The Rise of Henry Morcar

by Phyllis Bentley

  By ten o’clock he was closeted with his lawyer in Annotsfield. He instructed him to dispose of the incompletely purchased Hurstcote by negotiation with the Building Society, to ensure the possession of its furnishings to Winnie, and to inform her that her husband would provide her with the necessary evidence for a divorce. Meanwhile, pending the legal provision of alimony, he would contribute to her upkeep as far as lay in his power—at present, said Morcar, he could not offer her more than two pounds ten a week. The lawyer’s well-meant attempts to suggest an interview, hint at a reconciliation and in other ways interpose delay, Morcar brushed aside.

  “We shall never live together again, so the affair must be wound up now,” he said.

  The mystified lawyer hinted that possibly a legal separation might be wise.

  “What would be the use of that?” said Morcar. “A divorce is what we need.”

  “An interview,” began the lawyer.

  “Any interview between myself and any of the Shaws is out of the question,” said Morcar. “Please make it quite clear to my wife that I shall not initiate a divorce—I could not do so, of course,” he added hurriedly—“but I am taking steps to provide her with evidence on which she can divorce me. I shall not defend any divorce suit she brings. Good-day.”

  By eleven Morcar was talking to his father’s banker. By twelve he had money in his pocket. By three that afternoon he had rented a room and bought two looms.

  19. Interview with a Merchant

  “Why should you think I like to remember an occasion when I was wrong?” asked Mr. Butterworth testily. His silver hair sparser than of old, his pink cheeks more pendulous, his body plumper, the merchant sat in his private office and scowled at Morcar, loftily disregarding the patterns on the desk before him.

  “Because it’s the only time in your life when you have been wrong, Mr. Butterworth,” Morcar informed him cheerfully. “If I were making a lot of cloth for you, it would make you a splendid selling anecdote. You could sell hundreds of yards of striped suiting on that story alone.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t stay on at Oldroyds’,” said Mr. Butterworth, flipping his thumbnails.

  “A private matter,” said Morcar easily. He knew that rumours about himself and Winnie had lacerated his reputation, but did not intend to show a scratch on his public surface.

  “Why didn’t you stay at Shaws?”

  “The same private matter,” said Morcar, smiling.

  “What is it you want from me, young man?” enquired the merchant crossly. “Is it a job? Do you want me to recommend you to a manufacturer?”

  “Nay, Mr. Butterworth,” said Morcar pleasantly: “I’m a manufacturer myself, you know. What I want is a good customer.”

  “I know the kind of manufacturer you are,” said Mr. Butterworth rudely. “You’ve taken one ’room with power’ in a tumbledown old place out at Denbridge, and are weaving a few pieces a week on commission.”

  “You’re out of date, Mr. Butterworth,” said Morcar mildly.

  “Eh?”

  “That was two years ago. I have a couple of floors now and I’m making forty pieces a week.”

  Mr. Butterworth snorted. “Well—I’ll look at your suitings,” he said grudgingly. “Though I don’t suppose for a moment you’re making the class of stuff I care to buy.”

  Morcar displayed his patterns.

  “They’re not bad,” said Mr. Butterworth reluctantly at length. “They’re not bad at all.”

  When Morcar left the merchant, he had a good order from him in his pocket.

  20. Buyer and Seller

  Morcar walked round Daisy Mills with its owner. The building was empty and for sale. He had visited it before but this was a final inspection.

  The pointing of the walls was recent, he noticed; there was a good unloading platform; the up-hill-down-dale character of the ground which is at once the curse and the blessing of the West Riding had been utilised skilfully so as to harness the force of gravity wherever possible. The windows were in good condition; on the first floor he observed one large enough for perching, situated on the right side of the mill as regards light. The stone steps between the floors were naturally somewhat worn at the edges, the whitewash rubbed and greasy; more important, the lighting system was old-fashioned—though capable, thought Morcar, of comparatively easy adjustment. Morcar occasionally praised satisfactory items in order to lend an air of truth and justice to his criticisms; the items he criticised, however, were always much weightier and more expensive than the ones he praised. Secretly he considered that Daisy (as he already affectionately called her) lived up to the good report he had received of the place as a neat, compact little property, well situated just off the main Annots-field-Hudley road where it passed through the hamlet of Den-bridge, built specifically for cloth manufacture, and in good repair.

