Crescendo (3 page)

Of course this feeling of responsibility for Millie tended to make him worry all the more…. For somebody had to worry, and Millie never worried. The only thing which upset Millie was if she hadn't a good meal ready for him on time
when he came in. The only time he ever remembered her crying, for example, in all the years of their married life, was when she dropped a dish of dehydrated potatoes which she had just hydrated and heated, during the war. The hot dish dipped from the oven-cloth to the floor and broke, and Millie burst into tears. (He was home on leave, Corporal Armley, at the time; that was when young Iris was started.) Yes, that was the only time he had ever seen his Millie shed tears. Upset because his meal was spoilt. Just like Millie. Always thinking of him and the children, never of herself. So he always took care—Millie called it worrying, he called it taking care—to let her know when he was going to be out late, or come in early. That's why he had been careful to tell her last night, Sunday, after supper, as they all sat round supping a bedtime cup of tea:

“Don't get in a panic now, if I'm late or early back tomorrow—I'm going out to buy a new machine with the boss.”

Then what must young Kenneth do but up and ask if Ernest would be passing anywhere near Ashworth Town Hall.

“For if you are, dad,” said he, “you might renew my driving licence for me, eh?”

Well, that was the younger generation for you. He'd reminded Kenneth and reminded him, over and over again, that his driving licence—he drove one of those motor-bikes, very unsafe Ernest thought it, particularly when he had his girl Edna planted on the back; the way they swerved round corners was nobody's business—was due on Monday, and with driving licences there were no days of grace allowed. He'd even brought Kenneth the necessary form. But still he hadn't renewed the licence. True, the engineering firm where Kenneth worked stood on a hill a good way out of town, so it wasn't easy for him to get to the Borough Treasurer's office in the Town Hall on a weekday. But there was Saturday morning, as Ernest explained to Kenneth; he could have renewed the licence then.

“The office closes at eleven-thirty on Saturdays, dad,” said Kenneth.

Ernest was rather taken aback, but rallied.

“If you young chaps left your beds a little earlier, Ken,” he began.

But Iris interrupted.

“Oh, don't be such a Malvolio, dad,” she said.

“You have the advantage of me there, Iris,” said Ernest seriously. “I don't know what that is.”

“Oh, well, never mind, dad. I daresay he wasn't the same at home. Not to worry, as they say,” said Iris, dropping a kiss on his bald spot as she passed on her way to the teapot. “Have another cuppa.”

“Well, you know your dad,” said Millie comfortably, passing Kenneth's licence and form across to Ernest. “Ernest by name and earnest by nature. You can't hardly expect him to change at his time of life.”

Ernest, stowing the form and the little red book neatly away in his wallet, had pondered. Not to worry! That was what the doctor had said. But how could he help worrying? There was so much to worry about. He'd always thought so; he'd thought so last night and he certainly hadn't changed his mind today.

“I think I shall buy it, choose how,” said Mr. Arnold at this point in a jocular tone. “We need another cropper, you know, Ernest.”

There you were, you see! A new machine to be installed! Plenty to worry about, coming up!

“Well—it mightn't be so bad if we altered it a bit to suit us own idea, like. It'll do delicate work and run fast,” agreed Ernest grudgingly.

Always new machines, running faster and faster, and complete automation just round the corner. (Ernest spared a thought here for his father the driver, superseded by the motor lorry.) But that was the least of it. If automation came, it came; he could do nothing about it one way or another. It was
the things he was so to say responsible for which worried Ernest. Nuclear fission now—these bombs. Should we make them? Should we test them? Was Russia sincere? Was America over-bossy? (The antics of their Trades Unions made Ernest gravely shake his head. As for the Russians, they had no T.U.'s as he understood the term.)

