A Modern Tragedy

by Phyllis Bentley

  The Lumbs were noted among small firms for paying good wages, and the piece-work rates had brought the men really large sums weekly during the post-war boom. It seemed to Arnold only fair that as the men had profited by the firm’s prosperity, so they should share the firm’s adversity. They should all, he and his father and the office staff and the men, pull in their belts and try to weather the storm. But he knew in advance that Milner wouldn’t see it like that. He knew what would happen: he would write to the men’s union, and they would reply that they would lay his proposals before his men and then interview him; and presently after much telephoning, a date for the interview would be fixed, and the president or secretary of the local branch of the union and two other men—“They daren’t come alone,” thought Arnold contemptuously: “They won’t trust each other round the corner”—would arrive to see him, and ask for the shop-steward to be sent for; and Milner would be fetched up from the mill, highly excited and breathing fire and class-feeling, and he would stigmatise all Arnold’s proposals as having a grossly unfair incidence on the men, and Arnold would be irritated by his long words and lose his temper, and the interview would end in general strain and a tendency to shout. And a few days later he would write to the union again, asking what their decision really was, and the union would write to him in a mollifying tone, implying that there was still much to be discussed, and after much telephoning a date would be fixed for the interview, and the local president and another man or two would appear at Valley Mill, and so on and so on, through weeks of tedium and irritation.

  Arnold sighed and went through all his figures again; but the alternative remained clear. He must either reduce his wages bill, find more trade, or go bankrupt.

  In these hard times there was no more trade to be had; and to begin cutting prices to secure it was a species of treachery to his fellow-dyers which in any case he couldn’t afford. He decided to cut down the Lumbs’ salaries yet again, cease Dyson’s altogether, and attempt to make his employees see reason—for if he went bankrupt, all of them would be out of work, with very little prospect of ever being in again. He also made up his mind to act at once, without waiting for his father’s consent. Mr. Lumb, as he grew older, grew also more testy and irascible, more bewildered by modern conditions, and less inclined to adapt himself to them. He had objected to the adoption of piece-work rates because they were new to Valley Mill; he would object equally strongly to their abandonment. Arnold did not resent his father’s irritability; he saw in it the natural effect of age upon an open, kindly, vigorous temper very like his own, and did not think himself unduly burdened because he often had to wear down Mr. Lumb’s opposition to some necessary measure by much repetition. Indeed, he was proud of his father’s still robust health and valid will, his stout, heavy frame and his formidable obstinacy; they contrasted agreeably in his mind with, for example, the querulous collapse of Dyson Haigh.

  But now he could not afford the time necessary to convince his father; any further delay would be simply suicidal. He must act at once, thought Arnold, who was not a man to delay action because it was disagreeable; his father would accept the accomplished facts. Indeed as regarded Dyson, it would probably be a kindness to spare Mr. Lumb the necessity of making so painful a communication to his old friend; while Mr. Lumb’s tone to unions was inclined to be too warm and peremptory, though towards individuals he was sympathetic enough.

  Thinking thus, Arnold extracted from the safe the printed memorandum of the agreement between masters’ and men’s associations arrived at in 1918; and having studied its terms, he drew a sheet of paper towards him, and began to compose a letter to the union concerned.

  “I shall have to see Milner Schofield about it first,” he thought, “but I may as well draft the letter now while it’s, quiet and father’s not about.”

  Dear Sir, he wrote with many crossings-out and substitutions:

  Owing to the difficult times through which we are passing? and to meet the competition we are encountering, we feel that it is essential, at all events for a period, to go on time-work.

  Upon mentioning this to our shop-steward, he requested us to write to you.

  “Because that’s what he will do,” said Arnold grimly. “Only in more emphatic terms.”

  When last we made an arrangement we definitely stated we should not expect to make another cut in the piece rates, but circumstances are such that something must be done. We suggest, therefore, either the entire suspension of the piece rates, and return to day rates, for twelve months, or a special reduction of 10 per cent on the piece rates for twelve months; the position to be reviewed at the end of that period.

