by John Masters
He drank cautiously. Youth would be served. And Richard wasn’t really young – forty-four or -five, wasn’t it? Almost as bad as poor Edward VII, having to wait till he was over sixty before he could be King.
Stephen Merritt was speaking. ‘We have barely begun to tap the potential of the automobile. The time to come will be known as the Automobile Age … and such men as you and your father will be its pioneers, its heroes.’
Richard, champagne glass in hand, said, ‘I would like to agree with you, Mr Merritt, but the manufacture of motor cars is such an expensive business that I sometimes wonder if they can ever be more than the luxuries of the rich. I would dearly like to change that, but can it be done?’
Stephen Merritt waved his cigar energetically. ‘It must change, sir! Prices must be brought lower, output must be raised! Profit is to be made not from a few expensive machines, but from many, many inexpensive ones. I tell you, Mr Rowland, great opportunities for capital investment in the automotive field now exist all over the world, most particularly where there is already a network of good roads … England is such a place and, as I mentioned to your father, the bank of which I have the honour to be chairman of the board is actively studying the situation.’
While he had been speaking, two young women joined the group, but remained standing behind Tom Rowland’s chair. Harry saw that they were Naomi and her friend Rachel Cowan. Richard said, ‘What are you looking for, in particular, Mr Merritt?’
‘Management,’ Stephen said emphatically, with another wave of his cigar. ‘There is plenty of skilled mechanical labour almost everywhere in this country. There are innumerable good sites for factories. Communications, power, water, political situation – all are excellent. But … what there is not very much of – excuse my saying so, gentlemen – is a modern outlook on production.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Merritt?’ The girl’s voice was clear, the tone sharpened by a cockney accent.
Stephen Merritt rose from his chair, bowing generously. ‘Oh, do please sit down,’ Rachel Cowan said, ‘I don’t want to be treated like a queen. I’m interested, that’s all. And we like standing.’
‘But you are a lady, Miss … Cowan, isn’t it?’ Merritt said, while the Englishmen rose more slowly, clearly thinking that Merritt was rather overdoing the chivalry, for such a young and pushy woman.
Harry took the opportunity, while they were all standing, to push himself up from his chair. He was feeling suddenly weary. His bones ached from the accident. He should have retired with Rose. He knew that Merritt and Richard would be talking about methods and ideas which he did not agree with, and he would get grumpy listening to them. He said, ‘If you will excuse me now, please … I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast, Richard.’ He shook hands with Merritt, then walked slowly into Phyllis Court and up to his room.
When he had gone, the others sat down again. Stephen Merritt said, ‘A fine gentleman, your father, Mr Rowland … Where were we? Ah, modern outlook on production … The aim of any productive unit, whatever it be, must be quantity as well as quality. The product must be good … but it is axiomatic that the best is the enemy of the good. Once you have a good product, quantity becomes more important than quality. The whole production process must then be looked at with quantity as the goal … mass production. Only so can enough goods be turned out to lower the unit price significantly … which will sell more goods, and so increase the gross profit, thus enabling the producer to turn out still more … which will find still more buyers … and …’
‘What about the workers,’ Rachel asked, ‘do they share in the increased profit in any way?’
Merritt said, ‘The labour force must be paid fairly, more than fairly, they must be paid well, because the end point at which we are aiming is that the labour force shall also be the consuming force … but since they do not share in the losses of a producer, they do not share in the profits. Their wages are fixed.’
‘What about efficiency experts, sir?’ Guy Rowland asked. ‘Do you have them?’
Merritt looked keenly at the youth, whose blue eye caught the light from the club as he moved his head, like a searching flash from a lighthouse, the other eye dark and unlit. He said, ‘We are interested in time and motion study. We think it is the basis of efficiency inside the factory.’
‘If our trade unions were as strong as they ought to be, they wouldn’t accept that,’ Rachel said.
Tom Rowland put down his champagne glass and got up from his chair with one hand raised and a smile on his square face – ‘These waters are too deep for this simple sailor. I suppose the dance will be packing up soon. Want to take a final look at the river, Dick?’
