The Likes of Us (23 page)

‘“Well,” she said, “you see -er-er…” And she got all sort of tongue-tied, and then I knew there was something wrong somewhere. I didn't like the look on her face, for a start. And then it came over me, all at once.

‘“Why,” I said, “I believe you put that money in your husband's suit. I don't think he knows anything about it. You put it there deliberately, hoping I'd take it and say nothing.”

‘She went red then; her face coloured like fire. “I have to test the honesty of my servants,” she said, sort of proud like, but uneasy under it.

‘And it got my rag out, that did. I was blazing mad. “Well you tested mine,” I said. “And if it's any joy to you, I'll admit I was sorely tempted. Isn't it enough that you should lose your way without making me lose mine? A pound, Mrs Marsden,” I said. “Twenty pieces of silver. Is that my price, d'you think? They gave Judas thirty!”

‘She got up. “I don't have to take this kind of talk from you,” she said, and brushed past me and ran upstairs.

‘I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. I was near to tears. I couldn't understand it. I just couldn't understand what had made her do it. And I said a little prayer of thanks. “O God,” I said, “only You knew how near I was.”

‘In a few minutes I got up and went and listened at the foot of the stairs. I went up to the bathroom and got my coat. I stood for a minute then. There was no place for me here in the future. I felt like leaving straight away: walking out without another word. But I was due to a week's wages and I couldn't afford pride of that sort.

‘So I called out softly, “Mrs Marsden.”

‘But there was no reply. I went across the landing to her bedroom door and listened. I could hear something then, but I wasn't quite sure what it was. I called again, and when nobody answered I tapped on the door and went in. She was lying on one of the twin beds with her face to the window. I could tell now it was sobbing I'd heard and her shoulders shook as I stood and watched her. There was something about her that touched me right to the quick, and I put my coat down and went to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “There, there,” I said, “don't take on so. There's no harm done.” I sat down behind her on the bed, and all at once she put her hand up and took mine. “Don't go away,” she said. “Don't leave me now.”

‘I remember just the feeling I had then. It was like a great rush of joy: the sort of feeling you get when you know you're wanted, that somebody needs you.

‘“Of course I won't leave you,” I said, “Of course I won't.”

Mrs Fosdyke sighed and turned from the window. ‘And I never did,' she said. ‘I never did.'

She looked at each of the sisters in turn. ‘Well,' she said, a bashful little smile coming to her lips. ‘I've never told anybody about that before. But this morning sort of brought it all back. And she's gone beyond harm now, poor dear.'

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Gracious, look at the time! And me keeping you sat with my chatter.'

‘But what a lovely story,' said the younger Miss Norris, who was of a romantic turn of mind. ‘It's like something out of the Bible.'

‘Well, that's as maybe,' Mrs Fosdyke said briskly. ‘but I'm sure you didn't call to hear me tell the tale.'

‘As a matter of fact,' the elder Miss Norris said, drawing a sheaf of papers from her large handbag, ‘we're organising the collection for the orphanage and we wondered if you could manage this district again this year. We know how busy you are.'

‘Well' – Mrs Fosdyke put her finger to her chin – ‘I suppose I could fit it in.'

‘You're such a
good
collector, Mrs Fosdyke,' the younger Miss Norris said. ‘Everyone gives so generously when you go round.'

‘Aye, well, I suppose I can manage it,' Mrs Fosdyke said, and the Misses Norris beamed at her.

‘Oh, we know the willing hearts and hands,' Mrs Fosdyke,' the elder sister said.

‘I suppose you do,' said Mrs Fosdyke, with a hint of dryness in her voice.

‘There'll be a place in heaven for you. Mrs Fosdyke,' gushed the younger Miss Norris.

‘Oh, go on with you.' Mrs Fosdyke said. ‘Somebody's got to look out for the poor lambs, haven't they?

Principle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mrs Stringer had a hot meal ready for the table at twenty-five past five when the click of the gate told her of her husband Luther's approach. His bad-tempered imprecation on the dog, which was lying on the doorstep in the evening sun, told her also what frame of mind he was in.

