The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online

dreamy voluptuous woman with her hair half down and her bosom open, had picked the baby from his crib upon the hearth and, having removed its steaming napkin, now placidly refreshed the nuzzling bare-bottomed infant at her creamy, fire-lit breast.
    She smiled her welcome, unperturbed, to Francis. ‘ Here you are then, boys. Jean, set out more plates and spoons. Richard, leave Sophia alone. And Jean, dear, a fresh diaper for Sutherland from the line! Also, see that the kettle’s boiling for your father’s toddy. What lovely weather we are having. Dr Tulloch says there is much infammation about though. Be seated, Francis. Thomas, didn’t your father tell you to keep away from the others!’ The doctor was always bringing home some disorder: measles one month, chicken-pox the next. Now Thomas, aged six, was the victim. His poll shorn and smelling of carbolic, he was happily disseminating ringworm through the tribe.
    Squeezed on the crowded twanging sofa beside Jean, at fourteen the image of her mother, with the same creamy skin, the same placid smile, Francis supped his bread and milk flavoured with cinnamon. He was still upset from his recent outburst; there was an enormous lump inside his chest, his mind was a maze of confusion. Here was another problem for his aching brain. Why were these people so kind, happy, and contented? Reared by an impious rationalist to deny, or rather to ignore, the existence of their God, they were damned, hell fire already licked their feet.
    At quarter-past nine the crunch of the dogcart’s wheels was heard on the gravel. Dr Tulloch strode in, a shout went up, he was at once the centre of an attacking mob. When the tumult stilled the doctor had bussed his wife heartily, was in his chair, a glass of toddy in his hand, slippers on his feet, the infant Sutherland goggling on his knee.
    Catching Francis’ eye, he raised his steaming tumbler in friendly satire.
    ‘Didn’t I tell you there was poison going! Strong drink is raging – eh, Francis?’
    Seeing his father in high humour, Willie was tempted to relate the story of the prayer meeting. The doctor slapped his thigh, smiling at Francis. ‘Good for you, my wee Roman Voltaire. I will disagree to the death with what you say and defend with my life your right to say it! Jean, stop making sheep’s eyes at the poor laddie. I thought ye wanted to be a nurse! You’ll have me a grandfather before I’m forty. Eh, well –’ He sighed suddenly, toasting his wife. ‘ We’ll never get to heaven, woman – but at least we get our meat and drink.’
    Later, at the front door, Willie gripped Francis by the hand.
    ‘Good luck … Write to me when you’re there.’
    At five next morning, while all was still dark, the Shipyard hooter sounded, low and dolorous, over the cowering dreariness of Darrow. Half senseless with sleep, Francis tumbled out of bed and into his dungarees, stumbled downstairs. The frigid morning, pale yet murky, met him like a blow as he joined the march of silent shivering figures, hurrying with bent head and huddled shoulders towards the Shipyard gates.
    Over the weighbridge, past the checker’s window, inside the gates … Gaunt spectres of ships rose dimly in their stocks around him. Beside the half-formed skeleton of a new ironclad Joe Moir’s squad was mustering: Joe and the assistant plater, the holders-on, the two other rivet-boys and himself.
    He lit the charcoal fire, blew the bellows beneath the forge. Silently, unwillingly, as in a dream, the squad set itself to work. Moir lifted his sledge, the hammers rang, swelled and strengthened throughout the Shipyard.
    Holding the rivets, white-hot from the brazier, Francis shinned up the ladder and thrust them quickly through the bolt-holes in the frame, where they were hammered flat and tight, annealing the great sheets of metal which formed the ship’s hull. The work was fierce: blistering by the brazier, freezing on the ladders. The men were paid by piece work. They