The Long Hill
Bert arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up
the handcart with all the things he had been sent for and started on
the return journey. He got on all right in the town, because the roads
were level and smooth, being paved with wood blocks. If it had only
been like that all the way it would have been easy enough, although he
was a small boy for such a large truck, and such a heavy load. While
the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was the
difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and
himself so short. The pair of steps on the cart of course made it all
the worse in that respect. However, by taking great care he managed to
get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding
with several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an
electric tram, besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was
carrying a large bundle of washing. From time to time he saw other
small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. Some
of these passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and
others with wooden trays full of joints of meat.
Unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the very place where the
ground began to rise. Bert now found himself at the beginning of a long
stretch of macadamized road which rose slightly and persistently
throughout its whole length. Bert had pushed a cart up this road many
times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it.
Experience had taught him that a full frontal attack on this hill was
liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of
making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to
left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking
against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and take
breath. The distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his
powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside—the
lamp-posts, for instance. During each rest he used to look ahead and
select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next stopping-place,
and when he started again he used to make the most strenuous and
desperate efforts to reach it.
Generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually
overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he
ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and
feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure.
On the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon him
that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he
would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road yet!
Selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before resting
again.
The cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the
handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his chest
against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him.
It seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. His whole
body, but especially the thighs and calves of his legs, pained
terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that
he would not give in until he reached the lamp-post.
Finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist, but
that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and
struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating
wildly.
The cart became heavier and heavier. After a while it seemed to the boy
as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back
down the hill. This was such a funny idea that for a moment he felt
inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it came
and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold out
long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all. Clenching his teeth, he
made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three more steps
and then—the cart stopped. He struggled with it despairingly for a few
seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs
felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart
began to move backwards down the hill. He was just able to stick to it
and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the kerb, and then
he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated with
perspiration, and trembling. His legs in particular shook so much that
he felt that unless he could sit down for a little, he would FALL down.
He lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash
out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then,
sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel.
A little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. It
was five minutes to ten by this clock. Bert said to himself that when
it was ten he would make another start.
Whilst he was resting he thought of many things. Just behind that
church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with
other boys to catch effets. If it were not for the cart he would go
across now, to see whether there were any there still. He remembered
that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they
used to be fine old times after all.
Then he thought of the day when his mother took him to Mr Rushton’s
office to “bind” him. He remembered that day very vividly: it was
almost a year ago. How nervous he had been! His hand had trembled so
that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. And even when it was all
over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. His mother had been
very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a lot
and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he
would be good and try to learn. And then he cried as well, and promised
her that he would do his best. He reflected with pride that he was
keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn: in
fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already—he could paint back
doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. Owen had taught him
lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him
so that he might practise copying them at home in the evenings. Owen
was a fine chap. Bert resolved that he would tell him what Crass had
been saying to Easton. Just fancy, the cheek of a rotter like Crass,
trying to get Owen the sack! It would be more like it if Crass was to
be sacked himself, so that Owen could be the foreman.
One minute to ten.
With a heavy heart Bert watched the clock. His legs were still aching
very badly. He could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they
were creeping on all the same. Now, the minute hand was over the edge
of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest for
another five minutes? But he had been such a long time already on his
errand that he dismissed the thought. The minute hand was now upright
and it was time to go on.
Just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said:
“How much longer are you going to sit there?”
Bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by Mr Rushton,
who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the
colossal figure of the obese Sweater, the expression on his greasy
countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such an
appalling example of juvenile depravity.
“What do you mean by sich conduct?” demanded Rushton, indignantly. “The
idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are waiting
for them things?”
Crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply.
“You’ve been there a long time,” continued Rushton, “I’ve been watchin’
you all the time I’ve been comin’ down the road.”
Bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth
and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable
to articulate a single word.
“You know, that’s not the way to get on in life, my boy,” observed
Sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully.
“Get along with you at once!” Rushton said, roughly. “I’m surprised at
yer! The idear! Sitting down in my time!”
This was quite true. Rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at
the audacity of the boy. That anyone in his employment should dare to
have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible.
The boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it up
the hill. It seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get on
somehow. He kept glancing back after Rushton and Sweater, who presently
turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart to the kerb
again to have a breathe. He couldn’t have kept up much further without
a spell even if they had still been watching him, but he didn’t rest
for more than about half a minute this time, because he was afraid they
might be peeping round the corner at him.
