More Tales of the West Riding (14 page)

“And a waterworks engineer,” added Lumb.

“And the Medical Officer of Health,” snapped the schoolmaster.

“Tickets must be sent to ratepayers, and ratepayers alone,” insisted Crabtree.

“I don't altogether agree,” said Frank Hollis in a hurry. “Surely everyone who lives in Moordale—”

“It's the ratepayers' money we shall be spending,” said Lumb.

“Money, money!” grumbled Hollis in a low tone.

Crabtree turned angrily on him. “If you gave more thought to money, Mr Hollis,” he began hotly: “I believe—”

“Well, I think that is all we can usefully do on this question tonight,” said Ormerod firmly. “I declare the meeting closed.”

The meeting broke up. The chairman and clerk settled down to discuss the wording of the advertisements.

“I'll walk with you a little way if I may, Tom,” said Lumb to Greenwood.

Greenwood, half sorry to miss the chance of a talk with Frank Hollis which might serve to calm him, half glad to miss a duty he rather dreaded—he knew Frank's temper well and had listened to his angry complaints about the way the world was run often before—of course assented, for Mr Lumb was in fact his boss, Greenwood being the highly respected foreman of the Lumb mill.

“The back door's the nearest for us both,” said Lumb, and they went out together that way.

“How do you think this water business will be dealt with, Tom?” said Lumb.

“We shall need a lot of trenches cut hither and yon across the hillsides, just below the brows, like,” said Greenwood. “To catch the water as it flows. Leastways, that's what Duckersfield has.”

Lumb would like to have exclaimed: “Damn Duckersfield!” but considering their relative positions he thought it would be unbecoming, so he merely said: “And then, pipes, I suppose.”

“Aye, pipes. That's where the money'll go,” said Greenwood mournfully.

Meanwhile Frank Hollis, having had a violent confrontation with Mr Crabtree in the front hall, had slammed out into the bare little playground. Mr Crabtree waddled ahead. It was drizzling slightly. Firth, smiling with real amusement—his farm had a spring—was at his side.

“
Water
,
water everywhere
” said Frank.

“Well, we need it,” said Firth.

They came to the gate.

“I'll just catch Crabtree and butter him up a bit,” said Firth.

“You do that,” said Frank, laughing.

“Well, you ruffled him, you know,” said Firth, walking off.

They parted.

Under the lamp at the gate stood a girl. Everyone in Moordale knew who everyone else was, even if they were not on speaking terms. Hollis therefore at once recognised Lumb's older daughter, Margaret. He noted before that she was rather a pretty girl, with wavy fair hair and blue eyes, not too plump, and tallish. He raised his hat—everyone wore a hat or cap in those days—and murmured with cold politeness: “Miss Lumb”. He had taken a couple of strides away when he remembered, turned and strode back to her.

“Oh, Miss Lumb,” he said apologetically: “I'm sorry, excuse me, but your father has left, you know. He went out by the other gate with Tom Greenwood.”

“Oh,” said Margaret, rather taken aback. “Well. Thank you. I've been to Hudley for my First Aid class and come back on the Moorfoot tram. I just thought I might as well call for him. It doesn't matter.”

She looked at him with some interest, for she found his voice attractive and his manner courteous. He was tall, very tall, too tall, she observed, so tall and so thin that he seemed
to bend over in the middle; his face was pale and haggard, his forehead high; his eyes were large and brown even seen through the hideous steel-rimmed spectacles then in vogue. She also noticed that the navy blue suit he wore was ill-cut—probably “off the peg”—and shabby, thin at the elbows and in any case of poor cloth. She herself was also wearing a navy blue suit—“costume” was the word then—but the cloth had come from her father's mill and been cut by a good tailor.

“Shall you be all right alone? It's very dark under the trees in the Dene,” suggested Hollis, his strong protective instinct overcoming his shyness.

“Oh, yes. Moordale's my home, you know, after all,” said Margaret, smiling. But at this moment the rain, hitherto slight, decided to pour down heavily. The wind abruptly blew a strong gust round the corner. Huge heavy drops plopped into the water of the trough by the gate. Good heavens, she would get wet, she would get soaked, reflected Hollis in anguish; it was a good mile and a half to Moordale Lodge from here and though there would be shelter under the trees in the Dene the rest of the road lay open to the moorland. What could he do? Ah, of course!

