Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  He returned to France feeling a different man, and all through the blood and the mud and the mess, the fatigue and the danger, the bodily pain and mental anguish which he suffered on his country’s behalf for the next three years, the thought of his little son was a light to his path and a balm to his mind. The remembrance of that little dark head in the shelter of the blanket kept him from drink and women, steeled his nerves, protected him equally from recklessness and cowardice, gave him something to cling to in the darkest hours. He had something at home worth fighting for, Francis felt; and it was like an anchor upon which he rode securely through the fiercest storms. He wrote regularly to Camden Town, and letters and parcels showered upon him thence; letters, whether in Janie’s large vehement writing or in Henry’s tiny hand, giving him the precious details of David’s hair and teeth, his prowess in crawling, his ability to say “please.” On his rare leaves Francis eschewed the livelier side of London life altogether, listening patiently to Henry’s diatribes against Lloyd George and Janie’s account of her struggles with ration cards, in order to be near his son. (On one of these leaves he heard that, the Conscription Acts having recently become law, Matthew was in prison as a conscientious objector; he had a wife, it appeared, who was in danger of starving, owing to public prejudice. Francis let this pass without comment; he felt he owed it to his men to take no interest in the family of a man who would not fight. Later, however, he heard that there was a child in the case; then, mumbling and confused, he pressed money into Janie’s hand—a child, a baby, a little thing like David, that was different.) It seemed to Francis that David grew extraordinary fast; surely no other child had ever progressed so rapidly! From being a baby in a blanket he became a young person in a short white frock who chuckled and bounced about in Janie’s arms; then he crawled, then he could walk and stand alone, talked intelligibly, and was able to throw balls (rather wildly) about. Suddenly he was quite a boy in a woollen suit with trousers, and socks and little brown shoes—but this was after the War was over, when Francis was struggling with the demobilisation of his men.

  By this time David was a very charming young person with a decided character of his own. He had dark hair and eyebrows, like Carmine’s, and his slender hands and the lovely look of compassion which sometimes crossed his face at the sight of Janie weeping or animals in distress were also an inheritance from his mother; but his eyes were blue like his father’s, and he had the strong Oldroyd face and chin. He was very fond of Francis, and loved to crawl over him and be tossed about by him, laughing heartily the while. He was a great laugher, with merriment always lurking in his blue eyes, and at an early age understood how to contrive and execute simple jokes. Once, however, when in collaboration with his nurse he had bought a china egg and with much enjoyment substituted it in Janie’s egg-cup at breakfast, his grandmother’s look of amazed alarm as she struck it with a spoon was altogether too much for his tender heart; he wept bitterly and for a long time would not be comforted. Then suddenly he snatched the offending egg from the table, threw it down and stamped on it. Janie was shocked at this display of Oldroyd temper, and said so; but David was not at all crushed by his grandmother’s scolding; he seemed well pleased with himself, sat down calmly and ate his porridge with an air of mild good humour and a twinkle in his eyes which appealed very much to Henry. But then everything about David appealed to Henry, from the shape of his head downward. David was a very intelligent child; at the age of four—to Francis’s horror—he could already read, and he made a delightful companion; to take him out, carefully buttoned up in his neat little coat of fine cloth, to the Zoo or to see the guards changed, or some other London sight, was Francis’s highest pleasure. He began to want very much to show David Emsley Hall. The child could have a pony; it would be delightful.

  Yes; at the close of the War, all Francis wanted was to marry some good quiet woman who would be kind to David, and settle down at Emsley Hall. He did not want Charlotte to rule his household, for Charlotte, he was sure, was not the right person to bring up Carmine’s son; he did not want Janie, who with her wild vehemence was just a little tiresome—in any case she would never consent to be parted from Henry; though they bickered every day they were indispensable to each other. Just a good quiet woman who would be kind to David; that was Francis’s requirement, and as soon as he was demobilised and settled at Emsley Hall he looked about for one.

