The vivian inheritance, p.2
The Vivian Inheritance, page 2
‘What word from Swarth Moor, Tom?’ he asked, in his tone which was half-threat and half-friendship.
‘Not too good, I’m afraid, sir. They tried to drain Prospect mine again yesterday, but Edgeworth says it filled up like a bladder.’
‘The Cornishman will sort that out for us,’ said William, sounding more convinced than he felt. ‘Where is the damned fellow?’
‘We’ve heard no more, sir, since his last letter a week ago, in which he said he would be here before the end of the month.’
‘Well, he’s a confounded nuisance. But he’ll drain Prospect for us. And the others. You’ll see, Tom. He’s the best there is at this game. The only trouble is that everyone else knows it. Can’t get the damned fellow to name a date. Before the end of the month, indeed. It is the end of the month, Tom!’
‘Should I send word to the Royal George, sir, to see if he’s arrived there?’
‘No, deuce take it! What use would he be today? The valley’s like a damned great fair from one end to the other. Why should I invite him to come and loll about here at my expense? No, let him stay where he is and cool his heels for a bit. That’ll teach him to speak of the end of the month. End of the month!’ Then he switched, coming at once upon his secretary’s thoughts. ‘And what are they all saying about my bargain over the colliery, Tom? Eh? Saying that Ralph Kersall sold me a pup?’
‘Something of that sort, sir,’ the man replied lightly.
‘Something a damned sight worse than that, if I know them! They’re mean-spirited, Tom, and small-minded. They have no vision to sustain them. I have two mottoes, Tom, which you would do well to observe. Never accept an easy way out of a difficulty. Always accept a challenge.’
The secretary said nothing. He had heard the ironmaster hold forth a thousand times, and none of the advice applied to him, nor would he be tolerated did he choose to follow it. While William, glancing sideways at this dependable dependant, clapped one big hand heartily upon the narrow shoulder as they walked together. For he liked the idea of good fellowship between master and man, and even more did he like to be seen exercising that rare virtue.
‘At any rate, I look after my people better than Kersall does,’ said the ironmaster, as though he answered some invisible accuser.
This was true. His ironworks was run on Quaker lines, with a sound system of apprenticeships, a workman’s benefit society, its own medical staff and a health scheme. Hillside Estate was owned by William’s company, who built the sturdy cottages — each with its patch of garden and a pigsty — and rented them to employees for between a shilling and one and sixpence a week.
Recently, the ironmaster had branched into communal recreation. With his encouragement, Snape Botanical Society had been formed, whose members rambled for miles upon a Sunday afternoon, collecting specimens of wild flowers. A cricket club was in the process of evolution, with the help of a subsidy to purchase equipment. The Company Offices were compiling a library of books, to be lent to skilled and learning workmen. There was a school, a church and a chapel for the nourishment of mind and soul, and plans for building more as the population grew. Whatever the ironmaster forgot, his wife remembered, and he was always generous when petitioned.
‘Look after your people,’ William said, ‘and they and their children will belong to you!’
His easy manner was popular among them. To see him in his grandeur, pausing to kick a football which had gone astray, cheering the teams from the edge of a field he had donated, was a heart-warming spectacle. He had a way of righting some fallen toddler, of patting a brave lad on the head and giving him a ha’penny for treacle toffee, of asking a little lass the name of her doll, which delighted folk.
Whereas the valley’s feudal overlord, faced by these new strident masters of industry, was retreating into a more graceful past. Old Humphrey Kersall had died the previous spring, and Ralph was not the fighter his father had been. The Kersall blood, once that of well-born adventurers, was thinning. Their luck was running out, their hold loosening. They kept themselves to themselves, stayed within the charmed circle of the aristocracy, pursued eccentric hobbies, built follies and improved their gardens.
‘Finished,’ said the ironmaster. ‘The Kersalls are finished. That’s why the idiot sold me those three mines. He hadn’t the guts to try to drain them himself! Eh, Tom?’
Daring the secretary to contradict him.
