By 1926 things were so bad in Syke Mill that Francis didn’t care whether his men went on strike or not; if anything he rather hoped they would, so that the argument between capital and labour could be fought out once for all. He therefore rather enjoyed the General Strike of that year than regretted it; he organised transport with great vigour, felt himself back in the good days of the War again, and rejoiced when the T.U.G. was beaten almost as he had rejoiced over the defeat of the Germans.
It was in the following year that Francis actually found himself in the position of being obliged to apply to his bank for an overdraft—he, Francis Brigg Oldroyd of Emsley Hall! He could hardly look Ackroyd in the face when he gave the order to drive to the bank, so conscious was he of this errand. He was a little soothed, however, by being ushered into the bank manager’s office respectfully and without delay. Francis’s bank, once, long ago, the private property of a Butterworth, had now through successive amalgamations become a mere branch of a huge banking corporation, and Everard, the manager, was not a local man but a Londoner. Rumour had it, too, that he had been sent to this branch to overhaul some accounts with which the head office was dissatisfied; he was a nice fellow, however; Francis knew him socially and liked him. Blushing and stuttering, in a sweat of mortification, Francis explained that what with bad debts, and money not being due to him for another six months, and trade being so bad, and so on—in a word, the twenty-fifth of the month was approaching, and he had not enough in hand to meet his spinner’s account; he desired the bank’s permission to overdraw to some slight extent.
“How much, Mr. Oldroyd?” demanded Everard.
“About five thousand?” mumbled Francis interrogatively.
“Oh, we can easily arrange that for you,” said Everard in a tone, Francis thought, of relief. “Easily.”
He smiled, Francis also smiled, and they exchanged some agreeable commonplaces about trade and the weather.
“It will only be a temporary accommodation,” mumbled Francis at length, standing up to go.
“Oh, quite!” agreed Everard in a sympathetic tone. “Of course we shall require some security.”
“Security?” said Francis, startled.
“Security for the five thousand,” explained the manager.
“But, Mr. Everard,” said Francis, vexed: “We’ve dealt with this bank all my life and all my father’s life, and I imagine all my grandfather’s life too. Surely you can trust us for a paltry five thousand?”
“Paltry?” queried the manager. “No sum is paltry when you can’t find it, Mr. Oldroyd.”
Francis, wincing, agreed.
The upshot of the interview was that some of the scrip of what remained of Brigg’s investments found its way into the bank’s strong room.
Francis confidently expected to be able to redeem this scrip at the end of two months, but instead of that trade was still so bad, bankruptcies so frequent, money owed to him so impossible to get in, and expenses so heavy—there were his spinner’s account and his wages bill as usual, and also his income tax and the rates on Syke Mill hanging over him—that he had to arrange for a further three thousand overdraft, and deposit further security. The next month it was the same.… Thence-forward the overdraft mounted and mounted; the interest on it mounted too, till the total became appalling, and everything Francis owned was gradually sucked into the bank’s strong-room as security.
Then his securities began to drop in value. A sharp note from the bank, early in the December of 1930, informed him that as shares so-and-so and so-and-so had now dropped to a bare two-thirds of their former value the overdraft was not covered, and the bank must have further security. Francis protested, argued, struggled; but he could not contest the legitimacy of the demand, and was obliged to look about him to see what he could deposit as further cover. The strain was telling badly on his nerves, never too good since the hardships of the War; he ate and slept badly and became increasingly irritable, till poor Ella did not know what to make of him. She begged him to let her share his troubles, and when he at last desperately poured out the mass of complicated figures which he knew she could not understand, suggested that he should ask her brother for assistance. Francis, who knew that young Armitage was feeling the slump as badly as Syke Mill—perhaps indeed rather worse, for there were several expensive households living out of his business, while Francis had only one to maintain, his mother living on the money deeded to her by Brigg in his lifetime—said gently that he did not consider that advisable.
“Then what will you do, Francis?” queried Ella in a timid tone.
“I shall have to give them the deeds of Emsley Hall,” said Francis gloomily.
Ella gazed at him in consternation.
Now that the matter had once been brought to the light of speech, however, Francis felt better about it; he interviewed Everard next day with some degree of firmness, and it was arranged between them that the title-deeds of the Emsley Hall estate should be regarded as covering not only the drop in value of previous securities, but some further thousands overdraft. The terrors of the twenty-fifth would thus be mitigated for several months to come, and Francis went about for a few days almost jauntily.
But when he actually made the deposit, when he withdrew the Emsley Hall title-deeds from his safe at Syke Mill and drove down with them to the bank and handed them over to Everard and saw them placed in a bank envelope and sealed with the bank seal, then Francis felt his heart sink very low indeed. Emsley Hall! It was so much more to him than Syke Mill had ever been. Emsley Hall! How had he reached this abyss, from the joyous peaks of the post-war boom? Emsley Hall!
