Shannon's Way Read online

  “All right, lad. Don’t be long.”

  When he had gone I worked for half an hour, checking and tabulating the specimens, then with my rucksack across my shoulder I left the Institute and walked up the narrow wynd towards Duthie’s cottage. A clear darkness was falling and a thin moon with its attendant star had risen in the frosty sky. The lightly textured air was cold and still, and suddenly my mind lifted in a surge of exhilaration at the prospect which lay before me, this voyage of discovery, beset with difficulty and danger, into uncharted seas.

  Outside Alex’s door I paused. The lights of the village twinkled around me and beyond flowed the waters of the estuary, shadowy and mysteriously spangled. While I stood there, quite motionless, watching the moon drift higher in the heavens, listening, as the last whisperings of the earth died in the boreal stillness, I felt the mantle of an eternal solitude enwrap my spirit. I knew then what I was, and must always be—alone, one against the world.

  I shivered, recollected that I was hungry; and aware that I should find food, fire, and friendship there, and the quiet laughter of little Sim, I went in to Alex’s house.

  Chapter Four

  On the following Friday, there took place the event I had anticipated, and upon which my plan of action was based.

  All that week, at the University, as I automatically performed the task to which I was handcuffed, I observed that Professor Usher was unusually pleasant to us, moving about incisive as ever, yet wearing a smile so artificially agreeable it caused the hairs on the back of my neck to bristle.

  On Friday afternoon this bland assumption of the cooperative spirit reached its height as he made a little tour of the laboratory and finally, having cleared his throat, faced us with a confidential smile.

  “Gentlemen, as you are no doubt aware, I have been honoured with an invitation to act as chairman of the advisory committee for the coming Pathological Congress, a distinction which obliges me to make a tour of the various universities with my distinguished colleague, Professor Harrington, in order that we may draw up a suitable and comprehensive agenda.”

  After an impressive pause he went on.

  “Mrs. Usher and I leave for London to-night at six. We shall be away for eight weeks. I know, of course, that in my absence the work of the Department will proceed smoothly and expeditiously, in accordance with the best traditions of research. Are there any questions?”

  No one answered. He nodded, as though establishing the fact that an understanding had been reached between us; then looking at his watch, he bowed to each of us in turn and left the Department. Smith went with him to see to the luggage.

  I could scarcely contain my emotions as the door swung shut, for although I had expected a brief respite from the attentions of my taskmaster, the news that he had gone, actually, for eight weeks, was so wonderful it bowled me over. What could I not accomplish in that time!

  Lomax had already risen and, lighting a cigarette, was glancing across at me with his fatigued smile.

  “Didn’t you sense we were being put in the frame of mind to work continuously while he was away? I’m so fond of him, I can’t bear to see him go.”

  Pale, with discontented eyes and blond wavy hair, and wearing usually a faintly cynical expression, Adrian Lomax was about four years older than I, one of those fortunate persons who attract instinctively by their charm and good looks. He was an only son, with a rich mother, a widow who lived in London, and he had been educated at Winchester and Oxford, impressed at these colleges with a stamp of manners and good breeding. After his graduation he had meant to continue his studies abroad, but the war had intervened, and now, because of some remote connection between Professor Usher and his family, he had come to Winton to “ put in” twelve months’ post-graduate research. In his tastes, he affected the exotic, despised most things, aloofly, and cast down all that could not be explained in terms of natural science. His languid scepticism suggested deep reserves of knowledge; and with his half-shrug, his supercilious smile, his metaphysical expositions, he attempted frequently to put nails in the coffin of my belief. Self-centred and affected, his too conscious absence of condescension towards Spence and myself concealed a spoiled vanity. Yet he had a most engaging way with him. Preparing for a distinguished career, but disdaining the vulgarity of too obvious effort, he worked spasmodically; and, while bewailing his exile, carelessly contrived, in his comfortable rooms furnished expensively by himself, to exceed his generous allowance and have the best of everything.

  Meanwhile, he had been rummaging in his locker, from which he now produced, with an amused air, a bottle of Benedictine.

