Mrs Morcar, pleased to have her one-time skill in embroidery colours remembered, put out her thin shaky old hand; Jonathan, smiling, bent his arm in her direction.
‘It’s an A-level celebration present from mother, but I chose it,’ he said.
‘Yes. The design’s good, too,’ pronounced old Mrs Morcar. ‘It might almost be one of yours, Harry.’
‘Where did you buy the coat, Jonathan?’ asked Morcar quickly.
Jonathan took off the jacket and showed him its label, which was that of a multiple store which had many branches in the West Riding.
‘Not a costly purchase,’ he said.
‘It’s not bad, it’s not bad at all,’ said Morcar, turning the garment about in his hand to see the effect of the pattern on back and sleeve. ‘H’m. Well. Thanks.’
He handed back the jacket without expressing what was in his mind, the wish to know who had made the cloth of which it was composed.
If there was anything Morcar disliked in the ordinary surface details of life, it was asking people questions, the answers to which would be of assistance to him. Perhaps this trait sprang from the customary West Riding dislike of incurring obligation, perhaps from something deeper and more individual to his nature. In such cases he really had to force himself to take up the telephone, to put the necessary question; he tried to approach the matter sideways, and had to make an effort to prevent his voice choking in his throat. Accordingly it was several weeks - though the matter kept nagging at him all the time - before he brought himself to inquire of the store the name of the manufacturer of the cloth in question. The manager of the local branch was quite shocked by the question, which seemed to him to indicate some suspicious intention, a complaint or a double-cross of some kind. He did not know the answer in any case, and was extremely reluctant to indicate the departmental head office address to which application could usefully be made. This obstruction of course roused Morcar’s natural obstinacy, and he pursued the matter steadily, till at length he discovered that the cloth had been manufactured by Messrs Hardaker and Sons of Ramsgill, a mill which lay in a valley between Annotsfield and Hudley. He was surprised. On the telephone that day to his friend Robert - the ruined cloths had now been replaced and relations were again excellent - he suddenly bethought himself to say casually:
‘I saw a good bit of sports jacket tweed of Hardakers’ the other day,’ He described it.
‘Yes. I know the one you mean. We should have liked it. But we hadn’t been doing any business with Hardakers’ for some time, and Associated got it.’
‘I was agreeably surprised. I’ve thought Hardakers’ designs a bit stuffy lately,’ said Morcar, carefully putting a hint of interrogation in his tone.
‘Yes, so did we. But they’ve got a new young fellow there just lately. Very smart and up-and-coming.’
‘Oh. Well, about those greys due on Thursday,’ said Morcar affably. He longed to know the new young fellow’s name, but would not ask for the world - if he did his interest would be known all over the West Riding by lunch-time, and its cause speculated upon.
Another few weeks passed while Morcar ruminated. He knew old J. L. Hardaker well, and respected him as an honest and hard-headed man of business, well versed in textiles but not particularly inspired. J. L.’s son, Luke, had been killed in the war - Dunkirk, he thought - like David, and this similarity in loss drew him to the man. There was a grandson whom Morcar thought he had seen here and there, a good-looking agreeable young man but not too bright. His age was in his favour, however, for he was in his late twenties or early thirties, Morcar had heard, so not too old to understand Jonathan. About the up-and-coming young fellow Morcar could learn little at first, except that his name was Edward Oates, that he didn’t belong to any of the well-known West Riding families, and that he had begun his career as a designer with a large Annotsfield firm. This firm, and Hardakers’, were of course Morcar’s competitors, so he had to go warily, but he presently discovered that Oates had left Annotsfield of his own free will, to better himself with Hardakers’, and had presently married J. L.’s grand-daughter. This was both good news and bad. To marry J. L.’s grand-daughter he must surely be accepted as a decent sort of chap, but the marriage tied him firmly to Hardakers’, so there was clearly very little chance of tempting him away to Syke Mill.
‘It would have been a low trick anyway,’ reflected Morcar philosophically, amused by his belated virtuous attitude.
