The works manager was explaining that Mr. Lucas was unfortunately away with rheumatism.
“Is there nobody in the mill who knows about this cloth, then?” demanded Mr. Oldroyd.
His tone indicated that a storm of considerable dimensions would break if Mr. Butterworth had to leave unsatisfied, so Morcar felt that he was not “speaking out of his turn” in saying quickly:
“I made out the make-paper, sir. Could I see the cloth for a minute?”
Mr. Oldroyd picked up the wretched trousers and passed them to him impatiently.
The moment Morcar took the garments in his hand a delightful suspicion assailed him; he drew out his piece glass, examined the cloth and exclaimed triumphantly:
“This isn’t ours, Mr. Oldroyd!”
“Yes, yes, it is ours; Mr. Butterworth says so,” said Mr. Oldroyd impatiently.
“No, sir—excuse me—our stripe has three ends, this has four,” said Morcar, smiling happily. “Here is our pattern, Mr. Butterworth—you can see the difference for yourself. If you’ll just count the threads, sir.”
He offered the garments, the Oldroyd strip, his glass and the paper to Mr. Butterworth, who, frowning, examined the evidence. There was a moment of suspense.
“You’re quite right, young man,” said Mr. Butterworth at length curtly. “I apologise, Brigg. My people have made a mistake somewhere.”
He passed the two cloths on to Mr. Oldroyd, who, taking his own handsome double-lens glass from his pocket, examined them. He said nothing, but gave a nod to Morcar before pushing the cloths away. Francis bent over his shoulder, then stood up and stepped back. He too made no comment, but it was clear to Morcar that he could see no difference in the stripes.
“Probably doesn’t even know what an end is,” thought Morcar scornfully, and he despised his employer’s son with all his heart. He took up the Oldroyd pattern and the make-paper and looked towards Mr. Oldroyd, who nodded again in dismissal. His employer’s manners evidently did not permit any outward expression of triumph over a defeated customer, but there was no doubt about his secret pleasure, for his handsome mouth moved as if to repress a smile, and a grim glee lighted his dark eyes. As Morcar left the room he heard Mr. Butterworth say:
“You’ve a sharp lad there, Brigg.”
“John Henry Morcar’s grandson,” replied Mr. Oldroyd. “Came to us as a boy. Lucas has trained him.”
On the following Friday Morcar found in his wages packet an increase note and a rise of ten shillings, and Mr. Lucas, restored to work by a rise in the temperature, after an absence downstairs told him with some ceremony that Mr. Oldroyd had expressed willingness to “put him through” all the departments in the mill so that he might acquire the experience necessary for a really first-class designer.
To be willing to pay a young man to whom he was not bound by any ties of blood or friendship two pounds a week for an unspecified time while Morcar did no useful work in the mill at all but simply learned his trade, was indeed to take him by the hand and lead him forward. Morcar felt that with his training at the Technical the period necessary would probably not be very long, and to be truthful with himself he also felt a strong disinclination to go again through all that toil of learning textile processes, which with the cheerful arrogance of youth he thought he knew thoroughly already. But what an offer! From the great Mr. Oldroyd! His way to be Oldroyds’ head designer—a textile plum—seemed to Morcar to lie clear before him if he chose to tread it.
He could hardly wait for the buzzer to sound at the end of the afternoon before he rushed up Hurst Bank to the Sycamores to tell Charlie the splendid news. “This’ll make the Shaws sit up!” he exclaimed gleefully to himself every hundred yards. The impetus of his joy had carried him forward so rapidly that as he approached the Sycamores he saw Mr. Shaw and Charlie beneath a gas-lamp in the distance, descending from the Hurst Road tram by which they travelled back and forth between Hurst and Prospect Mills every day. He hurried to meet them, and almost before he had reached their side cried out Mr. Oldroyd’s fine offer.
