Читать книгу Storm in a Teacup - Eden Phillpotts - Страница 9

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From the rag house, through trap doors, the rag descended from Lydia and her fellow workers to a huge object like a mowing machine. The rags came to this monster and passed through its whirling knives. Then, having been clipped pretty small, they were carried on an endless ribbon up again to the magnet. Two great magnetized rollers revolved, and, in a dingy niagara, every fraction of the old rag tumbled over them, to run an electric gauntlet and receive a challenge. The bossy rollers were even quicker than the women’s fingers, and a fraction of metal, however small, responded to their attraction instantly. There was a click and instead of falling with its neighbours, the offending rag found itself arrested and pilloried on a boss. It clung to the roller, and, as the cylinder turned, became de-magnetized again and fell in a place apart. The danger to future processes was thus lessened materially and but little foreign matter in shape of metal escaped to be a nuisance later on.

To the duster then came the harassed rag and in open wire barrels amid revolving wooden prongs it was whirled round and round and further cleansed.

Then to Henry Barefoot it went, and Henry always declared that in his hands the material received first serious treatment.

“The rag don’t know it’s born till it gets to the boilerman,” he was wont to say.

The boiler-house lay under an arched roof of corrugated iron. It was a damp place, full of hot air and the heavy scent of washing. The steam thinned and feathered away through holes in the roof. In the floor were deep square hollows and here the boilers revolved, with a solemnity proper to their size. They were huge metal receptacles capable of holding a ton each; and when the rag was packed, with water and alkalies to cleanse it, the loaded giant turned ponderously over and over, churning the mass for three or four hours. Then the seething clouts were dragged forth, their pollutions drained away and further stages of lustration entered upon.

Thus far the rag had come under rough control and reign of law. By air and water and chastening of many blows it was reduced to a limp and sodden condition, amenable to discipline, more or less prepared for the tremendous processes between its final disintegration as rag and its apotheosis as paper.

A paper man will tell you he turns “old shirts into new sheets”: and that indeed is what he does; but a long and toilsome journey lies between the old shirt and its apotheosis.

Henry Barefoot was a placid man, as long as the rag came to him exactly when he wanted it. Under ordinary circumstances he accomplished his part in the great machine as obscurely as any invisible wheel, or steam pipe. But if the women delayed, or he was “hung up,” as he put it, then his chivalry broke down and he swore long and loud at those who interfered with his activities. At such times he became tragic and exceedingly profane. He expanded and broke into uncouth gestures and simian scowls. He appealed to Heaven in these great moments and asked of the sky why women had been created. Sometimes his sister, Alice, was sent for from the thresher to pacify him, and when she failed, Lydia Trivett, at the sound of Henry’s roaring in the boiler-house, would slip from her lattice and strive to calm his fury.

The women had fled before him at one of these explosions and Alice having also failed, approached Mrs. Trivett and begged her to intervene.

She went, to find Mr. Barefoot standing with steam about him and his hand lifted to the corrugated iron roof above his grey head.

“Oh, my God, my God!” he said. “What have I done to be the prey of a lot of worthless females—”

“Your rag’s waiting, Henry,” interrupted Lydia.

“His rag’s out, I should think,” said a woman from behind Lydia. “An evil-speaking toad—always blasting us. And how can we help it?”

“You know very well, Henry, there must be a hitch sometimes with such a lot of dirty rag,” explained Lydia. “We’ve all got to keep going, and it’s no more good or sense cussing us than it is for them in the engine house to cuss you. And men wouldn’t do this work half as well as women, as you’d very soon find if we were gone. And it’s a very ill-convenient thing for you to lose your temper, and nobody will be sorrier than you in an hour’s time.”

As the rag now awaited him, Henry subsided.

“It’s a plot against me,” he said, “and I’ve no quarrel with you, Lydia. It ain’t your department. It’s they baggering women at the magnet, and they want for me to get the sack as I very well know. But they’ll get fired themselves—every trollop of ’em—afore I shall.”

“They don’t want you to get fired. Why should they? What have you done to them? Why, you haven’t even asked one of ’em to marry you,” said Lydia.

“No—they needn’t hope that,” he answered. “I’ve seen too much of woman since I came here ever to want one for my own.”

