The Rise of Henry Morcar (10 page)

It was just a fortnight after Morcar's twentieth birthday when
one of those pregnant incidents, one of those knots of converging circumstance, occurred which change the course of lives. On a sharp October day which had kept Mr. Lucas at home by the first frost of the season, the works manager came up from the private office in a hurry, asking for the head designer.

“There's a row on about our blue striped suitings,” he explained hurriedly. “Butterworth took a lot, do you remember? Mr. Butterworth's here himself—he's brought two pair of trousers—they're all faded and patchy.”

All the members of the designers' office gathered together in horror; to have cloth returned was unheard-of, disgraceful, in Syke Mills whatever it might be elsewhere, and Mr. Butterworth was a merchant whose father and grandfather had dealt with Oldroyds' all their lives—a most valued and valuable customer. Mr. Oldroyd was naturally vexed, and the heads of all the departments concerned had been sent for to explain if they could why the cloth had faded in wear. Morcar hastily took out the strip of the original pattern—dark blue with a narrow white stripe—from the string in the cupboard and collected the various papers which recorded the cloth's career, from its design to its passage through the looms and presses a few months ago, then followed downstairs on the heels of the works manager and the second-in-command of the designers.

“It's a pity Lucas isn't here,” muttered the latter. “I know nowt about that cloth—it's a pity.”

The procession of three entered the handsome private office in considerable trepidation. Mr. Oldroyd had a temper of his own which at that time illness was exacerbating; he knew all there was to know about cloth, was fiercely proud of the good name of Oldroyds', and had a tongue which could be extremely cutting. They saw at once that their fears were justified and that he was ready to be thoroughly angry. He sat erect behind a huge table of gleaming mahogany, frowning, one thin hand stretched out on the table beside the unfortunate garments returned by the customer to the tailor and by the tailor to the merchant; between illness and rage his sallow face looked livid and his dark eyes were burning. Mr. Butterworth, pink, plump and silvery, sat flipping his thumbnails and gazing at the bronze horses on the mantelpiece with an air of an impartial desire to see justice done which was perfectly proper but very irritating. In the rear, by the window, jingling the keys in his pocket, leaned Mr. Oldroyd's only son, Mr. Francis; a big tall handsome young man, a few years older than Morcar, with the clear skin which goes with reddish fair hair, and dark blue eyes. There had recently been an unpleasant scandal about Francis Oldroyd; he had married in a
hurry, “because he had to,” said Annotsfield, a girl from a working family; last month their child had been born, dead and far too soon—which as Annotsfield said gave the game away properly. Annotsfield and Syke Mills took sides over Francis's marriage; some liked him and turned an indulgent eye on a young man's escapade; others thought the affair shocking. Amongst the latter group was Mrs. Morcar. Harry at twenty was still half in, half out of his mother's tutelage, and regarded her views partly with respect and partly with impatience. He saw little of his employer's son and had not set eyes on him since the scandal of the birth had broken on the public ear; he looked at him now with half hostile, half fascinated curiosity. Francis Oldroyd was wearing a beautifully tailored suit of admirable cloth, and a tie which Morcar guessed to be that of the public school he had attended. But then, Oldroyds' had made the cloth; Morcar himself had made out the range ticket—indeed he had even had something to do with selecting the colours of the decorations—while as for a public school tie, anybody would wear one whose father could afford to buy one by paying public school fees, Morcar supposed. So he was unimpressed, and maintained a suspended judgment.

The works manager was explaining that Mr. Lucas was unfortunately away with rheumatism.

“Is there nobody in the mill who knows about this cloth, then?” demanded Mr. Oldroyd.

His tone indicated that a storm of considerable dimensions would break if Mr. Butterworth had to leave unsatisfied, so Morcar felt that he was not “speaking out of his turn” in saying quickly:

“I made out the make-paper, sir. Could I see the cloth for a minute?”

Mr. Oldroyd picked up the wretched trousers and passed them to him impatiently.

The moment Morcar took the garments in his hand a delightful suspicion assailed him; he drew out his piece glass, examined the cloth and exclaimed triumphantly:

“This isn't ours, Mr. Oldroyd!”

“Yes, yes, it is ours; Mr. Butterworth says so,” said Mr. Oldroyd impatiently.

