by John Masters
‘Mr Harry told me to give you this note.’ Bob took the envelope, opened it, and read – ‘Bob – have decided to stay on for the duration of the war. Will you stay on with me? If so, tell no one, except Frank, and he must not talk either until I have had an opportunity to speak with Mr Richard, who’s in Manchester, as you know, H.R’
Bob took one of the pencils protruding from the breast pocket of his blue suit, and scrawled – ‘Mr Rowland – Yes – Bob Stratton’ He handed the envelope back, and Brace hurried away down the clangorous shop.
Bob turned back to his son. ‘Frank, Mr Harry’s staying on, because of the war. So am I. You’re not to tell anyone about Mr Harry, yet.’
Frank Stratton looked up, and stopped humming. His cheerful smile had vanished, the wide mouth was firmly closed. He gazed directly at his father as he said, ‘You stay, Dad, and I go.’
‘Where, Frank, where can you go?’
‘To join up, of course.’
‘You’re thirty-six, man.’
‘And as fit as any of the lads that’ll be in the recruiting offices. And I’ve been thinking, ever since we heard about the war, that I ought to go, in any case.’ He began to take off his work gloves.
Richard Rowland sat in his hotel room, his notes spread on the table before him. His visit to Mr Ford’s plant at Trafford Park had been a revelation. It didn’t make him feel less eager to visit Detroit, but more so, for his eyes had been opened to a new vision. Hearing talk, or reading about what was being done at Trafford Park was very different from seeing it in operation … the moving assembly line, with the chassis moving forward not on their own wheels, which in the early stages weren’t even fitted, but carried on a jointed steel frame which was pulled forward on its own track … the overhead channel with its line of assembled wheels, tyres already fitted, rolling down by gravity over the assembly line, as they were wanted … the second assembly line of completed bodies coming in at right-angles from their own shop to join the line of chassis … The man who’d shown him round, the famous Mr Lea Perry in person, had explained that at Highland Park, in Detroit, the bodies were brought in overhead, and lowered directly on to the chassis – but what he had seen was amazing enough …
Men’s involvement Richard noted on his pad. The Ford system was so new that the labour force was still in general wonderstruck at it, and to an extent proud to be part of it. But he had detected something while going round that he had never seen at Rowland’s – a listlessness, even though the work was being done efficiently. It would be difficult to keep men’s interest in doing the same small job repetitively, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.
One model, one colour he noted. ‘You can have it any colour you like as long as it’s black,’ Mr Perry had told him that Mr Ford had said; and all the cars he’d seen at Trafford Park were Model Ts and all were black… but could Rowland’s do the same, at the price they were asking? But he was going to put the price down, when he took over … and the quality? What about quantity? Trafford Park was geared to make 6000 cars a year, and had done so last year, 1913. But Rowland’s made a maximum of 2000, and that working at full stretch. The whole line-assembly system would have to be carefully reviewed as to its suitability for a small production base, and he’d get the accountants on to costing. Meantime, he’d talk to a production line expert. Another side where Ford’s organization was infinitely stronger than Rowland’s was the sales department. At Rowland’s you made the best car you could for the price, let the world know in an unobtrusive manner what you had done, and waited for gentlemen to come and order the car they wanted … Ford’s salesmen went out and grabbed people by the throat, persuaded them they couldn’t live without a Model T, and didn’t leave till they’d got a deposit on one. Well, the Governor wouldn’t like it, but times were changing, and if Rowland’s was not to go under, it would have to change too.
He spread out the blueprint of the main assembly room floor that Mr Perry had lent him, and began to study it intensely, jotting down notes on his pad all the while. It showed, in a kind of bird’s eye view, drawings to scale of all the machinery and the conveyors, and a maze of fine lines and arrows indicating the route each part had to follow on its way to becoming part of a car. It even showed where the men had to stand, for a major part of the Ford philosophy was that work must be taken to the men – not men to the work.
