A Man of His Time

by Phyllis Bentley

  8. Loss

  ‘I’ve all the troubles of a merger and none of the benefits,’ grumbled Morcar.

  Nathan, who had not forgiven him for having entertained the idea of a merger, looked at him reproachfully and said nothing, but agreed.

  For the Hardaker affair went on and on, and Morcar seemed to become as much involved in it as if he had indeed been J. L.’s partner. The West Riding in general appeared to regard this as perfectly natural and took Morcar’s participation in Hardaker affairs entirely for granted, while the three Hardaker women whom the tragedy had left without adult male support turned to him with increasing frequency. Laboratory tests established the presence of the fingerprints of Lucius Hardaker and Edward Oates on bloodstained lever and spanner respectively, and there was little doubt of their guilt even before Lucius broke down and confessed to their crime. To Morcar’s relief the motive for the murder now appeared not as dislike of the merger but, as he had suggested to the police, in embezzlement of the firm’s funds, though the sum concerned, which had been stolen jointly by the two young men - ,£1,800 - was ridiculously small, indeed quite pitiful.

  ‘Murder for £1,800! It’s out of all reason,’ he said. He turned to Jonathan and added soberly: ‘Jonathan, I want you to promise me that if ever you get into money difficulties you will come to me before you attempt any remedies on your own behalf.’

  ‘I don’t intend to get into any money difficulties,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘None of us do,’ said Morcar grimly.

  ‘You don’t want to be murdered,’ said Jonathan, evading the subject by making a joke.

  ‘I don’t want anybody to be murdered. Jonathan, I’m asking you seriously for your word.’

  ‘I don’t want to give it to you, Uncle Harry. I’d rather manage by myself.’

  ‘That’s just why I want your promise. I think you owe it to me, Jonathan.’

  Jonathan hesitated. ‘If it can be understood between us,’ he said at length, ‘that in informing you of any money difficulties I am not asking for your help and would prefer not to have it, I promise to inform you.’

  Morcar coloured with annoyance. ‘You’re a great stickler for your own terms, Jonathan,’ he said gruffly. ‘But I accept them.’ He shook out his newspaper and retired behind it, hurt.

  ‘I don’t expect it was only the embezzled money which provoked the murder, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘What else, then?’ said Morcar, emerging, interested in spite of himself.

  ‘Old Mr Hardaker bossed them too much. They couldn’t call their souls their own.’

  ‘Oh, tcha!’ exclaimed Morcar irritably. ‘That’s child’s talk. If people don’t want to be bossed they shouldn’t allow themselves to be bossed. They should take their own line and stick to it.’

  ‘True,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘But you see, he didn’t even tell them about the merger. It was their lives he was arranging, and he didn’t even tell them.’

  That Jonathan was probably right, Morcar discovered when at the three women’s request he accompanied them to the gaol to see Lucius and Edward.

  Lucius was already a broken man; his dark head was grizzled, his face had fallen, his eyes stared blankly, and his body was so emaciated that his clothes hung loose. He wept to his mother, whom Morcar had almost to drag away to give his wife access to him, that he had feared his grandfather’s anger too much to confide in him. Between Lucius and his wife Carol there was obviously such a deep love that Morcar turned away to leave them in privacy, and fixed his attention on the other pair. Edward Oates he detested on sight; one of these smooth, foxy, glib young men, completely self-assured and as clever as a load of monkeys, he was now engaged in exercising all his considerable personal charm in trying to win his wife over to his side - he seemed to regard his murder of her father as a mere unfortunate peccadillo for which everyone would find excuses. Under this appeal, to which she made no response, Elizabeth looked sick and exhausted. Morcar well understood why she had come to despise her husband. Not that Morcar cared much for Elizabeth; he thought her too thin and pale and melancholy, over-refined, one of these highbrow types, lacking in vitality, born to be a victim. He noticed, however, as the dreary period of waiting for the trial drew slowly along, that Jennifer liked Elizabeth; they grew quite friendly, and Elizabeth came fairly often to Stanney Royd.

