A Man of His Time

by Phyllis Bentley

  Fan, unable to speak, withdrew to the bookstall, looking frightened.

  ‘Look, Cecil,’ said Morcar, drawing his son away by a hand on his arm, ‘I want to thank you with all my heart for your hospitality. You’ve given me a grand time, and I shall never forget it.’ Here Cecil smiled with pleasure; Morcar did not know whether to rage at or admire his ingenuous simplicity. ‘Here’s a bit of a present for you,’ he said gruffly. He drew out his wallet, made a bit of a fuss over getting out the cheque as though he did not remember exactly where it was, and thrust it still folded into Cecil’s pocket. ‘No need to have Fan here,’ he said, acting (rather well, he thought) the northerner embarrassed by being obliged to display feeling. ‘Father and son, you know.’ (This incoherence struck him as particularly effective.)

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said Cecil with a pale smile.

  Unable to resist the impulse, he drew out the cheque and opened it. At once his face became irradiated with bliss.

  ‘Father,’ he began.

  Luckily at this moment the flight to London was announced.

  ‘Come along,’ said Morcar brusquely, touching his son’s arm.

  After a few agonizing moments he was seated safely in the plane, with Cecil and Fan waving at him from the airport balcony, arm in arm.

  Whether it was satisfaction in leaving Cecil, reminder of all his life’s early miseries, behind, or satisfaction in leaving South Africa, with all its appalling problems, behind, or satisfaction in a generous act, or in elucidating the mystery of Fan’s uneasiness which he had sensed throughout his stay, or pleasure in presenting the daughter of Francis Oldroyd, offhand, with a cheque for twice the large sum she had asked, or something else, he was not sure. Whatever it was, though soaked with sweat and emotionally exhausted, he smiled happily as the plane left the ground.

  He enjoyed the flight, and as the plane was late in London he had a rush to catch the train to the north, and felt still in an active, bustling, cheerful mood when it crossed into Yorkshire. As he passed the pit-stocks and mill chimneys, he felt again that deep, half-playful, tenacious affection for his native country which he had always found so satisfying. In Annotsfield the sky was grey and the rain falling heavily, but that was only to be expected; a nice change, in fact, from the African blue.

  Jonathan met him. A little confused by his recent sojourn in differing seasons, Morcar was surprised to find him at home for his Easter holidays.

  ‘How are things in South Africa?’ said Jonathan as they walked down the platform together.

  ‘Bad,’ said Morcar. ‘This apartheid business is shocking.’

  Jonathan expressed eager agreement. ‘Are the native locations as bad as they’re reported?’

  ‘I didn’t see one,’ said Morcar.

  Jonathan looked at him in astonishment, and fell silent.

  Morcar coloured. He perceived at once that his recent euphoria proceeded from a renewal of his self-confidence because he had felt himself infinitely more liberal and advanced than all the people he had recently met. His condemnation of apartheid was sincere, but also he had enjoyed being on the same side as Jonathan. Now that was over; he had fallen short, as usual, of the boy’s standards. To visit Victoria Falls and not a native location, he now saw, betrayed an awareness of, a callousness to, one of the great problems of the day. He ought to have conducted a thorough investigation of the colour problem. He had appeared, as usual, hidebound and out of date.

  4. Gap

  These uncomfortable thoughts persisted through the night, but fell away in the morning as he drove down through spring sunshine to Syke Mills. Syke Mills was his own sphere; nobody could criticize him there, he thought; in his own textile trade he was supreme. He smiled with pleasure as he drove under the great archway past the gleaming brass plate proclaiming his name - in spite of his absence the brass still gleamed, he noted with approval -and saw a couple of handsome lorries with Henry Morcar Ltd on their side, standing at the loading bay in the yard. The men nodded their heads sideways at him and grinned, which was as much acknowledgement as you could expect from a West Riding employee nowadays, thought Morcar. He parked accurately in the space reserved for him, and ran up the steps to the office. There was a general air of expectation and hanging-about-in-waiting in the outer office, and a new girl with smooth hair in the desk by the inner door, he noticed; then Nathan rushed up to him, excited and laughing, and he was involved in greetings. Nathan’s grey quiff was retreating and diminishing, Morcar observed; had diminished indeed quite a bit while Morcar was away. Nathan without his quiff would be strange indeed ! But then, he’d never got over losing his son in the war.

