Читать книгу Sackcloth into Silk - Warwick Deeping - Страница 25

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Karl came on his last leave. He was going out to France with a draft in ten days’ time. A tram dropped him in the Essex Road, and he saw his mother before she saw him, very much in black and standing in the shop doorway with a fur coat over her arm. His mother’s shop had become much more distinguished and debonair; it had shed those large trays of pants and vests and shirts, and its festoons of coats and trousers. Rebecca was in conversation with a young thing who was becoming a child of fashion.

“No, my dear,—I can’t hold it for you.—But if you like to leave a deposit?”

“ ’ow much?”

“Two pounds.”

“I could get the money next Saturday.”

And then Rebecca saw her son, and her business face became transfigured. She pushed the coat at the girl. “All right,—I’ll trust you with it, my dear.” Her eyes were all Karl, Karl looking tall and slim in uniform, with lean legs that took puttees well; yes, he looked much more like an officer. The girl, holding the coat that had been thrust at her, gaped at the two who were embracing. Karl kissed his mother—not as a public schoolboy would or would not have kissed her, and he did not wait until they were inside the shop.

“My dear, you do look well.”

“I feel well.”

Rebecca could not shut up her shop, nor did she send for Emily in this emergency, but she went to her safe, took out five one-pound notes and pressed them on Karl.

“Go out and enjoy yourself, my dear.”

He smiled at her, but he would not take the money.

“Not feeling that way, mother.—Just like to hang about the old place.”

He was curiously grave and quiet, as though his inner life had deepened. The preparation had been spiritual as well as physical, and the ordeal was drawing near. The fear of fear? He wished to try and meet it calmly and with the dignity of his young pride. Apparently, he did not want to rush out after women, or to drug himself with excitement. He seemed ten years older, and so clean-cut and quiet.

“You’ll find your room ready, dear.”

She deserted the shop for an instant and watched him mount the stairs. His movements were deliberate, easy, and to his mother came a sudden spasm of pride. Her love-child was a man, somehow man as the eternal girl in her had dreamed of, youth going upon adventure, dreadful adventure, but with quiet eyes and firm mouth.

She stood for a moment looking up the empty stairs and seeing that landing window where he had played as a child. Her face had a radiance.

Karl had opened the door of his room. He stood looking in. He saw the table by the window with his manuscript upon it, and on each side a vase of daffodils burning like flowery candles. He closed the door gently, and crossing the room, opened the manuscript book where he had left it—abrupt and questioning like the edge of a cliff.—How much older he was, and yet that same question perplexed him. He took one of the vases, raised it, and smelt the flowers. Spring, youth—and that bloody hazard out yonder! This unhappy generation! But youth had to dare, and to give.

That night when they were at supper together in the parlour he broke bread into his soup with the air of a young disciple obeying some Inward Master.

“The shop’s shut on Sunday, mother.”

“Of course,—dear.”

“Do you remember that day we had in Epping?”

As though she had forgotten it!

“Let’s have a day in the country, mother.”

She was moved, and deeply so.

“Anybody else you want to take, Karl?”

“O no. Just—us.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a place called Newlands Corner in Surrey. On the Downs. A chap in my hut told me about it.—And there’s a spot not far away called the Silent Pool.”

“We’ll go,” said his mother. “I’ll hire a car or even a taxi. We’ll take our lunch with us.”