Tales of the West Riding (19 page)

Edward left the building with a cheerful air.

He was indeed well satisfied. He now saw how the loan could be effected.

* * *

“Grandfather, I'm selling my motor-bike.”

“That's good news, any road.”

“And I'm buying myself a small car instead.”

“You gone daft or something?”

“Ken has a car,” Edward defended himself, naming a cousin.

“I daresay. He's ten years older than you. And collecting insurance, think on, he needs a car. What do you want one for?”

“In my present job I need one.”

“Gone over to the bosses, have you?” jeered the old man.

In spite of himself Edward coloured angrily. He kept his tone light, however. “I was hoping you'd sign a paper for me for the bank, grandfather,” he said.

“You want your head examined, lad. What sort of a paper?”

“Well—just to help me get a loan to complete the purchase. Will you?”

“No,” said Sam at once. “I'm not signing no paper for you or anybody else, Ed.”

“Don't you trust me then, grandpa?” said Edward.

“No,” said the old man. “I can't say as I do.”

His tone was jocular; he was proud of his grandson but thought him a little too clever for his own good—needed taking down a peg. Sam wasn't going to encourage anyone in his family to get into debt, not he.

Edward was inwardly convulsed with rage. Wouldn't you think his family'd be proud of him, after all he'd done; scholarships, technical examinations, the good Annotsfield job and now this first-class opportunity at Hardakers? Instead, they criticised, ran him down; thought nothing of him, didn't trust him. His grandfather's refusal was brutal, and so coarsely put. Well, he'd show them.

“I shall have to manage without you, then,” he said cheerfully.

“Seems so,” agreed old Sam.

The next day being Saturday, Edward visited another Annotsfield bank, and filled up a form applying for a £200 loan for the purpose of making repairs and improvements to his house at 5, Deacon Street, Hudley. He signed this form as
Samuel Edward Oates,
and gave as references his own employer and the minister of the chapel the Oates family attended—the Oates family were great chapel-goers, and Edward, though irked, had not thought it worth while to break the habit.

Of course, this bank transaction was dangerous. There were some awkward moments when the sweat stood on Edward's
brow. He tried to give his former employer's name instead of Mr. Hardaker's but could not pull it off; eventually he had to give both. Accordingly:

“What's all this, Edward?” enquired Mr. Hardaker, emerging from the inner office with a frown on his face and the reference form from the bank in his hand.

“I'm sorry you've been troubled with it, Mr. Hardaker,” said Edward sincerely. “It's matter between myself and my grandfather, really. I'm helping him with this, and he's helping me to buy a car.”

Mr. Hardaker snorted. For a moment he wondered whether to advise the boy to get any loan he needed from Messrs. Hardaker's. But from mere habitual caution he decided against it. He went back into the office and signed the form.

The worst moment of all was a sudden wild confusion at the bank when Edward could not remember whether he was pretending that his grandfather was making the application, or whether he himself was pretending to be his grandfather. It was a mixture, really. But he retrieved the momentary hesitation. The latter was, he supposed, the more correct view. Samuel Edward Oates was indubitably the owner of Number 5, Deacon Street, and it was easy to imply that he, Edward, had dropped the old-fashioned name
Samuel
recently, in order to explain why his reference letters called him
Edward.

“It's not a course to be recommended, Mr. Oates,” said the bank manager stiffly. “Creates uncertainties, you know.”

“But many people employ a ‘usual signature' as a safeguard, don't they?” said Edward with an innocent air. “If you prefer it, of course I'll sign in full.”

He did so, writing
Samuel Edward Oates
without a qualm; got the loan and the car.

* * *

Mrs. Hardaker liked Edward Oates. He was always cheerful, well-mannered, pleasant; he listened with fresh interest to all her stories, which old Mr. Hardaker and her two children had heard so many times before.

“You mustn't let me bore you, Mr. Oates,” she said to him occasionally with a smile.

“On the contrary,” Edward always replied on these occasions: “What you say interests me greatly.”

