Chapter 5

He wrote on into the night. He found a certain crookedness in his ideas which made him tear up several [280] efforts—he once even found himself writing to Jerry, a proceeding which struck him with peculiar horror. The hours ticked on; the big constellations swung solemnly across the uncurtained window (luckily Policeman was in bed, and did not see the lozenge of gold lamplight that lay in Mrs. Hubble’s backyard). Inside the room the cat prowled to and fro, miaowling to be let out for a scamper on the barn-roofs—at last, he jumped on the table and, upsetting the cocoa, lapped his fill and retired to dignified repose. The mice tapped on the glass front of their cage with little pink hands like anemones.... Mr. Sumption for once did not notice his animals; he sat brooding over the table long after he had finished writing. Then, as the sky was fading into light, and big greyish-white clouds like mushrooms were banking towards the east, he dropped asleep, his head fallen over the back of his chair, with the mouth a little open, his arms hanging at his sides.

The daylight fought with the lamplight, and as with a sudden crimson rift it won the victory, Mr. Sumption woke—from dreams full of the roaring of a forge and his own arm swung above his head, as in the old days at Bethersden. He sat for a few moments rubbing his eyes, feeling very stiff and cold. Then he realised that he was hungry. The supper-tray was still before him, swimming in cocoa. He ate the bread—dry, because the minister was one of those greedy souls who devour their week’s ration of butter in the first three days, and neither jam nor cheese was to be had in Sunday Street, even if he could have afforded them. When he had eaten all the bread, he began to feel thirsty. He longed for a cup of tea. Overhead in the attic there was a trampling, which told him that Mrs. Hubble would soon be down to boil the kettle. He hung about the stairhead till she appeared—shouting back at her father-in-law, who would not get [281] up, and generally in a bad mood for her lodger’s service.

However, to his surprise, she was quite obliging—he did not know what his night had made of him. She hurried down to the kitchen to light the fire, and bade him come too and warm himself. Mr. Sumption would have preferred to be alone, but he was beginning to feel very cold, and a kind of weakness was upon him, so he came and sat by her fire, and drank gratefully the big, strong cup of tea she gave him.

“You’ve had bad news of Mus’ Jerry, I reckon,” said Mrs. Hubble.

Mr. Sumption nodded, and warmed his hands round the cup. He could not bring himself to say that Jerry was dead.

“This is a tar’ble war,” continued Mrs. Hubble, “and I reckon those are best off wot are put out of it”—this was to find out what really had happened to Jerry. “I often think,” she added piously, “of the happy lot of the dead—no more trouble, no more pain, no more worriting after absent friends, no more standing in queues. I often think, minister, as it’s a pity we aun’t all dead.”

“Maybe, maybe,” said Mr. Sumption.

He rose and walked restlessly out of the kitchen. He both wanted companionship and yet could not bear it. When would the day end—the day that streamed and blew and shone over Jerry’s grave?... He was going upstairs, when he heard a shuffle of paper behind him, and saw that a letter had been pushed under the door. The post came early to Sunday Street, and Mr. Sumption ran down again, full of an eager, futile hope. The letter bore the familiar field postmark, and at first he thought it was from Jerry, and that he was going to suffer that rending, ecstatic agony of reading letters from the dead. But as he picked it up he saw that the writing was not Jerry’s, but in a hand he did not know. Whose could it [282] be?—whosoever it was must be writing about his son. He tore it open as he went up to his room, and at the bottom of the folded paper saw, “Yours, with sincerest sympathy, Archibald Lamb.”

Of course, it was Mr. Archie—writing to Jerry’s father as he had written to Tom’s mother. The minister had had very little to do with the Squire, except on one occasion, when he had met him riding home from a day’s hunting, on a badly-lamed horse, and had applied a fomentation which Mr. Archie said had worked a wonderful cure. Now there were two pages covered with his big, firm handwriting. Mr. Sumption pulled them out of the envelope, and from between them a grimy piece of paper fell to the ground, scrawled over with the familiar smudge of indelible pencil.

Mr. Sumption grabbed it, letting Mr. Archie’s letter fall in its stead. As he began to read it, he wondered if it had been found on Jerry’s body—it was certainly more smeary and stained than usual. After he had read a little, he sat down in his chair. His hand shook, and he stooped his head nearer and nearer to the writing as if his sight were failing him.

    “Dear Father,

    “By the time you get this I will be out of the way of troubling you any more. I am in great trouble. Mr. Archie said perhaps not tell you, but I said I would rather you knew. It is like this. I kept away in —— last time we went up to the trenches, with a lady friend, you may have heard of. Beatup says he told you. Well, I am to be shot for it. I was court-martialled, and they said to be shot. Dear Father, this will make you very sorry, but it cannot be helped, and I am not worth it. I have been a very bad son to you, and done many wicked things besides. Things always were against me. Mr. Archie has been very kind, and so has the pardry here. [283] Mr. Archie is sitting with me to-night, and he says he will stay all night, as I am feeling very much upset at this great trouble. I am leaving you my ring made out of a piece of Zep and my purse, only I am afraid there is no money in it. Please remember me to Ivy Beatup, and say if it had not been for her I should not be here now. I think that is all.

    “Ever your loving son,

    “Jeremiah Meridian Sumption.  

    “P.S.—The pardry says Jesus will forgive my sins. Thank you very much, dear father, for those fags you sent. I am smoking one now.”