Sleep in Peace (67 page)

The Armisteads were travelling the road towards renewed prosperity rather more rapidly than some other West Riding households, for three reasons. Owing to Ludo's mute but stubborn honesty and Gwen's passionate respectability, they had engaged in no
dubious financial practices either in business or the home, and though they owned nothing, they also owed nothing, except their arranged liabilities to the bank. The third reason, less cogent but still active, was the striking, the altogether dazzling success of Laura's book of industrial drawings.

The amazed Laura woke the day after the book's publication to find herself, not exactly famous, but certainly quite well known. She had expected interest in her textile drawings to be confined to textile districts, but on the contrary the book found favour in America, Scandinavia and some of those odd newly industrialized Balkan countries as well. She had expected, and steeled herself against, attack from the capitalist interests in the West Riding for the painful realism of her drawings of, for instance, men carding, men in Labour Exchange queues; she had expected, and steeled herself against, attacks from the labour interests in the West Riding, because she had drawn the working men, not as exploited angels, but as they really were, with sometimes a fine, but sometimes a brutal or a cruel face. But to her real surprise and ironical amusement, these divided interests turned each a blind eye on their own pictured defects, to rejoice in the clarity with which Laura had pictured their opponents. There were also honest men on both sides who admitted the truth of her picture as a whole. The literary world praised her drawings, but said her text was poor— Laura underlined these passages, and sent the press-cuttings reproachfully to Frederick, who replied with a generous appreciation; he was delighted, he said, by her really outstanding success, and only wished poems of his might have shared it. The artistic world hailed Laura as the discoverer of contemporary industrial life as a subject for art; of her technique they said little, which disappointed Laura. She had, however, the rather irritating privilege of seeing her choice of subject copied and her methods imitated. But after all it was a privilege, decided Laura; she had turned the eyes of many hitherto unseeing people upon a certain
little-studied aspect of the contemporary scene—that was surely a worth-while contribution.

Others, at any rate, seemed to think so. Mr. Quarmby, his fine eyes bright with pleasure, began to talk of Laura as his most famous pupil. Invitations to be the guest at Annual Dinners, to give away prizes and open bazaars, poured in upon her—sometimes as many as eight a week. The Armisteads were overjoyed; their tough endurance through the years of slump was, they felt, rewarded, their home life crowned; here was their dear little Laura, of whom they had always taken such care, admired and famous! They threw up their heads, shook off their depression, and enjoyed her success with all their hearts. None of them ever
said
that they liked the book, of course; but Ludo beamed silently whenever it was mentioned, and joked about “our celebrity”, meaning Laura; Gwen listened avidly to Laura's platform experiences, enjoying a vicarious pleasure in her sister's triumphs; while Mr. Armistead asked whether there were any fresh press-cuttings, every time he entered the house. Even Geoffrey condescended to be amused by Laura's fan-letters. Madeline said nothing, as usual, but was observed once or twice turning over the pages of
Industrial Landscape
with a serious expression.

The financial results, too, were pleasant; the book sold well; Laura had more commissions than she could well execute. She was able to give up Carr Vale, work constantly at home, and equip her attic so that it resembled a real studio. She was also able to make a larger contribution to the household expenses; loose doorknobs became a thing of the past, Mildred returned joyfully to the kitchen, and soon another maid joined her there. Presently, what with Laura's earnings, the increased turnover at Blackshaw Mills, and the growing friendliness of the bank now that it was no longer so much needed, readjustments were made and the deeds of Blackshaw House rescued. The Armisteads heaved an enormous sigh of relief, and began to feel that they were alive
again. There were even days when none of them thought once about the bank! Amazing!

If only the nations of the earth would not so furiously rage together, and the dictators imagine a vain thing. But the prolonged attack which was in progress on all sides on the notions which Laura now perceived she held particularly dear, namely liberty and democracy, quite precluded any mental comfort or real enjoyment; the newspapers of the 1930's made bitter reading for those who disliked tyrannies.

