Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  He had not the slightest desire to face his grandfather in a fury, and the thought of becoming known in the West Riding—for his mother’s discretion was not to be trusted—as the man who had killed his grandfather by badgering him for money on his deathbed, was equally repugnant.

  “Elizabeth will be—upset—if I can’t get clear, I’m afraid,” said Edward, giving the impression of a man modestly using the least emphatic word he could think of, in order not to obtrude his distress.

  The thought of his sister, careworn already by that poor delicate kid, weeping over the arrival of a court summons for her husband, or bailiffs or something of that kind, was too much for Lucius. He signed the cheque.

  “£1200 for you and the rest for me?” he said.

  “That’s right,” said Edward.

  He put his signature below his brother-in-law’s and turned away to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  * * *

  “It’s this awkward gap in the generations left by the war,” said Henry Morcar, lounging in robust health and admirable tweeds by Hardaker’s bedside. “Here am I touching seventy, and David Oldroyd, my adopted niece’s son, is seventeen. My own son’s not with me, you know; couldn’t settle after the last war; went out to South Africa to join his mother’s brother.”

  “They’re heading for a lot of trouble there,” said Hardaker, tactfully avoiding any reference to Morcar’s family affairs—he’d been divorced from his wife for years.

  “They are indeed. But Cecil and Fan have a fine place. Tobacco. I went out there last year. However—to come back to this merger idea. It’s this way: who’s to fill the gap between David and me? I make nothing of managers.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Now your two—what age are they?”

  “Both just turned thirty.”

  “That young Oates of yours you’ve just made a director—a clever young fellow, by all accounts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Married to your granddaughter, so he’s in the family.”

  “That’s right. They’ve a son.”

  “Oates is a good designer.”

  “From you that’s praise indeed.”

  “Capable on the managerial side too, I’m told.”

  “Aye, he is. But I’m bound to say it’s Lucius, my grandson, that I’m most concerned about.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well—I’m not an ungenerous man, John.”

  “I know that, Harry.”

  “I don’t believe in dead wood on boards of directors, though. He’d have to take his chance.”

  “That’s not a proposition to attract me.”

  “I can see it wouldn’t be. But he’d have his shares, after all.”

  “He’s very good with customers, Harry. They like him. He’s very steady and reliable. He must have a seat on the board.”

  “What’s his best line, then? Does he know yarns?”

  “He’s not too bad there,” lied Hardaker convincingly.

  “Well—I shall have to think what terms I can offer.”

  “Aye, do. And let me know. Write to me here, not at the mill.”

  “I’ll do that. No use shouting about the thing till we’ve got a bit further with it. If it doesn’t come off, no one need know.”

  “No. I’d rather the lads didn’t know yet. Might unsettle them,” said Hardaker, thinking: Oates would leave Ramsgill and go to Morcar like a shot if he thought Morcar’d take him.

  “If we were merged instead of being competitors, we could effect a lot of economies.”

  “We could.”

  “And be a really big concern. Our cloths would fit in. Your quality’s always been good, John.”

  “It has been and it is.”

  “Of course, I should have to tie things up pretty tight on my side, you know.”

  “You’d be a fool if you didn’t. But I know I can rely on you to be fair.”

  “You aren’t all that far away from me at Syke Mills.”

  “Not as the crow flies. But we aren’t crows. There’s a two-three Pennine hills on the way between Ramsgill and the Ire Valley, think on.”

  “They’ve improved that road down to the Valley from the moor road above you, considerably of late.”

  “Really,” said Hardaker, impressed.

  “Yes. I came that way this afternoon. You must have a look at it when you’re about again. Well, goodbye, John. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.”

