IV
‚ÄúAn‚Äô serve ‚Äôim right, too,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd muttered. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt a bit of patience with him.‚Äù It was the third time she had turned over this kipper, now blackened on both sides. It awaited, this kipper, the arrival of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd from work, being indeed the usual centrepiece of Monday evening‚Äôs tea; but obviously it had long ceased to care whether he came or not. An hour earlier this kipper might have been said to be wasted on him. Now, as Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd has suggested, it could only be described as something that served him right. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd generally arrived home before six, but now it was after seven. His wife, who had been washing all day and had organized a particularly fine display of steaming clothes round the fire at a quarter to six, had lost more and more of her temper with every passing quarter of an hour. Had she known that four five-pound notes had found their way into her husband‚Äôs pockets, late last night, she might have been alarmed. She knows nothing, however, and has not exchanged a dozen words with her husband, who has to rise very early and take both breakfast and dinner to the mill, since they disposed of the Sunday dinner. She is not alarmed but simply annoyed. ‚ÄúA body can‚Äôt get on,‚Äù she tells herself fretfully. Very soon she will have to prepare tea for Leonard, who will return from his first day at Gregson‚Äôs to find a kipper, and a much larger and fatter kipper than the one we have already seen, waiting for him, done to a turn. Meanwhile, his father, like the nuisance he is, must take it into his head‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor that is how Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd saw the matter‚ÅÝ‚Äîto be over an hour late.
‚ÄúNot ‚Äôome yet!‚Äù she cried to Mrs.¬ÝSugden, who had looked in from next door. ‚ÄúHis tea‚Äôs been ready nearly an hour and a half. Eh, men‚Äôs a bother, they are! Is yours ‚Äôome!‚Äù
‚ÄúLong sin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝSugden, a woman of few illusions. ‚ÄúBeen and gone out again. Trust ‚Äôim! When ‚Äôe‚Äôs more ner an half-hour late, I know I shan‚Äôt see ‚Äôim afore all pubs an‚Äô clubs is closed. But that nivver happens o‚Äô Monday ‚Äôcos ‚Äôe has nowt. They can‚Äôt be working over at Higden‚Äôs, can they?‚Äù
‚ÄúNot they!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd knew all about the state of the wool trade. ‚ÄúThey can‚Äôt get a full week in, and a lot on ‚Äôem‚Äôs been stopped. It‚Äôs not that, I‚Äôm sure. Some piece o‚Äô silliness, I‚Äôll be bound.‚Äù
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs ‚Äôere,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden whispered dramatically, then promptly vanished from the doorway.
The next moment he was there, a grimy, hot, and angry man who flung his cap and his bag of joiner’s tools down on the sofa, then closed the outer door with a bang.
“Where in the name o’ goodness have you been?” his wife demanded. “And your tea waiting ’ere a full hour and a half!”
“Been on to t’Union office,” he answered shortly.
She glanced at his face and then moderated her tone, “What d’you want to go there for at this time?”
“ ’Cos I’ve been stopped.” He bent down and began to unlace his heavy working boots.
“You’ve been what?” his wife shrieked.
“Stopped, sacked, paid off, whativver you want to call it!” He straightened himself and threw an insurance card and some money on the table. “I’m not even under notice. Higden’s has finished wi’ me, and I’ve finished wi’ them. There’s a week’s money there.” He began to unlace the other boot.
‚ÄúWell, I nivver did!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. She flopped down into a chair and regarded him with the utmost astonishment. ‚ÄúWhat ‚Äôa‚Äô you been doing?‚Äù
“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. I want a wash and summat to eat.” He marched in his stockinged feet towards the scullery. “Get my tea ready and then you’ll soon know what I’ve been doing,” he added grimly.
In Bruddersford wives do not stand on ceremony at such moments of crisis, and Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, without a word of protest, made the tea and released the kipper from its long ordeal.
‚ÄúIf this ‚Äôere fish had ‚Äôa‚Äô been by t‚Äôfire a minute longer,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, now seated at the table, ‚Äúit ‚Äôud ‚Äôave started warping. It‚Äôs like a bit o‚Äô burnt wood.‚Äù
“Happen it’s last you’ll see for a bit,” his wife retorted, having been roused by this gratuitous sally. “Never mind about that. What ’ave you gotten stopped for?”
