The Rise of Henry Morcar Page 12

  Afterwards, there was his utmost kindness. In the recesses of his mind he was rather surprised that this was the love the poets and artists made such a fuss about, for it hardly seemed to deserve so much praise. But that surprise, of course, must never be revealed to his wife. Everything that was kind and good in him he must show to her now. Winnie seemed content, reclining her head on his shoulder, drawing deep calm breaths and smiling upon him sweetly. Nevertheless, through his sleep later, Morcar believed he dimly caught a sound of weeping.

  16. Wife and Child

  A battle followed between Winnie and her parents of which the echoes reached Morcar near St. Eloi.

  Most war brides in Winnie’s position made their home with their parents pending their husband’s return, and Mrs. Shaw’s recent decline from health seemed to make this even more reasonable in her case. But Winnie, it seemed, was determined to be installed in a house of her own at the earliest opportunity. Her father was angry, her mother plaintive, Mrs. Morcar dubious; but Morcar felt he understood Winnie’s antipathy to living with the Shaws, because he shared it himself. He was conscious, too, that he had perhaps looked glum when, parting from Winnie to return to France after their honeymoon, she had spoken, as they stood on the King’s Cross platform together, of his spending his next leave at the Sycamores. Accordingly he was not daunted or much disconcerted after the first surprise when, on coming out of the line after a tour of particularly dangerous duty, he found a short note from Winnie explaining that she had found a suitable house, together with a business communication from the solicitor he had employed to draw up his will, stating the procedure necessary to undertake the purchase of Hurstcote, which Mrs. H. Morcar had informed him was contemplated, and a long alarmed letter from his mother, describing the skirmishes between the Shaws and Winnie in a veiled manner, and hinting at her own feeling that a young wife ought to remain in the shelter of her parents’ roof until her husband himself could make a home for her. I would gladly have Winnie to stay with me here if she wished, said Mrs. Morcar, but she seems determined on this house—which in itself I must say is very suitable.

  After the bloody raids in which Morcar had just taken part, the thought of being alive, a peaceful citizen of Annotsfield, with a house of his own, was indescribably alluring. If he were killed in the war, he did not see that Winnie would be any the worse off for having begun the purchase of house and furniture, for these two commodities were scarce and in great demand in England and he could trust Mr. Shaw to see that she sold at a profit. He made up his mind at once therefore and wrote to Winnie, Mr. Shaw, his mother and his solicitor Nasmyth, to say that the house should be bought. He had already deposited a power of attorney in the solicitor’s hands, so the negotiations need not wait for his presence.

  A sheaf of letters flew across to him in reply, reaching him when he was involved in preparations for the coming battle of the Somme. He opened his wife’s first, drew out several sheets of notepaper headed in writing Hurstcote, Hurst Bank, Annotsfield, saw that the matter of the house purchase was settled and laid aside Winnie’s sheets for a more leisurely perusal when he should have coped with the rest. Mr. Shaw’s small contorted characters, in very black ink, informed him that Winnie’s place was with her mother and she was not fit to undertake the preparation of a house in her present condition. Mrs. Morcar with her usual dignified reticence mildly commented on the strangeness of Harry’s buying a house he had never seen while expressing willingness to help Winnie in every possible way so that she should not overtire herself. The lawyer informed him that he had made the necessary advance payment to the Annotsfield Building Society from Henry Morcar’s savings, and Hurstcote was now Henry Morcar’s property, subject to his paying them two pounds a week for the next five years. An insurance policy had been taken out in accordance with the Building Society’s requirements.

