The Quality of Mercy (35 page)

The servant who had led him here came now to inform him that Lord Spenton was ready to see him. He followed this man down a carpeted corridor, through a small anteroom and then into what he thought must be his lordship’s study, as the walls were lined with books. Spenton was at his desk and without rising waved him to a seat opposite. “Well, young man,” he said, “perhaps you would care for a glass of wine?” Without waiting for an answer he spoke to the servant, who had remained at the door, and asked him to bring a bottle of the white and two glasses.

While they waited for this, Spenton contemplated his guest in silence for some moments, noting the stiffness of his posture as he sat bolt upright in his chair, turning his cap in his hands. “I asked you to come here so I could thank you,” he said. “You
played a splendid game yesterday—all who saw you thought so. I was delighted with our win over Pemberton—over Northfield colliery, I mean to say—and I am resolved you shall be our champion again next year.”

Michael uttered thanks for this praise, but the stiffness of his bearing was not relaxed, and Spenton, in an effort to set him more at his ease, began to question him about his family. The intention of kindness was obvious, and Michael was emboldened by it. He spoke about his parents and his brothers, especially Percy, the youngest, who was soon to be going down the mine. “We dinna know how old the lad is, not to the day,” he said. “The births are not written, nor the deaths neither. So my father says come mid-August he shall gan doon.”

Spenton nodded. “Are you walking out with someone?” he said.

“Yes, sir, Elsie Foster. We are plannin’ to wed.”

“You will be getting a barrowman’s pay?”

“Two shillin’ for shiftin’ the stint, sir. It is nay so much to start a family on, but a’m gannin on for twenty-two, a can hope to be cuttin’ the coal soon, an’ then a’ll be on six shillin’.”

“You will make your way, I have no doubt of that. But I would like to help you on a little. I have felt that it would be a fitting way to mark the occasion of our win yesterday.”

At this point the wine was brought in. The servant waited for some moments, but Spenton dismissed him, rose to pour the wine himself and brought Michael’s glass to him, setting it down on the small table beside his guest’s chair. “Here’s to our victory!” he said, raising his glass.

Michael drank and found the taste distinctly agreeable—he had never drunk wine before. He was puzzled by this repetition of “our,” not really seeing how it could be thought of as Lord Spenton’s victory, though of course his lordship had always shown great interest in the handball matches, and seen that the court was kept up and the lines freshly marked out. He must mean the colliery too; it was a victory for Thorpe, certainly. Then a further
reason came to him like a shaft of light: everyone he knew with any pennies to spare had bet on the result; his own father had put a shilling on him, he knew that for certain; Lord Spenton and the colonel would have done the same.

He drank some more wine, settled back in his chair. A bit more than a shilling, he thought, a canny bit more. The id ea, once lodged, took on the immediate force of conviction. This was the explanation for all the condescension and affability; there could be no other. The belief that there had been material gain on Lord Spenton’s part did more to give him self-assurance than all the words that had gone before.

There was a short silence between them. Then Spenton said, “I would like to show my appreciation of your performance by making you a small gift, no more than a token really, in recognition of the skill and spirit you showed yesterday. I thought that fifty guineas might meet the case.”

It took Michael some moments to follow this ornate phrasing and arrive at the meaning. Fifty guineas! He could barely imagine what so much money would look like if it was all put together—he had never seen coins in a quantity great enough to do more than cover the palm of one hand. Had it not been for the warmth of the wine and the reassuring thought—so reassuring that it had to be true—that Lord Spenton, so powerful and grand, had cause to be grateful, had made money out of him, Michael Bordon, a common pitman, he would never have found the courage even to think what he thought now, let alone say the words that came to him to say to this man at the desk, whose face had lost all expression at his hesitation.

“It is generous in you, sir, more than a could ever have thowt, only for winnin’ at the handball. A dinna know if it would be enough … Would it be enough to buy the bit of land doon by the beck?”