  Perhaps you will see our people and ascertain which they prefer?

  In any case, this letter is to be taken as giving 3 calendar months’ notice for the termination of the present agreed rates, as required by the 1918 agreement.

  This letter Arnold laboriously typed out on the office machine, and signed: Yours faithfully, pp. W. H. LUMB & CO. LTD., Arnold Lumb, Managing Director.

  He felt it was a good letter, calm and firm, showing clearly his reasons for the step he was obliged to take, without too much whining. The strain of its composition had exhausted the resources of his diplomacy, however; and the letter which he wrote to Dyson Haigh, enclosing a cheque for a month’s salary in lieu of notice, and explaining the impossibility of retaining his services any longer, was curt and cold.

  He retained both letters in his pocket till he should have discussed the proposed cuts with Milner and some of the older men on the following morning.

  This interview, which he held while his father was out on an errand invented by Arnold, turned out exactly as he had expected. At the first mention of the return to time-rates, Milner’s eyes flashed fire and his nostrils dilated contemptuously; then with a cold sneering look on his face he observed that it was a matter for the union, and repeated this in the intervals of Arnold’s remarks ad nauseam. Meanwhile the other men sniffed, looked about the room, and shuffled their feet awkwardly. It seemed to Arnold that they would like to discuss the matter in detail with him, but dared not say anything while the shop-steward was there.

  Presently Mr. Lumb’s footsteps were heard without, and Arnold, with a sigh, dismissed the men to their work, saying that he would write to the union.

  The whole mill immediately buzzed with the news of the suggested cuts, and Arnold posted both letters himself in the lunch hour.

  As he drove his father home that night, he broached the subject of lowering the wages bill more definitely than he had yet done, and bore Mr. Lumb’s objections with good temper, knowing that the matter was already in hand.

  “But why not just lower a few of the men?” argued Mr. Lumb. “You don’t want to reduce the wages of men we’ve had for years.”

  “You know perfectly well you can’t do things that way nowadays, father,” repeated Arnold patiently. “They all hang together—it’s all or none.”

  Mr. Lumb snorted with exasperation.

  Two days later, on a morning of heavy snow-fall, Arnold received replies to both his attempts at economy. The first note he opened on tackling his correspondence that morning was written in a large straggling hand which he did not recognise; it proved to be Mrs. Haigh’s.

  Dear Mr. Arnold, she wrote:

  Thank you for your letter and the cheque. I am not showing these to my husband, as he is not equal to any business now, and I am afraid of upsetting him. We have an arrangement by which my son signs all his papers.

  I quite understand that it is impossible for him to remain a nominal member of your staff any longer; indeed, I should have mentioned this to you before, but hardly liked to do so without his express instructions.

  I thank you for all the courtesy and consideration you have always shown to all of us, and I trust that, in spite of the circumstances which have clouded its end, both you and Mr. Lumb will always have the same affectionate regard for my husband’s long association with the firm as he feels h
imself.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Emily Haigh.

  “Rosamond wrote that, I’ll be bound,” said Arnold grimly, turning over the leaves. “And her mother copied it. She began on her own and got stuck, so Rosamond wrote the rest and she copied it. Mrs. Haigh wouldn’t know those words. Circumstances which have clouded its end, nominal members, express instructions, the same affectionate regard. Aye! That’s Rosamond, right enough!”

  A sudden passion shook him, but whether of love for the girl, or hate, he did not know. Angrily he threw down Mrs. Haigh’s letter, reflecting as he did so that he should now have to break the news of his action in the matter to his father—a disagreeable task, especially with Mr. Lumb already so much upset about the wage cuts.

  He opened the next envelope and drew out a sheet of substantial paper, which bore the printed heading of his men’s union.

