HUGO BARRINGTON
1921-1936
20
I wouldn’t even have remembered her name, if she hadn’t later accused me of killing her husband.
It all began when my father insisted I accompany the workers on their annual outing to Weston-super-Mare. ‘Good for their morale to see the chairman’s son taking an interest,’ he said.
I wasn’t convinced, and quite frankly considered the whole exercise a waste of time, but once my father has made up his mind about anything, there is no point arguing. And it would have been a waste of time if Maisie – such a common name – hadn’t come along for the ride. Even I was surprised to find how eager she was to jump into bed with the boss’s son. I assumed that once we were back in Bristol, I’d never hear from her again. Perhaps I wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t married Arthur Clifton.
I was sitting at my desk going over the tender for the Maple Leaf, checking and rechecking the figures, hoping to find some way the company might save a little money, but however hard I tried, the bottom line didn’t make good reading. It didn’t help that it had been my decision to tender for the contract.
My opposite number at Myson had driven a hard bargain, and after several delays I hadn’t budgeted for, we were running five months behind schedule, with penalty clauses that would be triggered should we fail to complete the build by December 15th. What had originally looked like a dream contract that would show a handsome profit, was turning into a nightmare, where we would wake up on December 15th with heavy losses.
My father had been against Barrington’s taking on the contract in the first place and had made his views clear. ‘We should stick to what we’re good at,’ he repeated from the chair at every board meeting. ‘For the past hundred years, Barrington’s Shipping Line has transported goods to and from the far corners of the earth, leaving our rivals in Belfast, Liverpool and Newcastle to build ships.’
I knew I wouldn’t be able to sway him, so I spent my time trying to persuade the younger members of the board that we had missed out on several opportunities in recent years, while others had snapped up lucrative contracts that could easily have come our way. I finally convinced them, by a slim majority, to dip a toe in the water and sign up with Myson to build them a cargo vessel to add to their fast-growing fleet.
‘If we do a good job and deliver the Maple Leaf on time,’ I told the board, ‘more contracts are sure to follow.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t live to regret it,’ was my father’s only comment after he’d lost the vote at the board meeting.
I was already regretting it. Although the Barrington Line was predicting record profits for 1921, it was beginning to look as if its new subsidiary, Barrington Shipbuilding, would be the only red entry on the annual balance sheet. Some members of the board were already distancing themselves from the decision, while reminding everyone that they had voted with my father.
I had only recently been appointed managing director of the company and I could just imagine what was being said behind my back. ‘Chip off the old block’ clearly wasn’t on anyone’s lips. One director had already resigned and couldn’t have made his views more clear when he departed, warning my father, ‘The boy lacks judgement. Be careful he doesn’t end up bankrupting the company.’
But I hadn’t given up. I remained convinced that as long as we finished the job on time, we could still break even, and possibly make a small profit. So much depended on what happened during the next few weeks. I’d already given the order to work round the clock in three eight-hour shifts, and promised the workforce handsome bonuses if they managed to complete the contract on time. After all, there were enough men hanging around outside the gates, desperate for work.
I was just about to tell my secretary I was going home, when he burst into my office unannounced.
He was a short, squat man, with heavy shoulders and bulging muscles, the build of a stevedore. My first thought was to wonder how he had managed to get past Miss Potts, who followed in his wake looking unusually flustered. ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Shall I call the watchman?’
I looked into the man’s eyes and said, ‘No.’
Miss Potts remained by the door while we sized each other up, like a mongoose and a snake, each wondering who would strike first. Then the man reluctantly removed his cap and started jabbering. It was some time before I could understand what he was saying.
‘My best mate’s goin’ to die! Arthur Clifton’s goin’ to die unless you do somethin’ about it.’
I told him to calm down and explain what the problem was, when my works manager came charging into the room.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled by Tancock, sir,’ he said once he’d caught his breath, ‘but I can assure you it’s all under control. Nothin’ for you to worry about.’
‘What is all under control?’ I asked.
‘Tancock here claims that his mate Clifton was workin’ inside the hull when the shift changed, and the new shift somehow managed to seal him inside.’
‘Come and see for yourself!’ shouted Tancock. ‘You can hear him tappin’!’
‘Could that be possible, Haskins?’ I asked.
‘Anything’s possible, sir, but it’s more likely Clifton’s buggered off for the day and is already in the pub.’
