Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Stanley glanced up from his papers with a slight irritation. During that autumn Stanley’s tendency to irritation had increased; in the steam-heated office he looked pale, wilted and moist. “Sheer overwork,” he would protest in a voice of grievance. “Think of it, I haven’t had Clegg inside the office in six weeks.” Actually, having given birth to the idea of conversion to munitions — as though the process of delivery had been too much for his enfeebled constitution — old Mr. Clegg had taken to his bed and the doctor had reported that his lying-in would be prolonged. There was, in fact, a possibility that he would not get up again. This worried Stanley. Lately, Millington had run a little to seed and he was liable to impulsive bemoanings of his waist band, his lack of condition and his inability to get his regular bi-weekly golf. His tone on these occasions was the tone of a man who has just lost his collar stud and indicts the entire household.

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Laura,” he grunted. “You know Gowlan, don’t you? Joe Gowlan. Only man besides myself who works in this place.”

Joe hardly dared to raise his eyes. He blundered out some formal remark and, as soon as he could, gathered up his papers and left the office.

Stanley yawned and threw down his pen.

“I’m tired, Laura,” he said, “damned tired. Too many gin and Its last night and not enough sleep. I’ve been like a washed-out rag all day. God! when I think how fit I used to be. I’m missing my golf I tell you. I must start my cold showers in the morning again. I’d like to have time to get really fit. I’m sick of this driving on. Money pouring in, but what the dickens of good is it? Clegg’s still laid up, you know. I can’t put up with it much longer. I shall have to pension him off and get a new man, a new works manager.”

“Of course you must,” she agreed.

He stifled another yawn, his expression peevish.

“So damned difficult, getting a good man. They’re all booked up or at the front, lucky devils. I must advertise though. I’ll do it Monday.”

Laura smoothed her soft fur with her pale flexible fingers as though enjoying the feel of its voluptuous silkiness.

“Why don’t you give this man Gowlan a trial?” she remarked idly.

Stanley stared at her in amazement.

“Gowlan!” he exclaimed with a short laugh. “Joe Gowlan, my works manager! That shows how little you savvy about business, my dear. Gowlan was a workman himself not so long ago. Why, the thing’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she remarked indifferently. “I don’t understand.” She turned towards the door. But he did not follow.

“Clegg’s job is a damned responsible post. It means looking after the whole show when I’m not here. It’s idiotic to think Gowlan could handle it.” He rubbed his chin indecisively. “And yet I don’t know. He is a damned capable fellow. He’s helped me no end of ways these last three months. He’s popular with the men and smart, yes, straight as a die, too. Think how he put me up to that swine Porterfield. Hang it all, Laura, I don’t know but what there might be some sense in the idea after all.”

She looked at her tiny wrist watch, worn on the outside of her glove.

“Oh, never mind your idea, Stanley, it really is time we were going.”

“No, but listen, Laura. I honestly believe this solves my difficulty. There’s a war on, you know, and that’s when men do get promotion. I believe I might do worse than try Gowlan in the job.”

“You must do exactly as you think best.”

“Good Lord, Laura, as if I ever did anything else. But, honestly, I’m rather keen on this now. How would it do to ask him up to supper some night and see how he strikes us?”

“Just as you wish. But we must go now or we’ll be late.”

Stanley stood for a moment with his brow corrugated in thought, then suddenly he clapped on his bowler and reached for his coat. He followed Laura down the corridor and on the way across the yard he shouted to the machine-shop for Joe.

Joe advanced slowly and Stanley, straightening himself inside the coat, remarked offhandedly:

“By the way, Joe, I nearly forgot. I want you to come up and have supper with us some night. How about to-morrow? That suit you all right?”

Joe stood incapable of speech.

“Yes,” he stammered at last, “that would suit me perfectly.”

“It’s settled then,” Stanley declared. “Half-past seven in case I forget.”

Joe nodded. He was conscious of Laura’s dark eyes inspecting him non-committally over Stanley’s shoulder. Then they both turned and walked off.

He gazed after them with a violently beating heart. He wanted to whoop for joy. At last! At last! He had been right after all. In a sweat of triumph he returned to his work.

That night when he went home he could not be still. He had to tell someone, it was impossible to contain this delicious exultation within himself. A strange desire seized him, a temptation, and he could not resist it. He took a tram across the bridge to Tynecastle and carried his gloating along to Scottswood Road.

He strolled in upon the Sunleys with a casual air while they sat at supper, Alfred, Ada, Clarry and Phyllis — Sally was not there, she was with a concert party which had just left for France — and their welcome caused him to feel even more magnificent.

“Well, I declare,” Ada kept repeating. “It’s a regular treat to see you again.”

He accepted his old chair by the fire and let her send out for some cold ham and give him a second supper — he called it a snack — and while he ate her sandwiches he informed them all of his success at Millington’s. Reaching for the mustard he added carelessly: “As a matter of fact, I’m having supper with Stanley and Mrs. Millington at Hilltop tomorrow night.”

Their astounded admiration gave him a glorious thrill. Joe was a natural boaster, particularly when the audience was receptive, and now he boasted to his heart’s content. He expatiated on the beauty and nobility of his calling. Somebody, he announced through a large mouthful of ham, had got to make the bullets, bombs and shells for the boys at the front. There was a future in munitions, too. He had heard only the other day that they were going to put up a line of sheds at Wirtley on the waste ground at the top of Yarrow Hill, filling sheds, and quite near the foundry too. Mr. Stanley had said they would soon be employing hundreds of girls there, filling the shells with T.N.T. Mr. Stanley had got the news from London straight. Joe looked at Clarry and Phyllis in a friendly way. He said:

“Why don’t you two get in on that? They’ll be paying you three times what you get at Slattery’s and the work’s a pinch.”

Ada looked interested. She said:

“Is that a fact, Joe?”

Joe said largely:

“Certainly it’s a fact What do you take me for? I know, don’t I? I know!”

Ada pondered flabbily in her rocker. House painting in Tynecastle in those early days of the war was inclined to be slack; there was not as much money coming into the house as Ada would have liked, certainly Clarry’s and Phyllis’s money was very small. She said:

“I wish you’d let me know if you hear anything further, Joe.”

Ada had always had a weakness, a soft maternal tenderness towards Joe. To-night she thought he looked wonderfully handsome — quite the gentleman, sort of dashing and alive. Ada sighed; she had always wanted to have Joe her son-in-law; it was pitiful the chance Jenny had thrown away now that things had turned out so well for Joe.

When Clarry and Phyllis had gone out and Alf was busy with his pigeons in the back, Ada looked across at Joe and breathed very sadly and confidentially: