Crescendo (27 page)

From that moment Ernest's fear and anger grew. He could eat nothing in the dinner-hour, and finding himself cold and sick in spite of the summer sunshine, he drank a cup of hot tea instead of milk, with bad results. The pain in his stomach increased till it seemed he wore a bar of red-hot iron there, and as the afternoon wore on and Mr. Arnold did not come up to have a word with him, his mind became similarly inflamed by resentful fear.

Cliff and Nora lived not far away from Walker Street, Nora having all her mother's liking for being near her kin, so Cliff and Ernest travelled home in the bus together. Ernest greatly wished that Cliff would not tell Nora anything about the damaged pieces—he wanted no family fuss—but he wouldn't demean himself by saying so. It wouldn't have been much use if he had, anyway, for as soon as he opened his own house door Millie, who was serving tea to Kenneth and Iris at the table, exclaimed:

“What's the matter, Ernest?”

Ernest, annoyed, went silently to the scullery to wash his hands. In doing so, however, he caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror which hung there, and was obliged to admit that his wife's concern was justified; his sallow face was livid and a deep vertical frown marked his forehead. He smoothed out the frown.

“Aren't you feeling so well?”

“I'm all right,” said Ernest pettishly.

“Is there something wrong at the mill?” pursued Millie.

“Plenty,” said Ernest grimly.

“Has Nora's Cliff happened an accident?” cried Millie.

“No, no. It's only some cloths got cropped wrong.”

“That might happen to anyone,” said Millie, relieved.

Ernest snorted and sat down at the table, where he drank a cup of milk with a great show of enjoying it and making a good meal. The children rushed off upstairs and rushed down again dressed to go out.

“Kenneth, did you renew your driving licence today like you promised? Eh?”

“Well, no, dad,” began Kenneth. “I hadn't time, you see——”

“Then you don't go out on your cycle again till you have renewed it.”

Kenneth sulked, but on receiving a warning look from his mother obediently set out on foot. Iris followed, hatless, in a flowered frock and white sandals, after an argument with her mother on the subject of taking a coat.

“The weather's not bound to keep up all evening,” said Millie. “It's clouding a bit now.”

“I shall look silly with a coat,” pouted Iris.

“Do as your mother says, Iris,” commanded Ernest.

Iris tossed her head but obeyed. It was clear that his family felt that Ernest was not to be trifled with tonight. (They were right for once, thought Ernest grimly.)

The house felt peaceful after the children had gone, but as Ernest had feared, the door was hardly closed behind them before Nora came hurrying in with baby Ernie in her arms and a look of alarm on her face, and with nods and eyebrow-raisings and other only too obvious signals drew her mother away into the scullery and shut the door.

Ernest lowered himself carefully into his armchair by the hearth and brooded. The scenes of the day enacted themselves over and over in his mind, grinding away round and round, lacerating and inflaming his feelings every time they passed. In such a state, a tearful scene with Nora would be
more than he could stand, he decided; so when the two women came out of the scullery he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, opening them only when the house door closed behind his daughter.

“Nora wants to know if you're still mad with her Cliff about those pieces,” said Millie, vigorously clearing the table.

“I'm not all that pleased with him, Millie,” said Ernest sardonically.

“He's only young,” said Millie in her comfortable voice.

Ernest snorted.

“Little Ernie was that disappointed you were asleep,” continued Millie from the scullery. “He kept on calling for his grandpa. It was laughable, really.”

Ernest knew that this was decidedly an exaggeration of the truth. He understood perfectly that Millie was trying to work on his feeling for his grandson, who bore his name, in order to make him feel friendlier towards his grandson's father. He had often smiled at such manoeuvres before, but tonight, with financial disaster hanging over all the family, he felt that it was all deeply pathetic, even tragic; more than he could bear. He closed his eyes again.

“If you're not feeling so well, Ernest, why don't you go up to bed, love?”

But Ernest did not want to go to bed. He was afraid of beginning another night of anguish like the last. If he sat quiet, kept very still, he did not feel too bad.

“Why should I go to bed?” he said with false cheerfulness.

“Do you want the telly on?”

“I'm not bothered. Where's the newspaper?”