2
When at length he escaped from the manager’s warm snug room to the dank chill of the bank’s marble portico, leaving the deeds of Emsley Hall behind him, Francis felt he could not bear any human society for a while, even that of Ackroyd, who was holding the front door of his car open for him; so he disregarded the open door and attempted to get into the rear seat. But a large square parcel effectually prevented his entry.
“What’s this, Ackroyd?” demanded Francis, quivering with impatience.
“That, sir?” said Ackroyd cheerfully—he had been Colonel Oldroyd’s servant through the War, and knew all his affairs and his moods—“That’s Master David’s wireless, sir. Mrs. Oldroyd’s been having it done up for him for Christmas, sir, and it wasn’t ready when we called for it earlier this afternoon. So I promised to fetch it now, sir.”
“Has he got home, then?” asked Francis eagerly.
“Yes, sir, this afternoon,” replied Ackroyd in the same tone. “Looks very well, if I may say so, sir. School seems to agree with him. Better sit in here, sir.”
Francis felt so much cheered at the thought of David’s return for the Christmas holidays, which the press of his ugly business affairs had driven from his head, that without saying a word he allowed himself to be shepherded into the front seat. David! That at least was one affair which was going thoroughly well. Francis had never had a day’s anxiety about his son since his birth. As a child he was a merry, lively, loving little soul; when he grew up into grey flannel suits and went to a preparatory school, it appeared that he was clever as well. In fact he seemed really brilliant; Francis marvelled over the string of excellent and shows unusual ability which constituted his reports, and gazed at the boy’s dark head in awe and wonder—could it really contain all that? Francis had never earned such a report in his life. But when he hinted to David that he was doing pretty well and had pleased his father, David seemed mildly surprised, and replied with candour: “Well, the other fellows are a pretty slow lot, you know, Daddy.” He added hastily, in a tone of compunction: “Of course they can’t help it.” These passages, and the fact that in his early teens David’s chief amusement seemed to be lying on his stomach on the nursery floor reading a book, with a pile of other dirty books from the Annotsfield Free Library on the floor beside him, sometimes made Francis afraid, for a few moments, that his son might be going to turn out
a prig. These few moments might be repeated if the next time he saw David the lad chanced to be sitting on his heels, whistling thoughtfully, contriving, as his habit was, with great skill and neatness, some charming toy for little Fan, who gazed over his shoulder, entranced. David was a great whistler, and very skilful with his fingers, and his loving care for little Fan was quite delightful, but still Francis did not want him to be a muff. But then perhaps next morning David would demand sandwiches and vanish for the entire day, returning at night tanned by the weather and as hungry as a hunter. He had a large collection of local maps, the nucleus of which had been presented to him by Henry, and could give his father points on the topography of Marthwaite Moor. Francis was sometimes slightly worried about the influence of Henry upon David; the boy always stayed a night or two in Camden Town when going to and from his preparatory and later his public school, and it seemed to Francis that his faith in Henry was unduly strong. The only disagreement, for example, which had ever arisen between David and his stepmother—the boy’s manners to Ella were usually so charming—owed its origin to the Bamforth strain. Ella objected to the books which David brought home from the Annotsfield Free Library, alleging that they were dirty and unhygienic and should not he taken near little Fan. David, turning rather white, replied in a quick hard tone that in future he would keep them away from Fan. “I’d much rather you didn’t go to that place at all, dear,” said Ella, colouring a little because she was being made to appear, before her husband, as caring less for David than for her own child. “It isn’t the sort of place for you at all.” The Oldroyd vein on David’s forehead suddenly throbbed, his blue eyes blazed, his nostrils dilated: “Uncle Henry’s father died persuading the Town Council to begin the Free Library,” he said in a low fierce tone: “He was one of the noblest men Annotsfield ever had and I’m proud to go there.” He then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Francis and Ella very uncomfortable. Next morning, however, he came to Ella of his own accord and said he was sorry if he had been rude to her; he quite understood that it was her care for him which had made her anxious about the library—Ella’s heart warmed to him for this speech in front of Francis—but it was essential for his school work that he should have access to certain books, which he could only find there. But, this apology having been accepted and peace restored, David fled from the house with a joyous whoop, and was next seen running along the top of the Emsley Hall estate wall, gleefully skipping the gaps caused by the small gates—he was very graceful and sure-footed. No, David, was not a prig, he was sound all the way through; there were no yellow spots in David, reflected Francis proudly, turning to the thought of his boy now with relief as the one warmth in a cold hard world. No, that wasn’t fair, there was Ella too, and little Fan; but still David was a rather exceptionally attractive lad—everybody thought so. Even Charlotte admitted his attractions, though the pair were not on very intimate terms.