  Hardaker lay back comfortably on his pillows. The thought of putting Ramsgill Mills into the care of Harry Morcar, one of the finest manufacturers in the trade and as honest as the day, made him feel really alive again. Of course, most people in the West Riding thought that Morcar’s adopted niece, the widowed Jennifer Oldroyd, was really his daughter; but what of that. A youthful indiscretion. (His wife, one always understood, had been a horror.) In Morcar’s hands Ramsgill and Lucius and Elizabeth and their children would be as safe as, in these nuclear days, anyone could hope to be. He himself could be vice-chairman under Harry, retire gradually as the lads grew up into their jobs, and die in peace. He felt better than he’d felt for weeks. Right back on his feet again. He must get out a few facts and figures quickly about Ramsgill production to impress Morcar. He’d go down to the mill the moment the doctor would allow him—perhaps even a day or two before.

  * * *

  “Well, don’t look so surprised to see me,” said Mr. Hardaker, closing the office door behind him. “I’m not dead yet.”

  “So it appears,” said Edward, laughing. “It’s good to see you at Ramsgill again, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Hardaker. He looked towards Lucius for some similar expression of welcome, but none came. Lucius was in fact looking ill, reflected Mr. Hardaker, very bleached in complexion, altogether wretched and as if shocked. Surely his marriage hasn’t gone wrong after all, reflected Mr. Hardaker crossly; he had the sense to choose a good hearty girl and get two fine children from her, surely he hasn’t thrown it all away for some silly fancy—he won’t get any help from me if he has any ideas of that kind. Oh, of course there are three children now.

  “How is my new great-granddaughter, eh? Got a name for her yet?” he probed obliquely.

  “Carol Elizabeth,” replied Lucius in a hoarse whisper.

  “Very nice,” approved Mr. Hardaker without listening.

  But Lucius’ expression did not change. Something obviously was wrong there. And now that Mr. Hardaker looked more closely at the young men, he saw that Edward too appeared a trifle pale. Had they heard something about the merger and resented his secrecy? Or did they dislike the idea? He had Morcar’s letter outlining proposals, in his pocket, and had arranged to discuss them with him at Morcar’s headquarters mill—he owned three—that afternoon.

  “I mustn’t stay long; I’ve an appointment at Morcar’s in Iredale at four,” he probed again.

  But the young men showed no interest. They had heard nothing. What could it be, then? Those new automatic looms in the far shed, perhaps? He enquired about their performance.

  Edward at once became genuinely enthusiastic and offered to take Mr. Hardaker down to the far shed to see them in action. Mr. Hardaker was disappointed; he wanted his grandson at his side. But he could not deny Edward without wounding the lad, so the two set off together, Edward politely opening the door and standing aside for the Ramsgill chairman to pass.

  “Whitehead, you and I must have a long session together tomorrow,” said Mr. Hardaker cheerfully, clapping the cashier on the shoulder as they passed through the outer office.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Hardaker,” said Whitehead, beaming.

  It was very agreeable to the old man to be back in his mill. Far too experienced in the Yorkshire character in general and Yorkshire workmen’s character in particular to expect any effusive greetings, he was genuinely surprised and pleased when the foremen of the various departments all came up to him as he passed through, shook his hand and told him they wer
e right glad to see him back, while quite a few of the other workpeople nodded their heads at him, or glanced downwards with an embarrassed smile which showed their shy awareness of his presence. Everything seemed to be going well, Mr. Hardaker decided, looking around him with a shrewd eye; the two lads seemed to have done a good enough job. Why then had Lucius worn that frightened hangdog air? Something at home, evidently. He must get to the bottom of it at once.

  By the time he had gone up and down several sets of stairs, walked along several sheds filled with clacking looms, stood talking with several men, crossed a yard, examined a few pieces and glanced at some machines, the old man felt tired, but did not intend to admit it. Edward opened the door into the yard, where Mr. Hardaker’s handsome black car stood in its appropriate parking place.

  “You’re allowed to drive, then? That’s good,” he said.

  “I can do anything as long as I sit down to it.”

  “And since you’ve paid your first visit to Ramsgill in the afternoon, I take it that’s a better time of day for you than the morning?”

  “Yes, that is so,” admitted Mr. Hardaker. “Dressing and shaving tire me. However,” he added brusquely: “You needn’t write my obituary notice yet.”

