I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  Mr. Hackbridge was there and bowed politely to both of them. When they had passed him, however, he stood looking after them, and nodded his head slowly, pursing his lips as he did so.

  “He must have had a wet night,” he said to himself knowingly. “A very wet one.”

  ii

  It was after Christmas now; the battle between the thin ranks of the assistants and the massed hordes of West London was over and won, and the merciful armistice of Boxing Day, when all the girls were able at last to rest their feet, had intervened. After Christmas; and the doctor had been proved wrong. That was the delicious irony of it. Louise had told John Marco what the doctor had said, and he had laughed at it. But, at the time, he had laughed a little diffidently as though fearing that somehow his heart and the doctor might be in league together. It was only now that he could afford to open his mouth really wide and say what a fool the man was, what fools all doctors always were. It was only now that he could raise his glass to his lips again without expecting to be struck down as a punishment. And he needed the stuff more than ever he had done; it was the mainspring that kept him going.

  During those five weeks when he ought to have been dead, he had spent ten hours a day at the shop; he had lived there. And now, instead of getting himself ready for the mutes and the lilies, he was preparing for the January Sales, getting the pieces in shape for something that would shake the plate glass palaces of Oxford Street.

  Of that last attack which had so nearly done away with him, only a kind of treacherous weakness still remained. When a new plan came to him, and his head was still full of them—there was now a reluctance inside his brain, a sort of drowsiness that did not want to be disturbed. It was as though one part of his mind was protecting his life from the rest of him. But this did not make him spare other people. “Let them get tired,” he said. “Let them see what it’s like to fall asleep at their desks and wake themselves up again and still go on working.” And so poor Mr. Hackbridge and the uncomplaining Mr. Skewin were kept on the run like page-boys, and Mr. Lyman was everlastingly being given new sets of figures to prepare, ingenious fresh sums that all added up to the brave new total.

  It was into this world of pressure and urgency, this frantic, rushed world of profits and competition, that Hesther suddenly appeared again. He no longer even thought about her; and each time when his son had presented himself—he came obediently like an overgrown schoolboy accustomed to authority: it was a tribute to her faith in him that Hesther now allowed him to come alone—they had not spoken of her. On these occasions, John Marco had been curt with the youth: he had wanted to get him out of his sight again. It was hard to find anything admirable in this shy young man who wore heavy boots and the round collar of an Amosite deacon. In him, he had seen the last of his dreams dissolving; had known that, after he was gone, there would be someone else, a stranger, giving the orders in John Marco Ltd.; had realised that his name on the shop-front would one day be all that was left of him.

  It was the first day of the January Sales and the gangways of the store were crowded like sheep pens, when Hesther came into the shop. John Marco had gone out onto his balcony a dozen times that afternoon, and each time he had returned satisfied. Below him, as he had looked, he had been able to see nothing but the shifting sea of ladies’ hats, with the bald head of Mr. Hackbridge appearing in the midst of it like a floating iceberg. And because the weariness that he had been fighting was creeping over him again, he drained the last glass out of the decanter and put on his hat and coat ready to leave.

  It was only when he stepped out onto the balcony again and saw the bright, blurred lights of the chandeliers above his head, and felt his feet unsteady beneath him as he moved, that he acknowledged to himself how much he must have drunk. But it was six o’clock already and his day was over. He could afford now to have things a little blurred and unsteady until to-morrow morning. And he went down the curving staircase slowly and carefully, keeping close to the balustrade. All round him there rose the drone and vibration of the great shop in action; it seemed the very hum of life itself.

  Down on the ground floor he had to push and jostle with the shoppers that crowded in on him. He was one of them now, caught up in this mob that he had enticed there. It was hot, very hot, down here; and his head was swimming. His thoughts came to him, indiscriminate and confused. But there was one central thread running right through them. “We’re making money, coining it,” he kept repeating; “We’re bankers, not drapers. Everything around me is turning into gold.” And for a moment his tiredness vanished, and only the exhilaration of success remained.

  Then through a gap in the crowd he saw the tall, black figure of Hesther. She seemed busy and preoccupied, moving about among the other shoppers as though oblivious to them. In her hand she was carrying a sheaf of tracts.

  He stood still, his eyes kept close on her unable at first to bring his mind full circle properly to comprehend what he saw. “She is nothing of mine,” he told himself; “this woman does not belong to me. She is out of the shadows, out of the past. My life is the bright, glittering one of the shop that is all around her. Why does she still come here? Can’t she see that our ways are divided?”

  And as he watched her he saw her go over to one of the assistants and hand her one of the tracts. The assistant took it politely, and then smiled. John Marco could see the words on it. Printed in heavy type as though to terrify the indifferent was the message “REPENT YE, THE LORD”: the rest of the admonition was lost in a fold of the paper.

  John Marco watched Hesther move away in search of other souls to save, and went over to the girl. He took the piece of paper away from her, and threw it angrily onto the floor.

  “Get on with your work,” he said.

  His hands were trembling by now and there was a red mist in front of his eyes. It was his shop, his sale, his life in fact; and Hesther had suddenly broken into the midst of it all, destroying everything. His heart was pounding and the vein in his temple was standing out as he made his way through the crowd to stop her.

