‘Well, at least we have an alternative, now,’ he said cheerfully.
Chuff said nothing.
34. Available
Morcar extracted Carol Hardaker’s address from his correspondence of a couple of years back; she had no telephone, it appeared, so he sent her a telegram requesting permission to visit her at noon on the morrow and inviting her to lunch with him at one of Scarborough’s most celebrated hotels. He received no reply to this communication, but determined to make the journey all the same. Chuff disapproved.
‘Suppose she’s away, or out,’ he said.
‘Well, I shall be no worse off. It’s a pleasant drive.’ said Morcar. ‘I always enjoy a glimpse of the sea.’
‘Jonathan, do try to dissuade him,’ pleaded Chuff, making a private visit to Jonathan’s room late that night. ‘It’s all nonsense. What good will it do to see her; it’s a matter for lawyers and surveyors. All that will matter is the Ramsgill price.’
‘If you think so, why don’t you say so to him?’ ‘You handle him better than I can.’
‘I think he feels a feverish desire for action,’ mused Jonathan. ‘He’s had a frightful blow.’
‘I know. But rushing off across the country won’t make it any better.’
‘I think it might. In any case, the visit will occupy a day of this waiting period. Perhaps even two - you might manage to persuade him to stay the night.’
Chuff groaned.
‘You could telephone your grandmother not to expect you on Sunday.’
‘Jonathan, he isn’t fit to drive all that way.’
‘I should have thought that by African standards ninety miles wasn’t much of a distance.’
‘You should have seen him yesterday, calmly crossing to the wrong side of the road, below the top of a hill and before a bend. We were both nearly killed, I may say.’
Jonathan looked alarmed.
‘He’s always been an excellent driver. He’s just upset.’
‘That’s what I’m saying, Jonathan. He’s upset.’
‘You’ll be with him.’
‘I will if he takes me.’
‘I might put in a word about that,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘But I should take it for granted if I were you.’
Chuff grimaced and withdrew.
‘Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan, accosting Morcar as he came down the stairs to breakfast next morning - he looked very spruce and distinguished, Jonathan observed; the whitening of his hair had improved his appearance, though his face was lined and his once fresh complexion had faded. ‘I just wanted a word with you.’ He drew the older man into the den in an intentionally conspiratorial manner, and said in a low confidential tone: ‘You’re taking Chuff with you to Scarborough, aren’t you?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of it,’ said Morcar, frowning. ‘Carol Hardaker doesn’t know him. She might find his presence embarrassing.’
‘I’m afraid he’ll be hurt if you don’t take him,’ urged Jonathan as before.
Morcar sighed. These youngsters have so many feelings, he thought irritably. You’d never guess it to look at them, but it’s true. He had been looking forward to a long day alone, with no necessity to conceal the sharp agony and dull leaden ache of pain which he alternately experienced.
‘Very well, I’ll take him,’ he said crossly.
Jonathan wondered whether he could risk suggesting that Chuff should do the driving, but did not venture to do so. However, to his great relief, when Morcar came out of the house to his car - which Chuff had had cleaned and polished and filled with the necessary ingredients the evening before in a way even Jessopp could not have bettered -he said crossly to his grandson:
‘If you’re coming you may as well drive.’
Chuff leaped instantly into the driving seat, and they went off into the main Ire Valley road with all due care.
The day was crisp and bright, the leaves were turning to autumn gold, and although the day was Saturday, the morning was early and the roads towards the coast were not yet too full of traffic. Morcar from time to time experienced for a moment a feeling of enjoyment. But no, he recalled at once, there is some heavy reason why I cannot be allowed to enjoy. Then he remembered what it was: this heavy wearisome grief which lay at the bottom of his mind like a cannon-ball - yes, an old round cannon-ball such as you saw, in his childhood, piled in neat heaps on the ground in the Annotsfield park beside old snub-nosed, huge-wheeled, rusting guns. (Boer War, perhaps? Surely not the Crimea, though they looked old enough for Troy. No guns at Troy, however.) This cannon-ball in his mind would always in the future prevent him from whole-hearted enjoyment; if a balloon of happiness strove to rise, the cannon-ball would haul it down. Don’t be so fanciful, with your cannon-balls and balloons and goodness knows what, Morcar adjured himself; and yet on the other hand it was rather restful and refreshing to let one’s wounded mind flow free. Chuff was silent and drove with skill, so that Morcar was able to cease watching the road and let his mind roam. It was throwing one’s hand in, however; he knew that well. He pulled himself together with an effort as they approached the coast.