With the oven-cloth protecting her hands she picked up the stewpot and carried it through into the living-room. ‘Your father's in one of his moods, Bessie,' she said to her daughter, who had arrived home a few minutes before and was laying the table for the meal. ‘For goodness' sake don't get his back up tonight. I've had a splittin' head all day.'

There was the sound of running water as Luther washed his hands under the kitchen tap, and in a few minutes the three of them were sitting together round the table. Luther had not spoken a word since his entrance and he did not break his silence now until Bessie inadvertently went almost to the heart of the trouble when she said casually:

‘Did Bob say anything about coming round tonight?'

Luther was a thickset man of a little above medium height. He had a rather magnificent mane of iron-grey hair which in his youth had been a reddish-blond colour and of which he was still proud. It topped a lean and rather lugubrious face with blue eyes and a thin-lipped mouth which had a tendency to slip easily into disapproval. He loved to argue, for he had opinions on all the topics of the day. But he was also a man who never saw a joke and this, with his baleful, ponderous way of making a point, made him, unconsciously, a source of amusement to the younger of his workmates, among whom he was known as ‘Old Misery'.

He chewed in silence now and swallowed before attempting to answer Bessie's questions. Then he said briefly, ‘No, he didn't.'

‘Didn't he mention it at all?' Bessie asked.

‘I haven't spoken to him all day,' Luther said, and blew hard on a forkful of steaming suet dumpling.

‘Well, that's funny,' Bessie said, ‘an' him working right next to you. Is there summat up, or what?'

‘You might say that.' Luther took a mouthful of water. ‘They've sent him to Coventry.'

‘They've what?' Bessie said, and her mother, taking a sudden interest in the exchange, said, ‘But that's miles away. Will he be home weekends?'

‘What d'you mean they've sent him to Coventry?' Bessie said.

‘Just what I say.'

‘But whatever for?'

Luther put his elbow on the table and looked grimly along his fork at Bessie. ‘I didn't work yesterday, did I?'

‘No, you didn't. But—'

‘I didn't work,' Luther said, ‘because we had a one -day token strike in support o' t'union wage claim. I didn't work an' none o' t'other union members worked – bar Bob. He went in as usual.'

‘And you mean none of you's talking to him just because of that?'

‘Aye,' Luther said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Just because of that.'

Bessie drew herself up indignantly. ‘Well, it's downright childish, that's what it is. Nobody talking to him because he worked yesterday.'

Luther put down his knife and fork.

‘Look here. What do you do wi' a lass when you've no room for her?'

‘Well, I...'

‘Come on,' Luther said. ‘Be honest about it.'

‘Well, I don't have owt to do with her. But–'

‘That's right,' Luther said, picking up his knife and fork and resuming eating now that the point was made for him. ‘An' when a lot o' men feels that way about one chap it's called sendin' him to Coventry.'

‘You don't mean to say
you've
fallen in with it, Luther?' Mrs Stringer said.

‘I have that,' Luther said, shaking his head in a slow gesture of determination. ‘I'm wi' t'men.'

‘But Bob's my fiancy,' Bessie wailed.

‘Aye, an' my future son-in-law, I'm sorry to say.'

‘I must say it does seem a shame 'at you should treat your own daughter's fiancy like that,' said Mrs Stringer, and Luther gave her a look of resigned scorn.

‘Now look,' he said, preparing to lay down the law, ‘Bob's a member o' t'union. When t'union negotiates a rise in wages Bob gets it. When it gets us an improvement in conditions, Bob gets them an' all. But when t'union strikes for more brass – not just at Whittakers, not just in Cressley, but all over t'country – Bob goes to work as usual. Now I don't like a chap what does a thing like that. An' when I don't like a chap I have no truck with him.'

‘I'll bet nobody give him a chance to put his side of it,' Bessie cried.

‘He has no side. There's only one side to this for a union member. He should ha' struck wi' t'rest on us.'

‘Well, that's a proper mess,' Bessie muttered. But her mind was now on the more immediate problem. ‘I don't know whether I've to go and meet him, or if he's coming here...'

‘I shouldn't think he'll have t'cheek to show his face in here tonight,' Luther said.

