The Dark Lantern by Henry Williamson

Author:Henry Williamson [Henry Williamson]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780571310067
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2014-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

NEIGHBOURS

COMFORT ROAD, opposite the gates of the cemetery, appeared to be deserted. They walked in silence through the smells of cabbage water poured down drains outside. Evidently the occupants were at Sunday dinner. The houses, heavily curtained, with glimpses of aspidistra ferns in the lower windows, had pillars by the front doors, and dummy balconies over them. Trees planted out at regular intervals gave some relief to the drabness of the street.

Near the end another road crossed at right angles. This was the road Richard had cycled down at dawn in the summer of the previous year, when he had not wanted Mrs. Cummings to know that he had changed his mind about going on his holiday by way of Cross Aulton. Mrs. Cummings had once described it as “a back street with an unsavoury reputation.” The smell of cabbage-water was certainly not exactly savoury, he thought.

Beyond the back-street, between two rows of houses only slightly smaller than those in the high road, was what was known as a dead-end to some, a cul-de-sac to others. The stub of Comfort Road, its dead end, terminated at railway property. Richard saw it as a little oasis, detached from the uniform row of houses. In the oasis were but three houses, two on one side, a single one on the other. A row of spiked iron railings protected the railway embankment, and through the railings were to be seen plots of vegetables and a few damson trees, with overgrown bushes of lavender and currant. Forlornly facing the west, a donkey stood on one of the mounds of soil raised high upon the embankment.

The empty house was the one that stood alone. It was on the north side of the cul-de-sac, so that its front faced south. It looked to have been at some time a small lodge. The style of building was pleasing. There was a side-gate to the garden, at the end of the brick wall dividing the house from the embankment.

While they were gazing at the top window of the main bedroom, which, together with that of the room beneath projected with a three-sided bay, and wondering what it was like inside, a woman appeared from the house on the corner, and with a cheerful smile enquired if they had come to see Comfort House? She had the key, she said, she was taking care of it for the landlord, who came there only on Saturdays to collect the rents.

“I’m Mrs. Feeney, sir, I work every morning for Mrs. Cummings. I know you better than you know me, for your bicycle is quite an old friend of my pail and scrubbing brush.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Feeney. This is my wife.”

“I’ve met your lady already, Mr. Maddison. How d’you do, m’am.”

Over her shoulder appeared an elderly, blue-shaven face with a long upper lip and two hurt-looking eyes under shaggy brows and grey wiry hair. “Sure, and is it house-hunting you are, and all? ’Tis a nice little house, well-built, and

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