The Rise of Henry Morcar (2 page)

Down the hill to the right the road became suddenly precipitous
and turned into Hurst Bank, and at the bottom of Hurst Bank lay a nest of mills and workmen's houses, and one of those railway viaducts of which the hilly West Riding has such an abundance. Amidst this industrial cluster at Hurst Bank Bottom lay his grandfather's mill, built in 1871, a substantial stone building with a couple of extra weaving sheds at the back and a shortish hexagonal chimney which had been added to at the top, so that it looked as if it wore a collar. The brass plate at the side of the door announcing that this was the abode of J. H. MORCAR & SON always gleamed with what Harry's grandfather mystifyingly called elbow grease. Within, the office was fitted along the walls and in the centre with massive sloping desks of gleaming mahogany, divided along the top by a gleaming brass rail. High cushioned stools without backs were ranged along the desks, where inkpots, ledgers, round black rulers and letters to which were pinned snippets of cloth lay in geometrically neat array, quite dustless. A door on the far side of the office led into the mill; when this was opened the restless clacking of the looms rushed in and drew Harry towards the weaving sheds.

His father and grandfather were very willing that he should wander about the mill as he liked, provided he were wearing a navy blue sailor suit and not a white one. There had been tears from his mother when he returned once with a white drill suit all smudged; it was a new suit, she had finished machining it, pressed it and attached its black silk tie and whistle cord only that very morning, so that he should look well when walking out with his father, and now it was all smeared with textile grease. She wept with vexation at the sight and since tears were rare with her, both husband and father-in-law were appropriately impressed. But in a blue sailor suit of cloth from the mill Harry was free to wander as he chose, and accordingly he could not remember a time when he was unfamiliar with looms. He stood at the end of a loom-gate watching and wondering, his mouth perhaps a little agape, his sailor hat on the back of his round fair head, and occasionally his father—solid and cheerful in those days—passed by and smoothing his fine straw-coloured moustache threw out some information about picks or reeds, or his grandfather paused beside him and taking his hand explained the whole loom mechanism in technical language. His grandfather, a plump fresh-complexioned man with a round white beard, had a marvellous gold watch-chain— it cost a pound a link, said Harry's mother—with two remarkable gold coins swinging from the centre; the coins and the loom divided Harry's attention, so that he did not always hear all his grandfather said; but the incident occurred so often that imperceptibly he acquired a deposit of knowledge. The weavers too
would smile at him and calling him “lovey” allow him to approach quite close and watch while they put fresh bobbins into their shuttles; he was a sensible boy, they felt, who would not get hurt or into trouble. In those days the weavers wore clogs at their work and shawls in the street, and sang hymns (or sometimes more secular songs) as they stood in the loom-gate. Harry early acquired the knack of talking and hearing through the noise of the looms and scorned those ignoramuses who tried to shout above it.

On Sundays the Morcars attended the important Eastgate chapel in Annotsfield, where Alderman Morcar was one of the trustees, Harry's father took a Young Men's Bible Class and Harry's mother was prominent in the Dorcas meeting, cutting out materials for the garments they sewed. She was young for this post, which she held because of her skill, and the whole family were proud of her on this account.

On Sunday afternoon in the crowded school Harry sang
Onward Christian Soldiers
and
Dare to be a Daniel
with great gusto, feeling clean and good in his best velvet suit, his white silk scarf and his Sunday coat of pilot cloth (made by his mother from cloth from the mill of course) with its brass buttons and astrakhan collar. The volume of shrill sound was enormous, almost drowning the harmonium's powerful roar; the lilting rhythm of the tunes made Harry feel excited and jolly.