‘Well, let us see what the post has brought,’ said William, sitting down at his desk at last. ‘For once I step outside the front door today, I shall not be back until night!’
Wherever the ironmaster went, his people either set up a quasi-throne for him or built a rostrum. Today, he was furnished with both. Only the Howarths’ lustrous black reminded folk that they had sustained a sorry loss. Otherwise, they played their parts with decorous enthusiasm. When William took off his tailcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his fine white shirt, as though he were a workman about to embark upon a dirty job, the crowd laughed outright. And when he cracked a joke as he sharpened his butcher’s knife and eyed the huge roast ox, they fairly roared appreciation. Simply to be present was to participate in a glorious event: as though a god had descended from Olympus and mingled with mortal men.
The boiling parts of the beast were stewing in a vast iron pot, upon which was stamped the two-headed mark of Belbrook Foundry, justifiably famous for its municipal cauldrons. And to this humbler feast came the poor, carrying jugs that they might receive their fill of beef juice and a lump of meat. Every baker in the district had worked throughout the night to provide the stalls full of free bread. Every brewer had rolled out every available barrel of beer. And all at the expense of the ironmaster.
The ox being tasted, and pronounced delicious, the Howarths led the way to the new public park where an entertainment had been arranged for them, and a covered pavilion erected against rain or sun, whichever chose to weep or shine upon the occasion. There they sat attentively while twenty children in their best clothes danced round the maypole.
Then the newly-formed Upperton and Snape Choral Society sang, accompanied by Cunshurst Brass Band: both companies zealous but somewhat thin in ranks and sound.
The tenor, Arnie Bracegirdle, pleased the ladies most, for he was a handsome fellow and his message poured forth on the summer air. ‘Their sound is gone out into all lands, and their words unto the ends of the world.’ And the ironmaster shook his head and wiped his eyes at its brevity and beauty.
But then a giant stood up, Isaac Lawler who worked in the cannon foundry, and his voice thundered across the turf and reverberated the little bells on the striped awning. Massive he was in all respects, and he hectored them and the universe. ‘Why do the nations so furiously rage together? And why do the people imagine a vain thing?’
Inspired by such compelling questions, the chorus launched themselves into ‘Let us break their bonds asunder…’ And William smote his knees in joy and admiration, for he loved a good round barrage of music.
Then they followed Handel with Haydn, and sang the Gloria from his Mass in Time of War, and finished with Purcell’s fifth anthem from Queen Mary’s funeral music, Blessed are they that fear the Lord, and smiled triumphantly as the applause rose in volume.
And the ironmaster clapped his hands and stamped his feet and asked if Isaac Lawler would sing once more, which the giant obligingly did, though very scarlet of countenance. But however embarrassed he might be about his sudden eminence, his voice did not betray him. A Vulcan of a bass, it growled out its eternal questions: mighty, sonorous, godlike. And William nodded, and wiped his eyes again, for he understood this. It was about power and glory and endurance. Faith, hope and charity were all very well and he paid them lip service and pocket service too, but the power he understood. So that afterwards his people smiled and said to one another, ‘Eh, didn’t he enjoy himself? God bless him!’
Then the family went the rounds of the fairground, where oranges were two for a penny-ha’penny; and William, seeing some children short of halfpence, threw down a sovereign and bought up the whole of one woman’s wares, and bestowed them widely. He avoided the boxing and wrestling matches because Zelah abhorred violence, and their daughters were too young and gently-bred to enjoy such displays. So they were escorted home to take tea and rest in the privacy of Kingswood Hall, before changing into finer finery for the evening banquet and firework display.
But the ironmaster himself joined a crowd of his workmen to watch a purring match. Right from the beginning he was there when two colliers, stripped to their drab tights and vaunting their bulging muscles, glowered at one another while watchers laid bets.
The two men wore brutal, brass-nailed, iron-toed clogs with which to kick and tear the other’s flesh, and would throttle as they kicked, in the Lancashire fashion. Being well-matched, neither would give way for a long time. And the spectators sharply drew in breath, and bit tongues, and winced and groaned and licked their lips, as each vicious blow went home. Until one collier fell to the ground at last and could not rise, and both were red with each other’s blood and their own, and their faces mere obliterations.
