by Nevil Shute
‘We are setting up a wind channel,’ said the other. ‘We should probably wish you to make a special study of that.’
There was a pause.
‘I can’t say anything at all, off hand,’ said Morris. ‘I should like a day or two to think it over.’ He knew that Haverton knew that what he really meant was: ‘I’m going back to see if Rawdon will bid any higher.’
‘Exactly, Mr Morris,’ replied the other. Morris knew that he meant: ‘That’s our limit, and I think you’d be a fool to refuse it.’ Morris was inclined to agree with him there. But he was uneasy; practically every circumstance had disturbed him. He did not care about Haverton or the way he went about his business. The work was to be on metal construction, and Morris had no faith in the future of metal aeroplanes for many years to come. Then again, he was aware that it was unlikely that he would do his best work unless he liked the conditions. Could he rely on working well on these metal machines, under a man that he would probably dislike? He felt rather in the position of the engineer who has been offered a most responsible, interesting, and remunerative job on a sewage farm. Somehow, he did not connect aviation with an industrial area. It was more an affair of wide, open spaces, clean woodwork that did not come off on one’s hands, bright shavings in a sunny workshop.
He left the offices and made his way back to Southall after lunch, a little depressed. He would simply hate Sheffield.
He did not go back to the office that day. It suddenly struck him that he was tired, even a little shaky. That was a bad sign in a pilot; he must take things more easily for a bit. Perhaps he had been going too strong lately, with that paper and his water experiments on top of his ordinary work. The flying of the Sesquiplane had been a nervy little job, too, though he had not cared to admit as much. He resolved that he must get about and see more people — get in touch again with Wallace and Johnnie and all that crowd. This living by oneself was unnatural. One ought to be married — Riley had said that.
He had saved a good bit of money, nearly two hundred pounds, in this last year. If only he could have stuck on with Rawdon on the same terms as these other people had offered him! He did not in the least want to go to them. He knew what these big armament firms were. You got a good job in them and stayed there for the rest of your natural life. There was no scope. Approach to the designer was difficult. You were held down by precedent and by the threat of a pension. One could not get to the top of those big firms. One could only get a little higher up. It would be better to stick to Rawdon if he could; he would get on better there, even if it meant a lower salary to start with.
So next morning he went to see Rawdon. But the office was empty; the little girl told him that Captain Rawdon had gone up to London. He did not come back till nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Morris gave him half an hour to settle down, and then went in to talk about his future.
He found a more genial atmosphere in the office than there had been lately. Rawdon was sitting on his table and swinging his legs, chatting to Adamson, who stood by in his hat and coat, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, a cigar poking jauntily from one corner of his mouth.
‘Yes, Mr Morris.’
‘Could I speak to you some time, sir?’
Adamson strolled out and closed the door behind him. Morris came to business.
‘I got this letter two or three days ago from Pilling-Henries,’ he said. He spread it out on the table before Rawdon, who glanced it over.
‘Did you go?’ he asked.
‘I went up there yesterday morning.’ Morris briefly recounted what had happened. ‘I don’t know how they found out about the Sesquiplane,’ he remarked.
‘They’re devils for that,’ said Rawdon reflectively. ‘There’s not much we little chaps do that they don’t get to know about. I know them of old.’ He turned to Morris. ‘Are you going to leave us?’
That was a blunt way of putting it, thought Morris. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to make up my mind about it. Can you let me know anything of my prospects here? I don’t much like the idea of going to them — in fact, I’d very much rather stay here if I’m not going to be sacked.’
‘I can tell you this, Mr Morris,’ said the designer. ‘I’m not considering sacking you just at present, anyway. No, frankly, it’s my opinion that you’ve got just as good a chance of getting on in this firm as with them. Probably better.’
The little girl brought in a cup of China tea and placed it on the table beside Rawdon. Morris waited till the door was shut again.
