A Man of His Time

by Phyllis Bentley

  20. Night Off

  ‘Are you wanting the car tonight, Jonathan?’

  ‘No. I should like it tomorrow night, though, if it’s all right to you. I have to go to a UNA meeting in Annotsfield. Would you care to come with me?’ added Jonathan as a polite afterthought.

  Chuff stood silent for a moment, hesitating. Eventually he grinned, and said: ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow if you’ll come with me tonight.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Jonathan cheerfully, throwing aside the New Statesman. Where are you for tonight, then?’

  ‘Bowls.’

  ‘Bowls?’ said Jonathan, dismayed. He had not the least desire to go a-bowling, but was too kind-hearted to say so. ‘That should be interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you ever do anything because you enjoy it, Jonathan?’

  ‘Well, of course!’

  ‘No, you don’t. You do it because you think it may be sociologically’ - Chuff got this word out in separate syllables, with a derisive effect - ‘useful or interesting.’

  ‘You have a point there, Chuff,’ said Jonathan. ‘But then, you see, that’s what I enjoy.’

  ‘Oh, hell, man!’ said Chuff impatiently.

  The two young men got out their car and went down the Ire Valley towards Annotsfield, Chuff driving. He drove well, insisting on his rights more perhaps than Jonathan would have done, but extricating himself capably from awkward situations which arose from others’ ineptitude. They parked satisfactorily, went up the broad steps to the large building, and pushed open the heavy glass doors. A continuous rolling thunder greeted them. While Chuff shed his black leather jerkin (he found the winter temperature of Yorkshire trying) Jonathan strolled about and became interested - in the shelves full of rubber-soled shoes, the chart of scoring rules, the display of bowls, huge handsome heavy-looking affairs, some coloured in dark blue and red, with thumb and finger holes. I’d like to hold one, he thought. A middle-aged lady came along, put a bowl into a neat small machine which stood by the wall and inserted a threepenny piece in the slot provided. A whirring sound resulted.

  ‘What is this machine for, Chuff?’ shouted Jonathan through the thunder.

  ‘Just to polish the bowls,’ said Chuff impatiently. ‘Come along.’

  ‘What is used to polish them?’

  ‘Wire brushes. Come along.’

  ‘Are you going to play now, Chuff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many sets of - er - skittles? Ninepins? - are there?’

  ‘Twenty-eight lanes,’ said Chuff shortly. ‘You’re interested, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Why not? When are you going to play?’ said Jonathan eagerly, watching the bowlers of both sexes and all ages who with a skilful swing of the arm sent the bowls rolling down the long wooden lanes towards the tall white ninepins. (’Though why ninepins when there are ten of them?’ wondered Jonathan.)

  A mechanism of some kind picked up any ninepins remaining on their feet after the roll and swept the fallen ones away, then replaced those which had not been knocked down. The attitudes of the bowlers were often graceful, and it was exciting to see the ninepins fall. The long wooden lanes gleamed in the light, which was brilliant but not garish. Bowls, returned presumably from the far end of the lane on under-floor tracks, popped up smoothly into troughs at the near end, ready to the players’ hands. Everything was fresh, clean, gleaming. At small tables at the head of the lanes sat girl scorers, recording the number of skittles knocked down; as they wrote, the figures, with their pens and sometimes hands, appeared in shadow on screens above their head, easily visible to the spectators and players. It was all neat, skilfully mechanized, extremely contemporary. Jonathan was enthralled.

  ‘Do they always record their scores? What are those red lights for at the end of the lanes?’

  ‘Your leader has just rolled a score of two hundred and twenty-eight,’ announced a loudspeaker.

  ‘They’re playing a league game at the far end,’ said Chuff. ‘Come along.’

  He dragged Jonathan up a few steps on to a long platform; a soft-drinks bar lined one side and seats in pairs and singles stood overlooking the lanes, on the other side.

  ‘There’s room here,’ said Jonathan, making for a free pair.

  Chuff gave him a sharp push and Jonathan stumbled on to the next group, a threesome. The object of the exercise, as Jonathan told himself, immediately became visible, for Ruth Mellor sat there, her handbag beside her on the velvet seat.

