Saints (15 page)

Robert refused to let himself get angry at the slighting reference to his mother. Much of Matt’s value as a friend was that he didn’t always say what would please people, that he sometimes said the truth. So Robert let the insult pass, and then invited himself into Matthew’s cottage for coffee.

They found, to their surprise, that Charlie was there visiting Dinah, with a book of poetry in his hands and a slightly embarrassed look on his face. “Stopped by on my way home from work.”

Matthew grinned, but Robert saw that he was not pleased. What, Robert thought, is Matt jealous of Charlie?

“Two hours is a bit of stopping by,” Robert said.

Charlie’s eyes flashed at his brother. “I had a book of Wordsworth, and we’ve been reading together.”

Dinah sat in her chair, Val asleep on her shoulder, the boy’s legs cast over the broad abdomen that held the next child. Robert did not like looking at his sister pregnant, perhaps because he held so near in his memory the conception of his own children, and could not see Dinah’s growing belly without also thinking of Matt covering her in his clumsy way. It embarrassed Robert. He was not responsible for everything, he knew, but for this he partly was, as if he had placed on Dinah at least some of the great weight she carried, and not the lightest part of it, either.

Dinah smiled up at Robert. It came to him as a relief. Benediction. She still loved him, despite Matthew. And why despite him? Why shouldn’t she love the fellow? Robert loved him, after all, and forgave his inadequacies because he was such good company—why should he feel sorry for Dinah, who had the same good company? No, Dinah did well, Dinah was happy. Wasn’t she smiling?

“You should read some poetry, Robert. It would do you good.”

No doubt Matthew felt himself left out of a Kirkham family conversation; he insisted on making himself a part of things—even, apparently, a quiet argument. He reached for the book. “Let me have a read, then. Maybe poetry can do us
all
good.”

Reluctantly Charlie handed the book to him. Robert was amused at that, to see Charlie handing a sacred book to the infidel. Poor Charlie—such a hoity-toity fellow about learning, it never occurred to him that someone like Matt might read poetry, too.

Matt opened the book and awkwardly began to read. “‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways,’” he declaimed. “Do you want to hear it?”

Who could say no? Dinah tried, saying gently, “Perhaps this isn’t the best time for poetry.”

“It’s a good enough time,” Matt said. “‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways, beside the springs of Dove, a maid whom there were none to praise, and very few to love.’ Now there’s a nice rhyme, I think.”

Robert cringed a little. Perhaps Charlie had been right when he wanted to withhold the book. Matt read it like a nursery song. Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail of water, pause at the end of every line, beat the accents with your body as you read. Like a child. Mercifully, Matt didn’t finish reading. But mercy goes only so far, for now Matt said, “Well, now, was that all right? You read it, Charlie—the same poem! I’d like to see if you could do any better.”

Didn’t Matt know what he would do to himself in the eyes of his wife and his best friend? And Charlie would have no mercy, he wouldn’t read woodenly or make mistakes in order to leave Matt some pride. No, of course not. Charlie took the book and read with his sweet and expressive voice, bringing the poem to life, so that the rhythms were not the main thrust of the sound of it, but rather an accompaniment to the meaning.

And then Charlie’s voice grew softer, and there was a hint of emotion in it, not like an orator pretending to weep, but as if Charlie himself were the poet, a little ashamed to let his emotion be seen, yet unable to quite contain it.

Against his own will Robert felt tears smarting at his eyes. It wouldn’t do to let either Matt or Charlie see that he had been moved, so Robert looked away. Looked toward Dinah, and saw that she, too, was touched. But oddly so: she did not weep, but rather looked away toward the door of the house, her eyes full of reflection, as if she longed to escape through the door, as if she were imprisoned here, like Lucy in her grave; as if she dreamed of a lover who would say, “Dinah’s in her gaol, and, oh, the difference to me.” But no—that was just the mood of the poem, just the sort of thing Charlie would want Robert to think of. It was Charlie’s voice, the actor in him that brought such melancholy thoughts to Robert’s mind.

