Tales of the West Riding (15 page)

“Ed, grandpa seems in a bit of a mullock upstairs with his Union papers,” said Carol in his ear. “Go up and give him a hand.”

Obliging as always, Ed made at once for the stairway. “I'll go up,” he said, “but I don't suppose he'll let me help. He never does.”

“Anything I can do, grandfather?”

“No, thanks, Ed.”

In his large careful handwriting his grandfather now signed the form. He was so slow in writing
Samuel Edward Oates
that Edward, swift in personal tempo, had to exercise conscious self-control to stand motionless until the process was completed.

“Shall I post it for you?”

“Nay, I'd rather take it myself.”

“I could get you a certificate of posting, you know.”

His grandfather looked at him over his spectacles.

“What sort of a thing is that?”

“It's a new idea,” began Edward.

“I've been fifty years in Union work without using such a thing, and never had anything wrong, and I don't need to begin now.”

“Just as you like, grandfather,” said Edward smoothly. As if I cared what happens to the old fool's Union work, he thought, raging.

* * *

“I'm thinking of getting married, grandfather,” said Lucius.

“Good. Do I know her?”

“No. Her grandfather's tentering foreman at Jarmayn's and she's shorthand typist there. Her brother's a designer over in Annotsfield. Her father, by the way, is a branch secretary for the Union.”

A series of sarcastic remarks rose to Mr. Hardaker's lips. “What is this paragon's name, then? You've looked high, haven't you? A shotgun wedding, I suppose?” But remembering the lasting grief of his quarrel with his son on a similar subject all those years ago, he made a strong effort and suppressed them.

“What is her name?” he said at length mildly.

His utterance was so muffled, so unlike himself, that Lucius looked at him in surprise. He had expected angry opposition.

“Carol Oates.”

“I take it she's not had the upbringing of a lady,” continued Mr. Hardaker on the same mild note.

“That's correct,” said Lucius pugnaciously, flushing.

“And no money.”

“None.”

“Why do you want to marry her, Lucius?” He wanted to add: “Wouldn't a temporary association, a quick bit of fun, have been enough?” But he suppressed this too.

“Lord, how should I know?” said Lucius impatiently. “I want to, that's all.”

“It's as good a reason as any,” said Mr. Hardaker drily. “You'll have trouble with your mother, though.”

“Then mother had better look out for herself.”

“Oh? Your girl's got spirit, has she?”

“All the spirit in the world,” said Lucius.

Mr. Hardaker felt his old heart warm. Perhaps this might be just the thing for the boy? A tough little fighter? So long as she wasn't a tough little bitch as well. Lucius was very young for his age, very ingenuous, very vulnerable. He might get badly hurt.

“Well—if ever you want to get out of it, let me know,” said Mr. Hardaker.

“Thank you, grandfather,” said Lucius with irony. “I shan't, though. She's my choice.”

Mr. Hardaker could not quite repress a snort at this. “You needn't worry about money,” he said hastily, to cover this. He proceeded to outline arrangements for increasing Lucius' salary to a level suitable to a married Hardaker. The arrangements were fairly generous, but not very. He could not quite bring himself to go to the limit of his generosity, to put an extra drain on the Ramsgill reserves, for a Trade Union official's daughter.

Lucius felt disappointed. “Though after all, it's better than I feared,” he thought. He would have preferred a hearty row to this half-and-half acceptance.

Mr. Hardaker felt partly vexed with himself for not having made a larger concession, and partly pleased that, as he thought, he had resisted his affection for his grandson, on behalf of J. L. Hardaker and Co.

“Trade's not been so good lately,” he said in excuse.

“Liar!” thought Lucius. “He'd have given me more if Carol had been richer.”

His generous longing to pour out every possible luxury upon his love, to protect her from every possible want, was thwarted. He felt sore at heart, and angered by his grandfather's hypocrisy.

* * *

Elizabeth was immensely thankful that the wedding ceremony had passed over safely, without any scene—hysterics, a faint, or even sentimental quiet sobbing—from her mother. During the weeks which preceded the marriage, it was Elizabeth—naturally; such things always fell upon the daughter—who had taken the brunt of her mother's displeasure, because she spent more time with her than anyone else.

