Crescendo (10 page)

The boy gave him a startled look, then grinned and drawled:

“But now we're fairly sure we do.”

“The feeling is mutual,” responded Richard without emphasis.

Naturally the bookshops of the town, and its municipal library, soon became familiar haunts to him, and it was in the best furnished of these bookshops that he met Dorothea.

“What a radiant creature!” thought Richard, as she advanced smiling towards him and enquired his needs.

She was taller than Richard, with a shapely not too slender figure, a rich carmine cheek, fine dark eyes, thick arched eyebrows and a mass of short, curly, glossy black hair; she held herself superbly and walked with vigorous grace. She was not pretty, handsome or beautiful, for her features were irregular, but the rich vitality, the glowing life, which her personality radiated around her had the same effect on Richard as some magnificent painting or master symphony. Her age, he guessed, was twenty-two or three. Her eyes were kind and her speech, though faintly Yorkshire, was accurate and pleasing, her voice being a rich contralto; she attended intelligently to
Richard's requirements and took pains to see that he got exactly what he wanted.

“Yes, a radiant creature,” thought Richard as he stepped out of the shop with a couple of books under his arm.

Really it was a pleasure to see such a radiant creature! Especially as in dress she was always extremely fresh and crisp and had an air of style about her which Richard recognised though he could not define. In his subsequent visits to the bookshop, which owing to the nature of his profession and interests were many, he always sought her out and presently by chance learned her name. Soon he was known there as her customer.

“Miss Dean won't be a minute, Mr. Cressey,” said other assistants and even the proprietor, apologetically, as they passed by.

Miss Dean was very quick in the uptake—to use a West Riding phrase. She soon understood that Richard liked to carry books away loose under his arm, not hidden away and constrained by string in a brown paper parcel. Richard had hardly known before that he had this predilection, but now he realised that he had, and it was pleasant to have it as a quiet little joke between himself and Miss Dean. He noticed too that if he mentioned a book which had been reviewed in the Sunday newspapers, she often knew of it; an intelligent girl, he thought approvingly.

Then came the day when they met in the municipal library. Richard, emerging from the reference room, found himself unexpectedly involved in the mêlée round the trolley of new novels which one of the assistants had just wheeled in. It was the habit of almost every reader in the library to rush upon this trolley when it appeared, with a Yorkshire determination not to be outdone, to get their fair (or possibly just a little more than their fair) share of whatever new books rested on it. In the resulting scramble, a girl on the fringe of the crowd was pushed back sharply, almost into Richard's arms.

“I beg your pardon,” said Richard politely, withdrawing.

“I'm so sorry,” began Miss Dean.

They recognised each other and smiled. Miss Dean's rich colour deepened, really very beautifully. She was carrying a large open leatherette bag, typical of the period as Richard reflected, and this bag was full of books of a by no means frivolous kind. (It was impossible to deceive Richard's eye about the nature of a book.)

“Ah!” exclaimed-Richard, pleased. “A little heavy reading for the weekend.”

“A busman's holiday,” said Miss Dean, blushing still deeper. “I read too much.”

“Nobody can read too much,” said Richard, smiling.

They walked out of the library and through the park, together.

After that Richard did not hesitate to ask her help, in the bookshop, in tracking down any obscure or little-advertised volume he required, because he felt that she enjoyed the task. They pored together over catalogues, and formal postcards in Miss Dean's hand announcing the arrival of some long-sought second-hand purchase from time to time reached Richard at the Grammar School. Her handwriting was firm and clear, pleasantly influenced by the prevailing cult for cursive script. Of course when Richard required maps and guide-books for his projected Easter holiday exploration of the Yorkshire dales, it was Miss Dean who sold them to him.

He was coming down a moorland road from a high fell on the afternoon of Easter Saturday when at the small gate beside the cattle grid he overtook Miss Dean. The catch of the gate was a little awkward if one did not know its secret; Richard opened it for the girl without quite realising who she was—he was busy thinking up arguments with which to persuade his headmaster to allow the fifth to take the new Oxford General Literature syllabus next year. Then as she passed through and round the gate, she faced him; he recognised her and exclaimed.

