The Stars Look Down

ONE

The twenty-fifth of November 1918 and a bright and sunny day. The headgear of the Neptune lay bathed in a clear brightness, the outlines of the headstocks softened, the pulleys whirling in a sparkling iridescence. Puffs of woolly steam broke from the engine house and hung like little halos above the shaft.

As Arthur Barras walked briskly down Cowpen Street he saw the clear brightness upon the pit and the iridescent pulleys and the puffs of smoke which hung like halos. He felt the radiance of the day flooding the Neptune and the future and himself. He smiled.

Unbelievable that he should be happy again, that the fixed and sinister influence of the pit should be dissolved, changed, transmuted into something wonderful and fine. How he had doubted and feared and suffered during these war years, yes, how he had suffered! He had felt his life ruined. But now the future was before him, clear and shining, the result of all his suffering, the reward.

He walked through open gates and crossed the asphalt yard with an alert step. He was well but quietly dressed in a grey tweed suit, wing collar, blue and white bow tie. Though he looked older than his age of twenty-six his expression held a queer eagerness.

Armstrong and Hudspeth were waiting for him in the office, both standing. He nodded to them, hung up his hat behind the door, smoothed his fine fair hair, already thin on the top, and took his place at the desk.

“It’s all settled, then,” he said. “Bannerman completed the final papers yesterday.”

Armstrong cleared his throat.

“I’m sure I’m very pleased,” he said obsequiously. “And I wish you every success, sir. I don’t see why not. We’ve done pretty well at the Neptune in the past.”

“Nothing to what we’re going to do in the future, Armstrong.”

“Yes, sir.” Armstrong paused, stealing a quick glance at Arthur.

A short silence followed, then Arthur sat back in his chair.

“I want to say one or two things, so that we can start off with everything clearly understood. You’ve been used to my father giving orders down here and now that he’s laid up you’ve got to get used to me. That’s the first change, but it’s only the first. We’ll have other changes and plenty of them. It’s the right time for changes. The war’s over and there’s going to be no more war. Whatever our difference of principles during the war we’re all agreed about the peace. We’ve got peace and we’re going to keep it. We’ve stopped destroying; thank God, we’re going to start reconstructing for a change. That’s exactly what we’re going to do here. We’re going to have a safe pit with no possible chance of another disaster. Do you understand? A safe pit. There’s going to be fair play for everybody. And to show that I mean it—” he broke off. “How much have you been getting, Armstrong? Four hundred, isn’t it?”

Armstrong coloured and let his eyes drop.

“Yes, that’s the figure,” he said. “If you think it’s too much…”

“And you, Hudspeth?” Arthur asked.

Hudspeth gave his short stolid laugh.

“I’ve been standin’ at two-fifty these last three years,” he said. “I never seem to move up, nohow.”

“Well, you’re up now,” Arthur said. “You’ll take five hundred, Armstrong, as from the first of last month, and you three-fifty, Hudspeth, as from the same date.”

Armstrong’s flush deepened. He stammered gratefully:

“That’s uncommon handsome of you, I must say.”

“Ay, it is that,” Hudspeth added, his dull eyes bright at last.

“That’s settled, then.” Arthur got up briskly. “Both of you stand by this morning. I have Mr. Todd of Tynecastle coming at eleven. We shall want to make a complete inspection. You understand?”

“Why certainly, Mr. Barras.” Armstrong nodded effusively and went out with Hudspeth. Arthur remained alone in the office. He crossed to the window and stood there for a moment watching the sunny pit yard: men crossing and recrossing, tubs moving down the track, an engine shunting perkily. His eye dilated, exulting to the emotion within him. He thought, I haven’t suffered for nothing. I’ll show them now. It’s my chance at last.

He returned to his desk, sat down and took a file of bills and invoices from the top left drawer. These invoices were not new to him, he had most of them by heart, but they had not ceased to shock him. Bad timber, cheap bricks, weak props, dud roofing bars, odd lots and job-lots bought anywhere so long as it was cheap. Material on costs cut to the vanishing point. A subtle skating behind the regulations at every turn — even the spare winding cable was ten years old and had been bought second hand at a bankrupt sale. His father’s work; all his father’s work; all work which he must rectify.

He was still sitting at his desk, working and figuring, when Saul Pickings, seventy-four, and still going strong, poked his head round the door and announced Adam Todd. Arthur jumped up at once and shook hands with Todd, genuinely glad to see him. Todd had changed very little, still taciturn and vaguely seedy and yellow about the eyes, still smelling of cloves. He sat down beside the desk in answer to Arthur’s invitation; he had no personality or presence; he was just there.

A short silence; then Arthur slid the file across to Todd.

“Take a look at these.”

Todd took a look at them, wetting his forefinger, slow and exact.

“There’s been a few bargains,” he said at length.

“Bargains,” Arthur said. “It isn’t a case of bargains. That stuff is junk.”

Old man Todd did not speak, but Arthur saw that he agreed and, lowering his voice carefully, Arthur said:

“Look here, Mr. Todd, I’m going to be quite frank with you. After all you know everything. You warned my father. But you don’t have to warn me. I’m out to put things right at last. I’m going to make the Neptune safe!”

“Yes, Arthur,” said old man Todd with his yellow eyes fixed on the desk. “You’re empowered, I suppose?”

“Bannerman has seen to everything. I’ve sworn the affidavit, I’m in control,” Arthur said, his voice low and burning. “You’re coming round with me this morning. And you’re coming inbye. You’re going to make suggestions to me as you did to my father. The difference Is that I’m going to take them.”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“I’m going to replace this junk. I’m going to take out every rotten prop in this rotten pit, burn the timber, strip the brickwork. I’m going to steel girder the new road, cement the roof, put in new haulage.”

“That’ll cost you a lot of money.”

“Money!” Arthur gave a short laugh. “Money has been pouring into this pit during the war… like the water that poured into it at the disaster. I’m going to spend some of that money, all of it if need be. I’m going to make a new Neptune. I’m not just stopping at safety. I’m going to show how to get real good out of the men. I’m putting in pit-head baths, drying rooms, locker rooms, everything.”

“Yes, Arthur,” said Todd, “I see.”

Arthur rose abruptly:

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go.”

They went round the pit bank, engine house and pump room. Then they went inbye. Accompanied by Armstrong and Hudspeth they made a complete inspection above surface and below. They talked and discussed and tested. Arthur had his way every time and his way was the best way.

It was one o’clock when they came back to the office and Todd looked a little tired. At his own suggestion he had a slight refreshment and after the refreshment he looked less tired. Chewing a clove, he figured for a long time with his pencil on a pad. At last he looked up.

“Do you know round about what this is going to cost?” he inquired slowly.

“No,” Arthur spoke indifferently.

“Something in the neighbourhood of one hundred thousand pounds,” Todd said.

“That shows how rotten we were!” Arthur clenched his fist in a sudden access of feeling. “We can stand that outlay. I don’t care if it was double. I’ve got to do it.”

“Yes, Arthur,” old man Todd said again. “Mind you, we’ll have a bit of difficulty in getting the stuff. All the plant works have been out of production during the war and it’s only the wise ones that have converted back already.” He hesitated. “I did hear they’d restarted in Platt Lane though.”

“At Millington’s?”

“Millington’s that was,” Todd sighed. “You know Stanley has sold out to Mawson and Gowlan.” He placed the papers in his bag and closed it gently, without acrimony.

Arthur took Todd’s arm. “You’re tired.” He smiled, his sensitive, charming smile. “You need some lunch. We’re expecting you at the Law. Hilda’s home. And Grace and Dan are staying for a day or two. You must come.”

They drove up to the Law through the warm sunshine and Todd, reflecting in the warm sunshine, felt less his usual pessimism: it was a fine thing Arthur was doing, a very fine thing, the like of which his father would not have done. This made him meditate:

“It’s odd, you know, not seeing your father at the Neptune, Arthur.”

Arthur shook his head decisively. “He’ll never be there again, I’m afraid.” Then quickly: “Mind you, he’s better really, a great deal better. He may go on for years, Dr. Lewis says. But the right side is quite paralysed. And the speech, that has suffered. Something has severed, a line of nerve fibres in the brain. To be quite frank, Todd, he’s not quite… not quite right in his head.” There was a silence, then Arthur added in a low voice: “My only hope is that he may go on long enough to see the end of what I’m doing at the Neptune.”

A sudden warmth came over Todd: the day, the whisky and a real admiration for Arthur’s purpose.

“By God, Arthur,” he said, “I hope he does see it.”

They entered the Law with this spirit of cheerfulness and enthusiasm between them. It was half-past one and lunch-time. They went straight into the dining-room, where they all sat in together: Arthur at the head of the table, Aunt Carrie at the foot, Todd and Hilda on one side, Grace and Dan on the other.

Everyone was cheerful, a note of optimism vibrated in the air, the ecstasy, the miracle of this new enduring peace. Todd reflected that he had never in all his life seen such a cheerful table at the Law. There was, of course, the sense of something missing. The real presence was not there, the presence was hidden upstairs, speechless and paralysed, yet, even in absence, strangely significant.

Todd wondered for a moment. He turned to Hilda:

“You’re looking after your father, I suppose, Hilda? Your nursing experience will be useful.”

Hilda shook her head.

“Aunt Carrie is the nurse.”

Arthur’s new buoyant laugh rang out.

“You’ll never guess what Hilda’s up to. She’s going in for medicine. She goes up to London next month.”

“Medicine!” Todd echoed. He concealed his amazement under a preoccupation with his mutton.

“Hilda’s very pleased,” Arthur said. He was in extraordinary spirits. He darted a smile towards Dan, “That’s what makes her so agreeable to us all.”

Dan reddened, conscious of Hilda’s chilly tolerance, and of his own rather awkward position at the Law. He had come only to please Grace; even now he felt Grace’s hand seeking his hand under the table. He gave a warm and reassuring pressure to Grace’s hand, thinking of Grace and the baby upstairs and the future and not minding a bit that Hilda should snub him. He glanced up, still rather red, to find Todd’s eye upon him.

“You’ll be starting in at the Neptune again now the war’s over?” Todd said.

Dan swallowed a piece of potato the wrong way.

“No,” he said. “I’m going farming.”

Grace spoke up, squeezing Dan’s hand under the table:

“I won’t let Dan go back to the pit, Mr. Todd. We’re going down to Sussex. We’ve bought a little place there at Winrush. We bought it with Dan’s gratuity,” she added swiftly.

“They’re a stubborn pair,” Arthur explained. “I’ve done my level best to make Dan see I want him in with me at the pit. But they’ll have none of it. Independent as the devil — won’t take a penny either. All Grace’s doing of course. Grace found Winrush so successful for babies she’s trying it on with chickens and piglets.”

Grace said, quite untroubled:

“You must come and see us, Mr. Todd, I’m going to take paying guests.”

Todd gave Grace his rare, quiet smile, marvelling at her enthusiasm, her resolution. He thought it strange and fine and rather pathetic. It made him feel very old.

Here Aunt Carrie rose, with her head inclined, and noiselessly slipped out. There was no Harriet now, but another invalid to see to. Aunt Carrie’s dexterity in turning dirty linen and removing chamber pots was still required at the Law — but in another and more sacred cause.

The recognition of that stricken figure, helpless and imprisoned in his room, brought a sudden silence upon the table. Lunch broke up quickly. Arthur took Todd’s arm, escorting him to the car which would carry him to the station. Todd had decided not to go up and see Barras — it might upset him, he wisely observed. For a moment Arthur and Todd stood beside the car.

“I’ll let you know about that equipment then,” Todd paused. “It’s a fine thing you’re doing, Arthur. You’ll have a model pit if you go ahead with it.”

The words thrilled in Arthur’s ears: a model pit!

“That’s what I’ve dreamed about,” he said in a low voice. “A model pit.”

There was a silence, then Todd shook hands and got into the car, which drove off, leaving Arthur standing in the drive. Instinctively he lifted his eyes towards the sky. The sun shone upon him, the world embraced him with its warmth, the awful past was buried and forgotten. He had arisen, miraculously, and his ideal lay before him. Oh, glorious resurrection!

He went upstairs slowly, happily, to make the daily visit which he paid his father. He entered the room and advanced towards the bed.

Barras lay upon his back, a flaccid hulk, inert and helpless and immobile. His right hand was contracted, the fingers of a purplish deadness. One side of his face was stiff and a little trickle of saliva ran down the furrow of his right cheek. He seemed wholly inanimate; only his eyes were alive, rolling towards Arthur as Arthur came into the room with a pitiful and almost animal recognition.

Arthur sat down beside the bed. All the hatred and bitterness he had felt for his father were dead. He felt a calm patience now. He began to talk to his father, to explain to his father a little of what was happening. The doctor had said this might assist his faculties. And, indeed, Arthur could see that Barras understood.

He went on speaking patiently, watching these dull, rolling eyes, the eyes of a pinioned beast. Then he stopped. He saw that his father was trying to speak. A word tried to get through those sealed lips. There were two words really, but the flaccid lips refused to let them through. Arthur bent down to listen to the words but the words would not come. He could not hear them. Not yet.

TWO

At six o’clock on the evening of Saturday, December 17th, the glorious peace brought David back again. The instant the train drew into Tynecastle Central he jumped out and hurried down the platform, looking expectantly towards the barrier, eager and excited for the sight of Jenny and Robert. The first person he saw was Sally Sunley. He waved; he saw that they had got his wire all right, and she waved back in a careful way. But he hardly noticed; he was busy explaining his voucher to the ticket collector. At last he was through, breathless, smiling.

“Hello, Sally! Where’s all the family?”

Under the vigour of his welcome she smiled too — but In that same difficult manner.

“It’s fine to see you back, David. I want to speak to you for a minute. How late your train was! I’ve been waiting so long I must have a cup of coffee.”

“Well,” he smiled, “if you want coffee let’s hurry along to Scottswood Road.”

“No,” Sally said. “I must have it now. Come in here.”

Uncomprehendingly, he followed her into the refreshment room. Sally bought two cups of coffee at the counter and carried them over to one of the round cold marble-topped tables. David watched her. He protested:

“I don’t want any coffee, Sally. I’ve just had tea on the train.”

She did not appear to hear him. She sat down at the table, which was ringed with wet where somebody had lifted and laid a dripping beer glass. He sat down too, bewildered.

She said:

“I want to talk to you, David.”

“Well, yes, but can’t we talk when we get there?”

“It isn’t convenient.” She took up her spoon and stirred her coffee but she did not drink the coffee. Her eyes remained fixed upon his — there was a tragic pity in these eyes but he did not see it. As he gazed at her heavy unattractive face, with its high cheek-bones and rather full chin, he began to feel that something was wrong with Sally.

She drank her coffee very slowly: she seemed to want to spin out her coffee; but at last she had nearly finished. And struggling with his impatience he reached for his haversack.

“Let’s get along, then! Do you realise it’s nine months since my last leave. I’m dying to see Jenny and the baby. How is the kid — Robert, my boy?”

She lifted her dark eyes to his once more with sudden decision.

“David, it wasn’t really Jenny’s fault.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t because she was doing war-work or anything like that.” She paused. “You knew the baby was never very strong, David. I want you to understand it wasn’t really Jenny’s fault.”

He sat looking at her in the smoky refreshment room across the wet-ringed marble-topped table. Outside there came a noise of people cheering, welcoming the brave boys back. An engine shrieked derisively.

He did not have to say a single word. He knew why Sally was gazing at him that way. He understood that, although he had looked forward to seeing him so much, he would not see Robert after all.

While, low-voiced, she told him about it — an attack of enteritis in August, a bare two days’ illness, Jenny’s dread of letting him know — he listened in silence, gritting his teeth together. In the war he had at least learned to keep himself under control. When she had finished he remained curiously still for quite a long time.

“You won’t be hard on Jenny,” she pleaded. “She asked me specially…”

“No, I won’t say anything.” He rose, flung his pack over his shoulder and held the door open for her. They walked out of the station and along Scottswood Road. Outside No. 117 she halted.

“I’ll not come in now, David. I’ve got something to do.”

He stood looking after her, as she went on along the street, conscious, through the pain ringing in his heart, of her kindness in meeting him. What a decent little soul Sally was! Perhaps she knew he hadn’t wanted Jenny to take that job at Wirtley, to bring Robert from the clean sea air of Sleescale, to this congested city district. He swung away from the thought. Forcing the darkness from his face he went into the house.

Jenny was alone in the living-room, curled up on the old horsehair sofa, with her shoes off, penitentially caressing her small silk-stockinged toes. The sight of Jenny paying this familiar tribute to her crushed toes touched a throbbing chord of memory. From the doorway he said:

“Jenny!”

She looked up with a gasp, then held out her arms emotionally.

“Oh, David,” she cried. “At last!”

He walked over slowly. In a kind of paroxysm she flung her arms round him and, burrowing her cheek into his coat, she began to weep:

“Don’t look at me like that, oh, don’t be cross with me, David dear. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t really. He was running about, the poor little mite, and I was at work, and I never thought to get the doctor, and then his sweet little face all seemed to shrink and he didn’t know me, and then — oh, David, how I suffered when the angels took him, oh dear, oh dear…”

Sobbing pitifully, she expatiated on the misery she had endured, unconsciously disclosing the details of the death of her unwanted child. He listened, with a set face, in silence. Then, with a little rush, she cried:

“My heart would really be broken if you wasn’t back, David. Oh, it’s so wonderful. You don’t know how — oh dear, oh dear — all these months — say you understand, David, please, please, it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t bear it, I’ve suffered so much.” A big gulp. “But everything’s all right now that you’re back, my big brave man back from the war. Oh, I haven’t been able to sleep or eat—”

He soothed her as best he could. Then, while she sobbed on the sofa, detailing her sufferings, her agonies at the loss of Robert, her pitiful waiting for his return, a cushion slid to the floor, disclosing a large box of chocolates, half finished, and a snappy magazine. Still trying to quieten her he silently replaced the cushion.

She lifted her head at last, a smile breaking through her tears.

“You are glad to be back to me? Say you are, David?”

“Yes, it’s glorious to be back, Jenny.” He paused. “The war’s over and we’re going to start straight away and get down to a new beginning.”

“Oh, we will, David,” she agreed, with a little quaver in her voice. “I want to. Oh, you’re the best husband that ever was! You’re going to take your B.A. and be a headmaster in no time.”

“No, Jenny,” he said queerly. “No more teaching. That’s a blind alley. Finished. I should have chucked it long ago.”

“What then, David?” she asked almost tearfully. There were new lines round David’s eyes and a new hardness about his face which almost startled Jenny.

“Harry Nugent has given me a letter to Heddon at the Federation Offices in Tynecastle. It’s pretty well a certainty my getting a job there, Jenny. It won’t be much, to be sure; clerical work for a start, but it will be a start. It’s the beginning, Jenny.” A passionate eagerness crept into the flatness of his voice. “This is going to be the real thing at last.”

“But, David…”

“Oh, I know the money will be small,” he interposed. “Two pounds a week if I’m lucky. But it’ll be enough for us to get along on. You’ll start out for Sleescale to-morrow, Jenny dear, and open up the house while I go over and fix things with Heddon.”

“But, David,” she gasped again in dismay. “Two pounds a week and I’ve… I’ve been earning four.”

He gazed at her fixedly.

“The money doesn’t matter a hang, Jenny. I’m not out for money. There’s no compromise this time.”

“But couldn’t I—” she pleaded, twiddling in the old way with the lapel of his tunic. “Couldn’t I just go on with my job a little longer, David; it’s such good money?”

His lips drew together firmly and his brows drew down:

“Jenny darling,” he said quietly, “we must understand each other once and for all—”

“Oh, but we do understand each other, David,” she gulped with sudden meekness, once again pressing her head into his coat. “And oh, you know I do love you!”

“And I love you, Jenny,” he said slowly. “So we pack up and leave for Sleescale and our own home to-morrow.”

“Yes, David.”

He stared straight ahead as though into the future.

“I’ve got real work to do this time. Harry Nugent’s my friend. I start in with the Federation and I stand for the Town Council, see! If I make good…”

“Oh yes, David… the Town Council, that would be wonderful, David”—lifting moist, admiring eyes.

Already, she saw herself a town-councillor’s wife. A pleased look came into her face and instinctively she smoothed her dress. She really was tastefully, quite beautifully dressed: a heavy silk jumper, smart skirt tight to the hips, a couple of rather pretty rings. Her attractiveness was beyond doubt. Perhaps she had been working a little too hard lately. Under the faint layer of powder on her cheeks he saw just the finest little threading of reddish veins. It was like a bloom, a queer exotic bloom under the powder, almost pretty.

She looked up at him, head on one side, her full lips parted, conscious of her charm.

“Well?” she inquired. “Do you still like me?” She gave a little suggestive smile. “Pa and ma have gone down to Whitley Bay. Sally got them tickets for the entertainers there. They won’t be in till late.”

Abruptly, he got up and moved towards the window, where he stood staring out into the yard. He did not answer.

Jenny’s lip drooped. She had to admit to herself that David had changed in some subtle way; he was harder, more resistant and sure, his old boyish stubbornness turned to a firm determination.

Later, when Alfred and Ada came in she saw the change in David more plainly. David was perfectly pleasant about it, yet he established the fact beyond doubt, in the face of Ada’s aggrieved air, that Jenny and he were leaving for their own home in Lamb Lane on the following day.

And Jenny, if she had hoped to do so, could not shake him from his resolution. Next morning she departed for Sleescale by the nine forty-five train while David set out to have his interview with Heddon.

The local offices of the Federation were in Rudd Street quite near to Central Station: two simple rooms, an outer office where a grey-haired man with the blue pitted face and hands of the old miner was standing filing cards at a big cabinet, and a small inner room marked Private. There was no linoleum or carpet, merely the bare and very dusty boards; nothing on the walls but a couple of charts and a map of the district, and a notice Don’t spit on the floor. When Tom Heddon came out of his inner office he took a short pipe from his mouth and, though his intention was towards the empty fireplace, he disobeyed the notice immediately.

“So you’re Fenwick,” he said. “I remember you before the war at the Inquiry. I knew your father too.” He shook hands with a quick grip and waved away David’s letter of introduction. “Harry Nugent wrote me himself,” he added sourly. “Don’t show me that unless there money in it.”

He gave David a dour smile. He was a dour man, Tom Heddon, a short black fiery man with a shock of thick black hair and thick black eyebrows and a sallow dirty skin. He had a tremendous vitality. He sweated, spat and swore. He had a ferocious capacity for food, drink, work and profanity. His favourite was “bloddy.” He was a grand stump speaker, full of clichés and a terrific gift of repartee. He had very little brain, a trifling defect which had kept him, a disappointed man, at the local branch in Sleescale for fifteen years. He would never go further and he knew it. He did not wash very often. He looked as though he slept in his underwear. In fact, he did.

“So you’ve been out with Harry in the bloddy war?” Heddon inquired sarcastically. “Don’t tell me how you liked it. Come back and crook your hough.”

They went back into the little office. They talked. It was true that Heddon had lost his clerk in the war — combed out by the bloddy Derby Scheme and shot through the bloddy head at Sampreux Wood. He would give David a try out to oblige Harry Nugent. It all depended on David — he would have to step lively to deal with Claims, Benefit and Correspondence at one and the same time. Moreover, David had overestimated the salary, which would be a bare thirty-five shillings a week.

“You’ll get to know my style,” grunted Heddon. “Here have a look at this.”

With a show of indifference, he opened a drawer and tossed over a newspaper to David — a labour paper—The Weekly Worker—some years old. On one of the yellowish sheets, bearing the indefinable staleness of treasured print, an article was marked in blue pencil.

“That’s me,” Heddon said. “Go on, read it. I wrote the bloddy thing.”

While Heddon pretended not to watch him, David read the article. It was headed Courts and Courts, and it had a certain savage pungency. It contrasted the court held in Buckingham Palace with another court — Bloggs Court — which the writer knew. The wording was clumsy and brutal but the contrasts were violently effective. “Young Lady de Fallington wore a dress of white satin and a train embroidered with sequins. A string of priceless pearls adorned her patrician neck and her feathers were held in place by a band of diamanté”; and immediately below: “Old Mrs. Slaney is a charwoman. She wears no feathers but a bit of old sacking shaped like a skirt. She lives in one room in Bloggs Buildings, earns twelve shillings a week and has consumption.”

David read the article through, carried away despite himself by its earnestness and vigour. The article epitomised Heddon, sincere, fanatical, imbued with a savage class hatred.

“It’s good,” David said at length and he meant it.

Heddon smiled, touched in his weakest spot, acknowledging David as a friend. He took back the article and replaced it carefully in a drawer. He said:

“That shows what I think of them. I hate them, the whole bloddy lot. I’ve got my knife in a few of them round about here. I make them dance to my tune all right. Take your bloddy Sleescale, for instance. We’re going to have a bit of fun down there, one of these days soon.”

David looked interested.

“Ay,” Heddon said grimly, “you just watch what I’m telling you. Old Barras has got knocked out and the son thinks he’s goin’ to run the show. He’s spreading hisself on pithead baths and the usual hygienic eyewash, spending some of the money his old man bled out the men, dodging the excess profits, see, an’ the super tax, makin’ us believe a bloddy new Jerusalem is rising out of the Neptune. But you wait, just you wait, we haven’t forgotten what they done to us at the disaster. They got out of that too easy. I been waiting on the war to finish so as I could get after them. They’re goin’ to sit up and know some more about it before I’m bloddy well finished with them!” Heddon broke off suddenly, staring in front of him. For a minute he looked hard and dark and grim. Then he relit his pipe which had gone out, pulled a tray of unanswered correspondence towards him. “Start Monday, then,” he said to David, terminating the interview with a dreadful jocosity. “Go on! Don’t keep your Rolls waiting outside any longer or the footman will be handing in his bloddy notice.”

David caught the next train for Sleescale and in the train he turned over his plans deeply and seriously in his mind. The first step in the course he had mapped out for himself had been taken. It was not a thrilling step, but an obscure and very humble rebeginning. It had nothing to commend it except its necessity — not the necessity of money, but the necessity of purpose. His purpose lay clearly defined before him; he had made up his mind that there must be no half measures; it was all or nothing now.

He found Jenny in the middle of re-opening the house, taken out of herself by the novelty of the occasion, intermingling little thrills of discovery with little ejaculations of dismay.

“Look, David, I’d forgotten all about these lovely china candlesticks.” Then: “Oh, goodness! will you look at the way the cake stand has peeled and after the way the young man swore to me it was pure nickel-plated,” and “I am a house-proud little wife, amn’t I, David dear?”

David took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves and began to move furniture. Then he took bath brick and paraffin and went down on his knees and had it out with the rusty grate. He did a bit of quiet floor scrubbing, and afterwards weeded the overgrown little patch Jenny had once sweetly promised would be a garden. He helped in this way until three o’clock when they had a scratch meal. Then he had a wash, tidied himself up and went out.

It was very wonderful to be back in his own town again with the filth and misery and horror of the war behind him. He walked slowly down Lamb Street, feeling the life of Sleescale re-enfold him, seeing the black headstocks above him, above the town and the harbour and the sea. On his way towards the Terraces several of the men stopped him and shook hands with him and congratulated him on getting back safe. Their friendliness warmed David’s heart, encouraged the hope which burned there.

He went first to his mother’s and spent an hour with her. Sammy’s death had left its mark on Martha, and the knowledge of his marriage had affected her most strangely. For Martha ignored Sammy’s marriage; she blotted it completely from her consciousness. The whole town knew of Sammy’s marriage: Annie’s boy was eleven months old now and christened in the name of Samuel Fenwick. But for Martha the marriage was not; she walled herself in against it and hugged the delusion that Sammy had never belonged to anyone but her.

It was five o’clock when David left his mother and went along Inkerman to Harry Ogle’s house. Harry Ogle was the eldest of the Ogle sons, brother of Bob Ogle who lost his life in the disaster, a man of forty-five who had followed and admired Robert Fenwick in his time, a pale wiry man with a curiously husky and ineffectual voice. But though he had no voice Harry had a reputation amongst the men for “a headpiece”; he was Lodge secretary, treasurer of the medical aid and labour member of the Sleescale Town Council.

Harry Ogle was glad to see David and after they had exchanged their news in the little back kitchen David leaned forward intently in his chair.

“Harry! I’ve come to ask you to do something for me. I want you to help me to get nominated for the Council Election next month.”

Harry seldom asked questions and never showed surprise. But now he was silent for a longish time.

“The nomination is easy enough, David, but I’m feared you’d never have a chance. Murchison would be up against you in your ward. He’s been in ten years running.”

“I know! And he goes to one meeting in six.”

David’s reply seemed to amuse Harry.

“Maybe that’s what keeps him in.”

“I want to try, Harry,” David said, something of his old impetuousness breaking through. “There’s no harm in trying.”

Another silence fell.

“Well,” Harry said. “Seeing you’re so set on it… I’ll do what I can.”

David went home that night feeling, deep within himself, that he had taken the second step. He said nothing to Jenny until, ten days later, his nomination was actually secured. Then he told her.

The Council — David standing for the Council! Oh, Jenny was wildly excited, why hadn’t he told her before? — she had thought he was only kidding when he talked that night at Scottswood Road; why, it was wonderful, simply wonderful, David dear!

Delightedly, Jenny flung herself into the campaign. She went canvassing, sewed herself a beautiful “favour,” made “little suggestions”—Clarry had a boy friend in the motor line who might lend them a car, she would herself accompany him round the division in the car, or why shouldn’t the manager of the new Picturedrome be persuaded to “flash something about David on the screen”? In every window of the house she stuck a bill head, VOTE FOR FENWICK, in bright red letters. These bill heads sent Jenny into an ecstasy; she would go out and gaze upon them several times a day.

“Why, David, you’re going to be famous at last!” she declared airily; and she did not understand why this remark made David close his lips unhappily and turn away.

Naturally, she took it for granted that David would get “in,” she visualised in advance little tea parties with the wives of his fellow councillors, she saw herself calling upon Mrs. Ramage at the big new Ramage house on the top of Sluice Dene, she felt vaguely that something would come out of all this for their real advancement. There was no money in the Town Council, really, but it might lead to something, she reasoned brightly. She did not understand. She was physically incapable of understanding the motive behind David’s action.

The day of the election arrived. David, in his heart, was dubious of his prospects. His name was a good name in Sleescale, his father had died in the pit, his brother had died in the war and he himself had served at the front for three years. There was a useful romantic flavour — which he despised — in his returning from the war to stand for the Council. But he was untried and inexperienced, and Murchison had a way of extending credit in his shop about election time, a habit of slipping a box of scented soap or a tin of sardines into the baskets of his customers, which was not good for Murchison’s opponent. On the afternoon of that Saturday, as he walked up the town, David met Annie coming down from New Bethel Street School where the polling was taking place. Annie stopped.

“I’ve just been up voting for you,” she said quite simply. “I made sure I’d get finished up in time.”

A real glow came over David at the way Annie said it, at the thought that she had troubled to go up and vote for him.

“Thanks, Annie.”

They stood opposite each other in silence. Annie never had much to say, no confidences, no rapturous certainty in his success, but he could feel her good wishes coming out towards him. He felt suddenly that he had a great deal to say to her. He wanted to console her about Sammy; to ask about her boy; he had an uncontrollable impulse to speak to her about Robert. But the noisy, crowded street deterred him. Instead, he said:

“I’ll never get in.”

“Well,” she said with her faint smile. “You might and you mightn’t, Davey. And there’s nothing like having a shot at it.” Then, nodding in her own style, she went back home to see to her baby.

It struck David after his meeting with Annie how wisely and encouragingly she had summed up his chances. When the results were declared he had beaten Murchison by a bare forty-seven votes. But he was in.

Jenny, a little dashed at the slenderness of the margin, was nevertheless enchanted that David should be elected.

“Didn’t I tell you!” She began to look forward to the first meeting of the new Council with as much sprightliness as if she were the new member herself.

David had hardly the same gaiety. David, with access to minutes and records and agenda, had been inquiring into the petty turmoil of local politics, discovering the usual brew of social, religious and personal interests, the ubiquitous policy of “you do this for me and I’ll do that for you.” Ramage, of course, was the dominant factor. Ramage had run the Council for the last four years. From the start David saw clearly that Ramage was the man he would be up against.

On the evening of November 2nd the new Council met: Ramage in the chair. The others were Harry Ogle, David, the Rev. Enoch Low of Bethel Street Chapel, Strother, head master of the school, Bates the draper, Connolly of the Gas Company and Rutter the clerk. At the start an exchange of bluff greetings took place in the ante-room between Ramage, Bates and Connolly; there was loud laughter and back slapping and jovial small-talk, while the Rev. Low, just out of earshot of the lewder jokes, was deferential to Connolly and obsequious to Ramage. No one took any notice of David and Harry Ogle. But as they moved into the council chamber Ramage gave David one cold look.

“I’m sorry our old friend Murchison isn’t with us,” he remarked in his loud blustering voice. “It don’t seem proper like with a stranger here.”

“Don’t worry, lad,” Harry whispered to David, “you’ll soon get used to his line of gab.”

They sat down and Rutter began to read the minutes of the last meeting of the old Council. He read quickly in a dry, sing-song, uninterested voice, then almost without stopping and in the same voice he announced:

“The first business is the passing of the meat and clothing contracts. I suppose, gentlemen, you wish to regard them as passed.”

“That’s right,” yawned Ramage. He sat back in his chair at the head of the table, his big red face directed towards the ceiling, his hands belted round his enormous paunch.

“Ay, they’re passed,” Bates agreed, twiddling his thumbs and staring hard at the table.

“Passed, gentlemen,” said Rutter and he reached for the minute book.

David interposed quietly.

“Just a minute, please!”

There was a silence, a very odd silence.

“I haven’t seen these contracts,” David remarked in a perfectly calm and reasonable voice.

“You don’t have to see them,” Ramage sneered. “They’re passed by a majority.”