  A mill in Denbridge gave him a good excuse for living out of Annotsfield, which at present he preferred for personal reasons; he still wanted to be as far away from the Shaws as was reasonably possible. Moreover, he thought it just as well that his early steps towards fortune should take place, so to speak, off the Annotsfield stage. The years when he worked twelve or fourteen hours a day would best be spent in some quiet place; by the time he returned to Annotsfield he meant to be powerful and prosperous, with a fine house and car and plenty of money to spend. Yes, Daisy was a nice little place, just the thing he wanted. He meant to buy her if he could.

  There was a difficulty, however. Of course he had not the money with which to buy the mill, but he would borrow it from the bank on the security of the deeds backed by his present turnover—he foresaw no special difficulty about that; it was risky of course and the bank would need persuasion, but they knew him there nowadays as a reputable and promising customer. He was well aware, however, having made the necessary enquiries, that to substantiate the purchase, he would have to deposit one-tenth of the price immediately, before any negotiations could begin. Five hundred pounds was the utmost cash he could spare at the moment. He could not, therefore, bid more than five thousand pounds for the mill. Yet he had heard a rumour that six thousand was being asked for Daisy. In his opinion she was worth it. He ran over in his mind for the hundredth time his resources and his liabilities; no; it was maddening to be held up by such a paltry sum, but not a penny more than five hundred pounds could he find. Not at present. There was his weekly wages bill and his monthly spinner’s account to think of; old Butterworth owed him plenty but it was not due yet. Unfortunately there was another prospective purchaser for the mill, or so he had heard: a large combine to which an extra thousand pounds was a fleabite. Hang it, he must have Daisy, thought Morcar; his praises died away and he looked round him keenly for some major defective item with which he could frighten old Kaye into dropping the price.

  Old Kaye, who was not really old but had a depressed in-validish air, gaunt and grey, was meandering on about his reasons for selling the mill, which were purely personal—and therefore by implication did not detract from Daisy’s value and charm.

  “I’ve not been so well, you see,” he said mournfully. “So I’ve retired and gone south.”

  Morcar turned aside and fingered the cable of the hoist, to conceal his contempt. If there was a type of man he despised, it was the man in the West Riding textile trade who gave up the struggle and retired to a seaside resort on the south coast. To travel was a fine thing and he meant to do it himself as soon as he could afford, but to settle in an armchair and do nothing from morning till night amongst people who had never heard of the West Riding, seemed to him quite pitiable and disgusting.

  “Eastbourne?” he said affably.

  “No, Southstone. Do you know it?” asked Kaye in an eager tone.

  “No. I hear tell it’s very pleasant,” said Morcar. “Lovely air.”

  “That’s what my wife says,” Kaye told him, pleased. “You’ll find it quite sound and in good condition,” he added, referring to the hoist.

  “I was jus
t thinking so,” said Morcar in a complimentary tone.

  “Of course,” went on Daisy’s owner as the two men crossed the yard towards the boiler-house: “I shouldn’t have given up, you know, if I’d had a lad to carry on after me. You’ll be luckier there than me, I daresay.”

  The blood rushed to Morcar’s face; for the life of him he could not utter a word.

  “We lost him in the war,” said Kaye gruffly. “The Somme.”

  “I’m sorry,” muttered Morcar.

  “You were through the war yourself, I expect.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t sell your business as a going concern, Mr. Kaye,” said Morcar.

  “Well—I thought of it, but I couldn’t just get my price. Then I put a manager in, but while I was bedridden it went the wrong way. I let part of it off—but it was always needing attention, d’you see, so I thought I’d sell the whole lot up and get out. I sold the looms and such by auction.”

  “Aye—I think I got some of them,” said Morcar. “How much coal did you run on, Mr. Kaye?”

  “Twenty-five ton a week. If you want to know about pressure and that, you’d better ask our old boiler man; he lives just down the road.”

