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  Contents

  A. J. Cronin

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Three

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Four

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Five

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  A. J. Cronin

  The Minstrel Boy

  Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatter’s Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  On a windy March day in the mid-twenties I was seated in the office of the Prefect of Studies, awaiting admission to the Jesuit Day School of St Ignatius and, after seven rough years in the free council schools of the city of Winton, rather glad to be there. At my birth, my father, in the first flush of paternity – filled, too, with sanguine expectations of his own future – had entered me for Stonyhurst. When he died, six years later, after a painful and protracted illness, his laudable ambition remained unfulfilled: he left barely enough to pay the doctors and the undertaker.

  Yet St Ignatius was not a bad substitute for the parent Lancashire institution. Built, with its adjacent church, on an eminence not far from the city centre, dedicated to the education of sons of the Catholic bourgeoisie and indeed, since the fees were moderate, of the working class, all the masters were Jesuit priests, for the most part men of birth and breeding, aloof, after the manner of the Order, and to me so intimidating that I sprang to my feet as the door opened behind me.

  But it was another boy who strolled in, quite unperturbed, indeed completely at ease. I sat down again and, with a half smile, he seated himself beside me. Infinitely better dressed than I, he had on a dark flannel suit of distinguished cut, fine socks and shining shoes and a spotless soft white shirt set off by a striped green and black tie which I judged, correctly, to be his prep school colours. A linen handkerchief peeped from his breast pocket, and, as if this were not enough, a small cornflower was tucked, and worn with an air of scornful detachment, in his buttonhole. He was, moreover, so devastatingly good looking, with his pale complexion, soft blond hair and flax blue eyes, that I became more and more conscious, not only of my flaming crop of red hair, freckles, long nose, but of my painfully poor attire, old flannel bags, blue jersey knitted by my mother, and a crack in the toe cap of my right, worn-out shoe which I had just acquired by a reckless punt at a ball that bounced from the school yard as I came up the hill. In fact, I hated him, and decided to pick a fight with him at the first opportunity.

  Suddenly he stunned me by breaking the silence of that august book-lined chamber.

  ‘Boring, isn’t it? Punctuality is not the politeness of Jesuits.’ He began to sing.

  ‘They left us in the lurch, waitin’ at the church.’

  Then, ‘I bet Beauchamp’s in the pantry having his elevenses. Frightful guzzler, I believe. But terribly cultured. Old Etonian. Convert, of course.’

  He began again, rather more loudly: ‘They left me in the lurch, waiting at the church …’

  At that moment the door swung open and there swept in a fine, massive, imperious figure, well banded by his soutane which, however, failed to conceal a pronounced and advancing corpulence. In his right hand he was carrying a plate on which reposed a large double cheese sandwich. This he placed on his desk, deftly covered with a napkin taken from his drawer. He then sat down rather heavily, with the words, half excusatory, half an apostrophe:

  ‘Edere oportet ut vivas.’

  ‘Non vivere ut edas,’ murmured the little snob beside me.

  ‘Good,’ said the prelate who was, indeed, the redoubtable Fr Beauchamp. ‘But, though you know your Cicero, uncalled for.’ He paused, looking from one to the other. ‘As I approached the sanctuary of my study I was greeted by most unlydian strains …’

  ‘I am the culprit, reverend sir,’ my companion acknowledged very fairly. ‘ I have the absurd habit, almost unconscious, when I am nervous or waiting on someone who is late, of erupting into song …’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Beauchamp grimly. ‘Then stand up and erupt now. But nothing vulgar, I beg of you.’

  I suppressed a gleeful chuckle. Now the little prig must really make an ass of himself. He got slowly to his feet. There was a pause. The pause lengthened. Then, fixing his gaze far above Beauchamp’s head, he began to sing.

  It was the Panus Angelicus, that most lovely and difficult Latin hymn. And as the sweet and moving words filled the room, ascending, as it were, to heaven, the stupid smile faded from my face. Never, never had I heard it sung so beautifully as now, clear, true, entrancing. Compelled, I gave myself to it. When it was over, a profound momentous silence followed.

  I was stunned, dumbfounded. Although my knowledge of music was then extremely limited, I had enough good taste to recognise that the little dressed-up prodigy had a truly beautiful, an exceptional, a spectacular voice! Beauchamp too was obviously deeply impressed.

  ‘Ha. Hum,’ he said, and again, ‘Ha. Hum. We must certainly speak of you to our choirmaster, the good Father Roberts.’ He paused. ‘You must be the Fitzgerald boy.’

  ‘I am Desmonde Fitzgerald. The Desmonde written with a final “e”.’

  ‘It shall be so inscribed,’ Fr Beauchamp answered with unexpected mildness. ‘I have had in fact much correspondence with your father over the years. A most erudite and distinguished scholar. It was from him that I got my
Trinity College Apocalypse, the Roxburgh Club’s rare and much prized edition.’ He paused. ‘But when he wrote me some months before his death, he said you were to go to Downside.’

