Crescendo Read Free

in a blazing rage, so that he could have stamped and shouted and perhaps even—for he was only a boy after all—given out a sob or two, and received comfort from her, it might have been better for him. As it was, by the time he reached home it was too late for that. His anger had turned cold and hard and lay like a bar of iron—yes, just like iron, the psalmist knew what he was talking about—heavy in his entrails; it would never melt again.
    His mother, energetic woman, was standing on tiptoe hanging out the weekly wash on the clothes line stretched across the street, when he arrived. She gazed at him aghast, a clothes peg in one hand, and came down slowly on her heels.
    â€œErnest! What’s matter, love? Are you feeling poorly?”
    Ernest could not speak; he raised the sneck of the door-latch and went into the house. His mother followed him.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, love? It’s not your father happened an accident?” she said in terror.
    â€œNo. I’ve lost my job.”
    â€œLost your job! Why, you’ve hardly getten it.”
    Drily, Ernest related the incident.
    â€œWhatever will your father say!” exclaimed his mother.
    She had perceived at once, what Ernest only now understood, that his father’s position among his fellow-employees had been compromised by the dismissal of his son. His father would lose face, having a son to be ashamed of. It was an added misery.
    â€œWell, never mind, love,” said his mother warmly, putting her arm about Ernest’s shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t take on, now.”
    â€œI won’t,” said Ernest grimly.
    â€œI’ll make you a cup of tea,” said his mother.
    He drank it sitting in his coat, with his elbows on the table, then took up his cap.
    â€œWhere are you going, love?” said his mother. “Stay home a bit with me.”
    â€œI’m going to Labour Exchange,” said Ernest.
    â€œWell,” said his mother, reluctantly conceding the point.
    Luckily those were the good days of the wool textile trade, the post-first-world-war boom days, thought Ernest again—he hadn’t realised at the time just how lucky that was, but by God he had realised it later. He got another job by the end of the week, with a bigger firm which owned several mills in different locations around Ashworth, so that outwardly, you might say, the “sympathetic” incident, as Ernest always called it to himself, hadn’t done much harm. But inwardly it had made a lasting mark. The wound had never healed, but lay there always ready to suppurate. The bitter disappointment, even the in-justice, of the dismissal, might have been endured. The Armleys worked it out among themselves that probably the job given to Ernest was wanted for the son or nephew or friend’s son of some person more important to the firm than Ernest’s father, and this theory seemed strengthened if not absolutely confirmed by the identity of the lad who held it after Ernest. Then why could they not have said so straight out? (By
they
Ernest meant the boss class.) It would have been unjust to sack Ernest thus, but at least open and honest; it could havebeen endured. It was the pretence of sympathy which sick-ened Ernest. Sham! Cant! Humbug! Bunk! Never believe
them
again! Never let
them
take you in by pretending to understand, pretending to be on your side, for it was always lies! Never show a weakness, for
they
would always take advantage! Never! Never again! Never!
    It was from the date of the sympathetic incident that Ernest became the over-earnest glum young man whom Millie joked about. He also became a very staunch, steady Trade Unionist and an admirable workman. He’d show ’em!
    For the next few years there was nothing, certainly, to cheer him. In 1926 came the General Strike. (“Serve ’em right!” thought Ernest with a sombre joy.) In 1931 came the frightful business recession. The