Kindling (9 page)

He very soon grew tired, and was glad to cut his outing short and get back to the hospital. He went through to the Secretary’s room to take up his heavy burden of simple addition; he was ruefully conscious that he was not shining as a ledger clerk. Williams was out, but the Almoner was sitting at her desk.

She glanced round as he came in. “Been out for your first walk?”

He sank down in his chair. “I’ve been looking at Sharples,” he replied. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

She made no reply.

He drummed with his fingers on the table for a minute. “What’s the unemployment here?” he said at last.

She raised her head. “About seven thousand five hundred drawing from the P.A.C.,” she said. “I suppose it’s about nine thousand, more or less.”

“That’s most of the wage earners, I suppose?”

She nodded without speaking.

He eyed her for a moment. “What happened here?” he asked gently.

She turned to him. “I don’t know—none of us really know. This is a shipping town—Barlows, you know. Barlows really were Sharples—everyone seemed to work in Barlows, or in the plate mills, or the mine—and those were all mixed up with Barlows. The Yard employed about three thousand people all the time before the War, and in the War, and after the War, it went up to about four thousand, so they say.”

She paused. “And then about five—no, six years ago, they started to lay off men. There didn’t seem to be any more orders for ships coming in.”

“I know,” he said. “That happened all over the world.”

“It was awful,” she said soberly. “I’ve lived here all my life. My father was solicitor to Barlows. It didn’t really matter much to us, because he was thinking of retiring anyway. But first of all they had to lay off the men, and then some of the staff. And then the mine shut down, without any warning at all, and that threw over a thousand out of work at once. And there didn’t seem to be any reason for it,” she said. “It wasn’t bad management, or anything like that—so far as we could see. It just happened.”

“That was in 1928?” he asked.

“About that time. And then one day, everybody got their notice. They pasted up a placard on the shipyard gates to say that the yard would be suspending work for a time during reorganisation. Everybody thought it would be quite a short time, and it was only a matter of getting a new company going, or something. But it went on—and of course the plate mills closed at the same
time. And then, about six months after that, the men started to run out of benefit, and had to go on to the transitional scheme, and then on outdoor relief. And now we’ve got the P.A.C. and the Means Test.”

He said, “Has nothing happened to the shipyard since then?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. They say now that it may never open again.”

He was silent.

“We can’t believe that, here in Sharples,” she said quietly. “Things always do come right, somehow or other. Don’t they?”

He did not try to answer that. “Has there been any attempt to start up other industries?” he asked.

She smiled a little wryly. “Basket-making, and fancy leather work,” she said. “The Council of Social Service are doing their best, and I suppose it’s a good thing to try and get the men to do something with their hands. But … I don’t know. There were seven Barlow destroyers at the Battle of Jutland—did you know that, Mr. Warren? I’d have thought they might have found something better for our men to do than fancy leather work.”

“Nobody’s tried to start up a light industry—plywood or wireless sets, or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t heard of anything like that.”

He nodded thoughtfully. A year before a man had come to him with quite a good proposition to manufacture a German type of carpet sweeper under licence. He had proposed to set up a factory in a depressed area of South Wales. Ruefully Warren remembered his own
words. “You must cut out the philanthropy,” he had said. “Nobody’s going to give you money for that. You’ll have your work cut out to get this thing established anyway, without planting it in an atmosphere of failure.” A little factory had been put up at Slough, and it was doing well.

She said, “It’s a wicked thing to spread a rumour like the one that’s going round now, that the Yard will never open again. It takes all the heart out of the people. It makes them feel there’s nothing to look forward to—ever. And besides, it isn’t true.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Ships always have been built in Sharples. All the ships are getting worn out. As soon as this depression lifts, a lot of new ships will be wanted, and things will come right again.”

“That may be,” he said slowly. “But you’ve got to face the facts.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems to me that Barlows is out of the business. No ships have been built here for a long time. Who’s going to place the first order?”

