The quick elation on the young men’s faces, the slow brightening of some of the elders’, sickened him.
‘Well, if that’s all,’ he began, taking up a letter at random from his desk.
But there was an interruption; the Syke Mill shop steward, a dark, capable, fiery young man in his thirties, burst furiously into the room.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re about!’ he shouted at the men. ‘It’s my job to undertake all negotiations with the management, remember!’
‘We come about this takeover—or merger, or whatever you call it,’ said the spokesman. ‘We’ve heard as how sometimes mills are closed down in these mergers, and we want to know what’s going on.’
He spoke in an obstinate manner and was evidently determined to have his say; the men behind him murmured: ‘That’s right,’ and the shop steward changed his tune.
‘Aye, and no wonder!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve been shabbily tret. You leave us to read about it in the newspaper, Mr Chuff. It’s not right, that isn’t. Old Mr Morcar would never have done that to us. You should have told us before.’
‘I didn’t know about it myself till yesterday afternoon,’ said Chuff, exaggerating a little to improve his case.
‘Well then, you should have been here first thing this morning to tell us.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Chuff. ‘But my sister was dangerously ill in childbirth and I had to drive to Lori-mer at two o’clock in the morning.’
‘Well, of course we hope she’s better,’ said the shop steward crossly.
‘There’s a slight improvement this morning and the twins are said to be doing well.’ said Chuff, despising himself for using his private affairs to soften their hostility.
The younger men frowned and moved uneasily, disliking this reference to the results of their pleasures, but the older men’s faces softened.
‘But how can they take Syke over?’ objected the previous spokesman. ‘They can’t just walk in and say it’s theirs.’
‘They will buy up the shares from the shareholders.’ began Chuff.
‘Shareholders! Isn’t that capitalism all over?’ cried the shop steward. ‘Just because they’ve got a bit of money a few chaps can walk in and take our lives from us.’
‘That’s right—true enough—we don’t count,’ said the men.
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Chuff.
There was a pause. The sounds of the departmental heads gathering outside could now be heard.
‘Well—we just come to tell you how we fed,’ said the spokesman.
‘I take it you will keep us informed of the pregress of the negotiations,’said the shop steward.
‘I will. I promise you, I give my word that I shall do my utmost to fight off this threat,’ said Chuff.
The men made a move towards the door.
‘You might ask me if there were anything you could do to help me fight it off,’ Chuff reproached them.
They halted.
‘Well, is there?’
‘We need a very good year.’
The younger men jeered. ‘Aw, increased productivity! We’re tired of hearing that.’
’Sick and tired.’
‘It’d help you, but not us.’
The shop steward hesitated.
‘How would it help against a merger?’ he asked.
‘If the shareholders’ shares earn them good money here, they won’t want to sell. That might put the price of their shares up to beyond what these merger people, Messrs Hamsun, would want to pay,’ said Chuff, feeling grateful to Messrs Alfriston and Howard for this information.
‘Capitalism!’ sneered the shop steward again.
‘Well, think it over,’ said Chuff.
They made no reply, but Chuff guessed that from then onwards the mill would hum with talk.
‘What does Major Armitage think about it all then?’ said the shop steward in Chuff’s ear, as the men took themselves out.
‘He believes in the productivity idea as much as I do,’ said Chuff.
‘We haven’t had a major clash in the textile trade for nigh on forty years,’ said the shop steward in a conciliatory tone.
Chuff felt a passionate longing to exclaim: ‘That’s not your fault, I’m sure!’ But he controlled himself, and said mildly:
‘It’s a good record.’
The heads of departments came in, and Chuff announced the threatened merger to them with suitable gravity. They understood the points he made, only too well.
