Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  Edward listening carefully—he had not the slightest intention of making a fool of himself by not knowing the Antiquarian ropes; he never made a fool of himself by ignorance of ropes—found a moment to glance at Lucius and Mr. Hardaker. To his delighted surprise, not opposition, but approval and even pleasure, were to be read in their faces. (They had never heard Elizabeth talk so freely, with such happy animation, to a man before.)

  “I’ve got them,” thought Edward exultantly. “I’ve got them all in a band.”

  It gave him pleasure to use this Yorkshire phrase (meaning to hold people in a string, a noose as it were) about the Hardakers.

  At Lucius’ handsome bungalow Carol, who was in the uncomfortable period of her first pregnancy, soon left the two men alone and retired to bed, after a rather snappy adjuration to them not to stay up too late talking. This seemed to convey to Edward’s ear that Carol knew they had some business to discuss, and he awaited Lucius’ opening move with interest. Sure enough as they sat together in front of the picture window looking out over the hilly West Riding landscape Lucius presently asked Edward in a hesitant diffident tone, what Edward thought of Ramsgill Mills.

  “It’s good,” said Edward emphatically. “What a lucky fellow you are, Lucius, to have such a solid, reputable, old-established business behind you!”

  “Old-established” was meant to arouse a slight uneasiness in Lucius’ mind. Edward perceived that it had in fact confirmed a slight uneasiness already existing in Lucius’ mind. He went on, delicately feeling his way.

  “Of course, you’re in rather a difficult position—with your grandfather, I mean. I’m just the same with my own grandfather. We’re two generations apart. Old Sam! What a man! I wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world, but sometimes, you know, when I see him struggling with all his Trade Union work papers—so much red tape, and he writes so slowly, it takes him hours—pathetic, really.”

  “The Trade Unions are hopelessly out of date,” said Lucius with conviction.

  “Agreed,” said Edward, though he felt obscurely angered. “And set against modernisation. I once tried to persuade old Sam to obtain a certificate of posting for an official paper, but it upset him, you know. I had to abandon the attempt. I don’t know if you ever find yourself in the same position with old Mr. Hardaker?”

  “Yes,” said Lucius slowly. “Yes, I do.”

  “I heard you soothing that customer on the telephone before we went down to the warehouse,” proceeded Edward, applying, as he told himself, the best, the most refined, butter. “You’re good at that, Lucius.”

  And in fact the simple straightforward honesty employed by his brother-in-law had impressed him; it was like Elizabeth’s frankness; foolish but pleasant. If everyone were honest, of course, it would be useful, effective—but everyone was not.

  “Did you notice any special thing at the mill which struck you as—out of date?” enquired Lucius slowly after a pause.

  “Well, just one or two small things,” said Edward with an air of reluctance.

  “Such as?” pressed Lucius.

  “I thought your letter-head might be improved,” said Edward. “Of course that large ram beside a piece of cloth has always been your trademark, I expect.”

  “I don’t really know,” said Lucius, considering.

  The ram’s large convoluted horns, its extremely curly fleece, the look on its face which could only be described as sheepish, now suddenly struck him as naïve.

  “I don’t think grandfather would like to change it,” he said.

  “Of course not. I agree. Tradition must be respected. If the ram were a little smaller, perhaps, and differently placed, with the lettering in a more modern type-face—that might combine the best features of old and new.”

  He’s a clever fellow, thought Lucius admiringly. He knows all the things I don’t. Type-face! He’s Carol’s brother. Elizabeth likes him. This last item rather surprised him, somehow, but also for some reason reassured.

  Before Carol was brought to bed of her first child, Edward was installed at Ramsgill Mills as works manager.

  * * *

  A breath of fresh air, Edward flattered himself, blew through Ramsgill Mills after his arrival.

  The letterhead was promptly remodelled—Mr. Hardaker did not like this at first, but after one or two of his customers admired the new style and asked who had designed it, he resigned himself to it and quite often gave it a keen scrutiny, trying to discover why it was in fact more pleasing than the old. Edward, observing the scrutiny, misunderstood its nature for contempt and felt humiliated.

