Dark Entries Read online

  Pendlebury’s first idea was to move the table to one side, and then bring up one of the long seats so that it stood alongside another, thus making a wider couch for the night. He set the lamp on the floor, and going around to the other end of the table began to pull. The table remained immovable. Supposing this to be owing to its obviously great weight, Pendlebury increased his efforts. He then saw, as the rays of the lantern advanced towards him across the dingy floorboards, that at the bottom of each leg were four L-shaped metal plates, one each side, by which the leg was screwed to the floor. The plates and the screws were dusty and rusty, but solid as a battleship. It was an easy matter to confirm that the four seats were similarly secured. The now extinct company took no risks with its property.

  Pendlebury tried to make the best of a single bench, one of the pair divided by the fireplace. But it was both hard and narrow, and curved sharply upwards to its centre. It was even too short, so that Pendlebury found it difficult to dispose of his feet. So cold and uncomfortable was he that he hesitated to put out the sturdy lamp. But in the end he did so. Apart from anything else, Pendlebury found that the light just sufficed to fill the waiting room with dark places which changed their shape and kept him wakeful with speculation. He found also that he was beginning to be obsessed with the minor question of how long the oil would last.

  With his left hand steadying the overcoat under his head (most fortunately he had packed a second, country one for use if the weather proved really cold), he turned down the small notched flame with his right; then lifting the lamp from the table, blew it out. Beyond the waiting room it was so dark that the edges of the two windows were indistinct. Indeed the two patches of tenuous foggy greyness seemed to appear and disappear, like the optical illusions found in Christmas crackers. If there was any chance of Pendlebury’s eyes ‘becoming accustomed to the light’, it was now dissipated in drowsiness. Truly Pendlebury was very tired indeed.

  Not, of course, that he was able to sleep deeply or unbrokenly. Tired as he was, he slept as all must sleep upon such an unwelcoming couch. Many times he woke, with varying degrees of completeness: sometimes it was a mere half-conscious adjustment of his limbs; twice or thrice a plunging start into full vitality (he noticed that the wind had began to purr and creak in the choked-up chimney); most often it was an intermediate state, a surprisingly cosy awareness of relaxation and irresponsibility, when he felt an extreme disinclination for the night to end and for the agony of having to arise and walk. Pendlebury began to surmise that discomfort, even absurd discomfort, could recede and be surmounted with no effort at all. Almost he rejoiced in his adaptability. He seemed no longer even to be cold. He had read (in the context of polar expedition) that this could be a condition of peculiar danger, a lethal delusion. If so, it seemed also a happy delusion, and Pendlebury was surfeited with reality.

  Certainly the wind was rising. Every now and then a large invisible snowflake (the snow seemed no longer to be coming in bullets) slapped against one of the windows like a gobbet of paste; and secret little draughts were beginning to flit even about the solidly built waiting room. At first Pendlebury became aware of them neither by feeling nor by hearing; but before long they were stroking his face and turning his feet to ice (which inconvenience also he proved able to disregard without effort). In a spell of wakefulness, still surprisingly unattended with discomfort, he began to speculate upon the stormy, windswept town which no doubt surrounded the lifeless station; the yeomanry slumbering in their darkened houses, the freezing streets paved with lumpy granite setts, the occasional lover, the rare lawbreaker, both withdrawn into deep doorways. Into such small upland communities until two or three centuries ago wolves had come down at night from the fells when snow was heavy. From these reflections about a place he had never seen, Pendlebury drew a curious contrasting comfort.

  Suddenly the wind loosened the soot in the chimney; there was a rustling rumbling fall, which seemed as if it would never end; and Pendlebury’s nostrils were stuffed with dust. Horribly reluctant, he dragged himself upwards. Immediately his eyes too were affected. He could see nothing at all; the dim windows were completely gone. Straining for his handkerchief, he felt the soot even on his hands. His clothes must be smothered in it. The air seemed opaque and impossible to breath. Pendlebury began to cough, each contraction penetrating and remobilising his paralysed limbs. As one sinking into an icepack, he became conscious of deathly cold.

  It was as if he would never breathe again. The thickness of the air seemed even to be increasing. The sooty dust was whirling about like a sandstorm, impelled by the draughts which seemed to penetrate the stone walls on all sides. Soon he would be buried beneath it. As even his coughing began to strangle in his throat, Pendlebury plunged towards the door. Immediately he struck the heavy screwed-down table. He stumbled back to his bench. He was sure that within minutes he would be dead.

  But gradually he became aware that again there was a light in the waiting room. Although he could not tell when it had passed from imperception to perception, there was the tiniest, faintest red glow, which was slowly but persistently waxing. It came from near the floor, just at the end of Pendlebury’s bench. He had to crick his neck in order to see it at all. Soon he realised that of course it was in the fireplace. All this time after the commencement of the war, once again there was a fire. It was just what he wanted, now that he was roused from his happy numbness into the full pain of the cold.

  Steadily the fire brightened and sparkled into a genial crepitation of life. Pendlebury watched it grow, and began to feel the new warmth lapping at his fingers and toes. He could see that the air was still thick with black particles, rising and falling between floor and ceiling, and sometimes twisting and darting about as if independently alive. But he had ceased to choke and cough, and was able again to sink his head upon the crumpled makeshift pillow. He stretched his legs as life soaked into them. Lethargy came delightfully back.

