South Riding (24 page)

Snaith was permitting Sir John Simon—the tom on the hearthrug—to curl a luxurious tongue round his fingers, removing the last flavour of buttery anchovy paste, when his manservant Christie (husband and appendage of his housekeeper) appeared and announced the arrival of Mr. Huggins.

“I’ve put him in the dining-room, sir.”

“Oh, better ask him up. Give me a second to wash. I’m all over cat. And bring fresh tea—Indian—strong. And more toast. Don’t waste gin or cocktails. He’s a teetotaller.”

When Snaith returned, he found Councillor Huggins in the library. The big man seemed unhappy and excited. He had cycled from Pidsea Buttock, and his dark preaching trousers were mud-flecked, his thick fingers purple with cold.

Snaith made much of him, poked the fire to a brighter blaze, poured out strong sweet tea, pressed on him slices of hot savoury toast dripping with butter, and watched physical comfort, warmth and satisfaction slowly work their expected effect upon him. Meanwhile he talked easily of this and that, of the recent storm, of a celebrated preacher visiting Kingsport, of a local motor accident. He would let Huggins take his own time and make his own approach to whatever subject had inspired this visit.

Meanwhile he gently rolled in the hearthrug, with his pointed patent leather shoe, the vast billowing body of Sir John Simon.

At length his visitor pushed back his empty cup and wiped his beard.

“Aye. That’s good. That’s just what I wanted. Beer drinkers don’t know what they miss.”

“They say we don’t. However, on a cold February afternoon I agree with you. Tea’s the thing.”

Huggins made further business with his great white handkerchief.

“What d’you think of Carne’s new move?”

“Oh—that,” Snaith smiled indulgently.

“Think he’ll be able to do anything? There’s more than one or two on the ‘Roads and Bridges’ think anything he says is gospel if it’s about farmers.”

“It’s a pity,” murmured Snaith, “that, as a spokesman of smallholders, he has made such a mess of his own farming.”

“Mess?”

“Well?—he’s failing, isn’t he? Of course, I don’t know. Not my business. But I understand he’ll have to borrow heavily if he’s to see this year out.”

“But that hardly affects his position on the council. If he gets all the men south of the railway line organised to oppose our Kiplington Road, and does a bit of lobbying among the farmers too—you know how they feel when it comes to motorists and holiday resorts.”

“I see your point. I see your point, of course. If he could do it, then, I admit, it would be awkward. But—”

“And if he stopped the road, what about the Leame Ferry Waste Housing Scheme?”

“Precisely. But he won’t—at least—I should be very much surprised. Oh, he’ll get busy. Hold meetings perhaps. Lobby a bit. Spend more than he can afford, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Afraid the new developments north will detract from Maythorpe land values. But—I don’t think you need be frightened.”

Snaith rolled the big cat over and lifted his foot. It clung, all four paws clasped round the shoe, until it was perhaps fifteen inches off the ground, then dropped, turning nimbly in the air—a perfect mechanism, supple as silk for all its heaviness. Snaith watched with undisguised and eager admiration, his light eyes shining. Huggins stared, amazed that a sane man should show so much interest in a cat, uneasy, awkward.

Snaith spoke again.

“Have you gone any further in your Ferry Waste housing scheme?”

“Mine?” gasped Huggins.

“Well—ours,” conceded the smiling alderman handsomely.

“Well—I. I thought. . . .”

“Waiting to be certain about the road first? You’re wise. But it will be all right. Astell, for one, is dead keen. He and Rushbottom have been going into figures. Of course, I suppose they’re right—keeping it quiet still, until they’re certain about the road. Myself—I’d thought of taking my coat off and stumping the country on it. But—they’re experienced men.”

Huggins still gasped. Surely the scheme was Snaith’s; the plans were Snaith’s; the secrecy was Snaith’s? Had his ears deceived him? He watched the delicate finger trace the long vertebrae of the outstretched cat from head to tip of tail.