The car drew up at Emsley Flail, and David, shouting cheerfully, bounced down the steps and dragged his father out. He then immediately became very grown-up and dignified, and asked if Ackroyd had brought his wireless set. This attitude, however, was only assumed to be ready to conceal his feeling from Ackroyd if the man should be obliged to disappoint him, and when David found that the set was there, he relapsed into the boy again. After all, thought Francis, as he stood on his threshold with David hanging on his arm, Fan attacking his knees and Ella kissing his cheek, life isn’t too bad; this sort of thing puts heart into a fellow. He moved on into the light, and immediately his heart sank a little, for he thought Ella looked uneasy. What could she be uneasy about, he wondered? It could not be either of the children, surely; for they were obviously in the pink of moral and physical health. Had she perhaps heard about the Armitage difficulties? Perhaps it was all fancy on his part. He thrust it aside and prepared to enjoy David’s first evening at home.
When the lad had gone off to bed, flushed and happy, Francis said: “By the way, where’s his report?”
Ella said: “It’s here,” took it out of a drawer and handed it to him with such an uneasy look that Francis was quite startled.
“But what’s the matter with it?” he thought, looking it through: “It’s almost better than usual.”
“There’s a letter too,” said Ella faintly, passing it to him. “It’s addressed to both of us, so I opened it.”
Francis, now thoroughly disturbed, skimmed the letter rapidly. “But I can’t make head or tail of it,” he cried. “Adolescent rebellion—what on earth is that? A passing phase—not to be taken too seriously—better to mention it? What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know,” said Ella miserably, shaking her head.
“Well!” exclaimed Francis, wretched. He sat looking at the fire for a few minutes in the silence of utter dejection. David! Was David to fail him too? He remembered Carmine and was frightened. “I shall have to speak to him about it,” he said: “I shall have to ask him what it means.”
“Not to-night—not the first night of his Christmas holidays, Francis,” pleaded Ella.
“Yes, I’d better get it over,” said Francis. “Besides, I daresay I shall manage better in the dark.” He sighed deeply, and went very sadly out of the hall and up the stairs.
Strains of dance music came floating from David’s bedroom; Francis sighed again, knocked, and opened the door. The room was in darkness. Discords banged and bleated through the air, and Francis, who did not much care for this kind of modern music, winced.
“Hullo, father!” said a fresh young voice from the bed cheerfully.
“Just turn that thing off for a minute, old chap,” urged Francis. “I want to talk to you.”
There was a click, and the music ceased. Francis felt about for a chair, sat down on it, and began: “I’ve had a letter from school about you, David.”
“Oh?” said David on a note of reserve.
Francis, rather haltingly, described the letter and his own utter in ability to understand it. When he paused there was a silence; no explanation came from the bed. Francis’s heart sank. Surely, surely David was not going to turn sullen and timid, like Carmine! Surely, surely not after a boyhood so promising! Since David’s voice “broke” it had become deep and very like his mother’s; Francis thought of this now, and winced. Oh God, if David turned sullen Francis would not be able to bear it. “Tell me all about it, old chap,” he urged on a pleading note. “I promise I won’t be angry. Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to be angry about,” came David’s voice, coolly. “It’s no use explaining all the details, father, because you wouldn’t understand them.” (Francis winced.) “But what it really amounts to,” continued David more eagerly, “is that it’s the custom to join a certain house society, and everybody’s supposed to do it; and I think the society’s silly, so I wouldn’t join.”
“Oh,” said Francis, nonplussed.
“I think,” continued David in a fine full confident tone: “I think it’s silly to do things just because everybody does them and they’re supposed to be the Right Thing, and all that sort of rot. Just as I think it’s silly not to do things because they Aren’t Done. Don’t you, father?”
“Well,” said Francis, quite staggered by this attack on his dearest code: “Well.” He pulled himself together and delivered a short homily on the old school, esprit de corps, good form and so on. There was another pause.
“Well, I think all that sort of thing’s vieux jeu” said the voice from the bed with calm decision.
Francis was again quite taken aback. To begin with, he wasn’t quite sure that he knew exactly what the phrase meant, and if it meant what he thought it did, well! As if to resolve his doubts, the voice from the bed sounded again:
“It’s all out of date—a stale blend of Kipling and the kailyard.”
Francis was dumbfounded. Kipling, with whose verses he secretly fortified himself, repeating parts of If to sustain him through his worst ordeals, Kipling, the only and therefore the gr
eatest poet he knew, Kipling to be dismissed thus by a boy of fifteen! And what was a kailyard? Suddenly he felt old, defeated, done for; while he had been wrestling with banks and spinners his boy’s mind had grown out of his reach. He got up and moved towards the door; with his hand on the knob he sighed heavily.
“Father,” said the voice from the bed.
“Well, my boy,” said Francis sadly.
“Don’t worry about me, father,” said the voice. “I’m all right.”
And indeed the voice was so robust and vigorous, so fresh, so kind, so ringing and so gay, that in spite of himself Francis felt reassured. Not much harm, he felt, could come to a fellow with a voice like that. He said: “Good night, old chap,” in a brighter tone, and went thoughtfully away, closing the door behind him. As he crossed the landing a burst of music from the room he had just left assailed his ears.
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