Crescendo (26 page)

Jerry made appreciative noises, but Arnold noticed that Cressey did not participate in these. As for himself, he found too much smugness in Mrs. Eastwood's tone to please him. The Jaguar flew down the hill to Blackstalls Bridge and paused, the lights into the Ashworth road being against it.

“How do you come to be mixed up in this business, Mr. Cressey?” enquired Mrs. Eastwood.

“Miss Dean telephoned me and asked me to find Peter Trahier,” said Cressey shortly.

“Ah, Dot thinks the world of you, Mr. Cressey,” said the woman.

Her tone was unpleasantly fawning, and Arnold was not surprised that the schoolmaster moved impatiently beside him.

“How did
you
come to be in the affair, by the way, Mrs. Eastwood?” said Cressey in a cold tone as the car moved on.

Mrs. Eastwood cleared her throat.

“I was just standing at the bus-stop at the foot of Brow Lane,” she said, “when Gay, that's Mr. Freeman's daughter you know, Mrs. Trahier, came running down and asked me to summon the ambulance.”

“Had you just left High Royd, then?”

“Er—yes. About half an hour before.”

“Did you see Mr. Freeman while you were there?”

“Oh yes. It was a business call, you know. He's my tenant.”

“How did the old man seem when you left him?” put in Arnold.

“Oh, perfectly all right. Perfectly cheerful,” said Mrs. Eastwood.

Cressey said no more, and Arnold respected this discretion.

“Here we are,” called Mrs. Eastwood cheerfully.

Arnold swung into Naseby Terrace and drew up at Number 19, where light showed through the panels of the old-fashioned front door. All his passengers tumbled out promptly.

“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Barraclough, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “It's your good deed for the month, eh?”

Her voice was cheerfully loud and she slammed the car door, so that their arrival was decisively announced to the neighbourhood, and Arnold was not surprised when the door of Number 19 opened while Mrs. Eastwood was still climbing the steps. The light from the street lamp fell clearly on a tall handsome girl who stood there; she gazed out into the rain with a look of anxious love.

“Is that Miss Dorothea Dean, I wonder,” thought Arnold.

The tall girl's gaze fell on Cressey as he crossed the pavement; she smiled, and Arnold no longer doubted who she was. On an impulse he leaned out of the window.

“Cressey!” he called.

The schoolmaster turned towards him.

“I'm sorry we didn't choose you as headmaster for Holmelea this afternoon, Cressey,” said Arnold. “I reckon we made a mistake. But it may turn out best for you in the end. If you'd become head of Holmelea you might have stuck there all your life, and it's a small school after all. As it is, you'll probably get a bigger school in a few years' time.”

“That, however,” said Cressey in an angry tone, looking down at him, “though very complimentary and reassuring, doesn't help me to get married
now
.”

“My wife and I became engaged when I was practically bankrupt,” said Arnold.

“This is a cul-de-sac. You can't get out this end, you'll have to turn,” said Cressey, looking aside. His change of colour showed, however, that he had heard Arnold's remark and understood its implications.

“Richard?” said the tall girl in the doorway. She sounded diffident and uncertain.

“You'll come in for a moment, Mr. Cressey, won't you?” called Mrs. Eastwood from behind her shoulder in a fulsome tone. “Dot wants a word with you.”

“In my view, the sooner you take your girl away from that old harridan the better,” said Arnold quickly.

“I couldn't agree with you more. All right, Dorothea, I'm coming,” called Cressey.

He ran up the house steps and, taking the girl gently by the elbow, turned her into the house. The door closed behind them.

“Don't let me back the car into that street lamp, Jerry,” said Arnold.

3

Father and son drove away together.

“Well, that was quite an adventure, wasn't it?” said Arnold, feeling the warm well-being which follows the performance of a kindness.

“Yes. Good thing we had the Jag. I'm sorry we didn't save the old man,” said Jerry. “What did you think of them all, dad?” he asked after a pause.

“Cressey is a very fine fellow,” said Arnold. “Intelligent and kind, and reliable in a crisis. The two girls are good and pretty, a combination which is not as frequent as could be desired. Old man Freeman I took a fancy to, Mr. Peter Trahier I have no use for whatever, and Mrs. Eastwood is a selfish old hag.”

