Kindling (28 page)

Upon the blackened, ten-foot wall not many yards from the gate there was a sign that he did not remember. Hesitating for a moment to go in, he went
across to look at it. It was a bronze plaque, about three feet square, apparently a memorial of some sort, dignified and restrained. As he approached he saw it bore, embossed in low relief, the sculptured head and shoulders of a man, in profile. He read the words below.

HENRY WARREN
1934
HE GAVE US WORK

He stood there staring at it for a few minutes, smiling a little; illogically moisture welled into his eyes. A few children, playing some complicated game chalked out upon the pavement, stopped to notice the stranger.

“Mary,” said Ellen Anderson in a hoarse whisper. “Ma-ree! Coom over here. I got somethin’ I want to tell you.

“That bloke there,” she whispered. “It’s the man in the picture.”

“ ’Tisn’t.”

“ ’Course it is.”

“I bet you ’tisn’t.”

“I bet
you
.”

“All right. Now you got to go and ask him.”

Ellen wriggled nervously. “
You
ask him.”

“
You
got to ask him. You bet it was.”

“All right. I
will
ask him.” Warren became aware of a very dirty little girl pulling at his sleeve.

“Please, mister,” she whispered nervously. “Are you the man in the picsher?”

Warren smiled. “That’s right,” he said, “I’m the man in the picture.”

The little girl left him, sped across the road, and into the kitchen of a little house. “Coom over here and look, Mummy—quick!” she gasped. “I seen the man in the picsher!”

Warren turned into the Yard, and went down to the offices.

In the African bush, and in towns like Sharples, news travels very fast. Warren was hardly at the office building before a dozen women were clustered at the gate, peering at him down the entrance road. He had hardly got to Cheriton’s office before the men upon the ships knew all about it. A chattering and gossiping ran down the streets from house to house; women threw their shawls over their heads, went to the door and out into the street—to see what was happening. Within the Yard the men upon the ground sidled towards the offices; the men upon the ships, seeing the flow, knocked off their work and paused to watch. The word went round from mouth to mouth that Mr. Warren had come back.

Dennison, the foreman plater, stopped a thin trickle of men leaving the job. “God love us, men,” he cried, “are ye all daft? It’s twenty minutes yet to go before dinner. Get back on to the job.”

“They’re saying Mr. Warren’s in the offices.”

“What’s that to you? Get back along, and go on working till it’s time for dinner.”

“Hoots,” said one. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Warren there wouldn’t be no dinner.”

There was a laugh. The stream of men towards the offices grew larger, uncontrollable. In a moment men were streaming off the ships, the foremen pleading with them desperately. Only the fitters in the engine-room
of one destroyer stayed at work; their foreman had been middleweight boxing champion in the Navy.

The men surged round the offices. They surged into the time office led by Jock McCoy, a charge hand labourer. The desk clerk rose like a flushed partridge.

“You’re not allowed in here,” he cried.

The navvy thrust his way across the room. “Git oot o’ the way, ye wee daft fule,” he said. “There ane thing only in this place will tell the toon that Mr. Warren’s back, an’ that thing’s gaen’ to wurk. An’ if ye dinna like it, ye can stop yer bluidy earoles.”

The hooter wailed in short, staccato bursts. It blew long blasts, short blasts, continuous blasts, intermittent blasts as various hands tried the experience of pulling at the cord. It brought the women to the doors, the shopkeepers out into the streets, enquiring what the noise was all about. It brought a stream of women and children down towards the gates. It brought the farm hands, far beyond the town, to a standstill beside their byres; in the little harbour at the entrance to the river it brought the fishermen together, wondering what the row was all about. It brought the stoker in the shipyard from his boilers in a frenzy, agonised that he was losing all his steam.

It brought the Sisters in the hospital to the entrance of their wards. It brought the porter flying to the Almoner’s little office off the Secretary’s room.

She started in her chair. “But it can’t be …” she exclaimed. “He wasn’t coming here till some time next week!”

She sat hesitant, irresolute, listening to the mad cacophony of the hooter. Out of her window she saw
people in the street, all streaming down towards the yard.

Mr. Williams came into his office, a sheaf of invoices in hand. He sat down at his table, opened a ledger. Presently he raised his head and looked at her.

“They’re saying that your Mr. Warren’s in the town,” he said mildly. “Are ye no’ going down to meet him?”

Then she, too, left her desk, and ran with the rest.

THE END