  “I don’t know much about steam,” said Morcar disarmingly.

  “I’m glad there’s summat you don’t know much about,” said Kaye. He then seemed to feel that such a tone was a thought too sardonic to employ to a prospective customer, so he dug Morcar in the ribs, laughed artificially, and added: “Boiler will give a hundred and twenty pounds, as far as I know. As you can see, she’s new—as boilers go.”

  “And what about your engine?”

  “Runs on sixty pounds,” said Daisy’s owner. He led the way to the engine room without further speech.

  Morcar’s heart leaped. “The engine’s old,” he told himself.

  He knew almost nothing about engines and could discern no defect in this one, but he gazed at it seriously and remained markedly silent. Kaye at his side was silent too. After a time Morcar suddenly drew out his cigarette case and offered it to the owner, as if to soften some disagreeable thing which he was about to say.

  “No—I’ll fill my pipe,” said Kaye. He did so, slowly; pressed down the tobacco with his thumb, struck a match, lighted the pipe and puffed once or twice. Morcar for his part drew on his cigarette and blew out thoughtfully. Kaye made to turn away. Morcar did not follow him.

  “I don’t want to deceive you, Mr. Morcar, or say anything that isn’t true,” said the older man at last. “I haven’t said anything about Daisy to you that isn’t true. The engine isn’t new, as you can see for yourself. But it’s been kept in good repair, and there’s years of good work left in it yet. I haven’t said anything that isn’t true to you, and I’m not doing so now.”

  Morcar fully believed him, but did not intend to say so. The two men crossed the yard again and entered the empty and dusty office. A torn strip of paper hung down from the wall. Morcar however scorned to look at it. He wished to give the impression of a sensible decent man whose complaints and reservations would be just and reasonable. Kaye perched himself on a high stool and leaned his elbows on the dusty desk. An intense embarrassment descended on the room, for the moment had now arrived when an actual proposition had to be brought into being.

  “Well, Mr. Kaye,” said Morcar at last in a thin reedy voice which he could not make normal: “What price are you asking for Daisy Mills, then?”

  “I’d rather you made an offer,” said Kaye, smoking stolidly.

  Morcar cursed himself for having spoken first and thus started the interchange on the wrong foot. He paused to give the impression of thought, then said sharply: “What do you say to five thousand?”

  “Six thousand is my price,” said Kaye immediately.

  “I wasn’t naming a bargaining price,” said Morcar, affecting an offended tone. “I named a fair price and my final offer.”

  “So did I,” said Kaye.

  There was a pause. “Perhaps you’d like to think it over, Mr. Kaye?” suggested Morcar.

  “I’d rather it were decided now,” said the millowner.

  “Well, I should like to think it over,” said Morcar, laughing. “There’s yon engine, you know, Mr. Kaye, and the lighting, and the steps, and that place at the far end where the flooring’s rotten——”

  “If that’s all you can find to say against the place you’ve not much to grumble at,” said Kaye.

  “I’m not grumbling at all,” said Morcar with an effect of frankness. “Except about that engine. Some people might want you to put in a new engine, you know.”

  “I shan’t do that,” said Kaye. He spoke promptly, but his tone, Morcar noticed with glee, was slightly uneasy.

  “H’m,” said Morcar. He pursed his lips and appeared to meditate.

  “It’s got to be decided here and now,” said the millowner stubbornly. “I’ve other folk after it if you don’t want it.”

  Morcar wanted to say: “And you’re in a hurry to get back to Southstone-on-Sea,” in a silky sarcastic tone. But he wanted Daisy Mills more, so he repressed it. Instead he remarked good-humouredly: “I’ll tell you in five minutes, Mr. Kaye, if that will do. No offence meant. It’s just a question of what it’s worth to me, you know. With that engine. I’ll take a turn in the yard and think it over, if you’ve no objection.”

