The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin Page A

Gregory on another, and a little china holywater font with a sprig of Easter palm stuck sideways in it by the door. The pain in his side was gone, he seldom coughed, his cheeks were filling out. The novelty of leisure was like a strange caress and, though the uncertainty of his future still troubled him, he received it gratefully.
    On this fine morning of the last day of October, Aunt Polly sat down on the edge of his bed exhorting him to eat. ‘ Lay in, boy! That’ll stick to your ribs!’ There were three eggs on the plate, the bacon was crisp and streaky, he had forgotten that food could taste so good.
    As he balanced the tray on his knees, he sensed an unusual festivity in her manner. And soon she gave him one of her profound nods.
    ‘I’ve news for you today, young man – if you can stand it.’
    ‘News, Aunt Polly?’
    ‘A little excitement to cheer you up – after your dull month with Ned and me.’ She smiled dryly at the quick protest in his warm brown eyes. ‘ Can’t you guess what it is?’
    He studied her with the deep affection which her unceasing kindness had awakened in him. The homely angular face – poor-complexioned, the long upper lip downed with hair, a tufted blemish at the angle of the cheek – was now familiar and beautiful.
    ‘I can’t think, Aunt Polly.’
    She was moved to her short rare laugh, a little snort of satisfaction at her success in provoking his curiosity.
    ‘What’s happened to your wits, boy? I believe too much sleep has addled them.’
    He smiled happily in sympathy. It was true that the routine of his convalescence had hitherto been tranquil. Encouraged by Polly, who had feared for his lungs – she had a dread of ‘consumption’ which ‘ran’ in her family – he had usually lain abed until ten. Dressed, he accompanied her on her shopping, a stately progress through the main streets of Tynecastle which, since Ned ate largely and nothing but the best, demanded great prodding of poultry and sniffing of steak. These excursions were revealing. He could see that it pleased Aunt Polly to be ‘known’, deferred to, in the best stores. She would wait, aloof and prim, until her favourite shopman was free to serve her. Above all, she was ladylike. That word was her touchstone, the criterion of her actions, even of her dresses made by the local milliner in such dreadful taste they sometimes evoked a covert snigger from the vulgar. In the street she had a graduated series of bows. To be recognized, greeted by some local personage – the surveyor, the sanitary inspector or the chief constable – afforded her a joy which, though sternly concealed, was very great. Erect, the bird in her hat atwitter, she would murmur to Francis: ‘That was Mr Austin, the tramway manager … a friend of your uncle’s … a fine man.’ The height of her gratification was reached when Father Gerald Fitzgerald, the handsome portly priest of St Dominic’s, gave her in passing his gracious and slightly condescending smile. Every forenoon they would stop in at the church and, kneeling, Francis would be conscious of Polly’s intent profile, the lips moving silently, above her rough chapped reverent hands. Afterwards she bought him something for himself, a stout pair of shoes, a book, a bag of aniseed drops. When he protested, often with tears in his eyes, as she opened her worn purse, she would simply press his arm and shake her head. ‘Your uncle won’t take “no”.’ She was touchingly proud of her relationship with Ned, her association with the Union Tavern.
    The Union stood near the docks at the corner of Canal and Dyke Streets, with an excellent view of the adjacent tenements, of coal barges, and the terminus of the new horse tramway. The brown painted stucco building was of two stories, and the Bannons lived above the tavern. Every morning, at half-past seven Maggie Magoon, the scrubwoman, opened the saloon and began, talking to herself, to clean it. At eight precisely Ned Bannon came