She hesitated. “I suppose somebody will want a ship some day.”

“I know. But put yourself in his shoes. If you were spending fifty thousand pounds of your money on a ship, where would you go to order it? Most probably it wouldn’t be your own money. You’d not have that much loose capital; you’d go and borrow most of it from your bank. Would you order the ship from one of the big firms in Belfast, or in Wallsend, or the Clyde? They’d build you the ship in six months, and guarantee
delivery to the day. Or would you come and place your order here?”

She was silent.

“The bank wouldn’t let you place your order here,” he said. “They’d be afraid that something would go wrong, that it would be a bad ship and no security for their loan.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know that is the difficulty. One must be practical.”

“It seems to me that it’s the first few orders are the difficulty,” he said. “The goodwill must be absolutely dead.”

“But that means that the Yard never can get started up again,” she said.

He had nothing to say to that.

She rose and faced him, and he rose in turn. “I know that what you’ve said is true,” she said. “And yet I don’t believe it. This is a decent world, and things like that don’t happen. Sharples is going through a bad patch now, but somehow we’re going to get over it. Something we don’t see will turn up, or somebody will come and help us get things like they used to be.”

He faced her, and his eyes were very soft. “That is what you believe?”

“I believe that some day we shall get things right again,” she said.

He smiled. “If there are many people like you in Sharples, you probably will.”

He turned to his accounts.

He worked on steadily all evening at his books, making up in length of hours what he was well aware was lacking in dexterity. In the middle of the next
morning the Almoner passed through the office; he stopped her as she went.

“I’m going for a walk this afternoon,” he said. “Is it possible to get into the shipyard? I’d like to see it.”

“The gates are usually open,” she replied. “Old Robbins is the watchman—he comes up here to out-patients. If you mention me he’ll let you in.”

“Thank you so much.”

She considered for a minute. “I’ve got visits in Baker Lane and round that way this afternoon. If you like, I’ll meet you at the Yard. Say four o’clock.”

“Don’t trouble if it’s out of your way.”

She turned aside. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself—it’s over two years since I went there. I’d like to see how tall the grass has grown.”

The Yard stood at a bend in the river, a mile or so up from the sea. It covered, Warren judged, about fifty acres of land; there were three large berths for building and two smaller ones, with quays, wharves, and a small graving dock. The Yard had been placed cleverly upon the bend of the river so that the three large slipways pointed down the stream, enabling quite large vessels to be launched in a small river. All this and other features of the Yard were pointed out by the old watchman, as he hobbled round with Warren and the Almoner.

“Admiralty vessels we built here, too—oh, a many of them,” he quavered. “Seven Barlow destroyers there was at the Battle of Jutland.”

Warren walked slowly after him, leaning upon his stick and asking keen, incisive questions. He judged the place to be in pretty good shape. The derricks and
gantries exposed to the weather had not suffered greatly from corrosion; so far as possible all gear had been removed and put in store, carefully greased and covered with tarpaulins. The woodworking machinery had all been sold; there had been no market for the heavier presses and the plate-manipulating rolls, and these remained in place. The buildings of the Yard were fair; the offices and stores were still quite good.

He lingered there till dusk. At the Yard gate he turned towards the girl.

“Thirty thousand pounds for capital re-equipment,” he said. “And then the money to finance the order.”

She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He smiled. “I’m sorry—I was thinking aloud. But that’s what it would cost to get it going again.”

“How on earth do you know that?”

He turned towards the hospital. “I used to do a good bit of that sort of estimating,” he said. “Over in America, of course.”

She eyed him doubtfully, but said nothing.

During the next week Warren wandered widely through the town on his afternoon walks. He went twice more to the shipyard and talked for a long time with the ancient at the gate. He paid a visit to the rolling-mills. He went down to the fish quay at the harbour mouth and listened to the gossip of the boats—to find if there was any silting of the river. In one swift hour of concentration in the hospital he learned the mystery of football pools, which led him to an hour’s talk with a small newsagent that threw a great light on the failure of the Yard. He carried many parcels of washing to the homes of the patients, and
for each parcel he was paid in some stray piece of information of the town.

