“I have only spent what ought to have been spent years ago. You surely know that, father!”
Barras pretended not to hear. “I’m angry,” he whined. “I’m angry with you for spending all that money. You have spent all that money wrong.”
“Please, father, don’t upset yourself. Please, you can’t stand it.”
“I can’t stand it!” The blood rushed to Barras’s face. He stammered, “What do you mean? You’re a fool. Wait till I get back to the pit next week. You wait and I’ll show you next week.”
“Yes, father,” Arthur said gently. Back in the house the gong sounded for luncheon. He turned away.
Barras waited, trembling with exasperation, until Arthur disappeared through the front porch. Then his expression changed back to one of childish cunning. He fumbled beneath his rug and with a covert look towards Aunt Carrie he took out his book and wrote:
In defence of the Neptune. Inquire next week as to money spent against my wishes. It is essential to remember I am in command. Memorandum. During temporary absence from pit keep close watch upon chief offender.
When he had finished he stared at what he had written, childishly pleased. Then, with furtive innocence, he signed Aunt Carrie to wheel him towards the house.
SIX
David awoke that morning to the pleasant thought that he was meeting Harry Nugent. Usually his first waking thought was of Jenny — the strange recollection that she was gone, dissevered from him, vanished into the unknown. But this morning it was Harry. He lay for a minute thinking of his friendship with Nugent, of those days in France, Nugent and himself bent at the double, linked by the flopping stretcher, then plodding back with the stretcher heavy and sagging between them. How many of these silent journeys he had made with Harry Nugent!
The sound of his mother moving downstairs and the smell of crisping bacon recalled him. He jumped up and shaved and washed and dressed and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. Though it was not yet eight o’clock, Martha had been up an hour and more, the fire was lit, the grate black-leaded, the fender freshly emeried; the white cloth was on the table, his breakfast of egg and rashers — dished from the pan that minute — waiting for him.
“Morning, mother,” he said, sitting in and lifting the Herald from beside his plate.
She nodded without speaking — she had no habit of good morning or good night; all Martha’s words were useful words and never wasted. She took up his shoes and began to brush them silently.
He went on with the paper for a minute: the day before Harry Nugent with Jim Dudgeon and Clement Bebbington had been opening the new Institute at Edgeley; there was a picture of Harry with Bebbington stuck well in the foreground beside him. Suddenly he looked up and saw Martha brushing his shoes. He coloured and remonstrated:
“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”
Calmly, Martha went on brushing the shoes.
“I’ve always brushed them,” she said, “ay, when they was five pair instead of one. There’s no cause like for me to be stoppin’ now.”
“Why don’t you leave them for me to do?” he persisted. “Why don’t you sit in and have your breakfast with me properly?”
“There’s some folks not that easy to change,” she said, brushing away defiantly at the shoes. “And I’m one of them.” He stared at her in perplexity. Now that she had come to keep his house for him she was never done working for him. Everything. He had never been looked after better in his life. And yet he felt that she was withholding something from him; he felt a dark brooding, like a satire, under every action she directed towards his comfort. Watching her, he tested her, out of curiosity:
“I’m lunching with Harry Nugent today, mother.”
She picked up the second shoe, her strong and masterful figure outlined against the window and her face darkly inscrutable. Breathing on the leather, she said scornfully:
“Lunching, you say?”
He smiled into himself: yes, that was it, she gave herself away. Deliberately, he continued:
“Having a bit of snap with Harry, then, mother, if you like that better. You’ve surely heard of Nugent. Harry Nugent, M.P. He’s a particular friend of mine. He’s a man worth hanging in with.”
“So it would appear.” Her lips drew down.
He smiled more than ever into himself, leading her on with his pretence of boasting.
“Ay! not everybody has the chance to lunch with Harry Nugent, M.P. — a big man in the Federation like him, it’s an honour, don’t you see, mother.”
She looked up with the dark scorn in her face and a bitterness on her tongue, then she saw that he was laughing at her. She reddened to think how he had trapped her and, trying to cover it, she stooped quickly to set his shoes to warm by the fire. Then a grim smile twisted her lips.
“Brag away,” she said. “Ye’ll not take me in.”
“But it’s true, mother. I’m a regular time-server. I’m worse even than you think. You’ll see me in a boiled shirt before you’re done with me.”
“I’ll not iron it for you,” she said, her lips twitching. It was a triumph for his strategy. He had made her smile.
A pause. Then, taking advantage of her humour, he said with sudden seriousness:
“Don’t be so set against me in everything I do, then, mother. I’m not doing it for nothing.”
“I’m not against you,” she retorted, still stooping by the fire to hide her face. “I’m just not over-fond of what you’re doing. All this council work and politics and that like. This Nationalisation business you’re always on for — and that like foolery. I don’t hold with that at all. No, no, it’s never been my style or the style of any of my forebears. In my time and their time there’s always been mester and man in the pit and it’s fair unnatural to think of anything else.”
There was a silence. In spite of the harshness of her words he could feel that she was softer, better disposed towards him. And on an impulse he turned the subject. He exclaimed:
“Another thing, mother.”
“Well,” she said suspiciously.
“About Annie, mother,” he said, “and little Sammy. He’s a grand little chap now and Annie’s doing for him a treat. I’ve wanted to speak to you about it for a long time. I wish you’d forget all the old bitterness, mother, and have them to the house. I do wish you’d do it, mother.”
Her face froze instantly.
“And why should I?”
“Sammy’s your grandson, mother,” he answered. “I’m surprised you haven’t been thrilled about that before, you would if you knew him the way I do. And Annie, well, she’s one of the best, mother. Old Macer is laid up in bed now, he’s a regular grumbler, moaning and groaning all the time, and Pug’s keeping bad time at the pit, they’ve hardly enough to rub along with. But the way Annie keeps that place together is nothing short of marvellous.”
“What has that to do with me?” she said, tight-lipped and bitter. His generous praise of Annie had cut her to the quick. He saw that suddenly, saw he had made a mistake.
“Tell me,” she repeated in a rising tone, “what has it got to do with me, the wild, bad lot that they always were?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said quietly and went back to his paper.
A minute later, while he was reading she put more bacon on his plate. It was her way of showing that she was not unreasonable, but kind, according to her lights. He took no notice. He thought her wildly unreasonable, but he knew that talking was no good. Talking was never any good with Martha.
At quarter to nine he folded his paper and rose from the table. She helped him on with his coat.