  ‘Maternal fondness has kept me at home, sir. And inflicted me upon you. Rather to the relief of the Benedictines.’

  ‘So you are now living in Winton?’

  ‘My mother, who is Scottish, wished to return to her native land. She has taken a house in Overtown Crescent.’

  ‘A delightful situation, overlooking the park. I shall certainly call upon her … perhaps she will give me tea.’ A reflective look came over his face, he moistened his lips. ‘As a Scot she will know of these delicious little iced French cakes, a speciality of the town. A survival, indeed, of the Old Alliance.’

  ‘I shall ensure, sir,’ Desmonde answered gravely, ‘that a generous supply is on hand for your visit.’

  ‘Good. Good. Ha. Hum.’ He turned, inspecting me from beneath his enormous eyebrows. ‘And now you?’

  Thoroughly embittered by this glowing and intimate interchange which had made me feel more than ever an outsider, I muttered from between clenched teeth:

  ‘I am merely Shannon.’

  He seemed rather to like this. He beamed, almost benignantly.

  ‘Ah, yes. You are coming to us on the Kelvin Scholarship.’ He leaned forward to inspect an open folder on his desk. ‘As, despite your length, you seem rather a “modest crimson-tippit” youth, would it help your self-esteem to know that your papers were quite exceptional? Father Jaeger, who corrected for the examination, so regarded them. Does that please you?’

  ‘It will please my mother when I tell her.’

  ‘What a good answer! Now you are no longer “merely” but most admirably Shannon.’ He looked me up and down, kindly, not missing my burst shoe. ‘And at your convenience you may call on the Bursar for the first instalment of your scholarship. The office is open from two till five.’

  The rich aroma of new baked bread had now penetrated the napkin and was deliciously permeating the room. I was already drooling and it became clear that the good Prefect of Studies was anxious to get on with his sandwich. Briefly, therefore, he informed us that we were both allocated to the Upper Fourth Form, instructed us as to how we might reach the class room and dismissed us.

  But as we passed his desk on the way out he reached out a huge hand and deftly picked the flower from Fitzgerald’s buttonhole.

  ‘During school hours, no floral decorations, if you please.’

  Desmonde flushed but said nothing, merely inclined his head. But as we came out of the study into the corridor my companion smiled.

  ‘That’s Beauchamp for you. Wonderful brain. Insatiable stomach! I’ll bet he makes a salad of my cornflower. And what an idiot I was to sing for him. Now I am stuck with another choir. After three years as the bleeding prima donna of my prep school.’

  ‘Perhaps your voice will break?’ I suggested consolingly.

  ‘It has done, very early. Now I am a beastly, confirmed Don Ottavio, a Cavaradossi, a blasted Pinkerton.’ Taking my arm, ‘ I hope you’ll like me, as we’re to be together. I think I might like you. That “ merely” was very pretty. Do you play chess?’

  ‘I play football,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Never kicked a ball in my life. But I’ll come and watch you. I say, why don’t we nip over for a quiet ginger beer before we start the toil of the day? There’s a good-looking bun shop across the way.’

  ‘I’m stony,’ I said coldly.

  ‘Haven’t I asked you? Do come.’

  He guided me across the street to what was, in fact, a baker’s shop which had come to be regarded as the tuck shop of the school. Inside, it was pleasantly cosy. We sat down.

  ‘Two Schweppes’ stone gingers, please, as cool as possible, and each with a slice of lemon, if you happen to have such a thing.’

  The woman behind the counter gave him an odd look but a few moments later two full foaming glasses appeared each with a slice of lemon swimming on top.

  ‘Thank you, madam. May I pay you?’

  He paid. It was a long time since I had enjoyed a ginger beer. The first long cool draught was mellowing.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘The citron does improve it. Now tell me about yourself. Apart from scoring goals, what do you want to do?’

  I told him I hoped to try for a university scholarship and if lucky to go for medicine. ‘What about you?’

  He immediately became serious.

  ‘I want very much to become a priest. And it would please my mother too. She is a very dear, pious person.’ He smiled. ‘So when you are in Harley Street I shall be a Cardinal in Rome. Those Red Hats are terribly becoming!’

  We both burst out laughing. Impossible to resist him. Half an hour ago I was itching to knock his block off. Now he had won me over. I liked him immensely. He drained his glass.

  ‘Shall we have another foaming tankard?’

  I felt my face getting very red. But I said very firmly:

  ‘I’m sorry, Fitzgerald, I can’t stand you one back. And as I don’t intend sponging upon you in future I must tell you that we, my mother and I, are frightfully hard up.’

  He made sympathetic mutterings. I saw he was dying to ask me, but I had no wish to enlighten him further. And, indeed, he had the good taste not to press me. He said:

  ‘All the best saints were poor, and loved poverty.’

  ‘They can have it,’ said.

  He smiled. ‘Any way … for heaven’s sake don’t let it interfere with our friendship.’

  Five minutes later when we left the shop I made no objection when he took my arm and said:

  ‘It’s rather early, but would it bore you if we first-named each other? I do hate being called Fitzgerald. All we Fitzes are almost certainly descended from Charles II’s bastards. He threw Fitzes at them with the bâton sinistre. It’s a repulsive thought. I much prefer Desmonde provided you never, never call me Des. What’s yours?’

  ‘I have a perfectly horrible name. I was called Alexander as a vain propitiation, quite useless, to my grandfather. And Joseph in honour of the saint. But my friends usually call me Alec.’

  We entered the class room. He gave me a pleased look when we saw that our desks were together.

  Chapter Two

  Desmonde’s father had been a bookseller. But no modern novel had ever been seen to enter the precincts of the dusty little diamond-paned shop tucked away in a corner of the Dublin Quays, and known throughout Europe and beyond as a storehouse of rare old volumes, special editions of the fine arts, historical pamphlets, the transactions of learned societies and suchlike treasures, sought after by intelligent collectors with an eye for something special at rather less than the outrageous price demanded in London or New York.

  Although he had not made a fortune – as he often told his clients when making a deal – Fitzgerald was comfortably situated, and, twelve years older than his wife, he had prudently secured her fortune by a double life endowment policy, which would afford her a substantial annual income on his death – an event which had in fact recently occurred.

  His widow, Elizabeth, was Scottish, a Lanarkshire woman who had never been quite at home by the turgid waters of the Liffey. After a decent interval which had enabled her to sell the house and to secure a reasonable sum for the stock and goodwill of the business, she had come to Winton, where, with the facility of a returned native, she had quickly found the small delightful terrace house to which Desmonde had referred when the good Fr Beauchamp invited himself to tea. With a doting mother, Desmonde had everything he might desire: fine clothes, pocket money ad libitum, a new bicycle to spin down to school …

  How different was my situation. My mother, daughter of a prosperous Ayrshire farmer, had been disowned by her family when she ran off with my Irish father and, the greater crime, became a Roman Catholic. After his death, persistence in this faith had killed all chance of reconciliation. But my brave little mother was
not easily defeated. After a brief course of instruction she secured a post as a health visitor to the Winton Corporation. Her work took her to the notorious Anderson district of the city, slum areas riddled with poverty and destitution, where so many of the children were blighted and deformed by rickets. This splendid though exacting work suited my mother’s cheerful and energetic temperament. The pay, scarcely commensurate with the effort and the results obtained, was precisely two pounds a week. After deduction of two shillings and sixpence for superannuation tax and a further seven and sixpence as weekly rental for our two-room ‘flat’, precisely thirty shillings remained to feed, clothe, and maintain my mother and myself until the next twice blessed pay day came along. But let it not be imagined that we were miserable and starved in our sparsely furnished ‘room and kitchen’ four flights up, interminable steps which I climbed at the trot, knowing that I was going home, and that always there would be something to eat there for a hungry boy. Porridge in the morning and, if necessary, in the evening, varied by that inimitable Scottish dish, pease brose and buttermilk, Scots broth made from marrow bones, and stiff with vegetables, home baked scones or bannocks, and at the week-end a joint of beef which after Sunday manifested itself on succeeding days as hot pot or shepherd’s pie. Nor must I forget the sack of potatoes which arrived unfailingly every August, sent surreptitiously by an old worker on the parental farm. These were pilfered goods and how sweet they were, big floury King Edwards, baked in the oven and served with a pat of butter. I ate even the skin.

  Nevertheless, my style and condition of life differed so markedly from the ease and comfort of Desmonde’s existence that our continued and growing friendship became all the more remarkable. We met always with such a sense of joy and renewal, never a trace of superiority on his side or envy upon mine, though he had spun down on his new Raleigh bicycle while I had walked the two miles to school because I had not a halfpenny for the tram.

  Close friendships are usually frowned upon, if not discouraged, in most Jesuit institutions. But as Desmonde and I were later to move up through the various forms, increasingly devoted to each other, there was never a hint of anything suspect in our relationship. I was obviously not the type for a love match – I had gone almost immediately into the football team where, as centre half, my genius for rough play had been observed and commended, while Desmonde, under his light hearted charm, had revealed himself as a postulant, seriously intent upon his vocation. Every morning, before classes began, he was in church for Mass and Holy Communion. He persuaded me to join the Sodality, towards which I had only the slightest leanings. And as the school went down for various services at such times as Easter and Holy Week, kneeling beside him, I would see tears stream from his eyes fixed upon the Crucifix above the altar.