So the breeze subsided and Henry filled his empty boiler, growling himself back to his usual calm the while. It was characteristic of him that between these dynamic discharges, he preserved an amiable attitude to those among whom he worked, and when a storm had passed, he instantly resumed friendly relations.

Within an hour of this scene, when dinner time came, he descended to the ground floor and cautioned two girls who were skipping off down a flight of steps that led from the rag house to the ground below.

“Don’t you go so fast,” he said. “When slate steps are wet with rain, they’re beastly slippery, and some day one of you maidens will fall and break yourselves.”

Mrs. Trivett put on her old black bonnet, for she was going out to dinner with another woman; but as she prepared to depart, her son-in-law met her.

“It’s important,” he said. “I want half an hour with you, mother, and I dare say Mrs. Ford won’t mind if you go along with her to-morrow instead.”

Mrs. Ford made no difficulty and Lydia returned to the rag house with Ned, who brought his meal with him.

“I’ve got a tid-bit for you here,” he explained. “A bit of jugged hare which you’ll like. And I wouldn’t trouble you but for a very good reason.”

They sat in a corner among some rag bales, beyond earshot of others who were eating their meal in the rag house.

“Where’s Medora?” asked Mrs. Trivett.

“She’s having dinner in the glazing room to-day. So I took the opportunity. It’s about her I want to talk. But eat first. I don’t want to spoil the jugged hare.”

He brought out a small pudding basin containing the delicacy and his mother-in-law ate heartily and declared the dish very good.

“Medora can cook, whatever she can’t do,” said Lydia.

“There’s nothing she can’t do,” he answered; “but there’s a damned lot of things she won’t do. And that’s the trouble to me. Time was when we saw alike every way and never had a word or a difference of opinion; but that time’s past seemingly, and I want to know why; and if you know, I wish you’d tell me. It’s all in a nutshell so far as I can see. What am I doing to vex her? God’s my judge I don’t know. I’m the same as I always have been. A chap like me don’t change. I only want to be patient and cheerful and go on with my life as I’m going. It’s her that’s changed. She used to love a bit of fun and laughter and be friendly and easy-going and jolly and kind. That’s what she was when I married her anyway. But she’s changed and I’m getting fairly fed up, because I don’t know of any fault in myself to explain it. If I’d pretended to be different from what I am before we were married and deceived her in anything, then she’d have a case against me. But nobody can say I did. She knew just what I was, and I thought I knew just what she was.”

“You did, Ned,” said Mrs. Trivett earnestly. “You take my word that you did know just what she was. And what she was, she is still under her skin. She can’t change really, any more than you can, or anybody else. She took you because you suited her and she knew she’d be happy with you. And what’s happening to her just now is a passing thing calling for patience. Women have their funny moods and whims—Medora like the rest.”

“I grant that, but how long is it going to last? I know they get queer in their heads sometimes, but she’s down in the mouth always now. I can’t pleasure her, do what I may, and the things that always delighted her a year ago bore her now. Damn it! She looks at me sometimes as if she was a schoolmistress and I was a wicked boy.”

“It’s like this with her; and it’s the same with lots of people who have had nothing but a good time all their lives. Instead of knowing their luck, they take their luck to be just the usual state of things, and they don’t look round and see the scores of people without their good fortune: they only fancy that other people are more fortunate than them. They get so bored with the good that they begin to picture something better. Everybody wants better bread than is made of wheat sometimes, and especially them that have never tasted worse. We, that have had to eat barley bread, know our luck—t’others don’t. The thing for you is to be patient. You’re all right and you’re going on all right so far as I can tell. I’ll take your word of that and I very well understand your difficulties. But you’re a man and you’ve got the brains.”

“She says not,” he answered. “That’s one of the nice things I’m called to hear now. She didn’t quarrel with my sense or my nonsense a year ago. Now she says right out that she wishes I had more intellects. Not a very nice thing to hear. I might be a stone-breaker, or a hedge-tacker with no sense at all.”