‘I thought so too,’ he said. ‘But can you hold out any hope of an improvement in my position here? I don’t want to press for a rise; I know the firm’s in a poor way. But if you could let me know anything about my prospects in the next year or so — it would help me to make a decision about this.’
Rawdon lifted his cup and sipped it delicately. ‘I don’t know what more you want,’ he murmured. ‘You’re head of our technical department now.’
It had not struck Morris before that the one member of a technical department was head of it; he smiled politely.
‘Well, of course, I’m the only person in it.’
Rawdon leaned under the table, brought out a biscuit-box and opened it, took out a couple of biscuits, and kicked it under the table again.
‘I say you’re head of it,’ he said. ‘And you’ll get the pay commensurate when we take on more technical staff. They’ll be under you. I think we can make your pay equal to this’ — he touched the letter— ‘when that time comes.’
Morris did not have to consider the matter for long. ‘If that’s the case then,’ he said, ‘I’ll turn this down. I’d much rather stay here.’
‘Right,’ said Rawdon, sipping his tea. ‘And now, my young man, I’ve got a bit of news for you. We’ve got a contract for the fighter.’
‘For how many?’ asked Morris.
‘Forty-two of them,’ said the designer quietly.
Morris looked at him. ‘That must represent a hundred thousand pounds,’ he said.
‘There or thereabouts,’ said Rawdon. He took a little drink. ‘You’ll be getting your new screw next month.’
‘Then we’re over the worst of it?’
‘We’ll have to go slow for a bit,’ said the designer. ‘But I think we can see our way now.’
‘Well,’ said Morris at last, ‘it’s high time the Air Force had some new machines.’ He rose to go.
The other did not move, but looked queerly at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But these are for Denmark.’
Morris did not speak.
‘You see,’ said the designer, ‘we simply can’t carry on unless we get a decent production order into the shops. I went and told the Air Ministry so. And they couldn’t do anything for us. They haven’t got the money.’
‘I see,’ said Morris.
‘So the only thing they could do was to give us permission to sell the fighter abroad. They couldn’t risk another firm closing down.’
He paused. ‘They were very unwilling to let the fighter go.’
There was an immense silence.
‘Well,’ said Morris sourly, ‘we must hope the government won’t risk a war with Denmark. I don’t believe any of our machines would stand a dog’s chance against the fighter.’
‘I know,’ said Rawdon.
Morris glanced with sudden sympathy at the other, somehow rather a dejected figure despite the contract.
‘It’s pretty rotten,’ he said.
‘One oughtn’t let these things count, of course,’ said the designer evenly. ‘But — oh, it’s heartbreaking. I never thought we should come down to this ...’
7
RAWDON FINISHED SIPPING his tea and handed the cup to Morris. ‘You might stick that on the table,’ he said.
Morris took the cup and moved across the room. A faint, irregular tinkling became audible as the spoon rattled a little between the cup and saucer. Rawdon looked up suddenly and glanced sharply at the hand that held the c
up. He had forgotten all about his staff lately — he had so little. Morris placed the cup on the table.
‘As for our immediate plans,’ said Rawdon on the spur of the moment, ‘there won’t be much doing in the office for a bit — not till we can get some of the staff back again. I think if I were you I should take a holiday — a real holiday this time, not the sort of holiday we’ve been offering lately. You’d better take a fortnight off at once, if you care to. I expect we shall have a good bit of work coming along soon — you’d better take it while you can get it.’
Morris smiled. ‘Thanks very much sir,’ he said gratefully.
‘Right you are,’ said the designer. ‘I’ll probably take one myself after a little. You’d better get off as soon as you can — there’s nothing for you to do here at present. Tomorrow, if you like. Let’s see,’ he turned up a calendar, ‘you’d better be back by the twenty-second. That do?’
‘That’ll do me fine,’ said Morris.