He spoke with truth, for her anecdotes were a mine of information about the Hardaker family and middle-class
mores
in general. He thus learned all about her marriage, the birth of her two children—Elizabeth perhaps posthumously, perhaps at the very moment Luke Hardaker was being mown down by German machine-guns on the Dunkirk beaches—the 1931 depression, her own bravery in marrying Luke so soon after, the efforts she had made to refurbish Ramsgill House after his death, old Mr. Hardaker's assistance, Elizabeth's delicacy as a child, Lucius' prowess at games, old Mr. Hardaker's odd pockets of meanness and generosity, and a hundred other such family details which filled in the Hardaker landscape and enabled Edward to tread warily amid its bric-à-brac. His interest was thus genuine and she felt it to be such, and it was a real relief to her, tucked away out here at Ramsgill, to have somebody to talk to. Tonight, therefore, when in response to her remark about her daughter's wearing of a new frock of stiff blonde silk Elizabeth told her that she was going with Edward to a performance of the Annotsfield Thespians, she expressed approval.

“I think you might be a little kinder to Edward sometimes, you know, Liz,” she said, keeping her eyes down to her tapestry work, at which she had considerable skill.

“Kinder!” exclaimed Elizabeth, taken aback.

“Whatever his birth and upbringing, Edward has the manners of a gentleman. He's thoroughly presentable.”

“Edward,” said Elizabeth proudly, for she loathed her mother's standards of assessment, “is a very fine person and a true artist.”

“Whatever he is,” said Mrs. Hardaker—“I must speak out, Elizabeth. I'm your mother, after all.”

“Yes, mother,” said Elizabeth on a note of irony.

“Well, dear,” began Mrs. Hardaker. She paused, and her faded neck flushed. Elizabeth was always so difficult, she was rather afraid of her if the truth were told. She nerved herself to continue. “Whatever he is, he's the only man who has ever shown any inclination at all towards marrying you.”

“Mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth in anguish. To have the most
secret, the most delicate dreams of her heart thus torn out and displayed before the common light of ordinary day gave her as great a physical shock as if the same had been done to her physical entrails.

“I don't like having to say this, Elizabeth,” continued her mother with some severity: “But you know, dear, you
are
very difficult. You don't seem to attract men, somehow. Not very feminine, you know. It's been a source of great anxiety to me. Anxiety, and worry.”

“I'm sorry I've been a source of anxiety to you, mother,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, dear,” said her mother, flushing again: “One doesn't like to feel one's children can't do what other people's children do, you know. Now tonight, for instance. Why don't you bring it off tonight, dear? Encourage him a little.”

“I shall not do that, mother,” said Elizabeth, rising. “Please excuse me, I must fetch my gloves.”

“Too proud, I suppose. It's all such nonsense! Mark my words, Elizabeth, if you lose Edward you'll never marry. If you want a man you must go after him. Now remember what I say.”

Elizabeth fled. In her own room, she threw herself on her knees by her bed and broke into an agony of weeping. Everything she believed in and honoured had been fouled and soiled, trampled into the mud by her mother's talk. In one way of course there was a delicious assurance—if Edward's attentions had become visible to her mother, surely they were real, not mere figments of her own imagination. But all this was ruined by Mrs. Hardaker's exhortations: to “go after” a man, to try to trap him into marriage as her last chance of this allegedly desirable state, seemed to her so unspeakably vulgar that the mere mention of it made any “encouraging” action impossible.

The bell rang, Edward arrived. Elizabeth scrubbed her eyes, refreshed her make-up, snatched a fur stole and gloves and went down to him.

“Elizabeth!” sang out Mrs. Hardaker from the front room.

Edward made as if to enter to her but Elizabeth shook her head. Edward nodded his understanding, and they went out of the house in silence. In the sweep of the front drive stood Edward's new car. Elizabeth was so preoccupied with her own
sensations that she would not have noticed the car if Edward had not called her attention to it.

“How do you like her, eh? Blue and cream.”

“What an agreeable colour scheme, Edward,” said Elizabeth sympathetically at once.

Old Mr. Hardaker came round the side of the house.

“Is this the new car, Edward?”

“This is she. Neat but nippy,” said Edward.

Edward and Elizabeth climbed into the blue and cream car and drove off.

“You're sad tonight, Elizabeth.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother has vexed you.”

“Yes.”