Taken completely by surprise at this, Spenton raised his head to look more closely at the young man. “I don’t quite follow you, I am afraid,” he said.

On this, clutching his cap, eyes lowered, Michael began to speak about the piece of land down in the Dene that his father had always wanted, always dreamed of having. “Ever since a was a bairn,” he said, “before ever a started doon the pit, he would make mention of that bit of land. He never took to the work underground, you see, sir, he never could see nay sense in it.”

How could he explain to this man, who nodded as he listened, who owned thousands of acres, who might for all he knew have as many rooms in his house as there were cottages in Thorpe colliery—how could he explain his father’s rages, the mask of sufferance that the years had brought to his face?

“His strength is not what it was,” he said. “He has been workin’ doon the mine, man and boy, for forty year or more. There is nowt else for a man to do in Thorpe.” He raised his eyes to look squarely at his benefactor. “So much money a would never have thowt to get, never in the world. A dinna know if it would be enough. It is about two acres, measurin’ to the bord of the beck, so my father says.”

Land well watered and sheltered from the worst of the weather. His father’s idea was to grow vegetables and fruit and take his produce by packhorse to the seaside and sell to folks that were passing. “A dinna know if it would be enough,” he said again, and fell silent.

Spenton said nothing for some time. He was well disposed toward the young man before him, though this had little to do with the fact that he had won five hundred guineas on the result of the match—it was the winning that mattered to him, not the sum. He had noted the bearing of the Thorpe champion, the natural dignity; he admired the athleticism and the fighting spirit he had shown in yesterday’s game. But it was something deeper than this that weighed with him now. In every syllable Bordon had uttered there had been love for the father, strong and unashamed, a love that might never have been directly expressed—Spenton knew the taciturn habit of the mining people. He himself had two sons. For the younger he had bought a commission in the
Dragoon Guards; the elder, who would one day inherit the estate, had no profession other than that of man about town. Sometimes he had paid the tradesmen’s bills and on occasion the gambling debts. They were civil to him, but neither of them had ever given him cause to think he was held in any particular affection. Neither of them, really, had ever had to fight for anything, any more than he had himself. He met with money problems from time to time, but these could always be solved in one way or another; they had never obliged him to change his style of life, or even to think of doing so. He rarely went anywhere near the mine, had never been down it. He had his rents, the leaseholders saw to the running. For the first time, listening to Bordon talk of his father, it had occurred to him to wonder what it might be like to toil and hate the toil and never have any freedom from it that was not consumed in weariness.

“It would be enough and to spare if you take the value by acre,” he said. “Young man, the Dene and all the land surrounding it as far as the coast have been in the possession of my family for a very long time.”

He saw his visitor relax the posture of his shoulders in a movement that was not a slump exactly, but a kind of drooping. “No,” he said quickly, “I am not refusing to sell you the land, but there must be a reversion of ownership after a fixed term—I must retain the right of repossession. Wingfield and all that belongs to it must pass to my son when I am gone, and so it must to his son, in due course. We shall insert a clause defining the term of the leasehold. Shall we say forty years? That should be long enough for your father, eh? At the expiry of that time, the land, the acreage, whatever is done with it or built on it, will be returned to the estate. Would such an arrangement be satisfactory to you?”

Hardly believing the words, after the anticipated refusal, Michael began to stammer his thanks. He felt behind his eyes the threat of tears that would shame him if they came.

Spenton held up his hand. “It is agreed, then. A forty-year
lease. Would you like the agreement to be made directly with your father?”

“No, sir, thank you, a would like to surprise him with it.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing. I shall have the notary brought over from Hartlepool. If you will return here, let us say the day after tomorrow, toward eleven o’clock in the morning, we can have the deed of sale drawn up and signed in proper form.”