  Edward laughed. Somehow his laughter sounded a trifle hollow to Mr. Hardaker, he could not exactly say why. Decidedly there must be something wrong between Lucius and his wife, for this would also explain Edward’s uneasiness, Carol being his sister. Carol was the one to tell him; she was always—sometimes quite outrageously—frank.

  “I’ll go to Hill Royd now, at once, I won’t go back to the office,” he decided silently. “I’ve just time before I go to Morcar’s.”

  “What you need now is a cup of tea,” said Edward. He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little early,” he lied, “but I expect we can lay it on. Or will it be waiting for you at home?”

  Mr. Hardaker did not wish to be delayed by a cup of tea, and as Edward wished to keep him away from Lucius at all costs, the old man soon drove off.

  “Are you mad, Lucius?” demanded Edward fiercely. “Can’t you control yourself at all? Need you stand about looking as if you’d been struck by lightning?”

  “I have,” said Lucius.

  “Such childish behaviour,” muttered Edward, flinging himself aside. “Losing your head.”

  “What do you propose to do, then?” demanded Lucius. There was in his voice, Edward reflected angrily, for the first time a hint of that sardonic note so characteristic of his grandfather. To be Lucius’ partner might not be as comfortable as he had hoped. But luckily Lucius was involved in Edward’s misdeeds and could not with impunity cross him.

  “About what?” snapped Edward.

  “About that forged cheque.”

  “It’s not forged.”

  “Falsified, then.”

  “We’ve still some weeks—”

  “No, we haven’t. The monthly statement from the bank will come tomorrow. That cheque will be listed as paid, but we’ve no receipt to show from the Hudley Corporation.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t show this remarkable financial grasp a little earlier, Lucius.”

  “Yes, it is. Whitehead will show grandfather the statement and absence of receipt—you heard them arrange to have a session together. Grandfather will find the trick out tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “There’s only one thing to do; own up. We must tell grandfather this evening.”

  “My God, Lucius!” cried Edward. “Don’t you see what that will do to me? Your grandfather will throw me out of Ramsgill.”

  Lucius paused. “Yes, I expect he will,” he said.

  “If he does, by God I’ll take you with me,” said Edward with vicious emphasis. “I’ll wreck your credit—I’ll tell the tale everywhere—I’ll put the whole idea down to you.”

  “Who’s losing his head now?”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, let’s think of something to do.”

  “There’s nothing we can do, except own up,” said Lucius. (He could not bear to use the word confess.)

  “Then we’ll be Mr. Hardaker’s slaves for the rest of his life.” said Edward bitterly. “Everything we do he’ll carp at.”

  The change in Lucius’ face showed him that he had struck home.

  “He’ll tell Carol and Elizabeth.”

  “No!” exclaimed Lucius. “No!”

  “Yes, he will. He’ll take it out of us in every possible way. It’s a pity, because we’ve been at ease these last few months—working together has been pleasant. At least it has been pleasant to me,” said Edward, ending on an interrogative note.

  “And to me,” responded Lucius. “I’ve felt free, I’ve felt my own man. We haven’t done so badly, either.”

  “Why did he have to recover,” raged Edward. “If only he’d quietly died.”

  “Well—he’s very much alive.”

  “For the moment. He’s very easily tired, he’s very frail. He might have an attack again any time. In his car, for instance. He might easily collapse and go over the edge of the road or crash in traffic.”

  “Not before tomorrow afternoon.”

  There was a pause.

  “He’s gone to Morcar’s Iredale place,” said Edward then in a strained voice. “He’ll come back by that moorland lane they’ve just resurfaced.”

  Lucius was silent and looked aside.

  “Nobody knows we know he’s gone there, except ourselves,” said Edward hoarsely. “The office door was closed.”

  The two men exchanged a long strange look.

  * * *

  Mr. Hardaker’s reception at Hill Royd was all that could be desired. Johnny and Tom, their bright cheeks indicating their admirable health, were rushing around the garden in mufflers and wellingtons, pretending to be aeroplanes; they vanished round the back of the house as he dismounted from his car. Carol answered his ring.