As for Matt, Robert need not have worried. Matthew was oblivious to what happened to the poem when Charlie read it. “See? I made no more mistakes than Charlie did,” he said.

Dinah smiled patiently. “You read very well, Matt.”

“So what I want to know is, why do you always have Charlie over here reading to you, and you never ask
me
to read?”

Oh, Matthew, hold your tongue, Robert wanted to shout. Yet he could think of no civil thing to say to forestall such a question; Dinah, too, held her tongue; and for once it was Charlie who eased someone else’s problem.

“How would
I
get any practice reading it, if she never let me read to her?”

“Practice! What’s to practice?” Matt demanded.

“It’s that I want to write some poetry,” Charlie said, “and reading aloud helps me learn how the thing is done.”

Unaware of how easily Charlie could have humiliated him, Matt blundered on. “Write poetry! What a thought! And to think grown men do it, too. Poetry’s for ladies and fine foppish gents, not men like us who have strength in our arms. You, Charlie, you’re a clerk, and that’s womanly enough that I suppose poetry suits you.”

Charlie might have exploded at that, and the night would have ended in a bitter quarrel in which Robert would have been bound to take his brother’s part, but Dinah mended it. “That’s why I never ask you to read to me, Matt. I know you have better things to do, and I’m just womanly enough to need it now and then. Charlie humors me, don’t you, Charlie? But that’s enough for tonight. Robert’s here, and perhaps you can walk together for a ways in the darkness.”

It was an excuse that both Robert and Charlie jumped at—a chance to avert a quarrel with Matthew tonight. It was plain Matthew had been displeased to find Charlie here. Not that Matthew had ever ordered Charlie not to visit when he was away from the house. But Matt had a crazy streak of jealousy. He feared no lusty paramour for Dinah—what he feared was someone who would make her dissatisfied with her unintellectual husband. Rather than rejoicing that she found her satisfaction with someone as harmless as her brother, Matt resented her for needing anything at all that he could not provide.

So Charlie and Robert said their good-nights and left Matt and Dinah alone together with baby Val and the squirming animal that inhabited Dinah’s womb. Out on the street, they were silent awhile. Then Robert realized that if he were ever going to enlist Charlie’s help in getting capital from Hulme, there would be no better time than now, when they were temporary allies on the side of poetry against Matt the Philistine.

“You read well,” Robert said.

“Not so well,” Charlie answered.

Robert chuckled. “Better than I had heard it read before, though I’d never heard the poem before tonight.”

Charlie laughed, understanding Robert’s oblique way of comparing him to Matt without directly speaking ill of their brother-in-law.

“It’s only Wordsworth, and not at his best,” Charlie said. “You should hear Lord Tennyson. I’ve been memorizing ‘The Lotos-Eaters.’ It’s Dinah’s favorite.”

“Well, then, let’s hear it.”

Charlie was startled, and tried to beg off, but Robert insisted. Robert was not being insincere, either. Hearing someone else read so badly had given him at least a fleeting appreciation for his brother’s gifts, for that damnable voice he had so often cursed for reciting endlessly while Mother worked. And certainly Robert’s enthusiasm was increased by realizing that he and Charlie were, after all, brothers, two of a kind however different they were in some ways. Charlie could read, but Robert had enough ear to know good reading from bad. Likewise, Robert could build, and Charlie would certainly know that Robert’s gifts were worth investing in. So Robert insisted, and Charlie recited the poem as they walked along, speaking in a fine voice that interrupted the few nighttime passersby and brought many people to their windows to hear what man it was who walked along in the night, crying out poetry in a powerful and fervent voice.

The words hung in the air, full of wistfulness and relief and rejoicing. Robert was strong with the liquor of the words, feeling something of an Odysseus himself. He did not care that the words were in praise of the sweet release of death; there was too much life in Robert for him to care much for the melancholy of the fashionably romantic poet. What he took from the poem was what he took from every good thing: hope.