But half an hour later, when the table was cleared and Luther had his feet up with his pipe and the evening paper, and Bessie, now made-up for the evening, was still dithering in distress and confusion, there came a knock on the back door and Bob's voice was heard in the kitchen.

Bessie ran out to meet him and Luther raised his paper so that his face was hidden. To his surprise, Bob came right into the living-room as Bessie told him in great detail of her uncertainty about the evening's plans.

‘Your dad's told you, then,' Bob said.

‘Oh, aye,' Bessie said, ‘an' I told him how childish I thought it was. Like a pack o' schoolkids, they all are.'

‘A flock o' sheep, more like,' Bob muttered. ‘All fallin' in together.'

This brought Luther's paper down to reveal his flashing eyes. ‘Aye, all together. How else do you think a union can work?'

‘Oh! You'll talk to him now, then?' Bessie said.

‘I'm askin' him a question,' Luther said. ‘How else does he think a union can work?'

‘I don't know an' I don't care,' Bob said. ‘I'm fed up o' t'union an' everybody in it.'

‘That's a lot o' men, an' there's a fair number on 'em fed up wi' thee, lad. Anyway, happen tha'll not be bothered wi' it for much longer.'

‘How d'ye mean?'

‘I mean they'll probably call for thi card afore long.'

‘Well, good riddance. I never wanted to join in the first place.'

‘Why did you, then?'

‘Because I couldn't have t'job unless I did. I was forced into it.'

‘An' for why?' Luther said. ‘Because we don't want a lot o' scroungers an' wasters gettin' t'benefits while we pay t'subscriptions.'

‘Who's callin' me a scrounger?' Bob said, with a first show of heat. ‘Don't I do as good a day's work as t'next man – an' better?'

‘Well, tha can work,' Luther admitted. ‘But tha hasn't common sense tha wa' born wi'.'

‘Sense! I've enough sense to think for meself an' make up me own mind when there isn't an independent man among t'rest of you.'

‘That's what I mean,' Luther said blithely. ‘All this talk about independence an' making up your own mind. They like it, y'know. It's playin' right into their hands.'

‘Whose hands?'

‘T'bosses' hands, I mean. They like chaps 'at's independent; fellers 'at don't agree wi' nobody. They can get 'em on their own an' they haven't as much bargaining power as a rabbit wi' a ferret on its tail.'

‘Ah, you're fifty year out o' date,' Bob said impatiently. ‘Look, here we are with the cost o' livin' goin' up and up. We've got to stop somewhere. It's up to somebody to call a halt. But what does t'union do but put in for another wage increase. What we want is restraint.'

‘Like there is on profits an' dividends, you mean?'

‘What do you know about profits an' dividends?'

‘That's it!' Luther cried. ‘What do I know? What do you know? Nowt. We don't see hardly any of it where we are. We have to take t'word of somebody 'at knows, somebody 'at's paid to study these things. T'union leaders, lad, t'union leaders. An' when they say “Look here, lads, these fellers are coalin' in their profits an' dividends and t'cost o' livin's goin' up an' up an' it's time we had a rise,” then we listen to 'em. An' when they say “Strike, lads,” we strike. At least, some of us does,' he added with a scornful look at Bob.

‘Look,' Bob said, ‘I believe in a fair day's work for a fair day's pay.'

‘No more na me.'

‘An' if t'boss is satisfied with me work he gives me fair pay.'

‘He does if t'union's made him.'

‘He does without that, if he's a fair man. Look at Mr Whittaker.'

‘Aye, let's look,' Luther said. ‘I've worked for Whittakers now for thirty years. I know Matthew Whittaker and I knew old Dawson afore him. Neither of 'em's ever had cause to grumble about my work an' by an' large I've had no cause to grumble about them. When t'union's put in a wage claim they've chuntered a bit an' then given us it. But they wouldn't if we hadn't been in force, all thinkin' an' actin' together. There's fair bosses an' there's t'other sort – that I'll grant you. But then again, there's bosses an' there's men. Men think about their wages an' bosses think about their profits. It's business, lad. It's life! I'm not blamin' 'em. But you've got to face it: they're on one side an' we're on t'other. An' when we want summat we've got to show 'em we're all together an' we mean to have it. That's what made us all so mad at thee. Everybody out but thee. We listened to t'union an' tha listened to t'bosses callin' for wage restraint.'

