Ring in the New

by Phyllis Bentley

  ‘Hey, hey!’ said Chuff reprovingly. ‘What are you doing, you bad boy? You mustn’t hit Mummy, that’s naughty.’

  He gave Henry Morcar Junior a slight slap on the buttocks.

  At once Hal’s eyes and mouth opened to their widest extent; glancing at his father, he gave a look and a wail of such anguished stupefaction, as if the earth had crumbled beneath his feet, that Chuff was quite disconcerted.

  ‘Well come along then,’ he said in a consoling tone.

  He picked the child up in his arms and set him on his shoulder. Hal’s wail abruptly ceased; with a bland look of forgiving and forgetting, he put his arm in a casual accustomed style round his father’s neck.

  For Chuff it was a moment of deep and strangely contradictory emotion. On the one hand he felt—perhaps really for the first time—the pride of fatherhood. This little living human organism on his shoulder was his son; Chuff had created him. He would fight for Hal savagely; let no one attempt to harm this child. On the other hand he felt a terrible guilt; he had deprived the child of his birthright, for Henry Morcar Limited would not belong to Hal. He felt almost angry with Hal for being his victim, for throwing the responsibility for his existence and destiny upon his father. He wished with all his heart that he had chosen the other alternative which Alfriston suggested; a few fine clothes and independence. Look at Nat Armitage, making a little less profit every year, but un-harassed by mergers and modem business methods. But would Hal have been satisfied by that? He looked up at the pugnacious little face, so like his own, and doubted it; Hal wanted to ride the horse though he was afraid of the animal. Just like his father, of course, Chuff admitted. But he felt in bondage to the next generation. ‘No sooner are you rid of the old generation than you’re tied down by the new,’ he thought bitterly.

  ‘He’s often naughty,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Boys will be boys,’ said Chuff mechanically.

  ‘I wondered when you were going to take any real notice of him,’ said Ruth.

  Her tone was a trifle acid, and Chuff would have been surprised if he had had time to think about it. But as usual, he had not.

  That evening as the Morcars sat at their evening meal Mrs Jessopp ushered in Ruth’s brother, G. B. Meflor.

  ‘Why, G.B!’ exclaimed Chuff cordially. He sprang up and invited the guest to join them. ‘Bring another plate, Mrs Jessopp.’

  ‘I’ve had my tea, thank you,’ said G.B., stiffly.

  This was a mode of rebuke to the Morcars for abandoning the high tea customary with so many ‘ordinary’ people in Yorkshire and taking to the loftier evening dinner. This had in any case been habitual at Stanney Royd before his grandfather’s death, and Chuff felt vexed. ‘I shall eat when I Eke,’ he thought crossly. He observed, too, that G.B.’s expression was somewhat stern and disapproving, and his response to Ruth’s sisterly embrace perfunctory.’

  ‘We haven’t seen much of you since you went south’ said Chuff in a cooler tone.

  ‘I came to Annotsfield to tell me Mam of my good news,’ said G.B. as before. ‘So I thought I’d just drop in on you.’

  ‘What’s the good news, then?’ said Chuff, forcing an interested tone.

  ‘I’ve been chosen as a future Parliamentary candidate,’ said G.B. more eagerly, naming the West Riding constituency concerned. ‘I was at their final meeting last night.’

  ‘Labour candidate, I presume,’ said Chuff sourly, while Ruth exclaimed with delight and enquired about the size of the Tory majority at the last election, and rejoiced to find it small.

  ‘Of course I can’t expect you to be pleased, Chuff, with your grand new merger and all.’

  ‘Your Government is always urging mergers as instruments of more efficiency and productivity,’ said Chuff, stiff in his turn.

  At this point the telephone rang, and he went to the morning-room to answer it. The caller was Cyril Hamsun, as usual, and his subject a complicated matter of changing the specifications of a large order received recently from a multiple firm of tailors. The effort to remember accurately the original specification, the stage the cloths had reached, the possibility of alteration and new dates for delivery, was considerable, and when Chuff returned to the dining-room he felt irritably conscious that he appeared tired and harassed beside his brother-in-law, who looked particularly fresh and lively with his rosy cheeks, smooth thick dark hair, solid chunky body and expression of satisfaction.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off,’ said G.B., rising.