  “Why, Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, beaming. She kissed his cheek. “How lovely to see you! Have you come to see Baby? She hasn’t woken from her nap yet but I daresay she will soon. I’ll just pop the kettle on. Come and sit down. Or would you like just a peep at Baby first? She looks lovely when she’s asleep.”

  Mr. Hardaker allowed himself to be guided to the cot, in which lay a beautiful little creature. Her abundant hair and long eyelashes were dark, her round cheek rosy with sleep; she opened deep blue eyes and drowsily closed them. Mr. Hardaker respectfully raised her tiny little fingers and placed a five-pound note beneath.

  “How good of you, grandpapa!” said Carol gratefully. “You are kind, really! You look tired, though. Come and sit down. Sit down here. I’ll just make a cup of tea.”

  It was difficult to believe anything could be seriously wrong in a household where the mother looked so confidently happy.

  “How is Lucius, Carol?” Mr. Hardaker enquired when she returned.

  “Oh, he’s splendid. Very well,” said Carol, cheerfully pouring cups of strong tea with a lavish hand. “He was a bit worried a few weeks ago—we had quite a row!” She laughed. “About some bills. Lucius is a grand fellow, you know, grandpapa, but a little bit careless at times. But it’s all over now. He’s paid them all.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Hardaker, rather surprised but pleased.

  “Yes. I told him he must. He’s really as good as gold. And so lovely with the children.”

  “There’s nothing whatever wrong here, then?” said Mr. Hardaker, looking around him at the untidy, warm, lived-in room with satisfaction.

  “Nothing whatever except we’re short of money,” said Carol, laughing.

  Mr. Hardaker scowled. “Why doesn’t Lucius tell me so, then?” he grumbled. He stopped suddenly and coloured a little; it seemed to him that he vaguely remembered Lucius saying something of the kind to him on various past occasions. Nothing detailed, though; nothing to take seriously. “Well—I shall have to have a talk with Lucius, a serious talk,” he concluded.

  “
Yes, do. Why did you think there might be something wrong here, Grandpapa?” said Carol.

  “I was at the mill just now and I thought Lucius looked worried. In fact, both Lucius and Edward seemed a trifle off-colour. I just wondered if there was something upsetting them,” replied Mr. Hardaker.

  There was a pause.

  “Have you seen Elizabeth lately, Mr. Hardaker?” said Carol.

  Her tone was so unusually quiet, subdued, almost delicate, that Mr. Hardaker was startled.

  “Elizabeth? No. Why?”

  Carol paused again.

  “I think you should go to see her some afternoon. When she’s alone, you know. I do really, Mr. Hardaker. I’m not throwing you out, you know, but I think it would be a good idea if you went now.”

  Mr. Hardaker got up in a hurry. “But why? What’s wrong with Elizabeth? Is it the child?”

  Carol said nothing, but fetched his coat and helped him to put it on. Nowadays this was rather a breathless business for Mr. Hardaker, but he controlled his weakness and said in his usual commanding tone:

  “Carol, tell me at once; what is the matter with Liz?”

  Carol met his eyes but made no reply. She opened the door, and taking him firmly by the arm, helped him down the steps.

  “Give her my love,” she said.

  * * *

  Mr. Hardaker knew what was the matter with Elizabeth as soon as she kissed him in welcome. She appeared astonished and a little embarrassed to see him, but her embrace was warmer than usual; she exclaimed with a strangely wistful air: “How lovely to see you out again!” took his coat and seated him by the fire with gestures of very real affection. But it did not need the bottle and glass on the stool beside her to inform Mr. Hardaker. Her walk was unsteady, her speech blurred; the air about her reeked of alcohol.

  “Elizabeth, you’re drunk,” he said.

  A slow heavy flush invaded Elizabeth’s face. She turned aside from his look and was silent. Mr. Hardaker leaned forward and took her hand.

  “How long has it been going on, love?” he said in a tone of deepest sympathy.

  “Just a month or two.”

  “You’re unhappy with that fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Hardaker furiously. “I ought never to have let you marry him.”