  Carol, on the other hand, Morcar liked enormously. If anybody could retrieve anything from the ruin of the Hardaker family, Carol would be the one. Carol was a bouncing, bright-cheeked, black-eyed girl with a thick mop of black hair. Morcar judged her upbringing to be working-class, and she showed all the straightforward robust common sense natural to such a milieu. During consultations with solicitors she at first sat silent, taking it all in, but later adopted boldly the line that Edward Oates, who it appeared was her brother, was the instigator of the crime.

  ‘He dragged Lucius into it. Lucius would never have thought of such a thing for himself.’

  ‘That is a very dangerous suggestion, very dangerous to your brother,’ said the solicitor, shocked.

  ‘I don’t care. It’s the truth.’

  ‘If that is to be the pleading, the two accused must have separate counsel.’

  ‘Let’s do that, then.’

  ‘It will be very costly.’

  ‘We all care more for Lucius than for brass.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lucius’ mother eagerly.

  ‘What is your opinion about this line of action, Mrs Oates?’

  Elizabeth turned her head away. ‘I agree,’ she said in almost inaudible tones. ‘Edward must have a separate defence, of course.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance of getting Lucius off, Mr Morcar?’ said Carol as he was driving her home to Hill Rise, the modern style bungalow, with picture windows and everything handsome about it, reflected Morcar sardonically, which old J. L. Hardaker had given his grandson as a wedding present.

  ‘No. But he won’t be—’

  ‘Hanged? The worst of it is, Mr Morcar,’ said Carol, turning to him in a sudden burst of tears, ‘He himself wants to be. He told me so.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Yes, he does. He says it would be less bad for the children. Once he was dead, he says, people would forget.’

  ‘Not in the West Riding, they wouldn’t.’

  ‘We can move,’ said Carol, undaunted. ‘But if, just as the children are growing up, their father comes out of prison, a convicted murderer, it will be awful for them.’

  ‘He should have thought of that before,’ said Morcar, grim.

  ‘I don’t want him dead, Mr Morcar.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Morcar with genuine sympathy.

  ‘But what should we do about the mill? I ask you because you understand more about mills than that solicitor. Mrs Hardaker has no more sense than a baby, and Elizabeth is no use at present. She’s—’

  ‘Stunned.’

  ‘She’s defeated,’ said Carol bitterly. ‘Just when we need her, she’s no use. But about the mill.’

  ‘You won’t be too badly off, I think,’ said Morcar, for old Hardaker, shrewd business man that he was, had settled quite a nice lump of money on his grandchildren, and this, Morcar supposed, they were still eligible to inherit, though their fathers’ crime debarred Lucius and Edward from profit.

  ‘But about the mill?’ pressed Carol. ‘Why don’t you buy it as a going concern, Mr Morcar? That’s the expression, I believe.’

  ‘You learned that from your brother.’

  ‘Yes. I did. Why not? He’s done me and mine enough harm. He owes me plenty. Why not buy it, Mr Morcar?’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ said Morcar with a sigh.

  ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t find the money.’

  ‘Oh, I could find the money, or make my bank find it for me. But I’ve too much on my plate already, and nobody to share the responsibility with me for a long time yet.’

  ‘But
, Mr Morcar—’

  ’I’m only in the Hardaker affairs by accident,’ said Morcar irritably.

  ‘Lucky for us that you are!’

  This kind of painful scene - visits to the prison, consultations with solicitors, tears from Mrs Hardaker senior, tortured silence from Elizabeth, forthright attacks from Carol - went on, it seemed to Morcar, for months. Each time he saw the prisoners, Edward Oates looked plumper and smoother, Lucius Hardaker thinner and more haggard. (Young Hardaker won’t last long in prison; his spring’s broken, thought Morcar.) The heads of departments at Ramsgill got into the habit of ringing him up for advice; at first they had orders to fulfil, and when these were concluded, questions of seeking for more, or paying off the men and closing down, were debated with Morcar by Hardaker’s executors. (Luckily one of these was a bank, for Lucius, the other, would not be able to take part.) Morcar was wearied to death with the whole affair, and agreed perhaps rather more quickly than he ought to have done to the closing and auction of Ramsgill Mills.

