The Rise of Henry Morcar (53 page)

He thought of David.
One of those men who make friendship between nations possible
. For love against hate, for the good in man against the evil.

The sound of the trumpets died on the air. The band struck up
God Save the King
, and the crowd, stirred to cheerfulness again, sang it heartily.

The ceremony was over; the Mayor withdrew, the soldiers marched off, the crowd began to disperse.

It had all been very simple and provincial, thought Morcar, walking towards the car park; the Mayor's speech had not been particularly eloquent, the trumpeters' tone had not been particularly silvery, the decorations were just what were left from
former years—indeed it seemed to him that he had seen those fairy lights at intervals since his early childhood. But it was all
real
, thought Morcar; honest, genuine, and truly of England, that is to say sober, kindly, spontaneous, democratic; performed decently and in order.

Morcar found his car and began to drive slowly, with the deliberate patience taught by the endurances and frustrations of the war, through the crowded streets out of the town up the Ire Valley.

He foresaw that the period before him would be the busiest of his life—nay, that it would make all other busy periods of his life look like a holiday. It was Morcar's duty, as one who had survived and suffered comparatively little in the war, to do well by his county and his country. He knew it and accepted it all gladly: To see that Cecil (and those like him) who came home had a good home and a good job to come to; to ensure that the abilities of Jenny (and those like her) were not frustrated, wasted; to harness the restless energy of Fan (and those like her) so that it would be used for the common good and not tear her to pieces; to care for the future of David's child. The Haringtons' affairs lay chiefly in Morcar's hands, for Jenny had begged him to help her with them and young Edwin was still in the Far East and heaven knew when he would be back again. The Oldroyds' affairs lay chiefly in Morcar's hands, for he was David's executor and in that capacity Francis Oldroyd's widow was also apt to take her troubles to him. Baby David lay now in his pram (Mrs. Morcar's gift) on the terrace at Stanney Royd—Morcar's heart warmed now as he thought of that sunny and endearing infant, so like Jenny, so like David.

But there was something else that formed part of Morcar's duties. “Look after everything for me,” David had said, and Morcar had replied: “I will, lad.” I reckon he meant the wool textile trade as well as his own affairs, thought Morcar soberly. It wouldn't be like him to think only of himself. I won't think only of myself either; I've learned my lesson. For Morcar, the death of Harington symbolised the death of what was evil in the old England. Much that was lovely had perished with the old England, even as Christina perished with Harington. But the birth of the little David symbolised the survival of what was good. Morcar felt it was his part to help the growth of the good England. His grandfather and his father had served the community after their fashion, and he must do the same in his.

He remembered the day when he had argued with David and the Mellors at Scape Scar about the future of industry. Our problem is threefold, he thought. To make good and charming
cloth so that people may feel happy and comfortable when they wear it. To earn food, to earn life and hope, for Britain by exporting our product. To make the industry provide a good life for those engaged in it. “Not easy to combine those three!” thought Morcar. How was it to be done? How to plan intelligently for the industry as a whole, and yet keep the sting, the fun, of individual independence and achievement? How to combine freedom with security, for all who worked in it? And make a good product spring from both? How to provide good houses, good education, good wages, good hopes of advancement, for all workers in the industry, without raising the price of the product beyond what other workers could afford to pay? How to reunite the whole industry so that it pursued a single aim, instead of consisting of opposing parties following separate purposes? He remembered how David had wanted the wool textile trade to be amongst the first to solve the problem in the new industrial revolution, the revolution which was to be social as well as industrial.

“Well,” said Morcar thoughtfully: “I promise you, lad, we'll have a damn good try, choose how.”

The conditions, national and international, were about as difficult for an experiment as could be imagined. The stern (though necessary and justifiable) wartime taxation had greatly depleted his own financial reserves. All personal ambition was gone from him; he had no desire to take as reward for his services more than those services were worth to the community as a whole. But he did not want private industry to die from inanition until something stronger had grown in its place; he conceived it to be his duty to keep Syke Mills running until, and indeed after, a gradual transformation had been accomplished. It would be a difficult task. The trade's machinery needed renewal, its export markets had been cut to less than half, its labour was still absent, would be absent till world peace was secured. And what of that peace? Would the nations' friendship, moulded by the pressure of war, would their idealism, still survive? Well, at any rate we can see that our own holds out, thought Morcar soberly. “If necessary, alone—that's what we said during the war. We'll keep to it in peace as well.”

The day was a national holiday, and Morcar had intended to spend what was left of it quietly at Stanney Royd. But on an impulse he swung his car through the Syke Mills archway—the iron gates had long since gone for salvage—and drew up in the yard. He dismounted, unlocked the mill door with his private keys and made his way into his office. To work, thought Morcar. He sat down at his desk and drew from a drawer his
own especial ledger, in which he estimated the production, labour and costs figures of Syke Mills. After scanning it for a few minutes and making some mental calculations he laid it aside, and drew from another drawer a strip of blue designing-paper and a cloth-covered board on which were arranged some tiny skeins of coloured yarns. Morcar sharpened his pencil, hunched his shoulders, smiled and set to work. To work! To work! To work for the good of all.… It was an ideal to which he was proud to have risen. To work for the good of all.

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

Copyright ¤ 1946 by Phyllis Bentley

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ISBN: 9781448203932
eISBN: 9781448203345

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