  ‘Good evening, Ruth,’ said Chuff in a rather defiant tone.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Ruth Mellor coolly.

  ‘You know my cousin, Jonathan Oldroyd, don’t you.’

  ‘I believe I have seen you sometimes at Syke Mills.’

  Her tone, reflected Jonathan, was perfect; cool and calm. She offered her hand, and he took it; this too was cool and calm.

  ‘Coffee, Ruth?’ said Chuff.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Chuff moved away, and Jonathan sat down opposite to the girl.

  ‘It all looks very respectable,’ said Jonathan jokingly, glancing round the scene.

  ‘Did you think you were coming to a den of vice?’ Rather taken aback, Jonathan began: ‘Well—’

  ‘Or perhaps you only hoped so?’

  ‘I didn’t know I was to have the pleasure of meeting you here, or I would have revised my ideas,’ said Jonathan, pulling himself together.

  ‘It’s a family game, as you can see,’ said Ruth, relenting slightly. ‘That is my brother, G.B., playing down there. He’s just going to roll.’

  The bearded young man indicated, who appeared strongly to resemble his sister, being slender, darkish, and bright-eyed, was confronted by a difficult task, for the two ninepins left upright stood very far apart. He paused, considered, rolled; the bowl struck one ninepin a glancing blow which knocked it into the other ninepin; both fell. The team applauded; Jonathan, delighted by the neat, graceful, unexaggerated action, applauded too. Chuff returned with three coffee cups.

  ‘You’re looking glum this evening, Chuff,’ said Ruth.

  ‘And well I might. Such a row I got from Grandfather this morning, you never heard.’

  Judging from her previous responses, Jonathan expected a sharp reply, but Ruth said: ‘Hard luck!’ with sympathy in her tone.

  And that tells the whole story, thought Jonathan.

  ‘He seems to think everybody is made for him and his old mill,’ went on Chuff, petulant. ‘“If I could mix you and Jonathan together, I might have somebody of some use to me,” he said. As though all that mattered for Jonathan and me was being useful to him!’

  ‘He’s very kind really. I don’t expect he meant it that way, he might have been only joking,’ suggested Ruth.

  ‘Joking!’ said Chuff in a tone of deep incredulity. ‘Ha! You should have heard him.’

  ‘Is your brother in textiles, Ruth?’ asked Jonathan, feeling a disloyalty in listening to this conversation about Morcar.

  ‘No. Electronics.’

  ‘I think I’ll just have another look at that polishing machine,’ said Jonathan presently, rising with the intention of leaving the couple alone.

  ‘OK. Be seeing you.’

  Jonathan gave the polishing machine a close inspection, looked into the children’s playroom and patted the rocking-horse on the head, watched a few non-league games which were being played at some distance from Chuff, and studied the scoring sheet on the wall until he had mastered its principles. He was just turning away from this when he was picked up by a neat, crisp, friendly man in middle life, who proved to be the manager of the establishment. This man, evidently a bowling enthusiast, showed him every available detail of its workings, introduced him to orange-coated instructors, dropped bowls of varying weights into Jonathan’s hands - they were very heavy - and finally asked him if he would like to go behind the scenes and see the machinery. Jonathan, amused and entertained but feeling he was perhaps being told rather more about bowling alleys than he wanted t
o know, hesitated and looked towards Chuff and Ruth.

  Their heads were very close together, Ruth’s eyes sparkled and she talked earnestly.

  Chuff had now acquired clothes which he thought suitable to the English scene. Tonight he was wearing a thick black sweater agreeably ornamented across the chest and back with white and red patterns, which showed his broad shoulders to advantage. His African tan had quickly vanished under the weathering of a cold, wet, windy West Riding autumn, and his very blond complexion had emerged. At present he was wearing the half-shy, half-pleased, wholly ingenuous smirk of a young man who is being shown favour by a woman for the first time. He smiled; his white even teeth were quite delightful.

  ‘A fine animal,’ thought Jonathan. Aloud he said: ‘Yes, I should very much like to see the mechanism,’ for he by no means wished to disturb Chuff’s courtship.

