The Rise of Henry Morcar (38 page)

“What do you want me to look at?” he said roughly.

Mrs. Morcar refolded the paper to show a paragraph headed
Technical College Successes.
Her trembling wrinkled finger moved down the lines.
Textiles: Fourth year Course
, he read:
C. H. Morcar.
A violent anguish stabbed his heart; his whole body seemed to wince, to shudder, to be ready to dissolve.

“Your son. My grandson, Harry,” quavered Mrs. Morcar. “You see, he goes to the Technical just as you did.”

“I see he's only passed third-class,” said Morcar hoarsely.

“He's at Prospect Mills,” quavered Mrs. Morcar. “He oughtn't to be in that horrid dark place with Mr. Shaw, Harry, he ought to be at Syke Mills.”

“Never!” exclaimed Morcar with passion.

“Harry, I want to see him.”

“You can't see him here.”

“When I lived in Hurst Road I used to see him about, quite often. He always spoke to me. But here I never see him.”

The maddening thought of Winnie's derision of his mother's interest in a grandson not her own stung Morcar.

“In another minute I shall tell her the truth,” he thought savagely. “And why not? Why take the blame? Why spare her? Why spare Winnie?” He took a breath and began: “Mother.” But then the thought flashed across his mind: “The truth would blister worse than mustard.” He bit his lip and turned away.

“You must do as you like, Mother,” he said. “But for my sake, don't approach Winnie, and don't have the lad here.”

The next pictures in Morcar's mind were those of defensive preparations for war. He remembered the events of 1939 by his own preparations, for they marched with those of England—or possibly, thought Morcar, sometimes a trifle in advance.

In March Hitler annexed Czechoslovakia and Morcar passed his anti-gas examination. He felt a fool writing answers on lined foolscap sheets for a couple of hours, and still more of a fool sitting like a schoolboy in front of a uniformed police inspector meekly naming the defects in an imperfect gas respirator and stating the necessary strength of cleansing formalin solutions. Still, he passed; Nathan also passed.

Two days later Mr. Chamberlain observed at Birmingham that there was one thing he would not sacrifice for peace, and that was liberty.

“He's coming round to my way of thinking,” said Morcar.

“Aye—getting quite bold,” replied Nathan.

The two were standing outside the improvised gas chamber, waiting for their test. They put on their Civilian Duty Respirators, tested them with care, entered the hut. Nothing whatever happened and Morcar felt jolly. Then the instructor gave the signal to remove the masks. The pastille burning in the corner gave off only a mild tear gas, but Morcar suddenly foresaw damage to his eyes, his nose, his lungs—it took all his courage to await the signal for departure; he longed to dash immediately from the room.

“I don't know as I want to do that again in a hurry,” remarked Nathan soberly as he removed his mask and smoothed up his front curl.

“Same here,” said Morcar.

Hitter annexed a chunk of Lithuania—a country which Morcar had to look up on the map—and sent forces to East Prussia which presently began to seep over into Danzig. Morcar drove a lorry in his gas mask, drove a lorry up and down the steep twisted streets of the West Riding in a practice blackout, lifted patients on to stretchers in a practice raid.

The following week Mr. Chamberlain announced that Britain would go to the support of Poland if her independence were threatened, and Morcar began a special “rush” course, three nights a week, in First Aid. He wrestled with anatomy; Mrs. Morcar was required to hear him recite the names of bones and the position of major pressure-points; he bandaged everyone in range, not unskilfully, and argued the respective merits of large and St. Johns arm-slings with Nathan.

In April Mussolini annexed Albania and President Roosevelt sent a message to the totalitarian powers urging them to declare that they would not make armed attack upon any of a long list of countries which he named.

“Seems to be a good sort of chap, this Roosevelt,” said Nathan.

“Aye—for an American,” said Morcar.

“Perhaps we shan't need all this after all,” went on Nathan, as they sat waiting their turn to have their rendering of a bandaged femur judged at the practical examination.

“I shouldn't like to bet on it,” said Morcar.