He worked late that evening, tinkering with his car in one corner of the cavernous erecting-shop, lit at one end by a spluttering arc-lamp. He could not stay in his rooms after dinner; he was restless, too restless for his work. The car would need attention if he was going any distance in it; he thought he would probably go away in it for a little, perhaps down to Cornwall. As he worked at the car he wanted to think out what had happened, and that was just what he could not do. The details eluded him; only a great contentment had come over him. Whatever he had done had been his own work. This happiness was his own making. It was beginning now and it would go on. He need never be lonely any more. He had money now. Money was the most important thing in the world. It brought you the most desirable things of all, love and companionship. He reckoned up his income; with the piloting he would be worth between seven and eight hundred a year, all told.
He could afford to go back to his girl. He could go back to her and ask her to marry him, and this time there would be no parting on the Camera.
He left the car, turned out the arc-light, walked back to his rooms and went quietly to bed.
He was asleep.
Two miles away, Rawdon was telling his wife about that queer, hard-headed pilot of his, one of the clever, unemotional, scientific sort; a man who would probably go far. He would not be surprised if one day he didn’t have to take him into partnership. Not yet, of course, but in five or six years’ time, perhaps. It would be the only way to keep him in the firm once he got going.
Morris slept well and late next morning. As he shaved he made his plans. He wanted to find someone to talk to about all this, someone who had known what he was up to. He pondered. Of course, he might go to Oxford. That seemed to him the best thing to do. He still knew people there, people who would be glad to see him, who would offer him a glass of beer and a cheerful anecdote or two. He might run down there and spend the night. He could get away this afternoon in Riley’s car; he was glad he had bought that car. Riley would have liked him to have it.
That was it; he would run down to Oxford this afternoon. This morning he would go up to town and get himself an overcoat, a thick coat for motoring.
Presently he got his car out and drove up to London. He bought his coat, lunched in town, and returned; packed his Gladstone and filled up the tanks on the car. It was not far to Oxford, forty-five miles perhaps. Starting after tea, he would get there some time before dinner. That would do very well.
He paid a brief visit to the works and made his final arrangements. He would not come back after he had been to Oxford. Perhaps he would stay there a bit. He did not really know what he was going to do, or where he was going. But at Oxford there were people he had met with Helen, mutual friends, dons and people ...
The evening was beginning to close in when he started. By Beaconsfield he put on his headlights, and by the time he reached High Wycombe it was dark. He knew this road well, though it was nearly two years since he had passed over it; he could remember every corner. He drove quietly through the intricacies of High Wycombe and on towards Dashwood Hill.
It was good to be on the road again.
One was never really clear of London till one was up Dashwood — Wallace had propounded that. There was a radius of thirty miles or so from Charing Cross where the country was still tainted by the town, still defiled with advertisements. The sheep still had dirty coats before High Wycombe; still on the London side of that town the little boys threw stones at passing motor-cars or pelted unfortunate cats with rusty cans. It was not until one got up Dashwood that the country became really unspoilt; on the Henley road the barrier came at Maidenhead.
The hill rose steeply beneath his lamps; he felt himself leaning back in his seat as the nose of the car rose to the ascent. Well, let her take it quietly. Deftly he slipped in second gear and sat back while she ran up the hill steadily at twenty miles an hour. She was a good little car, and Riley had kept her pretty well considering the work she had had to do.
Up over the crest and into top again; on through the woods along the road to Stokenchurch, bordered on one side by woods, on the other side dropping away into fields and pastures; a wide view in the faint moonlight. He wrapped the rug a little closer round him; it was getting very cold.
He passed the cross-roads at the top of the hill, his lamps lighting the arch of the trees before him. He had driven this road before, once when Wallace had lent him his car, and he had driven Helen to the Wittenham Clumps. They had stopped on this hill to see the bluebells — he was passing the very place — he even imagined he could see the scour on the road where the wheels had skidded as he pulled up suddenly ... two years ago. He smiled at himself, and let the car spin down the broad, easy road. At the bottom of this hill was the ‘Hornblower’. It was a good pub, the ‘Hornblower’ — they did you well there. He would like to see the place again, would like to see if, visiting it again, he could not recapture something of the young love that had passed that way, some reminder, some fragrance lingering about the place that would bring him back the image of his girl. He had never visited it with anyone else; it was bound up in his mind with Helen, demurely pouring out tea by a window, open on to a garden, some bright, hot, summer afternoon ...
