‘But getting planning permission to build there is another matter.’
‘Well, if you can’t swing that, it’s a poor do.’
‘We don’t swing things in this country.’
Chuff sniffed. ‘There are other mills along the Ire down there,’ he argued. ‘One more wouldn’t spoil the skyline. There’s a goodish road down to Old Mill. I don’t see that it would do anybody any harm. The river curves away from the line of the main road there, so there’s plenty of room for widening the road for the new Ring Road scheme. The new building would be just an extension of Old Mill. You could call it Syke Mill. You needn’t change your business address. It’s got water. Think of the water rights!’ he urged.
Morcar thought of the water rights.
‘You’re pretty cool, telling me what to do with my own mills,’ he said.
‘I understood that my future lay in your mills, Grandfather,’ said Chuff. ‘Of course if it doesn’t,’ he added, crimsoning painfully, ‘pray wash out everything I’ve said.’
‘Don’t be a donkey, Chuff.’
‘I’m not being a donkey.’
There was one good thing about Chuff, reflected Morcar; when you argued with him you could hit out, and he hit back - it was not like arguing with Jonathan, who always got hurt, so that you felt sorry.
‘It might be a good thing,’ resumed Chuff, ‘to apply at once for permission to build an extension, and then—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Morcar, savagely. ‘Give me time to think.’ He picked up his hat. The sun had gone in, the wind felt shrewd, the sea, now a dull leaden colour, was beating against the shore in short choppy waves which sounded bad-tempered. ‘We’d better go,’ he said.
As they walked together towards the car park Chuff said slyly:
‘We haven’t done so badly about Syke after all, Grandfather.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Two ideas how to replace it, within a week.’
Morcar snorted. ‘Oh, we’re a grand pair,’ he said sardonically.
He was silent till Chuff had completed the complicated task of negotiating the afternoon traffic of the town and brought them safely to the main road out of Scarborough, when he said:
‘You seem to think I’m made of money.’
‘I think you know where to find it,’ said Chuff with a cheerful grin.
35. Alternative
‘You see, Mr Morcar,’ said the architect seriously, ‘unless you made very extensive alterations, practically rebuilt the place, you might well find your plans rejected, as not conforming to modern standards. Worse still, defects might be found by the inspector when you had completed your alterations.’
‘So much for Ramsgill. Now tell me the advantages of a new building,’ said Morcar with a surface mildness which did not deceive Chuff – nor, possibly, the architect, for he gave Morcar a shrewd glance and modified his tone.
‘Well, it would not be a multiple-storey building,’ he said. ‘A one-storey building only. No problem of stairs, lifts, or differing levels. The various rooms or sheds would all open into each other - or if necessary swinging doors could be inserted to diminish inter-departmental noise. The departments would be arranged to conduce to the flow of material with maximum rapidity and ease. That is to say, all material would proceed in a one-way direction, and be wheeled or rolled from one process to the next. Large windows everywhere, in inner walls and doors if necessary, would facilitate personnel supervision.’
‘Personnel supervision?’ inquired Morcar.
‘It’s very necessary nowadays, unfortunately,’ said the architect. ‘Production mounts when working personnel is under continual supervision.’
‘How disgusting!’ said Morcar, outraged. ‘I regard that idea as an insult to my employees.’
The architect pursed his lips and slightly hunched one shoulder, in simulated ruefulness. ‘It’s been found very necessary in many cases, nowadays. I regret it as much as you do, but there it is.’
‘What about power? For looms and so on?’
‘Each loom will have its own individual drive. Electricity will, of course, be secured from the appropriate authority, in this case presumably the Yorkshire Electricity Board.’
His voice held a slight question, and he obviously hoped the question would lead to a disclosure of the whereabouts of the proposed site. Morcar, however, said nothing, and Chuff also appeared uninterested, as if lost in thought.
‘He’s got more sense than you’d think,’ approved Morcar silently. ‘Of course we should have to have a boiler as well,’ he said aloud.
‘Why?’ snapped Chuff, suddenly awake.
‘For heat - for process steam,’ said Morcar. (‘I can talk this modern lingo as well as they can,’ he told himself with a chuckle.)