  Dear Sir, he read in close typescript:

  In reply to your letter of the 2nd. in which you suggest going back on to day rates or a special reduction of 10 per cent for 12 months, I will put your proposal before your employees at the earliest possible date, and after reporting to them will suggest dates for an interview with you at which meeting I shall then be in a position to report their findings.

  “Oh, damn the whole West Riding!” exploded Arnold.

  The letter was reasonable enough and, indeed, just what he had expected, but the vistas of glib official correspondence, tiresome interviews and interminable hagglings which it opened before him made him feel quite sick. A heavy colour flooded his tired face, and on a sudden irresistible impulse, he put both letters together, and tore them violently across and across. The words: “for love or money” suddenly arose from some obscure corner of his mind and mocked him. “They’ve got mixed up nowadays,” thought Arnold sourly, “have love and money. You can’t have one without the other, seemingly. Well!”

  He stalked off down into the mill, paused in front of the Schofields, and, though he knew it was unwise, could not refrain from saying in a thick angry tone;

  “I hope you’ll get that meeting with your union representative fixed up pretty sharp, Milner.”

  Milner’s pale nostrils dilated, and his black eyes flashed. He muttered beneath his breath: “We shall fix it when we’ve a mind.”

  For a long moment the two men glared at each other in hate, each maddeningly conscious that he was in the other’s power.

  At length Arnold, his muscles twitching with rage, turned aside on the pretext of examining a piece of cloth that lay near by, and presently stamped heavily back to the office. The men, marking the distortion of his usually pleasant face, his flushed forehead and bloodshot eyes, raised their eyebrows at each other in astonishment, drew down the corners of their mouths, and whistled softly.

  In the office Mr. Lumb was waiting impatiently for his son. He had found Mrs. Haigh’s letter and pieced it together, and worked himself into such a frenzy that his heavy eyebrows were positively bristling with resentment. Now as his son came in he thumped the torn pieces with an angry hand.

  “What’s all this, Arnold? What right have you to turn away a man who worked for me before you were born?” he demanded hotly.

  “Nay, father; you’ve got your dates a bit mixed there, I think,” said Arnold, trying to maintain his usual air of cheerful respect. But as Mr. Lumb began to scold and argue and draw distinctions between Dyson and Walter, he could no longer keep it up.

  “You shouldn’t have done that without consulting me, Arnold,” repeated Mr. Lumb for the twentieth time.

  “Now that’s enough, father,” broke in Arnold sharply. “The thing had to be done, and it is done, and it’s no use kicking up a fuss about it now. I don’t want to hear any more about the Haighs, ever. I’ve enough to bother me without them.”

  His tone was so bitter that Mr. Lumb was disconcerted. To cover his confusion he took off the old-fashioned gold-rimmed pince-nez which sat crookedly on his large nose, and snapped them into their case, before observing, much more mildly, that he saw his son had been writing to the union.

  “Aye,” said Arnold. “That’ll have to be done, too; and as sharp as we can.”

  “What will you do if they don’t agree?” demanded Mr. Lumb in a disapproving tone.

  “Sack the lot and take on fresh men at time rates,” snapped Arnold.

  “If you do that, Arnold, to men I’ve had here twenty years, I walk out of this mill and never enter it again!” exclaimed Mr. Lumb vehemently.

  “If I don’t do it, you soon won’t have a mill to enter,” replied Arnold grimly.

  Mr. Lumb looked so utterly taken aback that his son felt sorry for him. “Of course I shan’t do it unless all else fails,” he explained in a milder tone.

  “No—of course not,” agreed Mr. Lumb with a wistful air of wanting to be reassured. “I know I can rely on you, Arnold.”

  Arnold sighed. “I expect so,” he said glumly.

  The driving blizzards of January modulated into the heavy straight-down rains of February; the cold blustering winds of March gave place to the soft sudden showers of April; spring in its progress northwards at length reached the West Riding. But Arnold hardly noticed the changing year. He was too busy searching for trade to replace the loss of Tasker’s, pacifying the bank, and fighting his way with dogged tenacity through the protracted negotiation with his men’s union.

