‘The police were carrying off a girl by her arms and legs,’ explained Jonathan eagerly. ‘It looked horrid, you know. I just struck his arm up, that’s all.’
‘Did they carry you off by your arms and legs?’
‘Yes - right into the van. I wouldn’t stand up, you see. We sat down all over the road.’
‘Serve you right, then.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind,’ said Jonathan.
‘So now you’ve got a police record. You’re too young -they shouldn’t have allowed you to take part.’
‘I’m so tall that I look older than I am, you see,’ explained Jonathan. ‘Besides, there was no enrolment or anything of that kind. One just joined as and when one wished.’
‘You might have let us know - you might have let your mother know - before you embarked on a prank of this kind.’
‘It wasn’t a prank, Uncle Harry. It was a serious protest. I must say I didn’t anticipate any trouble of this kind,’ said Jonathan. ‘I thought I should come home tomorrow in the ordinary way.’
‘Anticipate! Enrolment! Protest! How the boy talks. One would think he was thirty,’ thought Morcar: ‘They’re older nowadays,’ remembering his own gauche innocence when he was Jonathan’s age. ‘Why did you do it, David?’ he exploded suddenly.
‘I thought it a duty,’ said Jonathan.
‘What do you know about it? Unilateral disarmament is madness,’ said Morcar.
‘But could you really ever envisage using a nuclear bomb?’
‘No. But the power to use one acts as a deterrent.’
‘How can you tell whether it would deter or not?’
‘Everything in life works on the principle of reward and deterrent,’ said Morcar. ‘You eat something and like it, therefore you eat it again. You put your hand in the fire and it is burnt and pains you, you don’t put your hand in the fire again.’
‘But if you’re only threatened with the fire,’ began Jonathan.
‘Without a weapon you are subject to endless blackmail – and not only you, but everyone dependent on you.’
‘Someone must begin to take a risk. The possession of such a weapon is morally wrong.’
‘If your slogan was “Never the first” to use the bomb, there would be some sense in it,’ said Morcar, ‘but unilateral disarmament is madness. Madness!’ he repeated hotly. The thought of his beloved England lying helpless beneath threats which she dared not resent, bluff which she dared not call, made him feel sick.
‘Don’t worry, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan. ‘Things are different nowadays. We’ll manage.’
His tone was soothing, affectionate. Nowadays! Morcar glanced quickly back. The boy’s face wore a slight smile, his eyes were bright with commiseration.
‘Good God! He’s pitying me!’ thought Morcar. ‘He thinks I’m out of date.’
Morcar, who had always considered himself a decidedly-on-the-left, progressive, forward-looking sort of chap, was dumbfounded.
Since then, nothing had been the same.
2. Son of a Hero
Above the head of Jonathan’s bed hung the insignia of his father’s DSO and posthumous bar, with the printed citation, in a glazed frame. They had always hung there; they had hung there since he was an infant in a cot, as his mother had told him, and sometimes he felt as though his whole life were lived in their shadow.
Of course he was proud of his father. He had watched parachutists on television, he admired their courage, he imagined himself leaping out of an aircraft - in the dark, too, and above hostile territory - and knew it would take every ounce of fortitude he possessed to behave in such a manner, if indeed he could ever bring himself to do it. To organize the distribution of arms to a resistance movement of unknown men, over wild and mountainous country, to be hunted for one’s life by Nazis, to be captured, interrogated, and perhaps tortured, without betraying a single detail, to lead men to their execution whistling an English song -what was it, Jonathan often wondered? the newspaper accounts, which he had privately studied with some care in the Annotsfield municipal library, never gave its name; Tipperary perhaps, or Keep the Home Fires Burning, no, those belonged to the earlier 1914 war, perhaps it was even that Yorkshire classic On Ilkla Moor, it would have been nice to know - to stand up calm and smiling before a machine-gun squad, and give the freedom sign as the bullets rattled: all these were the actions of a brave man, and Jonathan, looking at the fine frank smiling face of his father in the enlarged photograph in his mother’s room, gave him a full tribute of respect.