  His tone was gruff, and Chuff did not try to detain him. Ruth took her brother to the front door, but Chuff made the excuse of his congealing food not to accompany them—he had had enough of G.B. for the present.

  Next morning as he stood at the washstand in their bedroom shaving, Ruth said suddenly:

  ‘Do you want a divorce, Chuff?’

  ‘A what?’ said Chuff without much interest, thinking he had misheard.

  ‘A divorce.’

  ‘A divorce?’ said Chuff, turning from the washstand in amazement. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘If you want a divorce so that you can marry that cheap little floozy, I will gladly bring the necessary proceedings,’ said Ruth in a loud clear tone.

  ‘Don’t use such language, Ruth,’ said Chuff, shocked. ‘It doesn’t become you.’

  ‘It becomes me to speak it as much as it does you to do it,’ said Ruth.

  The words were confused, but the meaning clear. Chuff was taken aback.

  Suddenly becoming conscious that, razor in hand, lather on face, clad in an unromantic cotton vest, he was not looking his most attractive, he laid down the razor, wiped his face and put his shirt on hastily.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Ruth.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. Tell me, do you want a divorce?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be silly, Ruth.’

  ‘You love me, do you?’

  ‘Of course, you’re my wife.’

  There was a pause. They glared at each other.

  ‘It was only a bit of fun,’ said Chuff at length, half apologetic, half furious.

  ‘Fun!’

  ‘Nowadays society is permissive.’

  ‘I’m being permissive,’ said Ruth hardly.

  ‘How do you know about it, anyway?’

  ‘All Annotsfield knows about it, I understand. If you think I enjoy being made to look a fool in front of the whole West Riding, you’re mistaken.’

  ‘I should enjoy it if G.B. would mind his own business,’ growled Chuff, suddenly perceiving the origin of Ruth’s knowledge.

  ‘And how do you think I enjoy my brother telling me tales of my husband?’

  ‘Well—I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s the use of that?’ cried Ruth, exploding into loud tears.

  Chuff went to her and tried rather half-heartedly to take her in his arms. She fought him off. ‘Now, Ruth,’ said Chuff, vexed.

  ‘Go away!’ cried Ruth in a fury. ‘I hate you!’

  ‘Don’t say that, Ruth,’ urged Chuff, beginning to be uneasy.

  ‘I do say it I’m disappointed in you. You’re better looking since you became so sophisticated, Chuff, you talk better and hold your own better and all that. But I don’t like you as I used to. You’re not the boy I fell in love with. I don’t want to have anything to do with you any more.’

  Something within Chuff felt as if it were breaking.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ruth!’ he burst out fiercely. ‘Don’t say that! Don’t cut the ground from under my feet! You’re the only real thing I’ve got left.’ He put his arms round her again, this time strongly.

  ‘You old donkey, I love you, of course I do,’ said Ruth, weeping but fingering his shirt buttons with affection. ‘But you are an ass. You really are, Chuff. That girl! With all those beads and false eyelashes! How could you?’

  It was just for a bit of a change,’ growled Chuff. ‘Being so worried about the merger, and all.’ He did not much like the appellation of donkey, and felt vexed becaus
e though he had known the falsity of the eyelashes and disliked the beads from the start, it would not be very useful to say so now.

  ‘Oh, really! Men! And what about Hal? What would he think of his father?’

  Chuff at this felt the same obscure anger as on the day before. ‘I’m deeply sorry, Ruth,’ he said—soberly but not quite sincerely; he simply felt that this was necessary. He sighed. ‘I promise you it won’t occur again.’

  ‘I should hope not, indeed. Well, finish your dressing,’ said Ruth giving his cheek a friendly pat, ‘or you’ll be late at that mill of yours.’

  They exchanged a long kiss, the kiss not of passionate lovers, but of a man and wife who intend to spend their lives together. It was not indeed quite the same between them as it was before, but though in some ways less good, in others it was easier.