After the hymn and some prayers to which Harry did not listen very much the children filed out to the sound of a ceremonial march into the small classrooms which fringed the large assembly hall. Here, where glossy brightly coloured pictures of Bible scenes looked down on them from the walls, they were told a Bible story by their class teacher: Daniel in the lions' den, David and Goliath, Jacob and Esau, Elijah and Elisha, the call of Samuel, the miracles of Jesus. Harry liked the Old Testament better than the new, for the stories were more exciting and concerned people more like Harry Morcar, but the parts in the New about the fishermen disciples had interest, because of the background of the bright blue lake and boats with sails and nets filled with silvery fish, such as Harry saw on his summer holidays at Scarborough. And the parts about sheep and shepherds were very good. There were sheep on the hills round Annotsfield. Harry made David his hero, admired Daniel, preferred Esau to his brother but supposed there must be something hidden in the story which he would understand when he grew up, to account for God's preference for Jacob. For Samuel he felt little enthusiasm,
but was suitably shocked by the spectacle of a High Priest whose sons robbed the people—it must have been terrible for a man in Eli's position to have sons so completely lacking in respectability. Elijah was grand, so fiercely independent and somehow
Yorkshire;
it served Gehazi jolly well right to be turned into a leper and the ravens were splendid; Elisha in spite of the widow's cruse seemed rather soft and disappointing. Towards the end of the class one grew a little tired and one's attention wandered, for one was not a saintly boy who knew everything and won Sunday School prizes. On the other hand, one was not a bad boy who threw pellets and pulled the girls' frocks from their gathers and was rude to the teacher when she read one's name from the register. That would have been unkind, and Harry had no capacity for being unkind. Harry knew the Ten Commandments and (with a little prompting) the Beatitudes, and could recite the parables of the grain of mustard seed and the sower who went forth sowing, with reasonable accuracy, and furnish their explanations. A parable was an earthly story with a heavenly meaning. A miracle was—Harry was not quite sure what the teachers said a miracle was, but he knew a miracle when he saw one, perfectly. He believed in the miracles completely, of course, but found them a trifle irrelevant. What was clear was that one should be brave like David, honest like Eli, kind to children like Jesus; one should defend the right like Daniel and not tell lies (look at Ananias!) or heap up wealth (look at the rich man who died the same night). One should honour one's father and mother, believe in God, love one's neighbour and keep Sunday different from other days. God was one's Father in heaven, and nobody could come between. Talents must not be buried but used; cleanliness was next to godliness; in the sweat of his brow man must eat his bread.

When the lesson was over the children marched back into the big room and sang
There's a Home for Little Children Above the Bright Blue Sky.
They were rather tired by now and sang in a sentimental yearning tone. Harry was not particularly anxious to seek a home above the bright blue sky, for he was perfectly satisfied with his home in Annotsfield, but it was nice to know such a home was there; it gave one a safe, well-provided-for sensation which was very cosy. One came out into the bright windy afternoon with a comfortable feeling that one had done one's duty and that provided one continued to do it all would be well, probably in this world, certainly in the next.

Looking back on it now, the world of his childhood seemed to Morcar completely safe; a strong smooth firm fabric without a single rent in it, a world without a crack, without the tiniest fissure.

There had been a slight crack once, it seemed, but it was now smoothed over, a damage in the fabric which had been mended. This damage, the child Harry knew, had something to do with his birthday.

“You were born on a black day for the textile trade, love,” his grandfather sometimes said in a solemn monitory voice, shaking his head. “Aye, you were that!”

Harry's self-esteem was vexed by this attack on a matter so closely connected with him as his birthday, and one day he riposted sharply: “Well, it wasn't my fault!” At this his grandfather laughed heartily, his father said: “The child's right there!” and his mother, exclaiming: “For shame, Fred!” drew him to her knee and smoothed his hair. Finding his sally so well received, Harry thought the moment opportune for further enquiry. “Why was it a black day, Grandpa?” he demanded. By this time the two elder Morcars were again discussing the business affairs which his grandfather's apostrophe had interrupted, and made no reply. “Why was it? Why was it a black day, Grandpa?” repeated the child. He put his hand on his grandfather's knee and shook it vigorously. “Why was it a black day?” he shouted.

“Hush, love, don't worry your grandfather. It was because of the McKinley tariff,” explained his father hastily, seeing the question framing again on Harry's firm wide mouth.

“What's a McKinley tariff?” demanded Harry, staring.

His mother pulled him away: “It's something the Americans did which made the trade in cloth much less.”