They found Carol Hardaker’s neat little brick house in a row in a small sloping street not too far from the sea on the north side of the town. The curtains and paint, the short stone path and steps, looked extremely clean but somehow a trifle grim, and this impression was strengthened when the door was flung open and Mrs Hardaker appeared in severe dark blue, two young boys crowding at her side. The boys, dark-haired and red-cheeked, in high-necked sweaters and shorts of the same utilitarian navy shade, looked handsome but rough, and stared at Morcar and Chuff with a belligerent air. Mrs Hardaker - a good-looking piece, middle thirties, fine eyes, pity there’s grey in all that black hair, thought Chuff; her beauty had hardened with grief, thought Morcar - was also evidently not in a good humour.
‘I didn’t reply to your telegram, Mr Morcar. I didn’t want you to come. I’ve no money to waste on telegrams,’ she said angrily.
‘You didn’t forbid me, so I came. I very much want to see you. I don’t bring bad news,’ said Morcar mildly.
‘That’ll be a change. Who’s this, then?’ said Mrs Hardaker, nodding towards Chuff.
‘He is my grandson.’ Morcar hastily ran over Chuff’s baptismal names in his mind, rejected them all, and concluded: ‘Chuff Morcar.’
‘He’s like you. Is he coming in too?’
‘Perhaps the boys would like to go for a short drive,’ said Chuff hastily, appalled.
At this the two boys gave a loud shout, rushed down the path and hurled themselves into Morcar’s car, pawing and kicking the paint and the chromium fittings in a manner which Morcar took calmly but which maddened Chuff. He gave them a disapproving glance as he climbed in; at this they laughed derisively and wrestled with each other with a total disregard for the welfare of the handsome leather upholstery.
‘Come in,’ said Carol, standing aside for Morcar to enter.
She closed the door behind him and led the way into a small front room, rather bare, spotlessly clean, decorated in hideous taste. She sat down and waved Morcar to a chair; immediately a little girl of three or four, dark-haired like her brothers and very pretty, with huge dark brown eyes, climbed on to her lap. Carol, hugging her, rocked her slowly to and fro; the child, one arm round her mother’s neck, gazed out in alarm at Morcar. In spite of Carol’s declared objection to Morcar’s visit, it was clear that it had been half expected, for the little girl was wearing what was obviously her best white party frock, agreeably embroidered in pink and scarlet. Morcar could never remain insensitive to a colour scheme, and he observed this unusual combination keenly now. It gave him unexpected pleasure, and he smiled. The child, after a stare of surprise, smiled shyly in return, then looked at her mother for approval.
‘I’m sorry if I was rude, but I hate seeing anybody from the West Riding,’ said Carol, somewhat mollified.
‘I can understand that. How is - your husband?’ asked Morcar.
‘Lucius is dead. Last winter. Pneumonia.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Morcar sincerely.
‘I’m glad. So was Lucius, I’m sure. He wouldn’t want to live. It’ll be better for the children, with him gone. We’ll go down south where the name of Hardaker doesn’t mean anything. There’s nothing to keep us up here now Lucius is gone. I shall put the boys into engineering, or electronics or something. Anything but textiles.’
This last remark vexed Morcar. His unconscious reaction, a desire to wound, caused him to ask:
‘And your brother?’
‘Oh, he’s all right. A model prisoner, I’m sure. Esteemed by all. What did you come to see me about, Mr Morcar?’
