CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT
"AND Billy arrives by the ten-fifty. No, I don't think I'll wait
here for three hours and then stand a chance of missing him. I'll
get back home and give him a fitting welcome to the new house."
Thus meditated Peter Barcroft as he paced up and down the crowded
up-platform of Barborough Station. He had studied with varying
emotions a poster depicting a flabby, pigeon-toed child with one
hand over that part of the human form known to infants as a "tummy"
and supposed to be ejaculating, "I feel so jolly here." Even that
mild excitement paled, and Mr. Barcroft pined for the congenial
warmth of his study. The platform was cold and draughty, offering no
inducements to linger for the arrival of the sure-to-be belated
"ten-fifty."
Peter Barcroft was a thick-set man of fortyfive. In height he was a
good two inches shorter than his airman son. He was clean shaven.
Had he removed his Norfolk cap it might have been noticed that his
iron-grey hair showed thin on his temples and was conspicuously
absent on the top of his head. His forehead was high, and in
conjunction with two vertical wrinkles extending upwards from the
inner ends of his eyebrows, gave the appearance of a deep thinker.
Otherwise there was little about him to give one the idea that he
was engaged in literary pursuits. According to popular notions he
ought to be wearing shabby clothes of eccentric, out-of-date cut; he
should affect a weird type of soft collar and a flowing tie; his
hair ought to be long and wavy. But Peter Barcroft had none of these
qualifications. To judge him by appearances he was just an ordinary
middle-aged man of powerful physique and retaining many of the
qualities of a bygone athletic age.
He had been living only a fortnight in Lancashire. Why he migrated
from Kent was a mystery to the friends he had left behind. Perhaps
he did not know himself, unless it was surrender to a sudden, almost
eccentric desire for pastures new.
Up to a certain point he possessed the artistic temperament. He
worked only when it suited him, and generally seized every plausible
excuse to "knock off." Yet, when he did settle to his task he wrote
at a tremendous rate, and so vilely that often he was quite unable
to decipher his own caligraphy. In financial matters he was as
careless as a man could possibly be. Rarely he knew the state of his
current account. Trivial matters in everyday life would send him
into a towering rage, while the loss of a couple of hundred pounds
hardly troubled him in the least degree. He would ransack the house
to find a favourite pipe which he had mislaid, or waste half a day
searching in vain for a certain pen which he felt sure he had left
in such-and-such a place. On the other hand, when a valuable and
almost new overcoat was stolen from the hall he just shrugged his
shoulders and soon forgot all about it.
During the fortnight he had been the tenant of Ladybird Fold, Peter
Barcroft had either "sacked" or had been "sacked" by three
housemaids and two cooks, to the consternation and despair of his
wife. The servant problem, probably more acute in the manufacturing
district of Lancashire than anywhere else in the kingdom, was in
this case rendered even more difficult by Peter's display of
irritation at the manifold but trivial delinquencies of his staff of
menials.
Mrs. Barcroft had gone on a visit to a relative in Cheshire on the
strength of a vague report that there was a girl who might be
willing to take the vacant place of housemaid at Ladybird Fold-His
wife's absence for two days had given Peter the excuse to "knock
off." It was one of his avowed peculiarities that he could not write
a stroke unless his wife were with him in the study. So Mr. Barcroft
had gone for a jaunt in his light car.
After the splendidly-surfaced gravelled or tarmac roads of Kent the
greasy granite setts and bumpy slag roads of the north came as an
unpleasant surprise to the easy-going Peter. A couple of punctures
in addition to a slight collision with a "lurry"--a type of vehicle
hitherto known to him as a lorry--did not improve his peace of mind,
while what ought to have been the climax to a day of mishaps was the
sudden failure of the magneto at a desolate spot on the western
slope of the Pennine Hills.
But unruffled Peter pushed the car on to the side of the road and
tramped stolidly into the nearest village--a good three miles. Here,
in an interview with the decrepit motor-engineer (Barcroft guessed
rightly that he was too _passe_ even for munition making), he learnt
that at least a month must elapse before the magneto could be
re-wired. He received the intelligence with equanimity, for in his
pocket was a telegram to the effect that Billy was coming home that
night. Nothing else mattered.
"Which is the Tarleigh train?" enquired Mr. Barcroft of a porter.
"Next one in on this side," replied the man gruffly.
Half a minute later the train rumbled into the station. Mr.
Barcroft, realising that up to the present he had not mastered the
intricate system of train-service of the Lancashire and Yorkshire
Railway, and having had many previous experiences of being
misinformed by surly servants of the various railway companies,
addressed himself to a passenger who was about to enter a carriage.
"Tarleigh? Yes, you're quite right. At any rate, I'm for Blackberry
Cross."