The news had not the effect he hoped, for both father and son looked glum. There was nothing unusual in this, for during the three years Charlie had worked at Prospect Mills it was customary for Mr. Shaw and Charlie to return from the mill looking glum—close association in daily work increased the friction which had always existed between them. But it struck Morcar that they looked even more glum now than was their habit. True, Charlie said warmly at once: “Mr. Oldroyd must think very highly of you, Harry,” but his voice held an undercurrent of disappointment, while Mr. Shaw remarked: “You’ll be at Oldroyds’ all your life, then,” in a dry non-committal tone.
“It was that striped suiting of Butterworths’ that did it,” exclaimed Morcar with satisfaction.
“What was that?” asked Mr. Shaw.
Morcar described the incident, which was already familiar to Charlie. The three had now reached the Sycamores’ gate, and Mr. Shaw stood there with his hand on one of the green-painted spikes, which he patted thoughtfully. At the conclusion of the anecdote he said:
“Come in for a minute, Harry.”
He led the way up the asphalt path into the house, and to Harry’s surprise turned into the cold, dark drawing-room and switched on the recently installed electric light. The two young men followed him, still wearing their coats, and Charlie shut the door. It was immediately opened by Winnie, who stuck in her head to enquire whether her father wanted tea now, or should she put it off.
“Go away, love, we’re talking business,” said her father affably.
Winnie grimaced at Morcar and withdrew.
“We were thinking, Harry, that you might have come to us,” said Mr. Shaw. His voice was as smooth as sateen and he showed not a trace of embarrassment. Morcar on the other hand did not know where to look. “The truth is,” continued Mr. Shaw with a man-to-man air which Morcar in spite of his dislike for Mr. Shaw found deliciously flattering: “Charlie and I are both outside men. We both like selling. We need an inside man, somebody in the mill to keep things straight. What do Oldroyds’ pay you?”
“Two pounds,” muttered Morcar.
Mr. Shaw winced but said firmly: “I’ll pay you the same. At first. More, of course, later.”
“What do you say, Charlie?” asked Morcar after a pause.
“I’ve been wanting Father to ask you for a long time, but he wouldn’t before today,” said Charlie bitterly. “And now it’s too late, I suppose. I don’t want to persuade you, Harry. Of course Oldroyds’ is a fine firm and it’s a splendid chance.”
“So long as Brigg Oldroyd lives, it is,” argued Mr. Shaw. “But he’s very ill, they tell me. Cancer. How can you be sure what’ll happen when he’s gone? You might be left in the department you happened to be in, and never get back to designing. His son will have his own favourites, you may be sure.”
Morcar felt stifled. He stood up. “I must think about it. I’ll let you know,” he said gruffly.
“Aye, tell us by Sunday evening,” agreed Mr. Shaw.
Morcar plunged out of the house into the darkness. The autumn air struck cold on his flushed cheek. He was deeply troubled by the decision which lay before him. On the one hand, his future was assured if he stayed at Syke Mills—provided, of course, he could give satisfaction in the job; but he had no doubt of that, and the same condition would operate at the Shaws’ or any other firm. Working through the departments would be a bore, but he could stand it, and he supposed there might still be a few things he could learn. He would have great scope for the exercise of his special talent in a firm which produced a hundred thousand patterns every year. On the other hand, at the Shaws’ he would be more or less his own master, which with the Oldroyds he never would. At the Shaws’ he would have infinitely fewer designs to work on, but at least he might be able to try the livelier colour and weave effects he had in mind. He felt an antipathy between himself and Francis Oldroyd; Charlie was his lifelong friend. Syke Mills were huge, handsome, wel
l equipped; Prospect was small, old and muddled. Just so; it would be far more interesting to reorganise Prospect than to maintain a standard already set at Syke. At Syke, although it was so large, Morcar had a feeling of restriction, of confinement, because it was so highly departmentalised; in Prospect he would be able to range through the whole place, oversee every process, at will. But then, how greatly he disliked the thought of association with Mr. Shaw! But he was not now an ignorant boy, helpless, an object of charity; he was a knowledgeable, useful, marketable young man. Give him a year or two in Prospect Mills, thought Morcar, keep Mr. Shaw and Charlie busy with their outside duties, and he’d make Prospect hum.
