Then, Lucius respected old Sam but could find nothing to say to him; the simplest remark seemed to set the old man off in a rage about some grievance against the bosses which had occurred at the turn of the century. Aunt Connie he frankly detested. Her small wiry body, her frizzed and scanty hair, her knuckly hands, her malign giggle and aggressive tone, were anathema to him.
“Why do you keep inviting the old harridan?” he said crossly. “You don’t like her any more than I do.”
“She’s my aunt and she brought me up,” said Carol, to whom the argument of kinship was final. She could not understand why Lucius was so cool towards his own great-aunts, who, still living though retired to the balmier air of Eastbourne, occasionally visited Ramsgill.
With the numerous Oates children, however, Lucius was a success. He was pleasant and kind and good-humoured, gave them sweets, and after the swing had been put up in the Hill Royd garden, was always ready to give a child or two a turn on it.
On her side Carol raged, of course, against Mrs. Hardaker; Lucius equally of course stood up for his mother, though he often privately agreed with Carol’s criticisms. Under the pretence of tactful help Mrs. Hardaker contrived to be very wounding in the early days of the marriage. She was given to remarking coldly that Carol’s latest frock was “very nice and bright”; she went into a near convulsion over Carol’s plastic flowers and was apt to reset the dinner table or tea-tray while Carol was out of the room. Carol resented these indications privately, but after all the mother-in-law was a familiar joke, it was Mrs. Hardaker’s acknowledged privilege to be tiresome and Lucius did right to stand up for his mother; if it would please Lucius, Carol was not averse to fiddling with a few forks, though she thought all these class tricks were, in the Yorkshire phrase, silly work.
As regards Elizabeth, Carol said nothing. She stood back, as it were, and watched, suspending judgment, not understanding what she saw but respecting it. If any of her family asked her about her sister-in-law, she replied emphatically that Liz was a good sort and devoted to her brother, you never quite knew what she would do but she was all right, really, only rather too highbrow.
On Mr. Hardaker, Carol at first naturally took Lucius’ view that his grandfather was a tyrant, a mean old buzzard. Lucius, who continually read in the press about young men, no older than himself, drawing large incomes and disporting themselves on massive expense accounts, often grumbled about his grandfather’s meanness. “You ought to stand up to him more, love,” urged Carol, but she did not press the matter, seeing clearly enough that Mr. Hardaker was the source of all Hill Royd wealth, and Lucius and he must therefore be kept on good terms.
The birth of John Luke Hardaker produced a change, a realignment of forces, throughout the family. The two Mrs. Hardakers grew nearer to each other, although their mutual resentments were fiercer. Carol was deeply jealous of her child and determined to bring him up as she thought fit, whatever his grandmother might say; Mrs. Hardaker adored the child and was determined to have her grandson brought up as she thought proper. To him she transferred all the devotion which her son and daughter (in her view) no longer seemed to want. “Quite pathetic, really,” Carol described it. Mrs. Hardaker lavished on the baby all kinds of gifts; these Carol did not use if she could avoid it, stuffing toys thus presented away out of sight—though sometimes in an access of pity she brought them out when Mrs. Hardaker was coming to Hill Royd to tea. (John threw all his toys about rigorously without discrimination as to their donor; he was a robust and lively infant, a bold and adventurous little boy). Of course if Mrs. Hardaker’s gift was something really useful to the child, a blanket or a fine winter coat, then John was allowed to use it; the child came first, far and away beyond any resentment of Carol’s. Mrs. Hardaker felt exactly the same, and this was a strong bond between mother and grandmother. Then came the day when John, driving the garden swing ropes above the horizontal, which he was strictly forbidden to do, fell off and cut his head open. The doctor seemed long in coming; Carol sobbing loudly telephoned Mrs. Hardaker, who flew to her on the wings of a taxi. Carol was genuinely grateful.
