A Man of His Time

by Phyllis Bentley

  ‘How many roads must a man walk down*

  before you call him a man

  sang Jonathan in friendly defiance. Morcar liked this; to be a man, he thought, took some doing, some enduring, some experience.

  Then there came a couplet which Morcar could not remember:

  ‘Yes, ‘n’ How many seas…’

  No, he had forgotten it. Then:

  ‘Yes, ‘n’ How many times must the cannon balls fly

  before they’re forever banned?

  The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind, The

  answer is blowin’ in the wind.’

  Morcar let these words roll out on the breeze, humming the lines he had forgotten. He was occasionally surprised by a sudden shrill note in his voice - ‘an old man’s pipe,’ he thought with rueful amusement - but on the whole his baritone still sounded strong enough and warm enough to give him pleasure.

  He came down out of the hills into the Ire Valley, humming more quietly now, and reached Stanney Royd.

  The house was quite dark, naturally, for the hour was after one, and he was not expected until tomorrow. He rolled the garage door up and down very quietly, so as to disturb no one’s sleep, inserted his latch-key into the frontdoor lock and let himself into the house very quietly. The picture of his own comfortable bed rose up before him entrancingly, and he chuckled to himself with glee at the remembrance of his Copenhagen stratagem. So long as nobody ever knew of it but himself, he thought, no harm could come of it to anybody. He trod softly across the dark square hall, opened the kitchen door, put on the light, wrote a note announcing his arrival to Mrs Jessopp, and took a bottle of milk out of the fridge. While pouring a glassful from this, it occurred to him to wonder whether there were any letters awaiting him; he made his way into his den and sat down at his desk. A few circulars, a few invitations, a few bills. The evening’s copy of the Annotsfield News, loosely folded as if it had been read, lay to one side. He picked it up and opened it out.

  The awful shock of what he saw almost killed him.

  The top half of the front page was devoted to a diagram, a map of the new Ring Road from Yorkshire to Lancashire which was to bypass Annotsfield and join the Ire Valley road (which was to be enlarged) just above the Ire bridge. The new road, marked in thick heavy black, cut across Syke Mills.

  ‘But it’s impossible, it’s absurd, it’s not so, it can’t be, don’t be such a fool, they would have told you,’ muttered Morcar. He traced the road with his forefinger from its origin in the AI (M) in the east, along to the south of Annotsfield, up the Ire Valley and over the Pennines to the west. Although buildings were shown only as small grey squares and the orientation of the map was unusual, Morcar knew the landmarks of this part of Yorkshire so well that he could not be mistaken. The proposed road took not merely a corner but a whole substantial block, or rather, halves of two substantial blocks, off Syke Mills. Remembering the breadth of the new motorways, and the open verges which bordered them, Morcar saw that the whole mill would probably have to come down.

  ‘What an idiotic thing to do! They can’t really mean it. Why on earth not shift the road a few feet to one side?’

  He gazed at the plan again; it was clear that to avoid Syke Mills the road would have to take a considerable bend; between the hills and the river Ire, there was not room for such a bend.

  His heart sank. An awful hollow seemed to expand in his stomach. His body trembled.

  ‘It can’t be true. This can’t be happening to me.’

  He sat for a long time with his hands stretched out in front of him, resting on his desk, the map lying between. He was not thinking. He was beyond thought. His mind was merely full of pain.

  After a time he roused himself. He stood up, swaying a little. He folded the News in three, so as to leave the portion of the map which showed Syke Mills, exposed. Leaving the glass of milk untouched on the desk, he staggered from the room - forgetting to turn off the light - and with the newspaper under his arm, hauled himself upstairs, clinging to the banisters.

  Once in his room, Morcar, usually the tidiest of men, threw off his clothes in all directions and flung himself into bed.