He reached Number 102 and in duty bound laid the alternatives before his mother as they sat at tea. Mrs. Morcar seemed inclined to shed tears of happy pride when he described the Oldroyd offer, but her eyes dried and she sat erect when he spoke of Mr. Shaw’s.
“Why should you give up that splendid chance to go to the Shaws’, Harry?” she said. “You were eager enough to leave them four years ago.”
“And you were eager enough for me to stay, Mother,” Harry told her with a grin.
“I didn’t know then how you were going to turn out, Harry,” said Mrs. Morcar with dignity.
“You should try to have more faith in me,” joked her son.
“Most people in Annotsfield will think you unwise if you throw away such a chance in order to go to John William Shaw,” said Mrs. Morcar.
“Oh, I don’t know,” argued Harry. “There’ll be more chance of becoming a partner, with the Shaws.”
“With all those young boys in the family, I should say a partnership is exceedingly unlikely,” objected Mrs. Morcar. “And what will Mr. Oldroyd think of you leaving now? And Mr. Lucas? After all the training he’s given you?”
“Yes—I’m sorry about that,” agreed Morcar. “I wasn’t apprenticed or anything, though.”
“You would be settled for life at Oldroyd’s,” urged Mrs. Morcar.
“I want to be on my own, Mother!” exclaimed Harry impatiently.
As he spoke he knew his decision was taken. His mother continued the discussion all the weekend, but Harry’s mind did not change, and on Sunday evening immediately after tea he went to the Sycamores and asked for Mr. Shaw. The maid had evidently received instructions what to do with him when he called, for she led him past the drawing-room where the family, as Harry could hear from their voices, were congregated, and placed him in the dining-room, where he was joined by Mr. Shaw. They sat down with stern expressions at the long table, which was covered, as it had always been in Harry’s memory, with a chenille tablecloth in ultramarine blue.
“Well? Have you come to say you’ll join us, Harry?” demanded Mr. Shaw in a cool tone.
“Yes—on those terms you mentioned. I suppose in a way I shall be a kind of works manager?” hazarded Harry.
Mr. Shaw winced but agreed, and the matter was settled.
Harry’s new employer led him to the other room, where Mrs. Shaw was trying to coax Charlie and Winnie to go to Chapel and not succeeding.
“Harry’s coming to Prospect as soon as he can get free,” said Mr. Shaw in a benevolent tone, laying his hand on Harry’s arm—the young man’s shoulder was now too far above him for a benevolent gesture.
“I’m very glad, Harry dear,” said Mrs. Shaw kindly, while Charlie exclaimed: “Good!” and thumped a cushion vigorously, and Winnie remarked: “About time too,” with her usual blend of tart sweetness.
“Now go to Chapel all together, you three, do,” urged Mrs. Shaw. “To please me, Charlie. I know your mother would like you to go, Harry. And bring her in to supper afterwards.”
The young men exchanged glances and decided to yield, and Winnie sprang up and said she would accompany them if they would agree to go to Hurst Congregational instead of all the way to Eastgate. This compromise was accepted by Mrs. Shaw, and the three young people went off together. Winnie was wearing a dark green costume, as she called it, and a rich dark green satin blouse with thick, open lace at the cuffs and throat; a black beaver hat with a green ribbon sat at an agreeable angle on her smooth hazel hair, which was dressed high on her head, revealing unexpectedly small and delicate ears. Harry felt proud that they were all three growing up into such important, promising, successful and interesting people. Evening service was always rather sentimental and touching, and as they sang the sweet sad hymns Harry felt deeply happy to be there with his friends, on the eve of their great enterprise together. Winnie sang rather well, in a clear true soprano; the young men muttered comfortably together in the bass. Harry put a shilling (double his usual contribution) into the collection, to commemorate the occasion and show his gratitude to the Almighty for re-uniting him to Prospect Mills, and he could not help noticing that Charlie did the same. Winnie threw in her sixpence with a petulant air—women never took purses to church and could not change their minds about the collection, thought Harry leniently. Outside the Chapel the three parted, the Shaws returning to the Sycamores and Harry going up the road to fetch his mother.