‘Then why hasn’t he signed off at the gate?’ demanded Tancock.
‘Nothing unusual in that, sir,’ said Haskins, not looking at him. ‘Signin’ on’s what matters, not signin’ off.’
‘If you don’t come and see for yourself,’ said Tancock, ‘you’ll go to your grave with his blood on your hands.’ This outburst silenced even Haskins.
‘Miss Potts, I’m going down to number one dock,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’
The squat little man ran out of my office without another word.
‘Haskins, join me in my car,’ I said. ‘We can discuss what ought to be done on the way.’
‘Nothin’ needs to be done, sir,’ he insisted. ‘It’s all stuff and nonsense.’
It wasn’t until we were alone in the car that I put it bluntly to my ganger. ‘Is there any chance that Clifton really might be sealed up in the hull?’
‘No chance, sir,’ said Haskins firmly. ‘I’m only sorry to be wastin’ your time.’
‘But the man seems pretty certain,’ I said.
‘Like he’s always certain about what’ll win the three thirty at Chepstow.’
I didn’t laugh.
‘Clifton’s shift ended at six,’ Haskins continued, taking on a more serious tone. ‘He must’ve known that the welders would be moving in and would expect to finish the job before the next shift reported for duty at two in the mornin’.’
‘What was Clifton doing down in the hull in the first place?’
‘Making the final checks before the welders got to work.’
‘Is it possible he didn’t realize his shift had ended?’
‘You can hear the end-of-shift horn in the middle of Bristol,’ said Haskins as we drove past Tancock, who was running like a man possessed.
‘Even if you were deep inside the hull?’
‘I suppose it’s just possible he might not have heard it if he was in the double bottom, but I’ve never come across a docker who didn’t know what time his shift ends.’
‘As long as he has a watch,’ I said, looking to see if Haskins was wearing one. He wasn’t. ‘If Clifton really is still down there, do we have the equipment to get him out?’
‘We’ve got enough acetylene torches to burn through the hull and remove a complete section. Problem is, it’d take hours, and if Clifton’s down there, there wouldn’t be much chance of him still bein’ alive by the time we reached him. On top of that, it would take the men another fortnight, perhaps longer, to replace the whole section. And as you keep remindin’ me, guv, you’ve got everyone on bonuses to save time, not waste it.’
The night shift was well into its second hour by the time I brought my car to a halt by the side of the ship. There must have been over a hundred men on board, working flat out, hammering, welding and sealing in the rivets. As I climbed the gangway, I could see Tancock running towards the ship. When he caught up with me a few moments later he had to bend double, his hands on his thighs, while he recovered.
‘So, what do you expect me to do, Tancock?’ I asked once he’d caught his breath.
‘Stop them all workin’, guv, just for a few minutes, then you’ll hear him tappin’.’
I nodded my approval.
Haskins shrugged his shoulders, clearly unable to believe I would even consider giving such an order. It took him several minutes to get everyone to down tools and for the workers to fall silent. Every man on the ship, as well as the dockside, stood still and listened intently, but other than the occasional squawk from a passing gull or a smoker’s cough, I heard nothing.
‘Like I said, sir, it’s been a waste of everyone’s time,’ said Haskins. ‘By now Clifton will be suppin’ his third pint at the Pig and Whistle.’
Someone dropped a hammer, and the sound echoed around the docks. Then for a moment, just a moment, I thought I heard a different sound, regular and soft.
‘That’s him!’ shouted Tancock.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped.
‘Did anyone else hear anything?’ I shouted.
‘I didn’t hear nothin’,’ said Haskins, looking around at the men, almost daring them to defy him.
Some of them stared back at him, while one or two picked up their hammers menacingly, as if they were waiting for someone to lead them over the top.
I felt like a captain who was being given one last chance to quell a mutiny. Either way I couldn’t win. If I told the men to go back to work, the rumours would spread until every man in the dockyard believed I was personally responsible for Clifton’s death. It would be weeks, months, possibly even years before I could recover my authority. But if I gave the order to break open the hull, any hope of making a profit on the contract would be scuppered, and with it my chances of ever becoming chairman of the board. I just stood there, hoping the continued silence would convince the men that Tancock was wrong. As each second of silence passed, my confidence grew.