  ‘Well, Nathan!’ said Morcar heartily.

  ‘It’s good to have you back, Mr Morcar,’ shouted Nathan.

  Both men then felt slightly ashamed of this (as they considered) ebullience; they calmed down and got themselves hastily through the door into the inner office. On Morcar’s desk in neat piles stood masses of letters, some with scraps of cloth, and some with small swatches of yarn, attached.

  ‘Good Lord!’ groaned Morcar, throwing his hat on the stand. ‘Plenty of work for me, it seems.’

  He was really delighted by this prospect. Sitting down at his desk, he began at once to go through the papers. Some he threw into the waste-paper basket at once, others he divided according to their degree of urgency and difficulty.

  ‘Miss Symonds!’ he roared.

  ‘Miss Symonds has left, Mr Morcar,’ said Nathan apologetically, stepping back to signal through the doorway. ‘She got married.’

  ‘In a hurry, wasn’t she?’ said Morcar crossly, not, however taking much notice.

  ‘Well—’ began Nathan.

  ‘Usual reason?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, they will do it.’

  ‘That is so. More than ever, nowadays’.

  ‘Who have you got for me, then? That smooth-haired piece by the door?’

  ‘You don’t miss much, Mr Morcar.’

  ‘That’s my aim, Nathan. Is she any good, then?’

  ‘Seems so. She’s young, but she was highly recommended by the Technical and Miss Symonds approved her. High speed. This is Miss Mellor, your new secretary, Mr Morcar,’ said Nathan formally as the girl came in.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Morcar, shaking hands.

  He eyed her shrewdly. Her hair, cut in a fringe, of an ordinary dark shade, curved smoothly over her cheeks towards her chin in a way Morcar particularly disliked, but her dark grey eyes were bright and even sparkling.

  He proceeded to give rapid instructions for a number of easy letters, including a wedding present cheque for the once Miss Symonds. Miss Mellor, who had not spoken, though pencilling notes on each document with apparent comprehension, withdrew in silence.

  ‘Now, Nathan,’ said Morcar, sitting back in his chair: ‘What’s gone wrong while I’ve been away, eh? Sit down and let’s have it.’

  Nathan at once dropped into the likeness of a small child caught with its fingers in the jampot.

  ‘Well, there’s one or two things, Mr Morcar,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘Aye, I supposed there would be. Come on, let’s hear the worst.’

  Slowly and with reluctance Nathan related the sad tale. Beginning with a few minor misfortunes, such as might well have happened had Morcar not been absent, he worked up gradually to major disasters. Some pieces had been milled when they ought not to have been milled, and this had led Nathan into a sharp tiff with the head of the finishing department, which was housed at Daisy Mill.

  ‘They weren’t fit to be sold,’ said Nathan.

  Morcar said nothing, but his face was expressive.

  Then somehow or other a thread of yarn with the wrong twist had - somehow or other - been woven into a series of pieces, making them, admitted Nathan, horribly ‘barry’.

  ‘I suppose the customer rejected those too.’

  ‘Aye, he did.’

  ‘Well, that’s a few thousand p
ounds you’ve lost Syke Mills, with one thing and another.’

  ‘There’s worse to come,’ said Nathan miserably.

  ‘Worse?’

  It seemed that a thread of yarn of wrong colour had been woven into a whole series of pieces, which—

  ‘Wrong colour!’ bellowed Morcar, colouring violently himself. ‘From Syke Mills! Nay, Nathan! How did it happen, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘Whose order were they?’

  Nathan named one of the huge ready-made clothing firms in England to whom Morcar sold direct - one of his largest customers.

  ‘But that’s serious, Nathan,’ said Morcar, staggered.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They weren’t sent out, I hope.’

  ‘They were.’

  ‘But why on earth did you deliver them?’

  ‘We didn’t know what else to do with them. You weren’t here,’ said Nathan.