The words had not quit echoing in the street when someone’s voice came loudly: “Just a couple of drunks.” Then a window slammed shut. Charlie and Robert burst out laughing at once, drunken on poetry and even more on the heady wine of brotherhood. They were inexperienced at it; they trusted it too much, thinking their momentary affection was stronger than it was, and would last longer than it could.

“Charlie,” Robert said.

“Mm?”

“We’re brothers, man. Why shouldn’t we profit together?”

Robert did not notice how Charlie immediately began walking a few inches farther away from him.

“I have a plan, Charlie. An engine to pull a train that I know will be profitable, both to run and to sell. I’m a good engineer, and even more I think I could be a good businessman.”

“How much do you need?” Charlie asked.

This time Robert heard the lack of enthusiasm in Charlie’s voice, and he understood it. It annoyed him that Charlie assumed he wanted a handout. “No, I don’t want to borrow money from you, Charlie. I’m talking about five or ten thousand pounds over the next few years, and I think that sort of investment is still a bit beyond you.”

Charlie immediately relaxed. “Not that I wouldn’t mind investing in your scheme,” he said. “I think you know your work—Matt says you do, and he’d know—and if you can raise the capital I’ll be glad for you and I’ll expect to see you succeed.”

“I was thinking, though. Ten thousand pounds is a bit more than a bank is likely to lend me.”

Charlie laughed. “A bit.”

“But there are plenty of rich men in Manchester who might be willing to risk capital on a venture like this.”

Again Charlie misunderstood. “There are lots of men with money, but I can tell you where it goes—into the tried and true factories or into fine homes and fine clothing; it’s that way on all the private accounts we handle. Besides, they’re all in strict confidence—I can’t tell you about any of them.”

“That’s all right, Charlie. I don’t want you to violate confidence. You don’t know any of those fellows personally, anyway, I expect.” The words came out against Robert’s will, for even as he said them he knew that Charlie would take it wrong, Charlie would take it as a slight, a reminder that he may handle lots of money but he was only a clerk, not regarded as worth knowing by any of the great men. Not that Charlie argued or even answered; Robert was habituated enough by now to know when Charlie was angry and keeping still about it. Robert cursed himself for the blunder, but went on, hoping that Charlie would take it as a minor offense.

“You see, Charlie, there
is
one man that you
do
know. And he does have the money, and if he’s as clever as word has it that he is, he might just be glad of a chance to be part of what I plan to do.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mr. Hulme, of course.”

“I haven’t seen him more than once or twice since the old Mr. Hulme died.”

“But when he comes into the office, he still speaks to you.”

“Well, of course, and asks after the family. He’s a gentleman, that’s all. But he doesn’t ask my advice on financial matters. He had the same teacher I had, after all, and there’s nothing I know that he doesn’t know.”

“I’m not asking you to advise him, Charlie. I’m asking you to give me an introduction, for you to arrange for him to give me half an hour. In that much time he’ll know whether he’s interested or not.”

“I can’t do that,” Charlie said.

“You haven’t even thought about it.”

“I don’t have to,” Charlie said. “You’re not the first who’s thought of asking a rich man like Hulme for capital. They come to the firm every day, men with schemes, men with inventions. Rich men spend half their time avoiding such men. Don’t be angry, Robert. I know you’re not one of the crazy ones. But
they
won’t know. And Hulme will simply tell me, very politely, that you’ll have to make an appointment with his secretary.”

“That would be enough.”

“Secretaries only exist to keep people from talking to their employers. I tell you I can’t do it, Robert. I have no influence. Not when it comes to that kind of money. It’s a good dream, Robert, but ten thousand pounds!”

“Ten thousand pounds to make ten times that in a few years.”

“Of course. But what if it fails, Robert? Will you work the rest of your life to repay even half of the losses? Why should Hulme enter into a partnership with you, when you have no money?”

Robert hated hearing discouragement; hated worse hearing it from Charlie. “And how did Old Hulme make
his
money, find it in the streets?”