  But of course he did not sleep. The map kept rising over and over again in his mind, that awful black line burning itself into his brain. His incredulity was so great that he could not bear to keep still under it, but threw himself from side to side, muttering protests. Presently it occurred to him that the map had been accompanied, of course, by explanatory text; with a feeling of relief he rose and put on the light and read the News’ description of the scheme. Syke Mills was referred to as one of four or five important buildings which were to be demolished, along with several acres (it seemed to Morcar) of small houses and shops. A leader in the middle page confirmed this statement, and directed attention to the merits of the scheme, which had not yet, it appeared, been submitted to the appropriate Ministry. Morcar groaned; the laudatory tone of the leader showed the attitude which would be generally adopted. But demolish Syke Mills! No, no! He wanted to make his protest now; to telephone the whole Town Council, to write a letter, to shout and thump the table and argue. His whole being was so full of opposition that he felt as if the organism would break apart from its pressure.

  After a time, from exhaustion both mental and physical, he drowsed uneasily - to wake again to the same agony, the same fury of opposition. This alternation seemed to continue all night long, but probably he had slept more than he imagined, reflected Morcar, waking again to find his room full of daylight; people always do. He rose, put his head under the cold water tap of his wash-basin, and sat down to study the News more carefully. If seemed there was a model of the new road on view, in the Annotsfield Town Hall.

  ‘I must see that at once.’ decided Morcar. ‘Then the Town Clerk … the Mayor . .. the Highways Committee, I suppose … What time is it?’

  To his surprise, his self-winding watch said nine o’clock. He must bestir himself, be out and about at once. But now that the time for action had come, an immense discouragement weighted his limbs.

  A loud knock sounded at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Morcar irritably.

  The door opened, and Jonathan appeared with a look of horror on his face. The sight of him recalled at once to Morcar’s mind the song he had sung on his happy journey home last night; he had been in a state of - ‘euphoria’ he thought was the word. From far out of the past a line from a play came up in his mind - my bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne - yes, Romeo and Juliet, he had seen it long ago with Christina and her husband. Romeo said that and felt jolly, when in a few moments he was to be confronted with news of Juliet’s death. Last night he, Morcar, had felt the same cheerfulness, and then met this news. Fool, fool, said Morcar cynically to himself; you should have known that life has always one more frightful trick in store for you, waiting round the corner. It’s been the same tune all the time. When Winnie had agreed to a divorce, a V. One killed Christina. And now this. He found he was staring at Jonathan with blank eyes, not seeing him, and with an effort focused his gaze. Behind Jonathan in the distance Chuff could be seen hovering, looking white and distraught, as totally wretched as he had appeared when Morcar met him at the docks. It was clear that Jonathan and Chuff both knew about the threat to Syke Mills, thought Morcar with relief; at least I don’t have to tell them.

  ‘Come in and shut the door,’ he said.

  Jonathan obeyed. ‘Mrs Jessopp thought you might like a cup of tea,’ he said, setting this down with a hand that shook.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ said Morcar roughly.

  ‘When we realized that you had come home and - seen the paper,’ said Jonathan: ‘I thought I ought to be - I wished to be - here. I’ve telephoned school to say I shall be late.’

  Morcar took a sip of the hot liquid and to his surprise felt better.

  ‘Has there been anything printed about the scheme before last night’s paper?’

  ‘No, that’s th
e first announcement.’

  ‘There’s a model on show, I see.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve seen it. As soon as we read last night’s paper we went down to the Town Hall. I’m afraid the road does—’

  ‘Go through Syke Mills?’

  ‘Yes. Compensation, of course,’ said Jonathan, ‘is statutory. But not rehousing, except for domestic premises. They’ll give you big compensation, Uncle Harry.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, Jonathan,’ said Morcar hoarsely. ‘Syke Mills means far more to me than money. It’s my life’s work. Now it’s to be demolished.’

  ‘I know. I understand.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. You don’t care about textiles. You don’t feel as I do.’

  ‘I can experience empathy,’ said Jonathan, looking aside.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I can understand your feelings and regret them for you, though I do not feel the same myself.’

  Morcar snorted and felt rather more himself.

  ‘It’s as empty as it sounds,’ he said.