  There were two positive results of this showdown, however. Chuff gave up his afternoon visits to Lois.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. This is the last time,’ he said with artificial cheerfulness to her, when after an absence of some weeks he entered her hall. He stood there, smiling fixedly, not taking off his coat.

  Lois very naturally at once lost her temper.

  ‘Good! I’m as tired of you as you are of me!’ she shouted angrily, flushing to her throat.

  ‘I’ll leave then.’

  ‘Do.’

  Delighted, but feeling such a farewell, even for him, perhaps, too indecently rude, Chuff turned on the threshold, hesitated, and said again feebly, ‘This is the last time.’

  ‘That’s right,’ screamed Lois. ‘Rub it in,’

  She pulled the door wide for his exit and slammed it strongly after him. Chuff rang for the lift without looking round, and went to her no more.

  The other result was that a second son was born to Chuff and Ruth within the year. Ruth had a more difficult labour this time, and the child, dark like his mother, ailed a good deal in infancy, so that Chuff’s pity was invoked and he felt a keen protective interest in his progress. Ruth decided that he should be named George Cecil, after his parents’ respective fathers. Chuff did not like either name, but did not wish to hurt Ruth by vetoing them; after a while he observed that by some mysterious nursery process his second son seemed usually to be hailed as Robin. With this he was content.

  2

  A Piece of Luck

  It was about the time when Baby Robin was struggling with whooping-cough that Chuff, entering the design department, observed that Paul Yarrow was looking particularly ill, quite yellow. At Chuff’s entrance the young man rose and left the room.

  ‘Not after all this time, surely!’ thought Chuff irritably.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, Mr Chuff?’ said old Simmonds.

  Chuff nodded. They went outside on to the landing, where the subdued hum of the neighbouring loom shed throbbed warmly in their ears yarrow had disappeared.

  ‘It’s Paul Yarrow. He’s very unhappy’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. His wife’s left him.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes. She’s gone off with some man who teaches at the Technical College.’

  ‘He’s well rid of her,’ said Chuff, delighted.

  ‘He thinks he ought to leave here and take a job somewhere else and try to get her back.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. He’s doing well here. Why should he leave?’

  ‘Well, you see, he’s had the same trouble with her before. That’s why he left the West of England, you see, and came North to a fresh place to give her a fresh start. What would your advice be, Mr Chuff? He is greatly troubled.’

  ‘My advice would be to stay on here, and forget her until she applies for a divorce, if ever.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell him. He’s certainly doing very well here.’

  ‘How low can you get?’ Chuff admonished himself as he ran downstairs. ‘But it’s a piece of luck, so you may as well enjoy it.’

  3

  Motherhood for Susie

  ‘It’s just as well we have some of Uncle Harry’s money,’ said Jonathan grimly to himself, for his expenses amounted to some three times what most assistant lecturers could afford.

  The premature childbirth had hit Susie hard—she could not feed the twins herself—and it was two months before she was able to leave hospital. Even then, she could hardly be called able; she was weak and languid, could not walk out alone and was not in any degree fit to look after her children. Jonathan hired a trained nurse, and Susie watched quietly while the nurse bathed and dressed the twins. To care for such a household it was necessary to have some domestic help ‘living in’, and Old Cottage really could not hold all these persons. Jonathan suggested moving into a larger house, nearer the town, and Susie seemed to agree; but one night he woke to find her sobbing by his bed—for the present, by the doctor’s suggestion, they slept apart—and when he took her in his arms to comfort her, she wept out on his shoulder that she did not want to leave the cottage.

  ‘Then we won’t go,’ said Jonathan at once.

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘Truthfully,’ said Jonathan, kissing her.

  He decided to add an annexe. To fight his way through architect, planning authority, builder, plumber, electrician, was a long job, and tedious to him through his inexperience; however, they were all kind to him, and the small building, of local stone and character, at length nestled snugly into the side of the cottage. To pay for it caused no difficulty. Jonathan with Susie’s willing assent had arranged to place quite a sum from the sale of the Morcar shares, in a joint account in their bank, and for the annexe and its decoration he drew on this. (The large remainder of the money he invested, by a Lorimer stockbroker’s advice, in a ‘growth’ stock-something electrical.)