‚ÄúFor nowt, just nowt,‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúOr, if you like, for bein‚Äô a man and not a damned monkey.‚Äù He stopped to take a drink of tea, then, pointing his fork at Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, he resumed: ‚ÄúThis morning I hadn‚Äôt a wagon in, and so were doin‚Äô nowt for a bit. Simpson, t‚Äôunder-manager, comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòWhat are you on with, Oakroyd?‚Äô and I tells him, ‚ÄòNowt, just now.‚Äô They‚Äôre puttin‚Äô up a temporary shed for t‚Äôwagons, and so Simpson ses, ‚ÄòWell, help wi‚Äô t‚Äôshed. You can start by getting this into shape.‚Äô And he points to a beam they pulled out o‚Äô t‚Äôold shed, and he finds measurements for me. So I borrows an axe an‚Äô a big crosscut saw and gets to work on this ‚Äôere beam. I haven‚Äôt been at it more ner ten minutes when a chap taps me on t‚Äôback. I don‚Äôt know him but I know he‚Äôs one t‚Äôshop-stewards. ‚ÄòAn when did you join t‚ÄôCarpenters‚Äô Union, comrade?‚Äô he ses, very nasty. ‚ÄòWhat d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äô I ses, though I knew what was coming. He pointed to t‚Äôbeam: ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs a carpenter‚Äôs job,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô you keep off it, comrade.‚Äô I give him a look. ‚ÄòComrade!‚Äô I ses, ‚ÄòMy God!‚Äô ‚ÄòI‚Äôve noticed you once or twice,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan it‚Äôs struck me you‚Äôve got the makings of a blackleg,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòAn summat else‚Äôll strike you in a minute, mate, if you stay here callin‚Äô me names,‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWell, leave that job alone,‚Äô he ses, an‚Äô walks off. And of course I had to.‚Äù
He paused for refreshment, and his wife stared at him and said that she didn’t know whatever things were coming to.
‚ÄúWell, let me finish,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as if she had been preventing him. ‚ÄúSo I‚Äôd nowt to do again. By an‚Äô by, Simpson comes round again, this time wi‚Äô manager hisself, old Thorley. They‚Äôre takking a quick look round and seem a bit flustered. Thorley sees me. ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this man doing?‚Äô he asks. ‚ÄòEh, Oakroyd,‚Äô Simpson shouts across, ‚Äòget on wi‚Äô that job an‚Äô sharp about it.‚Äô ‚ÄòI can‚Äôt get on wi‚Äô it,‚Äô I shout back, and moves across to tell ‚Äôem. ‚ÄòGo on, man, go on, man, go on!‚Äô ses old Thorley, waving his hand at me, and out they goes. At dinnertime I hears that the great man hisself, Sir Joseph Higden, Bart‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô his father were nobbut a weaving over-looker like mine‚ÅÝ‚Äîis on the premises. I knew now why t‚Äômanagers were so flustered. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll bet they‚Äôre cuttin‚Äô summat down,‚Äô I ses. About three o‚Äôclock they lands in our department, Sir Joseph and Thorley, wi‚Äô Simpson behind. I see Sir Joseph wave his hand. Then Thorley looks round, an‚Äô I see him look at me and then say summat to Simpson. In a minute or two, Simpson comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm sorry, Oakroyd, but you‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to take a week‚Äôs notice.‚Äô ‚ÄòWhat for?‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWhat have I done?‚Äô ‚ÄòIt‚Äôs your own fault,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòthere‚Äôs so many to be stopped, an‚Äô you shouldn‚Äôt have let Mr.¬ÝThorley see you this morning.‚Äô ‚ÄòIt were no fault o‚Äô mine,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô I‚Äôm going to have a word wi‚Äô Mr.¬ÝThorley.‚Äô And I did have a word wi‚Äô him, an‚Äô a fat lot o‚Äô good it did me. I begins to tell him how long I‚Äôd been there, an‚Äô he cuts me short an‚Äô ses some of us older men is as idle as young uns instead o‚Äô setting an example. That were enough for me, and I ses summat I shouldn‚Äôt ha‚Äô said. ‚ÄòPay ‚Äôim off an‚Äô give him his card,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòThis man‚Äôs finished wi‚Äô Higden‚Äôs for good an‚Äô all.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“That comes o’ not keeping a civil tongue in your head, Jess Oakroyd,” said his wife reproachfully. “I’ve warned you afore now.”
‚ÄúWhatd‚Äôyou think I‚Äôm made of?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWhen a chap‚Äôs called a blackleg in t‚Äômorning an‚Äô an idler i‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, he‚Äôs got to say summat. Well, I gets my week‚Äôs money and my card at five o‚Äôclock, and sets off for t‚ÄôUnion office to tell my tale there. Secretary‚Äôs not in. That‚Äôs young Maundery, him as talks so much about the proletariat. I waits about and waits about. By and by in he comes, an‚Äô who‚Äôs with him? That shop-steward, the comrade. In they come, laughing and talking, two bloody comrades together. A fat lot o‚Äô good my trying to tell ‚Äôem my tale! Started pulling me up right an‚Äô left. ‚ÄòNotify this, that, an‚Äô t‚Äôother.‚Äô ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses at finish. What wi‚Äô one an‚Äô another, and being badgered this way an‚Äô that, I hadn‚Äôt a bit o‚Äô patience left. ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses, and marches out. And now you know.‚Äù
His wife sat there rigid, her eyes fixed on his. For a few moments her face softened and she looked as if she were about to cry. But as she watched him dispose of the remainder of his tea, deal aggressively with a piece of pastry and a second cup, the hard lines came back into her face, the unfriendly gleam into her eyes. “Well, and what are you going to do now then?” she asked.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed aside his cup. It was a little gesture of despair. ‚ÄúLine up for t‚Äôdole till another job turns up.‚Äù
“And ’ow long ’ull that be?”