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  He soon found a wife who pleased him well enough, though she was not quite of the type he had intended. For he returned to find Annotsfield in a whirl of gaiety; everyone was dancing or learning to dance, everyone was entertaining on an unprecedented scale. Francis suddenly discovered that what he wanted was not peace and rest, but gaiety and enjoyment; he plunged into everything, threw open Emsley Hall, danced, played bridge, entertained, never gave himself a moment alone. After all, as he told himself, he was only thirty-four; life surely held some pleasures for him yet. It was in the pursuit of these pleasures that he met his wife. Ella was an exquisite young blonde, an Armitage, a daughter of luxury. She was little more than half his age, but in the prevailing scarcity of men Francis, with the glamour of war and his decoration about him, tall and lean and, though wearing a rather harassed and haggard air, still handsome, had little difficulty in winning her. She was introduced to David and, because she adored his father, found him perfectly sweet. David, perceiving that she loved Francis, felt kindly towards her. Charlotte disapproved thoroughly of Ella’s cigarettes and her endless quest of pleasure, but the younger woman, with perfect ease and good-temper, routed her whenever she ventured a word of criticism. “Francis has had such a bad time, he ought to have some fun now,” drawled Ella in her high sweet tones, and: “After all, Mrs. Oldroyd, you’ve had your life; Francis and I are only just beginning ours. I shouldn’t like to do anything,” she continued, “which would hurt you, Mrs. Oldroyd, because Francis is so attached to you. But you see …” The result of all this was that Charlotte retired to Stanney Royd, the wedding of Francis and Ella was celebrated with considerable magnificence and was photographed for all the papers, and David came north to live at Emsley Hall.

  Francis felt very sorry for Henry and Janie, as they stood together on the platform watching the train containing himself and his wife and child move out; poor desolate old things, he was sorry to take their greatest joy away from them. But what could he do? David was his son after all, thought Francis, drawing the child lovingly to him. David, leaning back comfortably in the crook of his father’s arm, stuck one small foot out and stretched himself till he could touch the opposite seat with it. “I shouldn’t do that, old chap,” advised Francis mildly: “Other people have to sit here, you know.” David, blushing scarlet, at once arose and dusted the velvet with his hand. “Isn’t he lovely?” whispered Ella; and Francis rather thought they both were.

  A period of rather feverish happiness now set in at Emsley Hall. Francis discovered that since the decontrol of the cloth industry at the close of the War, Walker had been feathering his nest at the Oldroyds’ expense to a quite abominable degree. His method was to sell the Oldroyd cloth at a price some two shillings a yard below the current price, the happy buyer giving him a substantial commission on the transaction. The merchant Butterworth warned Francis of this, the man was caught red-handed and dismissed. He turned nasty, and told Francis that he would regret the dismissal, his knowledge of the cloth trade being such that it would fit easily on a sixpence. Francis had a rather uncomfortable feeling that Walker might be right, but when he at last succeeded in becoming demobilised, he found himself slipping fairly easily into his old duties, and the trade boom was such that money simply rolled through Syke Mill into his pocket without any very great effort on his part. The home and foreign markets were empty, and clamouring for cloth after four years’ neglect—the mills, had been too busy with army contracts to attend much to private orders; moreover, during the German submarine campaign tonnage for shipping cloth overseas was simply not available. Cables d
emanding cloth therefore simply poured in upon Francis from all quarters of the world. Germany, thought Francis, was going to pay for the War, and as a victor nation England was sure of a large indemnity by the just-signed Treaty of Versailles; so everything was quite splendid, and money continued to roll in.

  It rolled out of his pocket again into furs and diamonds and lovely frocks for his wife, toys for David, new cars and new horses, theatres and dances and chocolates and cigarettes and flowers: all the apparatus of luxury and enjoyment which was so delicious to his war-scarred nerves.

