gown and mantle shop in the High Street had given birth to this thriving garment factory. Even more astonished if he could have run his eye over the new plans and glimpsed the magnificent edifice his son-in-law was proposing to erect on the new manufacturing estate outside Milbourne.
Owen ran a finger along his nose. Everything was going well. I’m barely fifty, he thought, I have fifteen good years of work in me, twenty perhaps with luck. He looked after himself, didn’t smoke, took a drink only when the social side of business demanded it; he paid attention to his diet, found time for a round of golf now and then.
And he was respected in the town, highly thought of both as an employer and a responsible citizen. He lent his name to good causes, wrote out dutifully philanthropic cheques, had long ago taken care to join the right clubs.
He gave a little smile of satisfaction. At the next meeting of the Independents’ he would be nominated as President for the coming year, elected without a voice raised in opposition. An old and locally powerful organization, the Independents’, reaching out an intrusive finger into every pie worth mentioning.
As a young lad going straight from school into Ralph Underwood’s gown shop, glad of any steady job in that grimly depressed time, working as general dogsbody doing everything from sweeping out the store-room to taking annual stock, he used to walk past the Independents’ Club on his way home every evening. He would glance at the broad stone steps, at the weighty front door with its large knob and heavy brass knocker, and wonder if he would ever manage to storm that citadel of status and prosperity . . . And now he was going to be president.
His eyes encountered the sepia gaze of his father-in-law. I made it, old man, Owen thought with an amused lift of his shoulders. In a week or two they’ll raise their glasses to me at the Independents’, they’ll toast Owen Yorke with his tirelessly humming machines, his fat bankroll and his well-preserved waistline–and what else besides?
He put up a hand to his face with a moment’s sudden surprising shaft of sorrow, a searing sense of loss, of something valuable beyond all reckoning that had eluded him. He pressed his fingers against his forehead, forcing away emotions he had learned long ago to suppress but which had sprung up lately more than once, astounding him with their continuing existence, their vitality and power, when he had thought them withered from disuse.
Behind his closed lids he had a startlingly clear vision of young Owen Yorke, the lad from Underwood’s, staring up at the lighted windows of the Independents’, reaching out to grasp at dreams. He had wanted money and success all right, but he had wanted something more besides. He had wanted love, marriage, children. He had wanted happiness.
Someone rapped at the office door. Owen came at once out of his thoughts; he called a brisk ‘Come in.’
‘I thought you’d like some tea.’ One of the female clerks smiling down at him, proffering a cup, knowing his secretary had the day off.
‘Thank you, yes, I was beginning to feel thirsty.’ An easy interchange between them. He had never seen the necessity for undue formality towards employees. Underwood’s had started out as a little family business and a family business it remained, in spite of all the changes in the busy years.
He glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘I think you might all get off home now. Would you look into Accounts on your way, see if Mr Pierson is still there? Tell him I’d like a word with him before he goes.’ Might as well raise the matter now of the High Street shop, the original gown and mantle emporium. Monday would bring its rushing tide of work, it would be easy to overlook, and the question of the shop had to be settled sooner or later.
‘He’s still there.’ The girl paused by the door. ‘I saw his light on as I came by.’ It hadn’t crossed her mind to take Mr Pierson a cup of tea. One of the cleaners could do that–if indeed he was to get a cup of tea at all. Not exactly a man to inspire such little courtesies. Silent, self-contained, with a brooding, occupied air, hardly the type to set a junior clerk dreaming, to strive to make him notice her with skilful interruptions and gaily tinkling trays. ‘I’ll tell him you’d like to see him.’ She closed the door and went off towards Accounts, rapped smartly on the door panel and put her head into the room without bothering to wait for a reply.
‘Mr Yorke wants a word with you.’
Arnold Pierson raised his head from the comfortingly impersonal columns of figures in whose beautifully precise ranks he was able to lose himself eight hours a day. Nothing startled about the movement of his head; he looked like a man who would never entirely be taken by surprise.
‘Thank you, I’ll go along right away.’ He stood up with a controlled flexing of his powerful muscles; a big man, broad and well-built, dressed in utterly unremarkable clothes. He walked without haste to the managing director’s room.
Owen Yorke stood by the window, looking out at the hostile afternoon with its grey wreaths of mist. He felt fully alive and expansive again, a man only now on the brink of the real adventures of life, just beginning to scratch at the huge surface of possibilities opening up before him. He was back on the plane of living where all uncomfortable, intrusive emotions were firmly battened down, away out of sight and so out of existence.
‘You saw the New Year in in style, I hope?’ he said to Pierson as soon as the other man was inside the door, falling at once into the briskly cheerful manner he invariably wore like an armour in his business relations.
‘Hardly that.’ Pierson’s tone held the faintest overlay of rebuke and Owen remembered with a thrust of embarrassment that Arnold’s father, old Walter Pierson, was seriously ill with influenza.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot for a moment. How is your father? On the mend, I hope?’ But he knew old Walter might not be expected to weather the attack. Over seventy now. He’d served in the first war with Owen’s father, green lads together in that terrible baptism of fire and mud.
They’d both been decorated for a joint act of youthful heroism, crawling out one bitter night to where their mate, another local lad named Cottrell, lay helpless in a pocket of gas with half a leg blown away. They’d managed to drag young Cottrell back to safety of sorts. He’d lived another half-dozen years after that night, long enough to marry the girl who waited for him at home, long enough to father a son.
Arnold shook his head. ‘Dr Gethin isn’t very hopeful.’ He let the answer lie there, unqualified by any easy optimism. He stood with his hands hanging by his sides, waiting for Yorke to say what he wanted to see him about.
Owen dropped into his chair, indicating with a gesture that Pierson should sit down.
‘It’s about the shop.’
Arnold leaned back in his seat with a little movement of relaxation, as if he had expected Yorke to raise some other, trickier, matter. ‘I imagine you’ve decided it will have to be closed.’ His mouth twitched with a hint of amusement. ‘And you’re not too anxious to tell Sarah so.’
Sarah Pierson managed the shop; she was Arnold’s stepsister, older than himself by ten or eleven years. Her father had been a first cousin of old Walter Pierson’s. Walter’s wife had died of pneumonia when Arnold was still a child in a pushchair, and Sarah’s mother, herself widowed a couple of years, had naturally enough given Walter a hand with the rearing of his son. The two houses were in neighbouring streets; she had drifted into the habit of doing the washing, then the shopping and cooking, finally drifting into marrying Walter, moving her furniture and her daughter across the intervening couple of hundred yards.
Arnold had no memory whatever of his own mother but he remembered his father’s second wife