And, under his long pale eyelashes, Snaith was watching Huggins, measuring his bewilderment and credulity, wondering when he would come to the point and reveal the object of his visit. A big hulking fellow, Snaith decided. But not unlikeable. There was something rather childish and appealing about appetites so naive and powerful, even something heroic. The man had eloquence too. That fervour often went with a rich sensuality. Probably scattered bastards in the trail of his prayer meetings. There was, indeed, a new tale about a girl from—now—which village? Yet he’s not without sensitiveness, nervous but dogged. I bet he’s in low water. Snaith’s thin lips twitched with their secret smile. For when men were in low water, they came to him, Snaith, and he helped them; and when he had helped them, he had power over them, and, he told himself sardonically, he had taken to secret power as another man will take to secret drink. There are prettier pursuits. He had no illusions about himself; but he set certain credit marks against the ugliness. He did not bully; he did not use the power necessarily for his own profit. He was, in a queer kind of way, disinterested. All that he asked was relief from the sense of impotence in this very certain and concrete exercise of his will.

A man like Huggins would have no such temptation. In his preaching, in his wenching, he would experience swift and immediate response. It was a shame that so healthy and fine an animal should be thwarted in the satisfaction of his natural appetites by financial pressure. Civilisation was all wrong.

“You don’t look too well, Huggins. Been over-doing things?”

“I’m worried. That’s top and bottom of it, Mr. Snaith.”

“I’m sorry. Family all right?”

The big man gulped with relief as though a rope had been thrown to him when he was drowning.

“My daughter Freda—her that married young Armstrong of Redcar—a tobacconist—nice young fellow.—She’s left him, Mr. Snaith. She’s left him. Come home to us bringing her nipper with her, saying she wants a legal separation. I don’t know what to do. I don’t like it, you know. For better, for worse, I say. But you can’t force a woman.”

He sighed gustily. Almost in that comfortable room, he believed in Freda’s broken marriage.

“I’m sorry—that sort of thing.” Snaith’s gesture indicated distaste and condolence.

“I don’t want it all in the paper. Not with me in my position. Of course, money’s at the bottom of it. They’ve got into debt. . . .”

“Ah-h?”

The grey face was sympathetic and inquiring. The foot and hand caressing the cat were still.

“You see, it’s like this.” Huggins leaned forward confidentially. In his mind was the picture of Freda and her noisy, ill-disciplined boy filling the house with tumult and upsetting Nellie. Bessy Warbuckle hardly existed for him. “I haven’t told any one. I keep my own troubles to myself—and your own daughter—that’s different. That cuts deep. But you’re a good living man and a Wesleyan. You know my position.”

Snaith nodded gravely, really anxious to hear the big man’s story, and prepared to believe quite half of it.

“Here’s my girl. Been married five years. Nice young fellow. One boy. Tobacconist’s shop on front at Redcar. But you know how things are. Seaside places quiet as the tomb. He’s been losing steadily and while he loses, his nerves go to pieces. Shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t lift his elbow a bit. She says so. No women, mind you. ‘Mental cruelty,’ she says. Mental my eye, I say. I know Armstrong. It’s fear of the future. He’s been gambling a bit too. And now they’re building a cinema next his shop and it’ll double the value of the business, so the bank’s threatening to foreclose. Five hundred pounds he owes—for they could make a good profit on it and then he’ll lose everything—everything.”

Tea, emotion and fire had pimpled Huggins’ brow with sweat. He wiped it, glancing anxiously at the alderman.

“Five hundred pounds,” nodded Snaith thoughtfully. “Five hundred pounds.”

“Three years ago, I’d have had it. Two years ago I could have raised it. If I could see my way of paying back I’d borrow it this minute. I’m fond of my girl. Maybe I’ve spoiled her a bit. I don’t want this to go bad on her. Love and money—they do get mixed like this. But—you know how it’s been. Business is bad—bad. I can’t see my way. . . .”

His voice broke.

He’s really crying, thought Snaith, working at the memory of that gossip about the girl as a tongue might work at a seed in a hollow tooth.

“I dare say—it’s possible—I might be able to help you.”

He hesitated deliberately. The man’s ravaged face, wavering between hope and fear, both interested and repelled him.

“I’d have asked you for a loan. I’d have come straight to you,” said Huggins with desperate candour. “But I tell you— I see no chance of repayment. I’ve been racking my brains. My business only just keeps going. I don’t make a hundred a year net profit. I’ve got an overdraft—and we’ve got to live.”