‘Another point you should consider - I am sure you have already considered it, Mr Morcar,’ continued the architect, ‘is the local labour supply. It is well to build where this is abundant.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ agreed Morcar affably. ‘In this case there will be no difficulty.’ He had already had a talk with the Syke Mills shop steward, who was very anxious about the employees’ jobs; he felt pretty sure he could take the whole lot with him if he built by the Ire. Old Mill was only a mile or so up the valley, and the weekday bus service was good. A mill bus down the lane might be useful. Ramsgill of course would be a different matter; it would mean two buses for most of the men into Annotsfield and out again. Or he could run a mill bus, from Irebridge, direct over the brow, the route he and Chuff had taken, and poor old John Hardaker when he was murdered. There would be problems in either place, but none that was insoluble.
‘Let’s come to the important point,’ he said. ‘What would all this single-storey affair cost to build, eh?’
‘We calculate it at three pounds a square foot, with heating,’ said the architect briskly. ‘So, a hundred feet by fifty, that would be a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
‘We should be a bit squashed up in that area,’ said Morcar grimly. (He observed with sardonic glee that Chuff looked staggered.)
‘The area’s for you to decide, Mr Morcar.’
‘It is indeed. Well, thanks very much. I’m greatly obliged for all the information. I’ll probably get in touch with you later.’
‘I hope you will,’ said the architect, ushering them out. ‘Pray feel free to ask me any questions you like, at any time.’
‘Well, what did you think of that, Chuff?’ asked Morcar, grimly amused to see his grandson looking pale.
‘It’s going to cost an awful lot of money to build a new mill.’
‘It is.’
‘All the same there were advantages, he said.’
‘Flow of material and easy supervision of personnel.’
‘Exactly.’
‘He wanted the job,’ suggested Morcar.
‘Of course he did! I know that,’ said Chuff impatiently. ‘I’m not like my father, Grandfather,’ he said, glaring fiercely at Morcar as they reached the foot of the architect’s steps. ‘I know my way about. ‘I’m tough.’
‘Good! You’ll need to be.’
‘Grandfather,’ said Chuff to Morcar’s back as he climbed into the car: ‘If you were my age - when you were my age -in these circumstances you wouldn’t hesitate for a moment. You’d build a new mill.’
‘Perhaps I have more sense now as well as more money,’ said Morcar.
He spoke mildly, but raged within.
V End Of An Era
36. The Last of Winnie
‘I’ve come to say I can’t come today,’ said Chuff when Ruth, looking agreeably domestic in a small rose-coloured apron, opened the door.
They kissed.
‘Oh, Chuff, why not?’ said Ruth, disappointed.
‘Grandma’s ill. She’s got jaundice, the doctor says. She’s to go into hospital. There’ll be a bed for her tomorrow morning. I couldn’t get into the house when I arrived, there was no answer. I had to climb in through the bedr
oom window. Did I have a time getting in! It was wedged with a brush. She was in bed, more or less unconscious.’
‘You haven’t left her alone!’
‘No, of course not. I’ve got a neighbour to come in for an hour. The doctor’s getting a district nurse or something for the night, but I don’t know when she’ll come so I must go back to Hurst Road and stay there. Of course I could have telephoned you,’ admitted Chuff, ‘but I thought I’d just like a glimpse.’ He grinned. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘Chapel.’
‘And G.B.?’
‘He’s out canvassing.’
‘Goodoh,’ said Chuff, taking her in his arms.
They kissed more warmly.
‘What are you wearing this for?’ asked Chuff, touching the apron with a caressing finger.
‘I’m cooking the Sunday dinner,’ said Ruth, smoothing it down. ‘I’m sorry about your grandmother. Chuff. It seems sad, doesn’t it to be ill all alone? Is she very bad? Did the doctor say?’
‘I rather think it’s all up with her.’
‘It’s very sad to die alone.’
Oh, I don’t know.’ said Chuff. ‘She might like it better that way. She has her own ideas, and they’re not the same as anybody else’s. She looked very small, shrunken somehow. And yellow, of course.’
Ruth, with the intuition of love, perceived that beneath his bluff manner he was a good deal distressed. She kissed him again, gently. At this Chuff hugged her very tightly. He was a strong young man with muscular arms, as Ruth had discovered before to her enjoyment.