  He could see now that the dust was thinning all the time; no doubt settling on the floor and hard, resisting furniture. The fire was glowing ever more strongly; and to Pendlebury it seemed in the end that all the specks of dust had formed themselves into the likeness of living, writhing Byzantine columns, which spiralled their barley-sugar whorls through the very texture of the air. The whorls were rapidly losing density, however, and the rosy air clearing. As the last specks danced and died Pendlebury realised that the waiting room was full of people.

  There were six people on the side bench which started near his head; and he believed as many on the corresponding bench at the opposite side of the room. He could not count the number on the other bench, because several more people obscured the view by sitting on the table. Pendlebury could see further shadowy figures on the bench which stood against his own wall the other side of the fireplace. The people were of both sexes and all ages, and garbed in the greatest imaginable variety. They were talking softly but seriously to one another. Those nearest the fire sometimes stretched a casual hand toward the flames, as people seated near to a fire usually do. Indeed, except perhaps for the costume of some of them (one woman wore a splendid evening dress), there was but one thing unusual about these people . . . Pendlebury could not precisely name it. They looked gentle and charming and in every way sympathetic, those who looked rich and those who looked poor. But Pendlebury felt that there was about them some single uncommon thing which, if he could find it, would unite and clarify their various distinctions. Whatever this thing was Pendlebury was certain that it was shared by him with the people in the waiting room, and with few others. He then reflected that naturally he was dreaming.

  To realise that one is dreaming is customarily disagreeable, so that one strains to awake. But than this dream Pendlebury wanted nothing better. The unexepected semi-tranquillity he had before at times felt in the comfortless waiting room was now made round and complete. He lay back with a sigh to watch and listen.

  On the side bench next to him, with her shoulder by his head, was
a pretty girl wearing a black shawl. Pendlebury knew that she was pretty although much of her face was turned away from him as she gazed at the young man seated beside her, whose hand she held. He too had looks in his own way, Pendlebury thought. About both the clothes and the general aspect of the pair was something which recalled a nineteenth-century picture by an Academician. None the less it was instantly apparent that each lived only for the other. Their love was like a magnifying glass between them.

  On the near corner of the bench at the other side of the fire sat an imposing old man. He had a bushel of silky white hair, a fine brow, a commanding nose, and the mien of a philosopher king. He sat in silence, but from time to time smiled slightly upon his own thoughts. He too seemed dressed in a past fashion.

  Those seated upon the table were unmistakably of today. Though mostly young, they appeared to be old friends, habituated to trusting one another with the truth. They were at the centre of the party, and their animation was greatest. It was to them that Pendlebury most wanted to speak. The longing to communicate with these quiet, happy people soon reached a passionate intensity which Pendlebury had never before known in a dream, but only, very occasionally, upon awaking from one. But now, though warm and physically relaxed, almost indeed disembodied, Pendlebury was unable to move; and the people in the waiting room seemed unaware of his presence. He felt desperately shut out from a party he was compelled to attend.

  Slowly but unmistakably the tension of community and sodality waxed among them, as if a loose mesh of threads weaving about between the different individuals was being drawn tighter and closer, further isolating them from the rest of the world, and from Pendlebury: the party was advancing into a communal phantasmagoria, as parties should, but in Pendlebury’s experience seldom did; an ombre chinoise of affectionate ease and intensified inner life. Pendlebury so plainly belonged with them. His flooding sensation of identity with them was the most authentic and the most momentous he had ever known. But he was wholly cut off from them; there was, he felt, a bridge which they had crossed and he had not. And they were the select best of the world, from different periods and classes and ages and tempers; the nicest people he had ever known – were it only that he could know them.

  And now the handsome woman in evening dress (Edwardian evening dress, Pendlebury thought, décolleté but polypetalous) was singing, and the rest were hushed to listen. She was singing a drawing-room ballad, of home and love and paradise; elsewhere doubtless absurd, but here sweet and moving, made so in part by her steady mezzo-soprano voice and soft intimate pitch. Pendlebury could see only her pale face and bosom in the firelight, the shadow of her dark hair massed tight on the head above her brow, the glinting and gleaming of the spirit caught within the large jewel at her throat, the upward angle of her chin; but more and more as she sang it was as if a broad knife turned round and round in his heart, scooping it away. And all the time he knew that he had seen her before; and knew also that in dreams there is little hope of capturing such mighty lost memories.

  He knew that soon there would be nothing left, and that it was necessary to treasure the moments which remained. The dream was racing away from him like a head of water when the sluice is drawn. He wanted to speak to the people in the waiting room, even inarticulately to cry out to them for rescue; and could feel that the power, hitherto cut off, would soon be once more upon him. But all the time the rocks and debris of common life were ranging themselves before him as the ebbing dream uncovered them more and more. When he could speak, he knew that there was no one to speak to.

  In the doorway of the waiting room stood a man with a lantern.

  ‘All right, sir?’

  The courtesy suggested that it was not the porter of the previous night.