  Perceiving from the turn of some sentences in the letters of Mr. Shaw and his mother that Winnie was thought to be pregnant, Morcar turned to his wife’s letter again eagerly. Winnie’s hand was not a pretty one, mused Morcar; it was at once vehement and formless, emphatic, black-stroked but of uncertain outline. Her spelling was erratic and her grammar uncertain. But like Charlie she had the knack of vivid description; her pen flew rapidly across the paper in lively sentences full of detail spiced with malice. She was writing in Hurstcote itself, it seemed, having gone there to put a fire in for the painters. Hurstcote was a small stone house, newish, semi-detached, just on the brow of Hurst Bank; the front windows looked over the Bank across a tiny garden; the back windows looked at the tops of the trees growing in the valley. There were two sitting-rooms, a kitchen and a scullery downstairs, with a tiny but neat square hall at one side; the notât-all steep staircase had a landing in the middle from which sprang the bathroom; three little bedrooms, and a tiny hole which Harry might like for his study, occupied the second floor. There were no attics, but good cellars on a level with the ground at the back, which dropped away abruptly. Coal delivery might be a problem. There was electric light. The bathroom was too small to swing a cat in, but Winnie had always been against giving baths to cats. The kitchen stove was poor, so an uncle’s wedding cheque which had previously been earmarked for armchairs was being devoted to the purchase of a gas oven. Other wedding cheques, and other of Morcar’s savings, were to go into furniture. His mother was helping to choose carpets, make curtains, embroider linen. Winnie had secured a “woman” to “come in” three days a week.

  It was all so normal that Harry felt soothed and happy; the shellfire seemed to die away in the distance, the oozing trench to grow dim, while a picture of a quiet peaceful little room with a view over Hurst Bank and a blazing north-country fire rose clear before his delighted eyes. It gave him real pleasure to address his reply to Mrs. H. Morcar at Hurstcote.

  He thought ruefully however, as he wrote his reply, that it was just like Winnie not to mention her pregnancy in her letter to her husband. Since she had chosen to be silent, he hardly knew himself how to broach the matter to her, and after much thought compromised on a sentence written below: Your loving husband, Harry, which ran: Take care of yourself and don’t work too hard.

  Apparently this was satisfactory to Winnie, for in her next letter she brought herself to remark: The doctor says I am very well, and thereafter in an offhand allusive way from time to time she indicated her preparations for the birth, in her letters to her husband.

  The child was born in September 1916, while Harry was still in the battle of the Somme. He was three weeks old before Harry knew of his existence, and christened and thriving, big and bonny, before Captain Morcar could get leave to make the boy’s acquaintance.

  But when this event at last took place, in the new year of 1917, Morcar at once fell head over heels in love with Baby Harry. He was a fair, merry, healthy little boy, who looked at him, thought Morcar, from his own grey-blue eyes but smiled Charlie’s lively smile, kicked his delightful toes with an energy absurdly reminiscent of Mr. Shaw and waved shapely hands which seemed to Harry a miniature edition of Mrs. Morcar’s. Baby Harry surveyed the new strange member of the household with solemn but friendly awe, blew a deprecatory bubble and gurgled enquiringly at him, looked pained when Winnie who was busy with his safety pins and buttons turned him on his stomach and tried to crane his neck so as to secure another glimpse of Morcar. His tiny fingers, with their perfect joints and exquisite nails, rested peacefully on Morcar’s straps when Morcar nursed him; his round rosy cheek was incredibly smooth and cool against Morcar’s weather-beaten face. Sometimes he rolled with furious energy on the hearthrug; sometimes he sat erect, gazing philosophically at the world and holding his own toes. He was a general favourite. Mrs. Shaw doted on him, Mrs. Morcar truly and devotedly loved him and made for him the most delicious silk frocks with incredibly complicated smocking. Those of Winnie’s brothers and sisters who were still at home admired his fresh appearance and sweet disposition Whole-heartedly, while Mr. Shaw told Morcar sen-tentiously that ther
e was nothing so lovely as a baby, dandling his first grandson on his knee the while. (This had the same results as of old in the Sycamores with Mr. Shaw’s own offspring; the over-shaken baby began to soil his bib and Mr. Shaw called wildly for his daughter. This time, however, the baby had another champion, for Morcar snatched him from his grandfather indignantly.) Winnie was at her best as a mother; as she sat feeding the child or changing him or bathing him an expression of deep content illuminated her face, her restless spirit seemed calmed, her sharp tongue was blunted to benevolence. She was thoroughly competent in all essentials of child care, and even struggled to understand the newest ideas of infant welfare just come into fashion, asking Harry to explain nutrition terms to her with a humility which he found touching.