“Oh!” exclaimed David in a tone of surprise. “I wasn’t aware that we had voted.”

Rutter the clerk had turned solemn and uncomfortable, examining the nib of his pen, as if it had made a most surprising blot. He realised that David was looking at him and he had at last to meet that inquiring eye.

“May I see the contracts?” David asked. He knew all about the contracts; he wished merely to delay the entry in the minute book. These contracts were a long-standing scandal in Sleescale. The clothing contract was not important: it related to the supplying of uniforms to the sanitary inspector, health visitor and sundry local officials, and though Bates the draper took a scandalous profit on the transaction the amount involved was not material. But the meat contract was different. The meat contract, which gave Ramage the contract to supply all meat for the local hospital, was an iniquity in the face of God and man. The prices charged were for the best meat: Ramage supplied shin, neck and buff.

David took the meat contract from Rutter’s nervous fingers. David examined the meat contract: the amount was large, the total came to £300. Deliberately he protracted his examination of the blue-grey document, holding up the meeting, feeling their eyes upon him.

“Is this a competitive contract?” he inquired at length.

Unable to hold himself in any longer Ramage leaned forward across the table, his red face malignant with indignation and rage.

“I’ve had that contract for over fifteen years. Have ye any objections?”

David looked across at Ramage: it had come, the first moment, the first test. He felt composed, master of himself. He said coolly:

“I imagine there are a number of people who object.”

“The hell you do!” Ramage flared.

“Mr. Ramage, Mr. Ramage,” bleated the Rev. Low sympathetically. In and out of the Council Low always toadied to Ramage, his pet parishioner, the man who had laid the foundation-stone of the Bethel Street Chapel, the golden calf amongst his thin-fleeced flock. And now he turned to David, peevishly reproving.

“You are new here, Mr. — er — Fenwick. You are a little over-zealous perhaps. You forget that these contracts are advertised for.”

David answered:

“One quarter of an inch stuffed away in the local paper. An advertisement that nobody ever sees.”

“Why should they see it?” Ramage bawled from the end of the table. “And why the hell should you go shovin’ in your neck? The contract’s been mine for fifteen year now. And nobody’s never said a blasted word.”

“Except the people who eat your rotten meat,” David said in a level voice.

There was a dead silence. Harry Ogle darted an alarmed glance at David. Rutter the clerk was pale with fright. Ramage, bloated with fury, thumped his big fist on the table.

“That’s slander,” he shouted. “There’s a law against that sort of thing. Bates, Rutter, you’re all witnesses — he’s slandered me!”

Rutter lifted his meek face protestingly. The Rev. Low prepared to bleat. But Ramage bawled again:

“He’s got to take it back, he’s got to bloody well take it back.”

Rutter said:

“I must ask you to withdraw, Mr. Fenwick.”

A strange ardour suffused David. Without removing his eyes from Ramage’s face he felt in his inside pocket and pulled out a packet of papers. He said:

“I need not withdraw if I can prove my statement. I have taken the trouble to collect my evidence. I have here signed statements from fifteen patients in the Cottage Hospital, from the three nurses and from the matron herself. These are the people who eat your meat, Mr. Ramage, and in the words of the matron it isn’t fit for a dog. Let me read them to you, gentlemen. Mr. Ramage may regard them in the light of testimonials.”

In a mortal stillness David read out the testimonials to Ramage’s meat. Tough, full of gristle and sometimes tainted: these were the recommendations of the meat. Jane Lowry, one of the ward maids in the hospital, testified that she had suffered severe colic after eating a piece of rank mutton. Nurse Gibbings at the hospital had contracted an internal parasite which could only have come from polluted meat.

The air was petrified when David finished. As he folded his papers calmly, he could see Harry Ogle beside him, his face working with a grim delight, Ramage opposite, apoplectic with hate and fury.

“It’s a pack of lies,” Ramage stuttered at last. “The meat I supply is prime.”

Ogle spoke up for the first time.

“Then God help prime meat,” he growled.

The Rev. Low raised a pearly, propitiating hand. He bleated:

“Perhaps some bad pieces, once in a while; we can never be sure.”

Harry Ogle muttered:

“Fifteen years it’s been going on — that’s your blessed once in a while.”

Connolly thrust his hands in his pockets impatiently.

“What a song about nothing! Take a vote.” He knew the way to settle the thing for good and all. He repeated loudly: “Vote on it.”

“They’ll beat you, David,” said Harry Ogle in a feverish undertone. Bates, Connolly, Ramage and Low always hung together in their mutual self-interests.

David turned to the Rev. Low.

“I appeal to you as a minister of the gospel. Do you want these sick people in the hospital to go on eating inferior meat?”

The Rev. Low flushed weakly and a look of obstinacy came in his face.

“I am yet to be convinced.”

David relinquished the Rev. Low. He fastened his eye upon Ramage again. He said slowly;

“Let me make it quite clear. If this meeting refuses to sanction a new and adequate advertisement asking for tenders for meat I shall forward these statements to the County Medical Officer of Health and ask for a complete investigation of the entire question.”

A duel ensued between the eyes of Ramage and David. But Ramage’s eyes fell first. He was afraid. He had been swindling the Council for the past fifteen years, selling bad meat and selling underweight; he was afraid, horribly afraid of what an inquiry might reveal. Damn him, he thought, I’ll have to climb down this time, damn the rotten interfering swine. I’ll get even with him one day if it kills me. Aloud, he said in a surly voice:

“There’s no need to vote. Advertise and be damned. My tender’ll be as good as the rest.”

A glorious wave of triumph swept over David. I’ve won, he thought, I’ve won. The first step on the long road had been taken. He could do it. And he would.

The business of the meeting proceeded.

THREE

But, alas, the results of David’s election to the Town Council proved sadly disappointing to Jenny. Jenny’s ardours were invariably so sprightly that the afterglow was always a little tarnished at the edges. And Jenny’s enthusiasm for the election went up like a rocket, burst with a beautiful display of stars and then fizzled out.

She had hoped for social advancement through the election, in particular she longed to “know” Mrs. Ramage. The afternoon tea parties which Mrs. Ramage gave were the haut ton of Sleescale: Mrs. Strother, the head master’s wife, was usually there, and Mrs. Armstrong, and Mrs. Dr. Proctor and Mrs. Bates the draper’s wife. Now if Mrs. Bates, why not Mrs. Fenwick? — that was the question which Jenny asked herself with quite a breathless eagerness. They often had music at these tea parties, and who could sing more nicely than Jenny? Passing By was such a beautiful song — quite classical in a manner of speaking: Jenny burned to sing that song before all the ladies of Sleescale in Mrs. Ramage’s elegant drawing-room in the big new red sandstone house on Sluice Dene. Oh dear, oh dear, chafed Jenny, if only I could get in with Mrs. Ramage.

But no recognition came from Mrs. Ramage, not even the faintest shadow of a cross-street bow. And then, at the beginning of December a dreadful incident occurred. One Tuesday afternoon Jenny went into Bates’s shop to buy a short length of muslin — Cousin Mayrianne writing in Mab’s Journal had just hinted that muslin would soon be the dernier cri for smart women’s undies — and there, at the counter of the drapery, examining some fine lace, stood Mrs. Ramage. Caught in this unguarded situation she looked quite amiable, did Mrs. Ramage. She was a big hard-boned bleakfaced woman who gave the queer impression of having been knocked about a bit and of having stood up to it with remarkable determination. But on this afternoon, fingering the pieces of lace, she had less determination and more pleasantness in her face. And as Jenny edged close to Mrs. Ramage and thought of both their husbands on the same council, so to speak, Jenny’s social aspirations went completely to her head. She came right forward beside the counter and, smiling in her best company manner to Mrs. Ramage and showing all her nice teeth, Jenny said prettily:

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ramage. Isn’t it a beautiful afternoon for the time of year?”

Mrs. Ramage turned slowly. She looked at Jenny. The horrible thing was that she recognised Jenny, then ceased to recognise her. For, in one deadly second, her face closed up like an oyster. She said very patronisingly and formally:

“I don’t think we’ve met before.”

But poor Jenny, flustered and misguided, rushed on to her doom.

“I’m Mrs. Fenwick,” she murmured. “My husband is on the Town Council with your husband, Mrs. Ramage.”

Mrs. Ramage looked Jenny up and down cruelly:

“Oh, that,” she said, and raising the shoulder nearest Jenny she went back to the lace, saying in the sweetest manner to Bates’ young lady assistant:

“I think after all I’ll have the most expensive piece, my dear, and of course you’ll send it and charge it to my account.”

Jenny blushed scarlet. She could have died with shame. Such an affront, and before the nice young lady in the millinery! She spun round and fled from the shop.

That evening she whimpered out her story to David. He listened with a set face, his lips drawn into a fine line, then he said patiently:

“You can hardly expect the woman to fall on your bosom, Jenny, when Ramage and I are at each other’s throats. In these last three months I’ve blocked his rotten meat contract. I’m trying to hold up the grant of £500 he was calmly asking the town to whack out on the new road past his new house in Sluice Dene. A new road useless for everybody but him! At the last meeting I suggested he was contravening six different regulations in his filthy private slaughter-house. You can imagine he doesn’t exactly love me!”

She gazed at him resentfully, with scalding tears in her eyes.

“Why must you go against people like that?” she sobbed. “You’re so queer. It would have been so useful for you to be on the right side of Mr. Ramage. I want you to get on.”

He answered compassionately:

“But Jenny dear, I’ve told you getting on in that particular sense doesn’t exist for me now. Perhaps I am queer. But I’ve been through some queer experiences in these last years. The pit disaster — and the war! Don’t you think, Jenny, that it’s high time some of us set ourselves to fight the abuses that produce disasters like the Neptune disaster and wars like the last war?”

“But, David,” she wailed with unanswerable logic, “you’re only getting thirty-five shillings a week!”

His breast heaved suddenly. He stopped arguing, gave her a quiet look, then rose and went into the other room.

This impressed her with the sense of his neglect, and the hot tears of self-pity trickled afresh. Then she brooded, became sulky and ill-tempered. David was different, completely different; her cajoling went for nothing, she seemed to have no grip upon him at all. She tried with a certain pique to make him passionate towards her, but in that way too he had turned curiously austere. She could feel that the physical side of love, unsupported by tenderness, was repugnant to him. She felt it as an insult. She could feel passionate in a minute, come right out of a violent quarrel to be violently passionate, to want a quick and urgent satisfaction — she called it modestly “making things up.” But not David. It was, she told herself, unnatural!

Jenny, of course, was not the one, in her own phrase, “to stand being slighted,” and she got her own back in many ways. She completely relaxed her efforts to please: David began to come home at nights to an out fire and no supper at all. The fact that he never complained now and never quarrelled exasperated her worst of all. On these nights she tried everything she knew to provoke him to a quarrel and when she failed she started to taunt him:

“Do you know that I was earning four pounds a week during the war? — that’s more than twice what you’re earning now!”

“I’m not in this job for the money, Jenny.”

“I don’t care for money and you know it. I’m not mean. I’m generous. Remember the suit I gave you to go on our honeymoon. Oh, that was a scream that was! — me giving you your trousseau like. Even in those days you hadn’t no gumption. I wouldn’t call myself a man at all if I couldn’t bring home decent money at the end of the week.”

“We all have our standards, Jenny.”

“Of course,” with supreme spitefulness, “I could get a position any time I wanted. I went through the paper this morning and there was half a dozen posts I could have applied for easy. Why! I could get to be a buyer in the millinery any day.”

“Be patient, Jenny! Perhaps I’m not going to be such a dud as you imagine.”

If Jenny had grasped the situation she might, by construing it to her own standards, have been reconciled to patience. David was proving a success with Heddon — he accompanied him to all the Lodge meetings in the district and he was usually asked to speak. At Seghill he had addressed fifteen hundred men in the local Institute over the question of the Southport Resolutions. Heddon had been fogged by the findings of the January Conference and he had allowed David to handle the whole affair. The speech was a triumph for David: lucid, vital and alive with a passionate sincerity. At the end of the meeting, as he came off the platform, he was surrounded by a mass of men, who, to his amazement, wanted to shake him by the hand. Old Jack Briggs, seventy-six, beer- and case-hardened, the doyen of Seghill, pumped his arm till it ached.

“By Gor,” croaked old Jack in the dialect, “tha wor a bloddy gud speech, lad. Aw’ve heerd mony a one but aw diddent niver hear better nor tha. Ye’ll go fawr, hinny!”

And Heddon echoed that historic sentiment. The incredible fact stood established that Heddon, a bitter and unlettered man, was not jealous of David. Heddon had few friends, his violent nature repulsed all but the most persevering of his acquaintances, but from the first Heddon had taken to David. Heddon saw in David a rare and disinterested spirit and he knew so much of the dross of humanity that despite himself Heddon came to love David. He felt instinctively, here is a man who has found his natural bent, a born speaker, unruffled, penetrating and sincere, a clever and passionately earnest man, a man who might do much for his fellow men. And it was as if Heddon had said fiercely to himself: for God’s sake don’t let me be bitter and mean and envious but let me do my damnedest to help him on!

It was Heddon who read with delight the reports of the Sleescale Town Council meetings which were finding their way into the Tynecastle papers. The Tynecastle papers had discovered David, and his attacks upon the excellent and well-established abuses of Sleescale were manna to them in a dull season. From time to time the Tynecastle papers gaily captioned David and his doings: “Rumpus in Sleescale Council Chamber,” and “Sleescale Trouble Maker at Work Again!”

Heddon dissolved in bitter laughter over the report of David’s repartees. Peering over the paper’s edge:

“Did ye really say that to the ucker, David?”

“Nothing like so good, Tom!”

“I’d have liked to see that Ramage’s face when ye told him his bloddy slaughter-house wasn’t fit to kill pigs in!”

David’s inveterate modesty helped him all the more with Tom Heddon. If he had displayed the first signs of swelled head he would have killed himself stone dead with Heddon. But he did not, which made Tom cut out the choicest columns from the Tynecastle Argue and forward them to his old friend Harry Nugent with a significant blue pencil scrawl.

Jenny knew nothing of all this. And Jenny was not patient, construing David’s absorption into neglect and being maddened by that supposed neglect. Jenny was so mad she had an excellent excuse for finding vicarious consolation in Murchison’s invalid port. By the spring of 1919 Jenny was drinking regularly again. And about this time, an event of considerable psychological importance occurred.

On Sunday the 5th of May old Charley Gowlan died. Charley had been ill for six months with Bright’s disease and finally, despite repeated tappings of his shiny, swollen abdomen, Charley went to God. It was a grim paradox that Charley, who had never cared for water much, should be water-logged at the end. But paradox or no, Charley did die, in mean, neglected circumstances. And two days later Joe arrived in Sleescale.

Joe’s coming to Sleescale fell nothing short of a sensation. He came on the morning of that Tuesday in a glittering Sunbeam motor-car, a new twenty-five green Sunbeam driven by a man in dark green uniform. Immediately Joe stepped out of the car at his old home in Alma Terrace the car was surrounded by a gaping crowd. Harry Ogle, Jake Wicks, the new checkweigher, and a few of the Neptune overmen were at the house — it was almost time for the funeral — and although rumours of Joe’s prosperity had reached the Terraces they were frankly dazzled by the change in Joe. Indeed, Frank Walmsley, who had once been his chargeman, straightaway addressed his as sir. Joe was discreetly but handsomely dressed, he wore spats, his cuff links were of dull gold and his watch-chain of fine platinum. He was shaved and manicured and polished. He shone with a bluff and enterprising opulence.

Harry shifted his feet awkwardly before Joe’s opulence, struggling with the memory of that young Joe who had been hand-putter in the Paradise.

“I’m glad you’ve come like, Joe, we clubbed together, a few of us officials, to get the money like, we diddent want your dad to have a guardian’s funeral.”

“Good God, Harry,” Joe blew up dramatically. “Are you talking about the workhouse? D’you mean to say it was as bad as that?”

His eye swept round the low, dirty kitchen where he had once licked pot pie from the blade of his knife, and fell upon the wretched black coffin where the dropsical corpse of his father lay.

“My God,” he raved, “why didn’t somebody tell me? Why didn’t you write to me? You all know me, where I am, and what I am. Is this a Christian country or what is it? You ought to be damned well ashamed of yourselves, letting the poor old man conk out in this way. Too much trouble I suppose to even ’phone me at my works…”

He was equally affected at the funeral. At the graveside he broke down and blubbered into a big silk handkerchief. Everyone agreed it did him the greatest credit. And he drove straight from the cemetery to Pickings in Lamb Street and ordered a magnificent headstone.

“Send the bill to me, Tom,” he declared eloquently. “Expense is no object!” Later, Tom did send the bill: he sent the bill a great many times.

After the funeral Joe made a short sentimental tour of the town, evincing all the successful man’s emotion at visiting his old haunts. He impressed Harry Ogle with the need for getting him a photograph of the house in Alma Terrace. Joe wanted a photograph, a big enlarged photograph; he must have a photograph of the humble home where he was born. Let Harry get Blair the photographer to do it and send the bill and the photograph to Joe!

Towards the end of the day, about six o’clock, Joe dropped in to see his old friend David. The news of Joe’s visit to Sleescale had preceded him, and Jenny, besides informing David, had prepared lavishly and excitedly for Joe.

But Joe declined Jenny’s hospitality point blank; he had a dinner engagement at the Central, Tynecastle. Jenny flinched; but she persevered. Then Joe took one calm and competent look at Jenny, up and down, like that, and Jenny saw that it was no go now — no go at all. The gladness went right out of her eye, the coquettishness vanished and she sat silent — quivering and envious.

Yet she was all ears, and, hanging on every word of Joe’s account of himself, she could not help comparing the two men and what they had achieved: the glittering success of Joe, and the dismal failure of David.

Joe spoke very openly — there was always a magnificent frankness about Joe. It was clear he had regarded the end of the war as premature — it hadn’t been such a bad old war after all. Yet things were looking great even now. Pulling out his gold cigarette case Joe lit up, breathed a Turkish aroma down his nostrils, then, leaning forward, tapped David confidentially on the knee.

“You knew we’d bought out Millington at the foundry — Jim Mawson and me. God, I’m sorry for poor Stanley. He’s living down at Bournemouth for good now, him and the wife, he couldn’t get out Platt Lane quick enough. A nice chap, mind you, but no stability at all. He’s a wreck, they tell me, a nervous wreck. Oh well, maybe it was the best thing that could happen to him, us taking the works off his hands; he got a price too, oh yes, he got a price.” Joe paused, inhaled cigarette smoke and smiled guilelessly at David. His bragging had acquired subtlety now, he covered it with a bland indifference. “You knew we’d got the order for the new Neptune equipment? What? Yes, sure enough, we turned over again the minute the war went west. While all the mugs sat on their dumps of whizz-bang castings and wondered what was happenin’ we got back to tools and shackle bolts and roofing-bars and haulage. You see,” Joe became more confidential, more expansive than ever, “while the war was on it was all production at the collieries; not a red one of them had time to recondition their plant, even supposin’ they could get the equipment — an’ they couldn’t. Now Jim and me figured it out they’d be yellin’ for stuff when peace came on, and there wouldn’t be nobody to answer the yell, except maybe the early birds like Jim and me.” Joe sighed gently. “Well, that’s how we got the Neptune order. Ah-ha, fifty thousands pounds of stuff we’ll sell them at the Neptune before the year’s out.”

The tremendous, the almost fabulous sum, fifty thousand pounds, resounded in the small room filled with pinchbeck furniture and the smoke of Joe’s Turkish cigarette and almost burst poor Jenny’s eardrums. To think that Joe was handling such colossal business! She shrank down into her seat, consumed with envy.

Joe saw the effect he was creating, the famished stare in Jenny’s eyes, the cold hostility in David’s, and it all went a little to his head. With patronising fluency he ran on.

“Mind you, although we’re busy at the works — Mawson and Gowlan I ought to say, it’s a good name, don’t you think? — Excuse me, I can’t help being a bit struck on the firm. Well, as I was sayin’, Jim and me has all sorts of side lines. Take this, for instance. You’ve heard of the Disposals Board. No?” Joe shook his head regretfully. “Well, you surely ought to have heard of that. You might have made a bit of money if you’d heard of that, although, mind you, there’s got to be capital behind you to do anything. You see the Government, more power to them, has bought and ordered and commandeered a whole pack of things they don’t need now, everything from gum elastic boots to a fleet of merchant ships. An’ seein’ the Government don’t need these things naturally the Government wants to be rid of them!” Joe, loyal subject of the Crown, lolled back in his chair, permitting himself a gentle grin at his manner of helping the Government, in his own small way, to be rid of them. “You see that little car of mine outside?”

“Oh yes, Joe,” Jenny gulped. “It’s a beauty.”

“Not so bad, not so bad,” Joe admitted. “Just a month old. You might like to know how it happened.” He paused, his small brown eyes glistening. “Six weeks ago Jim and myself went up to look at some Government stuff beyond Morpeth. In a timber plantation we come across a couple of traction engines what they’d used to drive the saw-mills and forgot about in their hurry. The engines were standing there among the rotten timber logs, covered with rust and nettles up to their fly-wheels. To look at them, ordinary like, the engines was junk, but to look at them prop’ly they was goers, good as new and worth a couple of thousand apiece.” Joe paused blandly. “Well, Jim and me submitted a junk price and got away with it. We had the engines drove down to Tynecastle under their own power, cleaned and painted and sold handsome. We split even on the profit — and the little bus outside”—Joe waved his hand to the window—“is the result!”

Silence. Then, wrenched from Jenny’s pale lips, a gasp of unwilling admiration. That wonderful, wonderful car shining outside there: bought and paid for and made by a single stroke of business. Such cleverness! Oh, it was too much, too much for her to endure.

Joe left it at that. Joe knew when he had put it over all right. He switched his eye towards the cheap blue enamel clock on the mantelpiece and with an exclamation he corroborated the time upon his thin gold watch. He jumped up. “Good God! It’s time I was on my way. I’ll be late for Jim if I don’t look out. Sorry to have to leave so soon, but I’m due at the Central seven o’clock!”

He shook hands and made for the door, voluble and genial, laughing and talking, full of gusto, good-nature and himself! The door banged, the car purred, he was off!

David looked at Jenny with that faint ironic smile upon his lips:

“That was Joe,” he said.

Jenny gazed back at him wickedly.

“I know it was Joe,” she flared sullenly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing, Jenny. But now that he’s gone it’s just struck me that he still owes me three pounds!”

A perfect demon of temper rose in Jenny’s breast, urged and goaded by envy and the knowledge that Joe had so positively finished with her for good. Her lip curled.

“Three pounds,” she sneered. “That’s what Joe would fling to a waiter. He’s worth a fortune, Joe is, he could buy and sell you a thousand times. He’s a man, Joe is. He can do things, get out and make some money. Why don’t you take a lesson from him? Look at his car, and his clothes, and his jewellery and the cigarettes he smokes. Look at him, I tell you, and think shame of yourself.” Her voice rose to a scream. “Joe’s the sort of man who would give his wife a good time, take her to restaurants and dances and places, he’d give her society and refinement and that. Take a look at him, I say, and then look at yourself. You’re not fit to lick Joe’s boots, you aren’t. You’re not a man at all. You’re a washout, that’s what you are, that’s what Joe’s thinkin’ about you now. As he’s driving away in his lovely big car, Joe’s lying back and laughing at you. He’s laughing himself silly at you. Washout, he’s saying, washout, washout, washout!”

Her voice shrilled and cracked, there was a spume of mucus on her lips and hatred in her eyes.

He stood with clenched hands facing her. With a great effort he controlled himself, realising that the only way to get her out of the paroxysm was to leave her alone. He turned. He went out of the room and into the kitchen.

Jenny remained in the parlour, her breath coming in quick hot gasps. She stifled an impulse to follow David into the kitchen and have it out with him; she saved the taunts and all the wounding insults that still lay on her tongue. She knew a better way than that. She swallowed dryly. The scent of the expensive cigarette smoke still lingering in the air maddened her beyond endurance. She rushed from the room, put on her hat and went out.

It was late when she came home. Nearly eleven o’clock. But David had not gone to bed. He sat by the deal table in the kitchen immersed in a first copy of the new Coal Industry Commission Act which had just come into law. As she came into the kitchen he raised his eyes. She stood in the doorway, hat slightly atilt, eyes glassy, cheeks shot with tiny threads of blood. She was hopelessly drunk.

“Hello,” she sneered. “Still busy makin’ money?” Her words were all slurred together, but the expression on her face was unmistakable. He jumped up in horror: he had never seen her drunk before.

“Lemme alone,” she struck at him and nearly fell. “I don’t wan’ you playin’ ’bout me. Keep y’r han’s ’way. You don’t deserve nothin’ like that!”

His soul sickened within him.

“Jenny!” he implored.

“Shenny!” she mimicked, making a drunken face at him. She wavered towards him, placed her arms drunkenly akimbo. “Y’re a fine fellow, makin’ me waste th’ bes’ of my life here. I had plenty o’ fun in th’ war when y’were ’way. I wan’a have plen’y fun now!”

“Please, Jenny,” he begged her, frozen with pain. “You’d better lie down.”

“I won’ lie down!” she cackled. “I won’ lie down f’r you…”

Watching her, he thought suddenly of the child she had borne him, and the pain of her present degradation became unsupportable.

“For God’s sake, Jenny, pull yourself together. Even if I don’t mean anything to you now, think of our child, think of Robert. I haven’t talked about it. I don’t want to hurt you. But doesn’t his memory mean anything at all?”

She burst out laughing, she laughed and laughed drunkenly, until the saliva drooled from her mouth.

“I’ve been meanin’ to tell you ’bout that,” she jeered. “Meanin’ for long time. Our chil’. Y’ flatter yourself, m’lord. How d’you know he was yours?”

Uncomprehending, he looked at her with disgust upon his face. It maddened her.

“You fool,” she shrieked suddenly. “It was Joe’s!”

He understood. He went dead white. He caught her fiercely by the shoulder and pinned her against the lintel of the door.

“Is that true?”

Staring back at him glassily, sobered by the shock, she saw that she had gone too far; she had never meant to let out the truth to David. Terrified, she began to cry. She collapsed. Sagging against him she wept herself into hysteria.

“Oh dear, oh dear! I’m sorry, David. I’m bad, I’m bad. I’m bad. I want no more to do with men, never, never, never, never. I want to be good. I want to be good. I’m not well, that’s the trouble, I’m not really well, I’ve got to take a little glass to keep my strength up.” She howled and howled.

With that set cold face he dragged her to the sofa, supporting her sagging head with the palm of his hand. She began to drum her heels in the frenzy of her hysteria. She went on:

“Give me another chance, David, oh, for God’s sake give me another chance. I’m not bad, really I’m not; he just came round me like and it’s all finished and done with years ago; you could see that to-night, you’d have thought I was dirt beneath his feet. And you’re the best man living, David, the best man breathing. And I’m sick, David, oh, I’m awfully ill. I haven’t had a holiday for ages, I’m not really well. Oh! if only you’ll give me another chance, David. David, David…”

He stared darkly away from her, letting her race on, letting her work off all the agony of her remorse. A heavy pain pressed upon his breast; it was a frightful blow she had given him. He had loved the memory of little Robert, treasured it in his heart. And she had besmirched even that!

At last she stopped whining, the nervous beating of her heels was still. There was silence. He took a long breath. Then in a still voice he said:

“Let’s not talk about it any more, Jenny. It’s perfectly true, what you say. You’re not well. I think it might do you good if you went away for a little. How would you like to go down to Dan Teasdale’s farm in Sussex? I could easily arrange it. I’m in touch with Dan.”

“To the farm?” Jenny gasped, then lifted agonised, enraptured eyes. “Down in Sussex.”

“Yes!”

“Oh, David.” Jenny began to weep again; the sudden prospect was so wonderful, and David’s kindness so wonderful, and everything so wonderful. “You’re so good to me, David, just hold me in your arms and say you still love me.”

“Will you promise me not to touch drink down there?”

“I do, David, I do, I do.” Sobbing, she swore it in a passion of goodness and devotion.

“All right, I’ll arrange it, Jenny.”

“Oh, David,” sobbing and choking and clutching at him, “you’re the best man that ever breathed.”

FOUR

One morning early in June, the following month, David saw Jenny off at the Central Station, Tynecastle. It had been a simple matter to arrange with Grace Teasdale for Jenny to go to Winrush — Grace was delighted. The weekly sum which David could pay was small enough, but from Grace’s frank and unassuming letter, David had the feeling that it would be welcome.

Jenny was thrilled, the excitement of the holiday had risen to her head and flushed her cheeks and made her eyes bright. She was warm and tender and penitent. She saw herself feeding the chickens, caressing the sweet little lambs and returning to David at the end of the three weeks purified and sanctified and prettier than ever. Oh, it was nice!

She stood with David by the open door of her compartment, her corner seat facing the engine reserved by a little pile of papers and a magazine. She thought it good of David to have bought her the magazine — not that she approved much of his choice but it was the correct thing for a lady to set out on a journey with a magazine. And Jenny was never happier than when doing the correct thing. She chatted away to David, darting tenderly pathetic glances at him from time to time, indicating her contrition and a sincere desire for amendment. He was very silent. She often wondered what he thought about… well… what she had so foolishly “let out.” Sometimes she felt vaguely that he had forgotten about the whole thing, or that he disbelieved it entirely, for he had never once referred to it. At any rate, she was sure he had forgiven her, and that flattered her vanity. She had no conception of the frightful blow which her disclosure had been to David. He had believed her entirely faithful to him. He had cherished the memory of little Robert with a great tenderness. And in one drunken sentence she had smashed it all. He suffered abominably, but because he did not accuse her, cross-examine her, wrest every sordid detail from her and then beat her within an inch of her life, Jenny felt that he did not suffer. She did not really know David. She could not appreciate the strength and fineness of character which kept him silent. And in her secret heart she was puzzled, pleased, perhaps a little scornful.

She looked at the big clock at the end of the station.

“Well!” she said, “it’s nearly time!” She got into the compartment and he shut the door. The whistle blew. She gave him a big hug. Her last words were:

“You’ll miss me, David, won’t you?”

Then she settled herself with a pleased sigh. It was a long journey but it passed quickly between her magazine and the sandwiches and an interesting examination of her fellow passengers. Jenny took great pride in her ability to place people: at one shrewd glance she could tell what they had on, what the hat cost, whether that diamond was real or false, whether or not “they were real class.”

At two o’clock Jenny changed trains, at three she went along the corridor and had a cup of tea and a refined conversation with a nice fair young man at the same table. Really at the next table, he was, but he came over and sat down. Funny he should be a commercial traveller! — with a little inward giggle she remembered the bald-headed commercial she had created for David’s benefit on the honeymoon at Cullercoats. Dear David! She was really quite distant to the nice fair young man, only politely interested when he told her he travelled for surgical appliances — oh, she was extremely as she should be, shaking hands ever so ladylike when he said good-bye.

At half-past four she reached Barnham Junction and Dan met her at the station. Dan looked big and healthy and happy — he wore an old army shirt open at the neck, leggings and corduroy breeches. Dan had a little Ford runabout shaped like a lorry at the back, and swinging her suit-case up as if it had been a feather, he drove down to Winrush and the farm.

The farm delighted Jenny and Grace’s welcome delighted her even more than the farm. Grace had a splendid tea ready with new-laid eggs and a sponge cake and lots of little shortcakes which were lovely and which Grace said were Sussex griddle cakes. They all sat in together, Jenny, Grace, Dan, little Caroline Ann and Thomas the new baby — who answered to the name of Dickery Dock — perched in his high chair to the right of Grace. There they sat, in the big stone-flagged kitchen, and Jenny went into raptures over the griddle cakes and the new-laid eggs and Dickery Dock. Jenny went into raptures about everything. Everything was so nice, Jenny said.

After tea Grace took Jenny round the farm, explaining to Jenny that it was a very small place, only forty acres, which they had rented from old Mr. Purcell. Grace made no concealment of what shrewd little Jenny had already clearly seen. Grace said with perfect simplicity that Dan and she were extremely hard up. Chicken-farming, which was what Dan chiefly went in for, was hard work and small profit. But they would have a number of paying guests in the summer and paying guests, Grace smiled, did pay. Grace smiled often: she was extremely happy with Dan, Caroline Ann and Dickory Dock; she had to work like a nigger but she was happy. She had got Dan out of the Neptune, far, far away from the wretched pit, and that was what counted. As for money, Grace added, money doesn’t matter a dump!

Touched by Grace’s confidences Jenny warmly agreed. Why, she simpered, with a little thrill at being able to cap Grace’s argument, why, that’s exactly what my David says about money.

Tired out by her journey, Jenny went to bed early that night. She slept like a top and wakened to bright sunshine and green trees waving in the breeze and the sound of a mooing cow. Oh, it’s nice, thought Jenny, lying luxuriously. A knock came to the door.

“Come in,” Jenny sang out, feeling wonderful.

A rolypoly of a girl — Grace’s one maid, a daily from the village — entered, bringing Jenny her tea. The girl’s name was Peg. Her cheeks were as red cherries and her short trotters massive as piano legs. Jenny knew she would get a lot of fun out of Peg’s legs — Peg’s legs were a scream!

After she had sipped her tea Jenny got up, slipped on her dressing-gown and her green mules with the pretty marabout trimming. Fluffy, like her dressing-gown, and nice. She pattered to the bathroom. It was an old house with big bare polished boards and no paper on the walls but Grace had been busy with her paint-brush. The vivid painted walls were extremely effective against the old dark wood. The bathroom was pleasant, too, very plain and enamelled. Jenny took her bath. At home, Jenny never bathed in the morning but when one was staying with people, of course… well… naturally.

