Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War
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CHAPTER III
CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT
"AND Billy arrives by the ten-fifty. No, I don't think I'll waithere for three hours and then stand a chance of missing him. I'llget back home and give him a fitting welcome to the new house."
Thus meditated Peter Barcroft as he paced up and down the crowdedup-platform of Barborough Station. He had studied with varyingemotions a poster depicting a flabby, pigeon-toed child with onehand over that part of the human form known to infants as a "tummy"and supposed to be ejaculating, "I feel so jolly here." Even thatmild excitement paled, and Mr. Barcroft pined for the congenialwarmth of his study. The platform was cold and draughty, offering noinducements to linger for the arrival of the sure-to-be belated"ten-fifty."
Peter Barcroft was a thick-set man of fortyfive. In height he was agood two inches shorter than his airman son. He was clean shaven.Had he removed his Norfolk cap it might have been noticed that hisiron-grey hair showed thin on his temples and was conspicuouslyabsent on the top of his head. His forehead was high, and inconjunction with two vertical wrinkles extending upwards from theinner ends of his eyebrows, gave the appearance of a deep thinker.Otherwise there was little about him to give one the idea that hewas engaged in literary pursuits. According to popular notions heought to be wearing shabby clothes of eccentric, out-of-date cut; heshould affect a weird type of soft collar and a flowing tie; hishair ought to be long and wavy. But Peter Barcroft had none of thesequalifications. To judge him by appearances he was just an ordinarymiddle-aged man of powerful physique and retaining many of thequalities of a bygone athletic age.
He had been living only a fortnight in Lancashire. Why he migratedfrom Kent was a mystery to the friends he had left behind. Perhapshe did not know himself, unless it was surrender to a sudden, almosteccentric desire for pastures new.
Up to a certain point he possessed the artistic temperament. Heworked only when it suited him, and generally seized every plausibleexcuse to "knock off." Yet, when he did settle to his task he wroteat a tremendous rate, and so vilely that often he was quite unableto decipher his own caligraphy. In financial matters he was ascareless as a man could possibly be. Rarely he knew the state of hiscurrent account. Trivial matters in everyday life would send himinto a towering rage, while the loss of a couple of hundred poundshardly troubled him in the least degree. He would ransack the houseto find a favourite pipe which he had mislaid, or waste half a daysearching in vain for a certain pen which he felt sure he had leftin such-and-such a place. On the other hand, when a valuable andalmost new overcoat was stolen from the hall he just shrugged hisshoulders and soon forgot all about it.
During the fortnight he had been the tenant of Ladybird Fold, PeterBarcroft had either "sacked" or had been "sacked" by threehousemaids and two cooks, to the consternation and despair of hiswife. The servant problem, probably more acute in the manufacturingdistrict of Lancashire than anywhere else in the kingdom, was inthis case rendered even more difficult by Peter's display ofirritation at the manifold but trivial delinquencies of his staff ofmenials.
Mrs. Barcroft had gone on a visit to a relative in Cheshire on thestrength of a vague report that there was a girl who might bewilling to take the vacant place of housemaid at Ladybird Fold-Hiswife's absence for two days had given Peter the excuse to "knockoff." It was one of his avowed peculiarities that he could not writea stroke unless his wife were with him in the study. So Mr. Barcrofthad gone for a jaunt in his light car.
After the splendidly-surfaced gravelled or tarmac roads of Kent thegreasy granite setts and bumpy slag roads of the north came as anunpleasant surprise to the easy-going Peter. A couple of puncturesin addition to a slight collision with a "lurry"--a type of vehiclehitherto known to him as a lorry--did not improve his peace of mind,while what ought to have been the climax to a day of mishaps was thesudden failure of the magneto at a desolate spot on the westernslope of the Pennine Hills.
But unruffled Peter pushed the car on to the side of the road andtramped stolidly into the nearest village--a good three miles. Here,in an interview with the decrepit motor-engineer (Barcroft guessedrightly that he was too _passe_ even for munition making), he learntthat at least a month must elapse before the magneto could bere-wired. He received the intelligence with equanimity, for in hispocket was a telegram to the effect that Billy was coming home thatnight. Nothing else mattered.
"Which is the Tarleigh train?" enquired Mr. Barcroft of a porter.
"Next one in on this side," replied the man gruffly.
Half a minute later the train rumbled into the station. Mr.Barcroft, realising that up to the present he had not mastered theintricate system of train-service of the Lancashire and YorkshireRailway, and having had many previous experiences of beingmisinformed by surly servants of the various railway companies,addressed himself to a passenger who was about to enter a carriage.
"Tarleigh? Yes, you're quite right. At any rate, I'm for BlackberryCross."