The conflict was embittered by the newspapers themselves, thought Laura. The hysterical scaremongering type of newspaper had never been bought by Mr. Armistead, and accordingly his three children had been brought up on the
Yorkshire Post
, the
Observer
, and in the evening the
Hudley Guardian
till it was swallowed by the liberal
Hudley News
, when Mr. Armistead was forced to take the
News
. (He grumbled a good deal about this at first, but as the 1920's went on had ceased to notice any difference.) Now, however, that money was decidedly more plentiful, and Laura paid the newspaper bill, the inhabitants of Blackshaw House began to indulge their several tastes, and sheets representative of various moods of the English press lay thick about the house each morning. Mr. Armistead continued with his
Post
, Laura read that and the
Manchester Guardian
, together with some intellectual weeklies, including Frederick's; Gwen scanned the pictures in a “picture paper”, while Geoffrey indulged in precisely the “hysterical scaremongering” Press which his grandfather and his aunt loathed. Ludo, who read little, glanced at the
Post
and flicked the pages of Geoffrey's paper, exclaiming impatiently the while at the lies he found in the latter. Madeline, when asked what paper she would like, replied that she bought her own newspaper at the station on her way to Leeds—whether it was the
Daily Worker
or the
Morning Post
, nobody could tell. This mass of divergent journalism made Laura very uncomfortable. Whether the Press had really deteriorated, or whether her eyes were keener
now than when she had last turned her attention to the subject, she did not know; but she found on the Right a smug complacency, on the Left a peevish hate, in the centre a disposition to enjoy everyone else's mistakes without offering any constructive policy of one's own. Besides, it was impossible to discern the truth about any incident. The burning of the Reichstag formed a good example of what she meant. Laura, having read the
Manchester Guardian
, thought she saw at once that the whole affair was a put-up job on the part of the Brownshirts in order to bring public sympathy to their side against the Communists. Mr. Armistead, lowering his
Yorkshire Post
, observed in a judicial tone that it was a very serious matter if people were to start attacking property and committing arson, but for his part he didn't just see how the flames had been secretly started in so many places—how could anybody have
smuggled
in the immense amount of combustible material necessary? So far, so fair; but Gwen's picture paper bore the caption:
Communist Outrage in Berlin
, as though the identity of the incendiaries was proved, while Geoffrey's sheet foamed over three columns about the Communist danger to Europe, and spoke of a German Communist rising as certain. What was one to make of reports—not opinions, but reports—so hopelessly divergent? Their effect was, inevitably, to create a feeling of impotent wretchedness, inhibiting action, in those who read several versions, and to exacerbate misunderstanding between opponents who read only one.

As time went on and the daily chronicles of Europe grew more and more disturbed by the conflict of Dictatorships on Left and Right and the dismayed reactions of the Democracies, the newspapers in Blackshaw House grew more and more divergent, and to Laura the sight of Geoffrey's reading grew more and more distasteful. It really distressed her to think of his young mind—and the minds of Mildred and the housemaid in the kitchen—being exposed to such contamination. It also distressed her to think that her money went to swell such newspapers' support. She often
rallied Geoffrey about his hysterical rag, hoping to counteract its influence; he retorted with acid taunts about her Bolshevist weeklies, but continued to read his rag as before. It is because many people act as I do, thought Laura with increasing discomfort, and allow their money to support causes in which they do not believe, that progress is in such a pinch to-day. At last one morning, when the discussion with her nephew had been particularly acrimonious, Laura exclaimed crossly:

“If you want to read such stuff, Geoffrey, I think you must pay for it yourself.”

“Just as you like, Auntie Laura,” said Geoffrey, raising his handsome eyebrows. “Excuse me. It's time I left for the mill.”

The moment Laura had spoken she felt ashamed and mean, and inclined to withdraw her edict, but as she thought the matter over during the day she was by no means sure where her duty lay. It was a good test of one's actions to express them in general terms, since their true significance was then made clear, unveiled from subjectivity. But was Laura's action to be expressed as a stern stand for principle, a wise guidance of younger minds, a proper exercise of precept? Or on the contrary was it a misuse of economic power to bully and enslave? Laura could not tell; and it was small consolation to reflect that she would probably continue to pay for Geoffrey's newspapers in any case, since he was skilful in evading small financial obligations.