After breakfast Jenny wandered round the farm by herself, discovering fresh enchantments at every turn. The cute little chickens, the lovely smell of the bam, dear Grace’s rock garden full of sweet saxifrage, the darlingest school of piglets which fled before her, flicking their tails and leaping, leaping like a pack of miniature hounds. Oh, isn’t the country too wonderful, Jenny breathed in an ecstasy of romance.

At eleven Grace asked Jenny if she wanted a swim. Grace said that in the summer Dan and she and “the family” went for a dip every day, no matter how completely or infernally busy they might be. Smiling, she said that Dan and she had solemnly taken an oath to this effect. Jenny couldn’t swim but she went gaily with them to the beach — a short strip of sandy beach bordering their land.

Jenny stood watching on the beach while Grace and Dan and “the family” went in. Dan carried Caroline Ann and Grace carried six-months-old Dickery Dock. There was enormous fun in the shallow water; then while the two infants lay sprawling on the warm soft sand Grace and Dan swam out. They swam far out, quite a wonderful swim, and when they came back they looked exactly like the picture on the front cover of Jenny’s magazine. A queer catch took Jenny by the throat. Grace’s strong slender figure was tanned and upright and careless. She was playing a game with Dan now, tossing Dickery Dock between them like a ball, and didn’t Dickery Dock like it! Caroline Ann ran about in the buff, shrieking with delight, imploring her mummy and daddy to let Dickery Dock fall. But mummy and daddy wouldn’t and finally Dan pulled Caroline Ann’s legs away from her, and there was a glorious mix up on the sand.

Then Dan’s half-hour was up and he dashed back to drive the Ford into Fittlehampton. Jenny returned with Grace thoughtfully. What did money matter to these happy people? They had wonderful health, fresh air to breathe, the sea to bathe in and the sun to shine on them.

Jenny sat down straight away after lunch and wrote a four-page tear-stained letter to David, exalting the beauties of the simple life and the pleasures of the country. She walked all the way to Barnham Junction to post it and felt rarefied and pure. She knew that she was finding herself. She could be like Grace, too, if she wanted — why, indeed, not? She smiled. Tenderly she tried to pat a tiny lamb which poked its nose at her through the hedge of the lane, but the lamb ran away and stood in the middle of the field doing duties at an adjacent haystack. Never mind, never mind, it was all too wonderful for words.

Next day came bright and sunny and the next and the next, and it was still wonderful. Perhaps… well, on reflection… perhaps not so completely wonderful. Jenny understood that one got used to things in time and that was why, though still fond of the farm, she was not quite so fond of the farm as she had been. Funny! Jenny smiled to herself as, on the following Saturday, she sat on the beach enjoying a cigarette by herself. It was not that Dan and Grace were not still nice to her. Dan and Grace were perfect. But it was just the tiniest bit dull down here, she had to confess; not a single soul on this beach, let alone a band and a promenade, and as for feeding the chickens she was frankly sick of feeding the chickens! And these pigs — she hated the very sight of the dirty little brutes.

She got up from the beach and, feeling that she must do something, she decided to walk to Barnham. At Barnham she bought another packet of cigarettes and a morning paper, then she called in at the Merrythought and had a glass of port. What a hole! Did they really have the nerve to call it a hotel? And she was looking her best, too, she saw from a mirror advertising Bass on the opposite wall. Looking her best and no one to see her but the gnarled old woman in the Merrythought who glanced at her suspiciously and almost refused to serve her. The old woman had been feeding her hens. O Lord, thought Jenny, amn’t I ever to get away from these blessed hens?

She walked back in quite a paddy and went straight up to her room and began to read the paper. It was a London paper. Jenny adored London, she had been to London four times in her life and had loved it every time. She read all the London society news, then she read the advertisements. The advertisements were really interesting, really they were, especially those referring to experienced saleswomen wanted. Jenny went to bed thoughtfully that night.

Next day it was raining.

“O Lord,” said Jenny, staring blankly at the rain. “A wet Sunday!” She refused to go to church, mooned about the place and was snappy to Caroline Ann. In the afternoon Grace lay down and Dan went into the bam to trim some hay. Five minutes later Jenny wandered into the barn.

“Hello, you!” she called up brightly to Dan, flashing a sprightly glance at him, her feet planted coquettishly apart.

Dan looked down at her, very simple and unsmiling.

“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm, and turning his back he re-engaged himself vigorously with the hay.

Jenny’s face fell. She stood for a minute saving her pride. She might have known that Dan had no eyes for anyone but Grace, he was nothing but a turnip. Then she wandered out into the rain. Turnip, she muttered, blessed turnip.

Next day was again wet. Jenny’s discontent grew. How long had she to endure it here in this rotten beastly hole? Twelve more days; she’d never do it, never. She wanted a bit of life, a bit of fun, she wasn’t cut out for this mangelwurzel misery. She began to blame David for sending her here, even to hate him for it. Yes! it was all very well for him. He was having a gay time no doubt in Tynecastle; she knew what men were when their wives were away from them, having a rare old time while she was stuck here, here in this hole.

And in her own way Jenny began to turn the whole question of her relations with David over in her mind. She wasn’t going to stand it. Why should she? She could earn four pounds a week off her own bat and enjoy London into the bargain. She didn’t really love David in any case.

Next day the sun came out, a glorious sun, but it brought no answering warmth to Jenny’s face. The doors and windows of the farm were wide open, the lovely breeze blew in. Grace was making cherry jam, lovely cherry jam with cherries from her own orchard. Flushed and happy she moved about the big kitchen. She thought Jenny looked a little down and when she milked the one Guernsey cow she put a glass of the rich foaming milk on the table for Jenny.

“I don’t like milk,” Jenny said and walked out sulkily into the sunny yard. The bees hummed about the flowers, down in the corner Dan was chopping firewood — the axe made a lovely flashing arc — and across the fields cattle lay chewing in the shade. It was beautiful.

But not to Jenny. She hated it now, hated it and hated it. She longed for London, she had set her heart on London, she yearned for the noise and bustle and glamour of the streets. With her head in the air she marched down to Barnham and bought a paper. She stood outside the shop reading the advertisements, ever and ever so many advertisements; she was positive she could land one of them. Just for fun, she walked to the station and she inquired about the trains to London. An express left at four o’clock. In a flash Jenny’s decision was taken. That afternoon while Grace was busy making tea Jenny packed her bag and slipped out. She caught the four o’clock for London.

When Grace went to call Jenny and found out that she had taken her things and gone she was dreadfully upset. She ran down to the kitchen.

“Dan!” she said, “Jenny has gone. What have we done?”

Dan paused in spreading some of the new cherry jam upon a large slice of bread.

“So she’s gone, eh?”

“Yes, Dan! Have we offended her? I’m vexed.”

Dan resumed his interest in the bread and jam. He took an enormous bite; then, munching slowly:

“I wouldn’t be vexed, Grace dear. I don’t think she was much good, that one.” This indicated perhaps that Dan was less of a turnip than Jenny had believed.

That evening Dan squared his shoulders over a letter to David. He regretted very much, he wrote, that Jenny had been obliged to cut short her stay at Winrush and trusted that she would get home safely.

David received that letter on the evening of the following day and it caused him a definite uneasiness. Jenny had not arrived. He looked across at his mother who had come down to keep house for him. But he said nothing. He felt that Jenny must arrive next day. In spite of everything he still loved Jenny; surely she would come.

But Jenny did not come.

FIVE

Gently and tenderly Aunt Carrie wheeled Richard in the Bath chair right up to the laburnum tree on the lawn. The day was warm and sunny, and the yellow blossom dangled thick on the laburnum, turning the tree to a great yellow flower which cast a pleasant shade upon the shorn turf. In this shade, with many fussings, Aunt Carrie began to settle Richard. First there was the little plank she had made Bartley saw specially for his feet, and the hot-water bottle, an aluminium bottle since that kept the heat longest, then the Jaeger rug tucked in carefully the whole way round. Aunt Carrie understood exactly what Richard liked and it was joy for her to humour him in every whim, especially as she knew that he was “getting on” at last.

Aunt Carrie would never forget the first real indication that Richard was getting on, that day, three months and a week ago precisely, when he had spoken to her. In bed, like a great log, dumb and heavy, his eye rolling in his head as it followed her movements about the room, that dull yet living eye, a basilisk, he had mumbled:

“It’s you… Caroline.”

In the inexpressible rapture of it she almost fainted, like a mother with the first speech of her first-born.

“Yes, Richard”—clutching her breast—“it’s Caroline… Caroline.”

He mumbled:

“What did I say?” Then he lost interest. But after that it did not matter. He had spoken.

Intoxicated by this auspicious sign, she had redoubled her attentions upon him, washing him all over carefully twice a day and rubbing his back with methylated spirits every night before dusting him with talcum. It had been difficult to prevent bedsores, changing the wet sheets sometimes four times in the day, but she had done it. She was getting Richard right. His movements started to return slightly, the movements of the paralysed side, and she would rub the right arm for an hour on end just as she had brushed Harriet’s hair. While she rubbed him, his dull eye would roll up and down her figure, not without a certain slyness, and often he mumbled:

“You’re a fine woman, Caroline… But they are tampering with me… electricity….”

It was one of his delusions that they were sending electrical currents through his body. At night now he always asked Caroline to pull his bed away from the wall so that they could not send electricity through from the adjoining room. He asked her slyly, slurring and mumbling the syllables, mixing up his consonants, sometimes missing out words altogether.

There might be something in these electrical notions, or there might not — Aunt Carrie would not commit herself. She could not dream of questioning Richard’s judgment. Her idea was to interest him, take him out of himself, and this made her think of Mrs. Humphry Ward, her favourite author whom in times of spiritual stress she had found to be a true healer. So she began, every forenoon, and every evening, to read aloud to Richard, commencing with Lady Rose’s Daughter, perhaps a little selfishly, as this was her own favourite, and when she came to the great moment of renunciation tears dropped down Aunt Carrie’s cheeks. And Richard would stare at the ceiling or pick at his clothes or put his finger into his mouth and at the end of a chapter he would remark:

“They’re tampering with me,” and then in a low voice, “Electricity!”

With the coming of the fine weather she had wheeled Richard into the good fresh air, and as he sat upon the lawn she advanced one stage further, putting the open book into his left hand and letting him have the pleasure of reading Mrs. Ward for himself. He seemed to enjoy Mrs. Ward very much. He began by placing Lady Rose’s Daughter on his knee, pulling out his watch, looking at his watch and putting back his watch. Next he took a pencil and very clumsily, and with great effort, wrote with his left hand on the margin of the book: Start 11.15. Then he counted four pages forward and wrote at the foot of the page: 12.15×4 End of the shift. And after that he stared at the shaky, almost indecipherable writing with an air of childish triumph.

But this bright May morning, whenever he was settled, before he could ask for his book, Aunt Carrie seated herself on the stool beside him and remarked:

“I have a letter from Hilda this morning, Richard. She has passed another of her examinations. Would you like to hear what she says?”

He reflected vacantly towards the great yellow blossom of the laburnum tree.

“Hilda is a fine woman… you are a fine woman yourself, Caroline.” He added, “Harriet was a fine woman.”

Aunt Carrie, adept at glossing over such little eccentricities, went on pleasantly:

“Hilda’s progress has really been splendid, Richard. She writes that she is extremely happy in her work. Listen, Richard.” She read out Hilda’s letter, dated May 14th, 1920, and written from an address in Chelsea, reading slowly and distinctly, trying her gentle best to keep Richard interested and informed. But the moment she had finished he whimpered:

“Why don’t I get letters? …never any letters. Where is Arthur? He is the worst offender… What is he doing at the Neptune? Where is my book? …I want my book.”

“Yes, Richard.” She soothed him hurriedly and handed him his writing book. “There now.”

With the book on his knee he watched her slyly until she had picked up and was busy with her needlework, then he shielded the book against spying eyes with his curved, paralysed hand. Left-handed he wrote:

In defence of the Neptune, notes further to those composed Memorandum—a stumbling secret look at his watch—12.22×3.14 and considered thereafter…

But here a sound disturbed him and in a perfect panic of suspicion he broke off and clumsily shut the book. Ann was coming across the lawn with his milk. He watched Ann approaching and gradually his face cleared, his eye brightened until he was smiling and nodding at her — Ann was a fine woman too. Ann seemed conscious of his smile and the bobbings of his head for she gave the tray to Aunt Carrie, carefully avoiding Richard altogether, and went quickly away.

His face fell ridiculously; he became angry; he refused to drink his milk.

“Why does she go away? Why doesn’t Arthur come? What is he doing? Where is he?” The questions tumbled incoherently from his lips.

“Yes, Richard, yes,” she murmured. “He’s at the pit, of course. You know he’ll be here for lunch presently.”

“What is he doing?” he repeated. “What is he hiding from me?”

“Nothing, Richard, absolutely nothing. You know he talks to you and tells you. Do drink your milk. Oh, look, you’re spilling it all. There now! Shall I give you your book again? That’s right.”

“No, no, it isn’t right. He doesn’t understand. No head at all… and tampering with things. He’s trying to keep me here. Electricity… through the walls. If he’s not careful,” the dull eye rolled cunningly towards her, “if he’s not careful he’ll be landing himself in trouble. An accident… a disaster… an inquiry. Extremely foolish!”

“Yes, Richard.”

“I must speak to him again… I must insist… no time like the present.”

“No, Richard.”

“Take this glass then and stop talking. You talk and talk. It keeps me from my work.”

Here another sound disturbed him and this time it was Arthur coming up the drive. With the same furtive haste he handed Aunt Carrie his empty glass, then he waited upon Arthur with a great pretence of unconcern. But underneath he was trembling, shivering with resentment and distrust.

Arthur crossed the lawn towards the laburnum tree. He wore his knickerbockers and heavy pit boots and his shoulders drooped as though he had been working hard. He had, indeed, for more than a year, been pushing forward at full pressure, conscious of his own nervous tension, yet determined not to relax until he had seen it all through. At last, however, the improvements at the Neptune were near completion, the new pithead baths finished, while the combined drying and locker rooms, modelled on the latest type instituted by the Sandstrüm Obergamt, would be ready by the end of June. The entire bank stood reorganised, the old Pierce-Goff ventilators scrapped and modern air pumps substituted, the closing apparatus and winding ropes renewed, the headstocks bedded in concrete cones and fed from the new power-house. Impossible almost to recognise this new Neptune — it had lost the old slovenliness, it looked trim, efficient and secure.

What effort he had put into it! And what money! But the splendour of his creation more than repaid him; sustained him when he got worried and depressed. There had been difficulties occasionally. The men were dubious of his intentions; his war record made him an object of suspicion. Besides, his temperament often betrayed him into bouts of causeless melancholy when he felt unsupported and alone.

Such a mood hovered above his shoulder as he drew up beside Barras. It made his tone gentler, more tolerant than was usual.

“Well, father,” he said.

Barras peered up at him, with a grotesque assumption of authority.

“What have you been doing?”

“I’ve been inbye in Globe, this morning,” Arthur explained mildly, almost glad to have a word with his father. “That’s where we’re cutting now.”

“In Globe?”

“That’s right, father. There’s not a big demand for our coal at the moment, father. We’re getting out parrot chiefly — at fifty-five shillings a ton.”

“Fifty-five shillings.” A momentary gleam of intelligence came into Barras’s eye: he looked outraged, the old quality of injured probity. “I got eighty shillings for that coal. It’s wrong… wrong. You’re up to something… hiding something from me.”

“No, father. You must remember that prices have fallen.” He paused. “Pithead coal dropped another ten shillings last week.”

The light died out of Barras’s face but he continued to stare at Arthur suspiciously while the struggling of his crippled mind went on. He mumbled at last:

“What was I saying?” And then, “Tell me… tell me… tell me what you’re doing.”

Arthur sighed.

“I’ve tried to explain before, father. I’m doing my best for the Neptune. Safety and efficiency — a decent policy of co-operation. Don’t you see, father, if you give the men a fair deal they’ll give you one. It’s the first principle of reason.”

Barras’s reaction was violent. His hands began to shake, he seemed about to burst into tears.

“You’re spending money. You’ve spent far too much money.”

“I have only spent what ought to have been spent years ago. You surely know that, father!”

Barras pretended not to hear. “I’m angry,” he whined. “I’m angry with you for spending all that money. You have spent all that money wrong.”

“Please, father, don’t upset yourself. Please, you can’t stand it.”

“I can’t stand it!” The blood rushed to Barras’s face. He stammered, “What do you mean? You’re a fool. Wait till I get back to the pit next week. You wait and I’ll show you next week.”

“Yes, father,” Arthur said gently. Back in the house the gong sounded for luncheon. He turned away.

Barras waited, trembling with exasperation, until Arthur disappeared through the front porch. Then his expression changed back to one of childish cunning. He fumbled beneath his rug and with a covert look towards Aunt Carrie he took out his book and wrote:

In defence of the Neptune. Inquire next week as to money spent against my wishes. It is essential to remember I am in command. Memorandum. During temporary absence from pit keep close watch upon chief offender.

When he had finished he stared at what he had written, childishly pleased. Then, with furtive innocence, he signed Aunt Carrie to wheel him towards the house.

SIX

David awoke that morning to the pleasant thought that he was meeting Harry Nugent. Usually his first waking thought was of Jenny — the strange recollection that she was gone, dissevered from him, vanished into the unknown. But this morning it was Harry. He lay for a minute thinking of his friendship with Nugent, of those days in France, Nugent and himself bent at the double, linked by the flopping stretcher, then plodding back with the stretcher heavy and sagging between them. How many of these silent journeys he had made with Harry Nugent!

The sound of his mother moving downstairs and the smell of crisping bacon recalled him. He jumped up and shaved and washed and dressed and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. Though it was not yet eight o’clock, Martha had been up an hour and more, the fire was lit, the grate black-leaded, the fender freshly emeried; the white cloth was on the table, his breakfast of egg and rashers — dished from the pan that minute — waiting for him.

“Morning, mother,” he said, sitting in and lifting the Herald from beside his plate.

She nodded without speaking — she had no habit of good morning or good night; all Martha’s words were useful words and never wasted. She took up his shoes and began to brush them silently.

He went on with the paper for a minute: the day before Harry Nugent with Jim Dudgeon and Clement Bebbington had been opening the new Institute at Edgeley; there was a picture of Harry with Bebbington stuck well in the foreground beside him. Suddenly he looked up and saw Martha brushing his shoes. He coloured and remonstrated:

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”

Calmly, Martha went on brushing the shoes.

“I’ve always brushed them,” she said, “ay, when they was five pair instead of one. There’s no cause like for me to be stoppin’ now.”

“Why don’t you leave them for me to do?” he persisted. “Why don’t you sit in and have your breakfast with me properly?”

“There’s some folks not that easy to change,” she said, brushing away defiantly at the shoes. “And I’m one of them.” He stared at her in perplexity. Now that she had come to keep his house for him she was never done working for him. Everything. He had never been looked after better in his life. And yet he felt that she was withholding something from him; he felt a dark brooding, like a satire, under every action she directed towards his comfort. Watching her, he tested her, out of curiosity:

“I’m lunching with Harry Nugent today, mother.”

She picked up the second shoe, her strong and masterful figure outlined against the window and her face darkly inscrutable. Breathing on the leather, she said scornfully:

“Lunching, you say?”

He smiled into himself: yes, that was it, she gave herself away. Deliberately, he continued:

“Having a bit of snap with Harry, then, mother, if you like that better. You’ve surely heard of Nugent. Harry Nugent, M.P. He’s a particular friend of mine. He’s a man worth hanging in with.”

“So it would appear.” Her lips drew down.

He smiled more than ever into himself, leading her on with his pretence of boasting.

“Ay! not everybody has the chance to lunch with Harry Nugent, M.P. — a big man in the Federation like him, it’s an honour, don’t you see, mother.”

She looked up with the dark scorn in her face and a bitterness on her tongue, then she saw that he was laughing at her. She reddened to think how he had trapped her and, trying to cover it, she stooped quickly to set his shoes to warm by the fire. Then a grim smile twisted her lips.

“Brag away,” she said. “Ye’ll not take me in.”

“But it’s true, mother. I’m a regular time-server. I’m worse even than you think. You’ll see me in a boiled shirt before you’re done with me.”

“I’ll not iron it for you,” she said, her lips twitching. It was a triumph for his strategy. He had made her smile.

A pause. Then, taking advantage of her humour, he said with sudden seriousness:

“Don’t be so set against me in everything I do, then, mother. I’m not doing it for nothing.”

“I’m not against you,” she retorted, still stooping by the fire to hide her face. “I’m just not over-fond of what you’re doing. All this council work and politics and that like. This Nationalisation business you’re always on for — and that like foolery. I don’t hold with that at all. No, no, it’s never been my style or the style of any of my forebears. In my time and their time there’s always been mester and man in the pit and it’s fair unnatural to think of anything else.”

There was a silence. In spite of the harshness of her words he could feel that she was softer, better disposed towards him. And on an impulse he turned the subject. He exclaimed:

“Another thing, mother.”

“Well,” she said suspiciously.

“About Annie, mother,” he said, “and little Sammy. He’s a grand little chap now and Annie’s doing for him a treat. I’ve wanted to speak to you about it for a long time. I wish you’d forget all the old bitterness, mother, and have them to the house. I do wish you’d do it, mother.”

Her face froze instantly.

“And why should I?”

“Sammy’s your grandson, mother,” he answered. “I’m surprised you haven’t been thrilled about that before, you would if you knew him the way I do. And Annie, well, she’s one of the best, mother. Old Macer is laid up in bed now, he’s a regular grumbler, moaning and groaning all the time, and Pug’s keeping bad time at the pit, they’ve hardly enough to rub along with. But the way Annie keeps that place together is nothing short of marvellous.”

“What has that to do with me?” she said, tight-lipped and bitter. His generous praise of Annie had cut her to the quick. He saw that suddenly, saw he had made a mistake.

“Tell me,” she repeated in a rising tone, “what has it got to do with me, the wild, bad lot that they always were?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said quietly and went back to his paper.

A minute later, while he was reading she put more bacon on his plate. It was her way of showing that she was not unreasonable, but kind, according to her lights. He took no notice. He thought her wildly unreasonable, but he knew that talking was no good. Talking was never any good with Martha.

At quarter to nine he folded his paper and rose from the table. She helped him on with his coat.

“You’ll not be late,” she said. “In spite of this grand lunch.”

“No.”

He smiled at her before he went out the door. It was no good being angry with Martha either.

On the way to the station he walked smartly. The morning was cold, the road already ringing with an early frost. Several of the lads walking from the Terraces to the Neptune saluted him — if he was inclined to be conceited, here, he thought ironically, was the chance. He realised that he had become a prominent figure in the town, yes, in the district, but he realised it without vanity. The greeting which Strother gave him outside New Bethel Street really amused him — a quick half-scared glance of recognition, full of unwilling admiration. Strother was terrified to death of Ramage, chairman of the Board. He had suffered misery from his bullying, and all that he, David, had done to Ramage delighted and frightened Strother and made him long to shake David by the hand. It was funny — in the old days Strother had looked down upon him with such contempt!

Half-way along Freehold Street he saw the new line of half-erected miners’ houses stretching off the Hedley Road. In the distance he saw men carrying hods of bricks, mixing mortar, building, building… it excited him… the queer symbolism behind it, the note of promise, of victory. If only he could raze the Terraces with their broken stone floors, ladder staircases, bug-infested walls and outside privies, make ten new rows like this, plant them — he thought with a smile — in full view of the Ramage mansion on Sluice Dene.

He got into the train absently, forgetting to read his paper. At Tynecastle he walked to Rudd Street in the same thoughtful mood. At the corner of Rudd Street outside a newspaper shop one of the placards made an enormous shriek: Mines for the Miners. It was a Labour paper. The placard next made another enormous shriek: Peeress Rides Pony at Park Lane Party. It was not a Labour paper. I wonder, reflected David with a sudden glow, and he was not thinking about the peeress.

In the office Heddon had not appeared. David hung up his coat and hat, had a word with old Jack Hetherington, the caretaker, then went into the inner room. He worked all morning. At half-past twelve Heddon came in, apparently in a bad temper for, as was usual in such circumstances, his manner was uncommunicative and brusque.

“You been to Edgeley, Tom?” David inquired.

“No!” Heddon kept flinging about the papers on his desk looking for something, and when he found it he did not seem to want it. “What have you done with these Seghill returns?” he barked a minute later.

“I’ve entered them and filed them.”

“The hell you have,” Heddon grunted. “You’re one of them conscientious b — s!” He looked quickly at David, then away again in a queer mixture of discomfiture and affection. He tilted his hat back on his ears and spat violently towards the fireplace.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” David asked.

“Oh, shut up,” Heddon said. “And come on. It’s time for the bloddy banquet. I’ve been wi’ Nugent all morning and he said we wassent to be late. Jim Dudgeon and Lord God Almighty Bebbington’ll be there too.”

Heddon remained silent as they went along Grainger Street towards the North-Eastern Hotel. It was only quarter to one and much too early when they reached the hotel. But they sat down at one of the wicker tables in the lounge and Heddon, as he had probably intended, had a couple of drinks and after that he seemed better. He looked at David with a kind of gloomy cheerfulness.

“As a matter of fact, I’m damned glad about it,” he said. “Only it’ll be a wrench.”

“What in the name of heaven are you talking about?”

“Nothing, sweet b — a—, as Shakespeare said. Hello, here are the toffs.”

He got up as Harry Nugent, Dudgeon and Clement Bebbington came in. David, rising to his feet, shook hands warmly with Harry and was introduced to Dudgeon and Bebbington. Dudgeon pumped his hand like an old friend but Bebbington’s grip was cool and distant. Heddon finished his whisky at a gulp, and although Dudgeon proposed drinks all round Nugent simply shook his head and they all went into the restaurant.

The long cream-coloured room, with windows opening on one side to the quiet Eldon Square and on the other to the bustle of the North-Eastern Station, was almost full, but the head waiter met them and showed them to a table, bowing considerably to Bebbington. It was clear he recognised Bebbington. Clement Bebbington had been in the public eye a good deal lately — tall, cool, inconspicuously well-dressed, with a superior air, a restless eye, suave courtesy and an unpleasant smile, he had a way of magnetising attention towards himself, of making himself news. There was about him a tempered look that came from a hectic ambition studiously concealed beneath that outer shell of rather bored indifference. Essentially he was an aristocrat, product of Winchester and Oxford, he went about socially in London quite a bit and fenced every morning at Bertrand’s for exercise. Whether he was attracted towards the Labour galley from conviction or for reasons of health Bebbington did not disclose, but at the last election he had fought Chalworth Borough, a Conservative stronghold, and handsomely won the seat. He was not yet on the Executive Council but his eyes were on it. David detested him on sight.

Dudgeon was quite different. Jim Dudgeon, like Nugent, had been on the Miners’ Executive for years, small and burly and genial, careless of his h’s, a raconteur and singer of jovial songs. For nearly twenty-five years he had been returned unopposed from Seghill. He called everybody by their Christian names. His horn-rimmed glasses gave him the look of an old owl as he blinked up at the waiter and, using his hands to indicate size and thickness, ordered a large chump chop accompanied by a tankard of beer.

They were all ordering: Heddon the same as Dudgeon, Nugent and David roast beef and baked potato, Bebbington a grilled sole, toast Melba and Vichy.

“It’s good to see you again,” Nugent said to David with his friendly, reassuring smile. There was a great friendliness about Harry Nugent, a sincerity which came straight from his candid, unwavering personality. He did not, like Bebbington, strive to be convincing; his manner was unforced, he was perfectly natural, simply himself. Yet to-day David sensed some purpose behind Nugent’s encouragement. He felt Bebbington and Dudgeon taking stock of him too. It was curious.

“Not a bad place this,” Dudgeon said, chewing roll, gazing round and rubbing his hands.

“You like the mirrors, don’t you?” Bebbington’s unpleasant smile flickered. “With a little careful straining at the collar you can have the incalculable satisfaction of observing six Dudgeons at one and the same time.”

“That’s right, Clem, that’s right,” Dudgeon agreed, rubbing his hands more genially than ever. Though Jim could laugh and weep from sheer emotion at moments of political crisis, he was as insensitive to ridicule and personal abuse as a hippopotamus. “A nice-lookin’ girl that over there with the blue in her shapoh.”

“Our little Don Juan!”

“Ah, I’ve always had a soft side to the fair ones, Clem, lad.”

“Why don’t you step over and make an assignation for this evening?”

“No, Clem, no, on second thoughts I won’t. A good idea though, if we wasn’t catching the three o’clock for London!”

At this Heddon laughed, and Bebbington with a cold astonishment seemed to discover him all at once and then immediately to forget him.

Nugent turned to David:

“You’ve been busy stirring up Sleescale, I hear.”

“I don’t know about that, Harry,” David answered with a smile.

“Don’t you believe it,” Heddon interposed bluntly. Heddon was smarting under Bebbington’s arrogance, determined not to be put under by any half-baked politician from London. He had downed a pint of bitter on top of two doubles of Scotch and was just in the mood to throw his weight about. “Haven’t you read the papers? He’s just put a new housing scheme through that’s the best in the country. He’s got an ante-natal clinic opened, and free milk for necessitous kids. They’ve always been a set of grafters down there; local government has been one long sweet laugh, but now there’s an honest man got in amongst the back-scratchers and they’re all sitting up with the fear of God in them askin’ to be let join the Band of Hope.” Heddon took a dogged pull at his bitter. “Ah, if you want to know, he’s bloddy well wiped the floor with them.”

A silence followed. Nugent looked pleased. Dudgeon dosed his chump chop with ketchup and said with a grin:

“I wish we could do that with our lot, Harry. We’d knock off Duckham and water pretty quick.”

At the mention of the recent Report David leaned forward with sudden interest.

“Is there any immediate prospect of nationalisation?”

Bebbington and Nugent interchanged a glance, while Dudgeon retired in amusement behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. He put one nobby forefinger on the table-cloth before David.

“You know what Sir John Sankey submitted in his Report. All coal measures and colliery undertakings to be acquired by the Government. You know what Mr. Lloyd George said in the House of Commons on the 18th August. That the Government accepts the policy of State purchase of mineral right in coal, on which subjects all the reports of the Royal Commission were perfectly unanimous. Well! What more do you want? Don’t ye see it’s as good as done!” And, with every evidence of enjoyment, Jim Dudgeon began to laugh.

“I see,” David said quietly.

“It was pretty funny, the Commission.” Dudgeon laughed even more jovially. “You should have heard Bob Smillie arguing the toss with the Duke of Northumberland and Frank goin’ after the Marquess of Bute on the origin of his claim to royalties and wayleaves. All coming from the signature of a boy of ten, Edward the Sixth. Oh, we had a rare bit o’ fun. But God! that’s nothing. I’d have gave my hat to have had the scalpin’ of Lord Kell. His great, great, great-grandfather got all the coal lands through doin’ a pretty bit of pimping for Charles II. Can you beat it? Millions in royalties for a successful week-end’s pimping for ’is Majesty.” Dudgeon lay back and relished the joke until the cutlery rattled.

“It doesn’t strike me as amusing,” David said bitterly. “The Government pledged themselves to the Commission. The whole thing is a gigantic swindle.”

“That’s exactly what Harry said on the floor of the House of Commons. But, my God, that don’t make no difference. Here, waiter, bring me another lot of chips.”

While Dudgeon talked, Nugent studied David, remembering long discussions squatting behind the sandbags of the front-line station while a white moon sailed round a misery of wire and mud and shell-holes.

“You still feel pretty strongly about nationalisation?” he asked.

David nodded without speaking; in this company no answer could have been more effective.

There was a short pause. Silently, Nugent interrogated Dudgeon who, with his mouth full of potato, made an emphatic sound in his throat, then he looked at Bebbington who gave a faint and non-committal acquiescence. Finally Nugent turned to David.

“Listen to me, David,” he said authoritatively. “The Council have decided to amalgamate the three local areas here and create a complete new district. The new institute at Edgeley is to be the headquarters. And we want a new organising secretary who’ll not only be District Treasurer but Compensation Secretary for the Northern Miners’ Association. We’re looking for a young man and a live man. I mentioned it to Heddon this morning but it’s official now. We’ve asked you to meet us here to offer you the post.”

David stared at Harry Nugent, completely taken aback, overwhelmed by the offer. He coloured deeply.

“You mean you’d like me to apply?”

Nugent shook his head.

“Your name and three others were submitted to the committee last week. This is the committee and you’re the new secretary.” He held out his hand.

Mechanically David took it, while the full force of the appointment struck home.

“But, Heddon…” He swung round suddenly, facing Tom Heddon, to whom he had been so obviously preferred, and his eyes clouded with dismay.

“Heddon gave you a fine testimonial,” Nugent said quietly.

Heddon’s eyes met David’s in one swift interchange when the hurt yet courageous soul of the man lay exposed; then he forced out his chin with vehemence.

“I wouldn’t have the job for love nor money. They want a young man, diddent you hear. I’m glued to Rudd Street. I wouldn’t leave it for nobody.” His smile, though rather strained about the edges, was almost successful. He thrust his hand upon David.

Bebbington surveyed his wrist watch, fatigued by this emotionalism.

“The train,” he said, “leaves at three.”

They rose and went by the side door into the station. As they crossed to the crowded platform Nugent lagged a little behind. He pressed David’s arm.

“It’s a chance for you at last,” he said. “A real chance. I’ve wanted you to have it. We’ll be watching to see what you can do with it.”

Beside the train a Press photographer was waiting. And at the welcome sight Jim Dudgeon put on his glasses and looked official: he adored being photographed.

“Business is lookin’ up,” he remarked to David. “This is the second time they’ve caught me to-day.”

Overhearing, Bebbington smiled coldly; he carefully took the foreground.

“It’s not surprising,” he said, “considering that I arranged it both times.”

Harry Nugent said nothing, but when the train steamed out David’s last impression, as he stood there with Heddon beside him, was the quiet serenity of his face.

SEVEN

Towards the beginning of the following February when Arthur secured the contract with Mawson, Gowlan & Co., he felt it was the turn of the tide at last. Business at the pit had been deplorable for the past twelve months. Reparations, in wringing coal from Germany, had damaged the export trade on which, at the Neptune, they very considerably depended. France naturally preferred cheap or free coal from Germany to Arthur’s beautiful but expensive coal. And as if that were not enough, America had most unkindly entered the European field, a powerful and relentless competitor for Britain’s exclusive war-time markets.

Arthur was not a fool. He saw clearly that the pre-existing coal famine in Europe had produced an artificial inflation of the export price of British coal. He felt acutely the general illusion of prosperity, and his efforts were most sensibly directed towards making contact with local consumers and re-establishing himself by selling Neptune coal at home.

This return contract with Mawson Gowlans had been implied when the Neptune order for equipment was placed as far back in 1918. But Mawson Gowlan were keen customers and it was only now that Arthur had persuaded them to implement their word: even so he had been forced to shave his prices to the bone.

Nevertheless his mood that morning was one of natural elation as, with the draft contract in his hand, he rose from his desk and went into Armstrong’s office.

“Have a look,” he said. “Full time and double shift for the next four months.”

With a pleased expression, Armstrong pulled his glasses out of his breast pocket — his sight was not what it had been — and slowly surveyed the contract.

“Mawson Gowlan,” he exclaimed. “Well, well! Wouldn’t it beat the band, sir, when you think that this fellow Gowlan worked hand-putting under your father and me in this very pit!”

Pacing up and down the office Arthur laughed rather mirthlessly.

“Better not remind him of it, Armstrong. He’s coming down at ten. By the way, I shall want you to witness our signatures.”

“Ay, he’s a big noise in Tynecastle now, by all accounts.” Armstrong meditated. “Mawson and he have got their fingers in half a dozen pies. I heard they’ve taken over Youngs — you know, the brass-finishers in Tynecastle that went burst last month.”

“Yes,” Arthur said shortly, as if the reminder of yet another local bankruptcy annoyed him, “Gowlan is expanding. That’s why we get this contract.”

Armstrong gazed at Arthur over the gold rims of his spectacles, then he went back to the contract. He read the contract meticulously, his lips moving over the words. Then, not looking at Arthur, he said:

“I see there’s a penalty clause.”

“Naturally.”

“Your father never held with the penalty clause,” Armstrong murmured.

It always irritated Arthur to have his father cast reprovingly in his teeth. He paced up and down the room a little faster with his hands clasped behind his back, and declared with nervous vehemence:

“You can’t pick and choose these days. You’ve got to meet people half-way. If you don’t, then somebody else will. And besides, we can fulfil this contract all ends up. We’ll have no trouble with the men. We’re still under control and the Government have definitely promised no decontrol until August 31st. We have more than six months’ guaranteed control to complete a four months’ contract. What more do you want? And damn it all, Armstrong, we do need the work.”

“That’s true,” Armstrong agreed slowly, “I was only thinking. But you know what you’re doing, sir.”

The sound of a car in the yard cut off Arthur’s quick reply. He stopped his pacing and stood by the window. There was a silence.

“Here’s Gowlan,” he said, watching the yard, “and he doesn’t look like he was going hand-putting now.”

A minute later Joe walked into the office. He advanced impressively, in double-breasted blue, with his hand outstretched and an electric cordiality in his eye. He shook hands vigorously with Arthur and Armstrong, beaming round the office as though it rejoiced him:

“You know it does my heart good to walk into this pit again. You remember I worked here when I was a lad, Mr. Armstrong.” Despite Arthur’s fears there was no mock modesty about Joe, oh dear, no! his big-hearted frankness was human and edifying. “Yes, it was under you, Mr. Armstrong, I got my first groundings. And from your father, Mr. Barras, I drew the first money I ever earned in my life. Well, well! It’s not so long ago either when you come to think of it.” He sat down, pulled up his smartly creased trousers, genial and triumphant. “Yes, I will say,” he mused, “I was absolutely delighted to think of fixing up this contract. A bit of sentiment maybe, but who can help that? I like this pit and I like the way you do things, Mr. Barras. You’ve got a magnificent place here, magnificent. That’s my exact words to my partner, Jim Mawson. Some folks say there’s no feeling in business. Well, well, they’re a long way off beginning to understand the meaning of business, eh, Mr. Barras?”

Arthur smiled; it was impossible to resist Joe’s joyous charm.

“Naturally we’re very glad on our side to have this contract.”

Joe nodded graciously. “Business not so good as it might be, eh, Mr. Barras? Oh, I know, I know, you don’t have to bother to tell me. It’s a regular toss-up when you’ve got all your eggs in the one basket. That’s why Jim and myself keep spreadin’.” He paused, helped himself absently to a cigarette from the box on Arthur’s desk; then, rather solemnly: “Did you know we were floating ourselves next month?”

“You mean a company?”

“Certainly, I do. A public company. The time’s ripe for it. Things is absolutely boomin’ on the market.”

“But surely you’re not relinquishing your interests?”

Joe laughed heartily. “What do you take us for, Mr. Barras? We’ll take two hundred thousand for the goodwill, a packet of shares and a controlling interest on the board.”

“I see.” Arthur blenched slightly. For one second, thinking of his own discouragements at the Neptune, he hungered for an equal success, to lay his hands on such a staggering profit.

A silence; then Arthur moved towards the desk.

“What about the contract, then?”

“Certainly, Mr. Barras, sir. I’m ready when you are. Always ready to do business. Ah, ha! good clean honest business.”

“There’s just one point I’d like to raise. The question of this penalty clause.”

“Yes?”

“There isn’t the slightest doubt about our fulfilling the contract.”

Joe smiled blandly.

“Then why worry about the clause?”

“I’m not worrying, but as we’ve cut our price so close and included delivery at Yarrow, I thought we might agree to delete it?”

Joe’s smile persisted, bland and friendly still, yet tinged with a kind of virtuous regret.

“Ah, now, we’ve got to protect ourselves, Mr. Barras. If we give you the contract for coking coal we’ve got to make sure that we get the coal. It’s only fair play after all. We’re doing our bit and we’re only making sure that you do yours. If you don’t like it, of course, well, we must just—”

“No,” Arthur said quickly. “It’s quite all right, really. If you insist I agree.”

Arthur above everything did not want to lose the contract. And there was no doubt that the clause was perfectly just; it was simply a very tight piece of business which any firm might well demand at this troubled time. Joe produced a large gold-encased fountain pen to sign the contract. He signed with an enormous flourish and Armstrong, who had once cursed Joe over half a mile of ropeway for letting a tub run amain, witnessed Joe’s signature neatly and humbly. Then Joe beamed and pump-handled his way into his car, which whisked him away triumphantly to Tynecastle.

When Joe had gone Arthur sat at his desk worrying a little — as he always did after taking a decision — and wondering if he had not allowed Gowlan to get the better of him. And it struck him that he might insure against the remote contingency of his failure to complete the contract. On an impulse he took the telephone and rang up the Eagle Alliance Offices with whom he usually did business. But the rate quoted was too high, ridiculously high, it would swallow up his small margin of profit. He hung up the receiver and put the matter out of his head.

Indeed, when the men started in full time and double shift on the 10th February, Arthur forgot his worries in the glorious activity and liveliness and bustle about the pit. After the long spell of slackness he felt the pulse of it like his own pulse. It was worth living for, the throbbing, magnificent vigour of the Neptune. This was what he wanted — work for everyone, fair work, fair pay and fair profit. He was happier than he had been for months. That night on his return to the Law he went triumphantly to his father.

“We’re working full time on both shifts now. I thought you’d like to know, father. It’s full steam ahead at the pit again.”

A silence, quivering with suspicion, while Barras peered up at Arthur from the couch in his room where, driven by the cold weather, he kept vigil by the fire. The room was intolerably hot, doors and windows tightly sealed, with Aunt Carrie’s aid, against the electricity. A sheaf of scribbled papers lay half-concealed beneath his rug, and beside him a stick, for with its help he could hobble a little, dragging his right foot.

“And why not?” he muttered at last. “Isn’t that the way it ought to… ought to be?”

Arthur flushed slightly.

“I daresay, father. But it isn’t so easy these days.”

“These days!” The eyebrows, now grey, twitched with venom. “These days — ah! You don’t know the meaning of days. It took me years and years… but I’m waiting, oh, waiting…”

With a dubious smile towards the prostrate figure: “I only thought you’d like to know, father…”

“You’re a fool. I do know, I know everything but what you say. That’s right, laugh… laugh like a fool. But mark my words… the pit will never be right till I come back.”

“Yes, father,” Arthur said, humouring him. “You must hurry up and come back.”

He waited in the room a moment longer, then excusing himself he went quite cheerfully in to tea. He was very cheerful for the next few days. He enjoyed his meals, enjoyed his work, enjoyed his leisure. It struck him with a kind of wonder how little leisure he had lately had; for months and months he had been bound, body and soul, to the Neptune. Now in the evenings he was able to relax and take up a book instead of sitting bowed in his chair tensely pondering on where business might be found. He wrote to Hilda and Grace. He felt himself refreshed and reinvigorated.

All went swimmingly until the morning of the 16th of February when he came down to breakfast and picked up the paper with a sense of well-being and ease. He breakfasted alone, as his father had done in the old days, and he began his grape-fruit with a good appetite, when all at once a middle-page heading in the news arrested his eye. He stared at the heading as though transfixed. He put down his spoon and read the whole column. Then with no thought of breakfast he flung down his napkin, shoved back his chair and rushed to the telephone in the hall. Snatching up the instrument he called Probert of Amalgamated Collieries, who was also a leading member of the Northern Mining Association.

“Mr. Probert,” he stammered. “Have you seen The Times? They’re going to decontrol. In the King’s speech. On March 31st. They’re introducing legislation immediately.”

Probert’s voice came back: “Yes, I’ve seen it, Arthur. Yes, yes, I know… it’s much sooner—”

“But March 31st,” Arthur cut in desperately. “Next month! It’s unbelievable. They pledged themselves not to decontrol till August.”

Probert’s voice answered, very round and comfortable:

“You’re no more staggered than I am, Arthur. We’re precipitated into trouble. It’s a bombshell!”

“I’ve got to see you,” Arthur cried. “I must run over and see you, Mr. Probert, I must. I’ll come straight away.”

Taking no time for a possible denial, Arthur snapped up the receiver. Flinging on a coat he ran round to the garage and started up the light two-seater which now replaced the big saloon. He drove in a kind of fury to Probert’s house at Hedlington four miles up the coast. He arrived in seven minutes and was shown immediately to the morning-room, where, in a deep leather chair beside the blazing fire, Probert sat at leisure, smoking an after-breakfast cigar, with the paper on his knees. It was a charming picture: the warm, deep-carpeted room, the dignified old man, adequately fed, bathed in a lingering perfume of coffee and Havana, snatching a moment before the labours of the day.

“Mr. Probert,” Arthur burst out, “they can’t do this.”

Edgar Probert rose and took Arthur’s hand with a suave gravity.

“I am equally concerned, my dear boy,” he said, still holding Arthur’s hand. “Upon my soul, I am.” He was tall and stately and about sixty-five, with a mane of perfectly white hair, very black eyebrows and a magnificent presence which, as a member of the Northern Mining Association, he used with wonderful effect. He was extremely rich and much respected, and he contributed largely to all local charities which published their lists of subscribers. Every winter his photograph appeared, noble and leonine, on the posters appealing for the Tynecastle Oddfellows Hospital and beneath it, in large type: Mr. Edgar Probert, who has so generously supported our cause, asks you once again to join with him…. For thirty years on end he had bled his men white. He was a perfectly charming old scoundrel.

“Be seated, Arthur, my boy,” he said, waving the cigar gently.

But Arthur was too agitated to sit down.

“What does it mean?” he cried. “That’s what I want to know. I’m absolutely at a loss.”

“I am afraid it means trouble,” Probert answered, planting his feet apart on the hearthrug and gazing abstractedly towards the ceiling.

“Yes, but why have they done it?”

“The Government, Arthur,” Probert murmured, “have been taking a big share of our profits but they have no desire to take any share in our losses. In plain language they are getting out while the going is good. But frankly, I’m not sorry. Strictly between ourselves, I’ve had a private communication from Westminster. It’s time we put our house in order. There’s been a storm brewing between ourselves and the men ever since the war. We must dig ourselves in, stand together as one man and fight.”

“Fight?”

Probert nodded through the balmy incense of cigar smoke. He looked very noble; he looked like the Silver King and Dr. Barnardo rolled into one, only kinder. He declared gently:

“I shall propose a cut of 40 per cent. in wages.”

“Forty per cent.,” Arthur gasped. “Why, that’ll bring the standard below pre-war level. The men will never stand that. No, never on your life. They’ll strike.”

“They may not get the chance to strike.” No animosity behind the words, merely that same benign abstraction. “If they don’t come to their senses promptly we shall lock them out.”

“A lock-out!” Arthur echoed. “That’s ruinous.”

Probert smiled calmly, removed his gaze from the ceiling and fixed it rather patronisingly upon Arthur.

“I imagine most of us have a little nest-egg from the war tucked away somewhere. We must just nibble at that until the men see reason. Yes, yes, we must just nibble at it.”

A little nest-egg! Arthur thought of the capital laid out upon equipment and improvements at the Neptune; he thought of his present full-time contract; and a sudden hot rage came over him.

“I won’t lock out my men,” he said, “I won’t do it. We’re working double shift and full time at the Neptune. A 40 per cent. cut is madness. I’m prepared to pay reasonable wages. I’m not going to close down a going pit. I’m not going to cut my own throat for anybody.”

Probert patted Arthur on the back, more patronising than ever, remembering Arthur’s scandalous war record, despising him as an unbalanced, cowardly young fool, and masking it all with that priestly benevolence.

“There, there, my boy,” he said soothingly. “Don’t magnify the situation. I know you are naturally impetuous. You’ll get over it. We shall have a full meeting of the Association in a week’s time. You’ll be all right by then. You’ll stand in with the rest of us. There’s no other course open to you.”

Arthur stared at Probert with a strained look in his eyes. A nerve in his cheek began to twitch. No other course open to him! It was true, absolutely true; he was tied to the Association in a hundred different ways, bound hand and foot, He groaned.

“This is going to come hard on me.”

Probert patted him a little more tenderly.

“The men must be taught their place, Arthur,” he murmured. “Have you had breakfast? Let me ring for some coffee?”

“No thanks,” Arthur muttered with his head down. “I’ve got to get back.”

“How is your dear father?” Probert inquired sweetly. “You must miss him sadly at the Neptune, aha, yes, indeed. Yet I hear he is making marvellous headway. He is my oldest colleague on the Association. I hope we shall see him there soon, the dear man. You’ll give him my warmest regards!”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded jerkily, making for the door.

“You’re sure you won’t have some coffee?”

“No.”

Arthur had the stinging conviction that the old hypocrite was laughing at him. He got out of Probert’s house somehow and tumbled into his car. He drove very slowly to the Neptune, then he entered his office and sat down at his desk. With his head buried in his hands he thought out the situation fully. He had a going pit wonderfully equipped and working full time on a reasonable contract. He was willing and ready to pay his men an adequate wage. Probert’s wage offer was derisory. With a choking heart Arthur picked up a pencil and worked it out. Yes. Balanced against the cost of living, the real value of Probert’s offer was a pre-war wage of under £1 a week; for the pump-men alone it came to pre-war equivalent of sixteen shillings and ninepence per five-shift week. Sixteen shillings and ninepence — rent, clothes, food for a family out of that! Oh, it was insanity to expect the men to accept it; it was no offer, merely a gage thrown out to promote the struggle. And he was bound to the Association; it was financial suicide even to think of breaking away. He would have to shut down his pit, throw his men out of work, sacrifice his contract. The grim irony of it all made him want to laugh.

At that moment Armstrong came into the office. Arthur looked up with nervous intensity.

“I want you to start overtime immediately on that coking coal, Armstrong. Take as much out as you can and stack it on the bank. Do you understand? — as much as you can manage. Make every effort, use every man.”

“Why, yes, Mr. Barras,” Armstrong answered in a startled voice.

Arthur had not the heart to enlighten Armstrong then. He made a few more calculations on his pad, threw down the pencil and stared away in front of him. The date was the 16th of February.

On the following day the Association met. As a result a secret circular was dispatched to all district mine owners discreetly indicating the approaching lock-out and urging that reserves of coal should be built up. When Arthur received this confidential document he smiled bitterly. How could he build up four months’ output in a bare six weeks!

On March 24th the Coal Decontrol Act became law. Arthur served notices upon his men to terminate the contracts. And on March 31st, with half his contract obligation unfulfilled, the stoppage began.

It was a wet, sad day. In the afternoon, as Arthur stood in his office staring gloomily at the last tubs coming outbye in the pouring rain, the door opened and, quite unannounced, Tom Heddon walked in. There was something almost sinister in Heddon’s silent entry. He stood, grim and formidable, with his back to the shut door, facing Arthur, his compact figure slightly bent as if already burdened with the load of the approaching lock-out. He said:

“I want a word with you.” He paused. “You’ve served notices on every man in this pit.”

“What about it?” Arthur said heavily. “I’m no different from the rest.”

Heddon gave a short, bitterly sarcastic laugh.

“You’re this different. You’re the wettest pit in the district and you’ve served notices on your safety men and pumpers.”

Striving to keep control of himself, Arthur replied:

“I feel too badly about this to quarrel with you, Heddon. You know my obligations compel me to serve notices on all grades.”

“Are you looking for another flooding?” Heddon asked, with a curious inflection in his voice.

Arthur was very near the end of his resistance; he was not to blame; he would stand no bullying from Heddon. A wave of nervous indignation broke over him. He said:

“The safety men will carry on.”

“Oh, will they?” Heddon sneered. He paused, then rasped with bitter emphasis, “I want you to understand that the safety men are carryin’ on simply because I tell them to. If it wasn’t for me and the men behind me your bloddy pit would be flooded in twenty-four hours. D’you savvy that — flooded and finished! The miners you’re tryin’ to starve into the muck heap are goin’ on pumpin’ to keep you fat and cushy in your bloddy parlour. Just bite on that, will you, for the love of Christ, and see how it tastes.”

With a sudden wild gesture as though he could trust himself no longer Heddon swung round and banged his way out. Arthur sat down by the desk. He sat there a long time until darkness came stealing into the office and all but the safety men had left the pit. Then he rose and silently walked home.

The lock-out began. And through the long dreary weeks it drearily dragged on. With the safety of the mines assured there remained only to stand aside and contemplate the struggle between the men and the spectre of want. Day in, day out, with a heavy heart Arthur saw the limits to which this unequal conflict could be pushed — the gaunt cheeks of the men, the women, yes, even the children, the darkness that lay on every face, the streets without laughter, without play. His heart turned within him in a cold pain. Could man inflict this cruelty upon man? The war to end war, to bring great and lasting peace, a new and glorious era in our civilisation. And now this! Take your pittance, slaves, and toil in the underworld in sweat and dirt and danger, yes, take it or starve. A woman died in childbirth in Inkerman Terrace — Dr. Scott, when pressed by the coroner, used a word, tempered officially to malnutrition. Margarine and bread; bread and margarine; sometimes not that. To raise a sturdy son to sing the song of Empire.

Thoughts like these burned incoherently in Arthur’s mind. He could not, would not stand it. At the end of the first month he started soup-kitchens in the town, organised a private relief scheme for the utter destitution in the Terraces. His efforts were met, not with gratitude, but with hatred. He did not blame the men. He understood their bitterness. With a quick pang he felt his inability to turn the tide of sentiment towards himself; he had no gift for spectacular publicity, no winning personality to utilise. Right from the start the men had distrusted him at the Neptune and now outside his soup-kitchen the words were scrawled: To Hell with the Conchy. Rubbed off, the phrase, or one more obnoxious, was rechalked at night ready to meet his eye on the following morning. A body of the younger men were most hostile to him; headed by Jack Reedy and Cha Leeming, they comprised many who had lost brothers or fathers in the Neptune disaster. Now, for no reason he could imagine, their hatred expended itself on him.

On and on went the ghastly farce. With a strange disgust Arthur read of the formation of the Defence Force, a fully armed and uniformed body of 80,000 men. The Defence Force — in defence of what? In May trouble began round the Amalgamated Collieries and troops were drafted to the district. There were a great many Royal Proclamations and Mr. Probert took himself and his family for a well-earned and most enjoyable holiday at Bournemouth.

But Arthur remained in Sleescale — through April, May, June. It was in June that the postcards began to arrive — anonymous postcards which were childishly defamatory, even scurrilous. Every day one came, written in a sprawling, unformed hand, which Arthur thought at first to be disguised. At the outset he ignored them, but gradually they came to cause him pain. Who could pursue him with such malice? He could not guess. And then towards the end of the month, the culprit stood revealed, caught in the act of handing a freshly scribbled card to one of the message-boys who came about the Law. It was Barras.

But the old man’s ceaseless scrutiny was even worse to bear, watching, watching Arthur all the time, noting his comings and goings, gloating at his dejection, rejoicing in the manifest evidence of trouble. It fell on Arthur like a scourge, that peering, bloodshot, senile orb, sapping away his energy, depleting him.

On July 1st an exhaustion like that of death brought the struggle to an end. The men were beaten, humiliated, crushed. But Arthur had not won. The loss on his defaulted contract was a heavy one. Yet as he saw the men stream slowly and silently across the pit yard once more and saw the wheels revolve again above the headgear, he shook his discouragement away. Reverses must occur. This, through no fault of his own, was one of them. He would not let himself go under. Now, from this minute, he would begin again.

EIGHT

A summer Sunday of 1925 and David, returning from his afternoon stroll along the Dunes, met Annie and little Sammy at the east end of Lamb Street. At the sight of David, Sammy ran forward with a triumphant shout — he was “a great one” for David, Sammy was, and he chanted:

“Aw’ve got my holidays Saturday. Isn’t that gud?”

“It’s grand, Sammy, man.” David smiled at Sammy, reflecting behind his smile that Sammy, outgrowing his strength, looked as if he needed a holiday. Sammy was eight years old now with a pale face and a nobby forehead and cheerful blue eyes that disappeared every time he laughed, like his father’s had done before him. He was dressed very neat and clean for his Sunday walk with his mother in a suit which Annie had made for him out of a grey serge remnant bought at Bates’. He was shooting up fast, and his boots, bought less for beauty than to keep out the wet, looked enormous at the end of his thin growing shanks.

“You’ll have your hands full, Annie.” David turned to Sammy’s mother who had come quietly up beside them. “I know these holidays!”

“I’m cross with Sammy,” Annie said in a voice that was not cross. “He would climb the gate at Sluice Dene and he’s cracked his new celluloid collar.”

“Ah, it was to get some oak nuts,” Sammy declared earnestly. “Aw wanted th’ oak nuts, Davey.”

“Uncle David,” protested Annie reproachfully. “How can you, Sammy!”

“Never mind, Annie, lass,” said David. “We’re old friends together. Aren’t we, Sammy?”

“Ay!” Sammy grinned; and David smiled again. But as he looked at Annie he stopped smiling. Annie really seemed quite done up with the heat; she had a dark line under her eyes and she was quite as pale as Sammy who, as his dad had been, was naturally pale. She held her hand against the side of the wall, supporting herself a little as she stood there. He knew that Annie was continually hard put to it, with old man Macer now completely crippled by rheumatism and Pug not working steady at the Neptune, and Sammy to look after. Annie had been doing washing, he knew, and going out days cleaning to keep things going. He had offered to help Annie a dozen times, but Annie would not look at money, she was very independent. On an impulse he asked:

“Come to think of it, when did you last have a holiday yourself, Annie?”

Her calm eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Well, I had my holidays when I was at the school,” she said. “Like Sammy has the now.”

That was Annie’s idea of a holiday — she had no other, no notion of change of scene and air, of white esplanades, gay beaches, music mingling with the waves. The unintentioned pathos of her answer caught David by the throat. He took a quick and most unexpected decision. He said casually:

“How about you and Sammy coming for a week to Whitley Bay?”

She stood very still with her eyes on the hot pavement. Sammy let out a whoop, then fell into a kind of awe.

“Whitley Bay,” he echoed. “By gosh, aw’d like te go te Whitley Bay.”

David kept his gaze on Annie.

“Harry Nugent has written and asked me to meet him there on the 26th.” Then he lied: “I’d made up my mind to take a week there beforehand.”

She still remained motionless with her eyes on the hot pavement, and she was paler than before.

“Oh no, David,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah, mother,” Sammy cried appealingly.

“You could do with a change, Annie, and Sammy too.”

“It has been sort of hot to-day,” she agreed. The thought of a week at Whitley Bay for Sammy and herself was dazzling, but her head was full of the difficulties, oh, half a hundred obstacles; she had no clothes, she would “show up” David, she had the house and her father to look after, Pug might go on the drink if she left him to himself. Then a brilliant idea struck her. She exclaimed: “Take Sammy!”

He said grimly:

“Sammy doesn’t go an inch without his mother.”

“Now, mother,” Sammy cried again, his little white face filled with a warning desperation.

There was a silence, then she lifted her eyes and smiled her quiet smile at him.

“Very well, David,” she said. “If you’re so good as to take us.”

It was settled. All at once David felt glad, immensely and surprisingly glad. It was like a sudden glow within him. He watched Annie and Sammy go down the road towards Quay Street with Sammy capering about his mother, big boots and broken collar and all, capering and talking about Whitley Bay. Then he walked home along Lamb Lane to his house. Now there was no chickweed on the path, the little garden was trim and neat at last, and bright yellow nasturtiums grew up white strings on the wall where Martha had trained them. The doorstep was very whitely pipe-clayed and scalloped by Martha, and the window-blinds had a full twelve inches of wonderful crochet-edging worked as only Martha’s hands could work it. All the best colliers’ houses had crochet-edged blinds — the sign of a tidy collier! — but none in Sleescale were finer than these.

He hung up his hat in the hall and went into the kitchen where Martha was on her feet preparing some watercress for his tea. Martha was always busy in his service, a perfect demi-urge of house-proud service beat beneath her sober bodice. The kitchen was so clean he could have taken his tea off the floor — as they say in these parts. The woodwork of the furniture shone, the china on the dresser gleamed. The fine marble clock, won by Martha’s father for pot-stour bowling, and brought down from Inkerman Terrace when she gave up her home, ticked solemnly, a sacred heirloom, on the high mantelpiece. The high clear stillness of Sunday was in the house.

He studied Martha. He said:

“Why don’t you come to Whitley Bay for a week, mother? I’m going there on the 19th.”

She did not look round but went on scrupulously examining the watercress: she could not bear a speck upon lettuce or watercress. When he began to feel she had not heard him, she said:

“What would I do with Whitley Bay?”

“I thought you might like it, mother. Annie and the boy are coming,” he made his tone coaxing. “You better come too!”

Her back was towards him and she did not speak for a minute. But finally, in a bleached voice, she answered:

“No. I’m as well here!” When she turned with the plate of watercress her face was stiff.

He knew better than to press her. Sitting down on the sofa by the window he picked up the current number of the Workers’ Independent. His weekly article, a series he had been contributing for the past twelve months, was on the front page, and a speech he had made at Seghill on Tuesday was given verbatim on the middle sheet. He read neither. He was thirty-five years of age. For the last four years he had worked like a nigger, organising, speaking, getting about the district, not sparing himself. He had increased the Edgeley membership by over four thousand. He had the name for tenacity and strength and ability. Three monographs of his had been published by the Anvil Press, and his paper The Nation and the Mines had won him the Russell medal. The medal was upstairs, lost somewhere, behind a drawer. He felt a momentary sadness come over him. Down in the Dunes this afternoon he had listened to the lark, and the sound of the lark had reminded him of the boy who used to come to the Dunes nearly twenty years before. Then he had fallen to thinking of Jenny. Where in the name of God was Jenny? Dear Jenny — in spite of everything he still loved her and missed her and thought of her. And the thought of her striking through the sunshine and the song of the lark had saddened him. Meeting Annie and Sammy had lifted up his spirits, it is true, but now the sadness was come on him again. Perhaps Martha was responsible — her attitude! Was it not futile for him to keep striving to change the movements of great masses of humanity when the secret heart of each human unit remained secret and unassailable and unchanging? She was very unforgiving, Martha.

He felt better after his tea — the watercress in spite of Martha’s unforgiving heart was good — and he sat down to write to Harry. Dudgeon and Bebbington and Harry had all kept their seats in the election that year. A very near thing it had been for Bebbington; there had been some scandal over divorce proceedings brought by Sir Peter Outram, when Bebbington had been named, but the affair had been hurried over, and Bebbington had just managed to come through. David wrote a long letter to Harry. Then he took up Erich Flitner’s Experiments in State Control. He had been interested in Flitner lately and in Max Sering too, especially Assault on the Community, but to-night Flitner rather dodged him. He kept thinking about the coming assault on Whitley Bay and he decided that it would be uncommonly good fun to take Sammy for a swim. There would be ice-cream too; he must on no account forget the ice-cream. It was just possible that Annie might have a secret weakness for ice-cream, the real Italian stuff, a slider. Would Annie remain immutable if confronted with a slider? He lay back and laughed out loud.

In fact, for the whole of the next ten days he couldn’t get Whitley Bay and the swimming and Annie and Sammy out of his head. On the morning of the 19th when he arrived at Central Station, Tynecastle, where he had arranged to meet Annie and Sammy, he was genuinely excited. He had been detained by a last-minute compensation case and he came in with a rush to the booking-hall where Annie and Sammy stood waiting.

“I thought I’d be late,” he exclaimed, smiling and breathless, and decided it was good still to be young enough to feel excited and breathless.

“There’s plenty of time,” Annie said in her practical way.

Sammy said nothing, his instructions were to say nothing, but his shining blue eyes in his beautifully washed face expressed a whole philosophy.

They got into the train for Whitley Bay, David carrying the suit-cases. Annie did not like that; she wanted to carry her own suit-case, or rather the suit-case she had borrowed from Pug — it was heavy, and too shabby for David to be seen with. Annie looked distressed, as though it were the most improper thing in the world for David to be carrying the suit-case when she had often carried a fish creel three times the weight herself, but she thought it not her place to protest. Then they were in their compartment, the whistle blew and they were off.

Sammy sat in the corner seat next to David and Annie sat opposite. As they rolled through the suburbs into the flat countryside Sammy’s enthusiasm was enormous and, forgetting that he had been vowed to silence, he shared it generously with David.

“See that engine, an’ the waggons, and that crane!” he cried. “Oh, and look at the size of that chimney. By gosh, I’ve never seed a chimney bigger nor that afore.”

The chimney led to profound and exciting talk of steeplejacks and how wonderful it must be to stand on the top of a chimney “that high” with nothing between you and the earth two hundred feet below.

“Perhaps you’d like to be a steeple-jack when you grow up, Sammy?” David said, smiling at Annie.

Sammy shook his head.

“No,” he said with a certain reticence. “I’m going to be like my father.”

“A miner?” David asked.

“Ay! That’s what I’m going to be,” Sammy said sturdily. Sammy’s air was so solemn that David had to laugh.

“You’ve plenty of time to change your mind,” he said.

It was a pleasant journey, though not a long one, and quite soon they were at Whitley Bay. David had taken rooms in Tarrant Street, a small quiet street leading off the promenade near the Waverley Hotel. The rooms had been recommended to him by Dickie, his clerk at the Institute, who said that Mrs. Leslie the landlady often took Federation delegates when the district conferences were on. Mrs. Leslie was the widow of a doctor who had lost his life in a colliery accident at Hedlington about twenty years before. A timberman had been pinned by a fall of roof and it had been impossible to free his forearm which was caught and mangled between two masses of whinstone. Dr. Leslie had gone down to amputate the timberman’s forearm and get him out. He had almost got through the amputation which he had heroically performed on the equally heroic timberman without an anæsthetic, lying on his belly in coal muck, squeezed under the fall, in a sweat of blood and dirt, when quietly and suddenly the whole roof caved in on them, and the doctor and the timberman were both crushed to death. Everyone had forgotten about the incident now, but it was because of that fall of roof that Mrs. Leslie kept lodgings in the downtrodden little road with its row of red-brick houses each having four square yards of front garden, Nottingham lace curtains, glass overmantels and a much-abused piano.

Mrs. Leslie was a tall, dark, reserved woman; she was neither comic nor ill-tempered: she presented none of those features which are traditionally associated with the seaside landlady. She made David and Annie and Sammy quietly welcome and showed them to their rooms. But here Mrs. Leslie made an unexpectedly awkward mistake. She turned to Annie and said:

“I thought you and your husband could have this nice front room and the little boy would take the small room at the back.”

Annie did not blush; if anything she paled; and without the slightest trace of awkwardness she answered:

“This is my brother-in-law, Mrs. Leslie. My husband was killed in the war.”

It was Mrs. Leslie who blushed, the difficult blush of a reserved woman; she coloured to the roots of her hair.

“That was very stupid of me. I ought to have understood from the letter.” So Annie and Sammy had the front room and David the small room at the back. But Mrs. Leslie felt in some odd way that she had wounded Annie and she took a deal of trouble to be nice to Annie. In no time at all Mrs. Leslie and Annie became friends.

