Heart of War (35 page)

The door burst open and his secretary hurried in – ‘They've downed tools, sir,' she said. ‘Mr Stratton sent me a message.'

‘Where?' he said. ‘Which shops?'

‘All of them, I think.'

‘Did Frank say why?'

‘The boy said it was because of the expert – Mr Franklin.'

‘Oh God!' Johnny exclaimed, getting up. ‘I told …' He bit off the sentence. It would be disloyal to pass the blame
onto Richard, though Miss Bamfylde knew that he had strongly opposed the hiring of the time-and-motion-study man, because she had taken the notes of the meeting.

Frank Stratton came into the room, followed a few seconds later by Mr Franklin, the efficiency expert.

‘Is everybody out?' Johnny asked.

Frank said, ‘Nearly all the men – not the shop foremen, of course. Only half a dozen women.'

‘Can we keep the plant going?'

Frank shook his head emphatically, ‘Not a hope, Mr Johnny.'

‘I suppose it's because of Mr Franklin?'

Frank said, ‘That's it. We've no union men here, and very few who even want to have a union. It started in the first shop Mr Franklin went into – the fuselage shop. I was there … the nearest men looked at him, then at each other, then downed tools … One said to me, “We're doing our best, and we won't have any outsider who doesn't know an aeroplane from a baby carriage” – begging your pardon, Mr Franklin – “telling us different.'”

Mr Franklin was a small man carrying a big notepad and pencil, with more pencils of different colours stuck in the breast pocket of his jacket. He gave a small, thin smile, ‘I do know the difference, actually, Mr Stratton … That's what the workers are afraid of.'

‘We'd better ask Mr Richard to come down,' Johnny said. ‘Please get him on the telephone for me, Miss Bamfylde.'

Richard Rowland was in a bad temper. This morning he'd received the bill for Mr Handle's hay rick, and it was not small. And this morning, too, Tim had scratched his initials in the paint of the car – a sacrilege. Susan had been pleased the boy knew what his initials were, now that he was officially a Rowland; and that he could write that well. She was determined to see the bright side of everything the little monsters did. And now, this strike at the factory!

He snapped, ‘We'll send out dismissal notices to all men on strike – and women – effective forty-eight hours from now. If they aren't back at work by then, the men will be conscripted. I'll see that they are. I have plenty of influence with the board here in Hedlington.'

The others in the room – Johnny and Frank Stratton – were silent for a while, then Johnny said slowly, ‘Do you think it would be wise actually to make that threat, Richard? They know we have to send the board the names of anyone we fire, or who quits.'

After a time Richard said, ‘You're right. They know, and if we don't make any threats they can't accuse us of intimidation. But … can Franklin do his work when the machines are idle?'

‘Some of it,' Frank said. ‘I'd have to be with him.'

‘Well, I'll tell him to carry on with you. I'll draft the dismissal notices with you now, Johnny. That's all.'

Frank said, ‘Mr Richard … I think we should ask the War Office to send down a pilot to talk to the blokes here about what the R.F.C. is doing in France. The day Mr Guy came for the funeral, and flew back, he didn't have time to speak to us, but everyone knew he'd been here. They were all talking about it, and nearly everyone had found a way to see him – pretending to be sick, or having to go the lavatory, or to the windows for a breath of fresh air, any excuse … It didn't help production that day, but it did for the next week.'

‘Good idea,' Richard said. ‘I'll telephone them.'

‘Another thing, sir … Even if the men come back to work, the government is going to use a finer and finer comb in all the factories, if you see what I mean. It can't lose men the way it has in France this summer without them needing more out there. And they'll have to come from the factories … to be replaced by women. If we want the best women – the most educated, the most intelligent and hardworking – we'll have to pay them better than we are.'

Richard snapped, ‘I'll think about it … Sorry, Frank. You're probably right. What about equal pay for equal work?'

Johnny said, ‘It'll cost us a bit to start with, but it seems the right thing to do … if it
is
equal work. They must do their own setting up, and so on.'