  The manager, following the direction of his glance, inquired: ‘Would your friends like to come too?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Jonathan, and they smiled together understandingly.

  Jonathan was not fond of machinery, which seemed to him to make a frightful fuss about doing something which human hands did better; there was a gain of speed, but little else. However, he found a childish pleasure in the extreme skill of these complicated machines, which rolled the bowls round a huge upright circle and dispatched them back immediately to the players, picked up the skittles by the scruff of their necks, shot them around, dropped them into curved holders, and when the last pin fell through its cone, placed them all - ‘gently but firmly’, thought Jonathan with amusement - in their exact position, without a wobble, on the floor of the lane. He was urged to clamber up, to clamber down; he talked to the young mechanic, he strained his voice bellowing through the terrific backstage noise, far heavier than that of a loom-shed. He remembered how Morcar and his weavers prided themselves on never raising their voices amid the looms, and noticed that here the same pride obtained. At last he had seen all, and was led thankfully back to the public portion of the building. He gave the manager a grateful goodnight and approached Chuff and Ruth. They were sitting in exactly the same positions, wearing the same expressions, as when he had left them half an hour before.

  ‘I think I’ll push off now, Chuff,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no. The match isn’t anything like over yet,’ said Chuff, throwing the lanes a cursory glance.

  ‘No need for you to come. I’ll catch a bus,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Oh, no. That’s not fair. It’s your car as well as mine,’ said Chuff, frowning. ‘Stay a bit, Jonathan.’

  ‘No, you go with your cousin,’ said Ruth in a sensible tone. ‘It’s late. I’ll wait for G.B.’

  ‘He’ll be ages,’ said Chuff.

  ‘Why don’t we run Ruth home?’ suggested Jonathan. ‘And go on to Stanney Royd from there?’

  This was accepted with relief. Jonathan and Ruth stood together by the glass doors while Chuff reclaimed his jerkin.

  ‘Chuff told me what you said about behaving in a civilized way to each other, Mr Oldroyd,’ said Ruth severely.

  ‘My name is Jonathan. I hope you’ll use it.’

  ‘Jonathan, then. It was rather a cold welcome, I thought.’

  ‘It seems to have worked, however. We are becoming quite friendly now - at least, I am.’

  ‘Oh, Chuff is too. But it was difficult for him at first, you know, coming to a strange country. And in such sad cumstances.’

  ‘I realize that,’ said Jonathan with sympathy.

  ‘And he was so troubled about Susie.’

  ‘Susie is all right now,’ said Jonathan quickly.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear you say so. She seems to be a very sweet little girl,’ said Ruth, turning her eyes full upon him.

  They were very fine eyes, dark grey with, Jonathan thought but did not like to look too closely, a dark blue iris; their gaze was penetrating.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, returning her look steadily. He felt that they had communicated, that Ruth now knew the special feeling he had for Susie.

  Chuff came up, they retrieved the car and drove off, sitting very close together, three in the small front seat. Jonathan observed with quiet amusement that Chuff knew well the route to the new block of flats where Ruth lived on the fifth floor, but did not expect to be asked up to her home. They parted without an embrace.

  ‘You didn’t know Ruth much before tonight, did you?’ said Chuff as they drove up the valley.

  ‘Scarcely at all. I like her,’ said Jonathan sincerely.

  Chuff gave a grunt which seemed designed to express satisfaction.

  ‘It’s silly being called Chuff, really, now I’m not a kid any more,’ he said presently. ‘But I don’t see what else I can do. I don’t want to be called after any Shaw, so that rules out Charles. I can’t be called Henry or Harry while Grandfather’s around. Mom wanted me to be called Francis, but I don’t fancy it. I’m not a Francis.’

  ‘No. Hal might have suited you,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘But it’s too late now. Anyhow, Chuff is OK by me. I like it.’

  Chuff snorted.

  21. Chuff and Ruth

  ‘Come in and close the door, Chuff,’ said Morcar.

  Chuff put his tongue in his cheek and chuckled to himself. On facing his grandfather across the desk, however, he saw him looking so extremely grim that he perceived he had been mistaken in thinking he had seen the height of Morcar’s anger previously.