But these things too, troubling though they were, did not worry Ernest as much as economic problems. All his life since the “sympathetic” incident he had been firmly determined, absolutely set, to distribute the wealth of the country more evenly and raise the standard of living for the working classes. Well, they'd done it and he rejoiced in it, and he hoped they'd go on doing it even more. But a whole batch of economic worries seemed to have come in the Welfare State train. Mr. Arnold, for instance, sometimes said that if wages went much higher, England would price herself out of world markets and lose her trade. Ernest listened sceptically. In the view of his party, the bosses never lost from a rise in wages, they always passed the rise straight on to the consumer, and took a little salary rise themselves on the way. On the other hand, in the thirty or so years he had known Mr. Arnold, he had found him on the whole shrewd, and honest within the code of his class; he was not one given to “sympathetic” humbug, he played the game according to the rules. Mr. Arnold said that the very thought of inflation made his hair stand on end; look what happened to the currencies and trade position of countries with inflation! England might quite simply starve, Ernest, he said, and that's flat. The young shop steward at Holmelea on the other hand said the Union didn't mind a spot of inflation as long as wages kept up with it—the worst time the workers had this century he pointed out, was with deflation, in 1931, and Ernest knew this to be true.

So there was much to ponder and worry about. It was all very well Iris saying “not to worry”; somebody had to worry or where would the working class be? These young people
nowadays! His mother wouldn't have demeaned herself by entering a public-house, but his daughter Nora thought nothing of it, went regularly for a drink with her husband. And look at Kenneth's wages! And his motor-bicycle and his leather coat and that! The young people nowadays had no ideals, thought Ernest sadly; they couldn't be bothered to attend Union meetings, with them it was all football pools and rock and roll and motor-bikes and the telly. Everything for themselves and let the other fellow go hang.

“A chap's entitled to a bit of fun, dad,” said Kenneth once, when Ernest expressed these sentiments.

Entitled? “A chap's not entitled to anything but what he earns, in my view,” said Ernest slowly.

“Oh, go on, dad. Don't you want us to enjoy ourselves? Don't you want us to be happy?” said Kenneth, laughing.

Ernest pondered. Yes, he certainly wanted them to be happy. So it was all very perplexing. The rock bottom of it all was, that nowadays Ernest could not rightly see what was right and what was wrong. So how could he help worrying?

“You'll have to try, Mr. Armley,” said the doctor.

The doctor. Yes. Because for several weeks this spring Ernest had suffered from pain in his abdomen; nausea, vomiting. But he had concealed his distress, he had fought it down as long as he could. Stay away from work? Show a weakness? Lay himself open to sham sympathy, which would lead in some clever fancy way to the sack?
(Finding the work a bit heavy, eh?)
No fear! Ernest endured in silence as long as he could, till he was hardly able to stand upright between his cropping-machines, then secretly, without a word even to Millie, he visited the doctor. Not that one could be very secret nowadays, under the National Health Service; all those queues! Still, Ernest had managed his various medical visits quite successfully; he set off to go ostensibly to a Union meeting, and dropped in at the tail end of the doctor's evening surgery and hadn't long to wait.

The doctor sent him to be X-rayed and he had to go off work in the middle of the afternoon; he lied at the mill and said the trouble was toothache (a thing that might happen to the healthiest person), not wanting to give himself away.

“You've got yourself a nice little ulcer with your worry, Mr. Armley,” said the doctor, holding a set of nasty cloudy photographs up to the light. “You'll have to knock off work for a few weeks and stay in bed, drink milk every four hours and forget your worries, or you'll be in for an operation.”

“And what do I use for money meanwhile, eh?” said Ernest grimly.

“Talk sense, man,” said the doctor. “You'll have your National Health benefit.”

“And suppose I don't lay off work, what'll happen?”

“The ulcer will get rapidly worse,” said the doctor shortly.

“I shall worry far more lying at home in bed than standing about at the mill,” said Ernest.

“Rubbish,” said the doctor.

They argued the matter back and forth for some time.

“Well, if you want to be a fool in your own way, of course you can,” said the doctor at length. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”

He prescribed a diet, medicine, as much rest as possible, and repeated strongly his injunctions that Ernest should not allow himself to be irritated, should avoid sudden shocks and angers, and above all should not worry.

“I'm not given to bursts of temper,” said Ernest stiffly, offended.

“No? Well, that's all to the good,” said the doctor.

