The Rise of Henry Morcar (20 page)

His life outside his mills was at that time a procession of hotel
dining-rooms, waiters, large cigars, plates containing the change from massive bills, drinks on trays, tables bearing the wreckage of elaborate meals above which the smoke from many cigars thickly hung and curled, glances at his watch, hurried departures and arrivals by car, golf clubs, music-hall shows, evening dress, carnations in the buttonhole. He was able now to give himself all the swift and strident pleasures of the age, and because of their contrast with his restricted youth, his sojourn in the trenches, his postwar years of incessant work, because too of a deep relief in being like other men in these at least and because he did not want to have time to think, he drank them avidly, and soon could not do without them, though fully conscious of the bitter and unsatisfying quality of the draught. He usually stopped short, however, of pleasure with women, and in any case never allowed himself to become too deeply committed in such affairs, turning a cool and derisive eye on other men's excursions on that stormy and uncertain sea. Bought favours bored him—“I've had enough of them with my wife,” thought Morcar sardonically, for he considered he had bought Winnie's embraces by the protection of his name—while he should never have either the confidence or the wish again, he thought, to try for honest love—if indeed such a thing existed. Occasional Sunday luncheons in business colleagues' houses gave him glimpses of other men's home lives; wives who seemed fond of their husbands, children with curls and smiles who leaned against their father's knees and gazed wonderingly at Morcar. But such affairs were business occasions disguised; after the silver, the polished table, the lace mats, the expensive out-of-season food, the coffee, the liqueurs had played their part, the cigars were lighted, the wives vanished and the host began to talk about textiles.

For Morcar had no friends, only business associates whose hospitality he returned, lavishly enough, in hotels and clubs. Friends implied private confidences, and these Morcar was not prepared to make. He was not a member nowadays, either, of any of the associations with which northern England abounds. He did not go in for politics, national or municipal—why should he? What good had municipal service done his father? What good had his country's service done to him? He gave to charities when he was asked, but with a cool smile which discouraged further application. He had no artistic hobby, for he had never learned one. He never entered a church or chapel or any building which his mother would have called a “house of worship”; for since that moment on the stairs at Hurstcote, all religious practice was hypocrisy to him and all religious belief antiquated nonsense, mythology falsified by the experience of life.

In a word, his attitude at this time was typically that of the 1920's.

“Take a look at this, Harry,” said Mr. Butterworth, holding out a fold of cloth.

“What, another five-year plan?” said Morcar, laughing.

Mr. Butterworth's face remained grave, however, and Morcar's face changed too as the pattern came into his own hand. The cloth was a crude imitation of one of his own earlier designs. The yarns were coarser, the colours fewer and less delicate; nevertheless the resemblance existed and might deceive those inexperienced buyers, the general public, into the belief that they were obtaining a cloth equal to Morcar's at a much lower price.

“Well, it can't be helped,” said Morcar distastefully. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say, and there's no law against it in our trade. It's a dirty trick, but nothing can be done. If people are fools enough to think this is as good as mine, more fools they, that's all. They'll find the difference in the wear.”

“Aye, but look here,” said Mr. Butterworth. He turned to a corner of the pattern bearing a small adhesive label of the familiar type, oval, jimped at the edge. The label was marked in writing with various figures and letters to identify the cloth, and printed in the centre:
Soft as Thistledown
.

“What the devil!” exclaimed Morcar, colouring violently. “Thistledown! That's an infringement of my trademark, Butterworth!” That this travesty should bear the name of his own beautiful cloths enraged his every instinct, whether of art or trade.

“It doesn't actually call the cloth Thistledown,” pointed out the merchant.

“No—but the intention's plain,” said Morcar. “Whoever made this cloth and labelled it intended to deceive the buyer into thinking he was getting one of my Thistledowns. By God, I'll sue him!” he exclaimed, his anger mounting as the scope and probable consequences of the trick came home to him. “Who is it? I'll make him rue the day he printed those labels. Soft as Thistledown! Printed! I'll sue him, I'll show him up properly, I promise you!”