“Don’t ask me. You know what it is now. That bag o’ tools ’ull be there a long time, I’m thinking.” He stood up now and looked across at his tools, lying on the sofa. Then he glanced down at his dirty old working clothes, and suddenly arrived, he knew not how or why, at a queer little decision. “I’m off upstairs to change my clothes,” he announced, and departed.
When he came down again, he found his wife preparing Leonard’s tea. He saw at a glance that she had made up her mind about something: her lips were tightly folded upon some recent decision. He waited for her to speak, turning, in his misery, to the old-time comfort of Old Salt.
“Well, that settles it,” she began.
“What settles what?” he asked uneasily.
“Albert Tuggridge comes ’ere,” she announced. Then, before he had time to do more than remove his pipe, she charged in, working herself up to a fury of justification. “Now, don’t start on again, don’t start on. You’ve just thrown your job away, you’re not going to throw this away an’ all, that you’re not. If t’lad’s still willing to come, ’ere he comes, and sooner the better. If it takes any more work it’ll be mine and I’ll have it to stand, so it’s more my business ner yours, and I say he can come. We’ve got to live, ’aven’t we? You’d got little room to talk when you were in work, and you’ve less now.”
“You might ’a’ let me off Albert for this one night anyhow,” he said quietly.
This only made her angrier. “It’s got to be settled, ’asn’t it? An’ let me tell you this, if Albert don’t come, Leonard might be going. I heard ’em saying summat t’other night. I don’t think t’lad would leave his mother, but ’e might, wi’ you always on to him. And then where should we be? Just when he’s getting a good wage, too!”
So that was it. He was angry too now. “If Albert comes ’ere,” he said firmly, “I go.”
“Don’t talk so soft. Where are you going? Are you going to live at t’Midland Hotel on your dole money?”
“Not so much about the dole! It’s first time it’s had to be mentioned in this ’ouse, let me tell you.” He took his wounded pride to the door and there brooded over his pipe. When he swivelled his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, his elbow set something rustling in his inside coat pocket. There were four five-pound notes there.
“ ’Ere we are at last, the old firm!” This was Leonard. His father followed him into the living-room. “Tea ready, Mar?” cried the youth, gaily. “That’s the stuff!”
“Got on all right, Len?” asked his mother, bringing the large fat kipper from the fire.
“Ab‑so‑lutely! D’you know what I made in tips? Guess. Eight-and-threepence. Eight-shillings-and-threepence. Not so dusty. Good old Gregson’s!” His mother poured out a cup of tea for the conquering hero.
“Good job we’re gettin’ it from somewhere,” she remarked. “Your father’s finished at Higden’s.”
“What’s this?” A close observer might have noticed a subtle change at once in Leonard’s manner.
His father, for once, was a close observer. ‚ÄúAll right, all right,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúGive it a rest for a minute. Is that t‚Äôpaper you‚Äôve got there?‚Äù It was, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, claiming it, retired to a corner of the sofa, plodding steadily and miserably down the columns of the Bruddersford Evening Express and trying to shut his ears to the whispering of the other two at the table.
Quarter of an hour later, on arriving at the fifth page, it was not necessary for him to try to fix his attention on the paper. His attention was securely riveted there. He stared and stared at a report headed: ‚ÄúStreet Robbery. Local Sportsman‚Äôs Loss.‚Äù Phrases leaped up to meet his eye: ‚ÄúThe well-known local sportsman, Mr.¬ÝGeorge Jobley‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ returning to his home in Park Drive, Merton Park, Bruddersford, last night‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley had been attending various race-meetings‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ had left his friends to walk the short distance to his home‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ attacked and robbed‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ at least ¬£120 missing‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ strange affair‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ most important street robbery in Bruddersford for years‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley not injured but some shock.‚Äù And the last sentence of all held his eye longest: ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue to the identity of the assailant.‚Äù What was this?
“ ’Ere, who’s this chap, George Jobley?” he demanded.
“That’s the bookie feller that’s been robbed,” replied Leonard. “I know him well by sight. He’s one o’ the lads.”
