The Rise of Henry Morcar (50 page)

Fan smiled. “I shall enjoy that,” she said. “I shall never forgive his mother for keeping him away from you.”

“Fan!” exclaimed Morcar. “If you take that line
I
shall never forgive
you
! Listen: If Cecil and his mother and I have had our lives messed up—”

“As you certainly have,” interrupted Fan emphatically.

“—it's because his mother's feelings about Cecil and myself and her brother were too big for her, not because they were too petty. She's a tragic figure.”

Fan looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, I'll try to remember that,” she said. “You must remind me if you see me getting too horrid to her, or too impatient with Cecil.”

“A nice quiet life I shall have of it!” said Morcar with feeling.
Fan's silvery laugh tinkled, and she patted his hand with her small rosy-tipped fingers. “I'm glad you're going to be my father-in-law,” she said with affection.

“The feeling isn't mutual,” growled Morcar, nevertheless squeezing her hand heartily.

Later in the evening, after dining alone, he felt so troubled by this new development, so perplexed between his undoubted duty to Cecil and the duty he felt towards Francis Oldroyd's daughter and David's sister, that he dialled the familiar number and asked for Lady Harington.

“Oh, is that you, Harry?” said Christina's voice eagerly. “I'm so glad you rang—I'm all alone and feeling dismal. Edward had to go back to the Ministry.”

“Have you had any dinner, love?”

“More or less.”

“I know what that means. I'll come and fetch you—we'll have some supper somewhere. Where would you like to go?”

“Let's try one of those little Chelsea restaurants.”

Afterwards they walked a long way down the Embankment, pausing sometimes to look over the parapet at the dark river. Morcar drew Christina's arm through his and clasped her slender fingers. The autumn dusk had fallen, and the blackout hid them as it hid many other lovers. In the occasional dim gleam from the blue lights of a passing tram soldiers could be seen from every nation in the world—from every good and decent nation, Morcar corrected himself. British of all kinds, Americans, Dutch, French, Poles, Czechoslovakians, a Chinese Embassy official, a Russian sailor—they were all gathered here for the final assault on Germany's Europe. The lovers passed a scrawl chalked on a wall:
Open the Second Front NOW.

“Considering we're fighting on about eleven fronts already,” said Morcar, vexed: “I must say that slogan irritates me.”

“Yes. And yet my heart echoes it,” murmured Christina. “Partly for selfish reasons.”

“Are you still determined not to leave Harington till after the war?”

“Yes. Surely it won't be long now!”

“Not long, my darling,” said Morcar fondly. A tram passed; in its hooded light he admired Christina's deep blue eyes and lovely profile. “You're very beautiful, Chrissie,” he told her.

“It's sweet of you to say so. I begin to feel rather antique, with a daughter married.”

“If you'd like a catalogue of your attractions, I have it ready.”

“Probably better
not
, in this public place,” said Christina, laughing. “Won't it be lovely when the war's over and the lights
are up, and dear old Big B has his face illuminated,” she added, as the clock struck the hour.

“When we're married we'll come and walk along here one night and remind ourselves about the war and laugh about the blackout.”

“It sounds too good ever to come true.”

“Nonsense!” said Morcar robustly.

“Jenny's safe at any rate.”

“Yes. It's a completely good thing, her marriage. But listen, pet,” continued Morcar: “I want to talk to you about Fan Oldroyd. I'm worried about her.”

“You mean because she's in love with Cecil?”

“Oh, you know that?”

“I've seen them together. It's rather obvious, I think.”

“I didn't know you'd met Cecil at all.”

“I've seen him once or twice with the other young people.”

“He'll never set the Ire on fire,” sighed Morcar.

“He's a good boy, and I respect Fan more than I ever thought I could, for loving him.”

“Well—if you think it's all right for Fan and him to marry, I shan't worry,” said Morcar more cheerfully. “But oh, Chris! What a time I shall have between Fan and Winnie! I can't leave Cecil to fight that battle alone, I shall have to help him.”

Christina laughed softly, then hesitated. “What will Winnie think about me?” she said.

“I'm afraid she'll take it hard,” admitted Morcar. “But I can't help it. Our orbits don't cross much. I wonder whether it would be a good idea to take you to see her after our marriage. What do you think? It would help her, perhaps, to keep her end up with the neighbours. Or would she resent it? Could you bear to go?”

“I'll do anything you think will help her, Harry,” said Christina.

“Well, don't let's think about any more awkward and difficult things tonight,” said Morcar comfortably. “Let's just be happy together.”

Under the wartime Petroleum Control Morcar received a small allowance of petrol so that he could use his car for business but not for any other purpose. The police handled any infringement of the regulations strictly. If he made any non-business excursion or even détour, nay, as he sometimes grumbled, if he so much as ran round to the back entrance of Syke Mills instead
of the front, he was liable to prosecution. Since he had crossed the Atlantic in the company of petrol-carrying tankers Morcar thoroughly understood the need for the restriction and made no attempt to evade it; accordingly he spent his free time (if any) at the weekend in walks near home rather than in journeys further afield, for which, even if they had been legal,' he had not sufficient driving fluid. On the Saturday afternoon following David's wedding he was walking along a path beside the upper reaches of the river Ire.

The countryside was looking particularly beautiful at that moment. The equinoctial gales had blown themselves out and been succeeded by a period of calm; the sky was high, a clear pale blue, with long feathers of small scalloped white clouds lying quietly across it from horizon to zenith. Below, the West Riding landscape, often so sombre, wore today an autumn coat of infinitely delicate and subtle blending, employing the whole range of colour comprised in the idea of tawny. The green of the trees was dulled towards bronze, and tipped with many shades of yellow; bright golden leaves drifted down in gentle showers, painted the ground and swam in the pools. The upper fields had a pale russet bloom which exactly matched the fading flower of the heather on the moor above; the bracken, just turning brown along the stream, on a distant hillside where it caught the sun glowed vivid red. The rocks and the rough stone walls struck a sepia note to match a distant cluster of mill chimneys; the tumbling restless water was the colour of honey in the shallows, but beneath the packhorse bridge richly auburn. Even the occasional brown and white bullocks conformed to the colour scheme. Morcar observed all this with a designer's eye, and longed for the day when he should once more be able to blend colours without wartime limitations of costs or shortages; he observed it as a man, and longed for the day when he could display its beauty to Christina.

It had seemed to him for some moments that a scuffling noise came from the nearby bracken; now he saw that his impression was justified, for the tall fronds were violently agitated in succession as if by the passage of some animal. Suddenly he laughed, for a small thick black tail appeared above the sea of brown and green; he whistled and called, and out bounded Heather. The dog ran towards him with a friendly eye and a wagging tail, then a few yards from Morcar halted, took a few steps in the opposite direction and halted again with a look of perplexity.

“What are you doing here? Where's your master, old chap? David!” called Morcar.

Presently his call was answered, and David, with his pipe
between his teeth and his wife on his arm, came round a fold of the hill. Greetings followed, while Heather leaped about them all ecstatically.

“I knew you must be somewhere in Yorkshire, when I got home the day after the wedding and found you'd called for Heather. Where are you? Don't tell me if you want to keep it a secret.”

“No secret—we're at Scape Scar,” said David and Jenny together.

“Really!” said Morcar. He smiled broadly; he felt delighted that Jenny should wish to come to her husband's home for her honeymoon. She's a true helpmeet, he thought. “How do you like it here, then, Jenny?” he asked.

“I love it,” said Jenny simply. “Partly for itself, and partly because it seems so peaceful after London.”

“Aye. We don't look to have suffered much from the war in the West Riding, and that's a fact,” said Morcar, turning and walking beside them. “Of course we have rations and restrictions and blackout and Home Guard and Observer Corps and fire-watching and National Savings and Salvage and all that, the same as everybody else—and bereavement,” he added, thinking of Nathan, whose quiff had faded that week—he had lost a son in the R.A.F. “But we've not been in danger all the time, like London and the south coast and Hull and so on. Our houses are still mostly whole.”

“Yes. And somehow the people don't look as tired and shabby as in the south,” said Jenny.

“True. And yet you know, it hasn't been easy,” said Morcar. “Up here we have all the irritations of the war and none of the excitements. And to tell you the truth, we West Riding folk don't like not being in the forefront of the battle.”

“You'll be in it after the war all right,” said David grimly.

“Well, that's fair enough. We shan't cry about that; we'll take our share.”

“With depreciated machinery, interrupted markets and a labour shortage, you're going to have a pretty grim task pushing up your exports to earn food for England,” said David.

“We've got plenty of plans to cope with it,” said Morcar stubbornly. “And what's this about
you
and
your?
Why don't you say
we
, eh?”

“Why not indeed?” said David. A shadow passed over his face and left it stern. “There's nothing in the world I want more than to be back at Old Mill, with the war won and Jenny at Scape Scar,” he said. “But the war isn't won yet, not by a long chalk.”

“And if I can get Christina at Stanney Royd,” thought Morcar: “The picture would be perfect.” Aloud he said: “Have you taken your wife into the textile world at all?”

“We've inspected Old Mill, and looked at the outside of Syke Mills and Prospect Mills,” said David, smiling again.

“Lucus a non lucendo”
commented Jenny.

“Now what does that mean?”

“She means Prospect Mills is called Prospect because it has no prospect,” said David, laughing.

“Neither physical nor financial,” added Jenny.

Morcar snorted. “You're too clever for me,” he said. (He did not want to discuss Prospect Mills in any case.) “I shall take it ill of you if you don't come inside Syke Mills before you leave, choose how.”

“We'll come on Monday morning if that's convenient,” said David.

“Come home to tea with us now, Uncle Harry,” urged Jenny.

“Nay—not on your honeymoon. I'll see you Monday morning,” said Morcar, turning. “I'll go on my way now and leave you to yourselves, bless you. Call the dog.”

Heather stood with one paw uplifted and looked after him regretfully, but followed David.

Morcar saw the newly married pair before Monday, however. As he was sitting at midday dinner with his mother on Sunday he was summoned to the telephone, and when he answered it heard Jenny's voice. She sounded breathless as she told him that David had been recalled from leave.

“What, from his honeymoon?” raged Morcar. “They must be daft! I wouldn't go if I were he.”

“It can't be helped. David has been—expecting it. In a way. It's something special,” said Jenny. “He's catching a train from Leeds at three. I shall go back to work tomorrow.”

“Isn't David going to London?”

“No.”

“You'd better come here for the night, love,” said Morcar. “Wait now—how are you getting to Leeds?”

“We're having a taxi from Marthwaite,” said Jenny. “I'm in Marthwaite now. It's all arranged.”

“Oh, no, nonsense!” said Morcar. “I'll come and fetch you from Scape Scar and take you to Leeds. And bring you back here afterwards. And if the police prosecute, they can prosecute and be damned,” he added to himself, firmly sacrificing his precious petrol.

“Very well,” agreed Jenny simply. “Thank you, Uncle
Harry.” She sounded forlorn, perhaps not far from tears, but courteous and controlled, as always.

“I'll be with you in ten minutes,” said Morcar.

Accordingly an hour or so later he found himself at a Leeds station. The platform was crowded and the train was crammed; soldiers, sailors and airmen, ATS, WAAFS and WRNS, with their kitbags, were deeply engaged in saying goodbye to their wives, children, husbands and parents. Wherever Morcar looked he saw an affecting scene of farewell. David and Jenny stood silently together, their hands tightly clasped, gazing into each other's eyes. Morcar withdrew and stood aloof, so that they might be alone together. He longed for the train to start. He knew that this was a selfish wish and kept himself from looking at his watch, but if the train did not leave soon he felt he should break down and cry like a child. At last porters began to be urgent that passengers should take their seats. Reluctantly the uniforms climbed into the train. The platform looked strangely neat and empty; the women left behind—they were mostly women, thought Morcar, pitying—stood very still, in their Sunday best, their heads turned up towards the carriage windows, their eyes fixed on one beloved face. Jenny stood thus, her cheek very pale, her grey eyes very wide; David, frowning, gazed down at her intently. Suddenly David stretched out his hand and Jenny laid her hand in his; they drew together and kissed, Jenny standing—an infinitely pathetic detail, Morcar thought—on tiptoe.