For the next five months Chuff’s life seemed entirely occupied by Messrs Hamsun’s proposition. He went often to London, and was soon wearied to death of Alfriston and Howard’s fine premises; he hated the breakfast train and loathed even more the late night return. The press pestered him. Mr Alfriston dealt with reporters, but press announcements brought telephone calls to Chuff from everybody in the West Riding, as it seemed to him. The whole textile trade hummed with gossip, and when Chuff made an entrance anywhere men’s faces lighted with interest, and they bore down on him, avid for news, like hyenas for flesh, Chuff thought. Frequent meetings were held with the Hamsuns, uncle and nephew, and the advisers on both sides. The senior Hamsun, John, in his fifties, a handsome rather impatient man, was the picture of a top business executive, but came out with some remarks which revealed his very considerable knowledge of textile markets, while the nephew (whose name, for heaven’s sake, was Cyril), lean, bald and ugly, seemed to know everything about Trade Union rates, welfare services, S.E.T., company tax, Pension Schemes, redundancy, in fact, everything about modem business management which Chuff did not know. Everything was conducted in courteous terms, for Mr Alfriston had murmured privately to Chuff: ‘Mud always sticks to the thrower,’ and Chuff commanded himself to believe this axiom and act accordingly. To conceal, to some extent, the crimson tide which rushed to his face when he was upset, he developed a habit of stroking his left eyebrow with two fingers in a thoughtful way, while he pushed his temper below boiling point.
‘We had thought, Mr Morcar, that our firms could be of mutual assistance in capturing the European market,’ said Mr John Hamsun.
‘I don’t feel in need of assistance,’ replied Chuff cheerfully.
‘You are very young, Mr Morcar,’ said John Hamsun after a pause.
‘I don’t consider my five years’ textile course at Annotsfield Technical College—though it’s the best in the country—counts for much,’ said Chuff in his politest tones, ‘but my years under my grandfather’s tuition are a different matter.’
‘But that is just what we are saying, Mr Morcar. Our skills are complementary.’
Not being absolutely sure what complementary meant in this connection, Chuff smiled blandly and was silent.
Of course there were occasions when this surface courtesy cracked a little and the reality grinned through. There was the meeting, for example, when Cyril Hamsun observed bluntly: ‘The day of the family business is over.’ After this, Nat Armitage somehow dropped out; he could never make it convenient to come to the discussions, and Chuff felt more free without him. At the next meeting Chuff broke out: ‘You care only for the profit, not for product or personnel.’ He thought this rather clever, and repeated it. The Hamsuns were angered and brought out rapidly quantities of facts and statistics to prove the high quality of their cloths and their paternal care for their work people.
After this there was silence for some weeks; Chuff at first lived on a rack of suspense, but was beginning happily to hope that the attack had been withdrawn when suddenly Cyril Hamsun rang him up, and after polite enquiries about Ruth—the Hamsuns learned somehow,
probably through Nat and Alfriston and Howard, of the approaching birth—said cheerfully:
‘Sorry, old chap, we know how you feel but we mean to go on.’
Chuff, his hopes thus dashed, felt positively sick as he laid the telephone down. Almost immediately the bell rang again, and Mrs Jessopp announced excitedly that Mrs Morcar had gone to the hospita
l, and birth could probably be expected by nightfall.
Ruth had a normal, reasonably swift delivery, and the child proved to be a fair-complexioned, lively, bouncy, robust boy, with a pugnacious little face, much like his father’s, and a hearty cry; no anxiety was ever felt about him. Perhaps it was this, but more likely his Hamsun worries, which caused Chuff to feel comparatively indifferent to a birth which he had previously anticipated with eager tenderness. Mrs. Mellor came to stay at Stanney Royd for a few weeks, to give Ruth a helping hand, but this was from wish rather than necessity, for Ruth went about radiant with happiness, well able to cope with the child’s requirements and rejoicing in fulfilling them. The parents had long ago made up their minds that, if they had a son, they would call him simply Henry. Ruth still assumed that this choice held, and though the threat to its special relevance made Chuff wince, he allowed it to stand. Jonathan and G.B. became his godfathers, Susie his godmother, Jonathan sending a silver mug engraved H.M. with a card attached to its’ handle, saying: To Hal, with love from his aunt and uncle. Ruth took a fancy to the nickname of Hal, and Chuff let that pass too, though he thought it an impertinence on Jonathan’s part. Chuff invited Nathan to the christening, but Nathan was not well enough to come—rheumatism, the curse of the West Riding.