“Be patient with her. It’s a whim, and what’s responsible for it I don’t know more than you. But it will pass. She can’t go on pretending she’s an unhappy woman—”

“No, and she shan’t,” he said. “I’m only a human man myself, and it’s a proper outrage for her to make out she’s being bullied and evil treated by a chap that worshipped the ground under her feet and would again. She’s mean, mother.”

“No, Ned, she’s foolish; she ain’t mean.”

“She is mean. List to this. Two night ago Kellock came to supper with us—to help eat that jugged hare—and the talk was serious to death, as it always is with him—him being such a serious man. And presently, among a lot of other soaring notions, Medora wondered what was the height of bliss. And she said the height of bliss was to feel she was doing good, noble work in the world and helping to make people happier.”

Mrs. Trivett sniffed, but did not respond.

“Well,” continued Ned, “I didn’t say nothing to that, though it sounded a bit thin to me; but Kellock declared it was a very grand thought, and for his part the height of bliss was to feel you’d got a move on, and was leaving a mark and doing solid spade work, that would lift the next generation to more happiness. And, of course, Medora purred over that. And then she asked me what my height of bliss was—in a pitying tone of voice, as though she and Jordan belonged to another world. Well, I said my height of bliss was lying in my new bath-room of a Saturday night, with the hot water up to my chin, thinking of my savings in the bank.”

“You didn’t, Ned!”

“I did—just to give ’em a shake up. And just to remind Medora I built that bath-room on to my house—not because I wanted it, but because she did. Well, I knew Kellock wouldn’t see the joke, because he ain’t built to; but, damn it—I did think Medora would. I expected she’d laugh and lighten up the talk a bit. But not her. She pulled a long face, and said I ought to be ashamed to confess such ideas. And that was mean—you can’t deny it.”

“It was,” admitted Medora’s mother. “Her sense of fun’s deserted her; or else she’s hiding it of a purpose.”

“Another thing,” grumbled Mr. Dingle, “that same night when Kellock was gone, I got a bit angered with her, God forgive me, and I took her rough by the arm, and it left a bit of a blue mark on her skin. I very nearly went on my knees for sorrow after, and she forgave me, and made it up. Well, you’d think a decent woman would have kept her sleeve down for a day or two till the mark was gone; but I went to speak to her in the glazing room yesterday, and there was her forearm bare for all the women to see, and the chaps at the presses. And when they asked her how she came by it, as they did, she made a business of not telling them—which, of course, did tell them. And that was mean, too.”

Mrs. Trivett looked anxious, and put her hand on his arm.

“Don’t you knock her about, Ned. I know how aggravating a woman can be; but don’t you do that. I’m not standing up for her, and I’ll talk to her again and try to show her what she’s doing; but don’t you give her a shadow of excuse for this silliness, because, in her present mood, she’ll be very quick to take advantage of it. I know you very well, and I was properly glad when Medora took you and not the other, because I knew her, too, and felt she’d be happier with you in the long run. But I only say again, be patient until seventy times seven, there’s a good man, for that’s all you can do about it at present.”

“So I will then,” he promised, “and we’ll leave it at that. And if you’ll take your chance to talk sense to her, I’ll be a good bit obliged.”

The rain had ceased, and Lydia went out for a breath of air, while Ned lighted his pipe and accompanied her. A good few of the workers were at hand, and Mr. Knox, seeing Mrs. Trivett and her son-in-law, joined them. Kellock passed, but did not stop, and Philander Knox praised him.

“Now, there’s a chap that’ll go far—either here or somewhere else,” he said. “Most of you Devon people I’ve yet met with are pretty easy-going, like myself; but that man is not. He’s more than a paper maker. Dingle here, and Life, and old Pinhey, the finisher, and Trood are content to go on their way, and leave other people to do the same. Kellock is not.”

“He’s got ideas,” said Lydia.

“He has. I’ve took a room in the same house where he lodges, and I’ve heard him air his notions. They’re commonplace talk where I come from, but a bit ahead of the times in the West Country. We middle-aged folk ain’t interested in ’em, but the rising generation is. He told me straight out that we ought to have shop stewards in the Mill.”

“Not at all,” said Dingle. “We don’t want nothing of that here.”

“A burning mind for the rights of labour,” continued Knox, “and though you may think we don’t want shop stewards, and I may think so, and the boss may think so, shop stewards are a sign of the times, and they’ll come everywhere before long.”