‘We've already established that. All right. I'll have the accountant work out the exact cost, and we may have to ask Fairfax, Gottlieb and Toledano's for more working capital. I know we can cable your father in New York, Johnny, but can we cable David Toledano out in Palestine, too? He can make his father understand what our problems are and why we need the capital.'

Johnny said, ‘I'm sure we can cable David – through the War Office, if necessary. Your father could fix that.'

‘Yes … We must start a training programme to fit women for more of the top positions … Perhaps a woman will be works foreman before the war is over. How would you like that, Frank?'

Frank grinned – his face thinner than before, his shoulders a little bent – but the same wonderful smile – ‘We'll have to wait and see, Mr Richard.'

Betty Merritt waited till after eight o'clock that evening before going to her brother's office. Ginger had long gone home to his little flat in Hedlington. The workers had been sent off at noon, without prejudice. Mr Franklin and Frank Stratton had left about half past five. The only lights burning in the whole factory were those in the drawing office, and the managing diretor's office.

At a few minutes past eight Betty turned her light out, picked up her bag, and walked out and down one of the factory's little ‘streets.' The night watchmen – a pair, armed with long staves and torches – flashed their lights in her eyes, and then said, ‘Good night, miss.'

Johnny was leaning back in his swivel chair, reading what appeared to be a printed folder, of small print, from some Government department. He glanced up as she came in, then went on reading. She sat down opposite him.

‘Time you went home, Johnny.'

‘In a minute, sis. This is the last thing I have to do.'

She said firmly, ‘It's past eight o'clock, Johnny. When did you get home last night?'

He put down the pamphlet, rubbing his eyes – ‘Oh, about ten.'

‘And the night before?'

‘Can't remember … early, I think … seven?'

‘Seven's not early, Johnny, and you know it. Stella's getting very lonely. When have you sat down and talked to her? Taken her out for a picnic … dinner and the theatre in London … just been with her, attending to her?'

‘I don't know. There's a war on, Betty. The R.F.C. needs this bomber and we've got to get it to them.'

‘Not at the expense of your marriage,' she said firmly. ‘Johnny, some older, more experienced women could stand
the loneliness, probably. Stella's barely twenty, and,' she drew a deep breath – ‘I'd rather you heard it from me than overheard it somewhere – she's drinking a lot.'

Johnny dropped the pamphlet, which he had still been holding, as though meaning to continue his perusal of it as soon as his sister left him alone. ‘Good God!' he exclaimed, ‘you can't mean it! Oh, I know she has a glass of sherry before dinner. I encourage her to.'

‘She has several glasses of sherry every morning,' Betty said, ‘and several more every afternoon. I've been round many times in the last few months, and every time she's been, well, a little sozzled. I suppose she takes a couple of aspirins and goes to bed about tea time, and is about recovered by the time you come home.'

‘I can't believe it,' Johnny said heavily.

‘You must. But it's only caused by loneliness. She's lonely for
you
, Johnny, for her
man.'
She emphasized the word ‘man' slightly.

Johnny said, ‘I'll go home right away, and I'll really try …'

‘Put aside one afternoon a week. Swear you'll never touch factory business, or any paper or document to do with it, on Sundays.'

‘I'll work it out, sis. You're right.'

‘Another thing … has Stella ever told you that she would like to have some work – a job?'

‘No,' he said. ‘She's sometimes talked about what fun it was being a V.A.D. before we were married, but that's all.'

‘I think you should encourage her to find some work – something that will keep her interested – driving an ambulance, going back to the V.A.D. …'

Johnny shook his head slowly, ‘She's my wife, sis,' he said. ‘I don't want her out all day, and she doesn't want to be. She'd have said so, otherwise.'

Betty realized that she was up against a deeply ingrained male attitude, or prejudice; at the moment, it was no good arguing.

She said, ‘Well, think about it. I'm going home.'

‘Do you need a lift?'

‘No, thanks, my car's here. Good night, Johnny.' She leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and went out.

Half an hour later Johnny drove the car into the little garage,
locked it in, and hurried to the front door. It was unlocked and he strode in, calling, ‘Stella, darling! I'm home!'