  ‘This happening gives you the opportunity to retire, to shed some of your responsibilities, if you wish.’

  ‘I don’t wish,’ said Morcar.

  ‘I’m very sorry about it, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Well, don’t let’s get lugubrious about it,’ said Morcar. ‘I don’t want any sympathy, Jonathan. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Susie,’ began Jonathan.

  ‘I don’t want to see Susie - yet. I mean that. Keep her away from me for a while, Jonathan. Well, I must get down to the mill,’ said Morcar, resuming his rough outward tone. ‘They’ll be having kittens there.’

  ‘Nathan rang up last night. We sent you a telegram. We tried to telephone but they said you weren’t there; you seemed to have left.’

  ‘I had. I hope your telegram was discreet,’ said Morcar, thinking of the agent, who might see it.

  ‘Of course. We simply said: urge immediate return important developments.’

  ‘That showed sense, at least.’

  ‘It was Chuff’s wording.’

  ‘Tell Chuff to telephone Syke and say ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. He must wait and drive me,’ said Morcar, admitting to himself that he felt a trifle shaky. ‘And a car smash-up for me now would just about put the lid on,’ he told himself.

  Til tell him. Is there anything else I can do, Uncle Harry?’

  ‘No.’ Morcar, reflecting that the lad had shown courage and affection in breaking in upon him after such news, made a great effort, and said: ‘Thanks for coming in, Jonathan.’

  Jonathan muttered something inaudible, and withdrew.

  It was only when Morcar, having gathered his forces to rise and dress, came to shave, that he perceived the extent of Jonathan’s courage and the reason for his horror, for it was then that he saw himself in the mirror.

  His hair, bushy and turbulent as ever, had turned completely white.

  ‘Well, when you watch the things you gave your life to, broken,’ he thought to himself, ‘it’s not surprising, after all. How does it go on? And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools.’ He paused for a moment, savouring to the full the anguish of his situation. ‘Kipling, my God!’ exclaimed Morcar. The Liberal in him revolted. ‘Come on, Harry,’ he said to himself. ‘That’s enough of that.’

  He buttoned his jacket and pulled it down sharply all round so that its fit was perfect, then went off with a composed air to Syke Mills, beside Chuff, pale and silent.

  The lamb on his desk looked almost unbearably poignant that morning.

  * BLOWIN’ IN THE WIND: COPYRIGHT © 196a by M. Witmark & Sons. Used by permission.

  31. Jonathan at School

  ‘Give these maps out, Shackleton and Lister.’

  ‘Why are you so late this morning, sir?’ inquired Grimshaw.

  ‘Shut up and sit down, Grimshaw,’ said Jonathan, offhand. ‘I’ve no time for whimsies from you this morning.’

  ‘Have you had bad news, sir?’ inquired Shackleton, who as top of the class had a certain official standing.

  The image of Morcar, white-haired, his face lined, distorted, twitching, his eyes full of perplexity and anguish, sitting limply on the edge of a dishevelled bed, rose before Jonathan’s eyes, and he replied shortly:

  ‘Yes.’

  At this from mere decency all the class fell silent except the irrepressible Grimshaw, who cried: ‘What’s a whimsy, sir?’

  ‘Look it up. Get a move on with those maps, boys.’

  ‘I haven’t got a dictionary, sir.’

  ‘Sutcliffe, have you got a dictionary? Lend it to Grimshaw for two minutes, please.’

  ‘I’ve found whimsy, sir.’

  ‘Then come right out here and read the definition aloud.’

  ‘Whimsy. Whim, crotchet, fad. What’s a crotchet, sir?’

  ‘A whimsy. Is there any more? Continue, then.’

  ‘Whimsical: capricious, fantastic.’

  ‘Old Grimmy’s fantastic,’ cried a voice gleefully from the back of the class. This was repeated in various quarters, and there was laughter.

  Grimshaw crimsoned painfully.

