Crescendo (7 page)

“Found your feet at what?”

“And perhaps to travel a little,” said Jerry.

Arnold sighed. He jingled the coins in his pocket thoughtfully.

“Look,” he said: “How would it be, Jerry, if you asked this friend of yours to come and stay at Holmelea?”

The sudden flash of happiness in his son's face hurt Arnold more than anything in the last twenty years. How unhappy the boy must be at home, to take such joy in the anticipated visit of a stranger!

“Well, then, ask him for your long half-term weekend in June. Your mother and I only want your happiness, Jerry.”

“I know, dad.”

“We shan't stand in your light.”

And so, last Friday afternoon Arnold came home from the mill to find that the guest had arrived. (Jerry having risen at the crack of dawn had contrived to reach home for lunch.) A shabby and bulging suitcase stood in the hall, and sounds of
animated conversation came from the drawing-room. Arnold, feeling nervous, settled his tie and went in.

Meg, Jerry and Chillie were still at tea. Meg was pouring into one of the best Rockingham cups, Jerry stood attentively at her side waiting to hand it to his friend, Chillie with his arm stretched across the back of Jerry's chair was gazing up at the tall fair boy.

Arnold was instantly and irrevocably convinced that the man Chillie was a sexual pervert. He was dark, bearded and though somewhat slovenly in dress not ill-looking, but Arnold had not spent a rather dissipated youth and several years in the army for nothing; he knew the signs.

He closed the door behind him; at the noise Chillie looked up and their eyes met, and Arnold knew that Chillie knew he knew. The whole affair was perfectly clear. In Chillie's eyes Jerry was not only handsome but rich, and he intended to live for a few years, while the infatuation lasted, on an allowance provided by Jerry's father. Arnold had the disgust for sexual abnormality often felt by strongly virile men of instinctive, unthinking disposition, and such a rage possessed him at the thought that Meg's son should be mixed up with this dirty fellow that he could hardly contain himself; it was all he could do not to rush at Chillie and batter him with his fists.

“Well,” said Arnold. “Our guest has arrived, I see.”

Introductions were effected. Arnold sat down and declined tea. His manner was so grim that it was impossible not to notice it. Meg glanced at him beseechingly, Jerry with astonishment. The boy's young face showed that he was completely unaware of the true nature of Chillie's feeling for him. Arnold saw this with a thankfulness which left him weak. Arnold fixed his gaze on Chillie and kept it there. After a moment or two of this the man shifted about in discomfort, and at last said lightly:

“I'm afraid I'm not quite the friend you expected for Gervase, Mr. Barraclough?”

His tone, smooth, liquid, assured, was yet impertinent.

“He thinks he's got such a tight hold on Jerry he needn't trouble to be polite to me,” thought Arnold. Aloud he said roughly: “Well, I hadn't expected a beard.”

“Arnold, dear!” Meg rebuked him.

Jerry coloured and said quickly:

“In Yorkshire that sort of personal remark is considered friendly and forthright, Chillie.”

He gave his father an angry glance. A satisfied smile gleamed for a moment on Chillie's lips. For a moment Arnold was at a loss to interpret this sign of triumph, then he understood. “It's his game to set Jerry against his parents,” he thought. “Once he gets the boy to London with him, he knows we shan't let him starve.” Clearly it was Arnold's line to combat this by being as pleasant, friendly and agreeable as possible. He smiled and said in a cheerful, kindly tone:

“Sorry if I was a trifle heavy-handed. It's as Jerry says, in Yorkshire we pride ourselves overmuch on speaking our mind. Did you point out the mill to your friend as you passed, Jerry?”

Jerry frowned a little and said shortly: “Yes.”

“It wasn't as large as you had expected, perhaps?” said Arnold mildly, turning to Chillie.

He saw at once, by a disagreeable flash in the man's eyes, that he had hit the mark. Jerry's calm assumption that the world was the oyster of any Barraclough of Holmelea had deceived Chillie into crediting the Barracloughs with a higher status than they now possessed. Chillie had let his disillusion show a trifle at the sight of the mill, and Jerry had seen it and been a trifle vexed. Arnold was pleased. The battle was joined. It was the greatest battle of his life, more important even than that earlier battle he had fought to save the Barraclough honour, and he meant to win. The great thing was to keep Jerry's affection and trust, so that when the revelation
about Chillie was finally made to him by his father, he would believe it.

“I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing about dark satanic mills, textile or otherwise,” said Chillie crossly.

“Well, we can soon cure that. If you wish, of course. Bring your friend down to the mill any time you like, Jerry. But only if it wouldn't bore him. Each man to his trade, you know.”

“My father knows a great deal about cloth,” offered Jerry.

“Indeed?” said Chillie with an air of ineffable boredom.

“As much as you know about pictures, I dare say,” said Arnold cheerfully. “Or is it books?”

Chillie coloured and seemed a little uncomfortable. Suddenly he took a corner of his loose jacket between his fingers and offered it to Arnold.

“Is this good cloth, Mr. Barraclough?”

He meant to provoke Jerry's father into a jeering “Yorkshire” answer which would shame Jerry. Arnold, who of course had perceived the poor quality of the stuff the moment he entered the room, bent forward and felt the jacket with a serious air.

“I'm afraid not,” he said pleasantly. “We could fit you up with something better than that at Holmelea, if you cared for it. You must come down some morning and we'll see what we can find.”

“But wouldn't that be damaged cloth, Arnold?” said Meg. “Sent back to you by the manufacturers?”

“A damaged piece isn't damaged in every yard,” explained Arnold. “We could find a suit length of good stuff, I'm sure.”

“Is trade unionism strong in your mill, Mr. Barraclough?” demanded Chillie abruptly.

“Of course,” said Arnold impatiently. “I don't employ any non-union labour. Who does, these days?”

The battle continued through the weekend. Chillie had a melodious voice, a fluent ease of speech, an admirable diction, and he gave these weapons the fullest possible play. His aim
throughout was to make Arnold appear a mercenary, vulgar, greedy, bourgeois capitalist, an exploiter of his employees, a reactionary, a cumberer of the earth, a stupid ignoramus on all artistic matters; altogether unworthy, therefore, of his son's love.

Arnold did not find these insinuations quite as difficult to counter as Chillie had evidently expected. He was not especially enamoured of the capitalist system, merely preferring it to any of the alternatives which had yet been suggested, and he was quite ready to discuss these alternatives in an unheated style. In matters of art he yielded gracefully to Chillie's superior knowledge, contriving however to put a few questions of a probing kind which revealed to Arnold and Meg, if not perhaps as yet to Jerry, that Chillie had never done a hand's turn of real work in any art whatever, in his life. To the anxious enquiries by Meg, in the privacy of their bedroom, as to what Arnold thought of Chillie, Arnold replied briefly that he was a bad lot, and must be prevented at all costs from carrying off Jerry.

“We'll send the boy to a university,” said Arnold. “At a university he'll meet men who really know what's what in these matters, and then he'll see what a phony poser this chap Chillie is.”

Arnold did not, however, as yet tell his wife the whole truth about Chillie and the nature of his designs on their son. The knowledge would upset Meg terribly, it would break her innocent heart in pieces—he felt he must save her from it if he possibly could. Besides, it would be so embarrassing for Jerry. Far better that the matter should remain quietly private between his son and himself. At the bottom of his heart Arnold knew that he was keeping Meg in reserve. If all else failed, he would have to tell her; her anguished outburst of grief would convince Jerry if nothing else could. But sons were apt to resent the frustration of their wishes by a parent's grief. No, he would try not to tell Meg. He would be perfectly polite and
considerate to Chillie as long as he was in the house, and the moment he was gone he would tell Jerry his suspicions. But the boy's trust and affection must be retained, repeated Arnold to himself, so that Jerry would believe him.

Arnold had a great desire to take Jerry and Chillie down to Holmelea Mills together, so that they might see in each other's company that the place was not in the least dark or satanic, but on the contrary extremely well-lighted and comfortable. The windows were large, the power mainly electric, the lighting fluorescent; the machines gleamed with speed and newness—he was always on the look-out for new machines, had bought another only yesterday; pieces of cloth were shot down slippery slides or wheeled about in neat trolley-carts, no man ever having to carry the weight of one on his shoulder. In fact, Arnold set such store on this visit to the mill that he made up his mind to insist on it if necessary. But no insistence was necessary; Chillie's greed supplied the impetus. Arnold observed with sardonic amusement that Chillie wanted very much to come down to the mill and be fitted up with a suit length, while Jerry was ashamed of his father's ham-handed generosity, as he regarded it, and took Chillie for walks on the moors instead. It was Chillie's greed, too, which prevented any show-down taking place about Jerry's project of living with Chillie in London. The boy often approached the subject but Chillie as often headed him off. Chillie had had second thoughts, Arnold surmised, and wanted the cloth and the comfortable weekend's accommodation before he had to quarrel with his hosts.

Tuesday morning, the last of Chillie's stay, was thus reached without the mill visit having been paid, and Arnold was afraid that he would be obliged to exert pressure to assure it, when at the breakfast table Chillie suddenly said in a petulant tone:

“I must see the Barraclough mills before I go.”

“There's scarcely time before your train,” began Jerry, but Arnold interrupted.

“Come down with me,” he said. “I'm always there by nine. Bring your case—you can go on afterwards to Ashworth station. I'll drive you. I have to call on some customers in that direction, some time today.”

“We needn't trouble you, Mr. Barraclough. We can go by bus,” said Chillie, intending as usual to show his high-minded contempt for every luxury.

“Well, we can settle that later,” said Arnold impatiently. “I've picked out a few lengths, Jerry, for your friend to see.” (He could not bring himself to use the man's absurd nickname, and Chillie's real surname escaped his recollection.) He rose from the table, saying: “Get the car out, Jerry. Come along.”

So now the three of them were turning into the yard of Holmelea Mills.

“Here we are,” said Arnold again to Chillie, who sat beside him.

2

The moment Arnold entered Holmelea Mills he felt happy and at ease. This was his own stamping-ground; here he was appreciated and needed. He had hardly entered his private office—bright and sunny, with large windows overlooking the valley, and admirable modern appointments—before he was in the thick of business; his secretary presented him with a mass of opened letters, the telephone rang, the works manager came in, queries of every kind seemed to pour in upon Arnold, who answered them with ease and decision. During these first minutes Jerry and Chillie stood about the office in a rather hangdog style, very much in the way of the various people who hurried in and out and clearly feeling unwanted and insignificant. Between telephone calls, while he changed into his mill coat, Arnold urged them to sit down; Chillie took a chair and Jerry balanced himself on the end of his father's desk, his fair head drooping disconsolately.

“Now!” said Arnold at length briskly: “We'll go up and see what we can find in the way of a suit-length.”

He led the way to the lift. It was in motion, descending; it drew up and out stepped young Clifford from the cropping department.

“I was coming to fetch you, Mr. Barraclough,” said he in a serious tone. “Ernest says, could you come up to the cropping-room for a minute?”

“Something wrong, Cliff?” said Arnold.

Clifford coloured and muttered.

The four men crowded into the lift and Arnold pressed the button for the floor which held the cropping department. The lift drew up; Arnold pushed back the gates and strode ahead.

He saw at once that something was seriously wrong.

It was not only that Ernest Armley, his foreman cropper, stood by with a face as long as a grave-digger's. Croppers as a category were often moody and difficult, and Arnold for one did not blame them. Their machines ran fast, and new ones ran faster every year. The process of shearing the surface of cloth to make it smooth always presented a difficult problem requiring skilled judgment; crop too little and the surface remained rough; crop too close and the fabric's coherence was shorn away. A cropping-machine must be watched every minute of the eight-hour day; the cropper couldn't ever relax and discuss last Saturday's football match with the chap working next to him. Ernest was a particularly skilful, reliable and conscientious cropper; a glum look from Ernest was accordingly normal. But this morning all the cropping-machines stood motionless; the men stood round looking helpless and upset, and the gaze of all seemed to be centred upon some pieces of bright brown cloth with self-coloured raised stripes, which had just come through the newest cropping-machine and lay in loose folds
(in cuttle
was the technical term) in the cart at the far end.