Crescendo (25 page)

“Not at all. He rang me because he knew I had a powerful car,” said Arnold, pressing the accelerator.

“Especially when you practically lost him his job this afternoon,” pursued Jerry. “I heard you telling mother. I mean, you're practically enemies.”

“Well, that's England for you,” said Arnold, dismissing the matter. “But what the dickens are you doing here, Jerry? I didn't intend you to come. You'd better get out when we stop for Cressey, and take a bus home.”

“Oh, please let me come!” said Jerry.

They were now in the main road close to Ashworth, and in
the greenish-purple light of the overhead lamps Jerry's young face, turned towards his father, looked pale and earnest.

“Suicides are sordid and unpleasant affairs,” said Arnold. “There's nothing exciting or glamorous about them, and don't you ever forget it.”

“I might be useful to run messages, dad,” pleaded Jerry.

It was really not possible for Arnold to refuse a request couched in such terms; to have risen to the status of
dad
again warmed him all over.

“Well, all right,” he said gruffly. “But you'll have to ride in the back and keep out of the way. There's Cressey now; get out and get him in beside me as quick as you can, there's a good lad.”

2

It proved a simple matter to find Peter Trahier. They reached Blackstalls Bridge and examined all the buses from Hudley which were clustered there, and the queue, already forming, of passengers for Blackstalls Brow. Trahier was not there, but they left messages everywhere in case they had missed him. Everyone they addressed was kind and helpful and promised their best service. They then drove along the valley road towards Hudley. Whenever they saw a bus approaching in the distance, its lights gleaming through the rain, they turned round and made speed to the nearest bus stop. Cressey dismounted and waited; the bus stopped for him; he climbed on and called out: “Is Peter Trahier on this bus?” in his resonant schoolmaster's tones. The third bus they accosted like this—it was about halfway to Hudley—contained Peter. He came pushing his way down the crowded aisle with a look of anguish on his agreeable face, and seizing Cressey by both arms, cried:

“Is it Gay? It's Gay, I know it is!”

“There's trouble at your home. We have a car here,” said
Cressey. “We tried to catch you earlier, at the Technical College, but unluckily you had left.”

The bus passengers looked on sympathetically, and the conductor held the young man's arm and helped him to alight, lest he should stumble, for indeed he seemed to have gone quite to pieces. He stood in the pouring rain, gesticulating and exclaiming, instead of getting into the car like a sensible man, thought Arnold impatiently, and when at last Cressey and Jerry between them had stowed him into the front seat, he still kept on exclaiming and had to be recalled by Arnold to the business of directing the car to Blackstalls.

“If only I hadn't left early! But why should he do it? He was quite happy with us. And Gay all alone with him! She'll be in the dark there, we haven't any electricity. Surely she won't forget and strike a match to light the gas!” cried Trahier in agony. “If only I hadn't left the Tech early, I should be there by now!”

“Right or left here?” said Arnold.

“Right, right. Across the bridge and then right. Oh no, left here, round this bend.
Now
right.”

The car soon left the bus from which they had taken Trahier out of sight—clear proof, reflected Arnold, that Cressey's appeal to him was justified—flew along the valley road and turned up the hill across Blackstalls Bridge. The blue and white Jaguar was conspicuous, and several people who had a few minutes ago received Cressey's enquiries, pointed it out to their neighbours and nodded after it approvingly, knowing its errand. The feeling here was therefore one of hope and excitement, but as the car left the lighted village and mounted the dark hillside, the nocturnal landscape—trees rustling, wind sighing, rain pouring heavily, hills rising and falling in sombre folds, old cobbles gleaming in the light from the rare gas-lamps—seemed to him to take on a more sinister and less hopeful air, so that Arnold's spirits sank. This unease was increased by Trahier's lack of control, for he poured the whole history of
his admiration for Freeman, his love for Freeman's daughter, their courtship and marriage and hopes of a child, into the embarrassed ears of Arnold, who wondered uncomfortably what Jerry was making of all this—“Well, it's his own fault for coming and mine for allowing him to come, after all,” he reflected—and also what use a fellow of this kind could be to a woman in a crisis. Trahier talked too much and expressed what he meant too clearly, for Arnold's liking; a more silent grief would have pleased his Yorkshire taste better, seemed more sincere.