The friend who had acted as Lucius’ best man, with Carol’s brother Edward and Lucius’ sister Elizabeth, were invited to be the child’s godparents. Elizabeth loved the child dearly, but her views on medical hygiene were more advanced than either Carol’s or Mrs. Hardaker’s, and neither of them believed her to be right—after all, she had borne no children. Accordingly the atmosphere was apt to be cool and strained at first when Elizabeth visited Hill Royd after her nephew’s birth. But one day when Elizabeth asked in her quiet tones “May I hold him for a moment, Carol?” and Carol put the child in her arms, the sight of Elizabeth bending lovingly over him and adjusting his dress with her long soothing fingers struck Carol suddenly as very pathetic.
“I wish you were happier, Liz,” exclaimed Carol.
“I’m happy when I see you and Lucius so happy, Carol,” returned Elizabeth.
But in the consciousness of her own barren and unwanted state as compared with Carol’s, her eyes in spite of herself filled with tears.
“Lucius, you must find someone for Liz to marry,” said Carol emphatically to her husband that night. “She ought to be married. You must look around.”
“I have looked around,” said Lucius uneasily. “But Liz—let’s face it: she isn’t very pretty.”
“What does that matter?” demanded Carol. “Lots of girls who aren’t pretty get married. If you had to be pretty to get married, half the girls in the world would stay single. Why, I remember—” She went off into a long account of how several cousins, of her own whom nobody could call pretty, had yet successfully achieved matrimony: the original subject of the discussion was lost in this family history, somewhat to Lucius’ relief. But Carol felt nearer her sister-in-law thenceforward.
The greatest change of relationship caused in the family by the birth of the first Hardaker grandchild, however, took place between Carol and Mr. Hardaker. When he called to congratulate her and she brought the child to him in her arms, as he bent to look at the boy she kissed the old man’s cheek heartily, and cried between laughter and tears:
“How do you like being a great-grandfather, eh?”
This, to Carol a mere natural expression of her exuberant joy in maternity and traditional belief in the claims of kinship, to Mr. Hardaker was strange and agreeable. It was a long time since he had received tenderness from any woman; he found himself moved and pleased. The boy was a handsome infant, really splendid—he seemed to make all Mr. Hardaker’s textile struggles worth while.
From that time onward Mr. Hardaker began to drop into Hill Royd at the weekend without waiting for an invitation. Carol was the kind of woman he liked, he decided: a good housekeeper, physically attractive, and with no tiresome intellectual pretensions. There was always warmth and laughter and plenty to eat and a hearty welcome from Carol at his grandson’s house, and soon his Sunday afternoon visits became an accepted custom. He usually brought a toy of some kind for the child, on whom he frankly doted. These toys were always to be seen prominently in use about the house. This was partly because Carol wished it, and partly because Mr. Hardaker felt so strongly akin to the boy that his presents were always just what young John Luke liked.
Lucius was always rather grumpy during these visits, Carol noticed. One Sunday afternoon when he returned to the sitting-room from the outhouse where he had been to fetch coal, Carol met him in the doorway, flusl ed and excited.
“Lucius, he walked!” she cried.
“Yes, he did indeed,” confirmed Mr. Hardaker, who was sitting very comfortably in an armchair by the fire, dandling young John between his knees.
Such a dark cloud crossed Lucius’ face, usually so pleasant and good-humoured, that Carol was quite taken aback. She did not press Mr. Hardaker to stay to tea, and as soon as she had seen him off, with appropriate farewell wavings from John in her arms, she came and sat beside her husband, who was staring moodily into the fire.
“What’s wrong, love? Aren’t you feeling well?” said Carol anxiously.
Lucius maintained a morose silence.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Lucius. Tell Carol,” said Carol in a coaxing tone. She kissed him, and holding John to his cheek, urged: “Kiss Daddy.”
Nothing loth, the child obeyed, in the offhand but convincing style employed by children towards a wholly accepted parent.
“He’s my son, not my grandfather’s!” burst out Lucius in a high hysterical tone which Carol had never heard from him.
“Well, Lucius!” said Carol in a tone of tender raillery. “Really!” She withdrew to a nearby chair, and setting the child firmly on his feet, said: “Johnny, show Daddy how you can walk. Lucius, hold out your hands to catch him.”