‘Love to, sir.’ Guy’s school friend rose quickly.
‘Guy?’
‘I’ll stay, Uncle.’
Tom and Dick Yeoman strolled down the grass, the outline of their shapes fading as they moved under the trees.
Richard said, ‘I wish you could find time to visit our plant in Hedlington, Mr Merritt … We have been looking at things differently in England. Here, we’ve been trying to make the best, down to the smallest detail. Which puts up the cost … and cuts down the volume of production. No one could have done better than my father has, but … we must look at everything afresh … question what we have taken for granted …’ He took off his glasses and polished them, peering sightlessly at Stephen Merritt, ‘… learn from others, study the new. I have been reading everything I can get hold of about Mr Ford’s operations, and will certainly visit Detroit as soon as I can. And even before I take over our factory, I have arranged to visit the Ford works at Trafford Park, Manchester.’
Stephen Merritt watched him keenly. He thought, here’s a man who sees the future but is shackled by the past; and knows he is … shackled also by loyalty to his father … nothing wrong with loyalty, in its place – more honour to him, for it – but loyalty should be only to people, not to ideas and ways of thought that have outlived their time.
Richard was saying, ‘We work with what we know is good, but I think that some of the new processes, the new materials, may be not only cheaper, and more amenable to large volume production, but better in themselves … At all events, I can tell you that I am going to look very carefully into the possibilities of directing the Rowland Motor Car Company towards mass production, a simpler motor car, standardized interchangeable parts, ease of maintenance, a good network of dealers for spare assemblies – while keeping up the high standards my father has made synonymous with the name Rowland.’
‘Good man,’ Stephen said, drawing on his cigar. ‘When you’re ready with plans, write to me if you think we can help. I assure you that Fairfax, Gottlieb will be interested, and we can provide a great deal more than money … know-how, for instance. Management skills. Technical expertise … If you were making commercial road vehicles, now, we’d be even more interested.’
‘I don’t think any of us has ever considered that,’ Richard said. ‘I know my father has not.’
There was a silence, broken after a decent interval by Guy – ‘What about aircraft, sir?’
Again Merritt shot a glance at the boy. He said, ‘You think there will be a large market for aeroplanes in the near future?’
‘I hope so, sir,’ Guy said. ‘I’m going to Handley Page’s when I leave Wellington, and fly their aeroplanes until I can design, and make, and fly my own.’
Merritt said, ‘Well, I certainly wish you luck, my boy, but I fear that you’re some years ahead of your time as far as mass production goes. I can’t see aeroplanes becoming widely used for another half-century.’
Guy said, ‘Unless something forces change, and improvement, more quickly.’
‘Such as what? I can’t imagine anything.’
‘A long war, sir.’
‘Good heavens, what an idea! But such a war might have the effect you mention, I must agree. Fortunately there’s very little chance of a general war … unless Germany somehow uses the present crisis over the murder
of the Archduke to foment one. She knows that France is looking for an opportunity to avenge herself for the debacle of 1870, and she may decide to strike first.’
Rachel broke in quickly, ‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t, Mr Merritt!’
‘How can you be so sure, Miss Cowan?’ Merritt said, with a tartness that his American courtesy had not allowed him to show before.
‘I have German relatives,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ve visited them in Frankfurt. They – not just our relatives but everyone in Germany – are ordinary people, like people here. They don’t want a war.’
‘I think the ordinary German people will have to do what the Kaiser tells them,’ Guy said. ‘And he will have to do what his generals tell him.’
‘Quite right,’ Merritt said, ‘and there’s the danger … But let us not talk about such a gloomy subject any more on this glorious night. I think I’ll go in. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell Johnny if … Ah, there he is!’
Johnny Merritt came slowly towards them, his white teeth smiling in the moonlight, Stella Cate at his side. Everyone stood up.