At first Mrs. Hardaker had wept like a thwarted child deprived
of a toy. “But I don't know her,” she complained to Lucius. “You can't marry a girl I don't know.”

“Now, mother,” said Lucius kindly, “it's no use making a fuss. Carol's a grand girl, she's coming to tea on Sunday and we're getting married in the first week in June. What are you going to wear?”

Lucius certainly knew how to manage his mother, reflected Elizabeth, smiling to herself as Mrs. Hardaker chattered on.

“As though it mattered what I should wear at a wedding like that! They won't even have morning coats!”

“They can hire them,” said Lucius with a laugh.

“Such things don't matter nowadays, mother,” said Elizabeth soothingly.

This drew Mrs. Hardaker's fire on her daughter.

“That's all you think. Of course they matter. Think of the photographs. I blame you for this whole affair, Elizabeth. Your silly ideas—they've spread to Lucius. I'm sure he'd never have thought of such a thing for himself. What would your father have said? I can't possibly decide what I shall wear until I know what colour this girl will choose for the bridesmaids. Perhaps she won't have any bridesmaids! Perhaps it won't even be a white wedding!”

Mrs. Hardaker's pretty eyes opened wide at the very idea of such an enormity.

“Oh, I think it will, mother,” soothed Elizabeth. “Everyone has white weddings now.”

“A June wedding,” said Mrs. Hardaker thoughtfully. “Of course that's always nice.”

By the morrow she was sufficiently reconciled to the marriage to discuss with overflowing interest the questions of her wedding outfit and Lucius' new house. But Carol's visit on Sunday changed her tone. Carol, glowing with life in a very tight yellow dress which revealed all the curves of her blossoming young figure, was not prepared to be patronised—why should she? thought Elizabeth—and gave sharp answers to Mrs. Hardaker's glib platitudes and Elizabeth's more sincere speeches of welcome. Thus the bride and her future mother-in-law differed about the time and place of the wedding, the place and kind of the wedding reception, the number of bridesmaids and the type of house to
be searched for. Gradually the condescending forbearance with which Mrs. Hardaker had begun the interview died away, a disconcerted, perplexed, defeated look spread sadly over her pretty, spoiled-child face; she actually sat silent—a very unusual event with her—glancing from Carol to Elizabeth as if they were speaking in a foreign language. When Elizabeth accompanied Carol to the door on her departure, Carol having arranged her curls in front of the mirror turned with an ironic smile to Elizabeth and said in a defiant tone:

“Tough. For you, I mean.
I
don't care.”

“Oh, it will pass. Mother will come round. She can't help it. She's very fond of Lucius—mother and son, you know.”

“It's not all that easy for me at home either,” said Carol with a grimace. “My grandfather thinks I'm a traitor, marrying into the boss class.”

“But surely all that class nonsense is out of date,” said Elizabeth impatiently.

“Not so as you'd notice—not in Deacon Street, anyway,” said Carol. “Well—goodbye.”

“I'm on your side,” said Elizabeth quickly. “I'll give you all the help I can.”

“Thanks, but we shan't need it,” said Carol.

Lucius now brought his car up and drove Carol away.

That night as Elizabeth went up to bed she heard a sound of weeping coming from her mother's room. She knocked and entered. Mrs. Hardaker lay in the dark, sobbing. Elizabeth put on the light. She was used to tears from her mother, but these were tears of a different kind, anguished, heartfelt; the pretty face was tearstained, distorted.

“Why, mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth, shocked.

She went to the bedside and took her mother in her arms.

“What's the matter, dear?”

“I can't bear Lucius to marry that awful girl. She'll take him away from us, Elizabeth, you know she will. I can't bear to lose Lucius; since your father died he's all I have.”

Elizabeth winced at this rejection of herself and her own faithful service—she had known already that she held no place in her mother's heart, but to hear it announced so forthrightly was nevertheless painful.

“You must stop it, Elizabeth. You must break it off.”

“Mother, they love each other.”

“How do you know,” said her mother angrily. “You know nothing about it. You must persuade your grandfather to break it off.”

“I shall not attempt that, mother.”

“You're so obstinate, Elizabeth, so pig-headed. You get it from your father. It's very ungraceful in a woman. Give me my smelling-salts.”