“What’s’e like?”
“Tallish feller with a red face. Always dressed in a check suit and spats. What’s up?”
‚ÄúNowt!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned untruthfully. George! He stared at the report again. ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù Nay, but a hundred and twenty pounds! It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. There were a thousand things a perfectly innocent citizen might do to clear himself, but now Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not consider them, for his little world was shaking, collapsing, and now another prop had been kicked away. One thing coming on top of another!
As if to confirm this, a voice came roaring from the doorway. ‚ÄúHello, hello, hello, hello! Ev‚Äôrybody at ‚Äôome, and smilin‚Äô! Oh, I do like a kipper for my tea! What‚Äôo, Len! ‚ÄôEvening, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù And who could this be but Albert?
‚ÄúOh, my God!‚Äù And groaning thus, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd flung down his paper and rose to his feet.
“Hello, hello!” cried Albert, still loudly but this time indignantly. “What ’ave I done wrong?”
‚ÄúTake no notice of ‚Äôim, Albert.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd gave her husband a furious glance, then, with an astonishing quick-change, smiled at her visitor. ‚ÄúCome in and sit yer down. You know you‚Äôre welcome. An‚Äô another thing, if you want to stay ‚Äôere, you can do.‚Äù
“Oh!” cried her husband. “And who says so?”
“I say so.”
“And so do I,” Leonard added truculently.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd took a quick step towards his son, who immediately dropped his truculence and, indeed, seemed to flinch, like a very small boy. But then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pulled himself up and stood still, a man at bay, thinking hard. The next moment he had dashed upstairs.
Once there he began looking about him eagerly. ‚ÄúI must ‚Äôa‚Äô summat,‚Äù he muttered. There was a suitcase, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs pride. No, he wouldn‚Äôt take that. There was the old round tin trunk. Too heavy and cumbersome. Then he remembered the basket thing, and pulled it out of the corner where it had been for the last fifteen years. It was very light and quite small, only eighteen inches long and a foot deep, and it would hold all he wanted to carry. Into this absurd receptacle‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least one half of it, for the other half would have to be jammed on as a lid‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe stuffed a nightshirt and day shirt, three collars and some handkerchiefs, a muffler, a vest and a pair of pants, and his shaving kit. When he had jammed on the top half, he bethought him of his old mackintosh, and folded it round the little basket trunk before he fastened it with the strap, which was still intact and boasted of a holder for the hand. Then he put on a pair of strong boots and hurried downstairs, basket in hand, to confront three astonished faces.
‚ÄúWhat in the name o‚Äô goodness‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù cried his wife.
“I’m off,” he announced.
“Where to?” asked Leonard, still staring. “Yer can’t go like that, Par. Where can you go to?”
‚ÄúNever mind, never mind!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd was white with temper. ‚ÄúLet ‚Äôim go, let ‚Äôim go! Tryin‚Äô ‚Äôis tricks! ‚ÄôE won‚Äôt hear a word from me about stayin‚Äô. Let ‚Äôim go. ‚ÄôE‚Äôll be in a diff‚Äôrent frame o‚Äô mind when ‚Äôe comes back. And that won‚Äôt be so long either.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou can do what you like wi‚Äô t‚Äôplace now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs yer own. There‚Äôs a week‚Äôs money there and no doubt you‚Äôll manage after that.‚Äù
“Manage!” cried his wife, in a fury of scorn. “Of course we can manage. Nivver better off. You’ve been wanting a lesson some time and now you’re runnin’ to get it. Go on, go on.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said nothing, but moved over to the sofa and took up his bag of tools, dumping it beside the basket trunk. Then he stuck his old brown cap at the back of his head, and prepared to depart.
“ ’Ere,” said Albert, pointing to the table. “What about that?”
“That’s right,” said Leonard. “You’ll ’ave to ’ave that.” And he held out the insurance card.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stood staring at the greenish-blue card in his hand, staring as if he were in a dream. Man‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAge 16 to 65.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Failure to surrender this card promptly‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ If the Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ The Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ All so familiar and yet so strange. He stood staring, baffled, lost in the dark of a world of notices and notifying, of sneering Comrades and stupid autocratic managers, of buzzers that kept your feet from the road, of signs that could never be hoisted, of daughters that grew up, laughing and singing, and then vanished over the sea. Then something inside him flared and went shooting through this bewildered dark like a rocket, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd committed a crime.
“Oh, to hell wi’ t’card!” he cried, and tore it across and threw the pieces into the fire. Then, leaving horror-stricken amazement behind him, he picked up his bag of tools and his little basket trunk and made for the door.
“Now you’ve done it,” they were crying. “Where yer going?”
“Down South,” he replied, and vanished into the night.