"Thank you," replied Peter.
"Motorist?" enquired the other laconically. "Yes; had a breakdown."
The ice was broken. The studied, almost taciturn reserve of thetypical level-headed Lancashire man was not proof against the claimsof motoring. Before the train glided out of the station the twopassengers were deep in the subject of cars and their peculiarities.
"Dash it all! we seem a long time getting to Two Elms," remarked thestranger.
He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that momentthe train rumbled under a broad bridge.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between BlackberryCross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's anon-stop to Windyhill."
"Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying yoursociety. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided Ican get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?"
The stranger laughed.
"I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," heexplained. "Entwistle--Philip Entwistle--is my name. By profession Iam what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting,and I'm due there at eight."
"'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly."It's 7.30 already."
"You'll be all right," continued Entwistle. "There's a train backfrom Windyhill at 10.5, You're a stranger to the district?"
"Fairly so," admitted Peter. "I've take Ladybird Fold for threeyears."
"Your name doesn't happen to be Norton--Andrew Norton?"
"No," was the reply. "Barcroft's my name. I know Norton. He's anewcomer. Only been here a week, I believe; and in that time he'sfrozen on to me. Kind of companionship in a strange land, so tospeak. He seems a very decent sort; in fact, I rather like him. He'smy nearest neighbour and he lives at least half a mile from LadybirdFold."
"What is he?" asked Entwistle. "Independent?"
"So I should imagine. He has plenty of time on his hands, and spendsa good part of it with me, except when I have to choke him off.He'll be sitting in my study when I get home, for a dead cert.Already he's made it a practice of looking me up at ten o'clock ofan evening, after I've knocked off. You see," he addedapologetically. "I have to work."
"At what?" enquired his companion, the Lancashire thirst forknowledge ever in the foreground.
"I am a professional liar," announced Peter with mock gravity.
"A what? Oh, I suppose you mean that you're a lawyer?"
"Heaven forbid!" protested Mr. Barcroft piously. "You misunderstandme. I am a novelist. Modesty forbids me to give you my _nom dePlume_. At present, however, I am engaged upon a book of a technicalcharacter dealing with the conduct of the war. Perhaps some of mytheories will be a bit startling when pushed on to the BritishPublic, but they'll be vindicated."
"Hang it all!" exclaimed Entwistle. "I have heard of you already."
"Have you really?" enquired Peter. Professional vanity--although hewas not afflicted with "swollen head"--made him perhaps justifiablykeen on hearing outside opin
ions of his literary efforts.
"Yes," continued his companion. "It was the Vicar of Tarleigh. Hewas in Wheatcroft's place--down the bottom of Blackberry Hill andwhile he was talking to the old man a car came along driven by you.In it were two sheep dogs barking like fury. I think I am right inthe description?"
Peter nodded appreciatingly.
"Says the vicar, 'And what might that terrific disturbance mean?''Eh, parson,' replied Old Wheatcroft, 'tis but that therenovel-writing chap as lives in Ladybird Fold.' So you see they'vegot you posted up all right. But here we are," he continued, as thetrain came to a standstill. "It's a jolly draughty station to hangabout."
"It is," admitted Barcroft. "But fortunately there's very littlewind. A proper Zeppelin night."
"Suppose so," admitted Entwistle. "You see, we don't worry very muchabout those gentry. Now, in Yorkshire, for instance, it would beotherwise, but we are on the right side of the Pennines. I don't forone moment think that a Zep. will ever get so far as this."
Peter shrugged his shoulders. On that matter, he preferred tomaintain silence.
Up and down the bleak platform the two men paced until Entwistle,glancing at his watch in the feeble glimmer of a shaded lamp,exclaimed--"Twenty-five to eleven. Bless my soul, the time has gonequickly. That confounded train is late."
Before Barcroft could offer any remark the platform lights wereturned off. Simultaneously, the electric signal lamps ceased to giveforth their red and green warning.
"What's up?" demanded Entwistle. "Failure of the gas works and theCompany's electric light station?"
"Hanged if I know," declared Peter. "It strikes me very forciblythat we'll have to walk those seven miles. I suppose it means twelvefor you? A taxi, or even a humble four-wheeler is an impossibilityin this forsaken hole."
A man, stumbling across the rails in the darkness, clambered uponthe platform within a yard of the two would-be passengers.
"Sorry, sir," he muttered apologetically.
"What's all this about?" enquired Entwistle. "Why have the lightsgone out? Are there no more trains to-night?"
"No, sir, no more trains yet awhile," replied the porter, for suchhe was. "They've just got a warning through. Them swine of Zeps. issomewheres about."