“You may well say that, Clara,” interjected his grandfather, unable to keep out of a discussion on a matter which upset him so much. “Export trade dropped from sixty-three to nineteen million running yards in four years, that's how much less the McKinley tariff made it. What's nineteen from sixty-three, Harry?”

“Forty-four,” said Harry promptly. “What's a running yard?”

“A yard in length,” explained his father.

Harry pondered.

“He's sharp for his age,” said his father proudly.

“He'll need to be,” said his grandfather, grimly jocular.

“He will if that tariff gets reaffirmed,” said his father in a sober tone.

“Nay—we've done with that, I reckon,” said Alderman Morcar.

Harry's father seemed less certain, shaking his head doubtfully.

Victoria, great and glorious, firm and free. Ever victorious may she be.
In white letters on a red ground. With a portrait of the Queen above, flanked by Union Jacks.

The waggon, which had been held up by the crowd in the square long enough for Harry to read this patriotic inscription where it hung over the façade of the railway station, suddenly jolted forward. The packed children were thrown against each other, the well-brushed curls, the starched drill suits and muslin dresses tossed like flowers in a breeze, screams of delighted laughter filled the air. The fifteen thousand Annotsfield Sunday School scholars were on their way in procession to celebrate the Queen's Diamond Jubilee in the new park. (“Why Diamond?” wondered Harry, but not with sufficient interest to put the question into words.) On his breast a Jubilee badge, a round tin medallion bearing the Queen's picture, hung from a bow of red white and blue ribbon. Church bells were ringing, older children on foot around the waggons were singing. Now they were lined up on grass in front of a platform decked with flags; the Mayor, in a cocked hat and red robes and a big gold chain, was making a speech; at the back in the middle of the row sat Grandpa, resplendent in his best silk hat. The Mayor was delighted, he said, that in Annotsfield on this wonderful day the sun was shining upon them, and he hoped it would be the same for the great celebrations now being held in London. This was the first time it had occurred to Harry that weather might be different in English places at the same time; he was awestruck by the thought and missed much of the Mayor's speech, rejoining it at the peroration. “May the sun continue to shine upon Her Majesty, and Her throne continue to set an example to the world, for many years to come. God Save the Queen!” The band played; then everyone cried Hip Hip Hooray.

Now the crowd of children was breaking up and dispersing; his mother came towards him looking very pretty; the white hat perched on her piled-up light brown hair was trimmed with red white and blue ribbons and she wore three flowers of the same colours pinned in the bosom of her best heliotrope dress.

“Come over here, Harry; don't you want to go in for the races?” cried his father.

“He's too young, Fred,” pleaded his mother, as Harry hung back.

She took his hand and led him to the side of the roped-off space where Sunday School officials were marshalling the seven-year-olds for sports and games. Harry gazed, fascinated; they were tying couples of boys together with handkerchiefs round a leg of
each. One heat of the three-legged race was run; some children tumbled on the grass, the antics of others as they strove to synchronise the movements of their arms and legs made the watching grown-ups laugh and clap. Suddenly Harry snatched his hand from his mother's and ran across the grass.

“That's right, Harry,” said his father, pleased.

He knelt and tied Harry firmly to another boy. Harry looked up from the knots and found it was Charlie Shaw from the house next to his grandfather's. Charlie was thin and taller than Harry; he had wavy dark hair, an oval face broad at the temples, sparkling hazel eyes and a clear delicate skin which coloured easily. The two boys exchanged a look and felt friendly. Harry had no idea how to run a three-legged race but intended to do it as well as the other competitors and possibly rather better.

“I think this is the way,” said Charlie in a light quick tone, passing his arm round Harry's waist.

Harry gripped him in the same way, firmly. Charlie's thin body was quivering with joyous anticipation. The starter fired the pistol.

“Come on!” cried Charlie eagerly.

The boys ran expertly down the course, Charlie setting a quick pace. There was a moment when Charlie stumbled and almost fell, but Harry's grip held him upright. They reached the end of the course almost before the rest had started. They won the heat and presently the whole race, and sat on the grass together, surrounded by their delighted families, triumphantly drinking ginger-beer from a brown stone bottle. In the distance some older children performed drill with long white wands.