“I hope not,” said Lydia.

“And shop stewardesses,” added Philander; “and if that happened, you’d have to rise to it, Mrs. Trivett, for the good of the young women.”

Lydia laughed.

“They might be wanted in some places—not here,” she said. “We all work very comfortably and steady, and there’s none discontented in my department, that I know about.”

“Just because you’re the head of it and are a very clever and human sort of woman,” answered Mr. Knox. “You’ve got the touch, and you understand the nature of the female and how to keep her in a good temper, and how to get a fair day’s work for a good day’s wages.”

Ned left them at this juncture, and Mr. Knox proceeded. Much to her surprise he praised Mrs. Trivett in good set terms.

“Well, well!” she said. “It ain’t often I hear my virtues mentioned, and I’m afraid you’ve named a good few I can’t lay claim to. Women’s only a greater puzzle than men, in my experience, and I don’t pretend that I know half that goes to either sort.”

“Character is a great mystery,” he added.

“So it is then, and I don’t want to look farther than at home to know it.”

Mrs. Trivett was speaking to herself rather than Philander in this speech; she did not design any confession, but he appeared to guess what was in her mind. Indeed, he did, for he had seen her in company with Dingle, which was an unusual incident at the Mill, and he heard much of the rumour that Ned and his wife were out. He had also heard of the blue mark on Medora’s arm, from Mr. Pinhey, whose operations as finisher took place in the glazing room.

“And if there’s a blue mark on her arm, who knows what marks there may be hidden elsewhere?” murmured Mr. Pinhey, with horrified eyes, behind his spectacles.

“As a man once married, though without a family, I can understand that,” answered Knox to Lydia. “And if I may say so, I venture respectfully to sympathise with what’s in your mind. I’ve heard about Mrs. Dingle, and nothing but kindness, for I’m sure everybody likes her, though not as well as they like you. And if it’s not pushing in, which is the last thing I would do, I should be interested to know if, between Kellock and her husband, she took the right one in your opinion.”

Mrs. Trivett felt some concern that a newcomer should have learned so much of the family history. But he spoke with such propriety that she could not be annoyed. She liked Mr. Knox, and found him, as everybody else did, a good-natured and amiable person. It was true that Mr. Trood had said that Knox was “downy,” but his downiness had not yet appeared to simpler eyes.

She parried his question.

“You know them both—what do you think?”

“I know them, but I can’t say I know her,” he answered. “However, I know her mother, if I may say so, without offence, and if Mrs. Dingle favours you, then I’d say without hesitation that she chose the right party.”

“She’s like me and not like me,” explained Lydia. “I was pretty near what she is at her age.”

“Better looking, I expect,” he interrupted.

“No, nothing like so fine—just a little go-by-the-ground woman, same as I am now. But in character, not unlike her. And if I’d had so good a time as she has had, no doubt I should have made the same mistakes and not known reality better than her.”

“You can have too much reality,” declared Philander. “Most of us poor people have such a deuce of a lot of reality that we get tired of it. There’s thousands for that matter that never have anything else; and reality ain’t fattening if you belong to the labouring classes. But if she’d took Jordan Kellock, then she’d have known what reality was, and very likely gone down under it, like a mole under a cart wheel. He’s a wonderful good, earnest man—worth all the rest of us put together, I dare say; but as a husband for a young, pretty, laughter-loving woman—no. He ain’t built that way, and if your Medora finds that Dingle isn’t all she dreamed—as what man is after the gilt’s off the gingerbread?—then let her be sure she’d have done still worse along with Kellock.”

Mrs. Trivett was moved, and nodded vigorously. “Very good sense, and you echo me,” she answered. “I’ve thought much the same. You’re an understanding man, and kind-hearted seemingly, and have been married yourself, so you see things in a large spirit. I think my girl took the right one.”

“Then she did, for you’d make no mistake,” declared Knox. “And if the right one, then we can trust time to prove it. I’m a great believer in the marriage state myself. It’s a power for good most times, and so I hope you found it.”

But Mrs. Trivett was not prepared for any further confidences on this occasion. She did not answer his question, though she expressed herself a believer in marriage.