He gained strength rapidly, unlike the people that he lived among. Before many days had passed he could walk long distances without his stick, and knew by that same token that his time in Sharples was drawing to a close.

There was one place more to visit before he left the town. He said to the Almoner, working at her desk:

“I want to see the mine, Miss MacMahon—before I go. Do you think that could be managed?”

She raised her head. “You can’t go down it.”

“I don’t want to do that. I’d like to look around about the pithead—see the stores and offices.”

She glanced at him queerly. “You’ve seen everything else in Sharples? And now you want to see the mine.”

He smiled. “I’ve seen most things,” he admitted. “Is it possible to see the mine?”

She stared at him, puzzled. “I know one of the clerks who used to work there,” she said. “He could show you all there is to see. But what do you want to see it for?”

He smiled. “To satisfy my curiosity,” he said blandly. “It would be so kind of you if you’d give me his name.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll come with you this afternoon.”

The man lived in a little house in a row on the top of the hill some way outside the town, not far from the pit-head. He looked white and ill, and very frail. He made no objection to taking them to the offices, and for an hour Warren pored over dirty, dog-eared plans, and talked production costs. He walked through the stores and engine-shops, asking questions that the little
clerk found joy in answering, so long it was since he had talked his business with a stranger.

At last they left the mine, and went back to the house. The Almoner went in with the pale clerk; Warren waited for ten minutes in the road outside. Then she rejoined him, and they strolled towards the town.

“That fellow’s looking very ill,” he said. “Is he a patient?”

“Not yet,” she said briefly. “His wife has been attending for a long time.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He isn’t getting enough to eat, by the look of him. I’ve just spoken to him about it.”

Warren frowned. “Surely the public assistance rates aren’t so bad as that? They’re revised from time to time, aren’t they? You don’t just have to starve?”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t have to starve. The rates are all right—in theory, Mr. Warren. You can keep alive and fit on P.A.C. relief—if you happen to have been born an archangel.”

“What do you mean?”

She stopped and faced him. “It’s like this. There’s really nothing wrong with the rates of relief. If you are careful, and wise, and prudent, you can live on that amount of money fairly well. And you’ve got to be intelligent, and well educated, too, and rather selfish. If you were like that you’d get along all right—but you wouldn’t have a penny to spare.”

She paused. “But if you were human—well, you’d be for it. If you got bored stiff with doing nothing so that you went and blued fourpence on going to the
pictures—you just wouldn’t have enough to eat that week. Or if you couldn’t cook very well, and spoiled the food a bit, you’d go hungry. You’d go hungry if your wife had a birthday and you wanted to give her a little present costing a bob—you’d only get eighty per cent of your food that week. And of course, if your wife gets ill and you want to buy her little fancy bits of things …”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You’ve seen it up there.”

He was silent for a minute. She stood there looking at him, mute; there was no sound but the sighing of the wind over the hill. At last he said, “That’s terrible. Because it’s so difficult to change. You can’t expect people in work to pay for people who are idle going to the pictures, or giving presents to their wives. We haven’t reached that stage of socialism yet. And that means there must always be starvation, in a small degree. Because people are human, and a little foolish sometimes.”

She faced him bitterly. “There’s only one cure for starvation—work! If only we could get some work back here! That’s the only thing that allows you to be human and foolish, as you’ve got to be. My God, if we could get some work back here again …”

He moved over to a gate and stood there leaning his arms upon it, looking out over the town. She came and stood beside him. He saw the river running down from the grey moors, the bend by the shipyard, the distant litter of the slips, the graving dock, the grey untidy huddle of the town. All crystal-clear, un-smirched by any smoke of industry.