  ‘And they were all sent back, I suppose.’

  ‘They were.’

  ‘And what do they say about it, eh?’

  ‘I haven’t talked with them,’ said the wretched Nathan.

  Morcar swore, and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Hello, Robert!’ he said cheerfully when he reached the appropriate official of the firm in question.

  ‘Oh, is that you, Mr Morcar?’ came the reply in a very cold tone.

  ‘Yes. I’ve just got back and heard about this frightful bloomer of ours with your pieces.’

  ‘Where’ve you been, then?’

  ‘I had to go to South Africa to see my son,’ lied Morcar, lowering his voice to give the impression of confidential intimacy. ‘Difficult situation out there, you know.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said the voice, slightly warmer. ‘Well, what are you going to do about this order of ours, then?’

  Morcar, making a rapid calculation, gave in a few short, practical sentences a promise to send a completely fresh series of pieces by a set date.

  ‘Well, we shall have to make that do, I suppose,’ said the voice, considerably mollified. ‘It’s a tiresome delay, very tiresome, but we liked the pattern. I must tell you we were thinking of cutting it out altogether and going to somebody else. When I rang Syke Mills the other day you weren’t there and I was told there was nobody who could speak to me.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Morcar. ‘Never!’

  The voice chuckled. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Harry. Don’t be late with your delivery date, now.’

  ‘Is this true, Nathan?’ bellowed Morcar, almost before he had replaced the receiver. ‘Did you actually tell him there was nobody here could speak to him?’

  ‘What else could I do? When you’re not here, who do I turn to?’ shrilled Nathan.

  The two men glared at each other.

  ‘Well, for heaven’s sake don’t let’s waste any more time,’ said Morcar irritably at length. ‘Get down into the weaving shed and see when they can clear enough looms to get these pieces started. It’ll mean overtime to finish to the date, for sure, and that’ll cost us a pretty penny, on top of the original loss.’

  ’You set the delivery date, Mr Morcar,’ grumbled Nathan.

  ‘I did and I shall keep it. But to tell him there was nobody could speak to him! Couldn’t you have found a head of a department?’

  ‘Aye, but which? Nobody would know the whole story, when we could deliver a fresh lot, I mean. And whichever I asked, the others would be mad. You weren’t here, Mr Morcar.’

  ‘All right, all right. Forget it. Let’s get started with this lot. I’ll inspect every stage personally,’ said Morcar. To himself he thought: ‘I blame myself for leaving Nathan in charge,’ but he decided this was too cruel to utter.

  Having successfully convulsed the whole mill out of its routine in order to fulfil his promised delivery date, Morcar discovered that the hour was four o’clock. He had forgotten to have lunch, and, as he told himself with a certain grim satisfaction, Nathan and several other non-Trade-Union employees had had to forget it too. He sat down at his desk, and found a pile of cheques and letters awaiting his signature. Signing, he observed with pleasure that they were well and accurately typed.

  ‘She seems to know her job,’ he remarked to Nathan, who was hovering round, beginning to recover his calm now that the storm of Morcar’s anger had almost blown over.

  ‘Oh, she does. She’s a connexion of those Mellors who were in Old Mill with Mr David, you know,’ said Nathan. ‘That’s why I took her, really, out of several with equal qualifications.1

  Nathan had always been fond of David, remembered Morcar with a pang. If only I had David here now! Well, there’s Jonathan. If only he were older. He’ll be leaving school this summer, after his A level; then he’ll need three or four years of a textile course at Leeds. Then it’ll be three or four years under me before he’s able to be really in authority here. If only he were older! For Nathan’s right; when I’m away there’s nobody at the top.

  As a natural consequence of these considerations he said to Jonathan, as they were sitting at coffee after dinner at Stanney Royd:

  ‘I’d like you to come down with me to Old Mill one day this week, Jonathan. Say tomorrow. No, that’s Bradford market day, say Friday.’

  ‘Of course, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan cheerfully.

  Jennifer, however, made a slight movement as if to demur.