  And then as he reached her, Hesther paused and saw him. Her face lit up with a new exaltation at the sight.

  “Sinner,” she said. “Read the Lord’s warning. Take heed before it is too late.”

  And she thrust one of the printed handbills at him.

  He crumpled it up and threw it down on the floor as he had thrown down the other one.

  “Get back outside into the street,” he said. “Don’t bring this rubbish here.”

  His voice was louder than he had intended, and he saw several of the shoppers pause and look in their direction.

  But Hesther’s voice was raised louder than his: it was now full and carrying like Mr. Tuke’s.

  “The Lord’s word can never be rubbish,” she answered. “It is written in blood for man’s salvation.”

  A crowd, a separate crowd from that at the counters began to form round them by now: Hesther and John Marco were the centre of a group of silly, frightened women who could only open their eyes and stare.

  “Get outside,” John Marco repeated.

  He had dropped his voice by now, and was speaking through teeth that were almost closed.

  “Not until I have delivered the message,” Hesther replied defiantly. “Not until the Lord’s work is done.”

  It was Mr. Hackbridge who, seeing the unusual obstruction in the middle of one of the main thoroughfares of the shop, stepped forward. When he saw Mr. Marco and the black figure of Hesther he stopped. But John Marco called him forward. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily.

  “Remove this woman,” he said. “Put her outside.”

  Mr. Hackbridge was very tactful about it. He laid his hand on Hesther’s arm without even allowing his fingers to close round it. The whole gesture was delicate and considerate: it was as though he were trying to brush the whole incident aside without offending anyone.

  “This way, please,” he said.

  But Hesther did not move. She
turned towards John Marco again.

  “You’re my husband,” she said. “I have a right to stay. I demand in God’s name that I remain; I am needed. This whole shop is tainted.”

  The red mist in front of John Marco’s eyes thickened: in the centre of it he saw Hesther’s face, the lips drawn back from the large white teeth like a man’s. He forgot Mr. Hackbridge and the circle of Bayswater ladies, forgot about the shop and the sale and everything, and struck at the face in front of him; struck and struck again.

  He remembered the rest of the scene only dimly. There was Mr. Hackbridge’s shocked voice saying, “Take it easy, sir, take it easy”; there was the harsh rustle of Hesther’s dress as she fell and the screams of the ladies who were standing near; there was the pain in his knuckles where he had struck. And then he was blundering forward, pushing the other people aside, trying to make his way towards the door, trying to get away somewhere among strangers who would not know what had happened.

  Chapter XLIII

  The day had come. They were all seated round the long board room table with John Marco at their head. He was wearing an orchid, a gaudy fleshy affair, in his buttonhole, and his silk cravat was new and gorgeous-looking. Altogether, there was something of the old magnificence about him, the same sense of fullness and well-being. His face over the high points of his collar had lost some of its greyness and only the heavy pockets under his eyes, the loose pouches where the skin hung limply, remained. His head was cocked on one side in the manner of someone who knows that all the cards, and the joker too perhaps, are in his hand. He alone knew how tired he was.

  It was an unusually full board meeting; the whole eight of them, including the solemn, silver-haired nominee of the bank, had assembled. John Marco sat back and smiled on them. It was his day, the day on which they were going to announce a dividend again—ten per cent if they wanted it—and so wipe out the shame and the disgrace of the preceding years. His soul ran over at the thought of it and, as he sat there, he felt as Joshua must have felt when he had brought them dry-footed over Jordan. Besides, he had his own little surprise to spring on them; it was something that he was saving up until the rest of the business of the meeting had been completed, something that would make every man around him sit up pretty straight when he heard it.

  But Mr. Lyman in that thin, skeleton voice of his was already reading the minutes of the last board meeting; and everyone, especially those directors who were not usually present, was sitting very upright on his chair, listening with a fixed, polite attention. John Marco was the only one who was not listening. He was sitting back with his hands tucked into the armholes of his waistcoat, waiting impatiently for Mr. Lyman to stop. The minutes which Mr. Lyman was reading were mostly concerned with the sacrifices of the directors in halving their salaries, and now John Marco was proposing to restore them again. He had taught Mr. Lyman and Mr. Hackbridge their lesson, and he could afford to be generous once more. In a way he now felt rather sorry for them.

  His speech from the chair was a deliberately fulsome, over-generous affair; it was intended very largely for the ears of the bank’s nominee to show what a happy, united family they were. John Marco spoke of Mr. Hackbridge’s efforts and of Mr. Lyman’s as the kind of things that go down in the hagiology of commercial history, and he explained why he was so anxious to see that they should be adequately rewarded. It was just after he had referred to Mr. Lyman, as “my brilliant colleague to whom I am always pleased to turn for advice and guidance,” that he glanced for a moment in Mr. Lyman’s direction. But Mr. Lyman was looking down unswervingly at the pad before him; it was as though he had not heard the words that John Marco had just uttered. And even Mr. Hack-bridge seemed embarrassed rather than pleased by the tributes to himself. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair every time John Marco referred to him.

