I Shall Not Want (61 page)

The red mist in front of John Marco's eyes thickened: in the centre of it he saw Hesther's face, the lips drawn back from the large white teeth like a man's. He forgot Mr. Hackbridge and the circle of Bayswater ladies, forgot about the shop and the sale and everything, and struck at the face in front of him; struck and struck again.

He remembered the rest of the scene only dimly. There was Mr. Hackbridge's shocked voice saying, “Take it easy, sir, take it easy”; there was the harsh rustle of Hesther's dress as she fell and the screams of the ladies who were standing near; there was the pain in his knuckles where he had struck. And then he was blundering forward, pushing the other people aside, trying to make his way towards the door, trying to get away somewhere among strangers who would not know what had happened.

The day had come. They were all seated round the long board room table with John Marco at their head. He was wearing an orchid, a gaudy fleshy affair, in his buttonhole, and his silk cravat was new and gorgeous-looking. Altogether, there was something of the old magnificence about him, the same sense of fullness and well-being. His face over the high points of his collar had lost some of its greyness and only the heavy pockets under his eyes, the loose pouches where the skin hung limply, remained. His head was cocked on one side in the manner of someone who knows that all the cards, and the joker too perhaps, are in his hand. He alone knew how tired he was.

It was an unusually full board meeting; the whole eight of them, including the solemn, silver-haired nominee of the bank, had assembled. John Marco sat back and smiled on them. It was his day, the day on which they were going to announce a dividend again—ten per cent if they wanted it—and so wipe out the shame and the disgrace of the preceding years. His soul ran over at the thought of it and, as he sat there, he felt as Joshua must have felt when he had brought them dry-footed over Jordan. Besides, he had his own little surprise to spring on them; it was something that he was saving up until the rest of the business of the meeting had been completed, something that would make every man around him sit up pretty straight when he heard it.

But Mr. Lyman in that thin, skeleton voice of his was already reading the minutes of the last board meeting; and everyone, especially those directors who were not usually present, was sitting very upright on his chair, listening with a fixed, polite attention. John Marco was
the only one who was not listening. He was sitting back with his hands tucked into the armholes of his waistcoat, waiting impatiently for Mr. Lyman to stop. The minutes which Mr. Lyman was reading were mostly concerned with the sacrifices of the directors in halving their salaries, and now John Marco was proposing to restore them again. He had taught Mr. Lyman and Mr. Hackbridge their lesson, and he could afford to be generous once more. In a way he now felt rather sorry for them.

His speech from the chair was a deliberately fulsome, over-generous affair; it was intended very largely for the ears of the bank's nominee to show what a happy, united family they were. John Marco spoke of Mr. Hackbridge's efforts and of Mr. Lyman's as the kind of things that go down in the hagiology of commercial history, and he explained why he was so anxious to see that they should be adequately rewarded. It was just after he had referred to Mr. Lyman, as “my brilliant colleague to whom I am always pleased to turn for advice and guidance,” that he glanced for a moment in Mr. Lyman's direction. But Mr. Lyman was looking down unswervingly at the pad before him; it was as though he had not heard the words that John Marco had just uttered. And even Mr. Hack-bridge seemed embarrassed rather than pleased by the tributes to himself. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair every time John Marco referred to him.

John Marco left the discussion of the dividend for a moment and led straight on to the little surprise that he had been storing-up for them.

“My own contract comes up for renewal this year,” he said blandly, “and it will be for you gentlemen to vote upon it. If it is your pleasure that I should continue to manage the company that I founded”—here John Marco paused and smiled condescendingly upon them all—“I shall endeavour to serve your interests and those of the shareholders as faithfully as I have served them in the past. Only there is one condition that I shall have to make. As a result of certain economies which have
been made we are about to enter a new period of prosperity. And as there will be money to spare again I'm afraid that the company may find me a little more expensive than it has done in the past. In fact, quite a bit more expensive. In view of the services which I have rendered I feel justified in asking for twenty per cent of the profits instead of only ten.”

He paused again, and regarded them humorously.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “let us dispose of this motion so that we can get on with other business. Perhaps Mr. Lyman will propose and Mr. Hackbridge will second it.”

He sat down again; and, as he did so, the weakness that had been in the background all the time crept over him: he had exhausted himself more than he had realised. There was no strength left anywhere in him; even his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his hand over them.

And as he did so he heard the pale voice of Mr. Lyman say very slowly and distinctly: “I regret that I have to oppose the motion.”

John Marco did not even trouble to look at him.

“So
you
think that twenty per cent is too much, do you?” he asked. “You don't think I earn it.”

His voice, though quiet, was dangerous.

But Mr. Lyman only shook his head.

“I mean that I oppose the re-election of Mr. Marco,” he replied to the room at large.

There was scarcely any pause at all before Mr. Hack-bridge's thicker, clumsier voice, which faltered a little as he spoke, joined in.

“I second that motion,” he said.

The two speeches came out glib and pat, like a lesson that had been carefully learnt and practised beforehand.

The board meeting had become hushed now. There were simply eight silent figures sitting there. John Marco himself had not moved. His hand was still over his eyes, but the blackness that was suddenly before them was
darker than any shadow that his hand could give. He felt the blood rise inside his head, beating, drumming; yet his body had grown cold. His face was grey again. But he sat up and faced Mr. Lyman squarely.

“May I ask your reasons?”

His voice was cold and hard as he spoke to him.

Mr. Lyman did not raise his eyes from the pad.

“Mightn't that lead to unpleasantness?” he replied.

But John Marco continued to regard him so fixedly that Mr. Lyman shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he sat there.

“Why, pray?” he asked in that same iron, icy voice.

Mr. Lyman lifted his eyes for a moment, met John Marco's, and dropped them again.