The comparative financial peace of the family was broken by Geoffrey's twenty-first birthday, which occurred in the year of the burning of the Reichstag. By Mr. Hinchliffe's will, half the property whose income Frederick had enjoyed for the last seven years was now turned over to Mr. Hinchliffe's grandson. This transaction was not attended by any unpleasant consequences for the Armisteads at all, indeed on the contrary it was more agreeable for
Mr. Armistead that his grandson should hold the Blackshaw Mills shares, and draw the income therefrom, than the distant and in his opinion perplexing Frederick, while in the financial sense the household positively benefited. But banks and lawyers had become such objects of dread in the family that letters from them agitated everyone in the house, and really distressed Mr. Armistead. Laura observed sadly that her father now for the first time began to show a slight ageing in his mental faculties; he did not understand the letters and documents which came to him at a first perusal, but gathered mistaken notions from them which he then argued stubbornly with Ludo and Geoffrey. It seemed that Frederick had not spent the income from his father's shares, Blackshaw and other, to which he was entitled; some he had contributed to Gwen, the rest he had simply left untouched, regarding it as belonging to his children. To make Mr. Armistead credit this behaviour and its motive, to him quite incomprehensible, to make Frederick understand that if he gave this money to his children it would be a gift, but that in fairness it ought to be divided in a certain proportion between Geoffrey and Madeline, to ascertain, in order to settle this proportion, what Frederick meant to do with the income remaining to him from Madeline's estate which she would not inherit for another two years—all this taxed the patience of Ludo, Laura and Geoffrey intolerably.

Geoffrey indeed had little patience to tax. He was a highly impatient young man, with a tendency to regard all lawyers as sinister Jews, and all legal formalities, in fact anything which had to be written down and expressed with a careful regard for other people's rights, as old-fashioned nonsense. “Blether” was one of his favourite words in this respect, “bleating” another, “verbiage” a third. He liked to act rapidly, to carry things with a high hand, to cut through all the tangle of procedure with any implement that'was handy—“the steel creed of an iron age” was another of his phrases—and was greatly annoyed when this proved impossible.

“No wonder England's decadent,” he said with disgust, “if everything we do has to be tied up in yards of red tape like this. We're simply hag-ridden.”

“England decadent!” exclaimed Mr. Armistead. “What are you talking about, Geoffrey?”

Geoffrey pouted and shrugged his shoulders.

“He's talking about himself,” put in Madeline unexpectedly.

The brother and sister glared at one another.

“I'm referring to this incessant organised obstruction,” said Geoffrey with sulky dignity.

“Obstruction to what, organised by whom?” said Laura, amazed.

Geoffrey held down his head and was heard to mutter something about youth and realism as opposed to committee irresponsibility, while Laura, not for the first time, wondered where he acquired the curious bombast of his vocabulary, which was just as tedious, and quite as meaningless, as the legal terminology to which he objected. As for his attack on the committee principle, it taught her how dear that truly democratic principle was to her.

At last the matter of the boy's inheritance was adjusted, and Geoffrey was put in possession of a quarter of Henry Hinchliffe's shares in Blackshaw Mills, a quarter of his grandfather's other securities, and a few hundred pounds, the gift of his father. He began, in a slapdash manner, to take an interest in the working of Blackshaw Mills; he did not care for cloth, and left all the interior work to Ludo, but he was rather good with customers—especially those whose sons he had known at Rugby.

One evening, a few weeks after all the papers concerning this matter were finally signed, Laura, who was typing business letters in her attic studio, heard footsteps on the stairs, and Ludo came in. He looked about him as if intending to stay; Laura cleared a chair for him, and he sat down. It was August, and he had just returned from a holiday alone in the south of England; he looked well, and there was an unusual light of determination in his eyes.