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

you – before the mare pulls my arms from their sockets.’ Tulloch wrapped the rug about his passenger; proceeded without questions; he knew the virtue of a healing silence.
    By half-past ten Francis was drinking hot broth before the fire in the doctor’s living room, now bereft of its occupants and so unnaturally still the cat slept peacefully on the hearth-rug. A moment later Mrs Tulloch came in, her hair in plaits, her quilted dressing gown open above her night gown. She stood with her husband studying the dead-beat boy, who seemed unconscious of their presence, their murmured converse, wrapped in a curious apathy. Though he tried to smile, he could not when the doctor came forward, producing his stethoscope with a jocular air: ‘I’ll bet my boots that cough of yours is a put-up job.’ But he submitted, opening his shirt, letting the doctor tap, and listen to, his chest.
    Tulloch’s saturnine face wore a queer expression as he straightened himself. His fund of humour had surprisingly dried up. He darted a look at his wife, bit his full lip, and suddenly kicked the cat.
    ‘Damn it to hell!’ he cried. ‘We use our children to build our battleships. We sweat them in our coal mines and our cotton-mills. We’re a Christian country. Well! I’m proud to be a pagan.’ He turned brusquely, quite fiercely, to Francis. ‘Look here, boy, who are these folks you knew in Tynecastle? What’s that – Bannon, eh? The Union Tavern. Get away home now and into bed unless you want treble pneumonia.’
    Francis went home, resistance crushed in him. All the next week Mrs Glennie wore a martyred frown and Malcom a new checked waistcoat: price half a sovereign at the stores.
    It was a dire week for Francis. His left side hurt him, especially when he coughed; he had to drag himself to work. He was aware, dimly, that his grandfather fought a battle for him. But Daniel was beaten down, defeated. All the little baker could do was to offer, humbly, some cherry cakes that Francis could not eat.
    When Saturday afternoon came round he had not the strength to go out. He lay upstairs in his bedroom gazing in hopeless lethargy through the window.
    Suddenly he started, his heart gave a great and unbelieving bound. In the street below, slowly approaching, like a barque navigating strange and dangerous waters, was a hat, a thing of memory, unique, unmistakable. Yes, yes: and the gold-handled umbrella, tightly rolled, the short sealskin jacket with the braided buttons. He cried out weakly, with pale lips: ‘Aunt Polly.’
    The shop door pinged below. Dithering to his feet, he crept downstairs, poised himself, trembling, behind the half-glazed door.
    Polly was standing, very erect, in the centre of the floor, her lips pursed, her gaze sweeping the shop, as though amusedly inspecting it. Mrs Glennie had half-risen, to confront her. Lounging against the counter, his mouth half-open, gaping from one to the other, was Malcom.
    Aunt Polly’s vision came to rest above the baker’s wife. ‘Mrs Glennie, if I remember right!’
    Mrs Glennie was at her worst: still unchanged, wearing her dirty forenoon wrapper, her blouse open at the neck, a loose tape hanging from her waist.
    ‘What do you want?’
    Aunt Polly raised her eyebrows. ‘I have come to see Francis Chisholm.’
    ‘He’s out.’
    ‘Indeed! Then I’ll wait till he comes in.’ Polly arranged herself on the chair by the counter as though prepared to remain all day.
    There was a pause. Mrs Glennie’s face had turned a dirty red. She remarked, aside: ‘Malcom! Run round to the bakehouse and fetch your father.’
    Malcom answered shortly: ‘He went to the Hall five minutes ago. He won’t be back till tea.’
    Polly removed her gaze from the ceiling, brought it critically to bear on Malcom. She smiled slightly when he flushed, then, entertained, she glanced away.
    For the first time Mrs Glennie showed signs of uneasiness. She burst out angrily: ‘ We’re busy people here, we can’t