A strange noise intruded on his concentration. For a time he tried to ignore it, then could not. He got up, went to the window, and leaned out. The street below was full of people, mostly men. The noise was cheering. Someone on a horse was moving slowly through the crowd, someone in khaki uniform, touching his hand to his gold braided cap … a general, obviously. They were cheering a general – Lancashire workmen who’d probably never seen a general before, and if they had, would as like as not have jeered him down the street, or thrown tomatoes and filth at him. Now they were beginning to sing, On Ilkla Moor ’baht ’at, surely? He strained his ears to catch a tune in the half-formed booming below … Rule, Britannia, by God!
He returned to his table, adjusted his thick spectacles and stared at his notebook. He’d forgotten about the war. But who could know what would happen? He himself would never get into a service, with these eyes. He might be needed in some sort of war production, if it went on long enough. But he was committed to Rowland’s. And what would, or might, happen to Rowland’s? He was about to take a ship out on stormy and uncharted seas.
Anne Stratton, bent over the zinc tub in her kitchen, was washing babies’ nappies. She poured more hot water from the big kettle on the stove, and began to scrub harder. Agnes, four, played loudly on the floor in the hallway, and Lily the two-year-old stamped and shouted in her crib. Anne’s belly felt enormous and this time she was sure it was going to be a boy. Frank had always wanted a boy, and she had felt dreadful when they’d told her the second baby was another girl. She smiled, wiping a strand of brown hair from her eye, leaving a smear of soap in its place. Dear Frank … no woman would ever have a better husband, and soon now he’d be Works foreman, and there’d be more money coming in. Perhaps she could have a girl in all day to help, not just four hours every afternoon. But Frank had said last night that if there was a war, it would be hard to find girls for service, because they’d be taking the place of the men in the factories. Fancy that! Who’d have thought that women could work those big oily machines, even if they wanted to!
She heard the front door open and looked at the clock. Who would be calling at this hour, and not even knocking? The war had only been going on a few hours, and already people were acting strange. She called out, ‘Who’s there?’ wiping her hands on her apron.
‘It’s me.’ She recognized her husband’s voice, and ran through to the front hall, crying, ‘What’s the matter, Frank? Have you took sick?’
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ Agnes cried, running after her.
‘Da, Da, Da!’ Lily called, throwing a wooden toy out of the crib and beginning to cry because she could not reach it.
‘I’ve left Rowland’s,’ Frank said, ‘and I had a couple of pints on the way home. No, I’m not drunk, woman.’
‘You’ve left Rowland’s? What … what? I don’t understand.’ She sank into a chair, feeling faint. This dratted baby in her was kicking, and sometimes made her feel that she was in two places at once, and not recognizing either.
‘Dad’s staying on, so I left. I’m going to enlist.’
She leaped up – ‘Frank! Her voice rose in a shriek. ‘You can’t!’
He said grimly, ‘I can, and I must. I won’t stay on at Rowland’s because Dad’s broken his promise. And even if he hadn’t, I know I ought to volunteer.’
She stared at the familiar, beloved, sandy-haired man with the big ears. But this was not the man she knew, her man, for whom she waited with a permanent passion and love – in bed, in the house, everywhere, longing for his touch. He was not smiling, or humming. The mouth was straight and eyes serious. He said gently, ‘I have
to go, Anne. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’
She knew it was hopeless even then, but muttered, ‘And leaving me with the baby, your son, due in two months … Couldn’t you wait till then?’
He said, ‘I can’t wait, love.’
She began to cry. How long would he be gone? What would happen to her? She had always liked men but once married to Frank she had been able to channel all her sexuality, all the secret longings and desires, into matings with him, her husband. How would she be without him?
‘They’re saying it’ll be over in a month,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Don’t cry.’
She didn’t look up. ‘Do you believe that?’
After a long time he said, ‘No.’
War, war, war … the single syllable throbbed in Fiona Rowland’s head like a bass drum, beating close in dense jungle, and she trapped in the same jungle, not knowing how to get out, nor how to reach the drum and stop its incessant throb.