‘Don’t break my ribs,’ she said teasingly.
‘I wish to God we could get married,’ said Chuff with emphasis. ‘I want us to be married now.’
‘It’s no good till you’re twenty-one and through your exams.’
‘Lots of people get married before they’re twenty-one.’
‘Your grandfather would never allow it, even if Mother would.’
Chuff groaned. ‘Why do we always have to do what older people say, instead of pleasing ourselves? Let’s go off and get married.’
‘We can’t till we’re twenty-one, not without their consent.’
‘We could go off to Gretna Bridge, or whatever it’s called, like you read about in the papers.’
‘Gretna Green. I shouldn’t like that,’ said Ruth. ‘I think it would be silly. Excessive.’ Chuff growled. ‘Besides, I shouldn’t like to do anything to upset Mother or hurt Mr Morcar. He’s a great man, Chuff.’
‘He has been.’
‘Oh, he still is!’ objected Ruth. ‘Everybody thinks so. Even the men at the mill.’
‘Man-made fabrics are going to catch up on him if he doesn’t look quick.’
‘He fought his way up alone to the very top of the industry. If you do half as well, Chuff—’ She paused, dropped her belligerent tone, and concluded softly: ‘I shall be very proud of you.’
This led to an even tighter embrace.
‘Of course if Mr Morcar would agree,’ began Ruth, weakening.
‘He won’t. He’s always going on about the foolishness of early marriages.’
‘Well, it’s not to be wondered at, when his own was such a failure.’
‘How they ever came together beats me. He never cared for Grandma, I’m sure. It’s Jonathan’s grandmother he cared for.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You should see her photo on the stand in his bedroom. A real beauty, she was. Don’t, tell me they were only friends.’
Ruth seemed disconcerted.
‘Does Jonathan know?’ she asked.
‘Goodness, no. Jonathan’s a babe in arms when it comes to that sort of thing. Far too high-minded to have such a thought in his head.’
‘But you like Jonathan, don’t you?’ said Ruth anxiously.
‘Of course. Who doesn’t? But he’s a mug, you know, a sucker; he’ll get done in all round.’
‘You must prevent it.’
‘I shall try, but it won’t be any good. Meanwhile he’s having a good influence on me,’ said Chuff with his good-humoured grin.
‘Silly!’ said Ruth fondly. ‘It seems odd to think of old people like Mr Morcar being in love,’ she mused, ‘but I expect they were very different when they were young.’ The emotional temperature of the interview having sunk a trifle, she was able to free herself from Chuff’s arms. ‘We shall just have to wait till we’re twenty-one.’she said consolingly. ‘It isn’t long.’
They compared their birthday dates, as they had done before, with satisfaction at their nearness to each other.
‘You must go now, Chuff. I have to baste this loin of lamb.’
‘I’ll help you,’ offered Chuff.
‘Oh. no, you won’t. You’ll just buzz off pronto. Mother’ll be hopping mad if she comes and finds you here.’ ‘That’s all nonsense nowadays.’
‘I know, but you know what Mother is like. Besides, you must get back to your grandmother.’
‘Yes, that’s true, I must,’ said Chuff, his face clouding. ‘Goodbye, Ruthie. I’ll come along this evening if I can, but I’m afraid it’s doubtful.’
‘Goodbye, love,’ said Ruth.
They kissed and parted.
37. Election
‘Jonathan,’ said morcar, as on the day of the General Election the two drove to the polling station together, to record their votes on differing sides, ‘I wish you would explain to Chuff that I cannot, I absolutely cannot, attend his grandmother’s funeral tomorrow. I should despise myself if I did. My - wife - did me two very grievous wrongs, one of which involved my son, Chuff’s father. She ruined my life, and Cecil had no happiness till he escaped from her to Africa. It wouldn’t be decent for me to go into all this with Chuff, but I should be glad if you would give him a word of explanation on my behalf.’
‘Can’t you forgive her even now when she’s dead?’ said Jonathan gravely.
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jonathan as before.
‘Of course it would look better if I attended the funeral.’ said Morcar. ‘But I’m not one who cares much for looks.’
‘No. Is it true, though, that she’s appointed you as her sole executor?’
‘Yes, it’s true.’ (Confound her impertinence, added Morcar to himself.)