  Scene 5. A Company is Floated

  WALTER HAIGH speaking,” said Walter down the receiver, drawing a pad towards him on which to record his employer’s requirements.

  “I want you to have dinner with me to-night, Walter,” came Tasker’s voice. “There’s some business I must talk over with you. Where shall we meet?”

  “To-night! But I can’t,” objected Walter, uneasily conscious that he had never refused a command of Tasker’s before. But why should he always be at Tasker’s beck and call, he thought with irritation; his evenings were his own, after all. “I’m dining at the Croslands’,” he explained firmly: “And going on to the theatre at Leeds with them afterwards. It’s Ralph’s birthday. Or rather, it was his birthday last week, but he was at his prep. school then, so it’s being celebrated to-night.”

  “You’re dining where?” demanded Tasker.

  He sounded bewildered, and Walter shouted: “At Henry Clay Crosland’s,” loudly.

  “Oh,” said Tasker.

  There was a pause. Walter, who had expected to be scolded, was disconcerted by Tasker’s silence; he mused on it uncomfortably, realised suddenly that Tasker had never been asked to Clay Hall, and probably never would be asked in his life, wondered whether the tone of his exclamation had not perhaps been rather wistful, felt immensely sorry for him, and cried loyally: “Well, all right; I’ll get out of it somehow, and come.”

  Immediately he had suggested this sacrifice he regretted it profoundly—an evening with Tasker which he might have spent gazing at Elaine!—but was ashamed to withdraw his offer.

  “No, never mind,” said Tasker in a mildly sarcastic tone. “You go and dine with dear old Henry. Enjoy yourself while you can. It’s the best thing you can do, anyway.”

  “How do you mean—enjoy myself while I can?” demanded Walter quickly, his heart thudding with a sudden sense of disaster. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Well, yes, there is,” said Tasker in the same ominously mild tone. “I must see you to-night, I can’t very well leave it any longer; but after the theatre will do. Where did you say you were going?”

  “Leeds,” said Walter unhappily. “But, look here, Tasker, what’s wrong?”

  “You get about, don’t you!” said Tasker smoothly, disregarding his question. “Eleven o’clock, then.” He named the hotel where he and Walter had lunched together on the day Walter first saw Heights, as their meeting place, and rang off.

  Walter was left to endure the misery of suspense all day. Like a school-boy summoned unexpectedly to the presence of his master, he racked his brains to think what c
rime he might have been committing. Tasker could hardly take such a serious tone about a mere damaged piece or two, thought Walter; a whole consignment must have gone wrong. But which? And how? Walter, rapidly reviewing all the work done for Tasker in the last few months, decided that he was not guilty, and prepared to defend that position tooth and nail. Nor had any catastrophic damage occurred in the cloth of other customers. But perhaps the trouble was financial? In that respect too Walter felt he had nothing with which to blame himself. The accounts of Heights showed a steady profit since the beginning of the year; he went over them again to make sure. Oh well! It was no use worrying; he would know all about it to-night at eleven.

  He worried, nevertheless, all day; it was not until he turned into the long winding drive which led to Clay Hall, that evening, that he forgot Tasker completely. At the first sight of the grey stone balls on the old gateposts, the flowering rhododendrons which lined the drive, he fell at once into a state of joyous if apprehensive excitement, in which he sang to himself, and amused himself by driving for short stretches with his hands off the wheel. And when he came out into the gravel sweep in front of the Croslands’ home, his spirits leaped up still further, and he had a sense of being at the very hub of the world, at the place where everything interesting went on.

  Walter had a very proper admiration for the fabric of Clay Hall, which was unrestored Jacobean; the mullioned windows and tall chimneys, the date above the door, the huge square galleried hall, with ancient flags depending on each side the hearthstones, the uneven wooden floors and panelled walls, impressed him as Elaine’s beauty did, as something on a higher plane, far beyond his reach.