"Thank you," replied Peter.
"Motorist?" enquired the other laconically. "Yes; had a breakdown."
The ice was broken. The studied, almost taciturn reserve of the
typical level-headed Lancashire man was not proof against the claims
of motoring. Before the train glided out of the station the two
passengers were deep in the subject of cars and their peculiarities.
"Dash it all! we seem a long time getting to Two Elms," remarked the
stranger.
He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that moment
the train rumbled under a broad bridge.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between Blackberry
Cross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's a
non-stop to Windyhill."
"Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying your
society. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided I
can get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?"
The stranger laughed.
"I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," he
explained. "Entwistle--Philip Entwistle--is my name. By profession I
am what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting,
and I'm due there at eight."
"'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly.
"It's 7.30 already."
"You'll be all right," continued Entwistle. "There's a train back
from Windyhill at 10.5, You're a stranger to the district?"
"Fairly so," admitted Peter. "I've take Ladybird Fold for three
years."
"Your name doesn't happen to be Norton--Andrew Norton?"
"No," was the reply. "Barcroft's my name. I know Norton. He's a
newcomer. Only been here a week, I believe; and in that time he's
frozen on to me. Kind of companionship in a strange land, so to
speak. He seems a very decent sort; in fact, I rather like him. He's
my nearest neighbour and he lives at least half a mile from Ladybird
Fold."
"What is he?" asked Entwistle. "Independent?"
"So I should imagine. He has plenty of time on his hands, and spends
a good part of it with me, except when I have to choke him off.
He'll be sitting in my study when I get home, for a dead cert.
Already he's made it a practice of looking me up at ten o'clock of
an evening, after I've knocked off. You see," he added
apologetically. "I have to work."
"At what?" enquired his companion, the Lancashire thirst for
knowledge ever in the foreground.
"I am a professional liar," announced Peter with mock gravity.
"A what? Oh, I suppose you mean that you're a lawyer?"
"Heaven forbid!" protested Mr. Barcroft piously. "You misunderstand
me. I am a novelist. Modesty forbids me to give you my _nom de
Plume_. At present, however, I am engaged upon a book of a technical
character dealing with the conduct of the war. Perhaps some of my
theories will be a bit startling when pushed on to the British
Public, but they'll be vindicated."
"Hang it all!" exclaimed Entwistle. "I have heard of you already."
"Have you really?" enquired Peter. Professional vanity--although he
was not afflicted with "swollen head"--made him perhaps justifiably
keen on hearing outside opinions of his literary efforts.
"Yes," continued his companion. "It was the Vicar of Tarleigh. He
was in Wheatcroft's place--down the bottom of Blackberry Hill and
while he was talking to the old man a car came along driven by you.
In it were two sheep dogs barking like fury. I think I am right in
the description?"
Peter nodded appreciatingly.
"Says the vicar, 'And what might that terrific disturbance mean?'
'Eh, parson,' replied Old Wheatcroft, 'tis but that there
novel-writing chap as lives in Ladybird Fold.' So you see they've
got you posted up all right. But here we are," he continued, as the
train came to a standstill. "It's a jolly draughty station to hang
about."
"It is," admitted Barcroft. "But fortunately there's very little
wind. A proper Zeppelin night."
"Suppose so," admitted Entwistle. "You see, we don't worry very much
about those gentry. Now, in Yorkshire, for instance, it would be
otherwise, but we are on the right side of the Pennines. I don't for
one moment think that a Zep. will ever get so far as this."
Peter shrugged his shoulders. On that matter, he preferred to
maintain silence.
Up and down the bleak platform the two men paced until Entwistle,
glancing at his watch in the feeble glimmer of a shaded lamp,
exclaimed--"Twenty-five to eleven. Bless my soul, the time has gone
quickly. That confounded train is late."
Before Barcroft could offer any remark the platform lights were
turned off. Simultaneously, the electric signal lamps ceased to give
forth their red and green warning.
"What's up?" demanded Entwistle. "Failure of the gas works and the
Company's electric light station?"
"Hanged if I know," declared Peter. "It strikes me very forcibly
that we'll have to walk those seven miles. I suppose it means twelve
for you? A taxi, or even a humble four-wheeler is an impossibility
in this forsaken hole."
A man, stumbling across the rails in the darkness, clambered upon
the platform within a yard of the two would-be passengers.
"Sorry, sir," he muttered apologetically.
"What's all this about?" enquired Entwistle. "Why have the lights
gone out? Are there no more trains to-night?"
"No, sir, no more trains yet awhile," replied the porter, for such
he was. "They've just got a warning through. Them swine of Zeps. is
somewheres about."