‘Jonathan,’ said morcar, as on the day of the General Election the two drove to the polling station together, to record their votes on differing sides, ‘I wish you would explain to Chuff that I cannot, I absolutely cannot, attend his grandmother’s funeral tomorrow. I should despise myself if I did. My - wife - did me two very grievous wrongs, one of which involved my son, Chuff’s father. She ruined my life, and Cecil had no happiness till he escaped from her to Africa. It wouldn’t be decent for me to go into all this with Chuff, but I should be glad if you would give him a word of explanation on my behalf.’
‘Can’t you forgive her even now when she’s dead?’ said Jonathan gravely.
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jonathan as before.
‘Of course it would look better if I attended the funeral.’ said Morcar. ‘But I’m not one who cares much for looks.’
‘No. Is it true, though, that she’s appointed you as her sole executor?’
‘Yes, it’s true.’ (Confound her impertinence, added Morcar to himself.)
‘I think that’s rather pathetic,’ said Jonathan mildly. ‘Shall you accept?’
‘I don’t see how I can refuse,’ growled Morcar. ‘There’s nobody else to do it. Chuff’s legally too young. By the way, you might tell Chuff: I’ve been in touch with her lawyers and she’s left him all her property, house, and savings, and so on. Nothing to anybody else. Chuff will get a formal notice presently. He’ll get about two thousand pounds, I dare say.’
‘I didn’t know she had any property of her own.’ said Jonathan, surprised.
‘She hadn’t. But the house was in her name - I put it in her name.’
‘In reality, she had nothing but what you gave her.’
‘That is so.’
‘It seems odd that she should bother to save.’ said Jonathan.
‘She did it to annoy me,’ said Morcar angrily.
Jonathan sighed and parked the car outside the Sunday School polling booth.
The borough of Annotsfield had been a Liberal stronghold since Mr Gladstone’s time and even in these latter twentieth century days had maintained the same political colour. Morcar as always voted Liberal, though he felt little enthusiasm for the Liberal party as at present constituted; Jonathan, exercising his vote for the first time in his life, joyously voted Labour. As they emerged into the October sunlight together, having performed this simple, secret, and powerful rite, Morcar remarked cheerfully:
‘If Chuff were a little older we should have had one vote for each party from Stanney Royd, I think.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we should,’ said Jonathan gravely. ‘Chuff is a born Tory. Though how he reconciles that with his admiration for modern manners and customs, is a perplexing question.’
‘He likes the pleasant parts of both ways of thought,’ Morcar decided, but refrained from uttering.
Next morning, the early election results having given indications of a close electoral contest, there was a good deal of excitement in everyone’s mind and a general disinclination to settle to work. Morcar however worked if anything rather harder than usual. He drove to Old Mill and to Daisy, had a useful row with his cropping foreman and dictated half a dozen letters to Ruth. Glancing up from this occupation in search of a word, he chanced to see the hands of the electric clock in his office click to twelve noon; it struck him with a sobering effect that this was the hour of Winnie’s funeral. At this very moment her body was being lowered into the grave. He made an effort and finished his letters, put through a phone call or two, looked at some figures; but when the time was after one o’clock and the funeral must be over, on his way down to lunch at the Club in Annotsfield he turned aside to the cemetery.
It was easy to find the new grave by its very rawness. He stood looking down at its rather sparse covering of flowers. There was a handsome wreath of bronze chrysanthemums from her loving grandson Chuff, a cross of white carnations from her grand-daughter Susie (‘I hope that child isn’t going to turn religious,’ thought Morcar), a pleasing cushion of pink and purple asters from Mrs Nathaniel Armitage and Jonathan Oldroyd (‘nice of them,’ thought Morcar), a neat circle of dry purple statice from Mrs Mellor and family (‘suitably inexpensive,’ thought Morcar with a grimace), and one or two small sincere tributes from women, evidently Winnie’s friends or neighbours. Of course - he might have known it, why had he been such a fool as to come, thought Morcar angrily - the idea of Winnie lying there, the names of her father and mother on the gravestone now laid to one side - for heaven’s sake, there was even a tribute to Charles John Shaw, killed in action, Neuve Chapelle, 1915 - all this started him off as usual. He saw his childhood, Mr Shaw’s dingy mill, the quarrel about the false weights, his employent with the Oldroyd’s, the trenches, the shell-hole, Charlie’s death, Winnie announcing their engagement, the child, that darling baby Cecil lying in his shawl on Morcar’s arm, the awful shock of Winnie’s lie depriving him of fatherhood - all the frightful miseries of his life rolled through his mind, crushing it into agony. That pert, perverse, twisted girl who in addition to that frightful lie had for so long declined to divorce him or give him evidence for divorce, kept him from remarriage until it was too late - well, it was all over now, thought Morcar with relief. She was dead. No doubt her life had been wretched too. Well, of course it had. Could he pity her? Jonathan thought he ought to do so. He tried. Well, yes; Winnie herself, poor maimed spirit, he could pity and forgive. But her actions! The careless cruelty, the joyously barbed taunt, the gleeful revenge - no, those he could not condone.
Well, it was over now.
He flung away to the Club and took a double whisky with his lunch.
At Stanney Royd that evening Jonathan turned on the television set and sat watching keenly for the election results.
‘I’m tired, I think I’ll go up to my room,’ said Morcar after a while.
‘Shall I turn this off? Would you prefer it to be off?’ said Jonathan anxiously.
‘No, no. Keep it on by all means.’
‘Well, it is rather exciting,’ said Jonathan. His eyes were positively starry with enthusiasm, for indeed the two main parties were running neck and neck. (The Liberals seemed to be doing even worse than usual.)
‘Come up and tell me the Annotsfield result,’ said Morcar kindly.
A few hours later Jonathan knocked at his door.
‘Labour is in with an overall majority of four,’ he said.
His manner was decorous and he was obviously trying to keep the rejoicing out of his voice in deference to Morcar’s opinions, but his eyes glowed with happiness.
‘Well, I hope they won’t regard that as a mandate for all kinds of wild-cat schemes,’ said Morcar grumpily.
‘We shall, Uncle Harry!’ cried Jonathan in a sparkle of friendly defiance so youthful that Morcar could not but smile.
‘How about Annotsfield, then?’ he asked.
Jonathan sobered.
‘Labour gain,’ he said.
The effect on Morcar was all that Jonathan had feared; his colour seemed to fade still further and his vitality to dim. Annotsfield not represented by a Liberal! He thought of the great days when the British Liberal Party, enlightened, progressive, generous, was the wonder and almost the ruler of the world. Everything seemed to be crumbling about him. The whole world looked strange. If he had not been Harry Morcar, a tough solid stubborn Yorkshireman, he told himself firmly, he would really have felt quite daunted.
‘Well, goodnight, Jonathan,’ he said.
He wanted the boy to leave him quickly, for he needed to lie back in his pillows, and could not yield to such an expression of weakness while Jonathan was in the room.
‘Goodnight, Uncle Harry,’ said Jonathan, closing the door behind him.