“My son’s being christened today,’ said Chuff to the shop steward, as he encountered him in the warehouse. ‘I should like to give you all a holiday—but I shan’t. Productivity, you know.’
‘Are we winning, Mr Chuff?’ said the young man.
His tone was sympathetic, and the association of himself with the mill also surprised Chuff. There seemed a silence in the room, and looking about he perceived that all the men present were gazing at him.
‘About the merger, you mean? I don’t know, Jack. They’re tough and they’re determined and they’ve got a lot of money. I’m doing my best.’
‘Good luck, then,’ said Jack, and turned away abruptly, ashamed of his display of sentiment.
That the Syke Mill labour force (as the Hamsuns would call the men, reflected Chuff sardonically) seemed all to have come round to his side and be backing him energetically—this was certainly true; productivity was up and there were fewer errors—surprised Chuff the more because recently he had behaved disagreeably to the men. He toured the departments indefatigably, and always in a bad temper; scowling, questioning sharply, bawling them out. This was especially the case with the design department; he entered like a whirlwind, demanding fiercely when they were going to give him some patterns fit to show Messrs Hamsun, something new.
‘They’ll be on the pattern looms next week,’ said Mr Simmonds.
‘Can’t you get a move on?’
He observed that whereas Mr Simmonds, though his dried elderly face flushed, and he reared his head in a bridling action, replied stiffly, ‘We are doing our best, Mr Chuff,’ Paul Yarrow winced and shrank.
‘He’s afraid,’ thought Chuff brutally. ‘He’s the sort to make mistakes when he’s afraid. I’d better calm down.’
He spoke in a smooth silky tone to Yarrow but noticed that the young man’s hands still shook.
He returned to his office to find Alfriston and Howard on the telephone summoning him to a meeting with the Hamsuns and their advisers on the morrow.
‘What is it this time?’
They have prepared their letter to go out to your shareholders,’ said Mr Alfriston. ‘They think it right to show it to you and receive your comments personally, before sending it to press.’
That was the worst of those damned Hamsuns, thought Chuff irritably; they were always so damned correct.
‘After you have seen it your Board can take its final decision and draft its own letter—recommending acceptance or rejection, as the case may be.’
‘This is the crunch,’ thought Chuff, and he replied cheerfully, ‘I have all my figures ready, but I prefer to see their letter before drafting mine.’
The Hamsun letter was impressive. On thick white paper, in very legible print, it stated succinctly all the advantages, to both sides, of a merger. The central paragraph, in lettering remarkably black, offered 45s. for a Morcar share, or 17s. 6d. and one Hamsun group share. To anyone who knew the prospering affairs of the Hamsun group—and they had been well publicised in the press of late—this latter offer was very tempting, thought Chuff.
‘The lay-out is striking,’ commented Alfriston, and tapping the central paragraph he referred to the fount of type by name.
‘What do you say to this, Mr Morcar?’ demanded Howard.
‘It is our final offer,’ said Cyril Hamsun. ‘And remember, Mr Morcar, if we don’t take you over, somebody else will. You won’t get a better offer than ours.’
‘I should like three days to consider,’ said Chuff.
‘You’re a very obstinate young man, Mr Morcar,’ said the elder Hamsun irritably.
‘That is so,’ agreed Chuff with a wide smile.
‘Well, take your three days,’ said John Hamsun. shrugging.
The meeting broke up, and Chuff caught the earlier train.
5
Diversion
When he reached Annotsfield the night was dark, cold, and as usual, rainy. He felt weary and irritable almost beyond bearing as he recalled for a moment the African sun of his boyhood. The thought of driving through this poor visibility up the Ire Valley filled him with sick disgust. As he crossed the station square to his car he trod, as it chanced, the very spot where Henry Morcar had lost his life. It was the last straw. If he had been a woman, reflected Chuff, he would have burst into tears; as it was he gave a fierce exclamation, and swinging aside rapidly, charged into the Lion Hotel which filled almost the whole of one side of the square.