Michael had to find explanations for the summons to Wingfield and for this second visit and the absence from work it would entail. Lord Spenton was thinking of having side walls built on the handball court, he told his father, and this would mean converting to the English game, which was more complicated, as the ball could be bounced from the side walls as well as the front wall, and four players could take part. As this year’s colliery champion, he had been asked to inquire into general opinion on the matter and make a report to his lordship. He was not used to lying and went too much into detail, but his father showed no sign of doubting the matter. In midmorning on the appointed day he set off to walk the two miles or so of rising ground to Wingfield.

Spenton himself was not present at the meeting. He had left instructions with Roland Bourne, who dictated the terms to the notary. Then, while the copy was being made, the steward quit the room on other business, leaving Michael and the notary alone together.

For a while there was no sound but the scratching of the pen. Michael sat and waited, still in a state of only half belief that this was really happening. He had said nothing to anybody about the agreement reached with Lord Spenton, wanting it to come to his father as a complete surprise.

His copying still not quite finished, Bathgate laid down his pen, glanced up, met Michael’s eye, glanced away again, cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “Young man,” he said, “you have been fortunate, but it is within my power to make you more fortunate yet.”

Taken by surprise at this announcement, Michael made no immediate reply. He saw the notary take up his pen again and heard him say, in the same solemn and measured tones, “I am one who believes in helping a young person to fulfill his promise. I am prepared to buy this piece of land from you, as a private transaction between us, you understand. I can offer you double the price you have paid. That is to say, double the price recorded here, which is stated as received, but which in fact has not been paid, since no sum of money has actually passed out of your possession. I will give you one hundred guineas, cash in hand.”

“A want to give the land to my father,” Michael said, and once more encountered the gaze of the notary, which had grown steadier and sharper in the making of the offer.

“He will not get much of a living from such a small plot.” Bathgate glanced down at the paper before him. “Less than three acres. Nothing prevents you from selling. It is leasehold, the period of ownership is stated, the date of reversion is stated, but the document contains no restriction on your right to dispose of the property as you see fit. With a hundred guineas you could quit the mine for good—no more toiling in the dark, sweating your life away. You are a likely fellow, I can see that. You could set up in some business, manufacturing say—there are excellent opportunities in the pottery trade. Or you could set up a shop or buy a share in a slaving venture—that is the thing nowadays, you acquire a share in a cargo of Africans, you buy sugar and rum with the proceeds of the sale, and you make a handsome profit on the London Exchange when your ship returns. You increase your investment on each voyage and in a few years you find yourself a rich man. I have seen it happen to others.”

“A canna sell the land, sir, it is not truly mine.”

“How, not truly yours? We are presently engaged in drawing up a deed that will convey it to you.”

“No, a mean … If a had thowt to make a profit from the first, that would be different. Sellin’ it now would be like sellin’ my own father, it is him that wants it.” He could see no sign of understanding on the notary’s face. “Tha could offer me double again an’ a wouldna sell it,” he said more loudly, and in a tone more emphatic.

“I see.” Bathgate lowered his head and resumed his copying, and for some minutes there was again only the scratching of the pen to be heard. Michael had not really believed that the notary was concerned to give him a helping hand. But what came now made him less sure of this. Bathgate finished his task, laid the documents side by side on the desk and said, “Mr. Bourne will take these to Lord Spenton for his signature, then he will return to see you make your mark and to witness the signature. I shall sign as second witness. You will not sell to me, well and good. I made you an offer in the line of business. Let me give you a piece of advice. Sell to nobody, nobody at all. I have reason to think, between you and me, that there is interest in that land, and who has a piece of it, however small, will be likely to profit very considerably.”

“A dinna see what tha means, sir.”

The notary paused again, remembering the arrogant manner of the man who had come to question him. Close questions about rights of access, the title to the line of the shore. Only thoughts of making a way through could lead a man to visit a notary with questions of that kind.

“They may be purposing to take the coal that way,” he said. “Here in the County of Durham, who owns the land where the wagons pass can prosper greatly on the wayleave.”