Then the victor smashed his sticky clog into the victim’s side, and they heard his ribs snap like stalks. And saw there was nothing more to be had out of either man, and walked away sated.
‘That were a bit of all right, then, eh, Master?’ said William’s neighbour, hands in pockets, holiday hat to one side of his rough head.
And William replied, as he would have answered one of his father’s farm labourers in his youth, ‘Aye, it were that, Fred!’
But not in the least condescendingly. Man to man. That was what they loved about him. And yet there was a line they could not, would not have crossed. For he was the ironmaster, after all.
TWO: THE CORNISHMAN
The man who had played a part in the ironmaster’s thoughts that morning was, that evening, stepping down with his fellow passengers from the Manchester-York Flyer. The great day in Millbridge was done, leaving only its litter behind. The last bonfire guttered on a hill, the last firework exploded, the last drunkard tumbled into his ditch. Descending from the magical to the mundane, entertainers quarrelled over their takings, packed their belongings, and prepared to move on. A few late revellers howled and cat-called in the sleeping High Street. And in the quiet market-square, scraps of paper scuttled before the night wind.
‘Half-an-hour for refreshment, ladies and gentlemen!’ cried the guard, consulting his watch.
The coach-driver came down stiffly from his perch. The ostlers led away the tired horses and harnessed a fresh team. The landlord smiled and bowed in that oblong patch of light and warmth which was his doorway. The landlady smiled and curtsied before that munificence which was her supper table. Maids and manservants hurried to and fro, carrying plates and dishes. A fire roared up the chimney-back. Ladies departed in search of chamber pots. Gentlemen lifted their coat-tails and turned their backsides to the hearth. And the ironmaster’s consultant engineer made himself known.
‘Mr Vivian, of course, sir!’ the landlord said, as though the Royal George had been waiting a century and a half to meet this particular guest. ‘We’ve given you Number Six, sir, overlooking the gardens at the back. Very quiet and comfortable. Shall you join the company, sir, or take supper in your room? Arthur’ll fetch your luggage up.’
Hal Vivian was unusually tall for a Cornishman, but he had the dense black hair and rich complexion of his race. His air was that of a person who is used to travelling. His speech that of an educated man.
‘He can take this up if he likes,’ said Vivian, holding out a modest portmanteau. ‘It’s all I have. And all I need, come to that!’ And he grinned at the landlord. ‘I’ll sup down here by the fire, Mr…?’
‘Tyler, sir. Benjamin Tyler.’
‘You keep a fine old hostelry, Mr Tyler.’
‘We do our best, sir. I think I can say we have something of a reputation hereabouts!’ Smiling, well-pleased.
‘Aye, so I have heard. Well, Mr Tyler, I’ll take a portion of your good wife’s pie before it is all ate up!’ Of the glazed brown delicacy.
‘Plenty more where that come from, sir. Sit you down. Florrie! Look after this gentleman, will you? He’s got more time than the others. What about a bottle of claret to go with the pie, sir? We keep a fair cellar here. A fair cellar, I think you’ll find.’
‘I leave it to you, Mr Tyler. I trust your judgement entirely.’
Then he turned to a lady sitting near him and made some remark which brought her to smiling attention, and also attracted the interest of the man opposite. Within moments, the little party was laughing together as they had laughed often in the coach on their way here. For the Cornishman travelled the length and breadth of the country, and had a story in his head for every occasion. Moreover, being a bachelor in his early twenties with a vigorous business and a healthy delight in life, he was much in demand with the ladies. Mamas cast favourable eyes upon him. But papas shook their heads and smiled slyly, sensing that this fox would not be caught if he could help it. And any girl who thought that a pretty bosom and a pair of slim ankles might fetch him to his knees was sadly mistaken.