He pretended to look at the evening newspaper for some time, while the events of the day laboured painfully through his mind again and again, as before. Millie got out her knitting. It grew dark; Millie rose and put on the light and drew the curtains.

“Why, it's raining!” she exclaimed, looking out. “Ken'll get wet, walking home.”

“Serve him right,” said Ernest. (He thought: “If I were to go on sickness benefit, Ken wouldn't be able to keep up the payments on that bike,” and he felt sorry for his son, so unconscious of the disappointment hanging over his head.) “Good thing Iris took her coat.” After a moment, because he was feeling chilled to the marrow except in his head, which felt very hot, he ventured to throw out in a casual tone: “It's turning cold, too.”

“Would you like a bit of fire?” cried Millie.

“I reckon I would,” said Ernest in a tone of surprise, as if he had never thought of a fire before in his life.

Millie bustled about and soon had a fire going. It was pleasant sitting there with the flames leaping up the chimney, and Millie opposite, smiling and knitting, and the ball of yellow wool rolling between. Or rather it would be pleasant, if this anger and fear were not gnawing continually at his heart.

“There's a car stopping at our door,” said Millie.

Ernest's blood seemed to freeze.

“Who can it be?” wondered Millie. She went off into a brisk discussion of possible family visitors, concluding: “Perhaps it's not for us.”

However, a knock came.

Millie went to open the door.

“Why, it's Mr. Barraclough, Ernest!” she said, surprised.

“I thought it might be,” murmured Ernest grimly.

“Good evening, Mrs. Armley. May I come in? I just want a word with Ernest. Good evening, Ernest.”

“Good evening, Mr. Arnold,” said Ernest coldly, not stirring from his chair.

He nodded sideways at Millie who, understanding the signal, went away at once into the scullery, leaving the two men alone. Mr. Arnold sat down in the old rocking-chair.

“Here it comes,” thought Ernest.

2

“I must apologise for intruding on you after working hours, Ernest,” began Mr. Arnold.

“Humbug as per usual,” thought Ernest. “He's in a better mood than he was this morning, though. Done a good stroke of business, I expect.”

“But I was so vexed about those Bedford cords this morning, for one reason and another, that I'm afraid I spoke a bit sharp without getting to the bottom of the matter. What really happened, eh?”

“I wondered you didn't come up and have a word about them,” said Ernest crossly.

“I've been away from the mill all afternoon. What really happened?”

“I missed my bus and was late, and the lads put those cords on to be cropped ordinary, in the absence of special instructions. Of course if I'd been there, I should have set the machines different.”

“That's a bit of Cliff's work, I suppose,” said Mr. Arnold grimly.

Ernest said nothing. He would not give away any fellow-worker to a boss, much less his own son-in-law.

“Well, it won't do young Cliff any harm to be taken down a peg; like all young men he's inclined to think too much of himself. But when you missed the bus you cost Holmelea a packet, Ernest, and that's a fact. Was your alarm clock wrong or something?”

Ernest cleared his throat. It grieved him to the heart to appear careless and irresponsible, but short of admitting his illness there was nothing else he could do.
(Finding the work a bit heavy, eh?)
He set his jaw.

“I missed the bus, that's all,” he said gruffly. “It won't happen again. That's all there is to it.”

There was a pause. Mr. Arnold looked put out and disappointed.

“In all the thirty years I've known you, Ernest, I've never known you late before.”

Ernest remained silent and gazed obstinately at the fire.

“Nay, I'm losing my eyesight now on top of everything,” he thought in despair, for a cloud of steam appeared to him to be rising on the hearth.

“I'm afraid I'm a bit wet,” said Mr. Arnold apologetically, leaning forward and holding one of his trouser legs towards the fire. More steam poured out.

“But did you get as wet as that just coming up my steps?” exclaimed Ernest, astonished.

“No. I've been involved in a bit of an unpleasant affair,” said Mr. Arnold in a reluctant tone. “Up Blackstalls Brow way. An old man gassed himself, alone in the house with a pregnant daughter. We had to help carry him down to the ambulance, and find her husband, and all that. No time to put on a raincoat.”