She heard Guy and Virginia talking in the kitchen with the maid, and for a moment tried to listen to what they were saying, but soon gave that up.
War, war, war … Quentin would be going to the war with the battalion. He was a company commander, and would be in danger, because he would do his duty faithfully, whether it was boring or frightening, just his duty – beyond that he could not go, or see.
Her sister-in-law’s voice echoed inside her head, ‘He’s a nice man … his class doesn’t matter … your marriage does.’
Archie was worth everything. What would he do now? She answered her own question: he would do something quixotic, when he’d had a drink too many. He’d said he wouldn’t volunteer, but how could she be sure, with the crowds singing Land of Hope and Glory in the streets, and everyone drunk with patriotic fervour? Archie would join up, and be sent to fight, and die leading some heroic attack, and in the same paper that they published his name and the fact of his death, on another page there’d be an account of the death of Major Rowland. She gave an involuntary howl of anguish and wrung her hands together.
Guy and Virginia poked their heads round the door. ‘What was that, Mummy?’ Virginia asked.
‘What? That noise? Oh, I twisted my ankle, but it’s all right.’ She made up her mind. ‘Listen, Guy, I have to go to London. I’ve got some things I must arrange … the war, you know. Mrs Orr will see that you get fed.’
‘When will you be back?’ Guy asked.
‘Tonight, if I can get the business done. If not, I’ll telephone.’ She kissed them both quickly and hurried out of the room and upstairs.
John and Louise Rowland stood side by side in the cow barn of High Staining, watching the men milk the herd. The farm foreman, Fred Stratton, was himself milking, because one of the labourers had not turned up – gone to join the army, Fred said. Louise turned to her husband. ‘What are you going to do about replacing Hillman?’
‘And Foden,’ John said glumly. ‘He says he’ll go as soon as he’s saved enough money to buy coal for his wife through the winter. That’ll take him two months, if he’s careful.’
‘He’s not, is he?’
‘No.’
‘So he’ll take longer … and stay all winter, perhaps?’
John shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. That’s not like Foden. He’ll get tired of it, and go.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned away and started walking back towards the house. Fred was touchy about being watched. Fred was touchy about a lot of things; and he didn’t really like farming, so why didn’t he dismiss him, as Cate suggested?
Louise said, ‘Have you thought of employing a woman – or women?’
He stopped and stared down at her. He was not quite as tall as most of the Rowland men, but burlier, with bigger hands, and a heavy face that would have fitted him better if he had become a parson, as he had once hoped, rather than a gentleman farmer. She was short and plump and birdlike, and still carried a trace of her native Yorkshire in her accent, and did not think women should have the vote, but did think there should be more women doctors, and dentists, and such.
He wondered, why didn’t I think of that? It would never have crossed his mind … nor Quentin’s … his other two brothers, Richard and Tom, might have thought of it, and both the sisters, Margaret and Alice, would have; but not he, nor good old Quentin.
He answered her question, ‘No.’ They were standing now at the black-painted front door of High Staining, the sixteenth-century farmhouse that stood on the hill over Walstone, looking down on church and village and, across the meandering Scarrow, at the vast pile of Walstone Park. Above, the thatch creaked with the heat and starlings flew in and out of their nests in it, feeding their young.
She said, ‘I know a young woman who would like to work on a farm – Carol Adams.’
He started. ‘The Vicar of Beighton’s daughter? That big horsey girl? She certainly looks strong enough. But how would a Roedean girl really like cleaning out stalls, spreading muck, drenching cows? We couldn’t afford to give her only the light, clean work.’
‘She’ll do it all. I know. She talked to me about it the day before yesterday.’
‘It’s an idea … a good idea.’
‘She’ll be an excellent worker. And she won’t get drunk. Only one thing worries me about her.’
‘What?’
‘She’s twenty-four, and single. It doesn’t bother some girls – most girls, thank heaven – but Carol Adams needs to be married. Parsons’ daughters often do. Like some cows need the bull more than others. You know. You can recognize it.’
