Love and Money (30 page)

As she thought this, and gazed up into Walter's serious,
pitying, but not grief-stricken face, a spasm of hatred convulsed Lavinia's heart.

“I'll stop it if it's the last thing I do,” she thought, grimly sardonic.

A smile of triumph curved her pale hps as in a flash she saw how the thing might be done.

“Walter,” she murmured. It was an effort to speak, but luckily, though her words came out in a hoarse croak, they were quite audible and distinct.

Walter gravely took her hand. For a moment his familiar clasp reminded her of the days when his touch had been an ecstasy, but this only strengthened her determination. He should not confer ecstasy on another woman.

“Walter,” she said: “Look after May when I'm gone.”

“Yes, Vinny,” said Walter quietly.

“Walter, I want—I want—so as to be sure May is well looked after—I want you and Janet to marry and take care of her,” said Lavinia.

Walter's eyes widened and he gave her a strange look, while from the other side of the bed came a gasp. Lavinia decided not to make the effort needed to turn her head, but she knew that the gasp, of course, came from poor dear Janet. Oh, it was a wonderful stroke, wonderful! thought Lavinia with vindictive glee; killing two birds with one stone was nothing to it. A Crabtree cousin was handsomely provided for, a burden added to the Egmonts, and Walter kept for ever from his love. For he wouldn't dare to marry anybody but Janet after his wife had expressed a death-bed wish for the match. If he did everybody would talk, for of course the nurse would chatter; nurses always did. Lavinia smiled up at Walter in cruel triumph.

Just then a loud cackle came from old Mrs. Crabtree, who was holding herself upright by clutching the foot of the bed in her gnarled hands. Lavinia looked at her. She read —correctly—what was in her mother's face. In horror she made a supreme effort, turned her eyes towards Janet and then towards Walter. Janet was softly radiant, Walter puzzled but content. Of course, of course! It was Janet
whom Walter had been in love with all these last years! The good, quiet, nice Janet! Of course! They'd been too honourable to do anything about it, naturally, thought Lavinia with contempt, but Mrs. Crabtree's basilisk eye could pierce the secrets of the most cunning hearts, let alone those so simple and straightforward as Janet's and Walter's. In a lurid flash of rage Lavinia perceived that her malice had overreached itself; her death-bed utterance had simply made it easy for Walter to marry his love. “Well,” thought

Lavinia angrily, “at least I'll poison it for them; I'll——”

But it was too late now for Lavinia to do anything of any kind.

The Mayor Of Annotsfield, short, stout and shrewd if a trifle pompous and ungrammatical, rose to address the meeting.

“I have called this conference in the Council Chamber here tonight,” he began in his solid Yorkshire tones: “in order to take thought, as you might say, for the welfare of the strangers in our midst.”

“Old humbug,” thought Amos Cainge angrily.

“Those that some people call Displaced Persons,” continued the Mayor—“but of course the proper name for them is European Voluntary Workers. And by the way, I can't put that point too strongly, ladies and gentlemen.” (Indeed his gold chain quite rattled with his emphasis as he pounded the mayoral forefinger on the handsome mahogany rostrum.) “Because we don't want them to feel displaced any more. We want them to become part of our community. Of course, some of these E.V.W.s here seem to cling to a hope, cherish a hope as you might say, of returning to their native lands, to their own homes. But I'm bound to say that as things look to me now, in this New Year of 1950 just beginning, I think it's very unlikely that they will ever be able so to do. They will be with us, ladies and gentlemen, for always, and therefore it behoves us—each and every one of us—to try and help them to settle down.”

“Hear, hear,” said a big man with a flower in his buttonhole, lounging in the front row.

“That's Walter Egmont,” thought Cainge, cranning forward to get a better view. “Of course—
he
would.”

“We want to encourage them to fit in to the English way of life. Then they'll become a real asset to this country and make a valuable contribution to our life.”

“Let 'em join a Trade Union,” whispered Cainge to his
neighbour, who nodded. “That's the English way of life.”