Britain established a Ministry of Supply and introduced a Conscription Act; Morcar was asked to become Chief Air Raid Warden for Stanney village and district. He accepted, and with a good deal of hard work established the necessary posts and personnel.

Hitler laughed at Roosevelt's speech and said that Danzig must be reunited with Germany. Morcar and Nathan inspected the Syke Mills basements and decided which to strengthen for an air-raid shelter. Morcar employed an architect to draw up the plans.

In May, Germany and Italy signed a political and military alliance. Britain guaranteed the independence of various small nations and signed a treaty with Turkey. Morcar bought up several thousand yards of lining material and had it dyed black.

In June and July, Great Britain tried to sign a pact with Soviet Russia, while German “volunteers” oozed thickly into Danzig. Morcar built his air-raid shelters, and strengthened a cellar at Stanney Royd.

During the last few months Morcar had seen very little of David Oldroyd, for though they were both busy on defence work, their tasks were different owing to the difference in their age. When Morcar caught an occasional glimpse of him he noticed that the boy looked wretched. He was not altogether surprised at this, for he knew that Harington was doing his best to keep Jenny and David apart. The barrister did not indulge in an open break but strove to undermine the friendship insidiously; he did not forbid David his home, but forebore to invite him to it, which in view of the distance between Yorkshire and London, Yorkshire and Oxford, had much the same effect. But Morcar could not feel very troubled about the young lovers. With Christina and himself on their side, they had powerful allies; they were very young; after all Harington could not prevent Jenny's marriage when she came of age if she were really determined about it; Old Mill was (he understood from many indirect indications) doing very nicely; and Harington was essentially a coward as well as a bully in
personal relations. Still obstinately persisting in his view that Hitler's appetite could be appeased by the chunks of Europe he successively swallowed, Harington intended to go abroad for his summer vacation, but Morcar opposed this so emphatically, refused so entirely to set foot across the Channel, to approach the lair and place his head in the mouth of the wolf, that Harington was shaken and reluctantly consented to remain in England. To please Jenny it had been arranged that the family should spend a week at the Malvern Festival after their time at the sea. Morcar was so busy rushing off all possible exports with one hand so that they might escape the hazards of war, and turning over to the manufacture of khaki with the other, that he could not be absent from Annotsfield for long, but he joined them for a few days at Malvern.

It was a pleasant experience, a delightful interlude. The sun shone, the little town was crowded with enthusiastic young people in light flannels and bright frocks; one took coffee on the lawns in the morning and waited for Jenny to emerge from the lectures; in the afternoon one watched Jenny playing tennis, or drove through the hilly green countryside; in the evening after an admirable dinner—the hotel was good—one walked along to the theatre and saw a play. Jenny commented shrewdly on these plays, and it was interesting to observe how often her remarks coincided with those of the critics in the better newspapers. Harington's delighted pride in Jenny made him less disagreeable than usual; Morcar shared his pride and Christina's fond affection for their daughter. It struck him, however, that Jenny was not quite her usual self. Never a bouncing or kittenish type, Jenny had usually a good deal of ardour, a joyous smile and a nice wit at her disposal; this week she seemed quiet, listless, preoccupied. Considering that she played tennis for her college, her game seemed dull; her grey eyes lacked sparkle and she argued with her father rarely. On his side Harington seemed to take an almost apologetic tone with her, as if trying to please. “To appease, is the word,” thought Morcar. One day the barrister offered to drive his daughter a considerable distance to see some battle site of the seventeenth century—the seventeenth century, it seemed, was Jenny's special period. Morcar and Christina were left together; they drove off towards the Wye and spent a gloriously happy day in each other's company. As they walked back along a woodland path to the lane where they had left Morcar's car, their fingers interlaced, Christina's lovely face suddenly clouded and she exclaimed:

“Poor Jenny!”

“What's the matter with her? I've noticed something wrong.”

“It's David, you know. He was to have come to the Festival—not as our guest, just on his own at another hotel. A much cheaper hotel of course, poor pet.”

“But why hasn't he come?” said Morcar, astonished. “He loves her nearly as much as I love you.”