Delighted to show off his new accomplishment, John tottered across the hearthrug and threw himself beaming into his father’s arms. Lucius smiled and appeared to return to his usual good temper.
It was a pity, reflected Carol, that Lucius felt that way, because really old Mr. Hardaker had been so particularly taken with the boy that afternoon that she had really thought of asking him for an increase in Lucius’ salary, herself. But fortunately she had refrained, knowing, as she told herself wisely, how men felt about these things. But it was a pity.
“I bet I could get a raise out of him,” she often thought. “But of course I mustn’t try.”
Without exactly formulating to herself that Lucius was jealous of his wife and child with respect to old Mr. Hardaker, she knew that he would be wounded beyond bearing if his wife asked his grandfather for any favour on his behalf.
“He’d be hurt in his feelings,” she concluded. It was silly, of course, but men were like that. It showed how much he loved his wife and child, after all.
* * *
Edward read the clauses of the agreement carefully. It was impossible, he had discovered, to court Elizabeth Hardaker without a car, and so a car he must have. It was a nuisance. If the Hardakers had lived in Hudley instead of out at Ramsgill, the thing might have been managed, but the Ramsgill valley lay two miles out of Hudley. To take Elizabeth anywhere—to theatre, film, concert, meeting, restaurant—transport was therefore necessary. He simply could not face the prospect of asking her to travel by bus. Indeed if he did so, she would simply suggest that she picked him up in her own car. He had been thus picked up twice already, and twice was enough, he told himself; his pride could stomach no more. (Besides he feared that Elizabeth’s modesty would take fright and cause her to diminish her invitations.) Reading all the small print with particular attention, he observed with relief: No enquiries are made of Employers. Would it have been better, he wondered for a moment, to have asked old Hardaker frankly for the use of a mill car? But on what grounds? Edward’s Ramsgill duties did not require him to rush around the West Riding; it was his job to stay in the mill and organise production. Old Hardaker was therefore just as likely as not to refuse such a request. No; far better to get hold of a car on the hire-purchase system, and then ask permission to draw petrol from the mill pump—paying for it, of course. Or at least, promising to pay for it. Opportunities to fiddle petrol would doubtless be plentiful; he hadn’t seen Lucius filling up any forms when he drew gas from the pump.
Thirty-six months at rather over twenty pounds a month. It would be a squeeze, but it could be managed. But where on earth was he to find the two hundred pounds for the initial down payment? He had nothing like that sum. Many months’ instalments were still due on his motor-bike. That would have to go, of course. Pity he’d started on it. A bank, perhaps. Banks were always screaming at you to borrow money, imploring you in artistic little brochures, or on large well printed placards, to patronise their facilities; but when you really came to the point, he guessed, they wanted security like everybody else. He had none to offer. He wanted the car by a week on Saturday at latest.
“Is there any point on which you would like further explanation, Mr. Oates?”
“No, it’s all perfectly clear, thanks.”
“Fill up the form and hand us a cheque for two hundred pounds, and you can drive the car away.”
“It’s the two hundred pounds I shall have to do some homework on.”
“Perhaps you own a house? Or—”
“I own nothing but a good job.”
“Owning a car is the first step to a better one.”
“You’re entirely right,” said Edward with his air of frankness. “But at present I don’t just see my way.”
The salesman’s face registered his disappointment.
“But don’t worry,” went on Edward pleasantly. “I shall investigate the possibilities. There’s no way of avoiding this first down payment, this lump sum, I take it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s good to know where you stand,” said Edward. “Well, I’ll take the form with me, and hope to see you again next week.”
The salesman’s face cleared.
