Ruined City (10 page)

She was silent.

'The bank wouldn't let you place your order here,' he said. 'They'd be afraid that something would go wrong, that it would be a bad ship and no security for their loan.'

'I know,' she said quietly. 'I know that is the difficulty. One must be practical.'

'It seems to me that it's the first few orders are the difficulty,' he said. The goodwill must be absolutely dead.'

'But that means that the Yard never can get started up again,' she said.

He had nothing to say to that.

She rose and faced him, and he rose in turn. 'I know that what you've said is true,' she said. 'And yet I don't believe it. This is a decent world, and things like that don't happen. Sharples is going through a bad patch now, but somehow we're going to get over it. Something we don't see will turn up, or somebody will come and help us get things like they used to be.'

He faced her, and his eyes were very soft. 'That is what you believe?'

'I believe that some day we shall get things right again,' she said.

He smiled. 'If there are many people like you in Sharples, you probably will.'

He turned to his accounts.

He worked on steadily all evening at his books, making up in length of hours what he was well aware was lacking in dexterity. In the middle of the next morning the Almoner passed through the office; he stopped her as she went.

'I'm going for a walk this afternoon,' he said. 'Is it possible to get into the shipyard? I'd like to see it.'

The gates are usually open,' she replied. 'Old Robbins is the watchman — he comes up here to outpatients. If you mention me he'll let you in,'

'Thank you so much.'

She considered for a minute. 'I've got visits in Baker Lane and round that way this afternoon. If you like, I'll meet you at the Yard. Say four o'clock.'

'Don't trouble if it's out of your way.'

She turned aside. 'I wouldn't mind seeing it myself — it's over two years since I went there. I'd like to see how tall the grass has grown.'

The Yard stood at a bend in the river, a mile or so up from the sea. It covered, Warren judged, about fifty acres of land; there were three large berths for building and two smaller ones, with quays, wharves, and a small graving dock. The Yard had been placed cleverly upon the bend of the river so that the three large slipways pointed down the stream, enabling quite large vessels to be launched in a small river. All this and other features of the Yard were pointed out by the old watchman, as he hobbled round with Warren and the Almoner.

'Admiralty vessels we built here, too — oh, a many of them,' he quavered. 'Seven Barlow destroyers there was at the Battle of Judand.'

Warren walked slowly after him, leaning upon his stick and asking keen, incisive questions. He judged the place to be in pretty good shape. The derricks and gantries exposed to the weather had not suffered gready from corrosion; so far as possible all gear had been removed and put in store, carefully greased and covered with tarpaulins. The woodworking machinery had all been sold; there had been no market for the heavier presses and the plate-manipulating rolls, and these remained in place. The buildings of the Yard were fair; the offices and stores were still quite good.

He lingered there till dusk. At the Yard gate he turned towards the girl.

'Thirty thousand pounds for capital re-equipment,' he said. 'And then the money to finance the order.'

She stared at him. 'What are you talking about?'

He smiled. 'I'm sorry — I was thinking aloud. But that's what it would cost to get it going again.'

'How on earth do you know that?'

He turned towards the hospital. 'I used to do a good bit of that sort of estimating,' he said. 'Over in America, of course.'

She eyed him doubtfully, but said nothing.

During the next week Warren wandered widely through the town on his afternoon walks. He went twice more to the shipyard and talked for a long time with the ancient at the gate. He paid a visit to the rolling mills. He went down to the fish quay at the harbour mouth and listened to the gossip of the boats — tb find if there was any silting of the river. In one swift hour of concentration in the hospital he learned the mystery of football pools, which led him to an hour's talk with a small newsagent that threw a great light on the failure of the Yard. He carried many parcels of washing to the homes of the patients, and for each parcel he was paid in some stray piece of information of the town.

He gained strength rapidly, unlike the people that he lived among. Before many days had passed he could walk long distances without his stick, and knew by that same token that his time in Sharples was drawing to a close.

There was one place more to visit before he left the town. He said to the Almoner, working at her desk:

'I want to see the mine, Miss MacMahon — before I go. Do you think that could be managed?'

She raised her head. 'You can't go down it.'

'I don't want to do that. I'd like to look around about the pithead — see the stores and offices.'

She glanced at him queerly. 'You've seen everything else in Sharples? And now you want to see the mine.'

He smiled. 'I've seen most things,' he admitted. 'Is it possible to see the mine?'

She stared at him, puzzled. 'I know one of the clerks who used to work there,' she said. 'He could show you all. there is to see. But what do you want to see it for?'

He smiled. 'To satisfy my curiosity,' he said blandly, 'It would be so kind of you if you'd give me his name.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'I'll come with you this afternoon.

The man lived in a little house in a row on the top of the hill some way outside the town, not far from the pithead. He looked white and ill, and very frail. He made no objection to taking them to the offices, and for an hour Warren pored over dirty, dog-eared plans, and talked production costs. He walked through the stores and engine shops, asking, questions that the little clerk found joy in answering, so long it was since he had talked his Business with a stranger.

At last they left the mine, and went back to the house. The Almoner went in with the pale clerk; Warren waited for ten minutes in the road outside
.
Then she rejoined him, and they strolled towards the town
.

'That's fellow's looking very ill,' he said
.
'Is he a patient?'

'Not yet,' she said briefly
.
'His wife has been attending for a long time
.
'

'What's the matter with him.'

'He isn't getting enough to eat, by the look of hirn. I've just spoken to him about it.'

Warren frowned. 'Surely the public assistance rates aren't so, bad as that? They're revised from time to time, aren't they? You don't just have to starve?'