“Now I know,” continued the Mayor, “that some people in this town have been upset by a number of disturbing cases coming before our law courts, in which these newcomers have been involved and indeed they've been convicted.”

“Serve 'em right,” muttered Cainge.

“These cases only put the point more strongly that we must do something to make these strangers feel at home with us, or these cases might increase and then where should we be? It would be too little and too late all over again.”

“Claptrap,” said Cainge contemptuously.

“So in my capacity as Mayor of this town I have invited to this meeting representatives of all the organisations in Annotsfield which are concerned with this problem. Employers, Trade Unions, Churches, social service and welfare organisations, Red Cross and so on—oh and of course women's organisations,” he added hastily, “who do such valuable work in our town—and the manager of the Annotsfield Employment Exchange is here on my left to represent the Ministry of Labour. And on the other hand we've invited two representatives from each of the various——” he paused and looked a little uncertain, then went on: “the various national groups who we have with us in Annotsfield today.”

“'National groups' is good. There's two lots of Poles and two lots of Yugoslavs not on speaking terms with each other,” whispered Cainge with relish into his neighbour's ear.

“We have also a few friends here who have travelled in these various countries and can speak some of their languages. I'm very glad to see such a large attendance here tonight,” said the Mayor, glancing a trifle uneasily in Cainge's direction: “And I hope some really practical suggestions will be put forward at this meeting as to how we can help these strangers in our midst.”

The Mayor sat down.

“Old windbag,” thought Cainge.

He glanced round and estimated the volume, length and origin of the applause. All the E.V.W.s clapped with immense fervour—“though they mostly won't have understood a word of it,“ sneered Cainge—and went on clapping in a loud unEnglish way until one of their number, a tall, slender, grey-haired, intelligent-looking chap with a long scar down one side of his face, turned round and smiled deprecatingly at them, when they all stopped at once. On Cainge's right a group of well-dressed, essentially middle-class-looking men sitting in the front row—”Wool Textile Employers' Council and such,” thought Cainge with bitterness—gave the Mayor's speech solid approval. Most of the women, of course, with their usual sentimental silliness, thought Cainge, clapped their gloved hands excitedly. But the benches round Cainge, occupied by fellow Trade Unionists, men and women, gave the speech only the few claps necessary to show a decent respect to the town's first citizen; their looks were glum.

The applause ceased and silence supervened.

“The subject is now open for discussion, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Mayor encouragingly, looking round.

A very thin woman at the back arose.

“It seems to me, Mr. Mayor,” she said in a clear acid voice: “That such a great amount is already being done for the E.V.W.s by employers, churches and other similar organisations, that anything this conference might do would only be very small by comparison.”

“Aye, that might be so,” agreed the Mayor, getting up: “But an unofficial, non-political, non-religious body such as this might be better able to do some things than an official organisation, you see. By the way, would speakers in future announce their names and the organisations they represent? Of course we all know Councillor Gladys Soskin,” he said, nodding and smiling towards the thin woman, “but if future speakers wouldn't mind—just for the convenience of the meeting.”

He sat down, Councillor Soskin thanked him for his convincing explanation, and silence fell again. Cainge was
longing to speak; indeed the whole of his slight, gingery, fiery person was quivering with impatience to do so. But he felt that it was too soon. There was nothing to answer yet. He must wait. He must let those Employers' Council chaps make speeches, get into it up to the neck, and then he would spring out and devour them in a searing flame. His hands shook with his eagerness, but he controlled himself, tightening his lips and looking away from the Mayor so as not to be tempted.

A tall solid man with a bush of grey hair rose from what Cainge resentfully designated the employers' bench.

“Morcar, Textile Employers' Council,” he said.

The reporters who had been lounging at their long desk sat up quickly and began to scribble, for Henry Morcar was a big man in the Annotsfield textile world.

“Would it start the ball rolling, Mr. Mayor, if each group of E.V.W.s told us what they specially lack, what they specially require?”

“That's a very constructive suggestion, Mr. Morcar,” said the Mayor. “Could our interpreters—and you, Mr. Edelmann, if you will, please—explain to our new citizens what we should like them to tell us?”