“Nearly?” said Christina, smiling and swinging her lover's hand.

“Nearly,” replied Morcar firmly.

She glanced up at him from her deep blue eyes; Morcar drew her towards him and they kissed.

“It's David's week in camp with his Territorials, you know,” explained Christina presently. “Jenny wanted to change our dates, but Edward wouldn't.”

“And David couldn't get out of it—camp, I mean?” said Morcar reflectively.

“No. If there's a war, those two poor children will take it very hard. And Edwin at sea. Perhaps there won't be a war, Harry?”

Morcar shook his head. “I'm afraid there will,” he said.

After this Malvern was less bright to him. He seemed to see a shadow slowly creeping up from the horizon, menacing the throng of lads and girls, so earnest and full of high intent at the theatre, so lively and chattering on the lawns. Morcar had seen such a shadow creep up on another generation of harmless well-meaning lads and girls. This shadow now would soon blot out the sun for all these happy children; fingers of the shadow were already laid across the hearts of some, as for instance Jenny.

The shadow grew and deepened; suddenly, on the morning of his departure, it leaped halfway across the sky. Morcar had to keep a business engagement in Bradford that noon, and made an early start for home. As he stood on the sunny steps of the hotel in the early morning, waiting for the garage supervisor to bring round his car, a man came up bearing a stack of newspapers. He bought one, opened it wide and read that Russia had concluded a pact, not with Great Britain but with Germany.

“It won't be long now,” exclaimed Morcar.

“Your car, sir?” said the hotel porter, who was standing by to receive his tip.

“No—the war,” said Morcar grimly.

He drove home swiftly. “You may as well get the fixings up for those blackout curtains,” he said to the Syke Mills carpenter.

Next day Mr. Chamberlain announced in the House of Commons that he stood by the guarantee to Poland even without Soviet Russia. Morcar rang up a building contractor and ordered a load of sand, in bags, to be sent to Stanney Royd.

Hitler demanded that a Pole should be sent to Berlin to sign terms of agreement; Mr. Chamberlain announced that we were ready for peace and ready for war; Morcar ordered the Syke Mills skylights to be fitted with sliding shutters.

On Friday September 1st Morcar took a small portable radio to the mill with him, as an announcement was expected at half-past ten. In his private office, very clean and fresh because it had received its annual repainting during Morcar's holiday, he set the radio on his desk, switched it on and sent for Nathan. They listened together, and heard that Germany had invaded Poland at five-thirty that morning. Nathan's face was so disgusted as to be comic.

“Whew!” said Morcar.

He reached for the telephone and bullied the building contractor about the sand for Stanney Royd.

The sand was delivered on Saturday, but not in bags; the bags came separately, empty—there were so many orders for the government and local government, explained the contractor apologetically, that really he had not had time to fill them.

Morcar spent Saturday afternoon and evening buying a few necessary items of equipment for his Stanney Royd cellar shelter, and fixing them.

On Sunday, sitting at breakfast, with the sun pouring into the side windows, he heard the announcement that if Germany was not out of Poland by eleven that morning, Germany and Britain would be at war.

He went at once to the telephone and rang up the Haringtons. By a lucky chance he managed to make the connection, though with considerable delay owing to the emergency, as the operator phrased it. Christina answered. Morcar's heart always leaped with pleasure when he heard her voice, but what he had to. say today must be said to her husband. He asked urgently for Harington and soon heard the barrister's drawling arrogant tones. He wondered a little how Harington would feel now on the verge of war, with all his optimistic prophecies falsified; but there was no time for tactful sparing of his feelings.

“Edward—send your family up here to be out of the way of air raids,” urged Morcar. “My mother will take care of them. I've plenty of room at Stanney Royd.”

“Thanks. Many thanks. I haven't considered what we ought to do yet,” drawled Harington. “I may send Christina away to her father.”

“I shan't leave London unless you do, Edward,” said Christina's voice in the distance.

“You'll do what you're told, my dear,” snapped Harington.
Then making his voice mellifluous again, he said to Morcar: “I can't yet believe it will really come to anything.”