She shook her head. 'No, you don't have to starve. The rates are all right — in theory, Mr Warren. You can keep alive and fit on P.A.C. relief — if you happen to have been born an archangel.'

'What do you mean?'

She stopped and faced him. 'It's like this. There's really nothing wrong with the rates of relief. If you are careful, and wise, and prudent, you can live on that amount of money fairly well. And you've got to be intelligent, and well educated, too, and rather selfish. If you were like that you'd get along all right — but you wouldn't have a penny to spare.'

She paused. 'But if you were human — well, you'd be for it. If you got bored stiff with doing nothing so that you went and blued fourpence on going to the pictures — you just wouldn't have enough to eat that week. Or if you couldn't cook very well, and spoiled the food a bit, you'd go hungry. You'd go hungry if your wife had a birthday and you wanted to give her a little present costing a bob — you'd only get eighty per cent of your food that week. And of course, if your wife gets ill and you want to buy her little fancy bits of things. . .'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'You've seen it up there.'

He was silent for a minute. She stood there looking at him, mute; there was no sound but the sighing of the wind over the hill. At last he said, 'That's terrible. Because it's so difficult to change. You can't expect people in work to pay for people who are idle going to the pictures, or giving presents to their wives. We haven't reached that stage of socialism yet. And that means there must always be starvation, in a small degree. Because people are human, and a little foolish sometimes.'

She faced him bitterly. 'There's only one cure for starvation — work! If only we could get some work back here! That's the only thing that allows you to be human and foolish, as you've got to be. My God, if wc could get some work back here again. . .'

He moved over to a gate and stood there leaning his arms upon it, looking out over the town. She came and stood beside him. He saw the river running down from the grey moors, the bend by the shipyard, the distant litter of the slips, the graving dock,
the
grey untidy huddle of the town. All crystal-clear, unsmirched by any smoke of industry.

At last he straightened up, and laid his hand upon her own. 'What would you say,' he said slowly, 'if I were to tell you that within a year there would be work back here again? That there would be ships building in the Yard, the rolling-mills working, and jobs for everybody in the town?'

She caught her breath. There was nothing real to her then but the pressure of his hand, his clear grey eyes,
the
firm lines of his chin.

'I don't know what you are, or what you've been,' she said unsteadily. 'But if you told rne that, I — I'd believe you.'

In silence they walked down into the town.

On the next day Warren left the town. He visited the ward, and said goodbye to the sister in charge. 'Ye've a long walk ahead of you,' she said, 'but it's a nice day ye've got for it. Take things easy now, and remember that ye're not long out of bed. And don't go on if you feel tired, especially about the wound.' He met the Matron in the corridor and said goodbye to her; she told him to call at the porter's lodge for a packet of bread and cheese. And finally, he went down to the Secretary's office.

Mr Williams and the Almoner were there. Tm going now,' he said. 'I just looked in to say goodbye and to thank you for letting me work on here.'

Williams held out his hand. 'Goodbye,' he said, 'and good weather for your walk. Let us know how you get on.'

Miss MacMahon picked up a pen and her pad. 'We'll want to know how you get on,' she said practically. 'Ten bob a week, as soon as you get into a job, we said, didn't we?'

Warren smiled. 'I'm sure I'll be able to manage that,' he said.'How much do I owe?'

'Four weeks at thirty-five shillings a week,' she said. 'That's seven pounds. I made a note out for you here, acknowledging the debt. Would you mind signing it?'

He took her pen, and signed it 'Henry Warren'.

'One more thing,' she said. 'You said you'd leave an address, where we could get in touch with you at any time.'

He hesitated for a moment. He would be closing down the house in Grosvenor Square, and he shrank from the explanations that would be involved if he were to give his club address in Pall Mall. 'If you write to me at a hundred-and-forty-three Lisle Court, London, E.C-3, it will get to me,' he said. Tm afraid I haven't got a very permanent address just now.'

'What is that — a private house?'

He told the truth, simply and boldly, having found in the course of much business that the truth was sometimes the best lie. 'It's an office where I used to work. They forward letters for me still.'

She wrote it down, and then held out her hand. 'Well, goodbye, and good luck. Don't forget us here in Sharples, when you get to London.'

He shook hands with her, and then stood for a moment. 'Everybody has been very kind to me in Sharples,' he said at last, 'and at a time when I most needed it. I promise you I won't forget,'

He smiled at them, and went out of the door. The Secretary turned to the Almoner. 'Yen's a queer customer,' he said.

The Almoner sighed, and shuffled with some papers on her desk. 'He's probably an impostor,' she said wearily. 'If he isn't, he must be a great man. Anyway, he owes us seven pounds.'

'What was that address he was giving you?' asked the Secretary.

'A hundred-and-forty-±hree Lisle Court.'

The Secretary reached under his desk and dragged out an old Post Office Guide. 'Let's see what that is. Lisle Court . . . A hundred-and-forty-three . . .' He ran his finger along the line. 'Hey, come and look at this.'

His finger showed her Warren Sons and Mortimer —Merchant Bankers.

They stared at it in silence.

'It's probably a coincidence,' said the girl. 'Anyway, he's out of the town by now.'

But Warren was not out of the town. Instead of taking the road south, he went to the Post Office and collected a letter that was waiting for him, on his instructions. He signed for it, slit it open, pocketed the twenty pounds and the cheque forms that it contained, and threw away the envelope. Ten minutes later he was calling at the house of Dr Miller, the surgeon who had done his operation.

The smart maid looked at him askance. The surgery is at six o'clock,' she said. 'I don't know as he'll see you now.'