“Here,” he said, “let me do it for you.” He shifted the spoon so that the lid of the mustard-pot could close and while he was about it he took his napkin and wiped the gravy off Stanley’s chin. Then he sat down.
All at once Laura seemed to give way. She rose abruptly. In a shaking voice she excused herself.
“I must see to something.” With her head averted she went out.
Silence for a few minutes while Joe turned things over carefully in his mind. At length he said:
“You know it’s great to see you back, Stan, old man. We’re making a lot of money at the works these days. Last month was marvellous.”
Stanley said, yes.
“That Dobbie fellow we have in the office isn’t worth a damn though, Stanley. Seein’ you’re back now we ought to get rid of him.”
Stanley said, yes.
“In fact I was thinkin’ myself I could give him his notice at the end of this month. Does that seem to be all right with you, Stanley?”
Stanley said, yes. Then Stanley got up from the table very stiff and sudden, although Joe had not nearly finished his dessert. He said:
“I’ve got to go to bed.”
“Certainly, Stan, old man,” Joe agreed blandly. “You’ll do whatever you like.” In an access of helpfulness Joe jumped up and took Stanley’s arm. Laura was waiting at the foot of the stairs, a small damp handkerchief clenched tightly in her hand. She made to take Stanley’s arm but Joe was not to be dispossessed. And Stanley himself appeared to lean on Joe, to depend upon him. He said peevishly:
“Leave me, Laura.” Joe helped him upstairs to his room and helped him to undress.
Stanley stripped sheer skin and bone. Stripped, Stanley was less like a mechanical man, and more like a mechanical corpse. He seemed ready for his bed but before he got into bed he went through a quiet little ritual. He got down and looked under the bed then he got up and looked under the pillows. He looked inside the two cupboards and behind the curtains of both windows. Then he climbed into bed. He lay flat upon his back with his hands and legs stretched out straight. His dead, wide-open eyes stared towards the ceiling. Joe tiptoed from the room.
In the lounge at the foot of the stairs Laura was waiting on Joe with red and swollen eyes. She faced him determinedly, biting her lower lip that way he knew so well.
“I’ve just one thing to say.” She spoke with difficulty, her breast rising and falling quickly. “And that’s to ask you to keep away from this house.”
“Now, don’t, Laura,” he remonstrated mildly. “You’re in a spot of trouble with Stan and you want all the help you can get.”
“You call it help!”
“Why not?” he reasoned soothingly. “There’s nobody more upset than me, nobody in all the world, but we’ve got to discuss things.” He shook his head sensibly. “Stanley’s finished as far as the front is concerned. I’m thinking about the works…”
“You would,” she said bitterly.
“I mean,” he threw out his hand with the air of a man who has been wronged. “Oh, damn it all, Laura, give us some credit. I want to help you both. I want to get Stanley down to the works, interest him in things again, give him all the hand I can.”
“If I didn’t know you I’d think you meant it.”
“But I do mean it. After all, we’ve got to help one another over this. Honest to God, Laura. I’ll do what I can.”
There was a silence, her swollen eyes remained fixed upon his face; her breath came quicker, agonised.
“I don’t believe you’ll do anything,” she choked. “And I hate you for what you’ve done… almost as much as I hate myself.” She spun round and walked rapidly out of the lounge.
He remained where he was, caressing his chin gently with his hand; then he smiled into himself and left the house. He came back next morning, though, bustling in about eleven to keep his promise to take Stanley to the works. Laura had gone out but Stanley was up and dressed, seated upon the edge of a chair in the lounge playing the gramophone to himself. The gramophone was all right, of course, but the music, the music Stanley was playing, set Joe’s teeth on edge. Joe protested:
“Why don’t you play something lively, Stanley? Something out of the Bing Boys, what?”
“I like this,” Stanley said, putting the same record on again. “It’s the only one I like. I’ve been playing it all morning.”
Puzzled, Joe endured the record once more. The combination of the record and Stanley listening to the record was horrible. Then Joe walked over and looked at it. Marche Funèbre, Chopin. Joe swung round.
“Holy smoke, Stanley, what d’you want with this stuff? Come on now, brace up, I’ve got the car at the door and we’re all set. We’re going down to the works.”
They drove quietly to the works and went straight into the melting-shop. Joe had arranged it beforehand. All the Union Jacks were hung and a big banner, which Joe had raked out of an old locker, stretched across the shop — WELCOME. When Stanley walked into the shop with Joe everybody stopped work and gave him a rousing cheer. A great many women were in the shop now, Joe found them much cheaper and quicker than the older men, and these women cheered wildly. Stanley faced the cheering women, the women in the overalls, the women who were making shrapnel bullets for the shells. He looked as if he did not quite know what to do before all these women, he seemed more than ever to belong to nowhere. In an undertone Joe suggested:
“Say something, Stanley, say anything you like.” And he held up his hand for silence.
Mr. Stanley faced the women. He said:
“I got buried by a shell. I’ve been in hospital.”
There was another cheer and under cover of the cheer Joe prompted swiftly:
“Say you’re glad the output is going up and you hope they’ll keep on working like they’re doing.”
Mr. Stanley repeated in a high voice:
“I’m glad the output is going up and I hope you’ll keep on working like you’re doing.”
Another cheer, a loud long cheer. Then Joe took the matter in hand. He raised his hand again for silence. He thrust his hat well back on his head, put his thumb in his arm-hole and beamed on them. He said:
“You’re all delighted to see Mr. Stanley and so am I. Mr. Stanley isn’t going to talk about what he’s done so I’ll do a little of the talking instead. I’m not going to say much because you’ve got work to do for your country, work that must be done, and you can’t knock off to listen to anybody; but I’m going to say this: I’m going to say to his face here that we’re proud of Mr. Stanley. I’m proud to be associated with him in business and I know you’re proud to work for him. We’ve been making plans, Mr. Stanley and me, and he says he hopes you’ll all continue to do your bit here just the same as he’s done his bit in France. You’ve got to work, you understand, work like hell to keep the output up. Now that’s all, but before you go back to work I want us all to sing the National Anthem and then lift the roof off with a cheer for Mr. Stanley.”
A silence fell, then — very feelingly, because of the women’s voices — they sang God Save the King. It was extremely moving, there were tears in Joe’s eyes.
When they had asked God to save their king they cheered Mr. Stanley, they cheered Joe, they cheered mostly everybody. Then in a mood of almost religious fervour they went back to the shrapnel, the Mills bomb and the eighteen-pounder shells.
Joe and Stanley started along the corridor towards the office. But they did not get very far. Half-way down the passage there stood an enormous shell. Joe had not made that shell although Joe would greatly have liked to make such a shell as that. The shell was a present to Joe from John Rutley, old Rutley of Yarrow, who sat with him on the Munitions Committee. Rutley’s had an enormous plant and turned out enormous shells and Joe was extremely proud of that beautiful seventeen-inch shell which indicated many things, not the least being that John Rutley was, so to speak, a friend of Joe’s. The shell had been mounted by Joe upon a fine polished wood base and now it stood, shining and gigantic, pointing its snout heavenwards in a kind of silent ecstasy.