“But, dad! She trailed off through all that rain to the telephone and was trailing back again,” expostulated Jerry. “She started the rescue really.”

“Perhaps she started the need for it too,” said Arnold. “You noticed, I suppose, that she was probably the last person to see old Freeman alive?”

“No, I hadn't realised that,” said Jerry, surprised.

“Cressey soon picked it out. That's why he stopped questioning her. What was she doing at High Royd? She's Freeman's landlord, and she said it was a business call, so at a guess, I should say she was making herself disagreeable about the rent. Nothing legally wrong in that, of course, but it will be an uncomfortable experience for her when she has to tell the police about it.”

“Will she have to tell the police?” said Jerry, awed.

“Since she saw the old man before he gassed himself, I reckon she may have to give evidence at the inquest. She won't feel very comfortable, telling about it in front of his daughter, and that's a fact.”

“No.”

“Well, it may teach her to mend her ways, but I doubt it.”

“I thought you came out of it the best of the bunch, dad,” said Jerry in an embarrassed offhand mumble, looking aside.

Arnold gave a deprecating snort, but the sun of his world, which had gone in that morning, came out and he could have laughed aloud with joy.

“Of course Mrs. Eastwood didn't intend to make old Freeman kill himself,” he said hurriedly, not wishing to acquire merit at the expense of the others concerned. “She's just nagged him a little too far, I expect. She made a mistake. But she's not the only person who makes mistakes,” said Arnold—his own day had been full of mistakes, and now, he thought suddenly, was the time to repair them. He was so happy about Jerry that he could not bear the thought of remaining in anger with anyone.

He swung the car abruptly to the left up one of Ashworth's many hills.

“Where are we going, dad?”

“To see Ernest. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, you know. I let fly at him pretty hard this morning—not that he didn't deserve it.”

“But why were you so angry? I wondered at the time. Isn't damaged cloth, like that, insured?”

“No, it's not insurable.”

“Chillie thought it would be.”

“Ah, Chillie,” said Arnold grimly. Now is my chance, he thought; by a stroke of luck I've got the boy's faith back; I'll never have a better opportunity. He drew the car up at the side of the road and turned off the engine. “I've been wanting to have a word with you about Chillie, Jerry,” he said. “But I didn't want your mother to hear anything about it.”

“Why not?” said Jerry, beginning to look sulky.

“Because it would upset her. Look, Jerry,” began Arnold, carefully looking away from his son: “Of course if you want to live your life as a homosexual, I can't stop you. It's your life.”

“What!” exclaimed Jerry angrily. “What are you talking about? Chillie's not a homo.”

“I'm sure he is.”

“I'm not a child, dad,” said Jerry stiffly. “I've seen some of that sort of thing at school. Some of the prefects—with the junior school. Chillie isn't like the ones I know.”

“Happen not,” said Arnold. “But you see in this case, Jerry, you're seeing it from the other side. You're the junior.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Jerry in a tone of extreme distaste. “No. You're wrong, dad, I know Chillie. I should have seen it if it were so.”

“You didn't see that Mrs. Eastwood was the last person to see old Freeman alive and probably nagged him into the gas oven, though Mr. Cressey and I saw it at once,” said Arnold. “Experience of life counts for something in good judgment, Jerry.”

“Even if Chillie were—what you say, one needn't treat him as a pariah. One can be sorry for him.”

“Quite,” said Arnold. “But one is not necessarily required to admire what one compassionates, as Mr. Cressey remarked—I thought he was thinking of his own limp, did you, Jerry?”
he added, throwing in this neutral matter in an attempt to diminish the tension between them.

“I don't know,” said the boy angrily. “And I don't know what you want me to do about Chillie.”

“Just ask him the question straight out,” said Arnold. “Is he or is he not, you know?”

“I'll do just that,” said Jerry defiantly.

“You might also,” added Arnold, “ask him how much private income he thinks I ought to allow you while you're living with him.”

“You think too much about money, dad,” said Jerry with a flash of spirit.