‘I don't listen to t'bosses,' Bob said. ‘I listen to the telly an' read the papers an' make up me own mind.'

‘Well, tha reads t'wrong papers, then,' Luther said. ‘Tha'll be tellin' me next tha votes Conservative.'

‘I don't. I vote Liberal.'

Luther stared at him, aghast. ‘Liberal! Good sainted aunts protect us! An' is this t'chap you're goin' to wed?' he said to Bessie.

‘As far as I know,' Bessie said, putting her chin up.

‘Well, he'll be a fiancy wi'out a job afore long.'

‘Why? He worked, didn't he? It's you lot they should sack, not Bob.'

‘But you see,' Luther said with enforced patience, ‘they can't sack us because there's too many of us. We've a hundred per cent shop up at Whittakers an' t'men'll not work wi' a chap 'at isn't in t'union. An' your Bob won't be in t'union for much longer, or I'm a Dutchman.'

‘Well, if that isn't the limit!' Bessie gasped.

‘I do think it's a cryin' shame 'at a young chap should be victimized because of his principles,' said Mrs Stringer.

‘You keep your nose out,' Luther said. ‘This was nowt to do wi' women.'

‘It's summat to do wi' our Bess,' his wife said. ‘Your own daughter's young man an' you're doin' this to him.'

‘Nay, don't blame me. There's nowt I could do about it if I wanted.'

‘Which you don't,' said Bessie, her colour rising.

‘I've said what I have to say.' And Luther retired behind his paper again.

‘Well, I've summat to say now,' Bessie flashed. ‘It doesn't matter what your flamin' union does to Bob. He's headin' for better things than t'shop floor an' bein' bossed about by a pack o' tuppence ha'penny workmen.'

‘Shurrup, Bessie,' Bob muttered. ‘There's no need to go into all that.'

‘I think there is,' Bessie said. ‘I think it's time me father wa' told a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? I don't suppose you know,' she said to Luther, who was reading his paper with a studied show of not listening to her, 'at Bob's been takin' a course in accountancy at nights. An' I don't suppose you know that Mr Matthew Whittaker himself has heard about this an' that he's as good as promised Bob a job upstairs in the Costing Office if he does well in his exams. What do you think about that, eh?'

The paper slowly lowered to reveal Luther's face again. ‘I'll tell you what I think about it,' he said. ‘I think you'd better take that young feller out o' my house an' never bring him back again.' His voice began to rise as his feelings got the better of him. ‘So he works because he doesn't agree wi' t'union policy, does he? He thinks we ought to have wage restraint, does he? He stuffs me up wi' that tale an' now you tell me he's anglin' for a job on t'staff. It wasn't his principles 'at made him go in yesterday, it wa' because he wanted to keep on t'right side o' t'management.'

‘Calm yourself, Luther,' Mrs Stringer said. ‘You'll have a stroke if you get so worked up.'

‘I'll have a stroke if ever I see that... that blackleg in my house again,' Luther shouted.

‘I shall marry him whether you like it or not,' Bessie said.

‘Not at my expense, you won't.'

‘C'mon, Bessie,' Bob said. ‘Let's be off.'

‘Aye, we'll go,' said Bessie. ‘You'd better see if you can control him, Mother. He's yours. This one's mine.'

Bessie and Bob left the house and Mrs Stringer went to wash-up, leaving Luther pacing the living-room, muttering to himself. In a few moments he followed her into the kitchen, in search of an audience.

‘Wage restraint,' he said. ‘Think for yourself. Don't be led off like a flock o' sheep. Oh he knows how to think for hisself, that one does. You know, I half-admired him for sticking to his principles, even if I did think he was daft in the head. But that one's not daft. Not him. He's crafty. He's not botherin' hisself about wage restraint an' principle. He's wonderin' what Matthew'll think if he strikes wi' t'rest on us. He's wonderin' if Matthew mightn't get his own back by forgettin' that job he promised him. That's what he calls a fair boss. He knows bosses as well as' t'rest on us. Principle! He's no more principle than a rattlesnake…'