John shook his head wonderingly. ‘I can’t.’
‘Other men can,’ she said, ‘and we’ll be responsible for her.’
‘H’mm,’ John said. ‘I’ll think about it … Where are Naomi and Rachel?’
‘Shopping in Hedlington. They’re looking for good luck charms for Tom and Quentin. They’ll be back by tea time.’
‘Are they going to get more gold swastikas, like Naomi gave Boy when he went out to India?’
‘Oh, they couldn’t afford that. Besides, the swastika is Mr Kipling’s badge or trademark, so Naomi thought it was just right for India. They’ll probably buy enamelled black cats or something like that.’
Probyn Gorse sat in his gaol cell on the tiny stool provided, his hand held out. A brown rat sat up in a corner, five feet from him, cleaning its whiskers. Probyn had seen that it was a female rat and adjusted his tactics accordingly. You could afford to be a little bolder with the female animals than with the males, for they were not so afraid of being challenged.
The rat came forward a foot, its nose twitching, smelling the crushed breadcrumbs in Probyn’s hand. It backed off again, six inches.
Probyn watched it lazily, from the corner of his eye. It would take about another hour probably. Tomorrow, much less time. Soon after that she’d come straight to him, just exercising enough caution not to be taken quite off guard if he should suddenly hit out at her. Watching the rat, his thoughts left the cell, and the bleak walls of Hedlington Gaol. August 5 … the Walstone coverts would be very dry this summer. The rabbits in the big burrows along the Scarrow would be better off than the rabbits in the higher warrens, for the river water would hold the grass and weeds green tor them. Swanwick’s keepers would be keeping a close eye on the young pheasants in Ten Acre and Stonehale copses, and they should all be flying well by the time the season started. But the poults might have suffered from the extreme dryness of the summer. Everyone knew that too much rain was bad for pheasant poults, but they didn’t do so well without enough water, either. But water wouldn’t do to bait them. A little feeding in some corner well away from the rearing field … a few paper pokes in holes in the ground, with grain to be picked – and the pokes birdlimed to make blindfolds for those too-eager poults struggling about in the brush … and easily found by his dog afterwards … drat it, he didn’t have a dog … have to do something about that soon’s he came out …<
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Skagg was no fool, almost wise enough to be a good poacher; but he wasn’t wise enough to stop Probyn Gorse taking the pheasants that were his due: and spitting in Swanwick’s eye in the process.
He felt a small tickling, moved his eyes, and saw that the rat was eating the crumbs out of his hand.
Fletcher Gorse sat at one side of the battered table in Probyn’s cottage, by the river. His brow was furrowed, and he was breathing stertorously, a worn pencil stub in his hand and a sheet of paper spread before him.
Florinda said, ‘You’re making more noise than if you was pulling a cart.’
He looked up. ‘Everything’s in my head, Florrie, except the words … I told Mr Cate, remember. I always listened in school, especially when teacher was reading poetry, but I didn’t see the words. I mean, when she read about kings and battles, I saw the king and the battle …’
‘That’s fine for listening to poetry, Fletcher, but for writing it, you’ve got to have the words, eh?’
She was sitting on the other side of the table, cleaning her nails with a splinter of wood. A few moments later the beautification done, she turned her head to Probyn’s Woman, stirring a pot on the stove. ‘What do you think of this war? Do you think it’ll make any difference to the likes of us?’
‘It will be like having an angel in the house,’ the woman said, ‘the Angel of Death.’ She said nothing more.
Florinda said. ‘And you, young man, are you going to join up? It’s the thing to do, doncher know … the only thing, really!’
Her accent and tone were amazingly accurate reproductions of those of the upper class, not an imitation of any one person, but a perfectly extracted and blended mélange of what all three of them had heard all their lives from the Swanwicks, the Rowlands, the Cates, the lords and gentry of their land.
Fletcher said, without looking up – ‘You ought to go on the stage, Florrie.’ Carefully he wrote down half a dozen words.