‘A new Ring Road is planned for Annotsfield, and my Syke Mill is to be knocked down to make way for it.’
‘Well! Fancy that! We all have our troubles,’ said Carol in a softer tone.
‘I must find other premises, and naturally I thought of Ramsgill. If the road scheme is approved, I may want to buy Ramsgill.’
‘You should have bought it at the time.’
‘I didn’t need it then.’ Suddenly the scene in empty Ramsgill when Jonathan revealed his aversion to textiles flashed before him, and he winced.
‘I don’t really care whether you buy it or not, so long as it brings me in the same income as it does now. Or more, of course. You see, there’s a lot of us to keep, Mr Morcar. There’s old Mrs Hardaker, Lucius’ mother. Of course all this happening knocked her off her perch, and she’s pretty much of an invalid, has to be waited on hand and foot, you know the kind of thing. Costs no end. That sort always live long. Well, they do, Mr Morcar. Well, then, there’s Elizabeth, Lucius’ sister, married to my brother, poor girl. And their child, Edmund. Poor little thing, he’s a wreckling; in spite of the health service he costs them plenty, I can tell you. Elizabeth keeps going back to nursing, but what’s the good, Edmund’s always being ill and she has to come out again to look after him. Then there’s me and my three. I’m a shorthand typist, always have been, and I can easily get a job, but you see there’s young Carol here. She doesn’t like it when her mummy’s away, do you, Carry, love?’
The child buried her face in her mother’s breast.
‘You could perhaps do some copy-typing at home,’ suggested Morcar.
‘That means buying a typewriter. Where’s the cash to come from?’
‘Hire purchase?’
‘No! Never will I get into debt by one single penny!’ shouted Carol. ‘Look what it did to Lucius and Edward! And poor old Mr Hardaker,’ she added in a lower tone. ‘Though he hadn’t much longer to live anyway, I don’t suppose. So you see there’s seven of us to keep, Mr Morcar.’
‘It might be more economical if you all lived together,’ said Morcar.
‘It would! But I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to live with any Hardakers again. I’ve had enough, thank you. Of course there’s nothing wrong with Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s all right. A bit dreary, though. But you see, Mr Morcar, with all the expenses of the trial, and auctioneer’s percentages, and Lucius not allowed to profit - fortunately old Mr Hardaker had left some of his money through to his grandchildren, as it were, but what a fuss of lawyers and fees to get it settled! - and our removals, and the way the cost of everything goes up and up, the price of coal, and food, and electricity, and gas, and even milk, you wouldn’t believe, and the boys are very hard on their shoes - with all that, it makes things difficult.’
‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Morcar gravely. ‘Now, listen, Mrs Hardaker.’
‘Yes, you’ve had enough of my troubles, I don’t doubt.’
‘I may want to buy Ramsgill Mills. But before I so much as think of it, I want to know that you have no objection. No, listen a moment,’ he said, raising a hand to stop her as she began to speak: ‘If you have any idea of ever getting Ramsgill back for your sons—’
‘Never!’
‘—I shouldn’t want to buy it. If it becomes mine, it stays mine.’
‘It’s very good of you to take my feelings into consideration, Mr Morcar. It is indeed, and I appreciate it. But I never want to hear the name of Ramsgill again, or have anything to do with textiles. I couldn’t care less whether you buy it or not, so long as our income from the rents or whatever they put the money into if you buy it, doesn’t dwindle.’
‘Thank you, Carol. That’s all I wanted to know.’
‘It was good of you to come yourself instead of just sending a cold letter. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Morcar? We don’t have anything stronger here, you know. No fear. If ever you’ve seen anyone taking to drink, Mr Morcar, you can’t bear to touch it yourself, you know.’
‘But I’m sure Lucius—’ began Morcar.
‘No, it wasn’t Lucius. Never mind. I can pop the kettle on in a minute.’
‘But you’re coming to have lunch with me.’
‘No, I’m not. I can’t leave the children, and I don’t want to bring them with me. I don’t want to give them a taste for rich hotels and that sort of thing. They’ll have to be workers and they may as well start right. What about that cuppa, eh?’