“Miss Dean! What a pleasure to see you in such——”

He was about to say “suitable surroundings”, but decided he was not entitled to make such a personal comment, and suppressed the adjective. But indeed, against the vast widespread panorama of hill and dale, moor and fell, with the sun on her cheek and the wind in her hair, her splendid vitality shone as if enhanced by its proper setting.

They walked on down the hill together, in silence. Richard was a trifle perplexed. His companion seemed greatly embarrassed. To ease the situation Richard began to talk, lightly and affably as was his way. He told her where he was staying, and described some of the walks he had already performed. In an uncertain tone, holding down her head, Miss Dean volunteered the information that she was staying in the next village. There was a pause.

“What you said about the dales when you bought the maps—interested me so much—I thought I would like to see them,” said the girl suddenly, as if in explanation.

Her voice was, again, panting and uncertain, her cheek the colour of a clove carnation; Richard was still more perplexed.

“Naturally you wish to know the beauties of your own county,” he said in soothing agreement.

But the tension between them did not seem to ease. Then a car came racing down the road, Richard put his hand beneath the girl's elbow and drew her quickly into safety. The action brought them face to face, and he saw the look she gave him from her fine dark eyes. Richard was no fool, he had been about the world and mingled with many different kinds of people, he knew the look. It was a look of love.

He felt the shock through his whole body, and stood still, amazed. Could it really be possible that this radiant young creature should feel love for him? Could it really be true that through her love he would enter, warmly and fully, the main stream of life? Not be alone any more? Such a gush of tenderness filled his heart at the thought that he felt quite weak. But
no, no! It was probably only pity that she felt. Still—surely he was entitled to probe the matter further? Mere courtesy to her seemed to demand it. When the car had passed he said, striving to give his speech its usual lightness and ease:

“Since we find ourselves so happily on the same square of the map, so to speak, could we not join in some expedition together?”

She murmured: “Yes.”

“I ought to explain,” said Richard—it was the thousandth time he had forced himself to similar statements, but he had never found it more difficult to sustain a light unemphatic utterance—“that it is not within my power to cover very great distances. I could not attempt more than, say, seven miles.”

“Seven will be ample,” said the girl, smiling.

They spent the next two days—the last of Dorothea's holiday—together. In the sun and the wind, over the sweeping fells, soft turf or craggy rock beneath their feet, with the larks singing overhead, the lapwings turning and calling, and the great velvet cloud-shadows trailing majestically across the hillsides, they were happy together. They became, at Richard's request, Dorothea and Richard to each other, and found that their views on all the important matters in life—religion, politics, human relations—were basically at one. Dorothea of course did not know as many facts about all these matters as Richard, but she seemed to listen avidly to what he had to tell, and for his part he had never talked so well or felt so much at ease.

On the following morning he rose early, met her outside her inn, carried her suitcase to the bus stop and stood there, making a smiling sign of farewell as she was borne away.

Term began again and the schoolmaster returned to Ashworth. Now that Richard and Dorothea were friends, his visits to the bookseller's became a curious mixture of joy and embarrassment to him. Joy because he would see Dorothea, and draw immense stimulus and refreshment from that radiant sight; embarrassment because somehow he felt that it was not
quite right for him to be served now by her—it did not represent their true relationship and therefore was a kind of falsity, a kind of deception, foreign to his nature. For now they often went out in the evening and at the weekend together. To concerts, to foreign films, to art exhibitions, to theatres, whether in Ashworth, Hudley or even Bradford, they travelled by bus together—Richard had no car; on Sundays they quite often made expeditions together to old houses and other places noted for beauty or some historical incident. Richard's whole life seemed to have bloomed, like a desert after rain. Far from detracting from his teaching ability, moreover, this wonderful new interest seemed positively to have increased his understanding of his pupils. He began to think seriously of marriage.

