal better off than some girls, I can tell you. What about poor Nellie
Selborne and----”
“Oh, what on _earth_ have they got to do with it?”
“Well, if you won’t listen to me, I suppose ...” He waved his hand
deprecatingly. “Suppose we stop arguing. Let’s hold the matter over.
I’m certain that with a few days’ thought you’ll----”
“But I can’t hold the matter over.”
“Why not?”
“Because the situation’s been offered me. I’ve either got to accept it
or reject it on the spot.”
“Well, Catherine, I’m sorry to go against you, but it will have to
be so, in this case. Understand, I mean it. I mean to have my own
way in this matter. I won’t have you strumming away every night in a
third-rate picture house. I’m going to put my foot down firmly in this
matter. You must reject the offer.”
He made a gallant but not entirely successful attempt to appear
dignified by resuming the perusal of his newspaper. Catherine bit her
lip and went a little pale.
“That’s a pity,” she said quietly.
“Why is it a pity?”
“Because I’ve decided to accept it.” Her lips were tight, and there was
the suggestion of restrained emotion in her voice.
Something happened to his eyes. They opened terrifically wide and gazed
at her expressionlessly for several seconds.
“What’s that?” he said.
His eyes unnerved her somewhat. But she steeled herself to repeat her
ultimatum.
“Because--I’ve--decided to--to accept.”
Pause. “That’s all,” she added, irrelevantly, as if by way of clinching
the matter.
Another pause. The clock tactfully struck in with the announcement of
six o’clock. That seemed to break the spell. He rose and made for his
hat.
“H’m,” he ejaculated, sharply. “I see. That’s what it amounts to, is
it.... Well, you’ll have time to think it over. I’m off to school now.”
He took a sheaf of night-school exercises from his desk and stuffed
them in his pocket. Not another word came from him. Catherine was
almost hypnotized by his quick, startling movements, so unlike his
usual apathy. He strode firmly down the lobby and shut the door after
him more noisily than usual. She could hear his footsteps along the
street, and he was walking at a pace that was for him unprecedentedly
rapid. When he was quite out of hearing she sank down into the chair
he had just vacated. The tension of the argument had given her a sense
of physical exhaustion. Yet spiritually she was thrilled by a strange
feeling of exhilaration: it seemed to her that after an interval of
drudgery she was once again being drawn into the vortex of momentous
happenings. She was absolutely certain of one thing: she would not give
way. If he chose to make her disobedience a “test-case” of the father’s
right to inflict his will upon the daughter she would await whatever
steps he took with calmness and determination. But she would never give
way. She was nineteen, and to her nineteen seemed old age. Things he
had said in the course of the argument had annoyed her inexpressibly.
They were little things, mostly. Bringing in the case of Nellie
Selborne, for instance, was silly and entirely irrelevant. Nellie had
paralysis down one side, and existed apparently for the purpose of
proving to all other girls how lucky they were. Then again, Catherine
disliked intensely his massive declaration that “a girl’s place is in
the home.” He had talked about “waiting for the right feller to come
along,” and this passive method of getting through life roused all
the scorn and contempt in her nature. Also he had talked about her
“strumming in a third-rate picture house.” It was typical of him to
assume that it was third-rate before he had heard even the name of it.
He had been ridiculously unfair....
She went over to the writing-desk where he marked his school exercise
books. Something within her said: You are angry and excited now, but
you will soon cool down and then probably you will give in to him....
To this she replied passionately: I _won’t_ give in to him....
But, continued the part of her which always told the truth, you
_will_ give in to him if you wait till your temper has cooled
down.... Better write now accepting the situation, and post it before
he comes back from night-school. Then the matter will be really
settled. Then you can say to him when he comes in: “It’s no use arguing
about it any more. I’ve written to accept the job. The thing’s done now
and can’t be undone.”
She wrote the letter as quickly as she could, for the feeling
of supreme depression, the feeling that she was doing something
regrettable and irretrievably silly, was becoming heavier upon her
every second. She was just addressing the envelope after fastening it
when she heard the key fumbling at the front door. For the moment a
kind of panic fear seized her. He was coming back. He must have turned
back before reaching the school. His footsteps down the lobby sounded
brutal and unnecessarily noisy. She swung round in her chair and sat
awaiting his entrance with the penholder stuck between her teeth. The
half-addressed envelope lay on the desk invisible behind her back....
He flung down his hat and coat on the table.
The moment was so tense that Catherine spoke merely to interrupt the
horrible silence of it.
“Was there no school to-night?” she asked, with an effort to appear
perfectly casual.
“I’m not going,” he snapped curtly, and took down the red-ink bottle
from the corner of the mantelpiece. That meant he was going to spend
the evening marking exercise books.
She was thoroughly frightened. Her mother’s tempers and tirades had
never frightened her, because she was used to them and knew them
intimately, as a doctor knows the illness of a familiar patient. But
her father was normally so quiet and placid and mild-mannered: she had
never seen him in a temper, although when she was a little girl, boys
who were in his class at school had told her that on rare occasions he
got “ratty.” But she had never known him in such a condition. In this
phase he was a complete stranger to her. And she was apprehensive, as
she would have been if a stranger had entered the house when she was
alone.
