A.J. Cronin - The Citadel

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Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the wars end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatters Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.

To my wife

Late one October afternoon in the year 1924 a shabby young man gazed with fixed intensity through the window of a third class compartment in the almost empty train labouring up the Penowell Valley from Swansea. All that day Manson had travelled from the North, changing at Carlisle and Shrewsbury, yet the final stage of his tedious journey to South Wales found him strung to a still greater excitement by the prospects of his post, the first of his medical career, in this strange, disfigured country.

Outside, a heavy rainstorm came blinding down between the mountains which rose on either side of the single railway track. The mountain tops were hidden in a grey waste of sky but their sides, scarred by ore workings, fell black and desolate, blemished by great heaps of slag on which a few dirty sheep wandered in vain hope of pasture. No bush, no blade of vegetation was visible. The trees, seen in the fading light, were gaunt and stunted spectres. At a bend of the line the red glare of a foundry flashed into sight, illuminating a score of workmen stripped to the waist, their torsos straining, arms upraised to strike. Though the scene was swiftly lost behind the huddled top gear of a mine, a sense of power persisted, tense and vivid. Manson drew a long breath. He felt an answering surge of effort, a sudden overwhelming exhilaration springing from the hope and promise of the future.

Darkness had fallen, emphasising the strangeness and remoteness of the scene when, half an hour later, the engine panted into Drineffy. He had arrived at last. Gripping his bag, Manson leaped from the train and walked quickly down the platform, searching eagerly for some sign of welcome. At the station exit, beneath a wind-blown lamp, a yellow-faced old man in a square hat and a long nightshirt of a mackintosh stood waiting. He inspected Manson with a jaundiced eye and his voice, when it came, was reluctant.

You Doctor Pages new assistant?

Thats right. Manson. Andrew Manson is the name!

Huh! Mines Thomas, Old Thomas they mostly call me, dang em. I got the gig here. Set in unless youd rayther swim.

Manson slung his bag up and climbed into the battered gig behind a tall angular black horse. Thomas followed, took the reins and addressed the horse.

Hue-up, Taffy! he said.

They drove off through the town which, though Andrew tried keenly to discern its outline, presented in the lashing rain no more than a blurred huddle of low grey houses ranged beneath the high and ever present mountains. For several minutes the old groom did not speak but continued to dart pessimistic glances at Andrew from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. He bore no resemblance to the smart coachman of a successful doctor but was, on the contrary, wizened and slovenly, and all the time he gave off a peculiar yet powerful odour of the stable. At last he said:

Only jest got your parchment, eh?

Andrew nodded.

I knowed it. Old Thomas spat. His triumph made him more gravely communicative. Last assistant went ten days ago. Mostly they dont stop.

Why? Despite his nervousness, Andrew smiled.

Works too hard for one thing, I reckon.

And for another?

Youll find out! A moment later, as a guide might indicate a fine cathedral, Thomas lifted his whip and pointed to the end of a row of houses where, from a small lighted doorway a cloud of steam was emerging. See that. That theres the missus and my little homestead. She takes in washin like. A secret amusement twitched his long upper lip. Reckon you might want to know, shortly.

Here the main street ended and, turning up a short uneven side-road, they boggled across a piece of pit ground, and entered the narrow drive of a house which stood amongst the adjacent rows behind a stunted ash tree. On the gate was the name Bryngower.

This is us, said Thomas, pulling up the horse.

Andrew descended. The next minute, while he gathered himself for the ordeal of his entrance, the front door was flung open and he was in the lighted hall being welcomed cordially by a tall, spare, smiling woman of about fifty with a calm face and clear blue eyes.

Well! Well! This must be Doctor Manson. Come in please, come in. Im doctors sister, Miss Page. I do hope you didnt have a tryin journey. I am pleased to see you. I been out my mind, nearly, since that last awful fellow we had left us. You ought to have seen him. He was a bright one if ever I met one, I can tell you. Oh! but never mind. Its all right now youre here. Come along, Ill show you to your room myself.

Upstairs, Andrews room was a small camsiled apartment with a brass bed, a yellow varnished chest of drawers and a bamboo table bearing a basin and ewer. Glancing round it, while her clear blue eyes searched his face, he said with anxious politeness:

This looks very comfortable, Miss Page.

Yes, indeed. She smiled and patted his shoulder maternally. Youll do famous here, Im sure. You treat me right and Ill treat you right. I cant say fairer nor that, can I? Now come along before youre a minute older and meet doctor. She paused, her gaze still questioning his, her tone striving to be off-hand. I dont know if I said so in my letter but, as a matter of fact doctor hasnt been too well, lately.

Andrew looked at her in sudden surprise.

Oh, its nothing much, she went on quickly, before he could speak. Hes been laid up a few weeks. But hell soon be all right. Make no mistake about that.

Perplexed, Andrew followed her to the end of the passage where she threw open a door, exclaiming blithely:

Heres Doctor Manson, Edward our new assistant. Hes come to say ow do.

As Andrew went into the room, a long fustily furnished bedroom with chenille curtains closely drawn and a small fire burning in the grate, Edward Page turned slowly upon the bed, seeming to do so by a great effort. He was a big, bony man of perhaps sixty with harshly lined features and tired, luminous eyes. His whole expression was stamped with suffering and a kind of weary patience. And there was something more. The light of the oil lamp, falling across the pillow, revealed one half of his face expressionless and waxen. The left side of his body was equally paralysed and his left hand, which lay upon the patchwork counterpane, was contracted to a shiny cone. Observing these signs of a severe and far from recent stroke, Andrew was conscious of a sudden shock of dismay. There was an odd silence.