There was one material difficulty in the way of this, which however was slight compared to the immense barrier of his own diffidence. His father, who had married late so that he was an older man than Richard's age would lead one to expect, had had a stroke a couple of years ago and been obliged to retire from his ministry. His pension was small, and naturally Richard and Edward contributed to the support of their parents. They had discussed thoroughly the amount of this support and its just division between them.

“I earn more than you, Richard,” said Edward.

“True. Suppose we each contribute the same percentage of our respective incomes?” suggested Richard.

“Well, yes. But five per cent off a small income hits harder than five per cent off a large one,” said Edward shrewdly.

“True,” said Richard again. “But you have a wife and children, Edward.”

“Well, yes,” said Edward.

The matter was therefore thus arranged. The Rev. Mr. Cressey and his wife were comfortably settled in a small terrace house in a southern seaside resort, and Richard and Edward cheerfully supplemented their pension, making besides such Christmas gifts of small luxuries as seemed necessary and
suitable. Richard also, as being the nearer and the less domestically encumbered of the two brothers—he lodged in a pair of small though decent rooms near the Ashworth Grammar School—visited his parents regularly. The distance was considerable and the visits cost money. Although, therefore, as a single man his circumstances were not too uncomfortable, he felt he had little to offer to a wife. Dorothea no doubt earned a good wage, and had nobody to spend it on but herself, for as he understood she was parted from her family, and she lived as he did, in rooms. (Her landlady, by the way, was something of an interfering old dragon; Richard had had to speak to her once rather sharply.) To ask Dorothea to give up her independence and her solid salary, and live with him on the somewhat meagre provision which was all he had to offer, seemed to him a piece of impertinent presumption. For it was not as though he had much to give in other respects. He was fifteen years older than Dorothea, and owned (he reflected) no physical charms. So he hesitated to put his fortune to the test.

Then something happened which made everything seem different. The headmastership of the Holmelea Grammar School was advertised, and there seemed no reason why Richard Cressey should not apply for the job.

Holmelea Grammar School had a reputation far beyond that its situation might lead one to expect. Holmelea was a high windy village outside Ashworth, one of those old townships which in the West Riding are to be found up on the hillsides, built safely above the steep and once scrubby banks of the streams. The school was an old foundation; its original single chamber and fine rose window dated from Elizabeth I, Richard had discovered; in past centuries it had flourished under some notable headmasters and had acquired good new buildings. Today its numbers were between three and four hundred, its scholastic successes numerous, its sixth form intellectually strong. It had made that compromise with the 1944 Education Act which results in the category of
voluntary
aided school
, its governors being equally divided between local notabilities and County Education Authority appointees, but it would doubtless fall more and more into the hands of the West Riding Education Authority, as time went on. Richard, who believed passionately in a great deal of education for every child, viewed this situation with equanimity, not to say pleasure. Very tentatively and diffidently he mentioned the matter to his present headmaster. The man scowled.

“So I'm going to lose you, am I?” he said in a vexed tone.

“That depends on the Governors of Holmelea Grammar School,” Richard pointed out. “They will have many applicants. They may not appoint me.”

“Of course they'll appoint you,” said his headmaster gruffly. “They'll be lucky to get you. I'll give you a rousing testimonial.”

Thus fortified, Richard sent in an application. He was placed on the short list.

Almost he asked Dorothea then to marry him, but he held himself firmly back from doing so. It would be presumptuous, it would be taking too much for granted, it would be contrary to all the ethical canons by which he had so scrupulously lived. He had already, however, as it chanced, invited Dorothea to dine with him at the White Hart, Ashworth's newly decorated hostelry, and accompany him to a film, on the very day when he was to be interviewed at Holmelea in the afternoon. He let the invitation stand. He had not told Dorothea yet anything of the Holmelea project, but he thought that on Tuesday evening after the meeting he might perhaps do so. If by any chance—if, if, repeated Richard to himself firmly—the omens seemed favourable (for he supposed one could usually tell from the Governors' manner), he thought he might allow himself to make a proposal. Seeing her in the bookseller's on Saturday morning, he could not quite keep all the excitement from his voice when he mentioned their appointment for next Tuesday.