“No, sir—excuse me—our stripe has three ends, this has four,” said Morcar, smiling happily. “Here is our pattern, Mr. Butterworth—you can see the difference for yourself. If you'll just count the threads, sir.”

He offered the garments, the Oldroyd strip, his glass and the paper to Mr. Butterworth, who, frowning, examined the evidence. There was a moment of suspense.

“You're quite right, young man,” said Mr. Butterworth at length curtly. “I apologise, Brigg. My people have made a mistake somewhere.”

He passed the two cloths on to Mr. Oldroyd, who, taking his own handsome double-lens glass from his pocket, examined them. He said nothing, but gave a nod to Morcar before pushing the cloths away. Francis bent over his shoulder, then stood up and stepped back. He too made no comment, but it was clear to Morcar that he could see no difference in the stripes.

“Probably doesn't even know what an end is,” thought Morcar scornfully, and he despised his employer's son with all his heart. He took up the Oldroyd pattern and the make-paper and looked towards Mr. Oldroyd, who nodded again in dismissal. His employer's manners evidently did not permit any outward expression of triumph over a defeated customer, but there was no doubt about his secret pleasure, for his handsome mouth moved as if to repress a smile, and a grim glee lighted his dark eyes. As Morcar left the room he heard Mr. Butterworth say:

“You've a sharp lad there, Brigg.”

“John Henry Morcar's grandson,” replied Mr. Oldroyd. “Came to us as a boy. Lucas has trained him.”

On the following Friday Morcar found in his wages packet an increase note and a rise of ten shillings, and Mr. Lucas, restored to work by a rise in the temperature, after an absence downstairs told him with some ceremony that Mr. Oldroyd had expressed willingness to “put him through” all the departments in the mill so that he might acquire the experience necessary for a really first-class designer.

To be willing to pay a young man to whom he was not bound by any ties of blood or friendship two pounds a week for an unspecified time while Morcar did no useful work in the mill at all but simply learned his trade, was indeed to take him by the hand and lead him forward. Morcar felt that with his training at the Technical the period necessary would probably not be very long, and to be truthful with himself he also felt a strong disinclination to go again through all that toil of learning textile processes, which with the cheerful arrogance of youth he thought he knew thoroughly already. But what an offer! From the great Mr. Oldroyd! His way to be Oldroyds' head designer—a textile plum—seemed to Morcar to lie clear before him if he chose to tread it.

He could hardly wait for the buzzer to sound at the end of the afternoon before he rushed up Hurst Bank to the Sycamores to tell Charlie the splendid news. “This'll make the Shaws sit up!” he exclaimed gleefully to himself every hundred yards.
The impetus of his joy had carried him forward so rapidly that as he approached the Sycamores he saw Mr. Shaw and Charlie beneath a gas-lamp in the distance, descending from the Hurst Road tram by which they travelled back and forth between Hurst and Prospect Mills every day. He hurried to meet them, and almost before he had reached their side cried out Mr. Oldroyd's fine offer.

The news had not the effect he hoped, for both father and son looked glum. There was nothing unusual in this, for during the three years Charlie had worked at Prospect Mills it was customary for Mr. Shaw and Charlie to return from the mill looking glum—close association in daily work increased the friction which had always existed between them. But it struck Morcar that they looked even more glum now than was their habit. True, Charlie said warmly at once: “Mr. Oldroyd must think very highly of you, Harry,” but his voice held an undercurrent of disappointment, while Mr. Shaw remarked: “You'll be at Oldroyds' all your life, then,” in a dry non-committal tone.

“It was that striped suiting of Butterworths' that did it,” exclaimed Morcar with satisfaction.

“What was that?” asked Mr. Shaw.

Morcar described the incident, which was already familiar to Charlie. The three had now reached the Sycamores' gate, and Mr. Shaw stood there with his hand on one of the green-painted spikes, which he patted thoughtfully. At the conclusion of the anecdote he said:

“Come in for a minute, Harry.”

He led the way up the asphalt path into the house, and to Harry's surprise turned into the cold, dark drawing-room and switched on the recently installed electric light. The two young men followed him, still wearing their coats, and Charlie shut the door. It was immediately opened by Winnie, who stuck in her head to enquire whether her father wanted tea now, or should she put it off.