When he was a child he had thought the story magnificently romantic, and yearned to do something as finely adventurous himself; now that he had grown up, read a bit, and looked around he still thought it was romantic, of course, but also bloody silly. All these heroic postures, these guns banging, these bombs dropping, simply resulted in heaps of torn and bleeding flesh and millions of broken hearts. His mother, for instance. So beautiful, so distinguished, slender almost to emaciation from continued grief, her fine fair silky hair turned prematurely grey, her wide grey eyes and handsome profile stamped indelibly with its mark - her life was wasted. Of course he was glad when she refused various offers of marriage which came her way, glad to have her to himself; but this was just a normal Freudian process, an Oedipus reaction; looking at the matter as a rational being, objectively, he thought it was a terrible waste of so much good material, so much beauty, so much intelligence, so much capacity for love and happiness. And she was only one; there were millions.
Of course, Jonathan had too much knowledge of himself and of human motive in general not to wonder whether in truth he commiserated with his father or was jealous of him. Did his detestation of all violence, of the military life, of these wicked bombs, spring from pity and disgust and moral contempt, or did it spring from a sour feeling of jealousy, a resentful recognition that in the eyes of his mother and of old Uncle Harry, Jonathan would never equal his father in achievement? A recognition that he lived, indeed, in the shadow of his father’s heroism? Jonathan admitted frankly to himself that he did not know.
His feeling was strong, however, and his doubt about its origin made it even worse to endure.
Accordingly as he grew into his teens he particularly disliked to be introduced in a manner which revealed his parentage. This operated only in the West Riding, of course; Jonathan was sardonically amused to observe that his father’s deeds, his total sacrifice for his country, his outstanding merit as a patriot, were unknown, or at least un-remembered, except in one portion of his native county. Falstaff’s opinion of honour seemed to him all too justifiable. But the business men, the textile men, of the West Riding, especially those of his father’s generation, who had fought at his side, so to speak, in the Second World War: they remembered.
‘David Oldroyd’s son, eh?’ they said, and they gave him a grave look, of pity perhaps mingled with admiration.
Jonathan sustained the looks with a gravity and dignity which he hoped matched their own, for he would not for anything in the world let down’ his father. But beneath his calm exterior there lurked this hateful ambivalent resentment.
Worse than these introductions, worst indeed of all, was poor old Uncle Harry’s habit of calling Jonathan David by accident. Nowadays this made Jonathan’s blood leap and his skin crawl. He longed almost unbearably at times to break out in an explosion - after all, he was an Oldroyd and had the right to the well-known Oldroyd temper, he reflected, whatever other mollifying genes had entered his blood. He saw the irony of summoning his father’s heredity to protest against his father’s name, but this vexed him all the more. Once he had actually mentioned the matter to his mother, very quietly of course.
‘Why do you dislike it, Jonathan?’ said she.
‘I’m not my father, Mother, and I can’t be,’ returned Jonathan.
‘No, dear, I see that. But I don’t like to mention it to Uncle Harry. He was so fond of your father, and he’s been so very kind to us.’
A burst of tem
per stormed through Jonathan’s brain; he kept it down, but flushed. He did not like the idea of anyone’s ‘being kind’ to his mother and himself.
‘He’s growing older now,’ continued Jennifer on a note of apology.
That of course was true. The last year or so the ageing process had become, not obviously noticeable perhaps, but observable to a keen eye such as Jonathan’s, in Morcar. His broad shoulders stooped a little, his thick hair greyed at the temples, and he had taken, sensibly enough, to wearing spectacles, which at first he managed ill, leaving them about all over Stanney Royd in odd situations, from which Jonathan often had the task of retrieving them. Presently, however, Morcar coped with the spectacle affair, for he had still a great deal of common sense, reflected Jonathan aprov-ingly; he developed several extra pairs and kept them in different rooms and on different levels of the house, and no doubt of Syke Mills too. It was a rich man’s solution, observed Jonathan, not open to a poorer man and therefore not wholly to be admired or recommended; still, it served. Thinking this, a picture rose before his mind’s eye of Uncle Harry looking over his glasses at Jonathan’s latest school report and smiling very kindly, and a responsive friendliness washed away Jonathan’s resentment for the moment.