Elizabeth brought the smelling-salts and the eau-de-cologne and a glass of water, bathed her mother's eyes and forehead, kissed her very tenderly—such hopeless irrationality as her mother showed made her very vulnerable to life's ills, in need of all possible protection, she thought—was recalled to hand reading-glasses and library book.

“There's one comfort,” said her mother, settling herself against her pillows—“I'll have the bedside lamp, Elizabeth, put the other lights out by the door—the marriage won't last long.”

“Lucius can be obstinate too, mother.”

Her mother snorted. “They'll quarrel,” she said with satisfaction. “Lucius will never be able to stand it. That yellow dress! I don't think she had a stitch on, underneath.”

“Carol is pretty and spirited.”

“Nonsense. Don't be silly, Elizabeth. Pretty! A girl like that! Nonsense. You have no sense at all.”

“Good night, mother,” said Elizabeth, with a great effort managing to keep her voice friendly and calm.

“Goodnight,” said Mrs. Hardaker crossly, opening her book—the reminiscences of some titled woman or other, thought Elizabeth in a rage.

This scene had been repeated at intervals with only slight variations during the uncomfortable weeks which preceded the wedding. In the daytime Mrs. Hardaker bent her energies on equipping the handsome new bungalow up the hill which was old Mr. Hardaker's wedding present to his grandson, in extracting every possible further gift from him on Lucius' behalf, and in planning her wedding outfit; but at night her sorrow overcame her. The clash between the genuineness of her mother's grief which demanded her sympathy, and its ignoble selfishness and
snobbery which she despised with her whole heart, kept Elizabeth in a turmoil of increasing exasperation; she began to be afraid that if her mother made some outcry at the ceremony, she herself would be unable to control her own contempt.

But as it turned out Mrs. Hardaker had appeared to enjoy the wedding. Looking extremely pretty in a charming lavender outfit, with a flowery hat perched on her still fair and very elegantly waved hair, she sailed up the chapel—the Oates family, it seemed, were very religious, strong chapel-goers—with a sweet childish smile, holding her bouquet (sweet peas, quite lovely) at just the right angle. From the porch where the bridesmaids were awaiting the bride Elizabeth frequently glanced at her mother; apart from fidgeting with her copy of the wedding service and whispering in old Mr. Hardaker's ear till his shoulders stiffened with irritation, she behaved with complete decorum. As the wedding procession came up the aisle she turned round excitedly, gave a hard unfriendly look at Carol, an alarmed assessing look at Carol's grandfather—a great big rather good-looking lumbering man, white-haired, spectacled, angry disapproval glaring out of his shrewd obstinate face—a contemptuous look at the other five bridesmaids, and a look of irritation at her daughter, who of course appeared quite hideous in the rather too bright pink, too elaborately cut dresses which Carol had chosen.

Relieved of anxiety about her mother, Elizabeth was able to give attention to the wedding of Lucius, of whom, though she thought him not very clever and not very industrious, she was in fact exceedingly fond. She put out of her heart all previous uneasiness and accepted Carol loyally as her brother's wife, and kissed her very warmly in the vestry after the signing of the register.

Now they were in the reception room at the hotel; speeches had been made and healths drunk. Lucius' speech was not very good but he looked so beamingly happy that everyone forgave him; the best man, rather afraid of Carol, overawed by the occasion, had not (fortunately) tried to be funny; old Mr. Hardaker had uttered a few craggy words and old Mr. Oates also had uttered a few craggy words; everyone agreed that the speech of the afternoon was made by Carol's brother, Edward
Oates, he put everyone in a good humour by a few really funny stories and well-turned phrases. Carol and Lucius had now gone to change; Mrs. Hardaker was talking to Grandfather Oates, who looked a trifle bewildered by the torrent of speech but not too cross; old Mr. Hardaker was being led round the very numerous members of the Oates clan by Carol's Aunt Connie, with whom he appeared sardonically amused. Elizabeth found herself alone. She often found herself alone on social occasions. She was used to it, one might say, used to the idea that she was not sexually attractive, never destined to be the centre of an admiring group; she had schooled herself to accept this destiny with dignity and calm. All the same, it was painful.