He clapped Ernest on the shoulder and pushed him gently out of the consulting-room. “Come in to see me every week, keep to a milk diet and don't get worked up about anything, and you may get rid of it without our having to do anything drastic.”

In point of fact, now that Ernest knew what the trouble was
and what had to be done to cure it, he felt much better. He obeyed the doctor's orders with his usual meticulous care. He told Millie that his stomach was a trifle out of order and she gave him his milk punctiliously; he went to bed early and rested all day on Saturdays and Sundays; above all, when he felt vexation rising in him he subdued it and tried to think of something else—his newest grandson, a charming infant in white creepers, was very useful in this respect. As a result, he had had no severe attack of pain in the last five weeks, and the doctor was pleased with his progress.

“The ulcer's quiescent,” he said.

“Isn't it going away?” demanded Ernest, disappointed.

“Possibly,” said the doctor. “Yes, possibly it may be diminishing. On the whole I believe it is. You may be going to escape more lightly than you deserve.”

Ernest grinned, well satisfied. Nobody except the doctor and himself had ever heard the word ulcer mentioned in connection with Ernest—certainly Mr. Arnold, sitting so bland at his side and thinking about the new machine, knew nothing of his foreman's ailment, and if Ernest had his way, never would.

They had now reached Ashworth. Mr. Arnold glanced at his watch.

“There's no point in your going on to the mill now, Ernest. You'd hardly get there before it was time to turn round and come back.”

Ernest looked up at the Town Hall clock. It was ten minutes to five.

“That's right,” he agreed. “I gave the lads full instructions for the work this afternoon, before I came out,” he added virtuously.

“Shall I run you up home? It's still Walker Street, isn't it?”

There was just time to get Kenneth's licence before the Borough Treasurer's Office closed.

“No—I'll just get out here, if it's same to you.”

The car drew up beyond the corner.

On the one hand, Ernest was quite glad that the business of the licence forbade his acceptance of his employer's offer, for he liked to keep his independence, he wanted no sympathetic humbug from anyone. On the other hand, he couldn't help regretting it. The June day was hot and he was tired, and the buses up Walker Street would be full when the buzzers sounded in a few minutes' time. However, it was worth a sacrifice to save the boy from possible trouble with the police. He got out of the car, shut the door carefully, gave his usual rather dour smile in farewell, and turned along the street towards Ashworth Town Hall.

2

Sunshine blazed on the windows of the Borough Treasurer's Office, and a wave of warm stale air puffed into Ernest's face as he pushed open one of the heavy swing doors. He entered and stood for a moment gazing seriously about him, taking in the appearance of the place, which he had not before visited.

It was a long room divided by a high wooden counter on which wire netting still further cut off the clerks from the public—like a post office, decided Ernest, reassured. Signs directed where one should go in and out and transact various kinds of business—it's everywhere the same nowadays, reflected Ernest; can't stir a step without a notice. Still, on the whole he approved. It made for dignity and order, and gave everyone his proper turn, his rightful due. The place was almost empty; no queues anywhere, probably because it's near on closing time, thought Ernest; just a woman or two paying rates (as Millie paid theirs) and a young man in a sports coat discussing some problem about a printed form, with a clerk at a pay here sign. Driving licences, it appeared, were dealt with at the far corner. There was nobody waiting at that section of the counter at all; a young clerk with sandy hair very neatly
brushed stood there unoccupied, gazing dreamily out of the window.

Pleased, Ernest made his way with his usual dignified step down the length of the room, planted himself in front of the driving licence position and thrusting his hand into the inner pocket of his coat, withdrew Ken's licence and the printed form, which Ken, to give him his due, had filled in very neatly. He laid these on the counter, hauled the necessary silver from his trousers pocket and pushed the whole paraphernalia under the brass netting towards the sandy-haired clerk.

The sandy-haired clerk, however, was not there.

Ernest gaped. At what point in Ernest's progress down the room had the lad vanished? It was impossible to say. But vanished he certainly had; he was not visible, either at the counter or amongst the rows of high desks in the back portion of the room. It was keenly disappointing. Ernest leaned against the counter and waited.