He would look in there — he could not pass it without visiting it again. Perhaps he would sit a little there — perhaps he would find a comfortable chair and a warm fire where he could rest a little, before going on to Oxford.
The car slid softly to the door; he stopped the engine and got out. He would have gone in at once, but something made him turn as he reached the door, made him pause and stare out over the fields beneath the Chilterns. It was spring, he thought. Perhaps in those fields were the bluebells he had seen and picked ... when he had been there before. Last year they had been there just the same, he supposed, just as beautiful as they had been before. But they had not been there to pick them.
He turned, and laughed at himself a little sourly. ‘In the spring ...’ He opened the door and went in.
‘Whisky and splash,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Cold tonight, isn’t it?’ said the barmaid.
Morris walked towards the fire and stretched out his hands. ‘It is that,’ he said.
What a good spot this was! One day he would make a list, with the help of Wallace or someone, of pubs that were really worth staying at. The ‘Hornblower’, the ‘Queen Anne’ at Chinden, the ‘Feathers’ at Morting Howell. He took off his coat and settled himself before the fire in an old oak armchair, one of half a dozen around the wide, open fireplace. The fire stood in a brazier, warm and comforting; by his side was an oak table, a great bowl of primroses in the middle.
He sipped his drink and stretched out one hand to the blaze, dreaming.
He looked at his hand, curiously, sleepily. He was not sorry he had done it. It had been the right thing to do ... and it was over now. Because he had faced it, it had not lasted so long. God, how quickly he had got on! He had had most amazing luck all through his life; luck in getting to know his girl, luc
k in getting in touch with poor old Malcolm, luck in getting on to Rawdon, luck in sticking with the company over the bad times. He had done in nineteen months what he thought would have taken him four years.
There was a stir behind him, and the door opened and shut. Somebody — two people — had come in and were taking off their coats in silence. Morris did not look round. He was tired, sleepy with the warmth, too tired to stir. He must get on to Oxford for dinner. Or, why not stay and dine here, and go on to Oxford afterwards?
Somebody, a man, was coming up behind him to the fire, rubbing his hands to the blaze. Morris stirred a little in his chair and turned to look at the newcomer.
‘Why, Christie,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you were in the Argentine.’
‘Hullo, Morris,’ said Christie in his slow way. ‘When on earth did you drop in? I am most awfully glad to see you.’
Morris stirred a little further in his chair, produced a pouch of tobacco, and tossed it on the table towards the other. ‘The same stuff,’ he said laconically. ‘You’re quite sure you aren’t still in the Argentine?’
Christie chuckled gravely, picked up the pouch, and began to fill his pipe. A slim, fair girl, whose face seemed vaguely familiar to Morris came and stood beside Christie.
‘My wife,’ said Christie.
Morris got up and shook hands, smiling. ‘I had no idea of this,’ he said apologetically.
The girl laughed cheerfully. ‘It’s recent,’ said Christie, ‘ — too recent for gossip. Three days, to be exact.’ He turned to the girl. ‘He lives on gossip, this man.’
‘I know where he learned that,’ said the girl. She turned to Morris. ‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘I often saw you in the “Cadena” in the mornings — with Robert.’
So Christie was also Robert. Morris remembered the look of the girl; he thought she had been a home student.
Presently she disappeared upstairs. Christie took a chair, and lit his pipe. ‘The advantage of regular habits,’ he said reflectively. ‘One always knows where to go for good tobacco. Where are you making for now? Oxford? Better stop and have dinner with us here.’