He ruminated further, unready to make up his mind, until as autumn turned to winter two happenings brought him to a decision. On the one hand Jonathan, who had been to Oxford for a week to sit for a scholarship examination, on returning to school wrote home saying that the papers hadn’t been too bad, and describing pleasant interviews with Merton tutors and even the Warden, in which though he did not say so he had clearly made a favourable impression. His chance of a place seemed good. On the other hand Morcar heard at the Bradford Wool Exchange one Thursday that J. L. Hardaker was ill. A severe coronary thrombosis, it was said.
‘He’ll need me as much as I need young Oates,’ thought Morcar at once, and he decided to go over to Ramsgill House as soon as he heard that J. L. was well enough to receive visitors.
When he was at length admitted into Hardaker’s handsome old-fashioned bedroom by his daughter-in-law, a pretty but fluttery woman just at the turn of her looks, Morcar was shocked by his competitor’s appearance. Hardaker had always looked a tough, sinewy man - a trifle craggy and lined, and limping from his First World War wound, of course, but with a healthy if dull complexion and a solid body. Now his face against the massed frilled pillows looked limp and yellow and his lips were leaden.
‘He won’t last long, I’d better get on with this merger business fast,’ thought Morcar. Aloud he said: ‘I wanted to have a word with you, John. It’s this awkward gap in the generations left by the war. Here am I touching seventy, and David Oldroyd, my adopted niece’s son, is seventeen. My own son’s not with me, you know; couldn’t settle after the last war; went out to South Africa to join his mother’s brother.’
There’s two lies for you, thought Morcar grimly; why did I call Jonathan by his father’s name? Wishful thinking, I suppose, as usual. Cecil didn’t go out to join Hubert Shaw; heaven forbid. But never mind; it’s a good Yorkshire motto, keep thy sen to thysen; no need to tell Hardaker all the Morcar affairs.
They’re heading for a lot of trouble there.’ said Hardaker, guardedly.
Morcar observed Hardaker’s avoidance of comment on Morcar’s family matters. He winced slightly. But he was used to this kind of tact. A divorced man with an adopted niece must expect it. For the thousandth time he steeled himself to show no wound, and went on in loud cheerful tones:
They are indeed. But Cecil and Fan have a fine place.
Tobacco.’ (He couldn’t bring himself to admit to apples.) ‘I went out there last winter. However - to come to this merger idea of mine.’ Hardaker started, and his dull eyes lighted. ‘It’s this way, who’s to fill the gap at Syke Mill between David ~ Jonathan, I mean, David’s son; Major David Oldroyd was my partner, you know’ - Hardaker nodded appreciatively - ‘Who’s to fill the gap between the boy and me? I make nothing of managers.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Now your two youngsters - what age are they?’
‘Both just turned thirty.’
‘That young Oates of yours you’ve just made a director -a clever young fellow, by all accounts.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Married to your grand-daughter, so he’s in the family.’
‘That’s right. They’ve a son.’
He’s a shrewd, crafty old fox, thought Morcar; he won’t come a step to meet me. However, that’s all right with me, I don’t want a fool in my business.
‘Oates is a good designer.’
‘From you that’s praise indeed.’
‘Capable on the managerial side too, I’m told.’
‘Aye, he is. But I’m bound to say it’
s Lucius, my grandson, that I’m most concerned about.’
Of course you are, thought Morcar, just as it’s Jonathan who’s my first care. We’ve each got a bargaining point in the other’s affection. I shan’t give mine away.
‘Well,’ he said, with a considering, slightly dissatisfied air.
‘I’m not an ungenerous man, John.’
‘I know that, Harry.’
‘I don’t believe in dead wood on boards of directors, though. Your Lucius would have to take his chance.’
‘That’s not a proposition to attract me.’
‘I can see it wouldn’t be. But he’d have his shares, after all.’
‘He’s very good with customers, Harry. They like him. He’s very steady and reliable. Especially since he married.’
‘Oh? He’s married? Children?’
‘Two boys and a little girl,’ said Hardaker with satisfaction. ‘He must have a seat on the board.’