‘I think that’s rather pathetic,’ said Jonathan mildly. ‘Shall you accept?’
‘I don’t see how I can refuse,’ growled Morcar. ‘There’s nobody else to do it. Chuff’s legally too young. By the way, you might tell Chuff: I’ve been in touch with her lawyers and she’s left him all her property, house, and savings, and so on. Nothing to anybody else. Chuff will get a formal notice presently. He’ll get about two thousand pounds, I dare say.’
‘I didn’t know she had any property of her own.’ said Jonathan, surprised.
‘She hadn’t. But the house was in her name - I put it in her name.’
‘In reality, she had nothing but what you gave her.’
‘That is so.’
‘It seems odd that she should bother to save.’ said Jonathan.
‘She did it to annoy me,’ said Morcar angrily.
Jonathan sighed and parked the car outside the Sunday School polling booth.
The borough of Annotsfield had been a Liberal stronghold since Mr Gladstone’s time and even in these latter twentieth century days had maintained the same political colour. Morcar as always voted Liberal, though he felt little enthusiasm for the Liberal party as at present constituted; Jonathan, exercising his vote for the first time in his life, joyously voted Labour. As they emerged into the October sunlight together, having performed this simple, secret, and powerful rite, Morcar remarked cheerfully:
‘If Chuff were a little older we should have had one vote for each party from Stanney Royd, I think.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we should,’ said Jonathan gravely. ‘Chuff is a born Tory. Though how he reconciles that with his admiration for modern manners and customs, is a perplexing question.�
��
‘He likes the pleasant parts of both ways of thought,’ Morcar decided, but refrained from uttering.
Next morning, the early election results having given indications of a close electoral contest, there was a good deal of excitement in everyone’s mind and a general disinclination to settle to work. Morcar however worked if anything rather harder than usual. He drove to Old Mill and to Daisy, had a useful row with his cropping foreman and dictated half a dozen letters to Ruth. Glancing up from this occupation in search of a word, he chanced to see the hands of the electric clock in his office click to twelve noon; it struck him with a sobering effect that this was the hour of Winnie’s funeral. At this very moment her body was being lowered into the grave. He made an effort and finished his letters, put through a phone call or two, looked at some figures; but when the time was after one o’clock and the funeral must be over, on his way down to lunch at the Club in Annotsfield he turned aside to the cemetery.
It was easy to find the new grave by its very rawness. He stood looking down at its rather sparse covering of flowers. There was a handsome wreath of bronze chrysanthemums from her loving grandson Chuff, a cross of white carnations from her grand-daughter Susie (‘I hope that child isn’t going to turn religious,’ thought Morcar), a pleasing cushion of pink and purple asters from Mrs Nathaniel Armitage and Jonathan Oldroyd (‘nice of them,’ thought Morcar), a neat circle of dry purple statice from Mrs Mellor and family (‘suitably inexpensive,’ thought Morcar with a grimace), and one or two small sincere tributes from women, evidently Winnie’s friends or neighbours. Of course - he might have known it, why had he been such a fool as to come, thought Morcar angrily - the idea of Winnie lying there, the names of her father and mother on the gravestone now laid to one side - for heaven’s sake, there was even a tribute to Charles John Shaw, killed in action, Neuve Chapelle, 1915 - all this started him off as usual. He saw his childhood, Mr Shaw’s dingy mill, the quarrel about the false weights, his employent with the Oldroyd’s, the trenches, the shell-hole, Charlie’s death, Winnie announcing their engagement, the child, that darling baby Cecil lying in his shawl on Morcar’s arm, the awful shock of Winnie’s lie depriving him of fatherhood - all the frightful miseries of his life rolled through his mind, crushing it into agony. That pert, perverse, twisted girl who in addition to that frightful lie had for so long declined to divorce him or give him evidence for divorce, kept him from remarriage until it was too late - well, it was all over now, thought Morcar with relief. She was dead. No doubt her life had been wretched too. Well, of course it had. Could he pity her? Jonathan thought he ought to do so. He tried. Well, yes; Winnie herself, poor maimed spirit, he could pity and forgive. But her actions! The careless cruelty, the joyously barbed taunt, the gleeful revenge - no, those he could not condone.
A Man of His Time Page 22