This hostelry, the resort of textile men since the early nineteenth century, massively rebuilt in the prosperous ’70’s, allowed to grow shabby in the dreadful ’30’s, had recently refurbished itself in the modern style, so that the bar was equipped with lots of strip lighting, white paint and tall plaid-seated stools. It was crammed with men accompanied here and there by handsomely dressed women, the air was thick with smoke, everyone was talking at the top of their voices. Chuff bought himself a stiff whisky and looked around. He raised a hand in greeting to two or three men he knew, but hardly felt on sufficiently intimate terms to join them. It occurred to him that he was lonely. In an alcove by the huge old chimney breast—now of course occupied by an electric fire—he glimpsed a face he knew. It was Paul Yarrow’s; the brown eyes gazed at him yearningly. Chuff crossed the room. Weaving his way through the knotted groups was tiresome, but on the other hand it was agreeable to look puposeful.
‘Good evening, Paul,’ he said.
‘Good evening, Mr Moicar,’ replied Yarrow.
Chuff was faintly surprised, for in the mill he was usually addressed as Mr Chuff. But immediately he understood; Yarrow was accompanied by a woman, and did not wish to use a form which implied subordination.
‘My wife,’ said Yarrow.
‘Oh, good evening, Mrs Yarrow,’ said Chuff, surprised to find that Yarrow was married.
He then remembered, however, that the Technical College Principal had mentioned a Yarrow wife, describing her as an artist. What a piece, he thought, whew! Her mini-skirt was so extremely short that as she perched on a stool which had been pushed aside from the bar, her crotch was almost visible. But her legs are worth it, thought Chuff, admiring their slenderness and length. She saw his look and swung one foot to retain his attention. Her pale red hair, lacquered to a high gloss, was piled up on her head in elaborate convulsions; her features were regular and handsome; her light grey eyes were heavily made up with green eye-shadow and mascara; her very long golden eyelashes (if you could call them hers, thought Chuff sardonically) curled over an ivory cheek. Her breasts were disappointingly small, quite overshadowed by the thick strings of rose, green and mauve beads which hung between them, but her arms, bare to the shoulders, were perfect, white and rounded, and decorated wi
th golden bracelets which clinked as she gave him her hand. Rather clumsy hands, but with long pointed nails painted mauve to match her skin-tight dress. Yes, quite a piece, thought Chuff; how on earth did poor Yarrow manage to pick her up?
They talked. About the weather—Mrs Yarrow thought the West Riding weather was simply the worst in the world. About his frequent journeys to London, for which she envied him—and if she lived in London, New York would be the only desirable place to her, thought Chuff. Her voice was a high but not unpleasing drawl, with no trace of accent.
‘You’re not a West Riding native, then, Mrs Yarrow?’ he said.
‘Heavens, no! I’m from the south. You can take the West Riding and drop it in the North Sea, for all I care. Or perhaps the Atlantic would be better.’
‘Deeper,’ suggested Chuff.
‘That’s right.’
She laughed and blinked her eyes at him.
‘Can’t we have another drink, Paul?’ she said then pettishly.
‘Of course,’ said her husband meekly, collecting her glass.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Chuff.
‘Oh do. Why not? Cheer up and have another,’ she said, bending her head on one side and looking up at him coquettishly as her husband, no doubt relieved, for whisky was dear, accepted. Chuff’s refusal and went off to the bar.
‘Please do, to please me.’
‘I have to drive myself home, Mrs Yarrow.’
‘Do call me Lois.’
Chuff said nothing, but he had a pleasurable sensation. To forget his merger preoccupation for a moment was an immense relief; to lean against the mantelpiece in the Lion bar, drinking whisky and talking to a woman who was obviously flirting with him, made him feel agreeably man-of-the-world.
Yarrow was having difficulty in getting attention at the bar counter—he always would, reflected Chuff; he was of that type.
‘Don’t you find the West Riding the last word in boredom?’ pursued Lois.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Ah, you make your own amusements.’
‘When I get the chance.’
Ring in the New Page 7