The holiday went well. Sammy galvanised the holiday; he was like an electric needle pricking David on, though David did not need pricking — he was having just as lovely a time with Sammy as Sammy was with him. The weather was warm, but the fresh breeze which always blows at Whitley Bay prevented the warmth from being oppressive. They bathed every morning and played French cricket on the sands. They ate unbelievably of ice-cream and fruit and went for walks to Cullercoats to the queer old-fashioned crab-parlour kept by the old woman in Brown’s Buildings. David had inward remorse that the crab was not exactly good for Sammy’s stomach, but Sammy loved it and with a guilty air they would sneak into the little front parlour in the two-roomed house that smelled of tar and nets and sit down on the horse-hair sofa and eat the fresh crab out of the rough shell while the old woman of the establishment watched them and called Sammy “hinny” and sucked at her clay pipe. The crab tasted marvellous; indeed, it tasted so good David felt it could not possibly do Sammy any harm. On the way back from Cullercoats, Sammy would take David’s hand as they walked home along the promenade. That was question-time. David allowed Sammy to ask him any question under the sun and Sammy, trotting alongside, simply bombarded him with questions. David answered correctly when he could and when he couldn’t he invented. But Sammy always knew when he was inventing. He would look up at David with those twinkling, disappearing eyes and laugh.

“Eh, yor coddin’ now, Uncle Davey?” But Sammy liked the codding even better than the answers.

David and Sammy had many such wonderful excursions together. Annie seemed to feel that they enjoyed being together and kept herself a good deal in the background. She was naturally self-effacing and she usually had something to do when David and Sammy wanted her to come out — the shopping, or some darning, or she had promised to take a cup of tea with Mrs. Leslie! Annie in collaboration with Mrs. Leslie was always devising some fresh turn on the menu and trying to find out what David liked. Annie’s gratitude was enormous, but her fear of obtruding herself on David was more enormous still, and at last David had it out with her. On the Thursday afternoon he came in out of the sunshine and found Annie going upstairs with his grey flannel trousers folded over her arm — she had been pressing them in the kitchen with an iron borrowed from Mrs. Leslie. He saw this and a sudden exasperation took hold of him.

“Good Lord, Annie,” he cried. “What do you want to do ironing for! Stopping indoors a fine day like this. Why aren’t you down on the beach with Sammy and me?”

Her eyes dropped; she was furious with herself for letting herself be caught. She said, as in excuse:

“I’ll be down later, David.”

“Later!” he raged. “It’s always later, or in a minute, or when I’ve had a word with Mrs. Leslie. Good heavens, woman, don’t you want to get any good of your holiday; what do you think I brought you for?”

“Well,” she said, “I thought to look after you and Sammy.”

“What nonsense! I want you to have a good time, to come out and enjoy yourself, to give us your company, Annie.”

“Well,” smiling again faintly, “if I’ll not be a nuisance to you, but I thought you wouldn’t want to be bothered.”

She put on her hat and came down to the beach with him and they sat with Sammy on the soft sand and were happy. From time to time he glanced at her as she leaned back, her head with her eyes closed towards the bright sun. She puzzled him. She was a great girl, Annie, had always been a great girl — plucky, competent, quiet, modest. There was no flaunting of sex with Annie. Yet she was a fine strapping figure of a woman, with fine limbs and fine firm breasts and a fine smooth curve to her throat. Her calm face now upturned to the sun had a regular, composed, slightly sad beauty. Yes, though she took no care of herself whatever she had an almost classic beauty of which any woman might have been proud. And yet Annie had no pride, that was the queer thing, she had a sturdy independence, but neither vanity nor conceit. She had so little conceit of herself she was afraid of being a nuisance to him, of being in the way, a “bother.” What infernally exalted notion had Annie got hold of now, he wondered; she used not to be like that at all. But now, if only from the increasing respect of Mrs. Leslie — that plain reflection of Annie’s awe — he, could almost feel that Annie was afraid of him. And suddenly, as he lay on his elbow on the sand — Sammy was playing with his bucket at the water’s edge — he said:

“What’s come between you and me, lately, Annie? We used to be the best of friends.”

Still keeping her eyes closed towards the sun she answered:

“You are the best friend I have, David.”

He frowned at her, streaming soft sand between his fingers.

“I’d like to know what’s going on inside that head of yours. I’d like to shake you, Annie. I’d like to knock a real opinion out of you. You’ve become a kind of Mona Lisa, Annie. Heavens alive, I believe I’d like to beat you.”

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” she said, with her faint smile. “I’m pretty strong.”

“Listen,” he answered after a minute. “I know what I’m going to do with you!” He looked at her shut eyes with a comic grimness. “When Sammy’s in bed to-night I’m going to take you to the Fun Fair. I’m going to push you into every mad, wild, atrocious side-show that exists. I’m going to jam you on to the cake-walk, the electric motors and the scenic railway. And when you’re whirling through the air at eighty miles an hour I’m going to take a good close look at you and find out if the old Annie is still there.”

“I’d like to go on the scenic railway,” she said with that smiling, that baffling imperturbability. “But it’s pretty expensive, isn’t it?”

He lay back and roared with laughter.

“Annie, Annie, you’re unbeatable. We’ll go on that scenic railway if it costs a million and kills us both!”

They went. After the unsuspecting Sammy had been decoyed with peppermint rock and put early to bed, David and Annie strolled over to the Fun Fair at Tynemouth. The wind had fallen and it was a calm, sweet evening. For no reason he could explain David was reminded suddenly and vividly of the evenings he had spent here with Jenny on their honeymoon at Cullercoats. And as they strolled past Cullercoats he was induced to speak of Jenny. He remarked to Annie:

“You knew I came here once with Jenny?”

“Well, yes, I did know,” Annie said, giving him a queer, involuntary glance.

“It seems a long time ago.”

“It’s not so very long.”

There was a pause, then immersed in his own thoughts, overtaken by a sudden tenderness towards Jenny, David continued:

“I miss Jenny a lot, Annie. Sometimes I miss her terribly. I haven’t stopped hoping she’ll come back to me.”

There was another silence, quite a long silence, then Annie said:

“I hope so, too, David. I’ve always known you were set on her.”

They walked on without speaking after that, and when they entered the Fun Fair it looked almost as if the Fun Fair was not going to be a success, for Annie was not only silent but strangely subdued as well. But David was determined to shake Annie out of her perfectly causeless melancholy. Throwing off his own mood, he really exerted himself. He took Annie everywhere, beginning in the Hall of Mirrors, then passing on to the Helter Skelter. As they came tearing down the Helter Skelter on the same mat, Annie gave a palpitating smile.

“That’s better,” he said approvingly and dragged her to the Scenic Railway.

The Scenic Railway was better still. They switchbacked and bored through Stygian tunnels on the Scenic Railway and Annie simply could not get her breath. But the Giant Racer was the best of any. They found the Giant Racer about nine o’clock and they swooped and soared and dived from giddy heights on the Giant Racer until the whole glittering Fun Fair spun around them in one glorious daze. There was nothing like the Giant Racer, nothing in heaven, hell, limbo, purgatory or all the dimensions of this present universe. Upon the Giant Racer you climbed to an impossible altitude while all the panorama of the fair-ground lights lay beautiful and glittering and remote beneath. You climbed slowly with a wickedly deceptive slowness, enjoying the cool tranquillity, securely admiring the view. You crawled, simply, to the top. And then, while you still sedately admired the view, the car poised itself upon the brink and without warning hurled into the depths below. Down, down, down you fell into an unknown, shrieking darkness. Your stomach left you, your being dissolved, you died and were reborn again in that terrible ecstatic flight. But one flight was nothing; the car leaped to another summit and fell with you again, down, down, down; you had to die and be reborn all over again.

David helped Annie from the car. She stood uncertainly, holding his arm, with her cheeks flushed and her hat awry and a look in her eyes as if she was glad to be holding his arm.

“Oh, Davey,” she gasped, “never take me on that thing again.” Then she began to laugh. She laughed and laughed very quietly into herself. And again she gasped: “But it was wonderful.”

He looked down at her, smiling.

“It did make you laugh,” he said. “And that’s what I wanted.”

They sauntered about the Fair Ground, companionably interested in everything they saw. The music cascaded, the cheap-jacks shouted, the lights flared, the crowds went round and round. All the people were common and hilarious and poor. Coalies from Tyneside, riveters from Shiphead, moulders and puddlers from Yarrow, hewers from Seghill and Hedlington and Edgeley. Caps on back of the head, mufflers streaming, fag behind the ear. Their women folk were with them, red-faced and happy and eating out of paper bags. When the bags were empty they blew up the bags and burst them. They had teasers too, which blew out and hit you as you passed. It was a saturnalia of the humble and the unknown and the obscure. And suddenly David said to Annie:

“This is where I belong, Annie. These are my people. I’m happy among them.”

But she would not admit it. She shook her head vehemently.

“You’re going to the top, Davey,” she declared, in her slow, straightforward way. “Everybody says it. You’re going into Parliament at the next election.”

“Who says that?”

“All the lads say it at the Neptune. Pug was telling me. They say you’re the one what’ll do things for them.”

“If I could,” he said, and took a long deep breath.

As they walked home to Tarrant Street along the front a great moon came out of the water and looked at them. The noise and glitter of the Fun Fair died away behind. And he told Annie of what he wanted to do. He was hardly conscious of her stepping steadily beside him, she said so little and listened so well, but all the aspirations of his soul were laid before her. He had no ambition for himself. None.

He wanted justice for the miner, his own people, a class long and bitterly oppressed.

“Justice and safety, Annie,” he concluded in a low voice. “Mining isn’t like any other industry. It demands Nationalisation. The lives of the men depend on it. So long as you have private enterprise looking for a big profit you’ll find the safety factor cut. Once in a while. And then the thing happens. That’s the way it was at the Neptune.”

Silence came between them as they went up Tarrant Street. With a change of tone he asked:

“Aren’t you sick of listening to all my tub-thumping?”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t tub-thumping… it’s too real for that.”

“I want you to meet Harry Nugent when he comes tomorrow,” he said. “Harry’s the man who really can be convincing. You’ll like him, Annie.”

She shook her head quickly.

“Oh no! I’d rather not meet him.”

“But why?” he asked, surprised.

“I just don’t want to,” she said firmly, and with unexpected finality.

Unaccountably, he felt hurt; her incomprehensible withdrawal, coming on top of his friendliness, his effort to take her out of herself, wounded him. He dropped the subject completely and withdrew into himself. When they entered the house, refusing her offer to get him some supper, he said good night at once, and went straight to his room.

Harry Nugent arrived next day. Nugent was fond of Whitley Bay; he swore there was no air in the world like Whitley air; whenever he could snatch a week-end he came to get a lungful of the wonderful air. He put up at the Waverley and David met him there at three o’clock.

Although it was so early in the afternoon, they had tea in the lounge without delay. Nugent was responsible; he was a great tea drinker, he drank endless cups of tea, he would make anything an excuse for a cup of tea. It didn’t suit him either, aggravating the dyspepsia from which he habitually suffered. Nugent was physically a delicate man: his bony, ungainly figure and sallow, emaciated face bespoke a constitution ill-adapted to a life of strain. He suffered greatly and often from minor, unromantic maladies — once, for instance, he had endured six months’ agony from fistula. But he never complained, never coddled himself, never gave up. He was so absurdly and humanly grateful, too, for the lesser joys of life — a cigarette, a cup of tea, a week-end at Whitley Bay or an afternoon at Kennington Oval. Nugent was above everything a human man; his smile expressed it, quietly forming on his ugly face, a smile which always seemed boyish because of the slight gap between his front teeth. He smiled now, at David, over this third cup.

“Well, I suppose I may as well go straight to the point.”

“You usually do,” David said.

Nugent lit a cigarette, and held it between his nicotine-stained fingers, tapping in the loose tobacco with a sudden seriousness.

“You did know, David, that Chris Stapleton was ill,” he said at length. “Ay, and he turns out to be worse, poor fellow, than any of us thought. He went under an operation at the Freemasons’ Hospital last week, internal trouble — you can guess what that means. I saw him yesterday. He’s unconscious and sinking fast.” He contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette. There was a long silence, then Nugent added: “There’ll be a bye-election at Sleescale next month.”

A sudden wild emotion rose in David’s breast and leaped, like a pang of fear, into his eyes. There was another silence.

Nugent gazed across at him and nodded.

“That’s right, David,” he said. “I’ve been in touch with the local executive. There’s no question as to who they want. You’ll be nominated in the usual way.”

David could not believe it. He stared back at Nugent, inarticulate, overcome. Then his eyes clouded suddenly and he could not see Nugent any more.

NINE

The first person David met on his return to Sleescale was James Ramage. That Monday morning he had come up from Whitley Bay to Tynecastle with Annie and Sammy and seen them on the train for home. Then he had hurried to Edgeley to put in a full day’s work at the Institute. It was seven o’clock in the evening when he came out of Sleescale Station and almost collided with Ramage, who was walking towards the news-stall for a late edition.

Ramage stopped dead in the middle of the passage-way and David saw from his face that he knew. On the Sunday night Stapleton had died in the Freemasons’ Hospital and there had been a significant paragraph in this morning’s Tynecastle Herald.

“Well, well,” Ramage said, very sneering, pretending to be highly amused. “So we’re goin’ to have a try for parleyment, I hear?”

With the most exasperating amiability he could command David answered:

“That’s right, Mr. Ramage!”

“Huh! And you think you’ll get in?”

“Yes, I hope so,” David agreed, maddeningly.

Ramage stopped trying to appear amused. His big red face turned redder than before. He clenched one hand and banged it vehemently into the palm of the other.

“Not if I can help it. No, by God, no, not if I can help it. We don’t want no blasted agitators to represent this borough.”

David watched Ramage’s distorted face almost with curiosity, the hatred there was so openly displayed. He had forced Ramage to supply sound meat to the hospital, fought him over his abominable slaughter-house, his insanitary tenements behind Quay Street. He had, altogether, tried to induce James Ramage to do a great deal of good. And James Ramage could have killed him for it. Very curious.

He said quietly, without rancour:

“Naturally you’ll support your own candidate.”

“You bet your life, I will,” Ramage exploded. “We’ll swamp you at the polls, we’ll wipe you out, we’ll make you the laughin’ stock of Tyneside…” He choked, seeking more violent expletives, then with a final incoherence in his throat he swung round and walked furiously away.

David went down Freehold Street thoughtfully. He knew that Ramage’s was not the general opinion. Yet he fully appreciated what he was up against. Sleescale Borough was normally a safe enough Labour seat, but Stapleton, who had held it for the last four years, had been an oldish man, a man stricken in advance with the dreadful infirmity of cancer. At the last election which had sent in the Baldwin Government, Sleescale had wavered slightly, and Laurance Roscoe, the Conservative candidate, had reduced Stapleton’s majority to a bare 1,200. Roscoe was certain to stand again, and he was a dangerous opponent. Young, good-looking and rich, David had met him several times, a big lanky-shouldered man of thirty-four with a high forehead, extremely white teeth and an odd habit of straightening his shoulders with a jerk, correcting a tendency to stoop. He was the son of Lynton Roscoe, K.C. — now Sir Lynton and a director of Tynecastle Main Collieries. Following the family tradition, young Roscoe was a barrister on the north-eastern circuit with a fine practice; work simply flowed in to him through his father’s position and his own ability. He had got his blue for cricket at Cambridge, and in the war he had served quite romantically in the R.A.F. In fact, he was still interested in flying; he had his pilot’s licence and often flew from Heston at the week-end to his father’s country place at Morpeth. David felt it as strangely significant that the son of the man who had clashed with him so fiercely at the Inquiry should now oppose him at the polls. Oh well, David thought with a sombre smile, the bigger they are the harder they fall.

He went into his house. Martha was at the table peering over the evening newspaper, wearing the steel-rimmed spectacles which, disdaining his suggestion of an oculist, she had recently purchased for herself at the new Woolworths. Usually Martha did not bother over the evening newspaper but Hannah Brace had flown round upon the wind to gabble out to Martha the election paragraph and Martha for once in her life had gone out and bought the paper. She stood up with a guilty air. He could see that she was astounded, confused, almost stunned. But she would not be stunned, she would not. In her dark and masterful face he could see her struggling not to be impressed. Concealing the paper she said accusingly: “You’re early back, I didn’t expect you before nine.”

But he would not let her off.

“What do you think of it, mother?”

She paused; then she said dourly:

“I don’t like it.” She went to get his supper; that was all she said.

As he ate his supper he planned ahead. A vigorous campaign — that’s what they called it, but it was not so easy to be vigorous when you were poor. Nugent had been brutally frank on the question of money: it was concession enough for David to secure the nomination. Still, he was not dismayed. His expenses could be cut; old Peter Wilson was a reasonable agent. He would hire one of the Co-operative light lorries and speak a good deal in the open, with the Town Hall for a final meeting. He smiled at Martha as she handed him a plate of stewed prunes. He knew that she knew he had never liked prunes.

“Prunes,” he said, “for a member of parliament!”

“Time enough to talk,” she answered cryptically.

Nomination took place on the 24th of August. There were only two candidates; the issue lay between David and Roscoe — a straight fight. It was a very wet day, the 24th, the rain came down in bucketfuls which meant, Roscoe jokingly remarked, that the omens were unfavourable for one of the candidates. David hoped it wasn’t him. He found Roscoe’s brimming confidence a trifle depressing. As far as he could see, the Conservative organisation was three times more efficient than his own. Peter Wilson, the scrubby little Sleescale solicitor, made an insignificant figure beside the morning-coated Bannerman, Roscoe’s agent, imported from Tynecastle. And all this apart, the lashing rain made it very unfavourable for light-lorry eloquence. So David, feeling acutely inferior, was obliged to postpone his start. He went home and changed his damp boots.

But the next day was a day of blue sky and sunshine and David flung himself body and soul into the battle. He was at the Neptune gates when the foreshift came out, bareheaded and ready with Harry Ogle, Wicks, the checkweigher, and Bill Snow upon the lorry beside him — Cha Leeming being the volunteer driver. He made a strong, incisive speech and he made it deliberately short. He knew that the men were hungry for their dinner and he didn’t keep them long. Roscoe, who had never come out the pit hungry for his snap, might make that mistake, but he wouldn’t. The speech was a success.

David’s plank was a plain and banal plank, but it gave substantial footing none the less. Justice for the miners. They knew that short of Nationalisation justice would never come. He was fighting on that issue and nothing else. He was competent to fight on that issue. It was the expression of his lifelong faith.

At the end of the first week Tom Heddon came down from Tynemouth to “say a word” for David. All David’s speeches had been studiously impersonal, for Roscoe was fighting cleanly and the air was clear of mud-slinging. But Heddon was Heddon, and although David had begged him before the meeting to be careful, Tom refused to keep the party clean. With a sour grin on his dark face he began:

“Lissen to me, you lads. There’s two candidates in this bloddy election, Roscoe and Davey Fenwick. Now lissen to me a minnit, will ye. When this Roscoe was knockin’ a ball about on a cricket-pitch at Eton and Harrow all la-de-dah in his flannelettes, with his ma and his pa and his sister standing by and clapping pretty under their bloomin’ parasols, Davey Fenwick was inbye in the Neptune, stripped to the waist, muckin’ and sweatin,’ catchin’ and pushin’ bloddy tubs of coal like we’ve all done in our bloddy time. Now answer me, lads, which of the two of them do you want to plump your bloddy vote for? The one what caught the bloddy tubs or the one what missed the bloddy ball?”

There was half an hour of this. It was rich and satisfying and highly seasoned and it went over big. Tom Heddon said quietly to David afterwards:

“It’s poor stuff, Davey; I’m sick of it myself, but if it’s done ye any good I’m sure you’re welcome.” If Tom Heddon had been a brilliant man he might well have been contesting the seat and Tom Heddon knew that he might have been contesting the seat. Since Tom was not brilliant he could only be unselfish. But his unselfishness did not save him from moments of terrible bitterness, of private self-torture worse than the torture of the damned.

Saturday, September 21st, was the day of the election and at six o’clock on Friday the night of the 20th David addressed his final meeting in the Sleescale Town Hall. The hall was full; they were standing three deep in the passages, and around the doors, wide open for the hot night, a crowd had gathered. All David’s supporters were on the platform: Tom Heddon, Harry Ogle, Wicks, Kinch, young Brace, old Tom Ogle, Peter Wilson and Carmichael, who had come specially from Wallington to spend the week-end with David.

As David came forward to speak there was a dead silence. He stood behind the small table and the fly-blown water-bottle that no one ever drank from, and the air was so still he could hear the faint sounds of the waves lapping on the Snook. Before him were rows and rows of faces, all upturned towards him. Beyond the bright glare of the platform they had a massed, symbolic pallor, a look vaguely beseeching. Yet he could distinguish individual faces, all of them faces that he knew. In the very front row he saw Annie with still intent eyes upon him, and Pug beside her and Ned Sinclair and Tom Townley, Cha Leeming with Jack Reedy, very brooding and bitter, Woods, Slattery, and dozens and dozens more, men from the Neptune pit. He knew them, the miners, his own kind. He felt a great humility come over him, his heart filled, swelled towards them. He dropped the clichés, the political casuistry, the tub-thumping rhetoric. Dear God, help me, he thought, help me, help me. He spoke to them simply, from his very soul.

“I know most of you who are here,” he said, and his voice trembled with emotion. “Many of you worked in the Neptune pit when I worked there myself. And to-night, somehow, even if I could, I don’t feel like going into flights of oratory before you. I look on you as my friends. I want to talk to you as friends.”

Here a voice from the back called out encouragingly:

“Go on, Davey lad, wor aal lissenin’!” There were loud cheers; then silence. He went on:

“When you think of it, the life of every man and woman in this hall is tied up in some way with the pit. You’re all miners, or the wives or sons or daughters of miners; you’re all bound to the mines. And it’s on this question of the mines, surely a very vital question to you all, that I want to talk to you to-night…”

David’s voice, rising in a passion of earnestness, echoed in the steamy hall. He felt strong, suddenly, able to hold, to convince them. He began to lay his arguments before them. He took the system of private ownership, with its frequent disregard to safety, its basis of sheer profiteering whereby the shareholder in the Company came first and the miner last of all. He passed to the question of royalties, that intolerable and immoral principle, allowing enormous sums to be taken out of a district, not because of services rendered to the community but solely on account of a monopoly given hundreds of years ago. Then quickly he placed before them the alternative system. Nationalisation! A word cried in the wilderness for years. He begged them to consider what Nationalisation meant. It meant, firstly, a unification of collieries, of management, and improved methods of production which would in turn be followed by a reorganisation of the system of coal distribution to the consumers. It meant, secondly, safe working at the pits. There were hundreds of pits all over the country, antiquated and badly equipped, where under private ownership the miner had to think of keeping his job first, and of reporting dangers or improper working last. And wages? Nationalisation meant a better wage, because the lean years in the industry would be balanced by the better years; it meant at least a living wage. It meant better housing, too. The State could never allow the deplorable conditions of miners’ houses which existed at present in so many districts; it could not for its own honour. This legacy of wretched housing was the result of years of greed, selfishness and apathy. The men who worked in the pits performed a public service, a dangerous public service, they should be looked upon as public servants. They only asked for human justice, the justice that had been denied them for centuries. They asked to be the servants of the State, not the Slaves of Money…

For half an hour he held them, hypnotised to silence, hanging upon his words, his arguments. His conviction swept everything before it. He moved them with the history of their own order, iniquity heaped upon iniquity, betrayal following betrayal. He made them glow with the record of their own solidarity, their comradeship in the face of every hardship, their courage in the face of danger. “Help me,” he cried finally, with his hands outstretched in impassioned appeal. “Help me to fight for you, to win justice for you at last.” He stood, silent, almost blinded by his own emotion. Then, quite abruptly, he sat down. For a moment there was dead stillness, then the cheering began, a perfect roar of cheering. Harry Ogle jumped up and shook David by the hand. Kinch was there, Wilson, Carmichael and Heddon too.

“You held them,” Heddon had to shout above the noise. “Every bloddy one of them!”

Wicks was slapping David on the back, a mass of clamouring people swarming forward, surrounding him, wanting to shake hands, all trying to speak at once, overwhelming him. In the body of the hall the din was terrific, stamping, clapping and tinpanning. The sound of it rose echoing into the night.

Next day David polled 12,424 votes. Roscoe polled 3,691. It was a triumph, a victory unthought of, the biggest majority in Sleescale for fourteen years. As David stood bareheaded in front of the Town Hall while the tight-packed exultant crowd cheered and swayed and cheered again he felt dizzily a new elation rise in him and a new power. He had somehow stumbled through. He was there.

Roscoe shook him by the hand and the crowds cheered more thunderously. Roscoe was a good loser, he smiled through his crushing disappointment. But Ramage did not smile. Ramage was there with Bates and Murchison. Nor did Ramage shake hands. He stood with his brows drawn down, sullen and scowling, and on his face, mingled with lingering incredulity, was that look of unforgiving hostility.

David made a short glowing speech. He did not know what he said or how he said it. He thanked them, thanked them from the bottom of his heart. He would work for them, fight for them. He would serve them. A telegram was handed to him; it was from Nugent, a telegram of congratulation. It meant a lot to David, Harry Nugent’s telegram. He read it, hastily, thrust it in his breast pocket. More people congratulating him, more handshaking, more cheers. The crowd began suddenly to sing, For he’s a Jolly Good Fellow. They were singing it for him. A reporter, butting through the crowd, edging up to him. “Any message, Mr. Fenwick, just a couple of words, sir, for the Argus?” Photographers, inside the passage a big flash. More cheering, then a swaying, a slow dispersal of the crowds. Faint cheering from different parts of the town. Peter Wilson his agent, chuckling and joking, seeing him down the steps. It was over. It was all over. And he had won!

He got to his house at last and came rather dazedly into the kitchen. He stood there pale and finely drawn, looking at his mother. Suddenly he felt tired and terrifically hungry. He said sluggishly:

“I’ve got in, mother; did you know that I’ve got in?”

“I know,” she said dryly. “And I know you’ve had no breakfast. Are you above eating a pit pot-pie?”

TEN

The inevitable reaction came with David’s introduction to the House when he felt unimportant, insignificant and friendless. He fought this down stubbornly. It was almost comic, but on that first day, his main encouragement appeared to come from the London police force. He was early and made the usual mistake of attempting to get in through the public entrance. A policeman, intercepting him, amicably indicated the whereabouts of the special private door. Through the yard David went, round the Oliver Cromwell statue, past rows of parked cars and strutting pigeons, and through the private door. Here another friendly policeman directed him to the cloak-room — a long room bristling with pegs, some of which bore bows of curious pink tape. As David divested himself of hat and coat yet another policeman affably took him in hand, explaining the geography of the House, waxing mildly historical, even elucidating the mystery of the pale pink bows.

“It goes back to when they wore swords, sir. They hung them on there afore they went into the House.”

“I’d have thought they’d be worn out by now,” David answered.

“Lord bless you, no, sir. When one gets to look shabby they takes no end of trouble to put up a new one.”

At three o’clock Nugent and Bebbington arrived. He went with them along a vast corridor filled with pale blue books — Hansards, Bills, Parliamentary Procedure — books which conveyed the vague impression of never being read. He had a confused impression of the long high chamber, lounging figures, the Speaker with the Mace before him; of a mumbled prayer, his own name called out, his own figure walking quickly towards the back benches. He had a mingled sense of humility and high purpose — the conviction that his real work had at last begun.

He had taken rooms in Blount Street, Battersea. Actually the rooms made a small upper flat — a bed-sitting-room, kitchenette with gas cooker and bathroom — but the flat was not self-contained and was reached through the ordinary passage and staircase of the house. He paid £1 a week for the small uncontained flat on the understanding that Mrs. Tucker, the landlady, would make his bed and keep the place tidy. Beyond that David wanted to look after himself; he was going even to make his own breakfast, which moved Mrs. Tucker to considerable surprise.

Blount Street was not distinguished, a drab and smoky artery passing between two rows of grimy houses. On the paper-littered pavements a great many pallid children played curious, noisy games and climbed the spiked railings and sat companionably — especially the little girls — on the kerb, with their feet resting in the gutter. But it was within a mile of Battersea Park and No. 33, the Tucker house, had an extra storey which enabled David to get a glimpse of green trees and open sky beyond the fringe of smoking chimney-pots. He had take an immediate liking to Battersea Park. It was not so pretty as Hyde Park or the Green Park or Kensington Gardens, but it lay altogether nearer to his heart. There he watched the young workmen who practised running and jumping on the cinder track, and the council schoolboys who played strenuous, skilful football, and the pale and adenoidal typists who struggled after the ball on the gritty courts, wielding their rackets in a style never dreamed of at Wimbledon. There were no smart nannies and no well-dressed children frisking behind monogrammed coach-built perambulators. Peter Pan, being a nicely brought up child, would never have looked twice at Battersea Park. But David, mingling with the raw humanity relaxing there, found comfort and a powerful inspiration.

His first real inspection of the park was on that Saturday afternoon when he lunched with Bebbington. David’s performance at the election and his largely increased majority had impressed Bebbington, for Bebbington was that kind of man, always eager to cultivate the right people, to attach himself to success — which explained why Bebbington had come forward with Nugent to introduce David to the House. Later Bebbington strolled up.

“Going out of town this week-end?”

“No,” David answered.

“I had made arrangements,” Bebbington continued impressively, studying the effect sideways. “A house party at Larchwood Park — you know, Lady Outram’s place — but at the last minute I’ve got landed to speak at the Democratic Union on Sunday evening. Beastly, isn’t it? How I loathe the week-end in town! Lunch with me on Saturday if you’ve nothing better to do.”

“Very well,” David agreed, after a second’s hesitation. He did not care much for Bebbington but it seemed boorish to refuse.

They lunched in the green and gold restaurant of the Adalia at a window table with a glorious view of the river. It was immediately clear that in this famous and exclusive place Bebbington knew everybody. And a great many people knew Bebbington. Conscious of the eyes directed towards his erect yet supple figure, Bebbington was pleasant to David in a patronising style, explaining the ropes, whom to run with and whom to avoid. But mainly he talked about himself.

“It was a toss up with me, really,” he remarked, “whether to decorate the F.O. or go labour, I’m ambitious, you know. But I think I’ve been wise. Don’t you think there’s more scope with the party?”

“What kind of scope?” David asked bluntly.

Bebbington raised his eyebrows slightly and looked away as though the question were not in the best of taste.

“Aren’t we all?” he murmured gently.

This time it was David who looked away. Already Bebbington nauseated him with his vanity, his self-seeking, his steely, unwavering egoism. He let his gaze wander round the restaurant, noting the swift service, the flowers, iced wine, rich food and elegant women. The women especially — they blossomed in this warm perfumed air like exotic flowers. They were not like the women of the Terraces, with calloused hands and faces puckered by the eternal struggle to live. They wore costly furs, pearls, precious stones. Their finger nails were crimson, as if delicately dipped in blood. They ate caviar from Russia, pâtè from Strasbourg, early strawberries forced under glass and carried by aeroplane from Southern France. At an adjoining table a young and pretty woman sat with an old man. He was fat, hook-nosed, bald. His pendulous cheeks shone with gross living; his paunch, protruding against the table, was obscene. She languished towards him. An enormous diamond, large as a bean, was on her forefinger. He ordered a magnum of champagne, explaining that they always put the best wine in the magnums. Though he wanted only a glass he always demanded a magnum. When presently his bill was brought, presented with a genuflection before him, David saw six pounds placed by his fat hand upon the plate. They had trifled with food and drink, these two, for a bare half-hour, and the cost would have kept a family in the Terraces for a month.

A sense of unreality came over David. It was not, it could not be true, this enormity of injustice. A social order which permitted such inequality was surely rotten to the core.

He was very silent for the rest of the meal, and his appetite was gone. He remembered the days of his boyhood, of the strike, when he had gone to the fields and eaten a raw turnip to stave the pangs of hunger. His spirit revolted at this pandering luxury; he breathed with relief when at last he got away. It felt like getting out of a hothouse, where deadly and voluptuous odours intoxicated the senses and destroyed the soul. Striding back home to his lodgings, it was then that Battersea Park seemed open and undefiled.

The reaction to that inaugural luncheon with Bebbington was an almost passionate strengthening of his resolution to live simply. He had come across a strange book: The Life of the Curé d’Ars. The curé was a religious, naturally, a simple village priest in a country district of France, but the austerity of his life and the bare frugality of his diet deeply impressed David. After the wallowing he had witnessed at the Adalia, David felt a new respect for the simple man of Ars whose single daily meal was made up of two cold potatoes washed down with a glass of water from the well.

Mrs. Tucker was distressed by David’s intentions upon the Spartan life. She was an elderly voluble Irishwoman — her maiden name she proudly declared to have been Shanahan! — with green eyes and a freckled face and fiery red hair. Her husband was a collector for the Gas Company and she had two grown-up unmarried sons clerking in the City. She had none of the natural indolence of her race, her fiery hair precluded that, and she was used, in her own phrase, to arranging the men. David’s refusal to allow her to cook breakfast and supper for him struck at the roots of the Shanahan pride and set her talking freely. She was a great talker, Nora Shanahan that was, and her talking brought mortifying results.

On the last Saturday afternoon of January David went shopping in Bull Street, which was a main thoroughfare just round the corner from Blount Street. He often bought fruit in Bull Street or biscuits or a piece of cheese — there were shops in Bull Street that were both cheap and good. But this afternoon David bought himself a frying-pan. For a long time he had coveted a frying-pan as being simple, and quick in the mornings, and not gaudy then or any other time. And now he had the frying-pan. The girl in the ironmongery found the frying-pan an awkward article to wrap up and after splitting several newspapers and causing David and herself a good deal of amusement she gave over the attempt and asked David if he would take it like that. So David took the new and naked pan and carried it unashamedly to 33 Blount Street.

But at the door of 33 Blount Street something happened. A young man in plus fours and a rain-coat and a soft hat, whom David had seen hanging about at odd times lately, suddenly unslung a camera and took a shot at David. Then he raised the soft hat and walked rapidly away.

Next morning, in the middle of the Daily Gazette, the photograph appeared under the caption: The Frying-pan M.P., while below a good half a column extolled the asceticism of the new miners’ member from the North. A short but snappy interview with Mrs. Tucker was appended, full of brogue and bunkum.