“That's because I've had to struggle so hard for it.”

“Everybody isn't always thinking about it like you.”

“You mean, Chillie isn't?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did you post his suit-length to him?” said Arnold grimly.

Jerry looked aside and said nothing; the answer was too clearly in the affirmative, at Chillie's emphatic request. Arnold gave a quick glance towards the reflection of his son's face in the windscreen, and saw there pain and question and also a sudden remembrance of a host of small acts and words on Chillie's part which had meant nothing at the time but now showed as part of an all-over pattern in the sudden illumination of his father's words. Arnold sighed and started the engine.

“Well,” he said, putting in the gear: “Don't let's say any more about it, Jerry, until you've asked the questions and made up your mind. I'm only asking you to make up your own mind for yourself, Jerry.”

“I've made it up,” said Jerry in a strangled tone.

“Oh?”

“I can see you're right,” said Jerry as before, looking out of the far window.

“Good,” said Arnold.

He was so afraid of saying this word too heartily, or too smugly, or too something-or-other—and that was the trouble, he thought sadly, a cloud for a moment dimming his relief and happiness; I shall never be quite as much at ease with Jerry again as I was before today—that it came out in a kind of strangled bellow. He cleared his throat.

“Only about Chillie, though,” added Jerry with defiance. “I haven't made up my mind about my profession yet, you understand.”

“I understand,” said Arnold mildly.

They drove away uphill, turned on a long side street and halted.

“Now about Ernest,” said Arnold in a confidential tone, descending from the car. “He's been with the firm more than thirty years and he's a first-rate foreman cropper and a thoroughly decent chap, but he's a bit apt to stand on his dignity, you know. I don't just know whether I ought to take you in with me or not.”

“I'll wait here, dad,” said Jerry, sounding rather forlorn.

“Perhaps you'd better. If things go well and they offer me a cuppa, I'll call you in.”

He grinned at his son, ran up three steps and knocked on Ernest's door.

1

Ernest sat silent, looking into the fire, which was burning up nicely. Millie, in the old rocking-chair which had come from her aunt's, knitted away at a yellow pullover for Kenneth. The children were out: Kenneth at his evening class at
Ashworth Technical, Iris at some school activity, a play or something—“a lot of fancy work,” Ernest was wont to grumble about these affairs, but tonight he said not a word against her going, for he was only too thankful to have the child out of the house; her pert chatter, which he usually heard with a kind of fond astonished pride, he could not have endured in his present condition.

At first stunned by the magnitude of the Bedford cords disaster and his employer's public rebuke, as the day went on Ernest had become more and more savage.

During the morning he felt simply numb. The men under him seemed also dazed; they moved about very quietly, and consulted Ernest over every smallest detail of their work, in low serious tones. He took a long time to consider their questions—his mind felt clogged—and replied slowly and gravely, repeating himself and pointing to parts of the machines, as if the questioners had never cropped a piece before. The output in the cropping department was very low that morning, everyone being in such a nervous and apprehensive state of mind, afraid of making mistakes.

The twelve-thirty buzzer startled Ernest. Surely the morning could not be over yet? Surely the ruin of the Bedford cords could not be now irrevocably in the past? Surely Mr. Arnold was not going to leave the matter like that, without another word? Not even telling Ernest what the customer, the owner of the ruined cords, had said? Ernest began to feel angry; his nerves awoke, and pain abruptly made its presence felt in his stomach. As he went towards his coat, which hung on the wall, to get out his sandwiches, his son-in-law came up to him with a hangdog air.

“It were me put them Bedford cords on,” he said.

“We all know that,” snapped Ernest.

Cliff coloured.

“Well—I'm sorry, Ernest,” he said.

Mr. Arnold's words to Ernest came into Ernest's mind.
“A. & J. Barraclough have lost eight hundred pounds and a good customer, and you say you're sorry.” Ernest could say them with equal truth to Cliff. But he scorned to do any such thing; he was a prouder man, he told himself, than any Barraclough. On the other hand, he could not bring himself to say anything comforting to his son-in-law. So he merely nodded his head crossly, without looking at the lad.