  “This happens to be on hand. Let’s mark the occasion. Immediately.” He drew the cork and poured generous measures of the golden liquid into three clean beakers.

  Neil Spence, the third member of Usher’s team, apart from those regular weekly outings with his wife, was not inclined to gaiety—like the hermit crab, he ventured out of his shell only on the rarest occasions—but now he came over sociably and joined Lomax.

  So too did I. The thought of my tremendous decision to use the University laboratory for my own experiments gave me a sense of freedom and excitement, which rose almost to exaltation, and sent a desire to celebrate surging recklessly within me.

  “Absent friends.” Lomax drank. “ Coupled with the name of Herr Professor Hugo. I hope you like this stuff. Nothing too good for my distinguished colleagues.”

  “It’s extremely nice,” Spence said in his quiet, matter-of-fact voice.

  “Made by the monks.” Lomax turned his ironic gaze towards me. “ That should please you, Shannon. You are a Catholic, aren’t you?”

  “Yes … of course.” I gave my answer a disarming assurance.

  Lomax refilled the beakers with a faintly quizzical smile.

  “But, Robert, I thought you were a scientist. You can’t reconcile Genesis and the mutation of species.”

  “I don’t try to.” I took a sip of the warm and mellow liqueur. “The one is a sordid fact … the other a romantic mystery.”

  “Hmm,” said Lomax. “ What about the Pope?”

  “He’s all right with me.”

  “You’re fond of him?”

  “Absolutely.” I stopped smiling—Lomax’s wit on this topic usually ended by annoying me. “I admit I’m not a shining example … quite the reverse, in fact. All the same, there’s something that I can’t ever get away from … against reason if you like.… I hope you don’t wish me to say that I regret it.”

  “Far from it, my dear fellow,” Lomax said easily.

  Neil Spence was glancing at his watch.

  “Nearly six o’clock. Muriel ought to be here any minute.”

  He took his handkerchief and began, surreptitiously, to remove the moisture that escaped from the corners of his lips.

  One night, in a trench near the Marne, in the muddy darkness, as he rose unguardedly to ease his cramped position, Spence’s lower jaw had been shattered by a burst of German shrapnel; and although the plastic surgeons had patched him wonderfully with one of his own ribs, the result was a sad distortion of the human face: the chin supplanted by an angry scar, with drawn lips emerging from the cicatrix, a cruel contrast to his fine, broad brow, beneath which his dark, rather haunted eyes retreated instinctively. What made the disfigurement worse was the fact that Spence had been a handsome youth, much sought after at the local dances, picnics and tennis tournaments in the staid but comfortable society of Winton.

  “Your wife is charming,” Lomax remarked politely. “ I enjoyed the theatre last week immensely. Shall I pour another libation to Herr Hugo?”

  “No, don’t,” Spence said, sensibly. “We’ve had enough.”

  “But he asked us to drink in the best traditions of the Department,” I said.

  We all laughed, even Spence. It was a thing he rarely did; it contorted his face so badly. At that moment we were interrupted by a sound behind us.

  Mrs. Spence had come in to the laboratory, u
nannounced, with the daring air of one who has broken rules and knows it. She smiled at us vivaciously from behind the dotted veil which fringed her hat and gave piquancy to the slightly hollow contours of her face.

  “Smith wasn’t to be found, and I waited … and waited … like a lost soul.”

  Muriel Spence was about twenty-seven, of medium height, rather thin, yet graceful, with delicate wrists and ankles, light brown hair and a narrow, somewhat colourless face in which, however, at times her grey eyes were wide and girlish. Without exaggeration, she could be regarded as the alleviation of Spence’s misfortune. Before the war he had been engaged to her, and when he returned, quite broken up, she had stood by him, resisting the pressure of her family and his own efforts to give her back her freedom. Their wedding, largely attended, had created widespread interest. Now, although she had lost much of her youthful prettiness and was somewhat artificial in her manner, she still was attractive, and in her dark costume and necklet of brown fur she brightened our dull work-room. Because of Spence, who was my closest friend, I had tried to like Muriel; yet my nature, awkward and difficult no doubt, found always in her a quality which threw me back, as though unwanted, upon myself.

