________________________________________________
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 Muncipal 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.
Read next: PART II - BABY'S BATH: CHAPTER III
Read previous: PART II - BABY'S BATH: CHAPTER I
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