  David’s chief recollection of this period was of his father coming out of his dressing-room just as David was being taken off to bed; his father, in evening dress, looked very happy and handsome; when David rushed up to him he looked happier still, glanced at his wrist-watch and said: “Leave him with me for a bit, nurse.” Then on the large square landing David and his father had a splendid game; they rolled about, growled, chased each other, and pretended to be all sorts of curious animals. It was glorious! All of a sudden his father would look at his wrist-watch again and say: “Good heavens! We shall be late!” “Where are you going to-night, Daddy?” asked David eagerly, and his father always replied: “To a dance at—” wherever it happened to be. Then his father, holding him by the hand, would knock on the door of his stepmother’s bedroom, put in his head and say: “Can we come in?” There would be an agreeable shriek, and: “My dear!” Then David’s father, pointing, said: “Well, put that on,” and after a minute the door would open more widely, and his father would lead David into the room. His stepmother, her charming body scantily clad in crêpe-de-chine of delicious pale hues, stood in front of the long mirror and combed her beautiful blonde hair; and Francis and David sat side by side on the new settee and watched her. Sometimes she would drop her comb and fling herself upon them and embrace them, crying: “You darlings! Your eyes are exactly the same!” At one time David had been rather unhappy about his stepmother because he noticed that she did not pay as much attention to him when his father was not there as she did when he was, and this seemed insincere and made him uncomfortable. But when he had argued about it with himself for a day or two he saw that Ella loved him not for himself but because he was his father’s dear possession, and after all that was just how he felt to her. He would not ask anyone to give him more than he gave them, so it was all right. And as soon as he had argued it out like this it was all right, and he and Ella got on very well together. So David quite liked being smothered in his stepmother’s fragrant crêpe-de-chine and lace, and he thought his father liked it too, though he usually protested saying: “Ella, you really must hurry” At this Ella pouted, charmingly, and drew David to her to kiss him good night. It was all very jolly indeed, and on the whole David thought he liked it even better than Camden Town, though he missed Uncle Henry; for here there was his father, the garden, the pony and the moors. Soon he had a little sister too, a lovely little blonde thing called Fan, which was short, of course, for Frances; David loved Fan dearly.

  Yes, for a few years after the War everything was very happy, hectically happy in fact, at Emsley Half

  Chapter III

  Defeat

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  And then all of a sudden the bottom dropped out of the cloth market.

  Why this was so Francis really found it difficult to say. Henry had sent him a book about the economic consequences of the peace, by a fellow called Keynes; but Francis did not bother with it much, for he could not believe that a treaty so advantageous to England could really have disastrous effects, and he distrusted Henry’s theoretical mind. Be that as it might, in 1920 prices were high and trade booming, in 1921 there was such a slump that prices could scarcely be said to exist at all. Francis felt the first breath of trouble in the spring of 1921, when on opening his newspaper eagerly to read Austen Chamberlain’s budget, presented to the House of Commons the previous night, he discovered that the Excess Profits Duty, which had been 60 per cent the year before, was now to be raised to 80 per cent. “Good heavens, whatever for?” said Francis in amaze. What on earth did the Exchequer want all that extra money for? Could it be—Francis stirred uneasily—that in spite of having won the War England was to be obliged to pay her share of it, and that share a large one? He found that every business man in the West Riding was asking himself the same question; there was an uneasiness, a feeling of discomfort, a lack of confidence about; that budget was really very disquieting.

  Whether it was this same lack of confidence extending itself, or some other economic factor, Francis again did not know, but something promptly caused a disastrous lack of confidence in the buyers at the Sydney wool sales, and they did not buy in their customary quantities. The price of wool thereupon fell. The buyers then held off more than ever, in the hope that the price would fall still more, and naturally it continued to fall, and naturally the buyers continued to hold off, and this vicious circle continued until the price of wool touched rock bottom. The price of yarn followed the price of wool, and the price of cloth followed the price of yarn; in a few months cloth which had been worth twenty-two and sixpence a yard dropped to five shillings a yard, and it wasn’t easy to find customers even at that.