‘Well, I will have a cup, thank you,’ said Morcar.
He was still drinking it when his car drew up at the gate. Chuff very sulky and the Hardaker boys very merry. Carol, holding her little girl by the hand, came down the short path to see him off.
‘Don’t worry about me and my troubles, Mr Morcar,’ she said kindly as he made to close the door. ‘We shall manage.’
‘What did she say about Ramsgill?’ demanded Chuff as they drove off.
‘She doesn’t care whether we buy it or not.’
‘Ah!’
‘Turn up into the town, Chuff,’ commanded Morcar. ‘I want an office-supply shop.’
‘Won’t it do after lunch?’ said Chuff, who looked slightly battered after his interlude with the Hardaker boys.
‘No. The shop might be shut. It might be early closing day.’
‘Not on Saturday, surely.’
‘We won’t risk it.’
Chuff sighed and complied. Morcar purchased a handsome typewriter, inscribed a card As a token of respect. H.M. and ordered the machine to be delivered immediately to Carol Hardaker. He chatted in a lively manner over lunch, and afterwards sat out on a seat on the sea front with his hat off, smoking a cigar, and feeling better, more himself, than he had done since what he had come to call The Blow. The sun shone; far below at the foot of the cliffs the waves, light green in colour by the shore, though not large were sizeable enough to draw the eye agreeably. Pink, scarlet, and an unusual light green began to weave themselves together in his mind.
‘You’re looking better, Grandfather. Your visit to Scarborough seems to have done you good,’remarked Chuff.
‘Aye, it has. There are people in the world with worse troubles than mine,’ said Morcar soberly.
‘I’m glad you feel that.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because I’m going to make your troubles worse,’ said Chuff.
His tone was so constrained that Morcar took alarm at once.
Is it about Ruth?’ he said in a tone of vexation which expected an affirmative reply.
‘No, it is not!’ cried Chuff with loud emphasis. ‘Why you should always suspect me of that sort of thing, Grandfather, I really don’t know.’
‘Well, it often happens,’ said Morcar mildly. ‘But her mother’s a dragon, of course. Go on, then, tell me what’s the matter. Money?’
‘No!’ Chuff then dropped his voice and muttered: ‘I don’t want us to go to Ramsgill.’
‘Why not, you silly boy?’ said Morcar, amused. ‘You think so, because Ramsgill looked a mess when you saw it yesterday; you can’t visualize how it can be restored and set on its feet again. Let me tell you, Ramsgill is a fine old mill.’
‘Old is the operative word,’ growled Chuff. ‘It’s a dreary place, old-fashioned, out of date. With poor windows. On several floors. The processe
s would sprawl about all over the place. They wouldn’t be properly organized,’he concluded, his voice rising again in angry protest.
‘Yes, they would. I should organize them,’ said Morcar calmly. ‘It would cost a bit, of course.’
‘But why should we go to Ramsgill?’
‘Because it’s available. If you think I like moving out of Annotsfield, where I’ve worked the best years of my life, I don’t. But we’ve got to make the best of a bad job.’
‘Why not make a good new job?’
‘Don’t be silly, Chuff. Mills don’t sprout like mushrooms. The fabric of Ramsgill is good. It’s a well-built shell. Plenty of good cloth has been manufactured there.’
‘We want a place suitable for new textures.’
‘What is it you want me to do?’ roared Morcar, suddenly losing his temper.
‘Build a new one-storey mill, with large glass windows and sheds arranged in logical order.’
‘One of those low sprawling concrete things,’ said Morcar with contempt.
‘Yes!’
‘You’re out of your mind. Have you any idea how much a thing of that kind would cost?’
‘No, but I think we ought to find out.’
‘And where will you site this new factory,’ said Morcar, giving this word the scorn he thought it deserved.
‘In the field by Old Mill.’
‘Well, there is a field there, certainly,’ said Morcar.
‘It’s your field.’
A Man of His Time Page 21