“There's a bit of a difficulty, you see, Harry,” said Mr. Butterworth in a soothing tone.

“Nonsense. It's a clear case. If the law doesn't think so, the law's a fathead. I'll bring the case anyway—I'll show him up—
I'll let the trade know the rights of the matter, choose how,” said Morcar firmly.

“Aye—but you see it's Shaw of Prospect,” said Mr. Butterworth.

“By God, I'll sue him!” cried Morcar, springing to his feet. “I'll not stand——” By a violent effort he checked himself; he had been about to say: “I'll not stand bastard cloths as well as bastard sons.” He struck the merchant's desk a savage blow with his fist; the pain relieved him, and he struck the desk again. “It's just what you might expect of Shaw of Prospect,” he said. Finding that his voice was thick with rage, he paused, swallowed, then remarked in a tone to which he strove to give a judicial calm: “But what are the Shaw lads about? Hubert and Eric? I shouldn't have thought they'd lend themselves to a trick of that kind?”

“They're not with him now, you know,” said Mr. Butterworth. “Hubert went off to Australia—he's in textiles there—and Eric's in South Africa growing oranges. Or it may be the other way round. Which was the one that flew?”

“Eric,” said Morcar mechanically, staring before him.

“Yes, Eric. It's he that's growing oranges.”

“I suppose they couldn't stand the old man. And I don't blame them,” said Morcar viciously.

“I've heard he's a bit difficult,” said Mr. Butterworth in a soothing tone. “But it's awkward for you, Harry, having worked for Shaw. He may contend that you made the design when you were at Prospect, you know. He may well contend so.”

“He can contend till he's blue in the face, but he shouldn't have used my trademark,” retorted Morcar. “It's no good, Butterworth—I shall have to bring a case. If I don't, we shall never see the end of it. I know——” he was going to say: “the Shaws,” but managed to turn it into—“the ways of Mr. Shaw. It isn't the first time he's done this sort of thing.”

“Well,” agreed Mr. Butterworth reluctantly: “You may be right. It may be a bit—painful, though. In the circumstances, I mean.”

Morcar gave him an angry look and went out.

He encountered the same arguments, phrased in more legal terms, from his solicitor—and one more cogent.

“When was the trademark registered?” enquired the current Nasmyth, who was now the son of the solicitor Morcar's father had employed, a University man, rather soft and sleek by Morcar's standards. “And where? At the Patent Office in London, or the Manchester branch for textiles?”

“Neither,” said Morcar bluntly. “It's not registered at all.”

“Not registered?” exclaimed Nasmyth, astonished.

“I'm afraid I didn't realise it had to be registered,” admitted Morcar. He felt sick with anger at his own ingenuous and ignorant omission. Put him against the Shaws, he thought, and they win, every time; in spite of his recent successes, his expanding experience, he remained naïve against their innate sophistication. If the charming name of Thistledown had to be sacrificed it would cut him deeply, in sentiment, pocket and reputation. He felt sore all over, raw to the touch, lacerated by anger and disappointment. But this time he would fight; this time he would not give in; he did not intend to be rooked by Mr. Shaw as he had been by Winnie.

“Trademarks should be registered, you know,” Nasmyth was saying, shaking his head. “If I had known … However, you can claim you have established a right by usage, I don't doubt.”

“I've used it for five or six years,” said Morcar.

“Pity you never thought to register it,” repeated the lawyer.

“It's mine by five years' usage—it's known as mine all over the world,” said Morcar fiercely.

“Useful but possibly difficult to prove,” began the lawyer, hesitating.

Eventually he agreed to send Mr. Shaw a letter of an astonished and enquiring turn, requesting an elucidation about the
Soft as Thistledown
label.

To this he received, on Prospect Mills notepaper, a reply in Mr. Shaw's thick small black script, curtly denying any infringement. Nasmyth thereupon repeated emphatically to his client all the considerations tending to the doubtfulness of his case and the probability that he would lose it if he took it to the courts.