  Kaye gave an assenting grunt, and Morcar ran quickly down the steps and into the yard. The situation of Daisy Mills was rural and pleasant; from the yard one looked across fields up to the hills on the slopes of which sprawled Annotsfield. Morcar went at once to the low wall which gave on this prospect and arranging himself in a comfortable attitude leaned against the stones. He knew he was in full view of the office windows and had decided not to smoke lest his movements should betray his nervous tension. He wanted Daisy Mills more and more keenly every moment that he spent there, but to offer more than five thousand was impossible. There was accordingly nothing for him to think about and he could spend his five minutes in idle blankness. The only hope of obtaining the mill was that his calculated depreciation of the engine and a pretence of indifference to the purchase might stimulate Kaye to concessions. It was this last bluff which he was now engaged upon.

  “Five minutes, sixty seconds each,” he thought. “I mustn’t look at my watch. I won’t stir till I’ve counted three hundred—no, three hundred and fifty.”

  He began mentally to count at a slow steady pace which, at first agreeably rhythmical, presently became almost intolerable in its tarrying beat. He had vowed to himself to move not at all, to keep his arms folded, to look steadily in the same direction, in order to debilitate Kaye’s resistance by suspense. It became a discipline harsher than any he had suffered in the Army. By the time he had counted one hundred he was bored and irritable; at two hundred he was panting and exasperated; by three hundred, weak and limp, he felt that Daisy Mills itself was scarcely worth the continuance of the ordeal. But he had vowed to himself to count to three hundred and fifty and so he went on counting.

  He had reached three hundred and twenty-five when a touch on his sleeve gave him a violent start. Kaye had crossed the yard and stood beside him. Overjoyed by this sign of weakening, Morcar contrived to turn coolly and stare at him with a calm smile.

  “Made up your mind yet?” said the millowner in an embarrassed and peevish tone.

  “My mind’s been made up all along, Mr. Kaye,” said Morcar. “Five thousand’s my price, and I’m not bargaining. That’s what it’s worth to me.”

  “Well,” began the millowner. He suddenly broke off and shouted: “All right—have it your own way!”

  “Done!” cried the delighted Morcar. “Now, Mr. Kaye,” he went on eagerly, catching him by the arm in a friendly way: “You know you’ve done the right thing for yourself as well as for me. The syndicate would never have put up with yon engine. They’re hard bargainers, too—you’d have had no end of trouble with them.”

  “Happen I should,” agre
ed Kaye.

  “Yes—you’d have been up and down between here and South-stone for months,” said Morcar. “Selling it to me, the whole job will be finished next week.”

  “Happen,” agreed Kaye morosely. “Well, what do we do now, then?”

  “We put our solicitors in touch with each other, I suppose,” said Morcar. “Mine’s Nasmyth.”

  “Aye, but what do we do?” persisted Kaye.

  Seeing whither he was trending, Morcar replied disingenuously: “I suppose that’ll be for our solicitors to say.”

  “Nay, I don’t know as it will,” said Kaye. “Don’t you as buyer pay a deposit, like?”

  “Do I?” exclaimed Morcar. “Yes, of course, I suppose I do. Whatever the lawyers think proper.”

  “Ten per cent is the proper amount,” said Kaye at once.

  “Oh, is it? I’ve never bought a mill before,” said Morcar, laughing. “Let’s see. That’ll be five hundred pounds, then?”

  “It will,” said Kaye, eyeing him shrewdly.

  “Right. I’ll send you a cheque tonight,” said Morcar. (Kaye’s face brightened.) “And then we can get our solicitors to work. Mine’s Nasmyth.”

  “Bottomley’s mine. He has the deeds.”

  “I want to complete at the earliest possible moment,” said Morcar earnestly, his hand on the door of his cheap but serviceable coupé: “I’ve no time to waste, Mr. Kaye; I’ve a long way to go.”

  “You’ve gone pretty far already for a lad in his early thirties—which is what I take you to be—it seems to me,” said Kaye, smiling for the first time during the interview. “My lad would be just about your age now, I reckon.”

  Morcar called: “Goodbye, goodbye!” in a tone of great affability, and drove away.

  When he had gone a mile or two he drew up, and taking off his hat, wiped his forehead, which dripped with sweat. “Daisy’s worth every bit of six thousand pound,” he thought. He laughed aloud and drove on.

  21. Thistledown