David’s face coloured with anger and dismay. He jumped up from the table and hurried to the telephone on the half-landing. He rang the editor of the Gazette and protested indignantly. The editor was sorry, extremely sorry, yet he could not see what harm had been done. It was a good puff, wasn’t it? — a really top-notch puff? Mrs. Tucker was equally unable to understand his annoyance; she was highly delighted to have got her name in the papers — respectably, she added.

But David went up to the House that morning feeling resentful and small, hoping the incident had been overlooked. But it was a vain hope. A mild derisive cheer greeted him as he entered. His first recognition — ridicule! He reddened and hung his head, burning that they should think he had courted such a cheap advertisement.

“Just laugh it off,” Nugent suggested mildly. “That’s the best way. Laugh it off.” Nugent understood. But Bebbington did not. Bebbington was coldly satirical and aloof; he saw the incident as carefully prearranged and he did not hesitate to say so. Perhaps he grudged David the publicity.

That night Nugent came up to David’s flat. He sat down, feeling for his pipe, searching the room with his quiet, contemplative eyes. His face looked more cadaverous than ever and the strands of hair streaked across his brow were few and thin but his boyish and impenetrable cheerfulness prevailed. He lit his pipe, then he said:

“I’ve been meaning to come up for some time. It’s a snug little place you have here.”

“Not so bad for a pound a week,” David answered shortly. “It isn’t all here, of course. The blasted frying-pan is in the kitchen.”

Nugent’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“You mustn’t bother about that sort of nonsense,” he said kindly. “It’ll probably do you a bit of good with the lads up North.”

“I want to do them a bit of good,” David chafed.

“That’ll all come,” Nugent said. “We can’t do much at the moment beyond marking time. We’re up against a solid Tory wall, 419 seats to our 151. What can you do in the face of that? Nothing but sit tight and wait till our turn comes. Mind you, I know how you feel. You want to get into something. And you can’t do it. You want to be done with formality and red tape and divisions and the whole smug procedure. You want results. Well, you just wait, David. One of these days you’ll have plenty of chance to cut loose.”

David was silent; then he said slowly:

“It’s the damned procrastination that seems so senseless. There’s trouble brewing in the mines. You can see it a mile away. When the settlement runs out the owners will come up in a body for longer hours and lower wages. In the meantime things are allowed to drift.”

“They kept playing about with the idea of another subsidy.” Nugent smiled gently. “In 1921 ten million pounds were evaporated in a subsidy. Then they had the great idea — a commission, always a brain-wave. But before the commission brings out its findings, the Government pays another subsidy. Then the commission brings out its findings and condemns all subsidies. It’s highly instructive. It’s even amusing.”

“When in the name of God are we going to get Nationalisation?” David asked in a burning voice. “It’s the only solution. Have we got to wait till they offer it to us on a plate?”

“We’ve got to wait till a Labour Government gets it,” Nugent said quietly. He smiled. “In the meantime carry on with your blue books and your frying-pan.”

There came another silence. And Nugent went on:

“The personal equation is important. There’s so many damned distractions and side issues to the game that you’re apt to get lost in them unless you’re careful. There’s nothing like public life for searching out a man’s private weaknesses. Personal ambition and social ambition and damned selfishness and self-interest, that’s the curse of it, Davey. Take your friend Bebbington, for instance. Do you think he cares about the twenty-odd thousand Durham miners that returned him? Not one twopenny curse! All he cares about is Bebbington. Man, it would break your heart. Take Chalmers, for another. Bob Chalmers was a perfect zealot when he came up four years ago. He swore to me with tears in his eyes that he would get a seven-hour day for the spinners or kill himself in the attempt. Well! the seven-hour day hasn’t come to Lancashire yet and Bob isn’t dead. He’s very much alive. He’s been bitten by the gold bug. He’s in with the Clinton lot, passing on useful information, and making money hand over fist in the City. Cleghorn is another. Only it’s the social side with him. He married a society wife. See! And now he’d miss any committee under the sun for a West End first night with the lady wife. I try to be generous, but I’m telling you, David, it would drive a man to despair. I’m no saint, but I hope to God I’m sincere. That’s why I’m glad to my very roots to see you dug in here and trying to live a plain and honest kind of life. Stick to it, man, for God’s sake, stick to it!”

David had never seen Nugent so overwrought. But it was only for a moment. He took command of himself again, the habitual serenity flowed back into his face.

“Sooner or later you’ll be up against it. You’ll run into corruption like a pitman runs into styfe. The place is thick with it, David. Watch the bar of the House of Commons. Watch who you drink with. Watch Bebbington, Chalmers and Dickson. I know I’m talking like a good templar’s tract, but it’s God’s truth none the less. If you can only be straight with yourself it doesn’t matter a damn what else happens.” He knocked out his pipe: “That’s the end of the sermon. I had to get rid of it. And after that, if I ever walk in here and find your mantelpiece cluttered up with trashy invitations I’ll kick you good and hard. If you want to amuse yourself, come round and watch the cricket with me at the Oval, when the good weather comes in. I’m a member. And I’m fond of it.”

David smiled:

“That’s your form of corruption.”

“Exactly! It costs me two guineas a year. And I wouldn’t give it up if they offered me the party leadership.” With a look at the clock he rose quietly and stretched himself. “I must be going now.” He moved to the door. “By the by, I haven’t forgotten about your maiden speech. There’ll be a grand chance for you in about a fortnight when Clarke proposes the amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. That’s an opportunity to get something off your chest. Good night.”

David sat down when Nugent had gone. He felt better, soothed within himself. Nugent always exerted that influence upon him. It was perfectly true that he had been restless — the inertia of parliamentary routine was a dull anticlimax to the fierce encounter of the election and the burning enthusiasm of his beliefs. He resented the slowness, the waste of time, the pointless talking, the absurd questions, the suave answers, the polite insincerity — all dust in the eyes. Instead of a swift whirring of wheels he heard only the ponderous clanking of the machine. But Nugent made him feel his resentment as both natural and absurd. He must cultivate patience. He considered eagerly and with a certain apprehension his maiden speech — it was decidedly important that his speech should be arresting and good; he must make certain about that speech. It was a wonderful opportunity, the Amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. He saw already, quite clearly, how he would deal with it, the points he would make, what he must emphasise and avoid. The speech began to form beautifully and strongly, to create itself like a living thing, within his mind. He was lifted right out of the room by the force of his own thought; the pit absorbed him and he was once again in the dark tunnels where men worked in constant danger of mutilation and death. It was so easy not to worry about these things if one did not know. But he did know. And he would force the living image of his knowledge into the minds and hearts of those who did not know. It would be different then.

As he sat by the fire, very still and tense, there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Tucker entered the room.

“There’s a lady to see you,” she announced.

He came back to himself with a start.

“A lady?” he repeated, and all at once a wild hope entered his head. He had always felt that Jenny was in London. Was it possible, could it possibly be that Jenny had come back to him?

“She’s downstairs. Shall I show her up?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

He stood up, facing the door, with a queer turning of his heart. Then his expression changed, his heart ceased to turn, the swift hope passed as soon as it had risen. It was not Jenny but Hilda Barras.

“Yes, it’s only me,” she declared, with her usual directness, seeing the sudden alteration in his face. “I got an idea of your whereabouts from the paper this morning and I determined to thrust my congratulations upon you. If you’re too busy say so and I’ll clear out.”

“Don’t be absurd, Hilda,” he protested. It was an amazing surprise to see Hilda Barras but after his first disappointment he was pleased to see her. She wore a plain grey costume and a plain but good fox fur. Her dark severe face struck a familiar chord of memory; he suddenly remembered their flaming arguments in the old days. He smiled. And the strange thing was that she smiled too; she had never smiled when he knew her before — not much.

“Sit down,” he said. “This really is an event.”

She sat down and peeled off her gloves; her hands were very white and strong and supple.

“What are you doing in London?” he inquired.

“That’s rather good from you,” she said calmly. “Considering that you’ve been here about a month. That’s the worst of you provincials.”

“Provincial yourself.”

“Are we going to start an argument?”

So she remembered the arguments too! He answered:

“Not without hot milk and biscuits.”

She actually laughed. When she laughed she was quite pleasant: she had very good teeth. She was much less forbidding than she had been; her contracted, sullen frown was gone, she looked happier and sure of herself. She said:

“It’s quite obvious that while I’ve been following your career with interest you’ve completely forgotten my existence.”

“Oh no,” he contradicted. “I knew you had qualified, about four years ago, as a doctor.”

“A doctor,” she echoed sardonically. “What kind of thing is that? You’re not mixing me up with the Luke Fildes picture by any chance? No, there’s no ipecacuanha and squills about me. I’m a surgeon — thank God. I took my M.S. with distinction. It probably doesn’t interest you, but I’m an honorary at the St. Elizabeth’s Women’s Hospital, just across the river from you here — Clifford Street, Chelsea.”

“That’s fine, Hilda,” he said, pleased.

“Yes, isn’t it?” There was no satire in her voice now, she spoke simply and sincerely.

“You like it, then?”

“I love it,” she said with a sudden intensity. “I couldn’t live without my work.”

So that’s what has changed her, he thought instinctively. Just then, she glanced up, and with almost uncanny perception she read his mind.

“I was a beast, wasn’t I?” she said calmly. “A beast to Grace and Aunt Carrie and everybody — including myself. Don’t contradict me, please, even for the sake of argument. This visit is really an act of reparation.”

“I hope you’ll repeat it.”

“Now that is nice of you,” she flushed slightly, grateful. “I’ll be quite frank. I’ve terribly few friends in London, terribly and pathetically few. I’m too stiff. I’m no good at meeting people. I don’t make friends easily. But I always did like you. Don’t misunderstand that, please. There’s no silly nonsense about me. Not one particle. So I only thought that if you were willing we might sharpen our wits against each other occasionally.”

“Wits! he exclaimed. “You haven’t any!”

“That’s the spirit,” she said enthusiastically. “I knew you wouldn’t misunderstand me.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets and his back to the fire watching her.

“I’m going to have my supper. Cocoa and biscuits. Will you have some?”

“I will,” she agreed. “Do you make the cocoa in the frying-pan?”

“All square,” he admitted; and went into the kitchen.

While he was in the kitchen she heard him coughing and when he came back she said:

“What’s that cough?”

“Smoker’s cough. Plus a little German gas.”

“You ought to have it seen to.”

“I thought you said you were a surgeon.”

They had cocoa and biscuits. They talked and they argued. She told him of her work, of the operating theatre, the women who came under her knife. In a sense he envied her; this real outlet, a tangible succouring of suffering humanity.

But here she smiled:

“I’m no humanitarian. It’s all technique. Applied mathematics. Cold and deliberate.” She added: “All the same it has made me human.”

“That’s a debatable point,” he said. And they went at it again. Then they talked of his coming speech. She was interested and excited. He outlined his scheme on which she violently disagreed. It was all very pleasant and like old times.

Ten o’clock came. And she rose to go.

“You must come and see me,” she said. “I make much better cocoa than you.”

“I will,” he said. “But you don’t.”

In her walk back to Chelsea, Hilda reflected with an inward glow that the evening had been a success. It had taken a strong effort of will on her part to make the visit. She had been afraid, knowing that it was a visit liable to be misunderstood. But David had not misunderstood. He was much too wise, altogether too sensible. Hilda was pleased. Hilda was a fine surgeon. But she was not very strong on psychology.

On the night of his speech she bought a late paper eagerly. It was noticed, and noticed favourably. The morning papers were more favourable still. The Daily Herald gave it a column and a half, even The Times referred in gracious terms to the sincere and moving eloquence of the new member for Sleescale.

Hilda was delighted. She thought, I will, I must ring him up. Before Hilda went into the wards she rang up David and congratulated him warmly. She came away from the telephone satisfied. Perhaps she had been a little too glowing. But the speech had been wonderful. And naturally, it was the speech which concerned her!

ELEVEN

Arthur stood at the window of the office of the Neptune, staring out at the men who filled the pit yard, reminded painfully of the lock-out he had experienced in 1921, the first of a series of industrial disputes into which he had been dragged, all leading towards and culminating in the General Strike of 1926. He passed his hand across his brow, anxious to forget the whole senseless conflict. Sufficient that it was over, the strike broken and the men back, filling the pit yard, pressing forward, pressing and pressing towards the timekeeper’s shed. They did not ask for work. They clamoured for work. It was written upon their silent faces. Work! Work! At any price! To look upon these silent faces was to see how glorious had been the victory for the mine owners. The men were not beaten, they were crushed; in their eyes was the panic fear of a winter of starvation. Any conditions, any terms, but work, work at any price! They pressed forward, elbowing and struggling towards the timekeeper’s shed where Hudspeth stood with old Pettit, behind the bar, checking and entering the sheet.

Arthur’s eyes remained bound to the scene. As each man came forward Hudspeth scrutinised him, weighed him up, looked at Pettit and nodded. If he nodded it was all right, the man got work and the man took his check and walked past the bar like a soul admitted into heaven past the judgment seat. The look upon the silent faces of the men who were admitted was strange: a sudden lightening, a great spasm of relief, of thanksgiving almost unbelievable at being readmitted to the black underworld of the Paradise. But not all the men were admitted, oh no, there was not work for all the men. With a six-hour shift there would have been work for all the men, but there had been a glorious victory for the forces of Law and Order, directed by an exultant, pro-Strike Cabinet, and backed by the British people, so the shift was an eight-hour shift. Never mind, though, never mind, don’t bother about that now, any terms, any conditions, only give us work, for God’s sake work!

Arthur tried to tear himself away from the window but he could not. The faces of the men held him, the face of one man in particular fascinated him. It was Pug Macer. Arthur knew Pug perfectly well; he knew Pug was an indifferent workman who kept bad time, was absent on Monday mornings, who drank. And Arthur saw that Pug knew this too. The recognition of his own unworthiness was written upon Pug’s face alongside his desire to get work, and the conflict of these two emotions made an uncertainty, a suspense that was horrible to watch. It gave Pug Macer the look of a dog grovelling for a bone.

Arthur waited, hypnotised. It came near Pug’s turn. Four of the men in front of Pug were taken on, and every man taken lessened Pug’s chances of being taken — that was reflected in Pug’s face too. Then Pug came before the bar, panting a little from the crush, and from the struggle between his eagerness and fear.

Hudspeth took one look at Pug, one short look, then he looked away. He did not nod, he did not trouble, even, to turn to Pettit, he simply looked away. Pug was not wanted. He was out. Arthur saw Pug’s lips moving, he could hear nothing, but he saw Pug’s lips moving and moving in a kind of desperate entreaty. No use. Pug was out, one of the four hundred who were out. The expression on Pug’s face, on these four hundred faces, drove Arthur frantic. He turned abruptly, wrenched himself away from the window; he wanted to keep these four hundred in work at his pit and he could not. He could not, damn it, he could not. He stared at the calendar which showed the day to be October 15th, 1926. He went up to the calendar and tore off the slip violently. His nerves demanded some outlet. He wanted the day to be over.

Beyond the gates, Pug Macer walked away from the pit yard, down Cowpen Street; he shuffled rather than walked, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, his shoulders drooping slightly, feeling the eyes of the women on him, watching him from the doorways of the Terraces — one of the four hundred, not wanted, out.

He turned down the Scut, into Quay Street, and home.

“Where’s Annie?” he asked, on the threshold of the bare, stone-flagged room.

“Out,” his father answered from the kitchen bed. Old Macer was quite bedridden now, crippled by rheumatoid arthritis, and since he had always been an active man, his inability even to get up made him difficult and querulous. His complaint gave him constant pain in his back which made him believe he had kidney disease. He swore it was his kidneys and he scraped and saved up everything he could and spent it all on Dr. Poupart’s Kidney-pills, a proprietary nostrum manufactured in Whitechapel by a plutocrat named Lorberg at the cost of a penny farthing per box, retailed at three and six, and composed entirely of soap, bad sugar and methylene blue. The pills made old Macer’s water blue, and since the advertisement thoughtfully explained that the blueness was due to the impurities coming away, old Macer was very pleased. He felt he would be perfectly well if only he could get the impurities out of his kidneys. The trouble was that old Macer could not get enough of the pills. As the advertisement further explained the pills were expensive to make, the ingredients consisting of expensive Indian herbs gathered on the slopes of the Himalayas at the season of Karma Shalia from a recipe given to the late Dr. Poupart by an Indian sage.

Old Macer had no pills now and he looked across at Pug querulously, a little anxiously.

“What way hev ye not gan te the pit?”

“Because I haven’t,” Pug said sullenly.

“Ye man go te work, Pug, lad.”

“Oh, man I?” Pug gritted out. “I’m goin’ a bloody yacht cruise te Spain.”

Old Macer’s head began to shake.

“Ye canna stop off work on yer old fethur, Pug.”

Pug did not speak, he stood burning, helpless, sick.

“Aw hev no pills, Pug, aw’ve got te hev my pills.”

“To hell with your pills,” Pug said and he flung himself into a chair and there he sat with his greasy cap on his head and his hands in his pockets staring at the spark of life in the big grate.

Annie had been out taking back some sewing she had done for Mrs. Proctor and at the same time seeing Sammy up the road to the school. She was soon back.

She saw Pug brooding in the chair the instant she came in the door and she knew. The old familiar pang of worry stabbed at her. But she said nothing. She took off her hat and coat and began to clear the dishes from the table and to wash them.

Pug spoke first.

“I’m out, Annie,” he said.

“Well, we’ll manage, Pug,” Annie said, going on with the dishes.

But the ignominy of his dismissal was rankling deep in Pug, hurting him.

“I’m not gud enough for them,” he said, speaking with his teeth together. “Not gud enough, see! Me that can do two men’s work when I’m put to it.”

“I know, Pug,” Annie said consolingly. Her fondness for Pug made her feel his hurt. “Don’t you trouble, lad.”

“They want to see me on the dole,” Pug snarled. “Me that wants to work. The dole.”

Silence. Old Macer in the bed, following the conversation in a sweat of self-pity, glancing from one to the other with a startled eye, now broke out:

“You’ll need te write te Davey Fenwick, Annie. Ye’ll need to let him help ye now.”

“We’ll manage, father,” Annie said. She would never take money from David, never. “We always have managed.”

Annie’s idea was to get more work herself. And when she had finished her housework that morning, she went out to see what she could get. Housework was what she wanted, to go out as a daily, but housework, even plain charing, was difficult to come by. She tried at Dr. Scott’s, at Mrs. Armstrong’s. She even pocketed the last of her pride and tried with Mrs. Ramage. She was not successful. She got the promise of more sewing from Mrs. Proctor, and Mrs. Low, the wife of the New Bethel Street minister, grudgingly bespoke her to come for a day’s washing on Monday. That, at least, made sure of half-a-crown though Mrs. Low always paid with an air of dispensing charity. But try as she might Annie got no more work than that. She tried the next day and the day after with the same result. Work was at a discount in Sleescale; and Annie had nothing else to sell.

Meanwhile Pug went up to see about his dole. He did not want to go on the dole but when his rankling sense of injustice became dulled he walked up to the Labour Exchange to apply for the dole. In Sleescale among the lads the Labour Exchange was known as the Buroo. Outside the Buroo a long queue stood waiting. There was no struggling or crushing in this queue like there had been at the pit and no hurry at all; everyone waited. It was an understood thing that one had to wait to get the dole. Pug silently took his place at the end of the queue beside Len Woods and Slattery and Cha Leeming. He did not speak to any of them, nor they to him. It was raining now, not raining heavily which would have given them something to curse, but raining softly, a fine, wet rain. Pug turned up the collar of his jacket and stood. He did not think. He waited.

Five minutes later Jack Reedy came along. Jack did not immediately take up his place. He was in this respect different from the others; he walked up and down the line as though the line infuriated him. Then he went up to the head of the line, slowly buttoned up his jacket, and began to harangue the men. Jack was the brother of Tom and Pat Reedy, both killed in the disaster. Once a fine, well-set lad, Jack was now shrunken by hatred and misfortune, a thin, hollow-chested man with extreme and bitter views. There had been the disaster, first, then Jack — in a mood to fight anybody — had fought in the war and been shot through the thigh at Passchendaele. He was lame as the result of the wound. Hudspeth had just refused to take him back at the Neptune.

Pug lifted his head and listened dully to what Jack was saying, though he knew beforehand what it would be.

“That’s what we was, lads, when they wanted us to fight,” Jack was saying and there was mutiny in his black, embittered voice, mutiny against life, destiny and the system which had brought him to this. “We was the nation’s f — heroes, and what are we now? Shiftless lazy scum. That’s what they call us now. Now lissen, lads, till I put it to ye plain. Who made the bloody aeroplanes and the battleships and the guns and the blasted shells? Labour! Who fired the blasted shells out the blasted guns in the blasted war? Labour! And what has labour got out of it? This what we’ve got, lads. This! The chance to stand in the blasted rain with our hands held out for charity. We was told to fight for England — our own beloved soil. Christ! we fought for it, diddent we? And we’ve f — well got it. We’re standin’ in it now. And what is it? Muck! Plain muck! But ye cannot eat muck, lads. Muck won’t keep your wife and kids.” Jack paused, pale as bone, and drew the back of his hand across his lips. He went on, his voice rising, his face contorted as with pain. “When you and me was fightin’ and workin’ during the blasted war there was millions of pounds of profits come out the pits. It’s down in black and white, lads. A hundred and forty million pounds of profits. That’s what tided the owners bye the strike. Why wassent they used to tide us bye? Now, lissen, lads—” A hand fell on Jack’s shoulder. Jack stopped dead, remained quite motionless, then slowly looked round.

“We can’t have none of that,” Roddam said. “Get back in the queue there and shut your gob.”

Roddam was the station sergeant now, fat, important and fifty.

“Let me be,” Jack said in a low, poisonous voice, his eyes glittering in his bone-white face. “I fought in the f — war, I did. I’m not used to bein’ handled by the likes of you.”

The queue was alive with interest now, much greater interest than had been displayed in Jack’s speech.

Roddam reddened violently.

“You shut your gob, Reedy, or I’ll run you to the station.”

“I’ve as much right to talk as you,” said Jack sullenly.

“Go back in the queue,” Roddam blustered, pushing Jack down the line. “Back to the end there. Go on, back you go!”

“I don’t have to go to the end,” Jack cried, resisting, jerking his head. “That’s my place there, beside Pug Macer.”

“Go back where I tell you,” Roddam ordered. “Right back to the hin’ end.” And he gave Jack a final push.

Jack turned, his chest heaving, his gaze fastened on Roddam as though he could have killed him. Then all at once his eyes fell, he seemed to gather himself up, to save himself for a future occasion. He limped quietly back to the end of the queue. A sigh went up from the watching men, a quiet sigh of disappointment. Their bodies relaxed, their attention wandered back to their own miseries. Roddam walked up and down the line officiously, rather grandly, in his big oilskin cape with the fine buckle and chain. The men stood and waited. The rain fell softly.

Sometimes it was dry when they waited for the dole. But it was a bad winter and mostly the rain fell — often it fell heavily. Once or twice it snowed. But they were always there, they had to be there, they waited. And Pug waited with the rest. Sammy did not like Pug being on the dole. As he came back from school he always went past the queue looking the other way, pretending not to see Pug, and Pug, who had his own humiliation from Sammy’s passing, never attempted to recognise him either. The matter was not raised between Pug and Sammy but Sammy felt it deeply nevertheless. And in all sorts of other ways besides. For instance, Pug couldn’t give him any cigarette cards now, and he missed the Saturday penny that Pug used to slip him on the sly. And worst of all he didn’t ever get taken to the Sleescale football matches by Pug, though the unemployed got in for threepence now — yes, that was perhaps the worst of all.

Well, in a way, hardly the worst. The food kept getting plainer and plainer at home and sometimes there wasn’t as much of it as Sammy would have liked. During the big stoppage it had been summer time and you didn’t feel half so hungry in the summer. But the winter was different. Once when Pug broke out and had a blind on his dole money there hadn’t been a bit of cake in the house the whole blessed week. And his mother made such champion cake. All that week it had been porridge and soup, and soup and porridge — his grandad had made a regular fuss. If it hadn’t been for his mother going out washing and mending they wouldn’t have had anything at all. Sammy wished that he were a little older. He would be working then, helping his mother. In spite of the depression Sammy was confident he could get a job; they always wanted boys for trappers at the Neptune.

Week after week Sammy saw Pug standing in that dole queue and pretended not to see him and the queue got longer every week. It preyed so much on Sammy that he took to running past the queue. Whenever he came near the Buroo he would discover something of immense interest at the foot of New Bethel Street, right down there at the very foot, and, with his eyes glued forwards, he would go clattering down towards it. Of course, when he got to the foot of New Bethel Street there wasn’t anything there after all.

However, on the last Friday afternoon of January, when the queue was longer and later than ever, and Sammy went clattering down to the foot of the street, something did occur at last. Tearing down New Bethel Street, and round the corner of Lamb Street, Sammy ran straight into his grandmother Martha.

Sammy got the worst of the collision; he slid on the steel toe-caps of his boots, wobbled, stumbled and fell. He wasn’t hurt, but scared to think of what he had done. Awkwardly, he picked himself up and gathered up his cap and his school books and prepared with a very red face to go on. Then he discovered that Martha was looking at him. She was Martha Fenwick, his grandmother, he knew that well. But she had never looked at him before; she had always walked by him in the street the way he walked by Pug in the queue, not seeing him; he might not have existed at all.

Yet now she stood looking at him — looking and looking, ever so oddly. Then she actually spoke. In a queer voice she said:

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, mam.” He shook his head confusedly.

A silence.

“What’s your name?” It was the stupidest thing to say, and her voice seemed to crack in the stupidest manner.

“Sammy Fenwick,” he answered.

She repeated it:

“Sammy Fenwick.” Her eyes devoured him, his pale face and nobby forehead, and bright blue eyes, his growing figure in the home-made, patched suit, his thin legs ending in the heavy boots. Though Sammy could not guess it, for months and months now Martha had watched him, every day she watched him as he went to school, watched him surreptitiously from behind the curtains of the side window of the house in Lamb Lane. He was growing so like her own Sammy; he was ten years old now. It was agony for Martha not to have him near her. Would nothing ever break her icy pride? Cautiously, she said:

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re my grandma,” he said at once.

She coloured deeply, and with pleasure. Sammy had broken the ice at last, shivered the frozen covering of the old woman’s heart.

“Come here, Sammy.”

He came and she took his hand in hers. Sammy felt it awfully strange and he was inclined to be scared, but he walked with her to the house in the lane. They went in together.

“Sit down, Sammy,” Martha said. It gave her an exquisite, an unbearable pleasure to speak the name of Sammy once again.

Sammy sat down, looking round the kitchen. It was a good kitchen, absolutely clean and as it should be, like his own kitchen, but the furniture was better and there was more of it. Then Sammy’s eye lit up; he saw that Martha was cutting a cake, cutting an enormous wedge of plum cake.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the cake, balancing his books and his cap on his knees, then filling his mouth with the cake.

Her hard dark eyes dwelt absorbedly upon his young face. It was her own Sammy’s face.

“Is it a good cake?” she asked intensely.

“Yes, mam,” he said, wiring into it, “it’s fair champion.”

“Is it the best cake you ever tasted?”

“Well!” He hesitated, troubled, afraid to wound her feelings; but he had to speak the truth. “My mother makes as good a cake when she has the stuff. But she hasn’t had the stuff, not lately.”

But even this could not break the spell of Martha’s rapture.

“Your uncle’s on the dole?” she asked. “Pug Macer?”

His thin young face flushed.

“Well, yes, Pug is now, but only for the time being like.”

“Your father would never have been on the dole,” she declared with pride.

“I know,” he said.

“He was the best hewer in the Neptune.”

“I know,” he said again. “My mother told me.”

Silence. She watched him finish, then she cut him another piece of cake. He took it with a shy smile, her own Sammy’s smile.

“What are ye goin’ to be when you grow up, Sammy?”

He reflected, while she hung upon his answer.

“I’d like to be like my father,” he said.

“You would,” she whispered. “Ay, ye would, Sammy.”

“Ay.”

She stood quite motionless. She felt weak, ravaged, overcome. Her own Sammy come back to her, to carry on the brave tradition; she would see it yet, Sammy Fenwick again the best hewer in the Neptune. She could not speak.

He finished the last crumb of cake, recovered his cap and books from off his knees and rose.

“Don’t go yet, Sammy,” she protested.

“My mother’ll be wondering,” he replied.

“Take this in your pocket then, Sammy, take this for your bait, Sammy.” Feverishly she cut him another wedge of cake, wrapped it in greased paper, picked a red apple from the dresser, made him stow cake and apple in his pocket. At the door she paused: “Come and see me to-morrow, Sammy.” And her voice was pleading… pleading…

“Righto,” he said and darted like a little trout down the path.

She stood watching, watching until he was long gone. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen. She moved slowly, as if with difficulty. In the kitchen she caught sight of the cut cake. She stood there silent and immobile while across the screen of her impassive sight a flood of memory poured. All at once her face broke. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her head upon her arms, and sobbed bitterly.

TWELVE

David’s political development came like the development of the human body — it was a slow growth, imperceptible from day to day, yet apparent when balanced against his stature of five years before. Though his purpose was so definite and strong he advanced towards it by long and difficult roads. The political meteor flashes only through the imagination of the novelist. David experienced the reality. He worked; he worked unbelievably hard; and he waited. He learned many things; but chiefly to cultivate the faculty of patience. His maiden address was followed, some months later, by another speech on the distress in mining areas. The comment which this occasioned caused him to be approached by several of the party leaders for data on this subject. Several admirable orations bearing on the distressed areas were made thereafter in the House for which David received no credit although the speeches were almost entirely his. Later, however, by way of recognition, he was invited to sit on a departmental committee investigating the question of industrial disability in mines. During the next twelve months he worked with this committee on nystagmus, beat knee and the incidence of silicosis in non-metalliferous mines. Before the end of that session he was co-opted to a board pursuing an inquiry into the qualifications of mine officials under the existing legislature. In the following year Nugent, billed to speak at the mass demonstration held by the T.U.C. in the Albert Hall, fell ill with influenza, and at his urgent request David was called upon to deputise. Addressing an audience of five thousand, he made the speech of the evening, a speech of flaming ardour, humane feeling and trenchant style. Paradoxically enough, the glamour of this one evening focused more attention upon him than all his hard work of the previous two years. He became noticed at the conferences. It was he who prepared the memorandum for the T.U.C. on Nationalisation of the Mines, and the proposed Power and Transport Commission. His paper, Electric Power and National Progress, was read at the American Labour Conference. Thereafter he became chief miners’ representative on the board reviewing the question of water dangers in mines. By the autumn of 1928 he was a member of the Parliamentary Labour Party Committee and finally, at the beginning of the following year, he reached the peak of his achievement. He was appointed to the executive of the Miners’ Federation.

David’s hopes ran high. In himself he felt extremely well, clear-headed, able to cope with any amount of work. And more than ever he sensed the favourable turn of events. The present Government was moribund, sadly preparing to die. The country, sick of stale policies, reiterated platitudes and the old die-hard administration, was raising eyes of conjecture towards a fresh horizon. At last, through their constitutional hidebound apathy, people were beginning to question the soundness of a political and economic system which left want, misery and unemployment unrelieved. New and bold ideas went into circulation. Men no longer retreated in terror from the suggestion that capitalism, as a system of life, had failed. Recognition grew that the world would never be reconstructed by the violence and suppression of economic nationalism. Workers on the dole were not now designated shiftless scum. The factitious explanation of “world conditions” became a hypocritical echo, a music-hall joke.

David felt with all his soul that Labour’s chance must come. There would be an election this year, an election which must be fought on the question of the Mines. The party stood pledged to it. And what a glorious platform it made: this great national constructive scheme to benefit the miner and bring prosperity to the community.

That bright April morning, David’s spirits were high as he sat by the window in his rooms, glancing through the paper. It was Saturday. He was looking forward to a morning spent on the new Low-Temperature Report, a recent process it was proposed to incorporate in the Power section of the scheme, when, unexpectedly, a diversion occurred. The telephone rang.

He did not immediately answer it, for usually Mrs. Tucker went first, but as the ringing continued he dropped his paper and descended to the half-landing where he picked up the receiver. Straightaway Sally’s shrill, throaty voice came over the wire — he recognised it at once.

“Hello, hello,” she said, “you must be awful busy. I’ve been trying to get you for the last five minutes.”

Smiling into the receiver he exclaimed:

“Sally!”

“So you knew me?”

“You’re unmistakable.”

They both laughed and he said:

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Stanton’s Hotel, you know, near the British Museum, and Alf is along with me.”

“But what in all the world are you doing up here?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Davey,” she answered, “I’m going to be married. So I thought I’d take dad for a bit of a trip to London before I got hitched up. The Pigeon Show’s on at the Crystal Palace and dad did want to see it.”

“Why, that’s great news, Sally,” he declared, both surprised and pleased. “Who is he? Have I met him?”

“I don’t know, David.” Her voice was happy, a shade self-conscious. “He’s Dick Jobey of Tynecastle.”

“Dick Jobey,” he exclaimed. “Why, Sally, that’s a great match.”

A silence; he could feel that she was gratified; then she said:

“I want to see you, David. And Alf does too. Will you have a bite with us to-day? Listen. We’ve arranged to go to the Crystal Palace this afternoon, but come along and have an early lunch with us at the hotel. Come now, David.”

He reflected: Saturday and the Report could wait.

“All right,” he cried. “I’m with you. I’ll be along shortly after twelve. Yes, I know Stanton’s, Sally. I’ll be there.”

He came away from the telephone still smiling — there was something incorrigibly light-hearted about Sally which never failed to cheer him.