‘I shouldn’t wish to hurt Uncle Harry’s feelings in any way.’ he said.
‘No, dear,’ agreed his mother, relieved. ‘We’ll leave it then, shall we? Uncle Harry has had so many sorrows in his life I shouldn’t like you to add another.’
Sorrows, reflected Jonathan. It was difficult, somehow, to imagine people as old as Uncle Harry having sorrows; they seemed so set and stiff. Quarrels, of course; rows, vexations, especially with their juniors; but hardly such warm and poignant feelings as the word sorrow implied. He was interested, however.
‘Is the photograph in Uncle Harry’s room, of his wife?’ he inquired.
‘No, no!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Surely I’ve told you before, Jonathan. That is my mother, your grandmother.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Was Uncle Harry very fond of her, then?’
‘He had a deep and respectful devotion to her.’
Poor old pet! thought Jonathan, walking away. A deep and respectful devotion, indeed! What a way to go on! Not much in it for Harry, I must say. Well, he was truly sorry for Uncle Harry and for his mother, but they were old. Their life was over, in the past. He was young, his life was to come. He wanted his generation to go on living, not be blown to bits or radiated to deformed pulp in another war. International cooperation, complete disarmament, that was the only way. Someone must give a lead. Why couldn’t the older generation see the truth of that?
3. Black and White
The following winter Morcar had a short bout of pneumonia. It came, he decided, from walking out of the hot tentering shed across the sleety cold of the large Syke Mill yard without donning his coat; a daft thing to do. The bout was short, soon over.
‘These modern antibiotics act swiftly,’ said Jonathan, smiling kindly at his bedside.
‘You’ve the constitution of an ox, Mr Morcar,’ said his doctor.
Morcar, who did not know what an antibiotic was though he guessed, preferred this latter diagnosis.
‘You’ll soon be up and about, as right as rain,’ continued the doctor. ‘But why not take a little holiday? You can afford it, I suppose?’
This was meant as a joke, Morcar presumed, and he snorted.
‘In a warm climate. Sunshine, you know. Haven’t you a son in Africa somewhere?’
‘Aye. Near Johannesburg.’
‘Go and take a look at him.’
Jennifer pressed this proposed trip so strongly that Morcar supposed either he had been more seriously ill than he thought, or Jennifer believed a visit to Cecil to be his duty. He tried these two theories on his mother, in whose old-fashioned shrewdness he still had a great deal of faith. Old Mrs Morcar, sitting very comfortably in a padded rocking chair beside a huge wood fire, and looking neat in the fur-lined dressing gown and pastel silk night-wear with which Jennifer provided her, smiled at him derisively.
‘Harry, she doesn’t want you to favour Jonathan above Cecil and his children,’ she said. ‘They’re your own flesh and blood, after all.’
‘You’re right, as usual, Mother,’ said Morcar. He meditated on this for a moment, while his mother rocked slowly back and forth. At length he said: ‘Jennifer is a good girl.’
‘She is that’ said old Mrs Morcar with emphasis. ‘Now be off with you to South Africa, Harry, and be sure to bring me some pictures. I don’t want Table Mountain, you know, but snapshots of my great-grandchildren. I don’t even know their names, not rightly. There’s a boy and a girl, I think, but that’s all.’
‘I get a bit mixed with them myself,’ said Morcar, colouring, a little ashamed, for he had not the faintest idea of the identities of Cecil’s children. Cecil and Fan wrote rarely, and his replies were rarer still.
‘Ha,’ said Mrs Morcar, who knew this very well. ‘When will you leave, eh?’
‘Next week.’
‘Why not this week?’
‘I must fix things at the mills. Now you be sure and take care of yourself while I’m away.’
‘I will,’ said Mrs Morcar grimly.