  As for Morcar, he felt a degree of emotion about Baby Harry which he had not felt about anybody or anything since Charlie was killed—perhaps indeed his feeling for the child was the strongest he had ever experienced in his life. Perhaps he was cut out to be a father rather than a lover or a husband, he thought soberly, admitting to himself that Baby Harry meant more to him than his wife. But his love for the child was so deep, so satisfying, that he felt an immense gratitude towards Winnie. She had given him this child, their son; this beautiful innocent creature who was his own, his own to love and cherish, to protect and provide for.

  “You’ve got something to do now, Harry,” said Mrs. Shaw to him, chuckling feebly—she was now bedridden—as Morcar laid the child on her bed in order to wrap him more carefully in his white woollen shawl to return to Hurstcote after a visit to his grandparents.

  “I don’t care what I do for him,” said Morcar earnestly, folding the shawl over in the prescribed fashion and taking the child into his arms. “I’ll do anything for him, Mrs. Shaw.” He looked about him; he was alone in the room with the ailing woman. He added in a conspiratorial tone: “All I want, Mrs. Shaw, is to come safe back and make a good home for Winnie and Baby.”

  “You’ll have to win the war first,”, the old lady warned him.

  “Oh, of course,” said Morcar.

  His leave was up next day and he returned to France, in ample time for the Allies’ third spring offensive.

  17. Homecoming

  It was the spring of 1919; a tallish, broad-shouldered, solid young man, with thick fair hair, grey-blue eyes, a fresh complexion and a wide mouth, wearing officer’s khaki, was travelling towards Annotsfield in a northbound train. He carried his head slightly poked forward owing to a flesh wound through his left shoulder, but had been told by the medical officer that this would remedy itself shortly. His usual expression was mild and sober, but a pleasant grin curved his full lips and a merry look enlivened his eyes when occasion justified. After being crowded for many miles, the railway carriage had emptied at a junction and Morcar, left alone, was looking at himself in the somewhat tarnished railway mirror. So this was Henry Morcar, aged twenty-eight, recently Captain H. Morcar, D.C.M., now demobilised and about to re-enter civilian life. Not too bad, thought Morcar, surveying himself thoughtfully. He had a wife and a child and a house and a job, so he was luckier than most. Then why did he feel so empty and so enervated? The landscape outside the carriage window was green and smiling; there were dandelions in the hedges and lambs in the fields. In his kit he had a length of pale-blue crêpe-de-chine for Winnie, a miniature football and a crane for the boy. He had longed for this day through four dreary months since thé Armistice last November; now it was here and he felt hollow and perplexed. He winked at himself in the glass to cheer himself up. His reflection winked back and Morcar felt rather better. But not much.

  “Probably need a cup of tea,” he adjured himself.

  He sank back on the velvet seat and hummed Roses are Blooming in Picardy mournfully.

  All of a sudden the sun went in; great black clouds had rolled up over the horizon and blotted it out. The colour of the grass darkened all the way down the range as though one had poured gallons of black into it, thought Morcar, and wondered how much of that old designing stuff he really remembered. “But I can soon mug it up again,” he told himself staunchly. Meanwhile, it had begun to rain—no, to snow. Yes, positively to snow; white flakes were driving thick and fast before a strong cold wind, which rattled the windows, tossed the fleeces of the sheep and howled through the telegraph wires. The scene had changed in a moment from spring to winter, from relaxation to effort, from a smile to a frown.

  “Ah, this is more like the West Riding!” cried Morcar aloud, laughing. He sat up, feeling stimulated, and changed his tune to a local song beginning: I will take thee to yon green garden, Where the pretty flowers blow.

  “Where the pretty, pretty, flow-ers grow,” sang Morcar, pronouncing pretty in the Ire Valley fashion. His thoughts turned to his wife, and he smiled with pleasure.

  At Annotsfield station his cheerful mood was sustained. There were no taxis to be had, of course, but an old out-porter with a barrow bobbed up and offered to take his kit-bag as far as the Hurst tram.