  ‘Sit down now, Grimshaw. Give the dictionary back to Sutcliffe. No more whimsies today, Grimshaw?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Grimshaw, very quiet.

  Jonathan, having forgotten his ambitions, his learning, his failure, his desire to please, in a word himself, in his grief for Morcar, gave a good brisk lesson. It was listened to with silence, with respect, and presently even with interest. There was not a word out of Grimshaw.

  At the end of the period Jonathan could not help but feel a certain elation.

  ‘I got on top of them that time,’ he thought.

  Immediately he felt ashamed. He had always promised himself never to hold a pupil up to derision, and he had performed precisely this despicable trick with poor silly young Grimshaw.

  ‘The world’s slow stain,’ he rebuked himself.

  Nevertheless he thought he began dimly to see, or perhaps only to feel, what had been wrong previously with his teaching.

  32. Highways Committee

  ‘I think you might have given me warning in advance, gentlemen, and not let me learn the proposed destruction of my property from the evening newspaper.’

  Morcar had composed this sentence on his way to the meeting with the officials of the Highways Committee of the Annotsfield Town Council, and he delivered it now with sonorous emphasis.

  ‘We can’t play favourites, Mr Morcar,’ said the chairman. ‘A great deal of other property has to come down in addition to yours. A great deal of domestic property. We’ve let you know all at the same time by a public announcement of the scheme in the press.’

  ‘I don’t consider an announcement in the press as, legally speaking, information.’

  ‘You’re wrong there.’

  ‘Well, you know the scheme now.’

  ‘Aye! I know now. And I’ve survived the shock. To my surprise.’

  ‘It’s an even worse shock to house-owners.’

  ‘I doubt that. I’m the largest property-owner on the proposed route, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. Well,’ murmured the Borough Surveyor, ‘we can’t make favourites.’

  ‘I shall fight it tooth and nail. There’ll be a public inquiry, I suppose.’

  ‘Now, Harry, what’s the use?’ said the third member of the committee, a fellow-clubman, soothingly. ‘There’s no other possible route. The river Ire is on one side of you, and Emsley Brow on the other; there’s no room to enlarge the present road except through Syke.’

  Morcar had worked this out for himself, but he felt sick to hear it thus openly confirmed.

  ‘Take the new road along the other side of the river,’ he suggested hoarsely.

  ‘That would be worse!’ exclaimed the surveyor. ‘That side is crammed with mill property. Besides, higher up the valley, it narrows on that side. There’s no room.’

  ‘What ar
e you going to do about the Ire bridge?’ inquired Morcar, interested in spite of himself.

  ‘Leave it where it is.’

  ‘Improve the angle a bit, of course.’

  ‘And widen it. It will join the new road—form one of the entrances from Annotsfield to the new road.’

  ‘The other entrance will be on the far side of the town -on the east. The town itself will be completely by-passed.’

  ‘You’ve worked it all out, I see,’ said Morcar with as much disagreeable sarcasm in his voice as he could manage. In reality he felt daunted, for the plan was, in fact, a good one, considering the situation of Annotsfield and the lie of the Ire Valley land. The Pennines always made things difficult, he admitted to himself.

  ‘Of course we have. We’ve tried and tried to cause as little disturbance to existing property as possible. But there it is. The property on both sides of that stretch of the Ire Valley road will have to come down. We’re told that in ten years’ time the road traffic will be twice as great as it is at present. We’ve got to by-pass Annotsfield with a road from Lancashire to join the Ai, or the town won’t stay in existence at all; it’ll just be a mass of traffic lined by empty shops and houses, because nobody - no pedestrian, I mean - will be able to get across.’

  ‘In fifty years these huge roads will be empty and grass-grown, because everyone will travel by helicopter,’ said Morcar.

  ‘Maybe,’ said the chairman, setting his jaw. ‘We’ve heard that before. But we have to do what’s best for our own time.’

  ‘Has the Ministry of Transport approved the scheme?’

  ‘It’s only just been sent to them.’

  ‘And if it’s approved, when do you mean to begin work?’