“The ulcer’s quiescent,” he said.
“Isn’t it going away?” demanded Ernest, disappointed.
“Possibly,” said the doctor. “Yes, possibly it may be diminishing. On the whole I believe it is. You may be going to escape more lightly than you deserve.”
Ernest grinned, well satisfied. Nobody except the doctor and himself had ever heard the word ulcer mentioned in connection with Ernest—certainly Mr. Arnold, sitting so bland at his side and thinking about the new machine, knew nothing of his foreman’s ailment, and if Ernest had his way, never would.
They had now reached Ashworth. Mr. Arnold glanced at his watch.
“There’s no point in your going on to the mill now, Ernest. You’d hardly get there before it was time to turn round and come back.”
Ernest looked up at the Town Hall clock. It was ten minutes to five.
“That’s right,” he agreed. “I gave the lads full instructions for the work this afternoon, before I came out,” he added virtuously.
“Shall I run you up home? It’s still Walker Street, isn’t it?”
There was just time to get Kenneth’s licence before the Borough Treasurer’s Office closed.
“No—I’ll just get out here, if it’s same to you.”
The car drew up beyond the corner.
On the one hand, Ernest was quite glad that the business of the licence forbade his acceptance of his employer’s offer, for he liked to keep his independence, he wanted no sympathetic humbug from anyone. On the other hand, he couldn’t help regretting it. The June day was hot and he was tired, and the buses up Walker Street would be full when the buzzers sounded in a few minutes’ time. However, it was worth a sacrifice to save the boy from possible trouble with the police. He got out of the car, shut the door carefully, gave his usual rather dour smile in farewell, and turned along the street towards Ashworth Town Hall.
2
Sunshine blazed on the windows of the Borough Treasurer’s Office, and a wave of warm stale air puffed into Ernest’s face as he pushed open one of the heavy swing doors. He entered and stood for a moment gazing seriously about him, taking in the appearance of the place, which he had not before visited.
It was a long room divided by a high wooden counter on which wire netting still further cut off the clerks from the public—like a post office, decided Ernest, reassured. Signs directed where one should go in and out and transact various kinds of business—it’s everywhere the same nowadays, reflected Ernest; can’t stir a step without a notice. Still, on the whole he approved. It made for dignity and order, and gave everyone his proper turn, his rightful due. The place was almost empty; no queues anywhere, probably because it’s near on closing time, thought Ernest; just a woman or two paying rates (as Millie paid theirs) and a young man in a sports coat discussing some problem about a printed form, with a clerk at a pay here sign. Driving licences, it appeared, were dealt with at the far corner. There was nobody waiting at that section of the counter at all; a young clerk with sandy hair very neatly brushed stood there unoccupied, gazing dreamily out of the window.
Pleased, Ernest made his way with his usual dignified step down the length of the room, planted himself in front of the driving licence position and thrusting his hand into the inner pocket of his coat, withdrew Ken’s licence and the printed form, which Ken, to give him his due, had filled in very neatly. He laid these on the counter, hauled the necessary silver from his trousers pocket and pushed the whole paraphernalia under the brass netting towards the sandy-haired clerk.
The sandy-haired clerk, however, was not there.
Ernest gaped. At what point in Ernest’s progress down the room had the lad vanished? It was impossible to say. But vanished he certainly had; he was not visible, either at the counter or amongst the rows of high desks in the back portion of the room. It was keenly disappointing. Ernest leaned against the counter and waited.
“He’ll be back,” he told himself.
He waited.
The hand of an electric clock on the wall moved with an emphatic tick.
Ernest started, and shifted his position so that he could look up at the clock. The time was now two minutes to five.
“He’ll be back,” Ernest told himself uneasily.
He waited.
One of the rate-paying women gathered up her change and left.
Ernest began to feel hot and cross.
The clock gave forth another tick.
Ernest seized one of Kenneth’s halfcrowns and beat a strong tattoo with it on the counter.
The nearest clerk, who was still engaged in serious discussion with the young man in the sports coat, raised his head and called:
“He’ll be back in a minute.”