  For in the middle of all this Hardaker worry old Mrs Morcar suddenly died. As she was now well turned ninety and very frail, this was neither surprising nor greatly lamentable, but Morcar felt vexed on her behalf that her death should have taken place when her son was so harried by other business that he could hardly pay it the full attention it deserved. He made handsome and appropriate funeral arrangements, of course, with his usual competence, but when he tried to think tenderly of his mother, his boyhood when she was really a mother to him seemed light-years away, and though he could recall affectionate incidents from those days, the feeling in them was gone. He sighed and turned perforce to his present problems.

  At long last - but how very long it seemed - Edward Oates and Lucius Hardaker were tried at the Leeds Assizes, found guilty, and sentenced to life imprisonment. (Morcar gave evidence and felt that all the Oates and Hardakers stared at him in hatred.) At long last somebody bought Ramsgill House for a nursing home, and somebody else bought Hill Rise for an about-to-be-married daughter, and an art master at Hudley Technical College rented Ram’s Hey. The Hardakers then moved away from the West Riding, Mrs Hardaker with Elizabeth and her ailing child to the south coast - it must be crammed with retired persons; heaven keep me from ever living there, thought Morcar - Carol and her three children to a northern seaside resort; ‘I won’t go away from Yorkshire,’ said Carol obstinately. Ramsgill Mills were put into appropriate hands for disposal; premises and contents were valued, suitable arrangements for renting made.

  All this had taken so much time that it was not till the following December that the auction of Messrs Hardaker’s premises and equipment was advertised.

  Jonathan was at home. He had now been a term at Oxford, and had certainly grown up in that time. Physically, though a little taller than before, he now looked more solid as to shoulder and hip; his voice was deeper, his mode of expression more assured; he was now, in fact, a young man, no longer a boy or a lad. Somehow or other he had learned to drive a car, and going off to Annotsfield on the day after his return, triumphantly passed his driving test, which it seemed he had sensibly applied for some weeks ahead. Morcar, pleased, hinted at buying him a bubble car or even a Mini, but Jonathan seemed to have a scruple against accepting such a present. However, Jessopp being laid up with rheumatism - ‘he’s getting old,’ thought Morcar of his ex-soldier chauffeur - Jonathan made himself useful driving Morcar about on business errands here and there, thus easing the parking problem. For really nowadays there were so many one-way streets and ring roads and no parking areas that it was exceedingly difficult to get near one’s destination, or at least to park near it; one had to leave one’s car half a mile away and walk the intervening distance, which to Morcar’s irritation proved apt to make him tired and a little short of breath.

  The auction being fixed for a Tuesday, Ramsgill Mills were open for inspection on the Monday and some preceding days. Morcar being regarded as part of the Hardaker family was allowed to retain a set of the mill keys and he took the fancy to visit Ramsgill again, for a final look, on the Sunday morning. He invited Jonathan to accompany him, and the young man agreed.

  They entered and made their way to the weaving shed. It was very quiet and very cold. The winter sun shone on the long rows of looms which stood in tragic stillness; they seemed as if yearning for movement, condemned inexorably to death. Here and there one had been covered with a stretch of old ragged cloth. Pools of moisture, condensation from the roof, lay about the uneven flagged floor. The silence, so unnatural in the presence of looms, could be felt. Somewhere a tap dripped very slowly.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing to see the place like this,’ said Morcar, leaning against the end of a loom.

  Jonathan looked around but said nothing.

  ‘We haven’t acted rightly by this place. When the country needs exports so much, we shouldn’t throw away a well-organized production unit like this.’ Morcar used this abstract description, which he disliked, instead of saying a mill in full work, in a conscious effort to adapt his terms to Jonathan’s.

  ‘There I agree. But who’s we, Uncle Harry?’

  ‘The West Riding. We should have formed a syndicate and bought J. L. Hardaker Ltd as a going concern. If I’d been a bit younger or you’d been a bit older, Jonathan, I’d have bought the firm myself. But as it is, I’ve got almost more on my plate already than I can manage.’ He sighed.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan at length in a strained voice: ‘I don’t want to go into textiles.’

  Morcar’s mouth dropped open. He gazed at the boy, stupefied. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into textiles. They’re not my line. I’m not interested in them. I’ve tried, but I can’t be interested.’

  ‘But Old Mill’s all your mother’s’ said Morcar in a bewildered tone.

  He could not help remembering for a moment his own generosity in this respect. David Oldroyd’s Will, of which he and Edwin Harington, Jennifer’s only brother, were executors, had bequeathed to David’s wife Jennifer all of which he died possessed, which was mostly half the fabric and site of Old Mill and half the shares of Messrs Oldroyd and Mellor, Ltd, who had carried on textile manufacture there. When G. B. Mellor perished in an air attack over Burma, Morcar bought from his widow, at a rather more than fair price, her husband’s half of the fabric and shares, and put them into Jennifer’s name, thus securing her, he thought, a reasonable income on which to bring up her infant son. So that Jennifer could feel independent, he did not tell her of his part in the transaction, and indeed nobody knew of it but Morcar and his solicitor. (Edwin Harington by reason of his naval profession - he had risen to some kind of admiral by now - was always off at sea on the other side of the world; with an aristocratic wife and a son at Osborne he concerned himself little with his sister’s affairs, trusting them all to Morcar.) Morcar then proceeded to manage Old Mill himself as one of his own properties, taking no director’s fee, and had done so ever since.

  ‘Yes, it’s all your mother’s,’ he said, thinking of this past history. Suppressing these self-righteous thoughts hastily, he went on: ‘And half Syke Mills will come to you from me. The other half will be Cecil’s, of course, but he’ll just draw the dividends on his shares; you’ll have the management.’

  ‘I don’t want it, Uncle Harry!’

  ‘Do you really mean you want to throw away the chance of being at the head of a big textile organization like mine?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You said yourself that a man should make up his mind what he wants to do, and do it - not let himself be bossed into falling in with someone else’s plans.’

  Morcar was silent. For a moment he saw nothing but his own life, his long hard road to success, the pleasure and pride he had taken in the thought that he could leave half his substantial achievement to David’s son, Christina’s grandson. Now the whole landscape of his life had collapsed into dust and ashes. Well, pull yourself together, he sa
id to himself at last; don’t give way. He made a painful effort and returned by force of will to the present. He saw the rows of motionless looms and the troubled face of the young man before him.

  ‘The Oldroyds have been making cloth for nigh on two hundred years,’ he said with careful mildness. ‘And you want to break the tradition.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Uncle Harry. One can’t always be looking back at the past. The day of the family firm is over, anyway. Managerial competence is what counts, not family inheritance. And it’s my life, after all. I’ve only one, and perhaps not much of that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Since you and those like you won’t ban the bomb.’

  ‘Oh, pooh,’ said Morcar impatiently. ‘I’ve been through two wars, and I don’t feel so worried.’

  ‘The next one will be very different,’ said Jonathan, sombre.

  ‘True. But I’m not bothered.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to disappoint you,’ said Jonathan stiffly.

  ‘Oh, don’t give that a thought. I’m glad it’s all come out in good time, and I’m glad you told me of your intentions yourself,’ said Morcar, sardonic. (I can thank Hardakers’ for that, he thought.)

  ‘I haven’t spoken of it to Mother yet.’

  ‘She’ll be upset. Your father cared for the textile trade.’

  Jonathan exclaimed impatiently.

  ‘Jonathan, I’ve seen you reading books about the history of the industrial revolution. That’s just books. Your ancestors were the industrial revolution. They made it.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’m looking to the future, not the past.’

  ‘And what does the future hold for you, if I may ask? What do you mean to work at?’

  Jonathan hesitated. ‘Eventually, I expect, I should like to go into Parliament.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll invent a new political party, then. I make nothing of the three we’ve got. Two of them are greedy and one’s cissy.’