“Here!” said Trahier suddenly.

The Jaguar's lights had already illuminated a large greyish van standing at the side of the road, its back doors open.

“The ambulance,” said Cressey with satisfaction.

“But where's the house?” demanded Arnold.

“It's at the top of this bank—there's a lane at the side but it's too steep and rough for motor vehicles,” replied Trahier, who was wrestling with the unfamiliar handle of the Jaguar's door.

“Oh, pooh!” said Arnold.

With a swing of the wheel he skirted the ambulance and put the Jaguar at Brow Lane. The car flew up, throwing its passengers about as it bounced over the rocky surface. Arnold swung it partly round to face High Royd. The headlamps poured light on the house side and figures were revealed through the sloping spears of rain: Gay leaning against the wall, a couple of men in uniform stooping over a stretcher which lay on the ground between them. Arnold leaned across Trahier and pressed the door catch so that the door swung open, and the young man scrambled out and rushed to his wife and put his arms round her.

“Gay! What's happened? Why did he do it? Are you all right? Surely he was happy with us? How is he?”

“Peter,” sighed Gay. She staggered, and let her head drop to his shoulder.

“She's at the end of her tether,” thought Arnold.

He got out of the car and strode up to the little group, taking
his electric torch with him. Cressey and Jerry also dismounted, but stood by the car, not wishing to intrude.

“Is this Mr. Freeman, then?” said Arnold, looking at the crumpled bundle, covered by a grey hospital blanket, on the stretcher at his feet.

“Yes, sir. We can't get him round. We shall have to take him to the hospital—he needs oxygen,” replied one of the ambulance men.

“Well, get on with it, then,” said Arnold impatiently.

“He's a very heavy man, sir,” said the other man on a note of apology. “We're doing our best.”

“We'll give you a hand. Then there'll be six of us,” said Arnold, looking round. “Cressey, you take this torch and walk ahead and light the way—it's no use wasting time trying to turn the car—the lamps won't shine round the bend in the lane. Trahier, you take that side with one of the ambulance men. The other man, take the head. My son and I will take this side. Jerry! Come on now, all; are you ready? Lift!”

The old man certainly is heavy, thought Arnold, as the little procession went slowly down the hill. But we couldn't have got him into the car without a lot of difficulty; it would have wasted time to try and we might have hurt him; besides, that gate gives no room to turn, I should have had to back down and that takes time. He noticed with satisfaction that his allotment of posts had been the right one; Cressey's slender physique and slight limp were no detriment to his task of lighting the path, which he performed with care and skill. Trahier was of very little use, as he kept exclaiming and jerking about to look at his wife, who followed the group in silence, so that it had been wise to put him beside the experienced ambulance man. Jerry had a strong grip and did as he was told, avoiding stones when his father warned him of them. The group accordingly reached the foot of the bank and slid the stretcher along the proper rails into the ambulance, without mishap. The ambulance driver leaped into the front and started the engine;
Trahier climbed hurriedly into the back; the second ambulance man began to close the doors.

“Mrs. Trahier must go too,” said Arnold, gently pushing the young woman forward.

“No, no. You stay here and go to bed, Gay,” said Trahier, leaning out of the ambulance.

“The house is pretty well clear of gas now, sir,” said the ambulance man. “No real danger. No point in Mrs. Trahier coming down with her father.”

He gave Arnold a significant glance and silently mouthed the words: “He's gone.”

Arnold was sorry; in spite of the strange pink flush which marred Freeman's face, he had taken a liking to the old man.

“Mrs. Trahier requires medical attention herself,” he said firmly. “My wife had a miscarriage once—we don't want anything like that to happen.”

“Good God, no!” exclaimed Peter, leaping out of the ambulance.

At this moment Cressey very sensibly turned the light of the torch full on Gay. The ambulance man for the first time looked intently at her. His face changed—and no wonder, thought Arnold, for she appeared scarcely conscious, white, obviously pain-racked, swaying on her feet.

“Give me a hand, sir,” said the ambulance man to Arnold.

