The Stars Look Down

  Gradually the glow died out of Grace’s face.

  “Shall I tell you about it?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Some other time,” Hilda said, picking up a magazine and beginning to turn the pages.

  Grace turned and went out of the room. The instant the door closed Hilda jumped up to follow her. But Hilda did not follow her—it was against Hilda’s nature to follow anyone. She remained frowning, motionless, with a look of pain upon her pale face, then she flung the magazine violently into the corner of the room. That same night there was an air raid over London and when there was a raid Grace usually came to Hilda’s room and crept into bed beside her. But to-night, though Hilda waited and longed for Grace to come, Grace did not come.

  Time drew on. Whenever she had her half-day Grace went round buying little things that might be useful to her or which, perhaps, might not. She had a great deal of enjoyment that way, especially in the cheap department stores. Dan wrote twice a week. He hoped he could get leave in time for the great event. He would beg, borrow or steal leave, he would desert and swim the Channel—it all depended, of course, even the swimming of the Channel, on whether there was going to be an offensive.

  Dan’s letters were more of a comfort to Grace than ever. She still hoped that Hilda would be friends again. But on her very last day at the hospital when she climbed up to Hilda’s room to say good-bye, Hilda was in the theatre. Grace had to go and leave it at that. She felt sad leaving it that way.

  EIGHTEEN

  On the sixteenth of April, 1917, Stanley Millington returned to Tynecastle. All those intervening weeks Laura had been down at Sawbridge in Warwickshire where Stanley was in the special hospital for functional war neuroses. Joe had heard nothing until he learned indirectly at the office of the telegram to Hilltop announcing their return. Actually, he had not had a line from Laura since that evening when she had rushed from the flat in tears. But the fact that he had received no invitation to be present did not deter Joe from attending at the station. Oh dear, no. Joe had a splendid combination of brazen nerve and rhinoceros hide which enabled him to carry off the most delicate situation. Besides, he knew they would expect him—why not? He was quite ready to overlook that last scene Laura had made and genuinely prepared to demonstrate his warm admiration for Stanley’s heroism and his delight in Stanley’s recovery. He drove to the station to meet Stanley full of welcome and sympathy and the manly affection of one good fellow for another.

  But when the train got in, one look at Stanley took the beam out of Joe’s smile.

  “Hello, Stanley,” he said, with guarded enthusiasm.

  Stanley allowed himself to be shaken hands with.

  “I got buried by a shell,” he said.

  Joe darted a glance at Laura’s set face. The platform was very crowded, people pushing past them, porters struggling with luggage, and Stanley standing stiffly there seemed to be in everybody’s way. Avoiding Joe’s eyes, Laura took Stanley’s arm and led him to the barrier. On the way to the barrier Stanley confided in Joe again.

  “I got buried by a shell.”

  They got into the car. All the way from Central Station to Hilltop Joe sat in the car looking sideways at Stanley, yet trying not to look sideways and saying to himself, Good God, could you ever believe it!

  He hoped Stanley wouldn’t say it again.

  But Stanley said it again. For the third time Stanley said:

  “I got buried by a shell!”

  Looking sideways, yet trying not to look sideways, Joe said:

  “That’s right, Stanley, you got buried by a shell.”

  Stanley said nothing. He sat on the edge of the back seat as though cut out of wood. His eyes were away in front of him. His face was quite blank, all his plump body seemed to have melted away from him. He held on to the side of the car with both hands. Mr. Stanley, our Mr. Stanley, held on.

  “We’re nearly there now,” Joe said encouragingly. He had thought that Stanley was all right, absolutely unscratched and good as new. But this was Stanley, this was Stanley here. Joe had to keep telling himself to believe it. This… here… this. He took a furtive glance towards Laura. She sat with that expressionless look, supporting Stanley with her arm.

  The car drew up at Hilltop and Joe jumped out. He was terribly solicitous and helpful.

  “This way, now. Watch the step. Careful now.”

  Mr. Stanley was careful. Holding on, he got out of the car and stood himself on the pavement. He was extremely careful. He kept his head very still as if he wanted to be careful of his head. He looked like a man with a bad stiff neck until you saw that all his body was stiff. The movements of his body were effected by a series of little impulses. The movements were not quite co-ordinated. They were like the movements of a very nearly perfect mechanical man.

  Joe said:

  “Will I give you a hand?”

  Stanley did not answer—he had a way of not answering—but in a minute he said:

  “The legs work pretty well but it’s the head. I’ve been in hospital. I got buried by a shell!”

  While Laura remained at the gate giving the chauffeur instructions about the luggage, Joe led Stanley into the house. Bessie, the parlourmaid, stood on the doorstep, waiting to let them in. Bessie’s eyes dropped out of her head at the sight of Mr. Stanley. Joe exclaimed very heartily;

  “Here’s Mr. Stanley back then, Bessie.”

  Taking no notice of Bessie at all, Stanley walked straight into the lounge and sat down on the edge of a chair. The house did not belong to him and he did not belong to the house. He fingered his waistcoat buttons, then he looked at Bessie. This time he must have noticed Bessie for he explained himself to her.

  Without any warning whatever Bessie burst into tears.

  Joe took off Mr. Stanley’s cap.

  “There!” he said kindly. “He’ll feel better when he’s had his lunch, eh, Bessie?” He smiled at Bessie, she was a nice girl Bessie was, he had always treated Bessie nice.

  Bessie went out to see about the lunch. Joe could hear her weeping in the kitchen, weeping and telling the cook.

  Stanley looked round the lounge. To look round the lounge he did not turn his head, he turned his body very slowly and carefully upon the edge of the chair. As he did so Laura came in.

  “It’s fine to see you back, Stan,” Joe said, rubbing his hands together heartily. “Isn’t it. Mrs. Millington?”

  “Yes.” Laura went over to Stanley. From her face the strain was almost unsupportable.

  “Would you like to come upstairs now?” she said.

  But Stanley answered, no. He hadn’t much interest in Laura. In fact he seemed in some queer way to resent Laura’s interest in him. He kept looking round the lounge. His eyes were curious, and there was a curious undercurrent in his eyes. They seemed darker, his eyes, with a film of darkness, and below the film the undercurrent played. When the undercurrent played near the surface Stanley’s face came nearest to emotion. It was difficult to make out the emotion for it came to the surface so suddenly and darted so suddenly away. But it was a horrible emotion. It was fear, no particular fear, simply fear. Stanley was not afraid of anything. He was just afraid. He finished looking round the lounge. He remarked:

  “We had a good journey.”

  “Fine, fine!”

  “Except for the noise.”

  “The noise, Stanley?”

  “The wheels. In the tunnels.”

  What the hell, thought Joe.

  “I got—”

  “That’s right,” Joe said quickly. The gong sounded softly. “Come on and have your lunch. He’ll feel better when he’s had his lunch, won’t he, Mrs. Millington? Nothing like a spot of lunch for pulling a man together.”

  “I’ve got to lie down after lunch,” Stanley said. “That’s one of the things the doctors told me. They made me promise before I came away.”

  They went in to lunch. Laura paused pointedly in the doorway of the dining-room.

  “Haven’t you got to
be at the works?” she asked him in a flat voice, not looking at Joe.

  “Not a bit of it,” said Joe heartily. “Things are going grand there.”

  “I think perhaps Stanley would rather you left him now?”

  A flutter of irritation came over Stanley.

  “No, no. Let Joe stop on.”

  A short silence; Joe smiled genially; Laura moved reluctantly away. They sat down to lunch.

  When he had finished his soup, to show he had not forgotten his instructions, Stanley remarked again to Joe:

  “I’ve got to lie down after lunch, that’s one of the things they told me. And when I get up I’ve got to do my knitting.”

  Joe’s mouth fell open—it’s not funny, he thought, O God, no, it’s not funny. In an awed voice he said:

  “Your knitting?”

  Laura made a movement of pain, as though to interpose. But Mr. Stanley went on, explaining himself; he seemed happiest when explaining himself:

  “My knitting helps the head. In the hospital I learned to do my knitting after I got buried by the shell.”

  Joe removed his eyes hurriedly from Stanley’s face. Knitting, he thought… knitting. He thought back. He kind of remembered Stanley, and Mr. Stanley’s remarks in this same room a year before. The topping fellow who wanted a smack at the Fritzes, don’t you know, for St. George and England, the full-blooded Briton who wished he’d joined the Flying Corps… great adventure, what? Very lights, Public Schools Battalion, number nines… our Mr. Stanley, who thought war simply marvellous. Christ, thought Joe, I wonder what he thinks about it now; and all of a sudden Joe wanted to laugh.

  But at that moment Stanley very nearly began to cry.

  “I can’t,” he whimpered, “I can’t.”

  Laura intervened in a low voice, bending forward:

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  Stanley’s face twitched under its frozen mask.

  “I can’t close the mustard-pot.” He was trying to close the mustard-pot and he could not do it. He was beginning to shake all over because he could not close the mustard-pot.

  Joe jumped up.

  “Here,” he said, “let me do it for you.” He shifted the spoon so that the lid of the mustard-pot could close and while he was about it he took his napkin and wiped the gravy off Stanley’s chin. Then he sat down.

  All at once Laura seemed to give way. She rose abruptly. In a shaking voice she excused herself.

  “I must see to something.” With her head averted she went out.

  Silence for a few minutes while Joe turned things over carefully in his mind. At length he said:

  “You know it’s great to see you back, Stan, old man. We’re making a lot of money at the works these days. Last month was marvellous.”

  Stanley said, yes.

  “That Dobbie fellow we have in the office isn’t worth a damn though, Stanley. Seein’ you’re back now we ought to get rid of him.”

  Stanley said, yes.

  “In fact I was thinkin’ myself I could give him his notice at the end of this month. Does that seem to be all right with you, Stanley?”

  Stanley said, yes. Then Stanley got up from the table very stiff and sudden, although Joe had not nearly finished his dessert. He said:

  “I’ve got to go to bed.”

  “Certainly, Stan, old man,” Joe agreed blandly. “You’ll do whatever you like.” In an access of helpfulness Joe jumped up and took Stanley’s arm. Laura was waiting at the foot of the stairs, a small damp handkerchief clenched tightly in her hand. She made to take Stanley’s arm but Joe was not to be dispossessed. And Stanley himself appeared to lean on Joe, to depend upon him. He said peevishly:

  “Leave me, Laura.” Joe helped him upstairs to his room and helped him to undress.

  Stanley stripped sheer skin and bone. Stripped, Stanley was less like a mechanical man, and more like a mechanical corpse. He seemed ready for his bed but before he got into bed he went through a quiet little ritual. He got down and looked under the bed then he got up and looked under the pillows. He looked inside the two cupboards and behind the curtains of both windows. Then he climbed into bed. He lay flat upon his back with his hands and legs stretched out straight. His dead, wide-open eyes stared towards the ceiling. Joe tiptoed from the room.

  In the lounge at the foot of the stairs Laura was waiting on Joe with red and swollen eyes. She faced him determinedly, biting her lower lip that way he knew so well.

  “I’ve just one thing to say.” She spoke with difficulty, her breast rising and falling quickly. “And that’s to ask you to keep away from this house.”

  “Now, don’t, Laura,” he remonstrated mildly. “You’re in a spot of trouble with Stan and you want all the help you can get.”

  “You call it help!”

  “Why not?” he reasoned soothingly. “There’s nobody more upset than me, nobody in all the world, but we’ve got to discuss things.” He shook his head sensibly. “Stanley’s finished as far as the front is concerned. I’m thinking about the works…”

  “You would,” she said bitterly.

  “I mean,” he threw out his hand with the air of a man who has been wronged. “Oh, damn it all, Laura, give us some credit. I want to help you both. I want to get Stanley down to the works, interest him in things again, give him all the hand I can.”

  “If I didn’t know you I’d think you meant it.”

  “But I do mean it. After all, we’ve got to help one another over this. Honest to God, Laura. I’ll do what I can.”

  There was a silence, her swollen eyes remained fixed upon his face; her breath came quicker, agonised.

  “I don’t believe you’ll do anything,” she choked. “And I hate you for what you’ve done… almost as much as I hate myself.” She spun round and walked rapidly out of the lounge.

  He remained where he was, caressing his chin gently with his hand; then he smiled into himself and left the house. He came back next morning, though, bustling in about eleven to keep his promise to take Stanley to the works. Laura had gone out but Stanley was up and dressed, seated upon the edge of a chair in the lounge playing the gramophone to himself. The gramophone was all right, of course, but the music, the music Stanley was playing, set Joe’s teeth on edge. Joe protested:

  “Why don’t you play something lively, Stanley? Something out of the Bing Boys, what?”

  “I like this,” Stanley said, putting the same record on again. “It’s the only one I like. I’ve been playing it all morning.”

  Puzzled, Joe endured the record once more. The combination of the record and Stanley listening to the record was horrible. Then Joe walked over and looked at it. Marche Funèbre, Chopin. Joe swung round.

  “Holy smoke, Stanley, what d’you want with this stuff? Come on now, brace up, I’ve got the car at the door and we’re all set. We’re going down to the works.”

  They drove quietly to the works and went straight into the melting-shop. Joe had arranged it beforehand. All the Union Jacks were hung and a big banner, which Joe had raked out of an old locker, stretched across the shop—WELCOME. When Stanley walked into the shop with Joe everybody stopped work and gave him a rousing cheer. A great many women were in the shop now, Joe found them much cheaper and quicker than the older men, and these women cheered wildly. Stanley faced the cheering women, the women in the overalls, the women who were making shrapnel bullets for the shells. He looked as if he did not quite know what to do before all these women, he seemed more than ever to belong to nowhere. In an undertone Joe suggested:

  “Say something, Stanley, say anything you like.” And he held up his hand for silence.

  Mr. Stanley faced the women. He said:

  “I got buried by a shell. I’ve been in hospital.”

  There was another cheer and under cover of the cheer Joe prompted swiftly:

  “Say you’re glad the output is going up and you hope they’ll keep on working like they’re doing.”

  Mr. Stanley repeated in a high voice:
br />   “I’m glad the output is going up and I hope you’ll keep on working like you’re doing.”

  Another cheer, a loud long cheer. Then Joe took the matter in hand. He raised his hand again for silence. He thrust his hat well back on his head, put his thumb in his arm-hole and beamed on them. He said:

  “You’re all delighted to see Mr. Stanley and so am I. Mr. Stanley isn’t going to talk about what he’s done so I’ll do a little of the talking instead. I’m not going to say much because you’ve got work to do for your country, work that must be done, and you can’t knock off to listen to anybody; but I’m going to say this: I’m going to say to his face here that we’re proud of Mr. Stanley. I’m proud to be associated with him in business and I know you’re proud to work for him. We’ve been making plans, Mr. Stanley and me, and he says he hopes you’ll all continue to do your bit here just the same as he’s done his bit in France. You’ve got to work, you understand, work like hell to keep the output up. Now that’s all, but before you go back to work I want us all to sing the National Anthem and then lift the roof off with a cheer for Mr. Stanley.”

  A silence fell, then—very feelingly, because of the women’s voices—they sang God Save the King. It was extremely moving, there were tears in Joe’s eyes.

  When they had asked God to save their king they cheered Mr. Stanley, they cheered Joe, they cheered mostly everybody. Then in a mood of almost religious fervour they went back to the shrapnel, the Mills bomb and the eighteen-pounder shells.

  Joe and Stanley started along the corridor towards the office. But they did not get very far. Half-way down the passage there stood an enormous shell. Joe had not made that shell although Joe would greatly have liked to make such a shell as that. The shell was a present to Joe from John Rutley, old Rutley of Yarrow, who sat with him on the Munitions Committee. Rutley’s had an enormous plant and turned out enormous shells and Joe was extremely proud of that beautiful seventeen-inch shell which indicated many things, not the least being that John Rutley was, so to speak, a friend of Joe’s. The shell had been mounted by Joe upon a fine polished wood base and now it stood, shining and gigantic, pointing its snout heavenwards in a kind of silent ecstasy.