At half-past eleven he took the underground for Museum Station and walked along Thackeray Street towards Stanton’s, a quiet, unostentatious hotel in Woburn Square. It was a bright morning; a sense of spring was in the air, the trees of the Square were already in leaf and a gay chirruping of sparrows came from in front of a seat within the Square Gardens where an old man sat feeding them with crumbs. The passing taxicabs had a gay note, too, as though they rejoiced in the fineness of the day. He arrived at the hotel a few minutes before noon but Alf and Sally were waiting for him in the lounge. They greeted him affectionately.

It was some years since David had seen Alf Sunley but Alf was not greatly changed. His moustache was perhaps more tobacco stained and ragged, and his face more sallow, and the crick in his neck more pronounced, but he was still the same friendly, common, doggedly unassertive little man. He wore a new black suit for the occasion, very stiff and new and rather big for him, and a new made-up tie, and his boots were probably new for they squeaked whenever he moved.

But Sally had changed. Taking after her mother, perhaps, she had turned round as a barrel, little bracelets of plumpness were on her wrists and her face was frankly fat. She smiled at David’s hastily concealed surprise.

“Yes, I’ve put on a bit, haven’t I? But never mind. Let’s go and have some lunch.”

They had lunch. They sat at one of the tables in the quiet restaurant while the sun shone in on them and they had cold meat and salad. The cold meat and salad tasted good and the rhubarb tart which came afterwards was good too. Sally ate a hearty lunch and enjoyed it. She had a bottle of Guinness all to herself. Her plump little face flushed, and her figure seemed almost to expand with the excellence of the meal. When she had finished she drew a satisfied breath and shamelessly eased her waistbelt. David smiled across at her.

“So you’re getting married. I thought something like that would happen one day?”

“Dick’s a good chap,” Sally sighed contentedly. “Not much to say, but one of the best. I can tell you I’m lucky. You see, David, I’m getting a bit sick of the road. I’ve been goin’ round the Payne-Gould circuit till I’m giddy. I’m sick of summer pierrots and winter pantos. And besides, I’m putting on weight something terrible. In a couple of years I’d only be fit for the fairy queen. An’ I’d a sight rather have Dick than the demon king. I want to settle down and be comfortable.”

He gazed at her quizzically, remembering the terrible strivings of her early youth, the passionate desire for fame upon the boards.

“But what about that great ambition, Sally?”

She smiled comfortably.

“That’s got a bit of fat on it too, lad. You’d ’ve liked me how they make them in the story books. With my name in big lights in Piccadilly.” She stopped laughing and shook her head; then lifting her eyes she looked at him steadily. “It’s one in a million does that, David. I’m not her. I’ve got a bit of talent maybe, but that’s the end of it. Don’t you think I haven’t found out by now. Put me against the real thing and I don’t exist.”

“Oh. I don’t know, Sally…” he remonstrated.

“You don’t,” she answered with something of her old fierceness. “Well, I do. I’ve tried it and I know where I get off. We all start out with great ideas as to where we’re going, Davey, but it’s precious few that gets there. I’m lucky to have found a half-way stop that suits me.”

There was a silence. Sally recovered herself immediately, yet, though the fire died out of her eyes, she remained unusually serious. She began to play with her spoon, abstractedly, drawing circles with the handle upon the tablecloth. Her face was overcast as if something had recurred to her and now lay upon her mind. Suddenly, as though taking a decision, she glanced at Alf, who lay back in his chair, bowler hat over his eyes, sleepily using the wooden toothpick he had just shaped from a match.

“Alf,” she remarked meditatively, “I want to have a word with David. Take a stroll round the Square for a couple of minutes.”

“Eh?” Alf sat up, taken by surprise. He stared at her.

“You’ll find David and me here when you come back,” insisted Sally.

Alf nodded. Sally’s word was always law. He rose and readjusted his hat. As she watched him go Sally reflected:

“He’s a good sort, Alf, a regular treat. Thank God, I can get him away from his white lead now. I’m buying him a bungalow at Gosforth. Dick’s told me to go ahead. I’m settling Alf there and letting him breed homers to his heart’s content.”

David had an odd sense of warmth within his breast. It was his nature always to be moved by the evidence of generosity or kindness in others. And he felt these qualities shining in Sally’s affection for her father, the little man in the black misfitting suit and squeaky boots and made-up tie.

“You’re a brick, Sally,” he said. “You’ve never hurt anyone in all your life.”

“I don’t know about that.” She was still unsmiling. “I think perhaps I’m going to hurt you now.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” he inquired in surprise.

“Well,” she paused, opened her bag and slowly drew out a letter. “I’ve got something to tell you. I hate to, David. But I must, you’d hate me if I didn’t.” Another pause. “I’ve heard from Jenny.”

“Jenny?” he gasped.

“That’s right,” she answered in a low voice. “She sent me this letter.” And saying no more, she handed it to him.

Mechanically he took the letter. It was on thick violet notepaper with deckled edges, heavily scented, and written in Jenny’s round, childish hand. The envelope had a deep violet lining. The address was: The Excelsior Hotel, Cheltenham, and the date a few weeks before.

“My dearest Sally,” the letter ran, “I feel I must take up my pen to bridge the long silence chiefly due to me being abroad. What you must have thought I really cannot imagine. But wait, Sally, till I tell you. When I was in Barnham I saw an advertisement in the paper for an old lady needing a companion. Well, just for fun like I applied and to my surprise I received a most polite answer enclosing railway fare to London. So I went to see her and oh my dear she would not take no. She was going abroad to Spain and Italy and Venice and Paris. She had white hair and the loveliest lace and a mauve dress and the most beautiful kind eyes. Such a fancy she took for me you could not believe. My dear, she kep saying your sweet, I cannot let you go, so to cut a long story short I just had to Sally. Oh I know I done wrong, but there I could not resist the travel. My dear we been everywhere—Spain and Italy and Venice and Paris, oh, and Egypt too. And such style! The best hotels everywhere, servants bowing and scraping, the opera in foreign places, a box mind you, with counts in uniform. Oh, Mrs. Vansittar cannot bear me out of her sight, she dotes on me. She says I am like a daughter to her. I am in her will too. I only read to her and go for drives and out to tea and that. Oh, and arrange the flowers. I must say I am lucky don’t you think so Sally. Oh, I would not make you jealous for untold gold Sally but if you could only see the style we keep your eyes would drop out your head. I meant to plan so we could meet but we are only hear a few days just to drink the waters then we are off again. Dear, dear life is very gay for me Sally I wish you were as lucky as me. Give my love to mar and Clarice and Phyllis and pa and of course your self. If you see David tell him I think about him sometimes. There is nobody in my life now, Sally, tell him that too. I think men is beasts. He was good to me though. Now I must close as it is time for me to dress for dinner, I have a new one black, with sequins, think on me in it Sally oh it’s a dream. Good-bye and God bless you then Yours for ever and a day Jenny.”

Silence. Then a long sigh came from David. He stared and stared at the grotesque effusion, every line of which breathed a memory of Jenny, painful and pitiful, yet somehow tender.

“Why didn’t you let me know before?” he asked heavily at length.

“What was the use?” Sally answered in a quiet voice. She hesitated. “You see, I went to Cheltenham, to the Excelsior Hotel. Jenny had been there all right for a couple of days during the race week. But not with Mrs. what’s her name.”

“So I can gather,” he said grimly.

“Don’t let it upset you, David.” She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Cheer up now, there’s a good lad. It’s something to know she’s alive and well.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s something.”

“Did I do right showing you?” she persisted anxiously.

He folded the letter and slipped it in the envelope, then placed it in his pocket.

“I’m glad you did, Sally,” he said. “Surely I’m the one who ought to know.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought.”

Another silence fell, during which Alf rejoined them. He glanced quickly from one to the other but he asked no questions. Alf’s taciturnity sometimes revealed itself as a gift greater than many tongues.

They left the hotel half an hour later, and David walked down with Alf and Sally to their bus. He forced himself to appear unconcerned, even to smile. Sally was happy — he had no wish to spoil her happiness with his private sorrow nor to make her feel that in showing him the letter — so obviously her duty — she had reopened a deep and painful wound. He knew the letter to be cheap and vulgar and untrue. With unerring vision he drew the picture: Jenny, alone for an hour in this cheap hotel while her companion visited the races or an adjoining pub; a momentary impulse to kill her boredom, utilise the visit to Cheltenham — such a refined resort! — to impress her family, appease the insatiable cravings of her romantic mind. He sighed. The scent from the cheap notepaper nauseated him. Tell David I sometimes think about him. Why should that touch him? But did she ever think about him? He wondered sadly. Yes, perhaps she did; even as he thought of her. For in spite of everything he could not forget her. He still felt tenderness towards Jenny; her memory lived with him, lay like a light shadow across his heart. He knew he might despise her, he might even hate her. But he could never wipe that shadow, that secret tenderness away.

That night he sat brooding by the fire with the Report lying on the table untouched. He could not settle to it. A strange restlessness had seized him. Late at night he went out and took a long walk through the empty streets.

For days his restlessness continued, and he made no attempt to work. He walked. He revisited the Tate Gallery, standing silently before the small Degas, Lecture de la Letter, which had always fascinated him. He sought distraction and enlightenment in Tolstoi, whose nervous impressionism seemed to vibrate in sympathy with his present mood. Rapidly he re-read Anna Karenina, Three Sons, Resurrection and The Power of Darkness. He, too, saw human society as crossed by fateful and contrary tendencies, earthbound by a sordid self-interest, yet soaring occasionally with a gesture of nobility, of sacrifice, towards the sublime.

He was able, at last, to concentrate upon work. April passed into May. Then events came tumbling rapidly one upon another. It became more and more evident that the Government was about to die. Immersed in the preparation for the great campaign David had no opportunity for brooding. He found time to dash up to Tynecastle to attend Sally’s wedding. But for the rest he had not a moment to himself.

On May 10th Parliament dissolved, nominations were in by the 20th of the same month and on May 30th the General Election took place. The policy of Nationalisation was the main plank in the Labour Programme. Labour appealed to the nation in the great manifesto:

The manifesto was signed.

J. RAMSAY MACDONALD.

J. R. CLYNES.

HERBERT MORRISON.

ARTHUR HENDERSON.

On that manifesto and its policy of Nationalisation Labour went into office. David increased his majority by almost two thousand. Nugent, Bebbington, Dudgeon, Chalmers, Cleghorn polled more votes than ever before. With a sense of exultation mingled with expectation, David returned to London. He visualised the Coal Mines Bill so long projected by the party, presented, pressed in the face of all protests and triumphantly debated. The thought mounted to his head like wine. At last, he thought, at last! On July 2nd, 1929, the Session formally opened.

THIRTEEN

On a foggy evening early that autumn David and Harry Nugent came out of the House and stood for a moment on the low steps in conversation. Ten weeks ago the King had made his speech from the throne. The Labour ministers had kissed hands. Jim Dudgeon, clothed in knee-breeches and resplendent cocked hat, had stood in supreme affability before a dozen press photographers. The Prime Minister, hurrying through a visit to the United States, had flashed a message to the Labour Party Conference: We have to raise the coal industry from the depths into which long years of drifting and blind policy have plunged it.

But David’s face, seen indistinctly through the curling swathes of fog, wore an expression curiously at variance with so commendable a beginning. With hands in his pockets and head sunk into the upturned collar of his overcoat he had an air both troubled and restive.

“Shall we see the Bill this year?” he asked of Nugent. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

Tucking his scarf around his neck, Nugent answered in his quiet voice:

“Yes, by December, if what I’m told is correct.”

David stared out into the blank uncertainty of the fog which somehow seemed to symbolise his mood.

“Well, we must wait until we see the text of it,” he said with a sigh. “But I can’t understand this procrastination. It bothers me. It strikes me we’re all so busy trying to appear constitutional and respectable that no one has the time to show any initiative.”

“It isn’t just the question of time,” Nugent replied slowly. “It’s rather significant the Government keeps asking us to remember we’re in office and not in power.”

“I’ve heard that so often, Harry, I feel one day it’ll be on my tombstone.”

“You’ll hardly be in office then.” Nugent’s lips twitched slightly but immediately he was serious again. “Still, you’re right when you say we must wait for the Bill. And in the meantime hope for the best.”

“I am,” David answered grimly. There was a pause, during which a long dark car drew up silently opposite the entrance. Both men stared at it in silence. And presently, from the lobby behind, Bebbington appeared. He glanced at Nugent and David with his usual superficial air.

“Wretched evening,” he remarked suavely. “Can I give you a lift up west?”

David shook his head without speaking and Nugent answered:

“No, thanks. We’re waiting on Ralston.”

Bebbington smiled, rather aloof and condescending, then with a faint nod he descended the steps and briskly entered the car. The chauffeur placed a fur rug about his knees, and sprang into the driving-seat. The car purred into the fog.

“It’s extremely strange,” David reflected in an odd voice. “That car of Bebbington’s. It’s a Minerva, isn’t it? I wonder how exactly it came along?”

Harry Nugent glanced sideways at David, his eyes gently satirical beneath the bony ridges of his brow.

“Perhaps it’s for his services to the State,” he suggested.

“No, but seriously, Harry,” David persisted, unsmiling. “Bebbington’s perpetual wail is that he has no private means. And now that car and chauffeur.”

“Is it worth while being serious?” Nugent’s mouth twisted with unusual cynicism. “If you must know the truth, our friend Bebbington has just joined the board of Amalgamated Collieries. Now, don’t look so desperate. There’s plenty of precedent. It’s all perfectly in order and neither you nor I nor anyone else dare say a word!”

“Amalgamated Collieries!” In spite of himself David’s tone was bitter. He glanced across at Nugent, stung by a swift resentment. Nugent’s passive acceptance of the fact added to his troubled restlessness. Nugent had been a tired man lately, rather jaded in his manner, slower, even, in his walk, accepting his failure to secure inclusion in the Cabinet almost with resignation. There was little doubt that Nugent’s health had failed greatly, his old vitality seemed spent. For that reason alone David did not pursue the subject. When Ralston arrived he switched the conversation to the meeting which they had all three promised to attend at the League of Democratic Control, and together they set out towards Victoria Street through the fog.

But David was not happy in his mind. The session, begun with such elation, continued strangely ineffectual, strangely like those sessions which had preceded it. Often, during the weeks which followed, his thoughts returned to Sleescale, to the men whom he had promised justice. He had pledged himself. The party as a whole had pledged itself. That pledge had won them the election. It must be implemented, even if it meant throwing themselves upon the country once again. The conditions in Sleescale were so appalling now — the town stricken with destitution, the men harbouring a hidden mutiny against the social order which condoned such misery — that he felt the growing urgency for action. He was in touch with the men, with Heddon, Ogle and the local officials. He knew. The situation was not imaginary but existed in grim reality. It was desperate.

In the face of the crisis David built all his hopes upon the new Coal Mines Bill. He saw it as the sole solution of the problem, the one logical means to achieve the vindication of his party and the salvation of the men. From time to time he had news of the Bill which was in the process of being drafted by a Cabinet Committee consulting with a special committee of the Miners’ Federation. But neither Nugent nor he was on this committee and information was of the scantiest. The internal administration of the party had become universally stringent and members of committee resented any form of approach. It was, in fact, impossible to discover the shape or context of the Bill. Nevertheless, the Bill was coming forward, this much was assured. And, as December drew near, David told himself that his premonitions had been absurd, merely the echo of his own impatience. He waited with a growing expectancy.

Quite suddenly, on December 11th, the Bill was introduced. Sponsored by the President of the Board of Trade, supported by the Attorney-General and the Minister for Mines, it was formally presented for the first time. The House was not particularly full, nor was there any sense of the momentous in the air. The whole thing passed undramatically, even hurriedly. The title of the Bill was short, generalised and elusive. A bare ten lines quickly read out; a bare ten minutes from first to last, and the thing was over. David listened with a rising apprehension. He could not fully understand. There was, as yet, no indication of the scope of the Bill; yet, even at this early stage, its limited application was borne in on him. Rising hurriedly, he went into the lobby and made representations to several members of committee, urgently requesting a draft copy of the Bill. He even approached Bebbington in his anxiety to secure the draft. By that same night the full text of the draft was in his hands. Only then did he appreciate the significance of the new measure. His reaction was indescribable. He was not only stunned. He was appalled.

It so happened that on the 11th Nugent had been called up to Edgeley and David spent the evening alone, studying the draft. Even yet he could not believe the evidence before his eyes. It was incredible, staggering — a shattering blow.

He sat late into the night, thinking, trying to define his own line of action. Resolution firmed within him. He saw all that he could do, all that he must do.

On the next day he attended early at the meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party Committee. It was a small meeting, perhaps half the normal size. As he surveyed the meagre gathering, David’s heart sank. Lately, ministers had been irregular in attendance, but this to-day was especially significant, the more so as the Minister for Mines was absent. Only Dudgeon, Bebbington, Nugent, Ralston, Chalmers and some twenty-odd members of committee were in the room. An after-luncheon feeling hung about the air — Chalmers had the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat loose, while Cleghorn, with a half-shut drowsy eye, settled himself to snatch a comfortable nap.

Jim Dudgeon was in the chair. He glanced at the papers in his blotter, swept the table with his owl-like gaze, then read rapidly:

“The programme of the House this week will include discussion on unemployment, debate on housing and the second reading of the Coal Mines Bill…”

David jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Chairman,” he exclaimed, “on a point of order may I ask whether this Bill is intended to represent the policy of the Labour Party?”

“Hear, hear!” called out several members from the committee left wing.

Dudgeon did not look in the least put out. He eyed David affably, up and down.

“Have you any reason to believe that it does not represent the policy of the party?”

David struggled for calm, yet he could not restrain a biting sarcasm from his tone.

“It would appear that this Bill, in its present form, is slightly inadequate. We were returned to this House pledged to Nationalisation. We bound ourselves in a signed manifesto to alleviate the tragic distress in the coalfields, and to reorganise the industry on national lines from top to bottom. And how are we proposing to do it? I am not aware if all the members of this committee have seen the full text of this Bill. But I have seen it. And I can assure them that it outrages every promise that was given.”

There was a silence. Dudgeon rubbed his chin reflectively, peering at David from behind his big horn rims.

“The point you forget is that we’re in office here, we’re not in power. We must make shift the best way we can. The Government is bound to compromise.”

“Compromise! This isn’t a compromise. It’s sheer cowardice. The Opposition could not have produced a Bill which panders more to the owners. This Bill is all coalowner. Retaining the quota system, throwing out the minimum wage proposals, blinking at the ‘spread over’—it is a Tory Bill and every member of the House will shortly be aware of it.”

“Just a minute,” Dudgeon murmured blandly. “I’m a practical man. At least, I’ve got a reputation for bein’ a practical man. I believe in goin’ to the point. Now what exactly is your objection?”

“My objection!” David broke out. “You know that this Bill offers no fundamental solution to our difficulties. Its essential purpose is to market coal. It is a ridiculous attempt to reconcile two definitely irreconcilable principles. The quota system is a positive injury to the miners and can never be anything else. When you compare what we pledged ourselves to do and what the Government now proposes to do, the thing becomes a crying outrage.”

“And even so, what is the alternative?” protested Dudgeon. “Remember our position.”

“That’s exactly what I do remember,” David declared in a white heat of indignation, “our position and our honour.”

“For God’s sake!” Chalmers interposed coarsely, with his eyes on the ceiling. “What does this member want?”

“What I want is to see this Bill amended to the form when it implements our pledge and satisfies the conscience of every man inside the party. Then take it to the House. If we’re defeated we go to the country on our Bill. Then the men know that we fought for them. We could not have a better case.”

Another cry of “Hear, hear,” from the far end of the room; but in the main a murmur of disapproval went up from around the table. Chalmers bent slowly forward.

“I’ve been put here,” he said, prodding the table with one forefinger to emphasise his words, “and I’m going to stay put.”

“Don’t you realise,” Dudgeon resumed affably, “we’ve got to show the country our ability to govern. We’re winnin’ golden opinions for the way we’re handlin’ affairs.”

“Don’t delude yourself,” David returned bitterly. “They’re laughing at us. Read the Tory papers! The lower class aping their betters. The tame menagerie. According to them we’re not governing, we’re performing. And if we run away from them over this Bill they’ll have nothing but contempt for us!”

“Order, order,” Dudgeon sighed reproachfully. “We don’t want any hard words inside the party.” He blinked at David in a kind of genial exasperation. “Haven’t we made it clear to you that we’ve got to go slow?”

“Slow!” echoed David savagely. “At this rate we’ll still be preparing to nationalise in another two thousand years.”

For the first time Nugent spoke.

“Fenwick is right,” he said slowly. “On point of principle there’s no question but what we ought to fight. We may keep ourselves here for another twelve months playing at power, keeping up the sham, simply deluding ourselves. But we’ll go out on our necks in the end. Why not go out with flying colours? And, besides, as Fenwick says, we’ve got the men to consider. They’re pretty well at the end of their tether on Tyneside. I’m telling you and I know.”

Cleghorn said acidly:

“If you’re asking us to resign from office because of a few Tynecastle malcontents you’re walking in the wrong street.”

“Did you call them malcontents when you asked for their votes?” David cried. “It’s enough to drive the men to revolution.”

Chalmers banged irritably on the table.

“You’re making a damned nuisance of yourself, Fenwick. Revolution be damned! We don’t want any Russian ideas brought up at a time like this.”

“Most uncomfortable for the middle classes!” Bebbington agreed in a sneering undertone.

“You see,” Dudgeon went on smoothly, “we all admit there ought to be a complete revaluation of human effort. But we can’t go and repudiate the present system offhand like we were throwing away an old boot. We’ve got to be careful. We’ve got to be constitutional. Damn it all, I’m too popular to do anything against the British Constitution.”

“You prefer to do nothing.” A flood of anger rushed over David. “To sit and draw a Cabinet minister’s salary while thousands of miners starve on the dole.”

There was an outcry at this and cries of “Order, order! Withdraw!”

“I’m not going to commit political suicide for nobody,” Dudgeon muttered, reddening.

“Is that the opinion of this committee?” David asked, looking round intensely. “What do you propose to do? To keep your word or break it?”

“I propose to keep my reputation for sanity,” Bebbington said icily.

“Hear, hear!” shouted several; then Cleghorn’s voice: “I move next business, Mr. Chairman.” The cry was taken up.

“I ask you to reconsider the form of this Bill,” David intervened desperately. “I can’t believe that you refuse to amend it. Leave the issue of Nationalisation alone. I appeal to you at least to consider the insertion of a minimum wages clause.”

Chalmers, this time moving irritably in his chair:

“Mr. Chairman, there is no time obviously to take this discussion further. Surely the member can keep his theories to himself and trust the Government to do all that is possible in the present circumstances.”

Several voices then cried:

“Next business, Mr. Chairman.”

“I’m not talking to you in terms of theories,” David shouted. “I am talking to you in terms of men and women. I warn the committee that the Bill will drive the miners to despair, to rioting…”

“You will have an opportunity of amending it at the proper time,” Dudgeon countered shortly. Then aloud: “What is your pleasure?”

A loud shout from his supporters:

“Next business.”

Despairingly, David attempted to carry on a cross-bench argument. It was no use. Dudgeon’s voice monotonously took up the thread of the interrupted meeting. The business of the Committee proceeded.

FOURTEEN

That cold December morning, Arthur walked down to the Neptune and entered his office. He was early. He hung up his hat and coat, stood for a moment staring at the calendar, then he went forward quickly and tore off the date. Another day. Surely that was something. He had survived another day. He sat down at his desk. Although he had just risen from bed he had slept badly and felt tired already, tired of the endless struggle, of this endless battering against the economic forces which threatened to destroy him. His face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of a man consumed by worry.

He pressed the bell upon his desk and immediately Pettit, his clerk and timekeeper, brought in the morning mail — the letters arranged methodically, the largest beneath, the smallest on the top. Pettit was always very neat.

“Morning, Pettit,” Arthur said automatically. He felt his voice artificial though he tried to make it cordial and encouraging.

“Morning, Mr. Barras. Heavy ground frost last night, sir.”

“Yes, it’s cold, Pettit.”

“Perishing, sir. Shall I put more coal on the fire?”

“No thanks, Pettit.”

Almost before Pettit was out the door Arthur reached for the top letter, the letter he had been expecting, the letter from his bankers in Tynecastle.

Slitting the stiff envelope he read the formal communication quickly, not surprised, in a sense not even dismayed. The present policy of the bank was opposed to further short-term loans, they deeply regretted their inability…. Arthur let the letter drop. Regret, of course, was a fine word; everybody had the deepest feeling of regret when compelled from the highest motives to refuse a request for money. He sighed. Yet he had anticipated this answer even before he wrote. He had reached the limit of his overdraft, borrowed the last farthing upon his equipment and headgear; he had the advantage at least of knowing where he stood.

He remained seated at his desk — though he was tired it cost him an effort to keep still, his nerves demanded some violent outlet. And with a certain feverish intentness, he reviewed the situation. The strain of it was visible upon his brow.

It was a long road he had travelled since the days of the disaster. And now there was no road but merely a kind of bog, an industrial morass, the slump. Coal had fallen a further fifteen shillings per ton; and even so he could not sell it. The combines, the big amalgamations were selling coal. But he, the small private producer, was powerless. Yet his overhead kept up: his pumps must be maintained, his royalties paid—6d. on every ton which he took out of his pit. And the men? Here he sighed again. By his policy of conciliation and safety he had hoped to carry them with him. But all along he had been sadly disillusioned. They seemed actually to resent his attempt to reorganise them, to suspect the motive behind his sweeping reforms. To many his wonderful pithead baths were still a source of irritation and ribald comment. He knew he was a bad leader. Often he wavered in his decisions, was persuasive when he should have been firm, stubborn when a stronger man would have laughed and yielded. The men saw his weakness and played upon it. Old Barras’s bullying they understood: they had feared, even admired it. But Arthur’s altruism and high ideals they had mistrusted and despised.

The pitiless paradox stung Arthur to the quick. He lifted his head in a hot wave of exasperation. He refused, yes, refused to admit it.

He was not beaten. At a low ebb merely. He would go on, win through. The tide must flow again; it was not far off flowing now. He applied himself to the problem with renewed intensity. In the fever of his concentration the position clarified, the fact became lucid, the figures marshalled themselves before his mind’s eye. The pit was mortgaged, his credit exhausted, his output the lowest in twenty years. But he had a strong conviction that trade would presently mend. The slump must end, it must end soon. He would hang on, hang on until the end of the slump, then all would be well. He could keep going for another twelve months at least, this he knew with certainty. He had considered it, in anticipation of the bank’s refusal, worked it all out to the last detail. There was nothing he had not foreseen. A case of cutting down, further economy, of holding on, yes, sitting tight and holding on. He could do it, he knew that he could do it.

He drew a sharp nervous breath. The cutting down was the worst, but it simply had to be. Another fifty men must go today; he would take them out Five Quarter Seam and close the headings there till trade improved. It broke his heart to give these fifty their time, to send them to join the six hundred men from the Neptune already on the dole. But he had no option. He would take them back the moment, the instant, he was able.

With a jerky movement he looked at the clock. He must let Armstrong know at once. He flung open the door and went quickly along the corridor towards Armstrong’s room.

He spent half an hour with Armstrong deciding which of the men must go. It had come to that now. Arthur himself insisted on weighing and considering each individual case before striking out the name. Nothing could have been more painful for him; some of the men were old hands, experienced and skilful men who had been getting coal in the Neptune for twenty years and more. But they had to go. They had to go to join the six hundred men upon the dole, to swell the destitution and discontent that seethed in Sleescale.

At last it was done. Arthur watched Armstrong cross the yard to the timekeeper’s box with the white sheet fluttering in his hand. A strange sense of having slain these men worked within his breast, hurting him. He raised his hand to his forehead and pressed his forehead regardless of the trembling of his hand. Then he turned and walked back into his own office.

The office was not empty. Just inside the door Hudspeth was waiting for him, waiting with a red and angry face. Hudspeth had a lad with him, a big lump of a youngster who stood sulkily with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his cap. The lad was Bert Wicks, Arthur saw, the son of Jake Wicks, the men’s checkweigher. He worked in Globe Coal. One look at the pair showed Arthur it was trouble, and his nerves vibrated through his body.

“What is it?” he said, trying to remain calm.

Hudspeth said:

“Look.” And he held out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

They all stared at the cigarettes and the box of matches, even Bert Wicks stared, and the effect of these trivial articles was clearly enormous.

Hudspeth said:

“In the stables, too. In the new Globe roadway, sitting there smoking in the stables, among the straw — excuse me, Mr. Barras, but you wouldn’t believe it. Forbes, the deputy, just brought him outbye!”

Arthur kept staring at the cigarettes and the matches; he seemed unable to withdraw his eyes from the matches especially. Little waves kept bursting over him, over his nerves. He had to keep his whole body clenched to suppress the waves which broke over him and over his nerves. There was firedamp in the new Globe headings, recent inspections had revealed firedamp in explosive concentration. He was afraid to look at young Wicks for fear everything inside him would break loose.

“What have you to say?”

“I didn’t do nowt,” Bert Wicks said.

“You were smoking.”

“I wore only hevin’ a puff in the stable. I diddent do nowt.”

A little shiver went through Arthur.

“You took matches inbye. You were smoking.”

Wicks said nothing.

“In spite of the regulations,” Arthur went on with set lips, “and all my warnings about naked lights in Globe.”

Bert Wicks twisted the peak of his cap. He knew what the men thought about Arthur, what they said about him too, cursing everything he did from his coddling to his blasted safety regulations. He was tough, Bert was, he was not going to let himself be put down. Half frightened and half sullen, he said:

“My fethur says there’s niver been no firedamp in the Neptune. He says the order agin matches is all b — s.”

Arthur’s nerves broke, everything inside him broke loose. The ignorance, the stupidity, the insolence. He had sacrificed himself, nearly ruined himself, yes, half killed himself with work and worry to make the Neptune safe, to give the men a decent deal. And this was the answer. He lost himself. He took a step forward and hit Wicks in the face.

“You fool,” he said; his breath came panting like he was running. “You cursed ignorant fool. Do you want to blow the pit to bits? Do you want us with another disaster? Do you want that? Do you want it, I say? Here am I throwing decent workmen out the pit with you skulking about in a corner, loafing, smoking, ready to blow us all to damnation. Get out, for God’s sake. Get out of my sight. You’re sacked. Take your matches and your filthy cigarettes. Go on, get out before I kick you out.”

He caught Wicks by the shoulders, spun him round and fired him through the door. Wicks went sprawling his full length on the corridor outside, and hit his leg against the step. Arthur banged the door.

Silence in the office. Arthur leaned back against his desk, still breathing like he had been running; he seemed scarcely able to breathe. Hudspeth gave him one quick perturbed glance. It was instinctive that glance and Arthur saw it.

“He deserved it,” he cried. “I had to sack him!”

“Ay, you wouldn’t want to keep a lad like him,” Hudspeth said, staring awkwardly at the floor.

“I can’t sit down under that sort of thing!”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Hudspeth said, still staring uncomfortably at the floor. He paused. “He’ll go straight and tell his father, of course — Jake Wicks, the check-weigher.”

Arthur struggled for control.

“I didn’t hit him hard.”

“He’ll be making out you near killed him. They’re rare ones for trouble that Wicks lot.” He broke off, turned to the door. “I better go over,” he said. He went out.

Arthur remained supporting himself against the desk. It was a mistake he had made, a horrible mistake, the cumulation of his anxiety and strain had made him make this horrible mistake, striking Bert Wicks.

Hudspeth had gone over to smooth out the mistake. He hoped it would be all right. He straightened himself and entered his little changing room that opened off the office. He had arranged to inspect New Paradise this morning and he got into his pit clothes. As he stepped into the cage to go inbye he still hoped it would be all right.

But it was not all right. When Bert Wicks picked himself up he made for the bank where his father stood checking tubs as they came rolling down the track. His leg hurt him where it had hit against the step and the more he thought about his leg the more his leg hurt him. He became afraid to put any weight upon his leg.

His father, Jake Wicks, saw him coming like that, afraid to put weight on his leg. Jake stopped the tubs.

“What’s up, Bert?” he asked.

In a high blubbering voice Bert told him, and when Jake had heard everything he said:

“He can’t do a thing like that.”

“He did it,” Bert answered. “He knocked us down and kicked us, he did. He kicked us when I wor down.”

Jake rammed the book he kept for checking tubs into the inside of his jacket and hitched his leather belt tight.

“He can’t do it,” he said again. “He can’t get away with that sort of thing on us.” Frowning, he reflected. All because poor Bert had forgotten to take a couple of matches out of his pocket before he went inbye. All because of that and these blasted new regulations. Would anybody stand it? — let alone him, the men’s checkweigher at the pit. He said suddenly: “Come on, Bert.”

He left the tubs altogether and he walked Bert the whole way up to the hospital. Dr. Webber, the young resident house surgeon, newly qualified and not long appointed to the hospital, was on duty and Jake, with the peremptory manner of a man who knew his own position, asked Dr. Webber to examine Bert’s leg. Jake Wicks, besides being check-weigher to the men, the post which Charlie Gowlan had once held, was treasurer to the Medical Aid Committee. It was quite important for Dr. Webber to be pleasant to Jake Wicks and he was most pleasant and obliging, making a long and grave examination of Bert’s leg.

“Is the leg broke?” Jake asked.

Dr Webber did not think so. In fact he was practically certain that the leg was not broken, but you could never be sure and in any case it was not wise to be sure. The medical journals were always turning up with fracture cases, nasty cases of damages too, damages against the doctor. And Jake Wicks was an unpleasant customer. Dr. Webber, not to put too fine a point on it, was afraid of Jake, and he said:

“We ought to have an X-ray.”

Jake Wicks thought an X-ray would be a good idea.

“Suppose we keep him in for twenty-four hours,” Dr. Webber suggested pleasantly. “Twenty-four hours in bed won’t hurt you, Bert, just to be safe, have a proper diagnosis. How does that strike you?”