Stephen Merritt said, ‘Johnny … ladies and gentlemen, I fear the time has come to say goodbye, and …’
Guy Rowland said, ‘One moment, sir! … Naomi, Stella, Uncle Richard … everyone. A toast!’ He raised his glass. ‘To a birthday.’ He looked round the circle, his blue eye gleaming, the brown quiescent, velvet soft.
‘What birthday?’ Richard said. ‘It’s not mine. Yours?’
‘It’s not mine,’ Rachel Cowan said, ‘or Naomi’s.’
Guy was looking at the two Americans, father and son. Stephen Merritt, said, ‘Well, I’ll be … Thank you, thank you, Guy!’
‘To the United States of America,’ Guy said. ‘A hundred and thirty-eight today.’
Rachel said, ‘Is it? I had no idea …’
Stephen Merritt said, ‘I didn’t wish to raise the subject in these surroundings. Not tactful, among so many Britishers.’
‘You really were pulling my leg, this afternoon,’ Johnny said, ‘pretending you didn’t even know what Harvard was!’
They drank, laughing, glasses clinking, and together walked up the last short slope of lawn, through the doors, through the lounge, and into the music. The Regatta Ball was near its end, but the dancers were oblivious of the moving clock. Silk and satin swirled, diamonds glittered, as a society rich in power and privilege enjoyed the night and the river, secure in the centuries-old peace of the English countryside.
Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, July 8, 1914
SETTLEMENT OF THE WOOLWICH STRIKE
Premier’s Statement
In the House of Commons yesterday.
Mr Crooks (Lab. Woolwich) asked the Prime Minister whether he could make any statement regarding the Woolwich Arsenal labour dispute.
Mr Asquith: … it is desirable that two points should be made clear. The first is that the contract under which the labour to which exception has been taken (runs) till 1915. Works of various kinds have been erected under this contract, and during the whole period of the dispute in the London building trade no question of the character of the labour employed was raised until last week.
The second is that the men left work without representing their grievances through the proper channels, and it would have been only fair to the Government as to any other employer that this should have been done before resorting to the ultimate weapon of the strike. If the usual and reasonable course had been taken, the way would have been much clearer for a solution. The Government have decided to appoint a court of inquiry …
Mr Crooks: Can Entwhistle return at once?
Mr Asquith: Pending the inquiry.
The moon, a week past full, shone on Margaret’s bed the other side of the bedside table, her hair spread over the pillow. The little ormolu clock on the table showed a few minutes past four in the morning. Cate thought the purring of a nightjar had awakened him, but the bird was silent now, and no breeze stirred in the warm summer-scented night.
He turned the pages, the rustling of the big sheets sounding loud in the silence. He had left the house before the newspaper arrived yesterday, and not returned till late evening; and taken the paper upstairs with him, meaning to read it before he went to sleep; but had fallen asleep almost at once, to awaken now, to the nightjar … He was glad the Arsenal strike was over, though it worried him that responsible English working men, skilled men at that, should have been so eager to go on strike, without making any attempts to use the channels that existed to air and settle grievances. There must be a hidden bitterness there, somewhere.
He saw another headline – IRELAND, and closed his eyes. The very name made him uneasy. Carson was doing his best to foment a civil war in the north, and the wild Sinn Feiners the same in the south. He wondered how many southern Roman Catholics really boiled with suppressed rage against England and the northern Protestants, and vice versa – and how many wished there could be some accommodation. Well, he was in no position to lecture anyone about good will or accommodation. If his ancestors had been more accommodating to the Conqueror’s agents, and later to the Plantagenets, he’d be an earl, or a duke, and own thousands of acres instead of hundreds.
It was just as well he wasn’t. Swanwick was worse off than himself; taxes hit even harder and he had no real source of strength. He owned land here, and mines and property elsewhere, but had no deep contact with any of them. They just produced money for him. On the other hand he didn’t have the power that once accrued automatically to earls – that had long since been seized by professional politicians and middle-class bureaucrats.