It was clear that Mrs. Morcar did not want to go to the Shaws for supper. She stood by the table listening to his account of the interview, the excursion to Chapel and the supper invitation with a look of deep trouble and anxiety on her face. At the close of his narrative she sighed.
“Well, I suppose you know best what you want, Harry,” she said. “But it’s not what I should have chosen for you.”
She concealed her feelings admirably at the Shaws’, however, and the supper went off well.
A sharp bout followed next morning with Mr. Lucas, who on learning of Harry’s new job exclaimed angrily:
“I suppose Shaw thinks he’ll get hold of all Oldroyds’ new season’s designs.”
“That’s not fair, Mr. Lucas,” objected Morcar.
“It might be fair to Shaw and unfair to you,” said Mr. Lucas bitterly. “You’re being a fool, Harry, a young fool. Is there a girl in it, eh?”
“No,” said Morcar, astonished.
Mr. Lucas snorted. “The more fool you,” he said. “What Mr. Oldroyd will say I tremble to think.”
“I’ll tell him myself if you like,” said Morcar stoutly.
Mr. Lucas’s expression changed. “He isn’t at the mill today,” he said. “He’s not so well, it seems.”
Morcar remembered Mr. Shaw’s odious speculations on Brigg Oldroyd’s health. Perhaps they were justified. He hesitated. “Mr. Oldroyd gave me the job here, and it’s through his kind offer that I’ve got this other job now,” he said. “I’d like to see him to say goodbye to him and tell him I’m grateful.”
Mr. Lucas however thought this quite unnecessary, and Harry left Syke Mills the following week without again seeing his former employer.
10. Springtime
Another calm and happy period followed.
It was true that Morcar received an unpleasant shock when he discovered the coarse, low-quality stuff which Prospect Mills were manufacturing. It seemed to sell well and he supposed it filled a need, but it was not the kind of stuff he had been used to handling at Syke Mills, nor a kind to which he proposed to devote his life. He decided at first to let the matter ride for a time until he had got the mill work reorganised and avoidable defects minimised—heaven knew this was badly needed—and then move on to finer fabrics and better designs gradually. But he learned then that it was impossible to tackle difficulties in neat chronological order; they all presented themselves at once, inextricably entangled. Machinery reached a point of deterioration where it had to be renewed; a decision had to be taken immediately as to what type to buy, and this decision would commit the Shaws for many years to come, to undertaking or declining certain classes of fabric. Workmen who left—and until Morcar’s advent workmen often left Shaws’; his old friend Booth was still there, but not another face he recognised—caused similar problems. Then, both Mr. Shaw and Charlie had a maddening habit of accepting commissions which their existing labour a
nd machinery were not adequate to fulfil and expecting Morcar to find a way of fulfilling them. The way he eventually found committed them to further work of the same kind if the steps he had taken were not to prove expensively fruitless. Morcar did not in any case like “weaving on commission”, i.e. weaving other men’s yarn into other men’s pieces for other men to sell—it hurt his pride; but he admitted that it tided Prospect over some meagre seasons. The book-keeping at Prospect had been chaotic; Charlie had struggled vainly to straighten it out but could not do so because the reality it represented, the actual work done in the mill, was chaotic too. Now the two young men together wrestled it clear, introduced reforms and got a fresh system into smooth working order.
The Rise of Henry Morcar Page 8