‘Johnny?' He heard her call from the drawing room. Her voice sounded strange and he hurried in, pausing at the door. She was in an armchair, dressed in her nightgown and a silk peignoir, legs sprawled, pom-pommed mules on her feet. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth hanging open.

‘Have you been drinking?' Johnny said.

She appeared not to have heard, but stared on over his head, a beatific smile on her face, her breath coming and going in small rhythmic shudders.

He dropped to one knee beside her, ‘Are you all right?'

She leaned forward and smacked a kiss on his forehead. ‘I feel wunnderful,' she said, slurring the syllables. ‘Havn' been drinking … not a drop since …' long pause, ‘… ten o'clock 'smorning.'

‘Are you sure you feel all right?' Johnny said anxiously. ‘Isn't this early for you to be going to bed?'

‘Just feel so good,' she said, ‘so good … so good.'

‘I'll make supper, darling. Mrs Hackler's gone home.'

The wide eyes focussed on him. Her arms came out, grabbing him round the neck. She flung wide her legs and pulled him on top of her, mumbling, ‘Don't want supper, want you … so good … so good …'

At that moment Richard Rowland was passing the Cottage on his way home to his own home, Hill House, three hundred yards farther on. As he switched off his engine and came out on the drive to walk to the front door, he paused a moment – listening. In the still night the guns from France were quite plain – tonight a definite sound, rather than the shuddering of the air which they usually were. The great Somme offensive was still grinding on – in the same place. He went into the house.

Summers met him at the door and helped him out of his coat and hat. ‘Dinner will be ready whenever you are, sir,' he said confidentially. ‘Mrs Baker said it would do no harm to hold it until you came home. It is shepherd's pie.'

‘Thank you, Summers.'

He walked into the drawing room, where Susan was knitting by a small coal fire. She looked up – ‘The inspector came from the children's courts. He said there won't be any
trial, or investigation, or whatever they do when children under age commit a crime. We'll have to pay for the damage, but I told him you already had. And he said we must keep a closer eye on them until they really grow out of their background … what they learned in the slums.'

He said, ‘We certainly must. What if they put an iron bar on the railway line next, and derail a train and a dozen people are killed?'

Summers came in and poured him a glass of Amontillado. Susan said, ‘I'll have a glass tonight, Summers.'

‘Certainly, madam.' The butler filled another glass and withdrew, closing the door silently behind him.

Richard said, ‘It's been a bad day – paying Handle … trouble at Hedlington Aircraft … Christopher told me he's goint to have to sell one of his farms, at least, if prices go up any more.' He drank from the tulip glass –
‘This
doesn't solve any problems, but at least it puts a rosier light on them.'

‘Richard, I have some news for you.'

He froze, the glass half way to his mouth – ‘What have they done now?' he asked.

‘It's not the children … I'm going to have a baby. I saw Dr Kimball today and he's positive. Early May next year.'

Richard lifted the glass to his lips and slowly drained it. His mind churned, trying to grasp what she was telling him. ‘It's not possible,' he said at last. ‘After eighteen years it …'

‘It is possible, and it has happened,' she said. She looked up at him, ‘Aren't you pleased?'

He dropped to his knees beside her, ‘Susan! Of course! After so long I'd given up hope … I can't believe it …' He bent forward and kissed her on the cheek – ‘My dearest …'

She bent, stroking his hair. After a while he stood up. He saw that she was crying, a half smile on her lips, the tears running silently down her cheeks.

A realization suddenly struck him and he burst out – ‘We needn't have adopted Sally and Tim!'

She said, ‘No, we need not have, but we have.'

‘Can't we … send them back? We don't need them any more. Heaven knows what they'll do to the baby.'

She said, ‘No, Richard. They must still be treated as our children in every way.'

Richard strode up and down the room, his mind in
turmoil. He had grown to hate those slum kids. But he was in a trap, and must live in it for the rest of his life. The only way was to make it bearable – work with Susan to turn those monsters into decent people, a young lady and a young gentleman. He rang the bell for the butler and when he appeared said, ‘Summers, we have some champagne cold, do we not?'