  It was time for the mill’s interior to be repainted; instead of the old whitewash Edward substituted wherever possible bright colours.

  “Rather like a fun-fair at Blackpool,” said Mr. Hardaker. “Still, it’s cheerful, I agree.”

  Edward also improved the filing system—again, Mr. Hardaker took the attitude that he could never find a letter nowadays and always had to ask someone from the outer office to find it for him, but the outer office approved the new system and gradually everyone grew accustomed to it.

  Edward urged Mr. Hardaker so strongly to buy dictaphones that the old man with a sardonic smile gave in, and two were installed. But neither Mr. Hardaker nor Lucius, as they each discovered to their private disconcertment, had any gift for dictation without the assistance of a sympathetic typist, and the machines, unused, stood about growing dusty, a reproach and a humiliation to Edward whenever he saw them. At length he asked Mr. Hardaker’s permission to borrow one of them for some work of his own.

  “Aye—take it away and don’t bother to bring it back,” said Mr. Hardaker, waving his hand as if relieved by the departure.

  Edward also installed an intercommunication system throughout the mill; the Ramsgill acreage was really quite considerable and much time had been lost in the past, in his opinion, by the need to run round to find Mr. Hardaker or the various department heads when they were wanted. Mr. Hardaker approved of the intercomm but to Edward’s irritation did not often use it. The old man seemed positively to like to go stumping around, climbing steps and pushing open heavy doors, pausing here and there on his way back to the office while customers grew frantic waiting for him on the telephone.

  “Why will he do it?” grumbled Edward to his brother-in-law.

  “Well—he sees what’s going on in the mill, I suppose,” said Lucius mildly.

  Edward had not thought of this, and coloured at his own naïveté. Mr. Hardaker could use the intercomm sharply enough when he wanted, however; he often barked at Edward down the phone so loudly that the department Edward happened to be visiting could hear his sardonic tones, and of course sniggered at his discomfiture.

  For in spite of the tact and civility which he scrupulously practised, the workmen at Ramsgill did not like Edward. The older men and women grumbled that he thought he knew everything, he fancied himself, he was all out for himself, old Hardaker ought to have more sense, young Lucius had better look out or he would grab the whole place, and so on. This was all the more surprising to Edward because they did not appear to like Lucius much either, they said he knew nothing about cloth, did no work, spent twice what he was worth and was always after the women. They knew exactly why Lucius married Carol and took bets on the birth-date of their first child; but while some seemed on the whole to like Lucius rather better for his marriage—he stood by her, well they aren’t the first, she’s a spanking piece, and so on, were their comments—the older end were disgusted. Putting her brother in here, too, they said, over us as has been here for years; it isn’t decent. When Edward introduced some improvements in internal transport, so that they no longer had to sling the heavy pieces over their shoulders, but wheeled them about and slid them down wooden gullies, they gave him credit but did not change their view of Edward.

  “You’ve got to hand it to him about them slides—they’re clever.”

  “Oh, aye, they’re clever—he’s clever all right, is our Edward.” />
  “Clever as a load of monkeys.”

  “He didn’t put them slides in to please us, though.”

  “Why should he?”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  “I’ll say this for Edward—he doesn’t mind us being comfortable so long as it makes him rich.”

  They laughed, satisfied with the phrase.

  The younger workmen at first tended to like Edward, regarding him as one of themselves, on their side, “with it” and against the older generation and the Hardakers, but he was so strict about his new regulations being kept, and so biting in speech when they broke them, that soon they simply detested him. They particularly resented his habit of turning up before and after the lunch hour, and just before the evening buzzer sounded. Of course this was to prevent their taking too long a time off in the middle of the day, and getting their coats on ten minutes before closing time so that they could rush off the minute the machinery slowed. From old Hardaker they would accept such supervision—it was his mill and you had to expect such things from the bosses; it was part of the class struggle—but from Edward they found it intolerable. Snooping, that’s what it is; can’t call your soul your own; who does he think he is; if this goes on I shall ask for my cards. Young and old enjoyed particularly an incident when Edward gave a stinging rebuke to a man he met in the mill gateway, returning to work in the afternoon some fifteen minutes late. It turned out that the man’s mother had had an accident in the lunch hour and been taken off to the hospital; furious at the rebuke the man went to Mr. Hardaker and complained, and Mr. Hardaker sent for Edward.