“You note that Mr. Shaw has not even thought it worth while to take the matter to his solicitor,” he pointed out.

“He thinks I shan't go to extremes because of family considerations,” said Morcar hardly. “But he's wrong. Don't you see, Nasmyth,” he urged: “To clear my own reputation with my customers, I'm bound either to secure a withdrawal from Shaw, or make his deception public. If I can't do that, I shall have to give up the Thistledown trademark myself and adopt another. I daresay I shall have to do that in any case—Shaw's ruined it by putting out poor crude stuff under that name.”

“Losing a court case doesn't tend to clear the reputation,” Nasmyth advised him gloomily.

“I shall press for damages,” said Morcar, stubborn.

Nasmyth sighed. “I'd better get you a Counsel's opinion,” he said. “And then we'll see.”

“Aye, do,” said Morcar. “Get it from somebody who specialises in trademarks, if there are such people—somebody up and coming, a young man who isn't afraid of a fight.”

“I'm afraid you are confusing a Counsel's opinion with a barrister's brief,” said Nasmyth in a dry legal tone.

“Well, you know what I mean,” said Morcar impatiently.

The lawyer bowed his head to signify assent.

A few days later he informed his client that the counsel he had consulted—Harington, Edward Mayell Wyndham Harington, a rising junior with whom he had been at college, he explained—would like a conference before giving his opinion, as one or two knotty points seemed to be involved. Morcar snorted derisively at this but agreed to attend the barrister's chambers, provided the conference could be fixed for a day when he would be in London in any case on business.

The following week he found himself ascending the worn stone stairs of one of the inns of court behind the black-coated Nasmyth. His surroundings alarmed him; he viewed the fine old square, the paved walks, the well-rolled grass, the occasional slight tree, the ancient buildings, the solid oak doors, the small old rooms, the piles of tin boxes white-lettered with clients' names, with mingled awe and derision; they seemed to him to symbolise, to sum up very accurately, in their ancient beauty, the nonsensical out-of-date processes of the law, which were entertaining to look at but death to engage in. Seeing them, all the layman's distrust of lawyers returned to him in strength; he warned himself that this was not his proper place and he had better not venture too far into it.

“If this fellow's opinion isn't very strongly favourable,” he said to himself: “I'd better drop the case and change the trademark.”

But what guarantee was there that Mr. Shaw, emboldened by his son-in-law's retreat, would not repeat his trick? Morcar ground his teeth and greeted bad-temperedly a man of about his own age, rather fair, rather plump, rather bald, with large pale grey eyes, a fresh complexion, very handsome cuff links and a look of mingled arrogance and power. This was presumably Edward Mayell Wyndham Harington, thought Morcar grimly. He took a dislike to the barrister on sight, which was not modified by the sound of his voice. This was strong, resonant, even beautiful in its mellow cadences, but it contained those inflexions which the north-country Morcar despised as southern affectation, and was perhaps rather too consciously employed.

“There are two points, Mr. Morcar, which seem to need clarification,” began the barrister when the party was seated.
“The first concerns your employment with Mr. Shaw. Was this trademark Thistledown ever used during that employment?”

“No,” said Morcar. “The cloth was not then invented.” It occurred to him that this was rather strong, considering the French manufacture which had given him the idea, and qualified it by adding: “In this country.”

“And when did that employment terminate?”

“August 1914,” said Morcar with some satisfaction.

“Oh? There was no post-war employment?”

“In 1919 I was employed by Mr. Shaw for one night. I received no pay and did not enter his mill.”

There was a pause; the barrister looked at the lawyer, who said with a cough: “The employment was terminated by a family disagreement, as I understand.”

“You assure me that any disagreement that might have occurred then did not concern this cloth or trademark, Mr. Morcar?” pursued the barrister.

“I tell you that neither the cloth nor the trademark was thought of in the West Riding before 1922 or 1923,” said Morcar angrily.

“1923—that was when you first made the cloth and used the trademark? Now what was the difference between the cloth you assisted in making while with Mr. Shaw and the Thistledown made by you alone in 1923?”