The relations between the races and religions in Ireland were not good; but were the relations between classes here in England as good as they had been, even when he was a boy? The Woolwich affair, and the bitterness hidden behind it, showed that they were not; perhaps not really bad yet, but certainly not as sure on their foundations as they once were. ‘God bless the squire and his relations, and keep us in our proper stations,’ was a joke now, not a widely shared principle … But why? Because there weren’t really many squires left. Because land, and the people who lived on it and worked it, were becoming commodities to be bought and sold – not sacred trusts – joys – proud burdens. Half the landowners he knew had no feeling for the soil that was legally theirs, still less for the men and women who physically inhabited and tilled it.
But what about men and women, then? There one would have thought that nature would ensure harmony, but the suffragettes had shown that was not so. The obstinacy of men had driven them to it. If one went back far enough in time, women had plenty of power, and a strong say in the government of the tribe. They were not then set up on pedestals, to be worshipped and enslaved in the name of chivalry.
He still felt uneasy, and wondered whether he would be able to get back to sleep. It was a time of change, but how many were ready? There would be losses, decays, abandonments – but also chances, opportunities, practical visions of a better England. Just let there be no revolution, here or in Ireland – only change in the English way, an ordered evolution with good will, a careful loosening of old bonds and as careful a re-fastening, so that the bonds chafed less.
The nightjar sang again, a continuous outpour, reeling from high to low pitch. Cate listened, enthralled, his sadness and unease dispelled until the day.
3 Hedlington, Kent: Saturday, July 11, 1914
From Henley, the Thames flows east and south, in sweeping curves by Eton and Windsor and Runnymede; past Cardinal Wolsey’s tower near the mouth of the Mole; by Kingston, where Saxon kings of England took the crown upon their heads; by Richmond on its hill; to tidewater, Westminster, and the City, Bridge, Tower, and Pool of London; by Limehouse Reach and Gallion’s Reach, St Clement Reach and North-fleet Hope, to Gravesend, Lower Hope, Sea Reach and the brown estuary. A few miles on, at Sheerness, at the point of the Isle of Sheppey off the south shore, another estuary opens on the right, being the mouth of a lesser river. Where this Kent
ish river narrows, going upstream, lie Dickens’s Rochester, and one of England’s three traditional naval bases – Chatham.
Let us call this river the Scarrow, which is not its name, and follow it upstream towards the long chalk line of the North Downs. At once the land begins to rise on either side – in 1914 almost bare of houses – covered with short grass, thorn bushes, scattered small trees tugged by the wind, a few flocks of grazing sheep, their shepherds leaning on their crooks, the sheepdogs lying close, eyes bright and ears cocked for the smallest signal from their masters.
The river valley narrows, squeezing in a railway and two roads, one on each bank. At the narrowest part, navigation ends, even for the long barges which straining horses heave up from Chatham. Smoke rises from three or four factories. On the west a racecourse with a minimal grandstand is tucked in between the river and the down on that side – Busby Down. This is North Hedlington.
Continuing south, almost at once the valley becomes residential rather than industrial. The spire of Hedlington Church pierces the sky, the houses grow larger and spread up the hillsides. Hedlington Gaol is a pile of blackened Victorian brick on the lower slope of Beighton Down; opposite, on Busby Down, another pile of the same brick, built at the same time, and much like the gaol in outward appearance, is inden Barracks, depot of the Weald Light Infantry.
Past the South Eastern railway station, the open space by the Town Hall, and some rows of small shops and houses, the country soon changes again, to water meadows by the Scarrow, the county cricket ground, and Hedlington fairgrounds. Beyond here is real country, Kent, the garden of England … hop fields, oast houses with their tilted spires, cattle grazing, wheat ripening, orchards and sand-coloured country roads, the signposts guiding to Cantley, Felstead, Beighton, Walstone, Taversham – all villages; and to the towns – southeast to Ashford, east to Canterbury, south-west to Tonbridge, west to Sevenoaks and so back to London.
By authority of a Royal Charter granted by King Richard III in 1484, Hedlington was granted the right to hold a Fair on the second Saturday of each July, the Fair to start on the Thursday before that second Saturday. This became known, from about 1520, as the Hedlington Sheep Fair.