“My deputy head, Miss Sykes,” he began, breathless, “always keeps an umbrella here—this building is my school, you know—”

“I know,” agreed Margaret.

“—if you could wait a minute, just a minute, I could fetch it. Rather shabby, no doubt, but still an umbrella—after all.”

“Thank you. That would be most kind. I'll just shelter by the wall.”

“Yes, yes, by the wall,” agreed Hollis, overjoyed. “I'll run.”

He suited the action to the word, and was back in a very short time carrying a brown umbrella with a long handle.

“It's what they call an en-tout-cas, really, I believe,” he
said, getting the umbrella up after one or two efforts. “A sort of parasol, you know. You observe the pink flowery border. Very dashing. Made to use both in sun and rain.”

“I hope Miss Sykes won't mind,” began Margaret.

“Oh, she'll be delighted,” said Frank with enthusiasm. “Miss Sykes is a very good person—truly good, you know. She taught in Moordale for many years. She hoped to be principal here, I'm sure, and was saddened when I was appointed, but she has been so good to me, so helpful and loyal. A truly good person. Splendid with the children, especially the difficult ones. I shall be back at school tomorrow morning before she arrives, you know, and the umbrella will be with me. So no harm done.”

“But you'll tell her you borrowed it?”

“Of course.”

Margaret now perceived that there was a slit in the silk of the old en-tout-cas, and this slit was allowing the rain to descend on her neat navy cap and her face. Shall I tell him? No! He would be hurt, and she would not hurt him. Why not? She just would not.

At this moment Frank Hollis, whose eyes, because of his height, were several inches above the top of the en-tout-cas, perceived the slit and the rain dripping through the opening. With a neat, delicate twirl he turned the umbrella round so that the slit halted on his side. The rain fell through on to the arm with which he held the umbrella. He did not, of course, say a word about this adjustment to Margaret. He just felt happy to spare her thus, and his brown eyes beamed.

At this moment Margaret laid a hand on the umbrella to lift it, and looked up. The glances of Margaret and Frank met. Without a word or even a smile they both knew at once the good, kind, honest motives which actuated them both. They were motives of goodwill—warm, true-hearted, affectionate goodwill towards humanity in general. Such motives are not easily found. But when found they are to be
cherished. Thus at that moment, over a slit in a shabby old parasol, Margaret and Frank fell in love. Hopelessly, irretrievably in love. In love for always.

It was Easter Monday and the usual “treat” was in operation. For once the weather was fine, and the big field by the Eddle, the only piece of flat land in Moordale, as people liked to joke, was crowded with children, racing, jumping, playing, above all laughing and shouting. Frank Hollis was starting a group for the sack-race, a pistol in his hand (lent to him for the purpose by Mr Ward, Lord Mountlace's agent); the elderly Miss Sykes was assisting parents to stuff their offsprings' limbs into the necessary sacks, Tom Greenwood was supervising a jumping competition; Mr Firth was coping with some perplexed brown and white dairy cows in a corner, where Mr Ward was helping (supposedly) a friend of his who had come to judge them. Lord Mountlace, lean and grey-haired, in good tweeds, was rather disappointed in these cows, for he had lands on which he lived, in a softer southern county, which produced, he thought, finer cattle; he was edging away towards the sack-race, for he had grandchildren and enjoyed the tinies' giggles. Margaret Lumb was helping the Hon. Edith Mountlace to give out an orange to every child. These oranges were piled in clothes baskets, and Margaret would have enjoyed giving out the beautiful golden globes if she had been less afraid of Miss Mountlace, who was old, odd, hunched, rather frowning and witchlike, and unsuitably clad in a huge black cape and short laced boots. Miss Mountlace was just as afraid of Margaret—“this young generation”—as Margaret was of her, so their mutual smiles were rather stiff. They were agreed, however, that the provision of oranges was inadequate.

“We need some more, dear. Two dozen at least.”

“Yes, indeed. Mr Hollis!” cried Margaret, waving towards the site of the sack-race, which had just finished.