“I'm afraid it's all connected with your drinking,” he said.

“That's a lie,” John Marco shouted. He was leaning forward right over the table by now. “How much I drink is my own concern.”

“But unfortunately other people see the results,” Mr. Lyman replied. “The whole staff is talking. First there was the affair in the young ladies' hostel which Mr. Hack-bridge and I tried to suppress. And then the episode with Mrs. Marco in the shop. That sort of thing can't be kept dark, you know.”

“Show me what harm it's done,” John Marco answered. “Show me how it's ever cost the company a penny.”

“Very well,” Mr. Lyman replied. “If you insist on it.”

He removed a folder from under the mass of papers that was in front of him, and opened it.

“I have here three letters from customers who removed their accounts elsewhere after the unfortunate affair with Mrs. Marco. They were all three most excellent accounts.”

“Why wasn't I shown them?” John Marco demanded. “What right had you to keep them back?”

He raised his hand to his forehead as he spoke. The blood was still throbbing against his ear-drums and waves
of faintness that threatened to overthrow his balance were passing through him.

“They were given to Mr. Hackbridge personally,” Mr. Lyman replied. “And he preferred that they should be brought up in the proper quarter.”

Mr. Hackbridge added something faint and inaudible under his breath, and began pulling at his tie.

“You and Hackbridge forged these between you,” John Marco answered.

“Then please examine the names,” Mr. Lyman replied. He half rose in his chair and pushed the papers towards John Marco.

It was noticeable that John Marco's hand trembled as he put it out to take them; the pieces of paper fluttered. But he read them carefully, slowly, as he always read every letter. Then with the corners of his mouth turned down into a kind of crooked smile, he creased the letters and tore them; tore them until they were only tiny shreds.

“That's how much attention I pay to them,” he said.

Mr. Lyman coughed.

“I've kept sworn copies,” he answered.

“And have you anything to show these gentlemen?” John Marco enquired. “Anything else that reflects on me?”

“Only this,” Mr. Lyman replied.

It was a piece of paper with some forty names on it.

“This document contains the signatures of the young ladies who live in the hostel,” Mr. Lyman said quietly. “They wish to register their protest against Mr. Marco's behaviour. They are apprehensive for their safety.”

“You made them sign it,” John Marco answered. His voice was suddenly raised; he was shouting at Mr. Lyman again.

“On the contrary,” Mr. Lyman answered. “It was the lady housekeeper. She brought it round herself.”

“And is that all?”

“There are also the errors in buying. Some of them are very grave ones. I've kept a record of them.”

There was silence for a moment.

“But aren't we losing sight of our main object?”

It was the bank's nominee who had spoken: they were the first words that he had said.

“I understood that you gentlemen had some kind of offer to make to Mr. Marco.”

“An offer?” John Marco repeated.

“The offer I had mentioned to me,” the nominee went on as gently as before, “was that you should retire from the management and receive an annuity.” He paused and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “If left to the board of directors,” he added, “I have no doubt that the annuity would be a very generous one.”

But John Marco had risen now and was holding on to the table for support.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I won't listen to you. I prefer to fight you. Fight you, I tell you. Fight the whole bloody lot of you. I'll fight you at the General Meeting, and I'll win.”

He stepped back, hotly, clumsily, and the chair behind him crashed over onto the floor. Then without speaking again, without even looking in their direction, he walked past them towards the door.

He was alone now; one man against seven. But the vigour seemed to have gone out of him and his feet were dragging across the thick carpet as he moved. His face was quite bloodless and his hands which were clenched beside him were twitching. He swayed for a moment at the door, as though the faintness had overcome him, and Mr. Skewin half rose to save him.

But John Marco recovered himself: he swung the door open in Mr. Skewin's face and then slammed it after him. They could hear those jerking, dragging feet retreating down the corridor.

The board room was silent again; a charged, unnatural kind of silence. The bank's nominee opened his handkerchief and coughed discreetly into it.

“It's all most unfortunate,” he said. “I had wanted
to raise the question of the dividend. I'm really afraid that the bank must be shown some consideration first.”

ii

There were still five weeks before the General Meeting, and for that month and a quarter John Marco abruptly ceased drinking. The cut-glass decanter on its silver tray remained locked inside the cupboard, and there was no one who saw John Marco with even a trace of spirits upon him. No one at the shop that is; at home it was different. He would go straight to his study in the evenings and would emerge again, faltering and uncertain of himself. At first Louise was patient with him, trying to help him out of the slough into which he had fallen. She was careful to bring to the house only those friends whom he liked, the people who might interest him. But he ignored them. He would leave the company without explanation when they went upstairs to the drawing-room, and she would find him later when she went up to bed, sprawling in his chair, the bottle three-quarters empty on the table and his eyes glazed and stupid.

And it was not only her friends that he ignored: it was Louise as well. He seemed oblivious of her presence in the house at all. It was nearly six months since that night when he had gone into her room; he apparently never thought of her. And he looked a different man now. His clothes hung still more loosely on him and his face had lost its hard, firm lines: the outlines of it blurred and sunken. There was age in the face; age and also the breaking down of everything inside him. He was no longer even the kind of man whom she wanted for a lover. She locked her door after her at nights.

Twice during that last month Mr. Lyman and Mr. Hackbridge had asked if they could see him; and each time he had refused. There was no kind of intercourse at all between them. John Marco no longer spoke to them, and what messages were sent were carried by his
secretary. He still saw all the important travellers himself; still sorted through the vast, untidy heap of the morning mail, watching every movement inside the machine that he still governed. Since the board-meeting, moreover, he had returned to his tours of inspection. Only, he went alone now, without Mr. Hackbridge shambling after him. And out of the corner of his eye he watched the expression on the faces of the assistants, pondering whether when the last fight really came he could still count on them.