  “How do you know I want the Hurst tram?” queried Morcar, laughing, as they walked along side by side. He put a hand on the barrow and helped to push it, with a delicious sense that he was not in the Army now and could do as he chose.

  “You’re Captain Morcar, aren’t you? I owned you as soon as ever I saw you,” said the old man. “I used to work at your grandfather’s twenty years ago. Your picture were in the paper when you won your medal, think on.”

  Morcar, pleased by the recognition and enjoying the Yorkshire turn of phrase, tipped him heavily and took his seat in the empty tram. Here he had to wait several minutes till the proper time of departure was reached. At first he felt a feverish impatience, but presently he could not help taking an interest in the conversation, conducted in loud tones and the Yorkshire idiom, between the driver and the conductor, who were sitting together in the body of the tram. The driver, an oldish man, was describing to the conductor, who had been demobilised from the Ripon dispersal camp a few weeks ago, the behaviour of the conductress who had replaced him during the war. His anecdotes were ribald, and usually ended in the comment: “Eh, she were a one!” The conductor, laughing heartily, opined at length that her husband would have a surprise when he got home. At this the driver looked grave.

  “Nay,” he said: “There were no harm in her, tha knows.”

  The conductor, feeling that he had gone too far, agreed. “No harm—just a bit o’ fun, like.”

  “That’s right. Well,” said the driver, drawing out a large watch from the folds of coat about his waist: “Time to be off. This gentleman’s wanting to get home, I daresay.”

  “You’re right there,” said Morcar.

  It seemed an age before the conductor at last jerked the bell-string, the driver applied the power and the tram began its slow grinding progress up Hurst Road. But at last the tram topped the rise, at last he was dragging his kitbag off the steps, at last he was hurrying down Hurstholt Road, the bag banging at his knees as he strode. After all this delay Hurstcote appeared with an effect of suddenness at last. From shyness, or diffidence, or excess of emotion, or a real desire to examine this house, which in his feverish wartime visits he had not really made his own familiar home, Morcar paused at the little green-painted wooden gate.

  The sun had come out again and the house—though rather like a birdcage in size and shape, thought Morcar, amused—looked well; he noted with pleasure, for he did not like brick, that it was built of the greyish local millstone grit. Spotless curtains of white casement cloth hung very straight at the windows and a few neat daffodils sparsely filled a diamond-shaped garden bed. Morcar unlatched the gate and swung it open. At an upper window a small face appeared and bobbed up and down; its owner, a little boy in grey, was evidently jumping on the same spot with a child’s enjoyment of rhythmical repetition. The face was fair and friendly; suddenly it beamed with recognition, and vanished.

  “It’s Harry,” thought Morcar, and his heart turned over.

&nb
sp; He went up the garden path and tried the neat green door. It was locked; he rang the bell. Suddenly it was thrown open and Winnie stood there, dressed to go out in her squirrel coat and cap. Clinging shyly to her hand was the child, in a grey cloth coat with a velvet collar, and leggings which to Morcar’s delighted amusement seemed to reach from foot to waist.

  “Oh, Harry!” cried Winnie. “What a pity you’ve come today! We haven’t a loaf of bread in the house!”

  For a moment Morcar was deeply hurt and daunted. Then he rallied staunchly. This was just Winnie’s usual perversity; she was really glad to see him though her words sounded otherwise; like the West Riding she was apt to mingle snow-showers with her sun. All the same, he could not quite bring himself to offer an embrace to her till he was sure it was wanted. Instead, he picked up the child and buried his face in young Harry’s soft little neck. Harry put an arm round Morcar’s shoulders and gave him a kiss, moist and confused but spontaneous and real, in return. Then Morcar felt his heart melt towards his* wife, and he took her in his arms and spoke lovingly to her.

  Her response was cool and he soon desisted, instead displaying the presents he had brought. The football was received with ecstasy, and did some immediate damage amongst the drawing-room furniture; the crane was pronounced by Winnie “too old” for a boy only two and a half. The lovely turquoise silk she eyed in silence.

  “It’s too pale for a blouse,” she said.

  “It’s meant for underneath, love,” said Morcar, laughing. Winnie coloured and tossed her head.