“Go away, love, we're talking business,” said her father affably.

Winnie grimaced at Morcar and withdrew.

“We were thinking, Harry, that you might have come to us,” said Mr. Shaw. His voice was as smooth as sateen and he showed not a trace of embarrassment. Morcar on the other hand did not know where to look. “The truth is,” continued Mr. Shaw with a man-to-man air which Morcar in spite of his dislike for Mr. Shaw found deliciously flattering: “Charlie and I are both outside men. We both like selling. We need an inside man, somebody in the mill to keep things straight. What do Oldroyds' pay you?”

“Two pounds,” muttered Morcar.

Mr. Shaw winced but said firmly: “I'll pay you the same. At first. More, of course, later.”

“What do you say, Charlie?” asked Morcar after a pause.

“I've been wanting Father to ask you for a long time, but he wouldn't before today,” said Charlie bitterly. “And now it's too late, I suppose. I don't want to persuade you, Harry. Of course Oldroyds' is a fine firm and it's a splendid chance.”

“So long as Brigg Oldroyd lives, it is,” argued Mr. Shaw. “But he's very ill, they tell me. Cancer. How can you be sure what'll happen when he's gone? You might be left in the department you happened to be in, and never get back to designing. His son will have his own favourites, you may be sure.”

Morcar felt stifled. He stood up. “I must think about it. I'll let you know,” he said gruffly.

“Aye, tell us by Sunday evening,” agreed Mr. Shaw.

Morcar plunged out of the house into the darkness. The autumn air struck cold on his flushed cheek. He was deeply troubled by the decision which lay before him. On the one hand, his future was assured if he stayed at Syke Mills—provided, of course, he could give satisfaction in the job; but he had no doubt of that, and the same condition would operate at the Shaws' or any other firm. Working through the departments would be a bore, but he could stand it, and he supposed there might still be a few things he could learn. He would have great scope for the exercise of his special talent in a firm which produced a hundred thousand patterns every year. On the other hand, at the Shaws' he would be more or less his own master, which with the Oldroyds he never would. At the Shaws' he would have infinitely fewer designs to work on, but at least he might be able to try the livelier colour and weave effects he had in mind. He felt an antipathy between himself and Francis Oldroyd; Charlie was his lifelong friend. Syke Mills were huge, handsome, well equipped; Prospect was small, old and muddled. Just so; it would be far more interesting to reorganise Prospect than to maintain a standard already set at Syke. At Syke, although it was so large, Morcar had a feeling of restriction, of confinement, because it was so highly departmentalised; in Prospect he would be able to range through the whole place, oversee every process, at will. But then, how greatly he disliked the thought of association with Mr. Shaw! But he was not now an ignorant boy, helpless, an object of charity; he was a knowledgeable, useful, marketable young man. Give him a year or two in Prospect Mills, thought Morcar, keep Mr. Shaw and Charlie busy with their outside duties, and he'd make Prospect hum.

He reached Number 102 and in duty bound laid the alternatives before his mother as they sat at tea. Mrs. Morcar seemed inclined to shed tears of happy pride when he described the Oldroyd offer, but her eyes dried and she sat erect when he spoke of Mr. Shaw's.

“Why should you give up that splendid chance to go to the Shaws', Harry?” she said. “You were eager enough to leave them four years ago.”

“And you were eager enough for me to stay, Mother,” Harry told her with a grin.

“I didn't know then how you were going to turn out, Harry,” said Mrs. Morcar with dignity.

“You should try to have more faith in me,” joked her son.

“Most people in Annotsfield will think you unwise if you throw away such a chance in order to go to John William Shaw,” said Mrs. Morcar.

“Oh, I don't know,” argued Harry. “There'll be more chance of becoming a partner, with the Shaws.”

“With all those young boys in the family, I should say a partnership is exceedingly unlikely,” objected Mrs. Morcar. “And what will Mr. Oldroyd think of you leaving now? And Mr. Lucas? After all the training he's given you?”

“Yes—I'm sorry about that,” agreed Morcar. “I wasn't apprenticed or anything, though.”

“You would be settled for life at Oldroyd's,” urged Mrs. Morcar.