A minute’s going to be too long, thought Ernest grimly.
He waited.
The young man in the sports coat and the clerk arrived at some mutually satisfactory conclusion; the young man offered pound notes and the clerk began to make out a receipt.
Far above Ernest’s head the Town Hall clock began to strike five. Behind the counter a bustle of preparations for door-locking and home-going began.
Ernest lost his temper.
“Here I’ve given up the chance of a lift home and I’ll have to stand in a crowded bus and I’m dead tired already and I haven’t got Kenneth’s licence all because this little whipper-snapper isn’t at his post!” he shouted to himself.
He snatched up his property from the counter; his hand, trembling with rage, crumpled the application form and sent one of the coins bouncing to the ground. In an access of fury Ernest kicked it viciously; it shot across the tiled floor and hid itself behind the dusty heating pipes. Ernest felt his body suddenly flood with hot violent anger; it pounded in his head, tingled in his wrists, then stabbed unexpectedly into his stomach. Astonished, a little afraid, he left the halfcrown where it lay and stalked off towards the exit, but by the time he reached the heavy doors the pain in his abdomen was already so severe that he had to hunch himself into a crouching position before he could even try to open one. Luckily the young man in the sports coat came up briskly behind him and gave the other door a good strong push and Ernest was able to wriggle through before it swung back, but even this effort was quite agonising. As he emerged into the hot sunshine Ernest remembered the doctor’s injunction to eschew painful excitement.
“Damn that sandy-haired lad!” he thought, almost weeping. “It’s all his fault! Damn him!”
The journey home was a nightmare, and when Millie saw him she exclaimed.
“It’s the heat’s upset me,” said Ernest testily. “My stomach’s a bit out of order. I shall be all right tomorrow.”
He could not eat, but took a cup of milk; then was ordered off to bed by Millie. To lie quietly there was bliss; but of course in a household presided over by Millie, quiet was not easily come by. Kenneth came in and had to be told about the licence fiasco. Ernest trembled with anger again as he related the story, though Kenneth took it calmly.
“Well, never mind, dad, never mind,” he said soothingly. “I’ll get it myself tomorrow.”
“Take the money,” said Ernest, pointing a quivering finger at the coins which, as was his nightly custom, he had emptied from his pockets on to the dressing-table.
Unluckily the exact change which Kenneth had given him was not to be found there, owing to the loss of the kicked halfcrown, and it was clear that Kenneth found this odd and unlike his father. He looked at Ernest curiously.
“You don’t look too good to me, dad,” he said. “You’ll have to take it easy.”
“I shall be all right tomorrow,” said Ernest crossly.
Nora and the new grandson were the next visitors to Ernest’s bedside. The child, sitting on his mother’s arm, spruce and cool in a summer suit of blue, surveyed Ernest with grave curiosity but seemed disinclined to kiss him, which wounded Ernest. (As if he were an invalid already, no longer Ernie’s playmate grandfather.)
“You must take ca
re of yourself, dad,” said Nora seriously.
“I shall be all right tomorrow,” repeated Ernest, vexed.
“Not you,” said Iris, bouncing in with a cup of milk. “Stay at home and let them do without you for a bit, that’s what I say.”
Various other relatives and friends came to the house that evening, but did not visit Ernest, contenting themselves with friendly messages called up from the foot of the stairs—Ernest suspected that Nora, who had more of his own serious disposition than his other two children, was keeping them away. Accordingly he dropped asleep and enjoyed a refreshing nap, so that when Millie came up at last to bed she told him he looked a lot better already, which pleased him.