  After a few months the nurse began to say to Susie that it was time she learned to care for the twins; to Jonathan she urged privately that he should press this on his wife. Susie seemed to doubt whether she were capable of this exalted task, but on being reassured by her husband, undertook it with, apparently, a deep joy. Jonathan could not stay to watch the bathing ceremony in the morning, having a few miles to drive to the University; but in the evening he rushed home, and sat silent in a corner, watching with a tenderness which almost broke his heart while Susie, beaming radiantly, carefully and delicately dried those delicious small limbs. She obeyed the nurse’s instructions most precisely, yet held the twins softly in her arms with all-embracing love; the infants gazed up at her and made small sounds of content. When the proceedings were over and the girls clad in their white night-attire, their eyes drowsy with sleep, Susie looked up at Jonathan, proudly and hopefully, like a child hoping for praise for a well-performed task. This praise he always gave her.

  Words simply could not describe what Jonathan felt towards his children. The nurse averred she could hardly tell one daughter from the other, but though Jonathan smiled polite response, he thought this foolish; he knew them well, their appearance and their characters. Amanda was inclined to be serious, she viewed him gravely; Linda was a merry little bunch. When their hair began to grow long, like their mother’s, Linda’s was at all stages longer, while Amanda’s had a slight curl; Amanda’s eyes were soon brown, Linda’s remained blue. They began to walk; Linda ran and tumbled, Amanda moved with a more cautious air. Jonathan looked forward immensely to taking his family, when Susie should be strong enough to go, to Annotsfield and showing them —yes, showing them off, he admitted gleefully—to Chuff and Ruth. Chuff did not write to Old Cottage, but it was understood that the difficulties of the merger were taxing him almost beyond endurance; Ruth wrote rather often, telling them all the news, and her invitations were frequent. But when one Christmas-time Jonathan asked Susie if she had written her acceptance to Ruth, Susie suddenly turned white, burst into tears and cried: ‘No! No! No!’

  ‘I’ll write then,’ said Jonathan hastily. It was usually he who wrote to Ruth, in fact; he liked her letters, which he found affectionate and sensible.

&nbs
p; ‘No, no!’ wept Susie, shuddering.

  She looked quite ill, so that Jonathan was alarmed.

  ‘Don’t you want to go to Stanney Royd?’

  ‘No. Chuff is angry with me.’

  ‘Oh, no, he isn’t. Not now. He’s quite forgotten all that, dear.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ moaned Susie.’

  There was nothing for it but to yield. The situation was eased by the nurse’s procession of Scottish nationality, so that she willingly sacrificed Christmas holiday for New Year. A holiday she must have, however, so Jonathan’s mother, Jennifer, now for some years Mrs Nat Armitage, came to Old Cottage to stay while she was away. This did not prove successful. Susie sulked and Linda yelled. Jennifer was distressed, for she loved the little girls. She bought them beautiful frocks—Susie too—during her stay, and when she left gazed long and sorrowfully at her son as she kissed him. (The frocks were never worn.)

  Another holiday period came along and Jonathan asked Susie gravely what she wished to do. Ruth was taking her children to the Yorkshire coast, would not Susie join them? By this time Susie’s health was stronger; she did not weep, but answered strongly: ‘No.’

  ‘What do you wish to do then?’ said Jonathan, unable to prevent himself from feeling some vexation.

  ‘I’ll manage by myself, at home.’

  This was a step very much in the right direction, and Jonathan was glad to approve. The first morning of the nurse’s absence, Susie rose early, bathed and dressed the children and was feeding them when Jonathan left for Lorimer. Delighted, he commended her highly. At night she seemed flushed and tired, but this was natural. Next day, however, Susie was still struggling in the bathroom when Jonathan left, and he had hardly reached his office when the woman who gave the Oldroyds domestic service rang to tell him drily that he had better come home at once. He rushed to the cottage.