by CL Skelton
George Emmerson, not to be outdone, walked into the middle of the great hall, turned around in a careful circle and said, ‘Bluidy shocking, place this size housing one bluidy damn family.’ Even Maureen who was, if aggressive, thoroughly refined, looked shocked.
Mavis said, ‘George, please,’ and looked on the edge of real anger, but Sam just quietly grinned and said, ‘Never mind, I’ve got half a Barnardo’s Home upstairs, for a start.’
There was a sudden ringing electronic chord echoing down the gallery and both Sam’s guests jumped and said, ‘What was that?’
‘Your nephew and my cousin courting their muse,’ said Sam. He led his baffled and reluctant guests into the drawing-room.
Actually, it went better than he could have hoped. Maureen Emmerson cornered him over sherry, which was not entirely unpleasant, and certainly nicer than being cornered by George. Mavis decided meanwhile to ignore her brother, who stood around looking disgruntled and talking in turn to Vanessa and Madelene who, out of her new good-nature to Sam, was being as French and charming as possible, which even softened the Red menace a little. After three sherries Maureen had decided that Sam was not half as stupid as she’d have liked him to be, and after the fourth she decided she didn’t even care. They were yet crossing swords, but she was parrying more gently and in her sharp, quick eyes there was the rarest hint of flirtation.
George Emmerson circled the room, studying the portraits and looking for signs of ostentatious wealth to despise, and trying to ignore the fraying carpets. He was on his second circuit when he came face to face with a thin, craggy, wiry little man, inappropriately dressed in tweed plus-twos and a pullover with a hole in the elbow, who had appeared out of nowhere. He had spiky grey hair hanging over his ears and he was looking around the room disgruntledly over a full whisky glass. George couldn’t imagine he was a guest but, since his host hadn’t turfed him out or confiscated the whisky, he assumed he couldn’t be either a passing gatecrasher or a rebellious member of staff. What he did appear to be, both from his dress and his cynical eye, was a compatriot.
‘Geordie Emmerson,’ George said, extending his hand. The other grunted something, nodded, and neither shook his hand nor gave his own name. He did however seem to acknowledge George’s presence, so George continued, getting in stride. ‘You see a place like this,’ he said conspiratorially to his fellow member of the downtrodden class, ‘and you see the real crime of inherited wealth.’ Like all politicians, George Emmerson thought in rhetoric. His companion said nothing but sipped his whisky and after a very long time, when George had assumed he was never going to answer he spoke suddenly.
‘Sam didn’t inherit it.’
George blinked, surprised at having his rhetoric taken so personally, but he said, ‘Of course he damn well did. He’s a Hardacre.’
The scruffy man sipped his whisky non-committally, watching Sam and Maureen across the room, leaning against the French windows, talking with great animation. He was thinking that, if he had a wife like that, he’d keep her shackled to his wrist around a man like Sam Hardacre, but he didn’t say that. He said instead, ‘He bought it.’
‘Impossible.’ George Emmerson narrowed his eyes, fascinated by this information, but doubting it thoroughly. ‘Who are you? How would you know that?’
‘I sold it to him.’
‘You?’ Emmerson stared.
‘Aye.’ The other suddenly extended a crusty, calloused hand. ‘Noel Hardacre,’ he said. ‘I inherited.’
George Emmerson stared again, as Noel walked away, and he was still in a faint daze when his hostess and sister asked him to come through to dinner. She took his arm. His wife, laughing a little giddily, was ahead, on the arm of his host.
George behaved himself over dinner. He was still a bit bemused by Noel’s revelation. Besides, the food was good, and Madelene Hardacre was fussing over him so attentively that it was hard to be ill-natured. By the end of the meal he was gently soporific, so much so that three choruses of the Red Flag might well have failed to get him to his feet. The company was cheerful, his host was very charming, and his sister, radiant in a white dress, looked stunning and oddly appropriate at the foot of that long mahogany table. She also looked very happy and Geordie loved her and, if he could really believe that Sam Hardacre would genuinely keep her happy, he might actually relent. But then she got up and asked the ladies to retire. That’s what did it. It was that damned medieval country-house performance. He saw Maureen give him a sharp, cynical glance, but it didn’t stop her from letting Sam Hardacre teasingly kiss her hand as he rose to stand as the ladies left.
Geordie glowered as the table was cleared, trying to work up a feeling of solidarity that would communicate to the two plump Yorkshire countrywomen who busied themselves with that task. They looked disappointingly content, and ignorant of a comrade in their midst.
Sam passed the port. Geordie took the decanter, poured for himself, and passed it on. It was not exactly the first time. Labour conference dinners sometimes ended that way, too, he had to admit. He even stood and drank the health of the Queen, which Sam, loyal to Harry and apologetic to Terry, always carefully included in every such evening.
‘And now,’ said George, without preamble, ‘I’m having my say.’
‘But of course,’ said Sam.
‘Our Mavis,’ said George, ‘went through a lot of suffering on account of your family. A lot of suffering, and a lot of humiliation,’ he added.
‘It was never our intention,’ said Sam solemnly. But George Emmerson was not to be mollified.