He came to the desk to get his exercise books. She thought at first he
was going to strike her. But he merely leaned over her and lifted the
lid. As he did so he must have seen the half-addressed envelope lying
on the top. But he did not say a word. His silence was unnerving.
Always he used the desk for marking exercise books. But this time he
arranged the pile of books and the pen and ink on the dining-table.
“You can use the desk,” he said curiously, “if you’re wanting to.”
His politeness, his unusual solicitude for her comfort, was horrible!
Normally, if she had been at his desk, he would have said: “Now look
here, Cathie, it’s too bad of you to want to use my desk when I want
it. After all, it’s _my_ desk. You’ve got all the day to use it
when I’m out. Can’t you use the table?”
She would have understood a speech like that. But for him to say so
thoughtfully, so obsequiously, “You can use the desk if you’re wanting
to,” was charged with all the nameless horror of the unprecedented.
It was half-past six. The clock struck. He was assiduously and
seemingly quite normally putting red-ink ticks and crosses on algebra
sums. Yet she knew that the atmosphere was very far from being normal.
She took a book from the shelf and sat down in the chair by the fire,
but it was difficult to read. She could hear the ticking of the clock
and the steady scratching of his pen, and flipping of pages. He went
on for hours. When he had finished one pile of books he went to his
desk and fetched out another. Then again, if he had not done so the
first time, he must have seen the envelope with its incomplete address.
But he went on with his work at the table. Supper time came, but he
made no sign of clearing away his books. And then his surliness and
sulkiness, whichever it was, ceased to frighten her, but began to annoy
her acutely.... The last post went at eleven-thirty. Come what might
she would post that letter. At five minutes past eleven she went over
to the desk with the intention of finishing the address. She had got
as far as the “p” in “Upton” when she saw that he was regarding her
intently. As soon as he saw that she had noticed his glance he put down
his pen and swung back on his chair.
“Now then, Cathie,” he began brusquely, “this matter’s got to be
settled.... You understand. No nonsense. What’re you going to do?”
She bit the end of the penholder.
“I’m going to accept the thing,” she said firmly, though she had
difficulty in restraining her apprehension and excitement.
“You’re not!” he cried, advancing menacingly. “Understand, I forbid
it! I’m going to be firm in this business. You’re not to accept that
situation. D’you hear?”
He picked up the envelope she had been engaged upon. She knew that he
had seen it before. But he pretended not to have done. She despised him
for that little perfidy.
“What’s this?” he cried, snatching it up vehemently. Then he pretended
to realize. “You’ve been writing to accept it?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she thought he was going to do her physical violence. Then
he tore the envelope across and flung the two pieces into the fire.
“Oh, _that_ doesn’t matter,” she said contemptuously, “that’s
merely childish. I can easily write another.” (In her anger she did not
remember an occasion when she had been smitten with the same kind of
childishness).
It was then that he cried: “My God, Cathie, I won’t stand that! ... Out
you go!”
§ 3
At the corner of the Bockley High Street her only feeling was one of
nervous jubilation. The clock chimed the quarter. She remembered with a
little thrill of ecstasy how on all other occasions at night when she
had heard the clock chime a quarter past eleven she had been anxiously
wondering what sort of a row there would be when she reached home. Now
she was free. She was not returning home. She was leaving. She was free
to go where she liked and do what she liked....
If it were summer time, she thought, I would walk to the Forest and
sleep out under the stars....
But it was November.... She decided to travel up to the City and spend
the night in one of the waiting-rooms at the big terminals. The next
day she would look out for lodgings.... Money was a difficulty. In her
pocket was a purse containing the residue of the week’s house-keeping
money. It amounted to five and sevenpence half-penny. There were also a
couple of penny stamps....
The ideal time for this enterprise would have been a Monday evening in
June or July.
Still, she would have to make the best of it. With light step she
passed along the wide expanse of the High Street in the direction of
Bockley Station. As she went on little groups of returning revellers
passed her by. Most of them had just come in by train from the City
after an evening at the theatre. Some of them stared at her curiously
as she hurried by. So did the policeman at the corner of the Station
Road.
Outside the booking-office she met, of all people in the world, Helen
Trant.... Since the episode between herself and George, Catherine had
not seen much of Helen.
Catherine nodded casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the
world for her to be catching the 11.37 p.m. to the City.
“Where’re you off to?” said Helen.
“City,” replied Catherine, curtly.
“Whatever for at this time of night?”
“Oh ... business ... that’s all. ... Excuse me, I shall miss my
train....”
“No, you won’t. You’ve eleven minutes to wait. Come here.”
There was a queer undefinable something in Helen’s voice that commanded
and usually obtained implicit obedience. Catherine came.
“Well? ... What do you want?”
Helen put her arm in Catherine’s.
“It’s not my business,” she said, “but I should like you to tell me
what’s been happening to you.”
“Happening? What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean ... Cathie!”