‘It seems no one heard nothin’, sir,’ Haskins said a few moments later. ‘Can I have your permission to put the men back to work?’
They didn’t move a muscle, just continued to glare defiantly at me. Haskins stared back at them, and one or two eventually lowered their eyes.
I turned to the ganger and gave the order to get back to work. In the moment’s silence that followed, I could have sworn I heard a tap. I glanced at Tancock, but then the sound was drowned out by a thousand other noises as the men went resentfully back to work.
‘Tancock, why don’t you bugger off down the pub and see if your mate’s there,’ said Haskins. ‘And when you find him, give him a tickin’ off for wastin’ everybody’s time.’
‘And if he isn’t,’ I said, ‘call by his house and ask his wife if she’s seen him.’ I realized my mistake the moment I’d spoken, and quickly added, ‘That is, assuming he has a wife.’
‘Yes, guv, he does,’ said Tancock. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘If you still can’t find him, report back to me.’
‘It’ll be too late by then,’ said Tancock as he turned and walked off, his shoulders slumped.
‘I’ll be in my office should you need me, Haskins,’ I said, before walking down the gangway. I drove back to Barrington House, hoping never to see Tancock again.
I returned to my desk, but was unable to concentrate on the letters Miss Potts had left for me to sign. I could still hear that tapping in my head, repeating itself again and again, like a popular melody that plays continually in your mind and even stops you from sleeping. I knew that if Clifton didn’t report for work the next morning, I would never be rid of it.
During the next hour, I began to feel more confident that Tancock must have found his mate and would now be regretting making such a fool of himself.
It was one of the rare occasions when Miss Potts left the office before me, and I was just locking the top drawer of my desk before going home, when I heard footsteps running up the stairs. It could only be one man.
I looked up, and the man I’d hoped never to see again was standing in the doorway, pent-up fury blazing in his eyes.
‘You killed my best mate, you bastard,’ he said, shaking a fist. ‘You may as well have murdered him with your bare hands!’
‘Now, steady on, Tancock, old chap,’ I said. ‘For all we know, Clifton may still be alive.’
‘He’s gone to his grave just so you could finish your bloody job on time. No man will ever sail on that ship once they find out the truth.’
‘Men die in shipbuilding accidents every day,’ I said lamely.
Tancock took a pace towards me. He was so angry that for a moment I thought he was going to hit me, but he just stood there, feet apart, fists clenched, glaring at me. ‘When I’ve told the police what I know, you’ll have to admit you could’ve saved his life with a single word. But because you were only interested in how much money you would make, I’m going to make sure that no man on these docks will ever work for you again.’
I knew if the police did become involved, half of Bristol would think Clifton was still inside that hull and the union would demand it was opened up. If that happened, I wasn’t in any doubt what they’d find.
I rose slowly from my chair and walked across to the safe on the far side of the room. I entered the code, turned the key, pulled open the door and extracted a thick white envelope before returning to my desk. I picked up a silver letter opener, slit open the envelope and took out a five-pound note. I even wondered whether Tancock had ever seen one before. I placed it on the blotting pad in front of him and watched his piggy eyes grow larger by the second.
‘Nothing is going to bring back your friend,’ I said, placing a second note on top of the first. His eyes never left the money. ‘And anyway, who knows, he might just have done a bunk for a few days. That wouldn’t be considered unusual in his line of work.’ I placed a third note on top of the second. ‘And when he comes back, your mates will never let you forget it.’ A fourth note was followed by a fifth. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be charged with wasting the police’s time, would you? That’s a serious offence for which you can go to jail.’ Two more notes. ‘And of course you’d also lose your job.’ He looked up at me, his anger visibly turning to fear. Three more notes. ‘I could hardly be expected to employ a man who was accusing me of murder.’ I placed the last two notes on top of the pile. The envelope was empty.
Tancock turned away. I took out my wallet and added one more five-pound note, three pounds and ten shillings to the pile: ￡68 10s in all. His eyes returned to the notes. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from,’ I said, hoping I sounded convincing.
Tancock walked slowly towards my desk and, without looking at me, gathered up the notes, stuffed them into his pocket and left without a word.
I went to the window and watched as he walked out of the building and headed slowly for the dock gate.
I left the safe wide open, scattered some of its contents on the floor, dropped the empty envelope on my desk and left my office without locking up. I was the last person to leave the building.