  She raised her veil and kissed her husband lightly on the cheek, remarking, with a tinge of reproof:

  “We shall be late for our dinner engagement, dear. Why aren’t you ready?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Spence,” said Lomax, elevating one eyebrow in his best manner, “ now you’re in, you may never get out of this chamber of horrors.”

  She tilted her head to one side, touching me with her bright, provoking glance.

  “I feel quite safe with Mr. Shannon here.”

  At this, for some reason, Lomax and Mrs. Spence smiled. Spence, whose dark eyes rested with almost dog-like devotion upon his wife’s face, had put on his overcoat, and now she tucked her gloved hand under his arm.

  “Neil and I are going your way, Mr. Lomax.” She spoke invitingly. “Can we drop you?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Thank you,” he said, at length. “You’re very kind.”

  I left with them, and at Muriel’s runabout, parked outside the entrance to the building, we parted. While they set off in the car towards the city, I walked down Fenner Hill, bent on retrieving the Dreem specimens from my lodgings and returning with them, immediately, to the laboratory.

  In Eldon Park, to my right, the ornamental lake was “bearing,” crowded with skaters. I could hear in the still air the keen, gay ring of the steel blades upon the ice. Elevated by the Benedictine, and the delicious thought of Usher’s departure, I felt like singing. There was a pleasant giddiness in my head, the world seemed an altogether delightful place.

  As I approached the familiar boarding-house, the door of Rothesay opened and there appeared Harold Muss, accompanied by Miss Law, both bearing skates which swung from straps upon their wrists. At this, the liqueur, belying its monastic origin, proved more potent than I had imagined. I couldn’t explain why, but the sudden apparition in such company of Miss Law, wearing a neat white sweater and a woollen cap, with a red tassel, upon her hair, bent, not on succour and salvation, but upon healthful exercise, sent me into a silent fit of laughter.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Shannon?” At the sight of me she drew up. “Are you ill?”

  “Not at all,” I answered, leaving hold of the railings. “ I am in perfect mental and physical condition … ready for an effort which may shake the world. Do I make myself clear?”

  Muss suppressed a snigger; he guessed the nature of my symptoms, but Miss Law’s modest countenance expressed only sympathy and a deeper concern.

  “Won’t you come with us to the lake? The breeze might do you good.”

  “No,” I said, “ I won’t come to the lake.” I added, logically: “ I have no skates.”

  “I could lend you skates,” Muss suggested slyly, “but the ice is slippery.”

  “Shut up, Muss,” I said sternly. “Don’t I work my fingers to the bone for you … and for all humanity?”

  “You’ve been keeping at it much too hard, Mr. Shannon.” In her perplexity, Miss Jean had taken my words quite literally. “You know you promised to come out to Blairhill. I go home to-night. Do take the day off and visit us tomorrow.”

  Gazing into her soft brown eyes, my powers of invention seemed suddenly to fail me. Finding no excuse, after a moment, lamely, I muttered:

  “All right. I’ll come.”

  Chapter Five

  The one-thirty train for Blairhill was painfully slow, its ancient compartments so foul that with every jolt of the engine a puff of dust exhaled from the mouldy seat covers. As it dragged across the smoky, industrial Lowlands, past belching factory chimneys, with never a blade of grass in sight, stopping at every little station, I blamed myself for fulfilling a promise I had never meant to make and took little comfort in arguing that a day off would send me back refreshed to my research.

  At last, about an hour after leaving Winton Low Level, having escaped the worst of the “ black country,” we bumped into Blairhill. So that the unhappy traveller should not miss his fate, the name was worked in white pebbles, between two fierce-looking Scots firs, upon the station embankment. And there, waiting on the platform, rising a little on her toes, scanning eagerly with bright eyes the curved flank of the stationary train, was Miss Jean Law.

  As I opened the door and came towards her, I perceived that, in honour of my visit, or merely, perhaps, because of her week-end vacation, she was wearing, beneath a loose coat, her knitted white sweater and, upon her brown curls, which seemed more noticeable than usual, that little tasselled woollen cap known in Scotland as a “cool.” Discerning me amongst the milling passengers, her face lit up in welcome. We shook hands.