At this a babel of outlandish sounds arose, as loud discussions in various Eastern-European languages began, accompanied by vigorous gestures.

“I suppose Edelmann is that chap with the scar,” said Cainge's neighbour, watching the scene.

“Aye, I suppose,” returned Cainge impatiently.

“He's got a name you can pronounce, anyway.”

“He's happen Englished his real name so as to take us in, like.”

“Aye, happen,” agreed the neighbour.

Silence having been restored, the Mayor addressed each national group in turn. It appeared that the Ukrainians' most urgent want was a priest of their own faith. (“A priest!” thought Cainge, quite shuddering with repulsion at this word, to him a symbol of intrigue and oppression.) The Lithuanians, speaking through Mr. Edelmann, wanted a
room where they could meet in the evenings and dance. Councillor Soskin arose and offered a small room in the Sunday School of the church she attended. Mr. Edelmann thanked her on behalf of his group with great politeness and in surprisingly good English, but in a rather cool tone.

“They're not quite satisfied about this room, Mr. Edelmann, then?” said the Mayor.

“No. Excuse please, Councillor Soskin,” said Mr. Edelmann, bowing deeply to her, “but I fear the room will not be great enough. You see, they wish to dance. Their national dancings, their national singings, they need great rooms. We also, we Estonians, we need great rooms.”

“Unfortunately the large hall in our Sunday School is already in use almost every night,” said Councillor Soskin.

Similar regretful murmurs came from various parts of the meeting.

“Well, we'll make a note of it and get the Committee to investigate the matter. I'm hoping we shall elect a Committee from this meeting to get on with these various suggestions,” said the Mayor. “Now what about the Poles?”

The Poles complained with fire and bitterness about their lodgings. At this the manager of the Labour Exchange sprang to his feet and cried out with passion that all E.V.W.s were accommodated in hostels on their first arrival—if they moved into lodgings against his advice, and were cheated, it was entirely their own fault, entirely! Cainge smiled; the meeting was warming up.

Now it was the Estonians' turn.

“Mr. Edelmann,” said the Mayor.

Mr. Edelmann rose again. He was what women call a handsome fellow, thought Cainge grudgingly; sad-looking but dignified. His forehead was high, his nose long and fine, his grey eyes large and bright. His hands were slender; his cheap clothes somehow sat differently about his shoulders from those of the other E.V.W.s. In fact, he was just the type of man Cainge detested; not a worker; one of those upper-middle-class bastards like Walter Egmont—Cainge worked at Egmont's.

“Excuse please,” said Mr. Edelmann, bowing to the Mayor and to the four quarters of the meeting.

“All this la-di-da stuff! Pulling wool over our eyes!” thought Cainge.

“We wish to become good English citizens—good Yorkshire citizens,” said Edelmann, with a friendly smile. “But, you see, very difficult for us, because of language.”

“The language classes organised for you at the Technical College have been very badly attended,” said a bald man, springing up. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor. My name is Malhouse, head of the Technical College.”

“We cannot learn English from teachers who not know our language, you see,” said Edelmann. His smile faded and he looked stern.

“It occurs to me, Mr. Mayor,” said Morcar, rising: “Morcar, Textile Employers' Council—excuse me, Mr. Edelmann, for interrupting you, but it occurs to me that we might get help on this point from the United States, where they have immigrants speaking many different languages. I remember when I was over there a few years ago, hearing about it all. They must know how to tackle the problem. They may have text-books and courses and so on, written in Estonian.”

“It is good idea, very good idea,” said Edelmann, smiling and bowing. “I am happy of this idea.”

“Is there any other point you wish to bring up for your group, Mr. Edelmann, beside the provision of a large room, and better instruction in English?”

“Yes, excuse please, I have one more point, and it most important point of all,” said Edelmann, again looking stern. “You see, we cannot be good Yorkshire citizens when Yorkshire workers not welcome us. They dislike us. They look at us, as you say, down their nose. Not friendly in the mill.”