“Yes?” Snaith lifted the great cat and held it thoughtfully at arm’s length, as though assessing its weight.

“You’ve never gone in for real estate much, have you?”

Huggins gasped, then, thinking that the alderman was changing the subject before he could be touched for a loan, shook his head sadly.

“No. I’ve stuck to my own business. No side shows.”

“You’ve never thought of undeveloped property—even as part of your business? Those old warehouses that Chadwick put up, for instance, during the War? They might be useful in your business as storing-sheds, mightn’t they? A storehouse between Kingsport and Pidsea Buttock. Do a bit of depository trade in them—save haulage.”

Huggins frowned, unable to follow the reasoning of a shrewd business man who responded to his tale of debt with suggestions of further expenditure.

“They’re going for a song, I understand. Being so near my own property, of course, I was interested. You know them, of course—between Garfield and the Wastes—in fact, practically
on
the Wastes.”

“I dare say.”

“If the new road comes—they’d still be off it a bit. So the price hasn’t gone up yet. But
if
the Ferry Waste housing scheme went through—such property might become—quite an investment.”

“Why don’t you buy ’em, then?” asked Huggins, a little bitter to think that other men only had to put their hands in their pockets and could pay.

“No—no. That would hardly do. If I’m to steer this scheme through the council, I must have no personal profit to make by it—no private interest. That, of course, would be your difficulty too. But you’re not on the Town Planning Committee, are you? We
might
arrange something. If, of course, another fellow bought them. Some one you could trust—and you could have the loan of them for a time——”

“But how could that help me?”

“I don’t say it could. I only say that they’re a nice proposition. If I should consider making you a loan, to reduce your daughter’s overdraft, say, it wouldn’t be my fault if those were the only security you could offer me. I don’t say they’d be yours. But if they belonged to some one you could trust— your son-in-law, say, or, better still, perhaps, a friend of his. . . . If the property did happen to rise in value—he could of course sell out at a profit and pay me back, I’ve no doubt, say, in five years. Of course—you’ve probably got twenty better ideas of what to do with the money. . . .”

“I’m sure . . . I don’t know,” gasped Huggins, flushed dark red in the firelight.

He was thinking of the sheds; he could hand them over to Reg Aythorne, keep Bessy quiet, pay her off, five hundred.

“There’s a chap at Spunlington might consider it.”

Spunlington! That was the place, Snaith remembered. That was where the girl was.

“I should have to talk to him. I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” smiled Snaith.

Of course. That was it. Huggins was in trouble with a girl at Spunlington. Probably he needed the money for her. Even if he lost the whole sum, the fun was worth it. Snaith watched the preacher’s clumsy advances and withdrawals. He was certain now that he would accept his offer.

He watched him depart, half an hour later, with deep satisfaction, then returned to his arm-chair.

“It’s a shame, puss,” he remarked to the big cat on the hearthrug. “It’s a shame that a gentleman should be deprived of his natural pleasures.”

M
RS
. C
ASTLE
, believing that the sick required special protection from chills, colds, temperatures and perspirations, had not opened the low oblong windows of her husband’s bedroom since the previous November. Along the sill lay a sausage of red cotton stuffed with sand; a red plush curtain (a Hall cast-off) had been tacked across the door. A fire, banked high against the chimney, was never permitted, night or day, to die. So the atmosphere which greeted Carne, when he appeared each day to visit his sick foreman, almost knocked him over. High on the feather mattress of the broad brass bed reclined Mr. Castle, propped by a pile of pillows. His thick twill sheets were sun-bleached and soft as wool; his calico shirt was spotless; his round pink face was closely shaven, save for the frill of grey hair outlining his jaw from ear to ear. His hands, knotted with rheumatism but now unnaturally white, plucked the canvas into which he was laboriously poking two-inch strips of coloured rag. He was making a mat for the kitchen fireside. His stroke the previous March had deprived him of all power of his left arm and legs. His left eye was sightless. He was sixty-nine, a fat powerful man, a great meat-eater, and a shrewd experienced farmer. Carne had relied upon his practical judgment ever since, as a schoolboy, they had gone ferreting together.