Yes, there was a Mr Blackshaw, and with Mr Blackshaw the tragedy of the
bath commences. Mr Blackshaw was a very important young man. Indeed, it
is within the mark to say that, next to his son, he was the most
important young man in Bursley. For Mr Blackshaw was the manager of the
newly opened Municipal Electricity Works. And the Municipal Electricity
had created more excitement and interest than anything since the 1887
Jubilee, when an ox was roasted whole in the market-place and turned
bad in the process. Had Bursley been a Swiss village, or a French
country town, or a hamlet in Arizona, it would have had its electricity
fifteen years ago, but being only a progressive English Borough, with
an annual value of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, it struggled on
with gas till well into the twentieth century. Its great neighbour
Hanbridge had become acquainted with electricity in the nineteenth
century.
All the principal streets and squares, and every decent shop that
Hanbridge competition had left standing, and many private houses, now
lighted themselves by electricity, and the result was splendid and
glaring and coldly yellow. Mr. Blackshaw developed into the hero of the
hour. People looked at him in the street as though he had been the
discoverer and original maker of electricity. And if the manager of the
gasworks had not already committed murder, it was because the manager
of the gasworks had a right sense of what was due to his position as
vicar's churchwarden at St Peter's Church.
But greatness has its penalties. And the chief penalty of Mr
Blackshaw's greatness was that he could not see Roger have his nightly
bath. It was impossible for Mr Blackshaw to quit his arduous and
responsible post before seven o'clock in the evening. Later on, when
things were going more smoothly, he might be able to get away; but
then, later on, his son's bath would not be so amusing and agreeable as
it then, by all reports, was. The baby was, of course, bathed on
Saturday nights, but Sunday afternoon and evening Mr Blackshaw was
obliged to spend with his invalid mother at Longshaw. It was on the
sole condition of his weekly presence thus in her house that she had
consented not to live with the married pair. And so Mr Blackshaw could
not witness Roger's bath. He adored Roger. He understood Roger. He
weighed, nursed, and fed Roger. He was 'up' in all the newest theories
of infant rearing. In short, Roger was his passion, and he knew
everything of Roger except Roger's bath. And when his wife met him at
the front door of a night at seven-thirty and launched instantly into a
description of the wonders, delights, and excitations of Roger's latest
bath, Mr Blackshaw was ready to tear his hair with disappointment and
frustration.
'I suppose you couldn't put it off for a couple of hours one night,
May?' he suggested at supper on the evening of the particular bath
described above.
'Sidney!' protested Mrs Blackshaw, pained.
Mr Blackshaw felt that he had gone too far, and there was a silence.
'Well!' said Mr Blackshaw at length, 'I have just made up my mind. I'm
going to see that Kid's bath, and, what's more, I'm going to see it
tomorrow. I don't care what happens.'
'But how shall you manage to get away, darling?'
'You will telephone me about a quarter of an hour before you're ready
to begin, and I'll pretend it's something very urgent, and scoot off.'
'Well, that will be lovely, darling!' said Mrs Blackshaw. 'I WOULD like
you to see him in the bath, just once! He looks so--'
And so on.
The next day, Mr Blackshaw, that fearsome autocrat of the Municipal
Electricity Works, was saying to himself all day that at five o'clock
he was going to assist at the spectacle of his wonderful son's bath.
The prospect inspired him. So much so that every hand on the place was
doing its utmost in fear and trembling, and the whole affair was
running with the precision and smoothness of a watch.
From four o'clock onwards, Mr Blackshaw, in the solemn, illuminated
privacy of the managerial office, safe behind glass partitions, could
no more contain his excitement. He hovered in front of the telephone,
waiting for it to ring. Then, at a quarter to five, just when he felt
he couldn't stand it any longer, and was about to ring up his wife
instead of waiting for her to ring him up, he saw a burly shadow behind
the glass door, and gave a desolate sigh. That shadow could only be
thrown by one person, and that person was his Worship the Mayor of
Bursley. His Worship entered the private office with mayoral assurance,
pulling in his wake a stout old lady whom he introduced as his aunt
from Wolverhampton. And he calmly proposed that Mr Blackshaw should
show the mayoral aunt over the new Electricity Works!
Mr Blackshaw was sick of showing people over the Works. Moreover, he
naturally despised the Mayor. All permanent officials of municipalities
thoroughly despise their mayors (up their sleeves). A mayor is here
today and gone tomorrow, whereas a permanent official is permanent. A
mayor knows nothing about anything except his chain and the rules of
debate, and he is, further, a tedious and meddlesome person--in the
opinion of permanent officials.
So Mr Blackshaw's fury at the inept appearance of the Mayor and the
mayoral aunt at this critical juncture may be imagined. The worst of it
was, he didn't know how to refuse the Mayor.
Then the telephone-bell rang.
'Excuse me,' said Mr Blackshaw, with admirably simulated politeness,
going to the instrument. 'Are you there? Who is it?'
'It's me, darling,' came the thin voice of his wife far away at
Bleakridge. 'The water's just getting hot. We're nearly ready. Can you
come now?'
'By Jove! Wait a moment!' exclaimed Mr Blackshaw, and then turning to
his visitors, 'Did you hear that?'
'No,' said the Mayor.
'All those three new dynamos that they've got at the Hanbridge
Electricity Works have just broken down. I knew they would. I told them
they would!'
'Dear, dear!' said the Mayor of Bursley, secretly delighted by this
disaster to a disdainful rival. 'Why! They'll have the town in
darkness. What are they going to do?'
'They want me to go over at once. But, of course, I can't. At least, I
must give myself the pleasure of showing you and this lady over our
Works, first.'
'Nothing of the kind, Mr Blackshaw!' said the Mayor. 'Go at once. Go at
once. If Bursley can be of any assistance to Hanbridge in such a
crisis, I shall be only too pleased. We will come tomorrow, won't we,
auntie?'
Mr Blackshaw addressed the telephone.
'The Mayor is here, with a lady, and I was just about to show them over
the Works, but his Worship insists that I come at once.'
'Certainly,' the Mayor put in pompously.
'Wonders will never cease,' came the thin voice of Mrs Blackshaw
through the telephone. 'It's very nice of the old thing! What's his
lady friend like?'
'Not like anything. Unique!' replied Mr Blackshaw.
'Young?' came the voice.
'Dates from the thirties,' said Mr Blackshaw. 'I'm coming.' And rang
off.
'I didn't know there was any electric machinery as old as that,' said
the mayoral aunt.
'We'll just look about us a bit,' the Mayor remarked. 'Don't lose a
moment, Mr Blackshaw.'
And Mr Blackshaw hurried off, wondering vaguely how he should explain
the lie when it was found out, but not caring much. After all, he could
easily ascribe the episode to the trick of some practical joker.