  Francis found himself caught in a vice between the merchants and the spinners. Those merchants abroad who had so gaily cabled him for a hundred pieces of this and a hundred pieces of that now not only stopped these delightful cables, but often repudiated those previously sent. To buy at twenty-two and six and sell at five shillings would ruin them, and they tried to unload part of the ruin on to the manufacturer. They denied that the cables ordering such-and-such cloth had ever been sent; Francis, who had already made the cloth or at any rate bought the yarn for it, of course protested, but there was no written contract, he had no case, and was obliged to yield to the imposition. In England, merchants did not so much repudiate their contracts as announce their intention of going bankrupt by fulfilling them; it was then sometimes better to let them have the cloth at a lower price than to wait for your money through the protracted agony of bankruptcy proceedings. (There was an opportunity here for unscrupulous underselling, and some firms took advantage of it. Not Syke Mill.) Butterworth, Francis’s largest customer, by dint of exhausting his reserves, giving long-date bills and paying “differences” instead of taking up his contracts, managed to weather the storm for a while, but his position was henceforward insecure, and Francis watched it uneasily.

  As regard the spinners the position was very different. The master spinners had a very strong association; they made a decision that no contracts should be repudiated, and were able to enforce it. Manufacturers who had ordered yarn when the price was high were obliged either to accept it and pay for it at that high price, or, if they refused it, to pay “differences”—that is to say, the difference between the high price of the contract and the low price the spinner could obtain for the yarn to-day. Francis, whose monthly yarn account was usually ten or eleven thousand pounds, twice had the bitter experience of thus paying more than three thousand pounds to his spinner for literally nothing. There were spinners in the West Riding who took advantage of this situation, sold yarn to manufacturers and never bought the wool to spin it, trusting that the price would so come down that the manufacturer would not want the yarn and would gladly pay “differences” to be quit of it. There were cloth manufacturers who played the same trick on the merchants; they took an order for cloth from patterns, did not attempt to weave it or buy the yarn with which to weave it, and collected “differences” from the wretched merchant on settling day. Francis was naturally not one of the manufacturers who behaved like this; such methods filled him with an angry scorn. He did, however, think it a little hard that whereas merchants paid him some six or nine months after the delivery of his cloth, by an unbreakable custom of the trade he had to pay his spinner for the yarn in that cloth on the twenty-fifth of the month following the yarn’s delivery.

  In the middle of all this there was a coal strike; after a
competitive scramble for the available stocks of coal, the mill-owners one by one were obliged to let their boiler fires go out, and the Annotsfield mills all “stood” for weeks, their chimneys smokeless against the clear sky. The following year there was a textile strike on the subject of hours and wages, and the mills stood again. Francis, taking stock at the end of this year, found that since 1921 he had lost eighty thousand pounds, so it was not surprising that he had to part with so many of his father’s investments. Mercifully the Excess Profits Duty was now taken off, and Francis’s accountant having appealed on the score of his losses, managed to get some of the amount which he owed for previous years reduced.

  Things now seemed to steady themselves a little; the differences between prices when yarn was ordered and prices when it was delivered were not so abnormal, and Francis saw a hope of again showing a profit on Syke Mill, if only there could be some trade. But somehow there wasn’t any trade. The home market was saturated, and the foreign one didn’t seem to exist. Henry in an article in one of the heavier monthly reviews attributed this largely to England’s abrupt return to the gold standard, which took place just then; but Francis, to whom he sent a copy, thought this absurd and just like Henry, who always saw distant vague things, thought Francis, instead of near ones. Francis attributed the failure of the foreign market partly to foreign tariffs, and partly to the way foreign countries had established textile industries of their own during the War, when England was too busy to attend to them. Whatever the cause might be there certainly was no trade, either foreign or domestic. Francis perceived that economies were necessary; he laid down his horses, gave up his shooting, cut down the Emsley Hall staff, reduced Ella’s allowance and his own, and drove one car instead of three. A great many other people all over England were doing the same; unemployment rose, the purchasing power of the community decreased, and there was less trade than ever. Loom after loom at Syke Mill fell idle and stood motionless, deteriorating; whole sheds were closed, unemployment went up, and purchasing power down; trade grew worse.