Muriel Spark - The Ballad of Peckham Rye

Drover Willis’s was humming with work when Dougal reported on Friday morning to the managing director.

‘During my first week,’ Dougal told Mr Willis, ‘I have been observing the morals of Peckham. It seemed to me that the moral element lay at the root of all industrial discontents which lead to absenteeism and the slackness at work which you described to me.’

Mr Willis looked with his blue eyes at his rational compatriot sitting before him with a shiny brief-case on his lap.

Mr Willis said at last, ‘That would seem to be the correct approach, Mr Dougal.’

Dougal sat easily in his chair and continued his speech with half-dosed, detached, and scholarly eyes.

‘There are four types of morality observable in Peckham,’ he said. ‘One, emotional. Two, functional. Three, puritanical. Four, Christian.’

Mr Willis opened the lid of a silver cigarette-box and passed it over to Dougal.

‘No, thank you,’ Dougal said. ‘Take the first category, Emotional. Here, for example, it is considered immoral for a man to live with a wife who no longer appeals to him. Take the second, Functional, in which the principal factor is class solidarity such as, in some periods and places, has also existed amongst the aristocracy, and of which the main manifestation these days is the trade union movement. Three, Puritanical, of which there are several modern variants, monetary advancement being the most prevalent gauge of the moral life in this category. Four, Traditional, which accounts for about one per cent of the Peckham population, and which in its simplest form is Christian. All moral categories are of course intermingled. Sometimes all are to be found in the beliefs and behaviour of one individual.’

‘Where does this get us?’

‘I can’t say,’ Dougal said. ‘It is only a preliminary analysis.’

‘Please embody all this in a report for us, Mr Dougal.’ Dougal opened his brief-case and took out two sheets of paper. ‘I have elaborated on the question here. I have included case histories.’

Mr Willis smiled with one side of his mouth and said, ‘Which of these four moral codes would you say was most attractive, Mr Dougal?’

‘Attractive?’ Dougal said with a trace of disapproval.

‘Attractive to us. Useful, I mean, useful.’

Dougal pondered seriously until Mr Willis’s little smile was forced, for dignity’s sake, to fade. Then, ‘I could not decide until I had further studied the question.’

‘Well expect another report next week?’

‘No, I’ll need a month,’ Dougal stated. ‘A month to work on my own. I can’t come in here again for a month if you wish me to continue research on this line of industrial psychology.’

‘You must see round the factory,’ said Mr Willis. ‘Peck-ham is a big place. We’re concerned with our own works first of all.’

‘I’ve arranged to be shown round this afternoon,’ Dougal said. ‘And at the end of a month I hope to spend some time with the workers in the recreation hails and canteens.’

Mr Willis looked silently at Dougal who then permitted himself a slight display of enthusiasm. He leaned forward.

‘Have you observed, Mr Willis, the frequency with which your employees use the word “immoral”? Have you noticed how equally often they use the word “ignorant”? These words are significant,’ Dougal said, ‘psychologically and sociologically.’

Mr Willis smiled, as far as he was able, into Dougal’s face. ‘Take a month and see what you can do,’ he said. ‘But bring us a good plan of action at the end of it. Drover, my partner, is anxious about absenteeism. We want some moral line that will be both commendable by us and acceptable to our staff. You’ve got some sound ideas, I can see that. And method. I like method.’

Dougal nodded and took his long serious face out of the room.

Miss Frierne said, ‘That boy Leslie Crewe has been here. He was looking for you. Wants to go your errands and make a bob like a good kid. Perhaps his mother’s a bit short,’

‘Anyone with him?’

‘No. He came to the back door this time.’

‘Oh,’ Dougal said, ‘did you get rid of him quickly.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t go for a long time. He kept saying when would Mr Douglas be home, and could he do anything for you. He was very polite, I will say that. Then he asked the time and then he said his Dad used to live up this road in number eight. So I took him in the kitchen. I thought, well, he’s only a boy, and gave him a doughnut. He said his sister was looking forward to marrying Humphrey in September. He said she saves all her wages and the father in America dresses her. He said -‘

‘He must have kept you talking a long time,’ Dougal said.

‘Oh, I didn’t mind. It was a nice break in the afternoon. A nice lad, he is. He goes out Sundays with the Rover Scouts. I’d just that minute come in and I was feeling a bit upset because of something that happened in the street, so -‘

‘Did he ask if he could go up and wait in my room?’

‘No, not this time. I wouldn’t have let him in your room, especially after you said nobody was to be let in there. Don’t you worry about your room. Nobody wants to go into your room, I’m sure.’

Dougal said, ‘You are too innocent for this wicked world.’

‘Innocent I always was,’ Miss Frierne said, ‘and that was why I was so taken aback that day by the Gordon Highlander up on One Tree Hill. Have a cup of tea.’

‘Thanks,’ Dougal said. ‘I’ll just pop upstairs a minute first.’

His room had, of course, been disturbed. He unlocked a drawer in his dressing-table and found that two notebooks were missing. His portable typewriter had been opened and clumsily shut. Ten five-pound notes were, however, untouched in another drawer by the person who had climbed to his room while Leslie had engaged Miss Frierne in talk.

He came down to the kitchen where Miss Frierne sighed into her tea.

‘Next time that Leslie comes round to the back door have a look, will you, to see who he’s left at the front door. His father’s worried about his companions after school hours, I happen to know.’

‘He only wanted to know if you had any errands to run. I daresay to help his mother, like a good kid. I told him I thought you’re short of bacon for your breakfast. He’ll be back. There’s no harm in that boy, I know it by instinct, and instinct always tells. Like what happened to me in the street today.’ She sipped her tea, and was silent.

Dougal sipped his. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘you’re dying to tell me what happened.’

‘As true as God is my judge,’ she said, ‘I saw my brother up at Camberwell Green that left home in nineteen-nineteen. We never heard a word from him all those years. He was coming out of Lyons.’

‘Didn’t you go and speak to him?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t. He was very shabby, he looked awful. Something stopped me. It was an instinct. I couldn’t do it. He saw me, too.’

She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and patted beneath her glasses.

‘You should have gone up to him,’ Dougal said. ‘You should have said, “Are you…” – what was his name?’

‘Harold,’ she said.

‘You should have said, “Are you Harold?”, that’s what you ought to have done. Instead of which you didn’t. You came back here and gave a doughnut to that rotten little Leslie.’

‘Don’t you point your finger at me, Dougal. Nobody does that in my house. You can find other accommodation if you like, any time you like and when you like.’

Dougal got up and shuffled round the kitchen with a slouch and an old ill look. ‘Is that what your old brother looked like?’ he said.

She laughed in high-pitched ripples.