“Would it be impertinent to enquire what the vexation concerns?”

“No—since it concerned you,” said Elizabeth on an impulse.

“No! Oh, no!” exclaimed Edward. He was furious: to have the mother against him as well as the grandfather, he thought, it's too much! If that old frip, that ageing garrulous hag, thinks she can halt my progress, she can think again. “In what way about me? She dislikes your coming out with me?” he demanded in an angry tone.

“No, no!” said Elizabeth, alarmed by the storm of feeling she had roused. “Quite the contrary. She thinks I am unkind to you—not sufficiently appreciative,” she added hastily, laughing, to tone down a statement which now appeared too crude. “Am I insufficiently appreciative, Edward?”

Good old bitch, she's been urging on the match, thought Edward, delighted. Aloud he said in a tone of stern integrity: “That is a matter entirely between you and myself, Elizabeth.”

It was strange, yet so deeply satisfying, that Edward always seemed to say just the right thing, reflected Elizabeth.

“I am
immensely
satisfied with our friendship,” went on Edward, halting at the traffic lights. He glanced aside at Elizabeth. Dare I risk it? Is it too soon? If I don't say any more it will appear as if friendship is all I hope for: that will chill her. He decided to gamble: “But only, of course, because I hope friendship will develop into something warmer,” he said.

Elizabeth made no reply. A delicious feeling of happiness, like a rosy glow, spread throughout her body. Can this be love? Can this really be me, the dull plain unattractive Elizabeth Hardaker, actually receiving what amounts to a proposal of marriage? Her cheek glowed. Edward glanced at her again. He thought triumphantly: “Done it!” At the same moment he felt a genuine protective pity for her which was almost love. Oh, you poor foolish Elizabeth, he thought; you silly child; so noble, so vulnerable, so easy to practise upon. “May I hope for that, Elizabeth?” he urged, leaning towards her. “Of course I know how many disadvantages I have to overcome before I can venture—this car, for instance—it's on hire-purchase you know, but—”

“No, no!” cried Elizabeth, voicing her deepest convictions. Hire-purchase was to her of course, with her middle-class traditions, unthinkable, a class stigma; but then, as she reminded herself, she repudiated class distinctions with all her mind and heart. “These foolish snobbisms mean nothing to me, Edward. Surely they mean nothing to anyone nowadays.”

In her eagerness to console, to convince, to reassure, in her sympathy for him about the hire-purchase, she had laid her hand on Edward's coat-sleeve. It was a beautiful hand, long, slender, well-cared for, totally lacking in pointed nails or coloured polish. Edward took it in his own, and bending forward kissed her lips—pale, but to his surprise full and soft. Edward was as subject to the savage compulsion of sex as the next man, and he had viewed as one of the disadvantages of his plan that it would entail marriage with a woman to whom he was not physically attracted. But there was something so clean, so clear, so honourable, so genuine about Elizabeth, about her simple dress of stiff blonde silk, her thin gold chain with the pendant of real stones so unlike the massive bulbous beads of the day, the elegant silk and lace which he saw around her armpit, that to his surprised delight he felt himself begin to stir. Her breast was heavy, warm. “This'll do me,” he thought with satisfaction.

As he drove home he congratulated himself heartily. Couldn't have come off better. Didn't have to seduce her. So much less messy. It's my belief they'll be glad to marry her off. I must go slow at first, of course. I'll see old Hardaker in the morning. But I mustn't urge a speedy marriage or too swift promotion.

“I'm glad you've pulled it off, dear,” said Mrs. Hardaker triumphantly to Elizabeth. “All you had to do, you see, was to encourage him a little.”

* * *

“I hope it'll be all right,” said Carol uneasily, gazing at Elizabeth's extremely tasteful pearl engagement ring. Where on earth did Ed find the money to buy that, she wondered? It's not diamonds, but still! Hire purchase, I suppose.

“It's an old one, as you see,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “But I love having a ring with historical associations.”

Carol could not possibly believe this statement—every girl would prefer a brand-new ring, she was sure, thinking with satisfaction of the diamond cluster which graced her own hand—and she credited Elizabeth with making it in order to soothe Edward's feelings. Accordingly she felt warmly towards her.