But perhaps the nap was a mistake after all, for he woke in the middle of the night and of course began to worry. He thought about Millie and Nora and Iris in their smart flowered frocks, Kenneth in his silk sports shirt, little Ernie in his clean neat suit. In a way they all hung on him. Ken wasn’t quite out of his apprenticeship, Iris had a very long way to go before she could keep herself. Nora’s husband was a nice willing lad, and learning fast, but compared to Ernest he knew nothing about cropping cloth, absolutely nothing. If Ernest were to be ill, really ill, ill for a long time; if his £14 weekly wage dropped to £4.15.0 sickness benefit, thought Ernest, rapidly totting up what would be due for a man, his wife and one dependent child, they would all suffer. Millie was always helping the children, giving them this, that and the other; they would miss all these little presents very seriously if she became unable to make them. And suppose he actually lost his job! Unemployment benefit after £14 a week! He lay beside the sleeping Millie and worried.
He lay and worried, and the ulcer gnawed. At one point nausea overtook him, and he was obliged to slide out of bed and crawl towards the chamber-pot which, with “outdoor sanitation” by the back door, was the only facility for sickness Walker Street houses offered. Once there, however, his sickness deserted him; but for some time he could not make himself stand upright in order to climb into bed. (His position, on hands and knees on his own bedroom floor, afforded Ernest a certain sardonic amusement.) At last the pain eased a little and he was able to grasp the bedclothes and heave himself into bed. But immediately his weight depressed the mattress Millie awoke.
“What’s matter, love? Are you poorly, eh?”
“No,” lied Ernest firmly. “I just thought I’d get myself a drink of milk.”
“I never did meet anyone like you, Ernest Armley,” laughed Millie, throwing back the clothes. “Couldn’t you have asked me, you silly lad?”
She fetched warmed milk and Ernest drank it gratefully and was soothed and slept.
In the mornings, the men of the family were supposed to clean out the hearth, lay the fire and make the cups of tea, but it was too often Ernest who performed all these duties, for Kenneth slept the sleep of the young, and Ernest simply had not the heart to wake him till the last minute, though in the evenings he grumbled and threatened about this matter a good deal. This morning, however, when the alarm clock woke Ernest, he could hear Kenneth already downstairs, banging about at the fireplace with the clumsy vigour of youth. Ernest was pleased by this thoughtful behaviour on his son’s part, and still more so when the lad soon ran up with a cup of tea in each hand. It was lucky, it really was, that Ken had had this good idea, for Ernest found he could move only very slowly if he were not to start the pain. Still, he could manage. He’d carry on. He’d get to the mill as usual. He wouldn’t show any sign of illness there. (Finding the work a bit heavy, eh?)
“Don’t go, Ernest,” said Millie.
“Don’t go, dad,” said Kenneth. (Iris was still in bed.)
“You’re wasting your breath,” said Ernest, frowning.
Kenneth shrugged and went out at the back and rushed off on his motor-cycle, and Ernest slowly opened the front door and slowly closed it behind him and slowly walked towards the bus stop.
It was a lovely summer morning, quiet and sunny, and Ernest felt almost happy as he trailed along down the street. If once he could get to the mill he would be all right; he’d let himself off easy, sit around a bit, give instructions and let Nora’s husband, young Clifford, do the work. If once he could get to the bus, he’d be all right. But could he get to the bus? He saw that other men in the street, with whom he usually travelled, were many yards ahead of him. He was alarmed. The bus service down to Ashworth was frequent, but from Ashworth out to Holmelea, much less so. If he missed this bus, he would be very seriously late at the mill. His department would have to begin without him. He must hurry. He quickened his step.
At once an acute spasm of pain seized him. He sank down in agony on the nearest doorstep.
The bus rushed cheerfully past the end of the street.
“Missed it! Well, I shall be late,” thought Ernest, almost weeping. “I’ve never been late before in forty years. But I shall be late now, choose how.”
He dragged himself up and walked on slowly, carefully, towards the end of the street.
II
A. A. J. Barraclough, Millowner
1
The Lights Turned green, and Arnold swung the Jaguar swiftly round the corner into Mill Lane.
At once Holmelea Mills came into view fifty yards away down the hill: a solid compact building in good repair, its many windows all unbroken, its white paint gleaming, its tall round chimney well pointed, emitting a neat though not excessive wisp of smoke, A. & J. Barraclough, 1815, inscribed in handsome green letters across the façade.