Frank came running up. His pace was eager, and Miss Mountlace of course saw the whole thing at once. Margaret however blushed and could not manage to speak.

“We need at least thirty more oranges, Mr Hollis. Can you see that they are brought to us?”

“Of course. There are plenty in the pavilion.” He ran off.

“Oh, is that a pavilion?” said Miss Mountlace, eyeing the small shed with interest.

“It's a cricket pavilion.”

“And who is Mr Hollis, dear?”

“He's the head schoolmaster at the National School in Moordale. It's up the hill where we're all going to have tea.”

“I see,” returned Miss Mountlace rather gravely. “A nice young man.”

The arrival of the oranges prevented the need for further speech.

Hollis, however, finding himself near to Lord Mountlace looking unoccupied, nerved himself and approached him.

“Could I have a word with you, sir?”

“Of course.”

“About the water supply.”

“Ah. That's a vexed question. I'm afraid Duckersfield are not behaving quite as one could wish.”

“It seems rather a shame,” blurted Hollis, “that here in Moordale with the land beneath one's feet bursting with water, we should have no regular water supply and have to fetch it in jugs.”

“Most of the farms have their own spring, I believe,” said Lord Mountlace, irritated by this excessive expression. “Jugs are surely an exaggeration?”

“It's the children,” cried Hollis at full blast. “The children in the National School. The water in the trough there is contaminated.”

“By what?”

“I don't know. Privies higher up the hill, I expect.”

“Moordale is all hills and dales.”

“The trough water has been condemned. The children are in danger!”

“Oh, well jumped, my boy, well jumped. I was very fond of jumping when I was a lad. Well, Ward?”

“I think we are to move off towards tea now.”

“Good. By the way, Ward, what is all this fuss about the water supply? I thought you saw the Council about it long ago?”

“The Council can't make up its own mind, that's the trouble.”

“Well, get it fixed.”

“Where is Margaret?” said Mr Lumb crossly two months later. He always came back cross from the meetings of the Moordale R.D.C. nowadays.

“It's her evening for her First Aid class,” replied his wife. “She's not back yet.”

“Why is she always off to classes and such?” said Mr Lumb. “It's unnatural. A girl like her—pretty and all that—should be playing tennis and going to dances.”

“Margaret has always been rather serious,” said Mrs Lumb.

“I don't like it. Let's send her off to her aunt in London for a bit—some of the bright lights, you know, might do her good.”

“Margaret is not very fond of your sister, unfortunately,” said Mrs Lumb carefully.

“I'm aware of it. I'm not very fond of her myself. But Moordale's too small for Margaret. Get Lizzie to invite her.”

There was a pause.

“Why are you so worried about Margaret all of a sudden?” said Margaret's mother, shrewdly.

“Well—never mind. I shouldn't like her to marry the wrong sort of man.”

“She shows no inclination towards any young man at present.”

“Ah. Well. We may think so. Pity that young Ormerod went off and married someone else.”

“She never showed any interest in him.”

“She never tried,” said Lumb irritably.

“You can't fall in love by trying, Philip,” said his wife. “Or out of it either. I tried hard not to fall in love with you, a textile manufacturer like everybody else, but I couldn't manage it.”

“Well, that's the trouble,” said Lumb, frowning, then smiling all the same. “There's a young man on the Council—damned insulting young whippersnapper—”

“Not that gaunt schoolteacher she was talking to at the Treat?” cried Mrs Lumb in alarm.

“That very same. Prejudiced, impertinent, argumentative, conceited—he talks as if he were God.”

“Would it be a good idea for you to have a word with her? About how rude he is to you, I mean?” said Mrs Lumb, foreseeing endless family discord if the schoolteacher approached the household.

“No.”

“She's very fond of you,” said Mrs Lumb, heroically suppressing jealousy—sons turn to mothers, daughters to fathers; it's only fair, she thought.

“That's why. I want her to stay so.”

“She often says she really wants to be a nurse,” ventured Mrs Lumb.

“Nonsense,” said Mr Lumb brutally. “Why should she go in for such a hard life? She's pretty and domesticated—she should marry.”

Mrs Lumb felt disheartened. In spite of Margaret's
preference for her father, she knew her daughter's determined spirit much better than he did.