Morcar’s eagerness was slightly dimmed. Three boys already in the next generation! Nothing pulled a firm down so much as too many relatives drawing salaries from it. However, a gap in the generations was worse. He said carelessly:
‘What’s your grandson’s best line, then? Does he know yarns?’
‘He’s not too bad there.’
I don’t believe a word of that, thought Morcar, feeling insincerity in the old man’s emphatic tone. Still, if Oates is clever and Lucius is agreeable with customers, it’s not a bad combination. Jonathan could learn from both.
‘Well - I’ll have to think what terms I can offer,’ he said.
‘Aye, do. And let me know. Write to me here, not at the mill.’
‘I’ll do that. No use shouting about the thing till we’ve got a bit further with it. If it doesn’t come off, no one need know.’
‘No. I’d rather the lads didn’t know yet. Might unsettle them,’ agreed Hardaker.
He’s afraid Oates would leave Ramsgill and come to me if he had the chance, thought Morcar. ‘Well, we’ll see.’ Aloud he said:
‘If we were merged instead of being competitors, we could effect a lot of economies.’
‘We could.’
‘And be a really big concern. It’s the modern trend. Our cloths would fit in. Your quality’s always been good, John.’
Quality, yes: design, no, he thought.
‘It has been and it is,’ said Hardaker staunchly.
His eyes gleamed, his cheek had coloured, he looked pounds better than when his visitor had come in, thought Morcar approvingly. All the same, he probably wouldn’t last too long. Morcar of course would be chairman of the merged firm’s board, because Syke was a much larger concern than Ramsgill; Hardaker could be vice-chairman and fade out quietly after a few years. Then Oates could succeed him and Lucius move up, leaving room for Jonathan.
‘Of course, I should have to tie things up pretty tight on my side, you know,’ he said, thinking of these future developments.
‘You’d be foolish if you didn’t. But I know I can rely on you to be fair.’
‘You aren’t all that far away from me at Syke Mill,’ said Morcar, changing the subject because embarrassed by this tribute.
‘Not as the crow flies. But we aren’t crows. There’s a two-three Pennine hills on the way between Ramsgill and the Ire Valley, think on.’
‘They’ve improved that road down to the Valley from the moor road above you, considerably of late.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. I came that way this afternoon. You must have a look at it when you’re about again.’
Neither man was much interested in this matter. Easy inter-communication would, of course, be useful, but transport to Leeds and Bradford was of more importance to the trade of both. The interview was petering out; best cut it short.
‘Well, goodbye, John. Take care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
Morcar wondered whether he ought to shake hands but couldn’t bring himself to such a display of sentiment, so he waved a farewell instead.
Driving back towards the Ire by the hilly road he had mentioned, Scape Scar Lane, he tried to achieve a dispassionate estimate of the interview just over. He had introduced the idea of a merger without too much fuss, and carried the negotiations sufficiently far to bring out what he and old Hardaker respectively wanted. They were each out to protect their own, naturally; Hardaker, his grandchildren; Morcar, Jonathan. As he topped the hill and turned towards the Ire Valley his mill chimney came into view. It struck Morcar with a sudden pang that he did not really wish in the least to surrender any slightest part of his rule over Syke Mills. He detested, he found, the thought of a merger. But he rebuked himself. For Jonathan’s sake, it must be done. He must look to the future. Mergers were the modern trend. For Jonathan’s sake, it must be done.
After a good deal of thought he drew up the terms on which he considered a Morcar-Hardaker merger might reasonably be effected, consulted his solicitor as to their legality and feasibility, cut down the legal verbiage in the solicitor’s reply and wrote a letter, which he explicitly declared to be unofficial and off the record, to old J. L. Hardaker telephoned fairly promptly to say, of course, that there were several points which required modification but in general the scheme struck him as a basis for discussion. A meeting was arranged at Syke Mills for four o’clock on the following day.
Just before that hour a call was put through to Morcar from Mrs Edward Gates, who announced in a rather breathless and blurry tone that she was Mr Hardaker’s grand-daughter and he had asked her to let Mr Morcar know that he would be a few minutes late.