The landlady cut the pie with a generous maternal hand, and laid a slice before him. The landlord carried up the bottle as though it were an infant, dusting it tenderly before drawing the cork, pouring a taste into Vivian’s glass, watching the young man sip and smile and nod in appreciation. Then the Cornishman again addressed himself to the company, leaving his wine and pie untouched, until the guard brought forth his dictator of a watch, and the coach party gathered themselves and their cloaks and coats together for the next stage, leaving a legacy of crumbs and silence.
Now he could eat and drink at last with relish.
‘Your health, Mr Tyler!’ he cried, as the landlord hovered at his elbow. ‘Will you join me in a glass of this venerable wine, or are you too busy to stop and talk?’
‘No, sir, I’m more or less free now. That was the last coach to come through afore the London-to-Carlisle at a half-after-six tomorrow morning. I’ll take a glass with pleasure, thankee.’
The Royal George had ceased its bustle and was being made ready for first breakfast.
‘You’re the gentleman as Mr Howarth was expecting, aren’t you, sir?’ asked the landlady, moving between table and fireside, setting the room to rights.
‘I am indeed, ma’am. And shall be on my way to Snape tomorrow morning, with the help of a horse from your stables.’
Landlord and guest sat and drank in a comfortable silence, and Hal Vivian looked all about the room as though he would search the very corners for knowledge. Then, jerking his chin at the blackened beams above their heads he said, ‘How old is he, Mr Tyler?’
‘He, sir? Mr Howarth, do you mean?’
‘No, no. I beg your pardon. That’s a trick of speech I learned from my father. I mean, how old is this hostelry, Mr Tyler?’ Smiling.
‘Oh, the old George? Built in the reign of King Charles the Second just afore the Plague, sir. 1664. Called The Royal Oak then, in honour of the King’s escape, like. But when the first Hanover came to the throne, it was changed to The Royal George. And, excepting for two new signs being painted, the George it’s stayed ever since.’
‘I love these old houses,’ said Hal Vivian with great simplicity. ‘If you have no objection, Mr Tyler, I have a few letters to write before I go to bed, and should like to write them here in the warm.’
‘There’s a fire laid in your room, sir. We could light it in a minute and no bother.’
‘I’d sooner stay here. I like the feel of the place. It will keep me company in the small hours. I’m a fanciful fellow, Mr Tyler!’
‘Just as you please, sir. Arthur’ll be here if you want anything.’
‘If you set a pot of coffee by the fire, I can look after myself.’
But this the landlord would by no means allow. For what would become of the Royal George’s reputation if it were ever known that a wakeful guest had been left unattended?
So, at well past midnight, the Cornishman sat with his portable writing desk upon his knees: a clever little contraption which he had produced from the depths of the portmanteau. And he began to deal with his correspondence. The long clock ticked sedately on. Hal Vivian scratched away, shedding letters to right and left: not a few at all, but a dozen or more. Orders, answers, advice, requests: some of them accompanied by sketches of machinery or plans of mine-shafts, adits, workings. Until the sentinel Arthur fell asleep from sheer weariness, a white napkin over one arm, and was only brought back to consciousness by the sound of coals falling, and saw the Cornishman replenishing his fire from the scuttle. His tasks were evidently done, but he sat back in his chair, legs crossed and hands clasped behind his head, musing.
His social manner dropped, he seemed gentler, less robust: a different man entirely from the cheerful companion of the coach journey, or the genial traveller who chatted with the landlord. His eyes were very pale and fine, crystal-grey and contemplative. A smile hovered on his mouth as though he remembered something which both awed and delighted him.
‘Whatever’s he thinking of at this hour in the morning?’ Arthur wondered, before he dozed off again.
Such images, known and conjectured, past and present and future, practical and fantastic. Such a world of marvels passing before his eyes. And he the man to try to realise all of them, and young enough to believe he could do so.
Though he could not have slept more than three hours, the Cornishman rose early, ate and drank frugally, rode down the valley smartly, and found himself in the presence of the ironmaster as that gentleman read his newspaper at the breakfast table.