  ‘Isn’t it convenient, then, eh, Jenny?’ said Morcar genially. ‘Next week will do.’

  ‘It’s just that I feel Jonathan should work hard, not waste his time these holidays,’ said Jenny, stirred out of her usual tact.

  Refraining from remarking that a visit to the mill which brought his living was not a waste of time for Jonathan, Morcar observed:

  ‘Work? What at?’

  ‘A-level’s coming on,’ said Jonathan with a grimace.

  ‘If he’s to get a place at a university - at Oxford,’ said Jennifer, slightly breathless, ‘he must do well in his examinations.’

  ‘I’m taking two special papers,’ proffered Jonathan.

  It was a severe blow. University! Oxford! Well, of course, Morcar told himself irritably: I ought to have thought of that before. Jennifer has an Oxford degree herself, she’d never be satisfied that her son should lack one. But this meant extra years before Jonathan could rule at Syke Mill.

  ‘How long will you be at Oxford, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know that I shall get there.’

  ‘Of course you will. One way or the other,’ said Morcar mildly - his fierce disappointment must, he knew, be controlled.

  Jonathan did not brighten at this implied offer to pay for his university studies.

  ‘Three or four years,’ he said.

  Three or four years! And then a textile course! In spite of himself, Morcar sighed. This is going to be damned awkward, he thought. I really ought to get in somebody really good. But who? There’s nobody good enough. And if I do, it will upset Nathan, and by the time Jonathan’s ready there won’t be room for him, the new fellow’ll be all over the place. How would a merger be? With a board? He could see that Jonathan had enough shares to get him a seat. If there were anybody fit to merge with, he thought. There’s nobody as good as me. I might look around, I suppose.

  He picked up his home copy of The Yorkshire Textile Industry - he had another at Syke Mills, of course - from the stand beside his chair.

  ‘Where are my reading glasses, I wonder?’ he said irritably.

  Jonathan bounded up and proffered them with a smile so kindly and agreeable that it tore Morcar’s heart.

  5. Young Ambition

  ‘I’ll go up and work now, and then I shall be free to go to Old Mill on Friday,’ said Jonathan. He said goodnight politely to Morcar and his mother, and withdrew.

  In his bedroom, he picked up a notebook from his work-table and threw it down violently on the bed. A trifle relieved by this release of temper, he restored the notebook to its proper place with
loving care.

  ‘They don’t understand,’ he muttered fiercely to himself. ‘I’m not a boy any longer. I’m a man. Uncle Harry doesn’t even know that you can’t get into any University nowadays by paying. If I can’t get a place at Oxford I’ll get one somewhere else.’

  He sighed at this, however, for Oxford was his great desire.

  ‘Well, if you want to get there, work, for heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed.

  He sat down and drew his books firmly towards him. Turning the pages of Hammond, however, he found time to glance over his shoulder at the insignia which represented his father.

  ‘I hope you would have understood,’ he said aloud. ‘But if you wouldn’t, then I can’t help it.’

  He buried himself in the condition of the town labourer in the new civilization 1760-1832.

  6. Merger

  Morcar looked around for somebody really good in the textile sense, quite vigorously in the next few months, as far as he could do so without betraying his intention either within or without Syke Mill, but he did not find any person or firm suitable to his purpose, or any clue to such a firm or person, until the summer, when Jonathan was again at home. The boy had done extremely well in his A-level, as Morcar had expected, gaining distinction in both papers. When these results arrived, he announced joyously that he meant to take a week’s complete holiday from work, and for the week he went whistling about the house, or sat in the garden - the summer was hot - reading, with a look of relaxation.

  ‘That’s a nice jacket you’re wearing, Jonathan,’ said Morcar, finding all three of his household sitting round the summerhouse when he came home from the mill one evening. They had actually contrived to carry old Mrs Morcar downstairs, and she sat there in her padded chair, beaming. Morcar stretched out a hand towards the jacket, one of those loose tweedish sports affairs fashionable nowadays. Jonathan, to whom this textile gesture was familiar, put out his arm so that the cloth might be felt between the fingers. ‘Don’t you think so, Mother? Colouring’s good, eh?’