  “I’m exceedingly sorry,” said Edward, feeling murderous but contriving a look of sincere regret. “I spoke too hastily.”

  “Well—he apologised,” was the mill comment, on a note of doubt.

  “Aye—if he meant it,” was the cool reply.

  “Always hear the other side, Edward,” said Mr. Hardaker. “Close the door!” he bellowed as the young man left the office. Mr. Hardaker—whether from old-fashioned ideas of manners or from an angry fear of being overheard Edward could not determine—could not bear doors to be left open.

  With the office staff on the other hand Edward was on the whole popular. The girls liked him immensely. He was polite, knew their names and place in the hierarchy and without ever overstepping in any way what was correct, somehow made them feel that he regarded them as female human beings. His instructions, given in his light agreeable tones, were always clear and easy to follow. They enjoyed the dictaphones and adding machines, approved emphatically of the new bright paint; the general trend towards automation introduced by Edward satisfied their dislike of physical work and desire to be in the mode.

  Unfortunately this was not the case with the square paunchy greying Mr. Whitehead, the head cashier. A tried and trusted employee to Mr. Hardaker, a pernickety but lovable institution to Lucius, to Edward he was a pompous illiterate ass. He liked to use long words, sometimes inaccurately; he pursed his lips and opened his eyes very wide, he paused for effect and was capable at times of unexpected sly digs, very wounding to his juniors. He seemed to enjoy showing Mr. Hardaker the bills for all the items of expenditure incurred in Edward’s new schemes, hoping probably for an adverse comment on their after all not very alarming total.

  “All right, all right,” said Mr. Hardaker one day, getting tired of this. “I knew what they would cost before I agreed to the purchase, Whitehead.”

  “It’s not your wish that I should bring the accounts to your notice before I make out the cheques, then? The estimates are sometimes exceeded.”

  “Well—if the estimates have been exceeded, yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardaker,” said the cashier.

  As he moved away in his solemn gait he met Edward in the doorway. All three men knew at once that all three men knew that the subject of his discussion with Mr. Hardaker was something which concerned Edward. Edward coloured, Whitehead pursed his lips and gave him a solemn look; Mr. Hardaker meaning to be kindly said:

  “What is it this time, Edward? Something else to frighten Whitehead, eh?”

  “I hope not, sir,” said Edward smoothly, hating them both. “But he’s rather easily frightened.”

  Whitehead, hurt, hastened his ponderous step and brushed by the young man.

  So it happened that a few days later, when Edward asked him for a clarification of some minor point in Messrs. Hardaker’s relations with their bank, the cashier, looking at him over his half-spectacles, replied in a formal tone:

  “I should have to take Mr. Hardaker’s instructions before familiarising you with our financial policy, Mr. Oates.”

  “Oh, good heavens, don’t bother, then,” snapped Edward.

  “Oh, it’s no bother, Mr. Oates,” said the cashier, and he rose and walked straight in to Mr. Hardaker and enquired in a loud tone: “Am I to acquaint Mr. Oates with all the financial side of the firm’s business, Mr. Hardaker?”

  Hardaker, glancing in astonishment at the two men’s faces—the older crimson, the younger white, with rage—remarked drily: “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Whitehead.”

  “You don’t want to let old Whitehead get you down, Edward,” said Lucius in a kindly tone that afternoon. “He’s a silly old goat, you know, but a good cashier. Could you say a friendly word to him, do you think? I’ll soften him up for you beforehand, if you like.”

  “It’s nice of you, Lucius, but it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “Just as you like. He’s just as bad with me, you know. The job I had to get my expenses to London out of him last week, you wouldn’t believe. Still, it’s a good trait in a cashier.”

  The only good thing about Whitehead would be his departure from Ramsgill, thought Edward viciously. And one of these days I’ll get him out. Trust me.