  Pendlebury nodded. Then he turned his face to the wall, out of the lantern’s chilly beam.

  ‘All right, sir?’ said the man again. He seemed to be sincerely concerned.

  Pendlebury, alive again, began to pick his way from lump to lump across the dry but muddy watercourse.

  ‘Thank you. I’m all right.’

  He still felt disembodied with stiffness and numbness and cold.

  ‘You know you shouted at me? More like a scream, it was. Not a nice thing to hear in the early morning.’ The man was quite friendly.

  ‘I’m sorry. What’s the time?’

  ‘Just turned the quarter. There’s no need to be sorry. So long as you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m frozen. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ve got a cup of tea brewed for you in the office. I found the other’s porter’s note when I opened up this morning. He didn’t ought to have put you in here.’

  Pendlebury had forced both his feet to the floor, and was feebly brushing down his coat with his congealed hands.

  ‘There was no choice. I missed my station. I understand there’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘He didn’t ought to have put you in here, sir,’ repeated the porter.

  ‘You mean the regulations? He warned me about them.’

  The porter looked at Pendlebury’s dishevelled mass on the hard, dark bench.

  ‘I’ll go and pour out that tea.’ When he had gone, Pendlebury perceived through the door the first frail foreshadowing of the slow northern dawn.

  Soon he was able to follow the porter to the little office. Already the stove was roaring.

  ‘That’s better, sir,’ said the porter, as Pendlebury sipped the immensely strong liquor.

  Pendlebury had begun to shiver, but he turned his head towards the porter and tried to smile.

  ‘Reckon anything’s better than a night in Casterton station waiting room for the matter of that,’ said the porter. He was leaning against the high desk, with his arms folded and his feet set well apart before the fire. He was a middle-aged man, with grey eyes and the look of one who carried responsibilities.

  ‘I expect I’ll survive.’

  ‘I expect you will, sir. But there’s some who didn’t.’

  Pendlebury lowered his cup to the saucer. He felt that his hand was shaking too much for dignity. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘How was that?’

  ‘More tea, sir?’

  ‘I’ve half a cup to go yet.’

  The porter was regarding him gravely. ‘You didn’t know that Casterton station’s built on the site of the old gaol?’

  Pendlebury tried to shake his head.

  ‘The waiting room’s on top of the burial ground.’

  ‘The burial ground?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. One of the people there is Lily Torelli, the Beautiful Nightingale. Reckon they hadn’t much heart in those times, sir. Not when it came to the point.’

  Pendlebury said nothing for a long minute. Far away he could hear a train. Then he asked: ‘Did the other porter know this?’

  ‘He did, sir. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Notice what?’

  The porter said nothing, but simply imitated the other porter’s painful and uncontrollable twitch.

  Pendlebury stared. Terror was waxing with the cold sun.

  ‘The other porter used to be a bit too partial to the bottle. One night he spent the night in that waiting room himself.’

  ‘Why do you tell me this?’ Suddenly Pendlebury turned from the porter’s grey eyes.

  ‘You might want to mention it. If you decide to see a doctor about the trouble yourself.’ The porter’s voice was full of solicitude but less full of hope. ‘Nerves, they say it is. Just nerves.’

  The View

  As the boat cast off from the landing stage and began to rise and fall in the yellow waters of the Mersey, Carfax recalled The Last of England.

  The wide, swift river and the tall buildings on both banks, the Liver Building, the Cunard offices, and the huge constructions, mysterious in purpose, which sprang up like indestructible molehills when the Mersey Tunnel forced its way from shore to shore, provided a scale, lacking in an open seascape, by which to set off the smallness of the vessel. Before him the urgent, dang
erous-looking stream could be seen suddenly to end and be replaced by the empty ocean: a question mark in the mind. New Brighton Tower, much larger, apparently, then any southern equivalent, stood at the end of the river like the upright of a gateway the other side of which was concealed from Carfax by the superstructure of the boat. In that building, he seemed to remember, Granville Bantock had contended with popular audiences and the dead weight of past misery which drips like Mersey rain upon the mind of all artists. Carfax was not the man to live on the beach like Whitman (the very weather of Liverpool discouraged such a thought), or even like Gauguin (the manner of whose death could please no one) on a warm island, but he suspected that his own not unsuccessful career in the Foreign Office had already so sobered and discoloured his imagination that his music and painting, products now of ‘spare time’ only, would be unlikely to catch that great joy of emancipation which alone, he asserted, made life and art worthy of attention. Carfax always saw all good in terms of ‘emancipation’: all beauty, all duty. Others had seen the vision, but the slave selves of their past had intervened, making the gorgeous tawdry, the building in strange materials as rapidly failing in beauty, use, and esteem as the human body itself.

  ‘The very dampness of the air does, however, on occasion lend a wonderful depth of colour to the landscape,’ Carfax had read in his guide book. The glass through which he glimpsed life as he sailed that morning imparted this rainbow-watery transient clarity of colour, while compressing and encircling with a boundless edge of uncertainty. Hence The Last of England: minor masterpiece, he felt, not so much of doomed adventure and hope to be blighted, as of escape unsanguine but compelled.