Gilbert’s kettle of fish had been all lobsters but one: but that didn’t make it any the sweeter.
The next day was Saturday: half-day at school. His one fear was that Mrs Britten would pounce on him. If she did, he would put her off with vague promises and sweetnesses. For he was determined to have done with Haysfall, Whetstone, Woodhouse, Britten-women, Goddard-women, Emmie- women, all his present life and circumstance, all in one smack. Men at some times are masters of their fates, and this was one of Mr Gilbert’s times. The wonder is he did not break his neck at it, or get locked up, for he rode his motor-cycle at many forbidden miles an hour, so anxious he was to get home. He was so anxious to have between his fingers the Lachesis shears of his thread of fate, in the shape of a fountain pen. He could snip off the thread of his Haysfall life in about three strokes — ”I beg to resign my post in Haysfall Technical School, and wish to leave at the very earliest opportunity.” That was all he would say. And he was itching to say it. His motor-cycle fairly jumped over the dark roads from Knarborough to Whetstone.
He arrived, wrote out his resignation, and sat down to think.
In the first place he was clearing out. He was going to Germany, as he had often said he would, to study for his doctorate.
That was settled. But —
And there were rather serious buts.
Criminal correspondence with Emmie had got her into trouble and ruined her life. Did that mean she was going to have a baby? Lord save us, he hoped not. And even if she was, whose baby was it going to be? He felt in no mood at all for fatherhood, but decided, since he was running away, he had better see Emmie again and make it as square with her as possible.
Which meant also going to the Goddards.
And would that damned Mrs Britten fasten on him tomorrow? He knew she would on Monday if not tomorrow. Saturday morning, he knew, she was busier and fuller up than ever, if that were possible. The thing was, to get away without seeing her. Could he clear out after tomorrow morning? Not put in any further appearance at the school after the morrow?
That remained to decide.
Then money. He had no money. He never had any money, though his father said that when he was his age, meaning Gilbert’s, he had saved a hundred and seventy pounds out of thirty shillings a week. Gilbert would have been glad of the hundred and seventy pounds if he’d saved them, but he hadn’t. How was he to clear out with about fifty-five shillings, which was all he had.
He must get something out of his father, that was all. And sell his motor-cycle. Ay, sell his motor-cycle. Leave that also for the morrow. Sufficient unto the day etc.
Of course he’d brought it all on himself. And he didn’t seriously care either. One must bring one thing or another on oneself.
There was his father just come in from having half a pint at the Holly Bush. Down he went. His father was sitting in the many-staved arm-chair, almost a lobster-pot, the throne of the house. Gilbert sat on the sofa opposite. The father began to unfasten his boots.
“Father,” said Gilbert. “I’m chucking Haysfall Technical.”
“Oh ay,” replied his parent.
“I’m thinking of going to Germany.”
“Are you!”
“I’m going to work there for my doctorate.”
“Doctorate? Oh yes.”
“Doctor of Science, you know.”
“Ay! Ay!”
“It would do me a lot of good, you know.”
“It would, would it?”
“I should get a much better job than ever I can get now.”
“Yes — yes.”
“The only thing is funds.”
“Funds. Yes.”
“It’ll cost me a bit at first, only at first.”
“Where? In Germany? Oh yes.”
“Yes.”
“Ay.”
This passionate conversation between father and son was drawing to an inevitable close.
“You don’t see your way to helping me a bit, Dad?”
“Helping you, child! I’m always helping you.”
“Yes, but a bit extra.”
“Nay, how can I help you if you go to foreign parts.”
“By setting me up with a few quid.”
“A few quid. Why — you can stop at home an’ have board an’ lodging for nothing. What’st want to be goin’ to Geermany for!”
“For my doctorate.”
“Doctrat be — hanged.”
“Nay father.”
“Thou’rt doin’ right enough as t’art.”
“No, I’m going to Germany.”
“Tha art?”
“Yes.”
“Oh — all right.”
“You see father, I want a few quid to start off with.”
“Save ‘em then, my boy.”
“I haven’t saved them, Dad, and you have. So you give me a few.”
“Tha does talk.”
“Ay — what else should I do!”
“Save thy wind.”
“Like you save your money?”
“Ay — t’same.”
“And you won’t give me any?”
“Tha’lt get th’ lot when I’m gone.”
“But I don’t want you gone, and I want a little money.”
“Want. Want. What art doin’ wi’ wants? Tha should ha’e th’ fulness, not th’ want.”
“So I should if you’d give it me.”
“Nay, I can niver put th’ fat off my own belly on to thine.”
“I don’t want your fat — I want about fifty pounds.”
“That is my fat.”
“You know it isn’t.”
“I know it is.”
“Won’t you give them me?”
“Tha’lt get all when I’ve gone.”
“I want it now.”
“Ay, me an’ all. I want it now.”
Whereupon Gilbert rose and went upstairs again. His father was a lobster.
The next morning passed without any descent of Mrs Britten. He got on his bicycle and left Haysfall for good, taking his few personal possessions with him from the big red school.
Arriving at Whetstone at one o’clock, he immediately went and bargained with an acquaintance who, he knew, wanted his motor-cycle. The man offered fifteen pounds. The thing was worth a good forty.
“Give me twenty, or I’ll ride it to London and sell it there.”
It was agreed he was to have his twenty, and hand over the cycle the next day, Sunday. So he went home for dinner, did not speak to his father, with whom he was angry, hurried through his meal, and shoved off with his motor-bike again.