Edward stepped away briskly. Where the hell should he get two hundred pounds? If he asked old Hardaker, even if he wasn’t refused, not only would the debt be a humiliation as regards the old man, but it would show in the mill accounts; all kinds of people would know of it—old Whitehead, that monument of integrity and pomposity, for instance, and the female office clerks. Not to be borne. What about Lucius? “Lucius, lend me two hundred pounds.” What a hope! Lucius hadn’t two hundred pounds to spare; he hadn’t anything to spare, Edward shrewdly suspected. Even if he had, he didn’t know it; the personal accounts of Lucius Hardaker were in a hopeless muddle, if Edward knew his man. Besides, Lucius would despise Edward if Edward borrowed money from him in order to court his sister. To court some bint, yes; to court a sister, no. It would be one of the things which were not done. Well, it would have to be a bank. An Annotsfield bank, thought Edward; yes, an Annotsfield garage and an Annotsfield bank; keep the whole thing as far away from Hudley and Ramsgill as possible.
“I’m afraid the answer must be no, Mr. Oates,” said the bank manager urbanely. “For a car, no. For repairs to property, now—that would be different.”
“But even in that case,” said Edward with equal urbanity, though inwardly he raged, “I suppose references would be demanded.”
“Oh, certainly. From a customer, a client of ours, someone with an account at this bank, you understand, we should require merely a reference from his employer. For a non-client, a reference from his employer and a reference from some other person known to us—someone in good standing.”
“And if the loan were not used for the purpose it was applied for,” said Edward, smiling, “the bank would take a very poor view of the matter, I am sure.”
“Oh, naturally! That would be false pretences,” said the manager, shocked. “And of course,” he added sternly, “if the repayments fell into arrears, the matter would be placed in the hands of our solicitors.”
“Well, I’m greatly obliged to you for being so frank and clear,” said Edward. “You’ve been most helpful.” He held out his hand.
The bank manager, mollified, took the hand in a friendly grip. “We should be very happy to have dealings with you at any time you cared to comply with our conditions, Mr. Oates,” he said. Edward noted with amusement that his tone was almost wistful; clearly he regretted having to turn away such an obviously up-and-coming young man.
“Thanks. Many thanks indeed,” said Edward pleasantly. (No point in making an enemy.) “I may take you up on that some time.”
Edward left the building with a cheerful air.
He was indeed well satisfied. He now saw how the loan could be effected.
* * *
“Grandfather, I’m selling my motor-bike.”
“That’s good news, any road.”
“And I’m buying myself a small car instead.”
“You gone daft or something?”
“Ken has a car,” Edward defended himself, naming a cousin.
“I daresay. He’s ten years ol
der than you. And collecting insurance, think on, he needs a car. What do you want one for?”
“In my present job I need one.”
“Gone over to the bosses, have you?” jeered the old man.
In spite of himself Edward coloured angrily. He kept his tone light, however. “I was hoping you’d sign a paper for me for the bank, grandfather,” he said.
“You want your head examined, lad. What sort of a paper?”
“Well—just to help me get a loan to complete the purchase. Will you?”
“No,” said Sam at once. “I’m not signing no paper for you or anybody else, Ed.”
“Don’t you trust me then, grandpa?” said Edward.
“No,” said the old man. “I can’t say as I do.”
His tone was jocular; he was proud of his grandson but thought him a little too clever for his own good—needed taking down a peg. Sam wasn’t going to encourage anyone in his family to get into debt, not he.
Edward was inwardly convulsed with rage. Wouldn’t you think his family’d be proud of him, after all he’d done; scholarships, technical examinations, the good Annotsfield job and now this first-class opportunity at Hardakers? Instead, they criticised, ran him down; thought nothing of him, didn’t trust him. His grandfather’s refusal was brutal, and so coarsely put. Well, he’d show them.
“I shall have to manage without you, then,” he said cheerfully.
“Seems so,” agreed old Sam.
The next day being Saturday, Edward visited another Annotsfield bank, and filled up a form applying for a £200 loan for the purpose of making repairs and improvements to his house at 5, Deacon Street, Hudley. He signed this form as Samuel Edward Oates, and gave as references his own employer and the minister of the chapel the Oates family attended—the Oates family were great chapel-goers, and Edward, though irked, had not thought it worth while to break the habit.
Tales of the West Riding Page 14