  John Marco left the discussion of the dividend for a moment and led straight on to the little surprise that he had been storing-up for them.

  “My own contract comes up for renewal this year,” he said blandly, “and it will be for you gentlemen to vote upon it. If it is your pleasure that I should continue to manage the company that I founded”—here John Marco paused and smiled condescendingly upon them all—“I shall endeavour to serve your interests and those of the shareholders as faithfully as I have served them in the past. Only there is one condition that I shall have to make. As a result of certain economies which have been made we are about to enter a new period of prosperity. And as there will be money to spare again I’m afraid that the company may find me a little more expensive than it has done in the past. In fact, quite a bit more expensive. In view of the services which I have rendered I feel justified in asking for twenty per cent of the profits instead of only ten.”

  He paused again, and regarded them humorously.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “let us dispose of this motion so that we can get on with other business. Perhaps Mr. Lyman will propose and Mr. Hackbridge will second it.”

  He sat down again; and, as he did so, the weakness that had been in the background all the time crept over him: he had exhausted himself more than he had realised. There was no strength left anywhere in him; even his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his hand over them.

  And as he did so he heard the pale voice of Mr. Lyman say very slowly and distinctly: “I regret that I have to oppose the motion.”

  John Marco did not even trouble to look at him.

  “So you think that twenty per cent is too much, do you?” he asked. “You don’t think I earn it.”

  His voice, though quiet, was dangerous.

  But Mr. Lyman only shook his head.

  “I mean that I oppose the re-election of Mr. Marco,” he replied to the room at large.

  There was scarcely any pause at all before Mr. Hack-bridge’s thicker, clumsier voice, which faltered a little as he spoke, joined in.

  “I second that motion,” he said.

  The two speeches came out glib and pat, like a lesson that had been carefully learnt and practised beforehand.

  The board meeting had become hushed now. There were simply eight silent figures sitting there. John Marco himself had not moved. His hand was still over his eyes, but the blackness that was suddenly before them was darker than any shadow that his hand could give. He felt the blood rise inside his head, beating, drumming; yet his body had grown cold. His face was grey again. But he sat up and faced Mr. Lyman squarely.

  “May I ask your reasons?”

  His voice was cold and hard as he spoke to him.

  Mr. Lyman did not raise his eyes from the pad.

  “Mightn’t that lead to unpleasantness?” he replied.

  But John Marco continued to regard him so fixedly that Mr. Lyman shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he sat there.

  “Why, pray?” he asked in that same iron, icy voice.

  Mr. Lyman lifted his eyes for a moment, met John Marco’s, and dropped them again.

  “I’m afraid it’s all connected with your drinking,” he said.

  “That’s a lie,” John Marco shouted. He was leaning forward right over the table by now. “How much I drink is my own concern.”

  “But unfortunately other people see the results,” Mr. Lyman replied. “The whole staff is talking. First there was the affair in the young ladies’ hostel which Mr. Hack-bridge and I tried to suppress. And then the episode with Mrs. Marco in the shop. That sort of thing can’t be kept dark, you know.”

  “Show me what harm it’s done,” John Marco answered. “Show me how it’s ever cost the company a penny.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Lyman replied. “If you insist on it.”

  He removed a folder from under the mass of papers that was in front of him, and opened it.

  “I have here three letters from customers who removed their accounts elsewhere after the unfortunate affair with Mrs. Marco. They were all three most excellent accounts.”

  “Why wasn’t I shown them?” John Ma
rco demanded. “What right had you to keep them back?”

  He raised his hand to his forehead as he spoke. The blood was still throbbing against his ear-drums and waves of faintness that threatened to overthrow his balance were passing through him.

  “They were given to Mr. Hackbridge personally,” Mr. Lyman replied. “And he preferred that they should be brought up in the proper quarter.”

  Mr. Hackbridge added something faint and inaudible under his breath, and began pulling at his tie.

  “You and Hackbridge forged these between you,” John Marco answered.

  “Then please examine the names,” Mr. Lyman replied. He half rose in his chair and pushed the papers towards John Marco.

  It was noticeable that John Marco’s hand trembled as he put it out to take them; the pieces of paper fluttered. But he read them carefully, slowly, as he always read every letter. Then with the corners of his mouth turned down into a kind of crooked smile, he creased the letters and tore them; tore them until they were only tiny shreds.

  “That’s how much attention I pay to them,” he said.

  Mr. Lyman coughed.

  “I’ve kept sworn copies,” he answered.

  “And have you anything to show these gentlemen?” John Marco enquired. “Anything else that reflects on me?”

  “Only this,” Mr. Lyman replied.

  It was a piece of paper with some forty names on it.

  “This document contains the signatures of the young ladies who live in the hostel,” Mr. Lyman said quietly. “They wish to register their protest against Mr. Marco’s behaviour. They are apprehensive for their safety.”

  “You made them sign it,” John Marco answered. His voice was suddenly raised; he was shouting at Mr. Lyman again.

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Lyman answered. “It was the lady housekeeper. She brought it round herself.”

  “And is that all?”