To see it always gave Arnold a feeling of pride and satisfaction. He’d saved Holmelea Mills; he, A. A. J. Barraclough, alone. True, in the old days, his grandfather’s days, the entry of BARRACLOUGH, AMOS and JANNA, in the Yorkshire Textile Industry directory, had given the names of three mills under their control and stated proudly: 35,000 spindles, 600 looms, dyeing and finishing plant for own use only, whereas now Messrs. Amos & Janna Barraclough neither spun yarn nor wove cloth nor owned three mills. All that was left to them was the original Holmelea property where Arnold’s great-great-grandfather had started the business with his brother in 1815, and the dyeing & finishing plant was very much for others’ use and not their own. But to have retained even so much had meant a tough, hard, protracted struggle, after the debacle of 1931; in fact it had meant pretty well all Arnold’s life to date. The sleeve of his elegant charcoal grey worsted suit, the cuffs of his admirable white silk shirt with the platinum links which Meg had given him last Christmas, his strong square hands skilfully handling the Jaguar’s wheel, all pleased him as he eyed them now, not for themselves but as symbols of his triumph over catastrophe. For catastrophe it certainly had been, that morning in 1931.
To understand how peculiarly awful it had been to be woken from a drunken sleep by his mother in hysterics and told that his father had shot himself during the night and the Barracloughs were ruined, it was necessary to remember not only Arnold’s life until that moment, but the history of Messrs. A. & J. Barraclough for the last hundred years. The original brothers had prospered exceedingly and presently built solid Victorian mansions for themselves and rows of Victorian cottages for their workpeople and sustained the village of Holmelea by their charitable donations and bequests; indeed the Barracloughs had quite simply been the village of Holmelea for the last hundred years. By 1931 they had long been county gentry, with public school educations and admirable accents. One branch of the family always named its heir apparent (so to speak) Amos, the other Janna; this Biblical nomenclature no doubt dated from way back in the 18th century during the Wesleyan Methodist movement, or perhaps even further to the days of the Civil War, when the West Riding towns took the Parliamentarian, Puritanic side in the struggle. But the Barracloughs had long forgotten this and could not now imagine themselves as ever having been other than good Church-and-State Tories. The Janna Barraclough of Arnold’s father’s day was killed in the first World War; Arnold’s father (Gervase Amos) married Janna’s sister and called his son Arn
old Amos Janna. It was therefore clear that Arnold would inherit from his parents the whole of the might, majesty and wealth of Messrs. A. & J. Barraclough, and Arnold’s life was arranged on that assumption.
He went to a good public school and enjoyed himself there, being of a strong and handsome physique, broad-shouldered though stocky, spirited, daring and generous, quick-tempered when roused but pleasant and easy enough among his equals when decently treated. He was good at games though not superlative, and had enough native shrewdness to rub along in his lessons without appearing too much of a fool, though he never did any work if he could help it. He had no desire whatever to proceed to a university, and was relieved, though a little surprised, when his father did not press this.
He came back to the West Riding and found Holmelea Mills an awful bore. He supposed he should have to settle down to them some day, and he had an idea that when he did he might want to alter quite a bit of the organisation there. His father, grey-haired with a silky moustache, struck him as being just a trifle too soft and yielding to the heads of the various departments, for Arnold’s liking. But meanwhile, all this fuss about shades and patterns and finish was immensely tedious and—Arnold could not help thinking—rather low. He couldn’t help regretting that his family were engaged in trade. Of course, there it was and one must face it squarely and not pretend that it was otherwise, and the Barracloughs of Holmelea were undoubtedly important people in the West Riding. But it was far more enjoyable, more in his line, to ride, to rush about the country in his sports car, to dance, to drink, to pursue a few hot little girls here and there, than to sit at a desk and cope with tops and noils. It was understood that when Arnold became twenty-one he was to be made a director of the firm, and he perceived that it might probably be the decent thing for him to settle down then. He grimaced when he thought of it; he had never really known what unhappiness was and did not intend to, but as far as he allowed himself to indulge in such feelings, he experienced a repugnance to the prospect.
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