Fixing things at the mills for an absence of six or eight weeks took longer than Morcar had anticipated, and he had rather a rush to catch the plane from Yeadon to London at the last; in fact he actually ran to the check counter brandishing his ticket, while Jonathan and Jessop ran beside him carrying his suitcases. However, once he was on the plane from London all went well; an experienced traveller, Morcar knew well all the small details which made for comfort and took delays and setbacks equably. He liked air travel, enjoyed the immense views of land and sea; all too soon, it seemed to him, he was descending, in the middle of a fine morning, at Johannesburg airport. The sky was white with heat, the sun was blazing; the bright colours of the flowers, the white summer uniforms of the officials, the handsome appearance of the coloured attendants, pleased him. He felt that breathing was certainly easier here. A white man stepped up to him.
‘Father,’ said Cecil.
Morcar looked at his son shrewdly. Cecil was much more presentable than of old, he thought. Tallish, much tanned, with very broad shoulders, Cecil still had a rather too mild look in his brown eyes, thought Morcar; his fair hair was greying - he must be over forty, for heaven’s sake! - and several deep lines engraved horizontally across his forehead increased an expression of harassment and anxiety; but his hair was still very thick, he held himself well and wore a suit of good tropical worsted and a regimental tie. He did not in the least, thank heaven, resemble any of the Shaws, his mother’s people.
‘Well, my boy!’ exclaimed Morcar heartily, offering his hand.
His heartiness was assumed, for he never felt at ease with Winnie’s son, but to see Cecil’s face brighten at his fatherly welcome touched him, and the heartiness became more real.
‘It’s grand to have you here, Father,’ said Cecil. ‘Really grand. Fan is so pleased you’ve come.’
Something in the way he said this convinced Morcar at once that Fan was not pleased at all, or at least had reservations about her father-in-law’s visit. ‘I shall find out why, presently,’ he said grimly to himself. Feeling now suddenly cross, grimy, and hot, he allowed Cecil to shepherd him through the necessary formalities - not very cleverly, I could have found my way better for myself, thought Morcar -and to his waiting car. This was large, white, and handsome, though slightly filmed with red dust; Morcar was pleased by this sign of prosperity, vexed by the dust.
‘It’s thirty miles,’ said Cecil apologetically.
‘Good,’ said Morcar.
Cecil was not a particularly agile driver, but once out of the airport traffic made good time. The breeze from their movement refreshed Morcar, and he was in a fairly good temper when they turned down a dirt road and after bumping a mile or two drew up in front of a white house with white wooden pillars and
verandahs.
Fan came out at once on to the stoep, as Morcar supposed it was called. She was still an extremely pretty little blonde pussy, thought Morcar, kissing her; face rather thinner, chin rather firmer, claws decidedly sharper, but figure still good and very well dressed in a plain white linen dress. She said ‘Uncle Harry!’ in a very warm tone and throwing her arms round him hugged him so heartily that at first he thought he had been mistaken about her attitude to his visit. But no; looking more closely - her complexion was only slightly less brilliant than of old - he was sure her eyes were red-rimmed; she had been crying.
She took him to a light pleasant room, well equipped with furniture which looked tasteful and surprisingly ‘period’.
‘Yes,’ said Fan, seeing his eyes wandering, ‘I expect you’ve seen it before, Uncle Harry. It’s good Oldroyd furniture. As mother lives in a hotel she doesn’t need it, so she got it out of storage and sent it to us. The freight cost the earth, of course, but we’re proud of having furniture from home.’
‘Ah, yes,’ agreed Morcar, who seemed to remember an exorbitant item of this kind in Mrs Oldroyd’s accounts ten years or so ago. He did not remind Fan that in the days when the Oldroyd furniture stood in a West Riding house, any Oldroyd establishment had been far, classwise, above his head, quite out of his reach. He disliked men who boasted of their early poverty as much as those who boasted early riches. Fan knew the facts, anyway, if she bothered to recollect them. He changed into a thin suit.
Cecil came and led him to the stoep, where chairs and tables were agreeably arranged and Fan awaited him. An African ‘boy’ in white brought out drinks, and Cecil served them. His actions had the ease of familiarity, and Morcar, remembering his lack of sophistication before marriage, was amused.
The house stood on a slight slope, and the ground rolled gently down away from them. In the blazing sunshine Morcar perceived a short stretch of grass, rows of trees which were presumably an orchard, and to one side a mass of low greenery which looked for all the world like an English kitchen garden.
A Man of His Time Page 2