  The only department in Ramsgill which whole-heartedly liked Edward was, oddly enough as he thought, the one where he had expected trouble. On his first morning at the mill when he walked into the designing department, extending his hand to the chief designer he blurted after a smooth greeting:

  “I expect we shall quarrel like mad, but after all we’re both artists, so perhaps—”

  He could not think what he had meant to say, could not finish his sentence—something about looking at things in the same way, perhaps? He cursed his own inadequacy. But in fact, for he was genuinely in love with design, this was the only absolutely sincere remark he ever uttered in Ramsgill, and his sincerity carried conviction. Besides, booking artistic quarrels in advance as it were, somehow diminished their venom; it was as if they had agreed that the rows they had were artists’ rows which nobody outside the department could understand. The rows came only dimly to Mr. Hardaker’s ears, as a kind of amusing debate thev were having up there; the designs which resulted were excellent.

  “These are good, Edward,” said Mr. Hardaker, fingering the patterns with approval. “Your designs are good. For the rest, you’ll learn.”

  Why did he have to spoil it all like that? Edward demanded fiercely. Why did he hire me to come and improve the Ramsgill organisation if he didn’t want me to change it? Really, old Hardaker was enough to provoke a saint. Edward, as he told himself with a grin, was no saint.

  * * *

  “Pity she couldn’t have waited a day longer, seeing it was the last of the month,” remarked old Hardaker sardonically when the first child of Lucius and Carol was born.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Hardaker,” protested Mildred, flushing angrily.

  “Oh, yes, you do. Another month on from the wedding day would have sounded better.”

  “I don’t believe it for a moment!” cried Mildred. “The baby’s premature.”

  “Well, it’s of no consequence now,” conceded old Hardaker. “They married in time, and he seems a fine healthy boy.”

  “He’s a beautiful boy. Whatever her faults, Carol is a good wife to Lucius,” said Mildred, sewing hard.

  “Let’s hope that
whatever his faults, Lucius will be a good husband.”

  The marriage of Lucius and Carol was in fact exceedingly happy. Their handsome modern bungalow on the brow of the hill was always spotlessly clean, and Lucius was extremely well fed. Indeed he ate so many “cooked meals” that he began to put on a little weight: he noticed this but could not be bothered to worry about it. Carol soon picked up a few terms of middle-class speech and taste, which she practised with scornful openness; she was always a favourite with Lucius’ male friends, and by her warm-hearted sincerity gradually won over their wives.

  But although the marriage was a happy one and Lucius and Carol loved each other truly, warmly and permanently, as a husband and wife should, this did not preclude them from having spanking rows. During these rows Carol sobbed loudly and shouted. Lucius, at first overwhelmed, horrified by these unfamiliar tactics, suddenly found himself shouting loudly too. After these rows they would suddenly rush together and hold each other tightly with all their might and kiss with passion. As they grew more experienced in married life they tried never to let a quarrel continue through the night, or if this was impossible, never to let a quarrel continue after Lucius had left for the mill. For if this happened, they were both in an agony to make it up as soon as they had parted, and this was exceedingly inconvenient; Lucius telephoning home, or Carol sobbing on the ’phone to Ramsgill Mills, was sure to be interrupted by Whitehead’s prim nose or Mr. Hardaker’s sardonic eye.

  They quarrelled, as married couples do, chiefly about their families.

  Lucius simply could not keep up with the far-spreading ramifications of Carol’s family, in all of whose affairs Carol took a keen unfailing interest; he often annoyed her by confusing her aunt Connie, that tartar who had brought her up, with her cousin Connie, rather delicate and gentle, who was married to a miner in South Yorkshire. He did not understand how “the Sheffield people” fitted into the Oates family tree; he did not understand how he astonished Carol’s relatives by offering them sherry and whisky and soda. The older Oates members were shocked by the bottles Lucius revealed when he opened the sideboard door, and thought him inclined overmuch to drink. (This was not really one of Lucius’ faults, and the suspicion annoyed Carol greatly.)