‘Damn your intentions, your cousin made a mess of her life.’
‘Well the Luftwaffe rather made a mess of his,’ said Sam very calmly. ‘He wanted to marry her, and he would have done.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said George.
‘No,’ Sam said. ‘You can say what you like to me, or about me. But you’ll not slander a dead man’s honour at my table.’ He was suddenly terribly serious. He had taken George Emmerson’s needling all evening, though admittedly George had been restrained, and his wife, after the initial onslaught, was positively charming. He had been prepared for worse, and he’d sworn he would not be riled. Partly because he would do nothing to hurt or shame his fiancée, and partly because, ever since the episode with Mike Brannigan, he had made a solemn vow to himself that he would not lose his temper again. He had scared himself as much as he had scared Mike.
But George Emmerson, like any good politician, knew how to seek and find the nerve. He’d found it now and he went purposefully back for more.
‘I suppose a gentleman’s honour means more then, than the honour of a working-class girl?’ Sam set his glass down on the table. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for several seconds. When he opened them George Emmerson was almost grinning.
‘Right,’ said Sam.
His hands came down flat on the table and he straightened in the chair, but Noel, who had watched, silently amused, over his port glass the while, said suddenly, ‘Sam, I can’t stick this stuff. Get me a beer, old son.’
‘What?’ he said.
‘There’s some round the back of the still-room.’
‘Ring Mrs Bennett,’ Sam said, his eyes yet on George Emmerson.
‘She’ll never find it. Go on, mate, nip out and get one for me.’
Sam looked round at him, puzzled. Noel was watching him in that funny quizzical way of his, his head slightly on one side. He was surprised that Noel had even attended though, naturally, he was, as always, invited. Noel’s insistence now surprised him more. It was more like him to simply get up, without excusing himself, and clump out for his beer himself. But Sam was a good host. He nodded and got up from the table and, with another, curt nod to George he left the room.
George Emmerson grinned.
‘Bet that’s the first time anyone asked him for a beer with the bloody port,’ he said with a comradely nod again to Noel. Whatever the truth about the inheritance of Hardacres, Noel was cl
early a man of the earth.
‘I don’t want his bloody beer, mate,’ said Noel.
‘Then what?’
‘I wanted him out of the room,’ said Noel. George Emmerson blinked. ‘I wanted him out of the room because I’m about to make my first after-dinner speech ever,’ he said. ‘And it’s not for Sam. It’s for you, mate.’
‘I say, what’s this?’ said Rodney, having just come to an awareness that something was happening. Noel just waved a hand at him that meant for him to shut up. He faced George again.
‘Now, you, working man,’ he said. ‘You ever taken a salvage tug out in a Force Ten gale in the middle of the night?’
George shrugged, faintly annoyed. ‘Of course not, it’s not my line.’
‘You ever chased around the Irish Sea in a hurricane trying to get a line aboard a crippled freighter? Ever patched up a leaking hull with the bloody ship sinking all round you?’
‘I’m a miner, damn it,’ said Emmerson.
‘You were a miner,’ said Noel. ‘You haven’t been a miner in years. You were a union man and now you’re a politician. Don’t be ashamed of it, it’s a good dishonest trade. But it’s time you bloody hang up your flat cap and give over. And lay off Sam because he’s done all those things, and more.’ Noel sat back and finished his port with satisfaction. George Emmerson opened his mouth to protest, but Noel continued, right over his words.
‘Now, that much was for your information. This next lot’s for your protection.’ He got up, stalked across the room, and drew the curtains shut suddenly on the evening, which had darkened suddenly into night, with rain lashing down against the windows. It was late May, but hardly summery.
He turned from the draperies and said, with an almost cheerful grin, ‘You ever seen Sam angry?’
‘I hardly know the man.’
‘Oh, you’ve got a treat in store, then. Because let me tell you something. You’ve been pushing him all evening and by my reckoning you’ve about a half-inch to go. You say you don’t know Sam. Well, I know him very well indeed. And I happen to know that when he leans back and closes his eyes he’s saying an Ave to keep from hitting someone. You see, you have to understand Sam. He’s religious. That means he gets sorry when he hits somebody. Not like me. I don’t get sorry at all. But you’re going to be sorry. Because if you push him once more, either he’s going to hit you or I’m going to hit you. Only difference is, tomorrow he’ll go to confession and I’ll go to the pub. Either way, you’ll go to hospital. So wise up, mate, and lay off.’ Noel sat down, poured himself more port, and downed it in one.
‘I won’t be threatened,’ said George Emmerson stiffly.
Noel shrugged. ‘Nobody’s threatening you, mate. I’m just telling you the truth, and Sam never threatens anybody. He’ll just sit there smiling and then he’ll snap. I know. I’ve seen it. Now if that’s what you want, go ahead. I think it’s stupid. He loves your sister and he’d love to be your friend. And he’s a good friend, believe me.’
He shrugged again, hearing Sam’s footstep in the corridor.
‘Now, mate, you’re on your own.’
Sam came in then with Noel’s beer and a glass on a tray, which he offered to his cousin. Noel took it with a grunt and poured the beer into the glass, watching as Sam, his anger temporarily forgotten, sat down again. He sipped it briefly and set it down.