  ‘Now, Chuff, understand me, I will not have any hanky-panky in the office,’ said Morcar sternly.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Grandfather.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. I saw you bending over Ruth Mellor’s desk just now.’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I am not going to have you playing about with girls in the office.’

  ‘I’m not playing about with her,’ said Chuff angrily. ‘She’s a friend of mine, that’s all.’

  ‘All? It looked like a pretty close friendship.’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘Ruth Mellor is a good girl, she works in my employ, she’s under my protection, and I’m not going to have you fooling round with her.’

  ‘I’m not fooling round with her! Don’t you trust me, Grandfather?’

  ‘With money, yes. With women, no.’

  In spite of himself Chuff gave a snort half-anger, half-amusement.

  ‘And you’d do well not to trust yourself overmuch. We’ve had an example of the mess it can cause, in high places, recently.’

  ‘I think you’re being disgusting,’ shouted Chuff, crimsoning. ‘I don’t think of Ruth in that way at all.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘I respect her,’ muttered Chuff, hanging his head in acute embarrassment.

  ‘Are you going to tell me this is a serious attachment?’

  ‘Why not? If you object, that’s just British snobbery.

  Anyway, Jonathan told me Ruth’s father was Uncle David’s partner once. They were cousins.’

  ‘That’s right. I bought Mrs Mellor’s shares off her after her husband was killed, to make Old Mill all Jonathan’s.’

  ‘And then Jonathan didn’t want it,’ sneered Chuff.

  ‘True,’ said Morcar, stiffening so as not to wince.

  ‘Ruth’s as good as we are, then, even by your old-fashioned standards. I don’t see why you object to me and Ruth going together.’

  ‘I don’t object in the least. Ruth’s a clever girl, nice-looking and well mannered and quick on the uptake. In fact, I think she’s probably just the kind you need, she’d be good for you. Sharpen you up.’ (Chuff ground his teeth.) ‘But you’re too young to tie yourself up yet. You’ll hover round half a dozen girls before you settle down. However, if you’re feeling as determined as that about it, Ruth’ll have to leave Syke Mills.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s a nuisance, because she’s the best secretary I’ve ever had, but I can’t have this sort of thing going on.’ �
��It’s not that sort of thing.’ ‘Think how it looks in the office.’

  ‘I don’t care how it looks, in the office or anywhere else.’

  ‘Nat Armitage’ll give her a job, I dare say. I’ll see she gets a good one. She deserves it.’

  ‘The way you manage other people’s lives!’ burst out Chuff. ‘It’s unbearable.’

  ‘I’m doing what I think right, for her as well as for you.’

  ‘It’s not fair! The only bit of happiness I have, seeing Ruth every day, and you take it away from me!’

  ‘That’s better than a hasty, shotgun marriage,’ said Morcar very soberly.

  ‘I shall go on seeing her at night,’ said Chuff with defiance.

  ‘That’s up to you to decide. I’ll get your Aunt Jennifer to give a young people’s party before Jonathan goes back, and invite Ruth. Would you like that?’

  ‘Er - Yes,’ muttered Chuff, rather taken aback.

  ‘Now make up your mind, Chuff. That’s the test. Do you want Ruth to come to Stanney Royd and meet Susie, or don’t you? If you don’t, then just drop meeting her -gradually, of course.’

  ‘Ruth would be good for Susie,’ said Chuff eagerly.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Very well,’ said Morcar at length. ‘We’ll play it that way. But listen, Chuff. I married very young, and in a hurry.’

  Chuff looked the insolent inquiry he dared not utter.

  ‘No, not for that reason,’ said Morcar sadly. ‘It was the War, and - well, never mind. I was away for several months. Then, since my return home in 1919, every minute of my life I’ve regretted my marriage. I don’t want you to do the same. Wait a bit before you commit yourself. And don’t make the girl fall in love with you while you’re making up your mind, for that’s not fair.’

  Chuff reflected, with some pleasure, that this advice was probably too late. The reflection showed in his face. Morcar sighed, and his face looked less grim.

  ‘Don’t send Ruth away, Grandfather,’ pleaded Chuff.

  ‘Will you give me your word of honour to behave to her in the mill as though you have no special interest in her?’