After this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or
so at regular short intervals. In this way, he at length reached the
top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that
the journey was practically over.
Just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw Hunter sneak
out and mount his bicycle and ride away. Bert wheeled his cart up to
the front door and began carrying in the things. Whilst thus engaged he
noticed Philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the staircase,
and called out to him:
“Give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, Joe?”
“Certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,” replied Philpot as he
hurried down the stairs.
As they were carrying it in Philpot winked at Bert and whispered:
“Did yer see Pontius Pilate anywheres outside?”
“’E went away on ’is bike just as I come in at the gate.”
“Did ’e? Thank Gord for that! I don’t wish ’im no ’arm,” said Philpot,
fervently, “but I ’opes ’e gets runned over with a motor.”
In this wish Bert entirely concurred, and similar charitable sentiments
were expressed by all the others as soon as they heard that Misery was
gone.
Just before four o’clock that afternoon Bert began to load up the truck
with the venetian blinds, which had been taken down some days
previously.
“I wonder who’ll have the job of paintin’ ’em?” remarked Philpot to
Newman.
“P’raps’s they’ll take a couple of us away from ere.”
“I shouldn’t think so. We’re short-’anded ’ere already. Most likely
they’ll put on a couple of fresh ’ands. There’s a ’ell of a lot of work
in all them blinds, you know: I reckon they’ll ’ave to ’ave three or
four coats, the state they’re in.”
“Yes. No doubt that’s what will be done,” replied Newman, and added
with a mirthless laugh:
“I don’t suppose they’ll have much difficulty in getting a couple of
chaps.”
“No, you’re right, mate. There’s plenty of ’em walkin’ about as a
week’s work would be a Gordsend to.”
“Come to think of it,” continued Newman after a pause, “I believe the
firm used to give all their blind work to old Latham, the venetian
blind maker. Prap’s they’ll give ’im this lot to do.”
“Very likely,” replied Philpot, “I should think ’e can do ’em cheaper
even than us chaps, and that’s all the firm cares about.”
How far their conjectures were fulfilled will appear later.
Shortly after Bert was gone it became so dark that it was necessary to
light the candles, and Philpot remarked that although he hated working
under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up time
came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind.
About five minutes to five, just as they were all putting their things
away for the night, Nimrod suddenly appeared in the house. He had come
hoping to find some of them ready dressed to go home before the proper
time. Having failed in this laudable enterprise, he stood silently by
himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. This was a spacious and
lofty apartment with a large semicircular bay window. Round the ceiling
was a deep cornice. In the semi-darkness the room appeared to be of
even greater proportions than it really was. After standing thinking in
this room for a little while, Hunter turned and strode out to the
kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home. Owen was taking off
his blouse and apron as the other entered. Hunter addressed him with a
malevolent snarl:
“You can call at the office tonight as you go home.”
Owen’s heart seemed to stop beating. All the petty annoyances he had
endured from Hunter rushed into his memory, together with what Easton
had told him that morning. He stood, still and speechless, holding his
apron in his hand and staring at the manager.
“What for?” he ejaculated at length. “What’s the matter?”
“You’ll find out what you’re wanted for when you get there,” returned
Hunter as he went out of the room and away from the house.
When he was gone a dead silence prevailed. The hands ceased their
preparations for departure and looked at each other and at Owen in
astonishment. To stand a man off like that—when the job was not half
finished—and for no apparent reason: and of a Monday, too. It was
unheard of. There was a general chorus of indignation. Harlow and
Philpot especially were very wroth.
“If it comes to that,” Harlow shouted, “they’ve got no bloody right to
do it! We’re entitled to an hour’s notice.”
“Of course we are!” cried Philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with
wrath. “And I should ’ave it too, if it was me. You take my tip, Frank:
CHARGE UP TO SIX O’CLOCK on yer time sheet and get some of your own
back.”
Everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. Everyone, that
is, except Crass and Slyme. But then they were not exactly in the
kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and
so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged
significant looks.
Owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. He collected all
his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with
the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he
resolved not to do so. After all, it was not absolutely certain that he
was going to be “stood off”: possibly they were going to send him on
some other job.
They kept all together—some walking on the pavement and some in the
road—until they got down town, and then separated. Crass, Sawkins,
Bundy and Philpot adjourned to the “Cricketers” for a drink, Newman
went on by himself, Slyme accompanied Easton who had arranged with him
to come that night to see the bedroom, and Owen went in the direction
of the office.