  “Oh, Mr. Shannon,” she exclaimed, happily. “It’s so nice you could come. I was almost afraid …”

  She broke off, but I finished the sentence for her.

  “That I would let you down.”

  “Well …” She coloured, as she did so easily. “I know you’re a busy man. But you’re here, anyway, and it’s a lovely afternoon, and I’ve so much to show you, and although I shouldn’t say it, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  As she spoke, we were walking together up the narrow main street. The town was less spoiled than I had expected; it lay within the wide domain of the ducal family of Blairhill and had the air of an old-fashioned country borough, with hand-hewn setts upon the pavements, unexpected winding alleys, and an old market-place. Full of pride in her native place, my companion explained that “the present Duke,” in conjunction with the Blairhill Historical Society, had done much to preserve the local antiquities, and she assured me, seriously, enthusiastically, that, when the formalities of introduction were completed, she would take me upon a comprehensive tour of inspection.

  At the head of the incline she paused suddenly, opposite a little low-browed building, and, with a nervously conscious air betrayed by her fluttering lashes, she remarked:

  “This is our bakehouse, Mr. Shannon. You must come in and meet my father.”

  I followed her, beneath a low archway into a little cobbled yard, past a varnished van, its shafts directed towards the sky, then down, through a narrow doorway, between piled sacks of flour, into a dim, sweet-smelling, earth-floored basement lit by the dull red radiation of two charcoal ovens. Gradually, as my eyes became accustomed to the dark interior, I made out two shirt-sleeved figures, each armed with a long wooden paddle, working energetically at the open ovens, their white aprons made ruddy by the glow as they drew the batches of bread on to long wooden trays.

  For several minutes we watched in silence this operation, which appeared to demand energy, adroitness, and speed. Then, as the new batch slid into the ovens and the iron doors clanged shut, the foremost of the two turned immediately and came towards us, wiping his hand upon his apron and holding it out, the nails still slightly encrusted with dried dough.

  Daniel Law
was about fifty-five, of medium height, pallid from his occupation, yet vigorous-looking, with thick shoulders and a sturdy frame. Despite his steel spectacles and the close black beard which somewhat masked his features, he had a frank, earnest expression and an open brow, at present beaded with sweat. Obviously he did not smile easily; yet as his warm fingers grasped mine his lips parted slightly, in greeting, exposing strong teeth, somewhat spoiled, however, by the flour, which was everywhere.

  “I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir. My daughter has told me of your great kindness to her at the coll-edge. Any friend of my daughter is welcome here.”

  His deep voice had a patriarchal quality, enhanced by his pronunciation of the word “college,” and his bespectacled eyes, as he made reference to Miss Jean Law, glinted fondly. He went on to apologize.

  “I’m sorry we’re so rushed the now. My son and I manage by ourselves, Saturday afternoons.” He called over his shoulder. “Luke! Step up here a minute.”

  The young lad of seventeen, who advanced, smiling and pulling on his jacket, bore a close resemblance to his sister, having similar colouring of complexion and eyes. He had a warm, cheerful, human air which made me take to him at once. He could not stay, having to harness the horse and drive the van upon its country round. Indeed, I perceived that Law himself, despite his courtesy, was pressed; so, with a side glance at my companion, I indicated that we must not trespass upon his time.

  Law nodded.

  “Our customers maun have bread, sir. And to-morrow’s the Sabbath day. But we’ll see you later at the house. Around five o’clock. Meantime, my daughter will take ye in hand.”

  Outside, and continuing our way to the outer fringes of the town, past newer houses standing in little garden plots, my companion kept stealing glances at me, half anxious, half eager, as though trying to gauge my opinion of her relatives. Presently, at a turn of the quiet avenue overhung by the bare but drooping branches of some chestnut trees, we approached a small stone villa, neat and unpretentious, with a trim privet hedge in front and immaculate lace curtains shrouding the windows. Here, unable to contain herself, with her hand upon the iron gate bearing, on a brass plate, the name SILOAM, Miss Law exclaimed: