The wedding ceremony had been a failure — though he had been prepared for worse — a chilly affair in the Plummer Street church with Jenny unnatural and stiff, a pretentious breakfast at Scottswood Road, a horrible rigidity between the opposing factions of Sunleys and Fenwicks. But the week at Cullercoats had blown it all away. Jenny had been wonderful to him, revealing an ardour — startling yet beautiful. He had expected her to be timid; the depth of her passion had overwhelmed him. She loved him… she loved him… she really loved him.
He had discovered, of course, that she had been unfortunate, there was no escape from the stark physiology of this fact. Sobbing in his arms that first bitter-sweet night she had told him the whole story; though he had not wished to hear and had begged her, unhappily, to stop. But she would, she must explain, it had happened, she wept, when she was just, oh, just a girl, a well-to-do commercial traveller, in the millinery line, of course, a perfect brute, a beast of a man, had taken advantage of her. He was drunk and forty, she not yet sixteen. He was bald, too, she remembered, with a little mole on his chin, and his name, oh, his name was Harris. She had not been untrue to herself; she had struggled, fought, but her resistance had been useless; terrified, she had been afraid to tell her mother. It had happened only once and never, never, never again with any one in all the world.
Tears filled David’s eyes as he held her in his arms, compassion added to his love, his ardour leavened by a sublime pity. Poor Jenny, poor, darling little Jenny!
After the honeymoon they had come direct to Sleescale where his work at New Bethel Street had immediately begun. Here, alas, the run of his good luck was checked.
He was not happy at the school. He had always recognised that teaching would never be his trade, he was too impulsive, too eager for results. He wanted to reform the world. And now, in charge of Standard IIIA, a class full of little boys and girls of nine, inky, untidy, apathetic, he was conscious of the irony of this beginning. He chafed at the creaking system, controlled by bell and whistle and cane, loathed equally the Grand March as thumped on the piano by Miss Mimms, his opposite number in III? and her acidulous “now children” heard through the thin partition fifty times a day. As in his period of pupil-teaching, he wanted to change the whole curriculum, cut the idiotic non-essentials on which visiting inspectors set such store, ignore the Battle of Hastings, the latitude of Cape Town, the sing-song recitation of capitals and dates, substitute Hans Andersen for the prim Crown Reader, awaken the children, fan their flickering interest, stimulate the mind rather than the memory. Of course all his attempts, his suggestions towards this end had met with the chilliest reception. Every hour of every day he felt that he did not belong to this environment. In the Staff Room it was the same, he felt himself alien, treated distantly by his colleagues, frozen by the virgin Mimms. Nor could he disguise from himself the fact that Strother, the head master, disliked him. Strother was a square, official man, an M.A. of Durham with a ponderous manner and a fussy, pedantic mind. He wore black suits, had a heavy black moustache, was something of a martinet. He had been second master at the old school, knew all about David, his family and origin; despised him for having worked in the pit; for not having taken the B.A.; felt that he had been foisted upon him; went out of his way to be difficult, contemptuous and severe. If only Mr. Carmichael had been head, everything would have been different; but Carmichael, though applying for the post, had not even reached the short leet. He had no influence. In disgust he had accepted a village school at Wallington. He had written a long letter to David asking David to visit him soon, to come for a week-end occasionally. The letter was full of the pessimism of a discouraged man.
But David was not discouraged: he was young, enthusiastic, determined to make his way. And as he swung round the corner of Lamb Street, braced by the keen wind, he swore to himself that he would get on, out of New Bethel Street, away from Strother’s paltriness, into something finer. The chance would come. And, by heaven, he would take it.
Half-way down Lamb Street he saw a figure advancing on the same side of the road: it was Ramage, James Ramage, the butcher, vice-chairman of the school board, mayor in prospect for the town. David prepared to nod civilly. He did nod. But Ramage passed without the slightest recognition; his lowering gaze dwelt blankly upon David as though he looked through him.
David coloured, set his jaw hard. There, he thought, is an enemy of mine. Coming at the end of a trying day this last snub cut him pretty deeply. But as he let himself into his house he tried to banish it, calling out cheerily to Jenny as soon as he came inside the door.
She appeared in a fetching pink blouse which he had never seen before, her hair newly shampooed and smartly arranged.
“Why, Jenny, you like like the queen.”
She held him off, posing nicely, coquettishly:
“Now, don’t crush my new blouse, Mister Man.” Lately she had taken to calling him Mister Man: it jarred abominably, he must tell her to stop. Not now, of course… she might stop of her own accord. With his arm round her trim hips he steered her to the kitchen where, through the open door, he saw a comforting fire. But she protested:
“No, not there, David. I won’t have us in the kitchen.”
“But, Jenny… I’m used to kitchens… and it’s so lovely and warm there.”
“No, I won’t have it, bad Mister Man. You know what we said. No falling off. We got to use the front room. It’s terribly common to sit in the kitchen.”
She led the way to the parlour where a green fire smoked unpromisingly.
“Now you sit there till I fetch the tea.”
“But hang it all, Jenny…”
She settled him with a pretty little gesture, bustled out. In five minutes she brought in tea: a tray first, then a tall nickel-plated cake stand — a recent purchase, such a bargain, bought on the near prospect of people calling — and finally two little Japanese paper serviettes.
“Now you be quiet, Mister Man.” Again she stilled his bewildered protest almost before he uttered it. She poured him a cup of not very hot tea, politely handed him a serviette, placed the cake stand at his elbow. She was like a small girl playing with a doll’s tea-set. He could stand it no longer.
“My heavens, Jenny,” in humourous exasperation, “what in the name of thunder does this mean? I’m hungry. I want a good high tea, a kipper or eggs, or a couple of Wept’s prepare to meet thy Gods.”
“Now, David, don’t swear. You know I wasn’t brought up to it. And don’t be impatient. Just wait and see. A cup in your hand is very nice once in a while. And I’ll be having visitors soon enough. I want to try things out. Have some of that seed-cake. I bought it in Murchison’s.”