Morcar was annoyed. He had cleared his afternoon and his desk, and arranged to get Nathan out of the way, and postponed his cup of tea till Hardaker could share it with him; he had keyed himself up to the interview and prepared some necessary statistics; he detested unpunctuality, which he thought sloppy and unbusinesslike. Moreover, he thought Mrs Oates’ accent languid and la-di-da. His voice was gruff, therefore, as he asked:
‘And how long will a few minutes be?’
‘He’s just left me here, and is driving straight to you. I’m at Ram’s Hey; it’s an old house on the west flank of Ramsgill.
This precision was an improvement, though Morcar privately thought flank a rather highbrow word to use about a hill.
‘I don’t quite know where Syke Mill is, I’m afraid.’
‘I know the west side of Ramsgill all right. He’ll be ten to fifteen minutes, I reckon.’
‘I’m exceedingly sorry, Mr Morcar. I’m afraid the delay is my fault. I detained my grandfather.’
‘Oh, it’s of no consequence,’ said Morcar, trying to be less gruff as he remembered that both the husband and the brother of this girl would be his partners if the merger went through.
‘I’m sorry,’ came faintly over the telephone, which then clicked off.
‘Sounds almost as though she were crying,’ thought Morcar, surprised and a little sorry.
The worst of this delay was that it gave time to recall all his regrets at having to merge Syke Mills. But he stamped these regrets firmly down; he had made up his mind to engage in a merger and he was not a- man who changed his mind; he would engage in the merger and make a success of it; he always made a success of what he undertook. He signed a few letters and thought of giving Miss Mellor instructions to put no telephone calls through to him while Hardaker was with him, but decided against it, he did not wish to stress the importance of Hardaker’s visit until the negotiations were much nearer completion. And here at last was Hardaker, flushed and breathless.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘You shouldn’t have hurried up those steps,’ said Morcar kindly, pushing him into a chair. (He was certainly getting old.) ‘Tea, Miss Mellor. Cigarette, John?’
‘I’m not allowed them.’
Tea came and was administered, and Miss Mellor withdrew. Hardaker sipped from his cup gratefully, and his breathing eased.
‘I may as well be str
aight about it, Harry,’ he began, setting down the cup. ‘It’s a habit of mine. I’m afraid the merger is off.’
‘Off? Why? Young men don’t like it?’
‘Nay, I haven’t told them. But the one you’re interested in - Edward Oates - I don’t feel certain about him. My grand-daughter and he are splitting up - she thinks he’s a scoundrel.’
‘It may be just an ordinary matrimonial row,’ said Morcar, laughing a little. (She was crying, then, as I thought; they’ve had a blazing row and she was crying. Well, well!) ‘Young women - especially if they’re in the family way -get hysterical ideas sometimes.’
‘She’s not in the family way. Nor likely to be. They split rooms a couple of months ago.’
‘A couple of months? That sounds more serious,’ said Morcar. ‘Haven’t they any children, then? I thought you said-—’
‘One. A wreckling, poor boy. Elizabeth says Edward only married her to get into Ramsgill.’
Well, that’s happened a two-three times before today, thought Morcar sardonically. Princes acquired kingdoms in that fashion, and their subjects followed their example on a lower scale. The marriages didn’t turn out all that badly, either. ‘It would be more convenient if all this were just a young couple’s flare-up,’ said Morcar soothingly.
‘It would. But I don’t think it’s that. Somehow—’ Hardaker paused and ruminated. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’ve ever been quite sure of Mr Edward Oates. Of course if you want to offer him a big job here in Syke Mills, now’s your chance. Take him and welcome.’
‘Thank you for nothing,’ said Morcar with a grimace. ‘I want somebody I can trust.’
‘Well, you may find yourself able to trust him.’
‘But you can’t.’
‘No. Of course, I may be doing him an injustice. But when his own wife says he’s dishonourable and wants you to throw him out—’
‘It gives you to think.’
‘It does indeed.’
‘Still, women, you know,’ said Morcar, shaking his head. ‘They get these whims.’ He thought of his wife, Winnie, and her entirely false obsession about her brother’s death. ‘And once they’ve got them, nothing on earth will make them change their mind.’
A Man of His Time Page 5