Between them they lifted Gay into the van. Jerry gave Trahier an impatient shove up the steps; the man closed the doors from within; the van drove off.

Arnold became aware that the three members of the rescue party were standing in drenching rain; Cressey wore a raincoat but Jerry and himself lacked that protection. He turned and led the way briskly up Brow Lane towards the shelter of the car, remarking that the rain was growing heavier.

“You should have put on your raincoat, dad,” said Jerry. “It's in the car.”

“Never thought of it,” said Arnold. “No time, anyway.”

They climbed the lane in silence, feeling flat and cross now that the need for action was over, and settled into the car with sighs of relief. Jerry meekly sat in the back according to his father's previous instructions; Arnold threw open the front door for Cressey to sit beside him. Arnold backed down the lane—a tricky job, but there was no alternative—and headed towards Blackstalls Bridge.

“Well, it's a good thing we came,” said Arnold.

“Yes,” said Cressey.

“I didn't think much of the husband,” remarked Jerry with youthful intolerance.

“He was under a great strain—perhaps it's hardly fair to judge him until we have experienced a similar strain ourselves,” said Cressey.

“How did you get to hear about it, Cressey?” said Arnold.

“A friend of mine, Miss Dorothea Dean, has rooms in the house of a Mrs. Eastwood, who is Mr. Freeman's landlady. Mrs. Eastwood made the discovery of the attempted suicide, I don't know how, and came down this hill to telephone for the ambulance. She then telephoned Miss Dean and asked her to try to trace Peter Trahier.”

“And Miss Dean telephoned you?”

“Yes.”

“Good lord,” thought Arnold, “the fellow's in love with the girl. I misjudged him badly this afternoon.”

“It occurs to me,” Cressey was saying, “that Mrs. Eastwood may very likely be somewhere along this road now. Surely her natural course would be to return to Mrs. Trahier at High Royd? It's a long pull up for an elderly woman in the rain. If you wouldn't mind going slowly, Mr. Barraclough, we can keep a look-out for her and pick her up?”

“Of course,” said Arnold, slowing. “You watch this side of the road, Jerry.”

“We didn't see her as we came up,” said Jerry, peering out.

“We were in too much of a hurry then.”

“Our minds were preoccupied with reaching High Royd.”

“Will Mr. Freeman recover, dad?”

“No,” said Arnold shortly.

“Really?” exclaimed Jerry, horrified.

“The ambulance man gave me to understand he was dead,” said Arnold as before.

“I believe the flush we observed was a very bad sign,” confirmed Cressey.

“I'm sorry. He was a fine-looking old chap,” said Jerry.

“It was a cowardly act, however,” said the schoolmaster.

“Yes—he should have thought of his daughter,” said Arnold with feeling.

“But, Mr. Cressey,” objected Jerry: “You said we shouldn't judge that Trahier chap, and now you're judging poor old Freeman.”

“I'm not judging him, only his action.”

“Well, I'm sorry for him,” said Jerry warmly.

“So am I, extremely. But one is not always required to admire what one compassionates.”

“There's something female tottering along this side, by the wall,” said Jerry, not sorry perhaps, thought Arnold, to abandon the argument, for Cressey's voice had held a note of bitterness.

“Thinking of his own limp, I expect,” judged Arnold.

He drew up the car at the woman's side.

“Mrs. Eastwood!” said Cressey, getting out promptly into the rain. “Richard Cressey here.”

“Oh, Mr. Cressey, how you startled me!” exclaimed the woman. “What are
you
doing here?”

“We've taken Peter Trahier up to High Royd, and he and his wife have both accompanied old Mr. Freeman to the hospital—Mrs. Trahier will receive medical attention there. So there's no need for you to go up to High Royd. Mr. Barraclough will, I am sure——”

“I'll take you both home, of course,” said Arnold cordially.
“Hop in, Mrs. Eastwood. Jerry, give Mrs. Eastwood a hand. Where do you live, Mrs. Eastwood?”

“I'm afraid I'm very wet,” said Mrs. Eastwood, climbing in. “Naseby Terrace, please. Number 19. The end house. I saw the ambulance go by a while ago, but I thought Mr. Freeman's daughter might be left alone, you see. So I thought I ought to go back to her.”