‘It’s flat,’ he said with a grin. He tilted his head sideways, glancing once at Geordie Emmerson, who was sitting quietly thoughtful for a change. Noel finished his beer in a couple of hearty gulps, slapped the glass on the table with cheerful rudeness and said to Sam, ‘Shall we join the ladies, old son?’
They had scarcely done so and Mavis, graciously and a little proudly had only just begun to pour from Mary Hardacre’s silver coffee service, when Sam was called away to the telephone. He returned after a short interval, hurried and apologetic, looking round the roomful of guests with remorse.
‘I’m most terribly sorry, but something has come up. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you on your own.’ He glanced quickly round and his eyes settled on Noel. Noel grinned.
‘I’ll pour your booze for you, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. Sam nodded gratefully, avoided his mother’s accusing eye and signalled to Mavis to join him in the corridor.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘That was Jan. There’s a freighter in trouble off Spurn Head. We’re going out for her.’ He paused, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I hate to leave you like this.’
She only shook her head distractedly, her eyes on a distant set of windows in the open hall, on which the wind-driven rain was slashing in watery sheets. ‘It’s blowing a gale,’ she said.
‘That’s why she’s in trouble, sweetheart.’ He kissed her lightly and said, ‘Give them coffee and send them home. Mother will arrange everything. I’ll see you when I get back.’ She nodded, and did not ask when that might be. Mavis accepted his work; its disruptions and its dangers. She watched as he ran upstairs to change his clothes, his mind already far from her. She went back into the drawing-room and poured coffee for her guests.
Sam appeared a few minutes later at the door of the room, in his dungarees, fisherman’s jumper and heavy Navy jacket. He looked an entirely different person. He leaned in and waved, grinning at George Emmerson, turned and ran lightly out through the hall and into the night. Mavis followed slowly, watching the tail-lights of his van as he drove off into the rain. She turned then, facing the awesome splendour of the house, suddenly alone and suddenly terrified. But she straightened her shoulders, nodded to the portraits that looked down from every wall, and walked determinedly back to the beautiful drawing-room. Mrs Bennett was waiting outside the door.
‘Mr Hardacre’s been called away,’ Mavis said, ‘but we’ll have some more coffee, please.’ She smiled pleasantly and the woman returned her smile, almost shyly, and went away. Mavis entered the drawing-room.
Noel and her brother were standing by the darkened windows, from before which Sam had just driven away. Noel was grinning. He said, as in some private joke, ‘Fancy going with him, working man?’
George Emmerson bridled, just for a moment, and then his tough, belligerent face relaxed slightly. He looked round the room and his eyes settled on his sister and, as Noel pulled the great floor-length drapes over against the storm, as he’d done in the dining-room, he said, ‘May I get some wood for that fire, Mavis? If you’ll show me the way.’ The party went on until the late hours, and it was just after midnight when Mavis stood at the door of Sam’s house, beside his mother, and waved good-night to her departing guests. Then she went in and shut the door behind her, against the stormy night.
At the same hour Sam, himself, with Pete Haines and eight of a quickly-gathered crew, set off into the teeth of an on-shore gale, aboard the Mary Hardacre, from Hull. He had already forgotten his guests, and to some degree his lady. It was the only way; the work required full concentration, and full commitment, and there was no one to whom he might delegate his authority. Jan was there, of course, but Jan had become a desk man. In the years they had been together, Sam had overtaken him and passed him by in knowledge and experience. The only person he really turned to now was Pete Haines and, of course, to Mick. But that last was for reasons of emotion rather than logic. Mick had never been a salvage man at all, but a fisherman, handy with engines, and the sea. He’d learned a bit, but not that much. But Mick was Sam’s mentor, as the Dainty Girl was his luck, and his relationship with both remained the same. As long as they knew each other he would turn to Mick Raddley in times of trouble and seek his advice, nor would he ever feel happy about anything of which Mick disapproved.
And yet, for all that, Mick would step but rarely into his world, and there was nothing he managed to do about it. He tried, many times. And he tried again that summer before he was wed, coming home from that long May night at sea. The Mary Hardacre was one of a fleet of three tugs, now. The second, the Jane Hardacre, was busy that nigh
t with a tow in the Channel, and the third had been working off the Cornish coast, on a beached trawler. He had added that third tug to his fleet late in 1959. He had intended then to name her for his mother, but her response had been less than gratifying.
‘You name one of those filthy things after me and you may leave home,’ she said, with a sniff. The fact that Sam owned Hardacres made Madelene none the less inclined to throw him out of it. So he’d given up and called the tug, instead, simply Hardacre’s Luck, with a personal irony that no one else would likely understand.
On that rainy May night, Sam stood beside Pete Haines in the wheelhouse, searching for the lights of the stricken vessel, a Danish coaster that had developed engine difficulties and was in danger of being driven ashore. The lifeboat was already out, in readiness, and the Mary Hardacre ploughed her way through heavy seas until they sighted her through the rain. They stood off at a respectful distance, like a patient vulture, and Pete Haines radioed his willingness to assist.