“Yes?”
“Something’s happened. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me.”
Catherine clicked her heels nonchalantly.
“Well, if you’re so keen, I don’t suppose there’s much harm in letting
you know. I’ve run away from home.... That’s all....”
“Run away?”
“Yes, run away. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look so surprised. I suppose
it isn’t respectable to run away, is it?”
“Don’t be silly.... What were you going to the City for?”
“To get a shake-down in a railway waiting-room.”
“I see.... Well, you needn’t do that. You can come home with me for
to-night.”
“Really, Helen, I can’t. It’s awfully good of you, but----”
“You _must_.”
“But your mother----”
“Mother and father are away for the week-end.”
“Really, I’d much rather not.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’ve got to. You can easily sleep with me.
We’ll talk the whole question over to-night before going to sleep. You
can’t do a big thing like this all on your own.”
“That’s just what I can. I’m going to, anyway....”
“Well, you’re coming home with me to-night, anyway....”
“If you insist----”
“I do.”
A man came striding up the stairs three at a time from the platform. It
was George Trant.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The luggage-office was shut, and I had to
waken somebody up....” Then he saw Catherine. “... Er ... I say ... I
didn’t see you, Miss Weston! Or shall I call you Catherine, as I used?
And how are you? I haven’t heard of you for ages.”
He held out his hand, but Catherine made no movement.
“I’m quite well,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I can’t stop here
talking; I’ve a train to catch. Good-night!”
“Cathie!” cried Helen, but Catherine was too far down the steps to be
recalled. Helen followed her on to the platform and overtook her near
to the further end.
“You’re coming back, Cathie. Don’t be silly.... You must ...”
Catherine held herself passionately erect. The signal lights winked
from red to green.
“It’s no good your trying to persuade me, Helen.... I’m not coming. I
wouldn’t enter the same house with that man.... No, no, no, no, I’m not
coming.”
The train came in to the platform.
“Cathie!”
“No, no! ... I’m not coming, I tell you....” She opened the door of a
third-class compartment and entered.
“You’ll wish you hadn’t done this, Cathie.”
“Never.”
The train slid away into the night and Helen was left standing on the
platform. She had a swift impulse to jump into the tail-end of the
now quickly-moving train and go with Cathie to the next station. But
the train was moving too rapidly for her to attempt this manœuvre
in safety. And behind her stood George a little bewildered (he had
followed her slowly down the steps).
“What’s all the fuss about?” he queried suspiciously.
“Nothing,” replied Helen. Then, as they walked together along the
platform, “You’ll have to tell the man we gave up our tickets before.”
As they hurried along the Bockley High Street the clock on the Carnegie
library chimed the three-quarters....
At Liverpool Street, Catherine discovered that the waiting-room did
not keep open throughout the night for the benefit of girls who have
run away from home. There was a man at the door inspecting tickets.
Catherine was struck by a brilliant notion. There is an all-night
hourly service of trains from Liverpool Street to Bockley, the same
train proceeding backwards and forwards. She went to the booking-office
and purchased a return ticket to Bockley (sixpence). She had a good
sixpennyworth, for the next five hours she spent in the corner seat of
a third-class compartment. About two a.m. she fell asleep, and when
she awoke the train was jerking to a standstill at Upton Rising. The
clock said twenty minutes past six. Evidently the train had undergone
a change while she had slept. All those dark hours it had paraded the
inner suburbs, but now it had become a thing of greater consequence:
it was the first early morning train to Chingford. At the tiny Forest
town Catherine left it, paying excess fare on the journey from Bockley.
Dawn came as she was tramping the muddy paths of Epping Forest. She had
no idea where she was going. The main thing was to get the time over.
About eight o’clock she returned to Chingford, purchased some notepaper
and envelopes, and went into the post-office. On the desk provided
for composing telegrams she wrote a letter accepting the situation of
pianist at the Royal Cinema, Upton Rising. That done, and the letter
stamped and posted, she felt calmer than she had been for some time.
Then came hunger. She had a glass of milk (threepence) at a dairy and
two of yesterday’s buns (a penny each) from a confectioner’s. Out of
five and sevenpence half-penny and two penny stamps she had now left
four shillings and a half-penny and one penny stamp, plus a third-class
return half from Bockley to Liverpool Street.
She persisted in being joyous. This was to be an adventure, and she
was to enter into the spirit of it. She took her buns to the top of
Yardley Hill in order that she might imagine herself picnicking. She
lay down on the damp grass eating, and told herself she was enjoying
herself immensely. She admired the loveliness of the view with all the
consciousness of a well-trained tourist. She refused to be melancholy.
She discovered hundreds of excuses for feeling happy which would
never have occurred to her if she had been feeling happy. As she was
descending the hill after her meal it commenced to rain. She tried to
see beauty in the rain. The grey sky and the sodden leaves, the squelch
of her heels in the mud, the bare trees swathed in slanting rain,
these, she decided, were infinitely preferable to Kitchener Road....
Nevertheless she would have to find lodgings.
She decided to seek them in Upton Rising.