“Why, you must be soaked!” exclaimed Ernest. “Millie!” he shouted.

Millie appeared in the doorway.

“Put the kettle on and make a cup of tea. Mr. Arnold's soaked.”

Without thinking—for any man who was wet must be warmed and dried—Ernest bent forward to throw more coal on the fire. The swift movement brought an agonising stab of pain. Ernest involuntarily gave a sharp cry. He sat back, clutching at his stomach.

“Why, you're ill, Ernest!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold. “What's wrong, eh?”

“It's nothing,” said Ernest, straightening up. “Make up the fire, Millie.”

“He's been poorly for some time, Mr. Barraclough,” burst out Millie on her knees before the fire, energetically piling on
coal. “He's seemed better lately, so I haven't bothered, but yesterday he took a sharp turn for the worse. He was up most of last night, being sick and that. He thought I was asleep, but of course I wasn't. Me and Kenneth both told him this morning he wasn't fit to go to the mill, but he's that obstinate, you know. Right down stubborn when it's anything to do with his work.”

“Have you been to the doctor, Ernest?”

“Aye, I've been.”

“What does he say about you, then?”

Now that the catastrophe had happened and his illness was revealed, there was a certain grim satisfaction in admitting it at its worst.

“I've got myself a rich man's disease, seemingly,” said Ernest. “A stomach ulcer.”

“Oh, Ernest!” exclaimed Millie. She turned towards him, still on her knees, and tears came into her eyes. “You might have told me, you might indeed.”

“Ulcers come from worry. You'll have to go to bed for six weeks or so and drink milk,” said Mr. Arnold. “That's what my father-in-law, who was a doctor you may remember, used to prescribe.”

Ernest was silent.

“Now I take a real look at you, I can see you're thin and a poor colour. I wonder you didn't keep him at home before this, Mrs. Armley,” said Mr. Arnold in a tone of some reproach.

“He never told me a word of what it was till this minute,” wailed Millie. “I never heard a word of an ulcer till tonight.”

“Have you been to the doctor again this afternoon?”

“No—I didn't leave the mill,” said Ernest, offended. Just because he was ill and missed a bus, was he to be suspected of a complete disregard of duty?

“Well, you'll have to stay away tomorrow and go to the doctor, that's certain,” said Mr. Arnold. “And then see you do
exactly what he says. See you look after him well, Mrs. Armley, for I can't do without him—the thought of young Cliff managing the cropping makes my hair stand on end.”

“You'll have to look after it yourself,” said Ernest slowly.

“Yes, I reckon that's what it'll come to,” said Arnold with a sigh.

“Or get another foreman cropper,” said Ernest. In spite of himself his voice quivered as he made this crucial suggestion.

“Oh, talk sense, Ernest,” said Mr. Arnold irritably. “You'll be back in a few weeks. Now let's see. You'll draw your National Health sickness benefit, of course. How much will that be, now?”

“I've no idea,” snapped Ernest untruthfully. “I've never had occasion to draw it.”

“Well, they'll know in the mill office. We shall make up the difference between that and your usual wage, of course. That is, if I'm allowed by the insurance regulations. Heaven knows what we're allowed to do nowadays. I'll make enquiries. In any case, we can get round it one way or another—a lump sum out of the general account, if necessary. I'll manage it somehow. Clifford can bring it up for you—he lives nearby, I think?”

“It's very good of you, Mr. Arnold,” began Ernest in an angry tone: “But I don't want anything but what's my rightful due.”

“Oh, rubbish, man! It's customary. Well, I'm glad I came up tonight.”

“So am I, Mr. Barraclough, because he'd never have told you if you hadn't found out,” said Millie, getting up from the hearth. “He takes everything so much to heart, you know. As I always say, Ernest by name——”

“What about that tea, Millie?” snapped Ernest.

“Well, if you'll excuse me, Ernest,” said Mr. Arnold: “It just occurs to me that my boy's out there in the car and he's as wet as I am.”

“Will he come in and have a cup?” said Millie. “He could dry by the fire.”

“That's very kind of you, Mrs. Armley. But he's got to go back to school at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so I'd better take him home quickly to his mother, or she'll be on my track.”