It struck Jake and Bert as being quite the best course under the circumstances. Bert was put to bed in the men’s ward and Jake went straight down to the Institute and rang up Heddon at the Lodge offices in Tynecastle.

“Hello, hello,” he said cautiously. “Is that Tom Heddon? This is Jake Wicks, Tom. You know, Tom, the Neptune checkweigher.” Jake’s tone with Heddon was rather different from his tone with Dr. Webber.

“What is it?” Heddon’s voice came curtly over the wire. “And cut it short, for God’s sake. I haven’t all day to listen to you. What is it?”

“It’s my lad, Bert,” Jake said very propitiatingly. “It’s assault and victimisation. You’ve got to listen, Tom.”

For a full five minutes Heddon listened. He sat at the other end of the wire with the receiver clapped to his ear, listening darkly, intently biting his thumb nail and spitting the tiny pieces on to the blotter before him.

“All right,” he said at the end of it. “All right, I tell you I’ll be along.”

Two hours later when Arthur rode to bank from the Paradise and came out of the cage and across the yard Heddon was seated in the office, waiting on him. The sight of Heddon gave Arthur a shock; he went cold instantly. Heddon did not get up, but sat squarely in his chair as though planted there. And he did not speak.

Arthur did not speak for a minute either. He walked through to the bathroom and washed his hands and face. Then he came out, drying himself, but he had not washed himself properly, for his hands left a dark smudge on the towel. He stood with his back to the window, wiping his hands on the towel. He found it easier to keep doing something. He was not so nervous if he kept on wiping his hands. Trying to speak casually he said:

“What is it this time, Heddon?”

Heddon lifted a ruler from the desk and began to play with it.

“You know what it is,” he said.

“If it’s Wicks you’ve come about,” Arthur said, “I can’t do anything. I discharged him for rank disobedience.”

“Is that so?”

“He was caught smoking inbye in Globe. You know we’ve found firedamp there. I’ve spent a lot of money making this pit safe, Heddon. I don’t want any worse trouble than what we’ve had.”

Heddon crossed his legs easily, still holding the ruler. He was in no hurry. But at last he said:

“Bert Wicks is in hospital.” He told it to the ruler.

Arthur’s inside turned over and went hollow. He felt sick. He stopped wringing his hands upon the towel:

“In hospital!” After a minute: “What’s happened to him?”

“You should know.”

“I don’t know.”

“They think his leg’s broken.”

“I don’t believe it,” Arthur cried. “I didn’t do anything. Mr. Hudspeth was there. He’ll tell you it was nothing.”

“Wicks has got to be X-rayed to-morrow — that’ll show you if it’s nothing. Dr. Webber’s orders. I’ve just come from the hospital.”

Arthur was very pale now; he felt weak. He had to sit down on the window sill. He remembered that young Wicks had fallen heavily outside the door.

“For God’s sake, Heddon,” he said in a low voice. “What are you getting at?”

Heddon dropped the ruler. There was no sweetness or brotherly love about Heddon; his job was to be violent and arbitrary and he intended to do his job.

“Look here, Barras. I’ll speak plain. You lost your temper to-day and assaulted a man. Don’t deny it. Never mind what the man did. You assaulted him with violence. You’ve as good as broke his leg. That’s a serious matter. It isn’t a question of reinstatement. It’s criminal. Don’t interrupt. I’m talking. I represent every man that’s left in your bloddy pit and if I lift my finger they’ll walk out on you.”

“What good will that do them?” Arthur said. “They want to work, they don’t want to walk out.”

“The men have got to stand together. What affects one affects all. I don’t like this Neptune pit. It stinks with me this pit ever since that time back when you had the flooding. I’m not going to stand no nonsense.”

The violence in Heddon’s voice knocked the heart right out of Arthur.

“Do you know how I’ve slaved at this pit?” he protested weakly. “What are you getting after?”

“You’ll find out in plenty of time,” Heddon answered. “We’ve called a meeting at the Institute for six o’clock. There’s a strong feeling about it. I’m only warning you. It’s no good your doing anything now. It’s done. You’re in a mess. You’re in one hell of a mess.”

Arthur did not speak. He was limp, sick of Heddon and Heddon’s threats. These threats were part of Heddon’s business. Heddon was trying to bully him and probably succeeding. But in his heart he could not believe that Heddon would bring the men out, the men who were at the Neptune were too glad to be in work to come out. The destitution in the district was terrible, the town festering with unemployed; the men in work were the lucky ones. He stood up listlessly.

“Have it your own way,” he said. “I know you don’t want trouble.”

Heddon stood up, too. Heddon was used to men who banged the desk with their fists and snarled at him and told him to get to hell out of here. He was used to bluster and counterbluster, oaths, threats and blasphemy. He was paid to fight and he fought. Arthur’s lethargy brought a vague pity to his eyes.

“That’s everything,” he said. “You’ll hear from us later.” And with a short nod he walked out.

Arthur remained motionless. He was still holding the half-folded towel and he completed folding the towel. He went into the bathroom and hung the towel up on the hot pipe. Then he saw that the towel was not very clean. He picked it off the rail and dropped it in the empty bath to be removed.

He changed into his ordinary clothes. He could not be bothered to take a bath to-night. He was still tired and listless and sick. Everything was a little unreal; he felt light inside his clothes, as if he did not belong to them. He was so sensitive he could feel acutely, but once his feeling had traversed a certain point of acuity he became numb. He was numb now. He caught sight of himself suddenly in the small square of mirror hung on the white enamel wall. No wonder he felt done up. He looked ten years more than his age of thirty-six, there were lines round his eyes, his hair was lustreless, almost gone upon the top. Why was he wasting his life like this, making an old man of himself before his time, chasing insane ideals, embracing the mad illusion of justice? Other men were enjoying their lives, making the most of their money, while he stuck here at this joyless pit working the treadmill thanklessly. For the first time he thought, God, what a fool I’ve been!

Back in the office he looked at the clock. Almost six o’clock. He took his hat and went out. He walked out of the empty pit yard and along Cowpen Street. He ought, of course, to go to the hospital to inquire about young Wicks, but he decided to put it off until later. It was very typical, this procrastination. As he walked up the Avenue he heard a loud sound of voices come from the Miners’ Institute. The voices came distantly, they seemed to him futile and remote. He knew there could be no trouble, it was too silly to think of trouble at a time like this.

FIFTEEN

But Arthur was wrong. Fact, once in a while, does violence to logic. And the events of the evening of December 14th do not necessarily discredit Arthur’s judgment. They merely took place.

The meeting at the Institute was held at six. It was short. Heddon saw to it that the meeting was short. Heddon’s policy was quite clear; he wanted no trouble, no trouble at all. The sadly depleted funds of the Union would not stand trouble. His policy was to intimidate Arthur, leave Arthur uncertain and worrying for twenty-four hours, then come down on the following day to drive a hard bargain with Arthur. Reinstatement for Bert Wicks and compensation and a something extra thrown in to make good measure. But above all Heddon’s policy was to get home, change his socks which were damp because his feet sweated badly, sit down to his tea in dry socks and slippers and then get into a chair by the fireside with his pipe. Heddon was not so young as he had been, his ambitions were dead, the hatreds of his youth merely smouldering. His policy was still vigorous enough, but it was governed less by Heddon’s head and more by Heddon’s feet.

He rushed the proceedings at the meeting, snubbed Jake Wicks, endorsed Harry Ogle’s briefly expressed views, then hurried out to catch the 6.45 for Tynecastle.

On the steps of the Institute he paused, rather taken aback by the size of the crowd outside. Hell, he thought, what’s taken them like, down here! There were perhaps as many as five hundred men, standing there, hanging about, waiting and talking amongst themselves. They were mostly men who were on the dole.

Confronted by this gathering Heddon felt an obligation to address it. He put his hands in his pockets, thrust forward his head and declared briefly:

“Listen, lads. We’ve just held a meeting to discuss the case that happened to-day. We can’t allow any member of our Union to be victimised. I’ll not stand for an unjust dismissal. But in the meantime we’ve adjourned on a point of order. I’ll be here again to-morrow for further negotiations. That’s all, lads.” With his usual abrupt gesture, Heddon went down the steps and towards the station.

The men cheered Tom Heddon as he walked up Freehold Street. Heddon represented the hope of these men, a vague and faintly illusory hope they were well aware, but still a hope. He represented tobacco, beer, a good bed, warm clothing and work. That was partly why they cheered him. But it was not a loud cheer and in it there could be detected a flatness, a basic note of dissatisfaction and unrest.

When Jake Wicks came out of the Institute five minutes after Heddon had gone it was apparent that he, too, was far from satisfied. He came down the steps slowly, wearing an injured look, and he was at once surrounded by the waiting men who wanted to know more about it. Everybody wanted to know, and in particular Jack Reedy and Jack’s crowd wanted to know. Jack’s crowd was part of the waiting men and yet it was not, it was perhaps a little different. They were mostly youngish men and they did not talk much, but they all had cigarettes. Their faces were curiously alike, each had a kind of hardness as though the owner of the face did not care any more. Jack’s face was exactly like that as if at one time he had cared but now did not care any more. The lines of Jack’s face all sloped downwards and the lines were twisted and set. The face was sucked in about the cheeks and temples and was very pale except for a yellow stain of nicotine at the corner of the upper lip. But the setness of the face was its most remarkable quality; the face was so set you saw at once it could not smile. You had the queer impression that if Jack’s face tried to smile it would break.

“What happened?” Jack demanded, shouldering forward.

Jake Wicks looked at Jack Reedy and Wood and Slattery and Cha Leeming who stood close to him.

“Just imagine!” he snorted. “He’s gone an’ bitched up everything.” In a heated voice he told them what had happened at the meeting.

“Did he say nowt about benefit?” Harry Kinch called out from the edge of the crowd.

“B — all,” answered Jake.

There was a bitter silence amongst the men. The dole had been reduced at the beginning of the month and transitional benefit cut.

Jack stared at Wicks with his set face; there was something formidable in that impassive face. He asked, in his hard, offensive tone:

“What about him bringing out the men?”

“That’s the last thing he’s after,” Jake frothed with indignation. “He’s lost his nerve. He won’t do nothing.”

“He won’t do nothing?” Jack echoed almost into himself. “Well, we’ve got to do something.”

“We ought to have another demonstration,” Wood said.

“A demonstration!” Jack said bitterly, and that finished the demonstration. There had been one demonstration already that week, a demonstration of the unemployed, a procession to the Snook with the red flag and mounted police and speeches. It had been nice, the police riding along companionably, and everything had passed off splendidly with nobody a bit the worse. Oh, Jack’s thoughts were bitter, bitter. That sort of thing was no use. It was no use. He wanted, he must have action, his whole being craved action.

On the pretext of young Wick’s dismissal Jack had hoped wildly that Heddon would declare a strike. A strike was mass action and mass action was the only way. A few men out, a few hundreds out, meant nothing, but every man out meant something: it meant the bust up of the Neptune, it meant showing them, it meant action, action. But there was to be no strike after all.

Jack’s forehead was knitted as if in pain. He seemed like some dumb creature working out the incomprehensible. He muttered:

“The meetin’ you had wassent no good. We got to have another meeting. We got to do something. For Christ’s sake give us a fag.”

A cigarette was offered at once by Wood. The cigarette came with the other cigarettes from an automatic machine that Wood could work. A match shielded by one cupped hand was offered by Slattery. Jack merely inclined his bone-pale head and inhaled deeply. Then he looked at the men round about and raised his voice.

“Lissen, lads,” he said. “A mass meeting at eight. D’ye understand? Pass the word. Eight o’clock mass meeting.”

The word passed, but Jake Wicks protested, half alarmed, half ingratiating:

“You’ll have to watch out for yourself, Jack.”

“Ah, what the hell!” Jack said in that uncaring voice. “Stop home if you want. Or go way up in the hospitle wi Bert.”

Jake’s heavy face flushed, but he did not answer. It was always better not to answer Jack back.

“Come on,” Jack said to the others. “Do you want to stick here all night?”

He led the way, limping, down Cowpen Street towards the Salutation and into the Salutation. Jack did not use his hand to push the swing door of the Salutation, he walked at the door with his shoulder and went through. The others did the same.

The bar of the Salutation was full and Bert Amour was behind the bar. Bert had been behind the bar a good many years now; he seemed to grow there with his brassy face and his hair flattened and his forelock wetted and smoothly turned as though a cow had licked it back.

“Hello, Bert,” Jack said with a dreadful friendliness. “What’ll you have, lads?”

The others said what they would have and Bert filled out the drinks. Nobody paid and Bert smiled as if it hurt him.

“Fill them up, Bert,” Jack said, and Bert winced and his face got brassier than ever. But he filled them up again. It was because Bert Amour had been so many years behind the bar of the Salutation that he knew when to fill them up and smile and say nothing. The spirit trade was a queer trade and it was better for Bert to be in with Jack Reedy and his crowd, much better.

“That’s a bad business, Jack,” Bert said, attempting a conversation. “About young Bert Wicks.”

Jack pretended not to hear, but Cha Leeming leaned politely across the bar.

“What the hell do you know about it?”

Bert looked at Cha Leeming and thought it wiser not to take any notice. Cha was exactly like his father, Slogger Leeming, except that Cha had been in the war and that made Cha more up to date. Cha had won the military medal in the war and last week after the demonstration on the Snook, Cha had tied his military medal to the tail of a stray mongrel dog. The mongrel dog had run all through the town trailing the beautiful military medal in the muck and Cha had called the dog War Hero. A man should get prison for that. Cha would some day, only too true, Bert thought.

Bert reached out his hand to reclaim the bottle of whisky, but before he could do so Jack lifted the bottle off the bar and crossed over to a table in the corner. They all went over to the table. A number of men were already there but they made way at once. Jack and his crowd sat down and began talking. Bert watched them talking; wiping the top of the bar, he watched them.

They sat at the corner table talking and drinking and finishing the bottle. The longer they sat there, the more men crowded round them, listening and talking and drinking. The noise became terrific until it seemed they all spoke at once, all violently debating — Wicks’s case, Heddon’s lack of action, the cut in benefit, their hopes of the new Mines Bill. All but Jack Reedy. Jack sat at the table with his dead eyes fixed before him. He was not drunk, no amount could ever make Jack drunk, that was the worst of it. His lips were drawn in tight and narrow and he kept pressing his teeth against them as though he bit against his own bitterness. Jack’s life had shaped him into this mould of bitterness; he was all pain inside and his pained eyes looked upon a world of pain. The disaster had shaped Jack, and the war, and the peace — the degradation and misery of the dole, the pinchings and shifts and pawnings, the brutality of want, the desolation of the soul that is worse than hunger.

All this talk drove him to despair; it was all big mouth and wind. It would be the same at the meeting at eight — words and still more words, which meant nothing, did nothing, and led nowhere. A great hopelessness came over him.

And then, as he sat there, the door swung open and Harry Kinch burst into the bar. Harry was the nephew of that same Will Kinch who had rushed into the Salutation all those years before when Ramage refused him the “end of hough” for his little Alice. But there was this difference. Harry was a greater student of politics than ever Will had been. And Harry had a late Argus in his hand. He stood for a moment facing the others, then he cried:

“It’s in the paper, lads. It’s out at last.” His voice broke. “They’ve sold us… they’ve swindled us…”

Every eye was turned on Kinch.

“How, then?” Slattery said thickly. “What’s like the matter, Harry?”

Harry pushed back the hair from his brow.

“It’s in the paper… the new Bill… it’s the biggest swindle in years. They’ve gi’en us nothing, lads. Not one damned thing….” Again words failed him.

Dead silence had come upon the company. They all knew what had been promised them. Subconsciously the hopes of every man within that room had centred on the Bill. Jack Reedy moved first.

“By God,” he said. “Show us that paper.” He seized the paper and looked at it. They all bent over crowding and craning, looking at the paper where, in a double spread, the terms of their betrayal lay revealed.

“By God,” Jack said again. “So it is!”

Then Cha Leeming jumped to his feet, half-tight and furious.

“It’s too much,” he shouted, “we’ll not put up with it.”

Everybody started talking at once, an uproar. The paper was passed from hand to hand. Jack Reedy was on his feet now, cold and contained. In the midst of the chaos he saw his opportunity. His eyes were not dead now, but burning.

“Give us another whisky,” he said. “Quick.” He tossed down the whisky. He looked round the men. Then he shouted: “I’m goin’ to the Institute. Them that wants can come after us.”

An answering shout went up. They all came after him. They crowded out of the pub into the squally darkness of Cowpen Street, crowding towards the Institute with Jack slightly in the lead.

Outside the Institute more men had collected — most of the younger Neptune men who were out, all of the men who had been discharged at the beginning, and every one of them brought to a pitch of desperation by this news flashed through the Terraces, the final extinction of their hopes.

Jack raced up the steps of the Institute and stood facing the men. Above the door of the Institute an electric globe stuck out like a yellow pear on the end of a stiff branch and the light from the electric pear fell upon Jack’s unbroken face. It was almost dark in the street; the street lamps cast only a flickering pallor in little pools.

Jack stood for a minute facing the men in the darkness. The whisky in him concentrated his bitterness to a kind of venom; his whole body pulsed with that envenomed bitterness. He felt that his moment was approaching, the moment for which he had suffered, for which he had been born.

“Comrades,” he cried, “we’ve just got the news. We’ve been swindled. They’ve give us the go-bye, like Heddon did: they’ve twisted us, like they always do. And in spite of everything they promised!” He drew a panting, tortured breath, his eyes glittering towards them. “They’re not going to help us! Nobody’s goin’ to help us. Nobody! D’y hear me. Nobody! We’ve got to help ourselves. If we don’t we’ll never get out the bloody gutter where Capitalism has shoved us. Christ Almighty, can’t you see it, lads, the whole economic system’s rotten as dung. They’ve got the money, the motorcars, fine houses, carpets on the floor, an’ it’s all bled out the likes of us. We do the slavin’ and sweatin’ for them. An’ what do we get? We don’t even get food, lads, nor fire, nor proper clothes, nor boots for our kids. The minnit things go wrong we’re chucked out on our necks! Chucked on to bread and margarine, and not enough of it to feed the missus and kids! Don’t tell me it’s because there’s no money. The country’s choked with money, the banks is burstin’ with it, millions and millions of money. Don’t tell me it’s because there’s no food. They’re throwin’ fish back into the sea, burnin’ coffee and wheat, slaughterin’ pigs to let them rot, and us here goin’ half-starvin’. If that’s a proper system, lads, then God Almighty strike me dead.” Another sobbing breath. Then in a rising voice: “We didn’t see it when they had the disaster in this bloody Neptune pit and murdered a hundred men. We didn’t see it in the war when they murdered millions of men. But by Christ we see it now! We can’t stand it, lads. We’ve got to do something. We’ve got to show them, lads. We’ve got to do somethin’. We’ve got to, I tell you, we’ve got to. If we don’t we can rot in hell for all our days.” His voice rose to a shriek now, wild and mad. “I’m goin’ to do somethin’, lads, and them that wants to can come along. I’m goin’ to make a start this minnit. I’m goin’ to show them at the Neptune pit where my two brothers was done in. Now I’m goin’ to wreck the pit, lads. I’m goin’ to do a bit of payin’ back on my own. Are you comin’ with me or are you not?”

A loud yell went up from the mob. Inflamed by Reedy’s words they pressed round him as he ran down the steps, escorted him in a body down the street. Some, terrified, melted back towards the Terraces. But at least a hundred men joined up with Jack. They all began to move to the Neptune pit, exactly as the crowd had moved towards Ramage’s shop over twenty years before. But there were more men in the movement, a great many more. The pit was a greater attraction than Ramage’s shop. The pit was the focus, the centre wherein the sound and the fury of their souls were concentrated. The pit was the arena, the amphitheatre. Life and death and work and wages and sweat and blood were mingled in the black dust of that arena, that dark amphitheatre.

The men poured into the pit yard with Jack Reedy leading them. The pit yard was silent and the offices were closed and the shaft gaped empty like the entrance to a great empty tomb. There was no person underground, no night shift now, not a soul inbye. Even the pit bank seemed deserted, though the safety men were there, the pump-men. The two pump-men were in the engine house behind the locker room; their names were Joe Davis and Hugh Galton. The crowd streamed towards the engine house where Davis and Galton were, and Galton heard them coming first. One of the windows of the engine house was half open to let out the heat and the hot smell of oil, and Galton, an oldish man with a short grey beard, popped his head through the window.

The crowd were around the engine house now, a crowd of one hundred men, their faces all upturned to Galton in the high window of the engine house.

“What is it?” Galton called down.

With his face upturned Jack Reedy said:

“Come out here. We want you out here.”

“What for?” Galton said.

Jack repeated in a deadly tone:

“Come out here. Come out and you’ll not get hurt.”

In answer Galton drew his head back and banged down the window shut. There was a pause of about ten seconds filled by the slow thumping of the pumping engines, then Cha Leeming let out a yell and threw a brick. The window shivered, and the sound of shivering glass came above the thumping and thudding of the pumping engines. That did it. Jack Reedy ran up the steps of the engine house and Leeming and a dozen others ran after him. They burst through the door of the engine house.

The engine house was very hot and bright and full of oily heat and vibrating noise.

“What the hell,” Joe Davis said. He was a man of forty in blue dungarees with his sleeves rolled up and a coil of waste wrapped round his neck. He had been cleaning brasses with bath brick and a tin of paraffin.

Jack Reedy looked at Joe Davis from under the peak of his cap. He said rapidly:

“We don’t mean you no harm, none of the two of you. We only want you out. Out, see.”

“I’ll be damned,” Joe Davis said.

Jack came a step forward. He said, carefully watching Joe Davis:

“You’ll get out, see; the men want you out.”

“What men?” Joe Davis said.

Then Jack rushed at Joe Davis and caught him round the waist. They caught each other round the waist and wrestled like that. They wrestled and struggled for a minute with everybody looking on, and as they wrestled they knocked over the tin of paraffin. It was a big tin of paraffin and it ran out over the grating and poured into the box of cleaning rags; Slattery was the only one who saw the paraffin pour into the waste rags, they were all watching the fight, and with a kind of reflex Slattery took the cigarette end out his mouth and flicked it at the waste rags. The lighted cigarette end fell right in the middle of the box of waste rags. No one but Slattery saw it fall, for at that moment Davis slipped and went down with Jack on the top of him. The crowd rushed forward. They got hold of Davis, then rushed at Galton, and bundled them out of the engine house.

After that it all happened quickly. No one did it. They all did it, throwing loose tools, spanners and common rods, a heavy sledge, even the can of bath brick, into the mesh of slow, gleaming pistons. The sledge actually caused the damage. The sledge hit the crosshead, danced off and fell upon the main cylinder, cracked the main cylinder, then fell smash into the bearings. There was a horrible grinding and a hiss of steam. The smooth machinery twisted and shivered and locked itself abominably. The whole engine house shuddered to its foundation and was still.

Then Slattery shouted as if he had made a great discovery:

“It’s on fire. Jesus Christ! Look! It’s on fire there.”

They looked at the waste box from which flames were leaping and they looked at the still dead engines of the pumps. Then they made for the door. They squeezed through the door in a kind of panic. Jack Reedy stayed behind. Jack always was resourceful. He walked over to the oil drum and turned on the spigot. For a minute he watched the oil flow darkly. His gaze was pale and cold and bitterly triumphant. He had done something, done something. He walked quickly out and slammed the door.

Outside they stood packed in the yard. There were no flames at first, only thick coils of smoke, but soon the flames sprang, great tongues of flame.

They retreated a little before the flames which lit their upturned faces in the dark amphitheatre of the pit bank. Wafts of heat reached towards them through the coldness of the night. Then, as the flames sprang towards the power-house roof the slates began to pop. It was amazing how the slates popped. They popped off the roof like peas bouncing from a drum, one, two, three, a perfect hail of slates came pelting down, each making a lovely blazing curve, then crashing on the concrete yard.

The crowd retreated further, pressing back against the walls of the offices, back through the yard gates, back into Cowpen Street. They released Galton and Joe Davis. It was all right, all right now. Galton ran into the main office, ran to the telephone. They let him go. It was all right, all right now; another fusillade of slates came down and the lamp-room was alight and crackling. Galton began to telephone furiously. He telephoned Arthur, Armstrong and the fire-station. He telephoned the Lodge offices in Tynecastle. He left word at the Exchange to inform everyone in the district who might be of service in the emergency. Then he sprinted out of the office to do what he could do. As he came through the door into the yard a red-hot slate whizzed past his skull and missed splitting it by inches. The slate shattered on the office floor and the fragments scattered joyfully. One sizzled straight into the wastepaper basket. That set the offices on fire.

Everything was happening very fast. More men were entering the pit yard, Forbes the deputy, Harry Ogle, some of the officials and older colliers. Then the police came, Roddam, the sergeant, and a dozen men at the double. Galton joined the police, the deputy and the officials and ran with them to the safety room where Joe Davis had already uncoiled the hoses. They led the hoses out and coupled them to the hydrant, then Davis threw on the pressure. The hoses jerked and kicked and spouted water from a dozen slits. Someone had gashed the hoses. They were useless.

Arthur and Armstrong arrived simultaneously. Arthur had been reading in his room when Galton telephoned, Armstrong on the point of going to bed. They dashed up to the knot of men outside the safety room. While the leaping flames cast light and shadow across them they stood for a moment in rapid consultation, then Arthur rushed over to the offices to telephone. He found the offices on fire.

The Sleescale fire engine arrived at last and Camhow coupled up the hose line. A thin jet of water went hissing into the flames. Another hose was coupled and a second jet went up. But the jets were thin and feeble. And these two hoses were the only hoses that they had.

Things were happening faster now and there was more confusion. Men darted about the yard with their heads ducked down. Beams were falling and red-hot bricks. The flames ate everything, wood, rubble, stone and metal; the flames consumed them. Loud reports went off from time to time and the sound went booming through the town like gunfire from the sea. Cowpen Street was solid with the people, all watching, watching.

Half of the bank was razed when Heddon reached the pit. He raced from the station in the day-bright glare, fighting his way forward through the crowds. As he struggled to reach the yard two fire engines from Amalgamated Collieries came clanging down the street. He swung himself up on the tail of the last engine. He entered the Neptune yard.

The power house was gone now, the safety room, lamp room and pumping station. The wind, a freshening forced draught, was fanning the blaze under the broken gables of the offices. The heat was torrid.

Heddon threw off his coat and joined with the firemen from Amalgamated. Hose after hose sent its powerful stream hoisting upon the flaming bank: steam boiled amongst the smoke and raised a pall that hung and drifted sluggishly. Ladders went scaling up. Men ran, climbed, hacked and sweated. And the night passed.

When the dawn broke there was no fire, only a smouldering. The grey cold light of the morning showed that; and all the desolation of the wreckage.

Arthur, supporting himself against a ladder, gazed upon the wrecked pit-surface. A sigh broke from his chest. He knew there was worse below. Suddenly he heard someone shouting. It was Heddon.

“Here, Armstrong,” Heddon shouted. “You’ll need to rig new pumps quick.”

Armstrong looked at Heddon and walked on. He walked up to the charred headstocks where Arthur stood beside the empty cage. In a cracked voice Armstrong said:

“We’d better see about new pumping gear. We’d better ring Tynecastle immediately if it’s to be any use.”

Arthur raised his head slowly. His brow was blacked, his eyes inflamed by smoke, his whole face empty.

“For God’s sake,” he whispered. “For God’s sake let me be.”

SIXTEEN

Despite the new and spirited memoranda in his diary beginning Further defence of Neptune Schedule P, and some complex figures multiplied determinedly in the margins of Robert Elsmere, Richard could not wholly understand. Every day at the hour of noon he struggled down to the foot of the lawn past the bare laburnum tree and balanced himself against the clean white gate of the paddock. This viewpoint, from which he could just see, and no more, the tops of the Neptune headstocks, he had named Observation Post No. 1. Strange, very strange: no signs of activity about the headstocks, neither steam nor smoke visible. Were the wheels spinning, the wheels of the winding headgear? Impossible to tell, even when the ringed eyes were shielded by both tremulous hands, telescope fashion, as befitted Observation Post No. 1. Strange, oh, very strange.

On this early January day he returned from Observation Post No. 1 with an air both baffled and triumphant: dimly aware that there was trouble, the trouble he had predicted. He was, indeed, triumphant solely because he had predicted trouble. They would call him in soon, presently, immediately! — to correct the trouble. They!

But for all his triumph he looked a shaky and ill old man. He walked very badly, even Aunt Carrie admitted that there was not much improvement with poor Richard lately, and as he came back across the lawn he staggered and almost fell. His walk was like a stuttering speech, made up of little runs and halts, a quick rush of steps, quicker and quicker, until suddenly the steps tripped themselves up and there was a stagger, then the steps had to wait and start again as though fumbling for the right syllable. But in spite of every difficulty Richard would take his walk alone, refusing Aunt Carrie’s arm with abruptness and even suspicion. It was quite natural; the man was interfered with, watched and threatened. He had his own interests to safeguard. A man must look after himself.

Having crossed the lawn he avoided Aunt Carrie’s sad and tender eye as she stood awaiting him by the portico and stuttered and stammered his way round to the French window of the drawing-room. He let himself in by the French window, lifting his feet with great care over the narrow bottom ledge. He went into the smoking-room and composed himself in a chair to write. His way of composing himself was to adjust himself accurately with his back to the chair and then allow himself to fall.

He wrote shakily: Memorandum from Observation Post No. 1 12.15×3.14. No smoke again to-day, a bad sign. The chief offender has not appeared but am convinced of trouble. Am daily expecting to be called in defence of Neptune. Query. Am still concerned over the presence here of my daughter Hilda and the man Teasdale. Why? The answer to this may reveal the clue. But there are many comings and goings against me especially since the disappearance of Ann. Above all I must protect myself and hold myself in complete readiness.

A sound disturbed him and he looked up peevishly. Aunt Carrie had come in — Caroline was always coming in; why couldn’t she leave him alone? He shut his writing-book jealously and crouched in the chair very shrunken and angry and suspicious.

“You haven’t taken your rest, Richard.”

“I don’t want my rest.”

“Very well, Richard.” Aunt Carrie did not insist; she looked at Richard with that sad and tender gaze, her eyes red around the rims and swollen about the lids. Aunt Carrie’s heart gushed towards Richard; poor dear Richard, it was dreadful that he should not know and yet it might be worse, even, if he did. Aunt Carrie could not bear to think of it.

“I want to ask you, Caroline.” The dull suspicious eye became shot with a coaxing playfulness. “Tell me, Caroline, what are they doing at the Neptune?”

“Why, nothing, Richard,” she stammered.

“I’ve got my interests to safeguard,” Richard said with great cunning. “A man must look after himself. A man who is tampered with like me. You understand, Caroline.”

A painful silence. Aunt Carrie said again, pleadingly:

“Don’t you think you should rest a little now, Richard?” Dr. Lewis was always insisting that Richard should have more rest but Richard would not rest more. Aunt Carrie was sure it would help Richard’s poor head if Richard rested more.

Richard said:

“Why is Hilda here?”

Aunt Carrie smiled with a watery brightness.

“Why, she’s come up to see you, Richard, and to see Arthur. Grace might have come too… only she’s going to have another baby…. You remember, Richard dear, I told you.”

“Why do all these people keep coming about the house?”

“Why.” Aunt Carrie’s watery smile was brave; not wild horses would have dragged the truth from her. If Richard must know he would not know from her. “Why, what people. Richard? Now do come and rest. I beg of you.”

He glared at her, his irritation mounting to a fever heat, then leaving him suddenly; and when his irritation left him he felt quite bewildered. His pale ringed eyes fell and he discovered his own hand that held the diary shaking violently. Often his hands would twitch this way and his legs too. It was the electricity. All at once he wanted to cry.

“Very well.” Drooping, and with a childish desire for sympathy, he explained: “It’s the current that makes me… the electricity.”

Aunt Carrie helped him from his chair and helped him upstairs and helped him partially to undress and to stretch himself out upon his bed. He looked an old exhausted man and his face was very flushed. He fell asleep instantly and slept for two hours. He snored heavily.

When he awoke he felt splendid, completely refreshed and full of vigour and intelligence. He ate his bread and milk greedily, a lovely big bowl of bread and milk. It tasted sweet and pulpy and it was not burning in his mouth and his hand did not twitch with electricity any longer. He looked to see that Aunt Carrie had gone out of the room; then he licked up the last of the bowlful with his tongue. It always tasted better that way.

Afterwards he lay staring at the ceiling clasping the warmth in his stomach and hearing the buzz of a blue-bottle on the window-pane and letting warm thoughts buzz through his head and being conscious of his own prodigious capabilities. All sorts of projects and conjectures flashed through his prodigiously capable mind. There was even a marriage ceremony at the back of it all, dim and warm, with music, great swelling organ music and a slender virgin of unsurpassable beauty who adored him.

He was lying like this when the noise of cars arriving disturbed him. He raised himself on his elbow, listening, and with great quickness he understood that people were coming. A look of delighted cunning flashed into his face. This was his chance, a great chance while the electricity was off.

He got up. It was not easy for him to get up, the movements were complicated and numerous, but with such prodigious capabilities nothing was impossible. He worked himself sideways upon his elbow and rolled off the bed. He fell with a bump in the kneeling position. He waited for a minute, listening to see if anybody had heard the bump. Good! No one had heard the bump. He crawled on his knees to the window and looked out of the window. One car, two cars; it was exciting now, he was enjoying himself, he wanted to laugh.

Supporting himself on the window ledge he raised himself slowly — this was the worst of all but it was done at last — then he got into his dressing-gown. It took him quite five minutes to get into his dressing-gown; the arms were so difficult and he began by putting it on back to front, but eventually the dressing-gown was on and corded over his underwear. He did not put on shoes for shoes make a noise. He stood triumphant in his dressing-gown and underwear and socks, then very cautiously he went out of his room and started to descend the stairs.

There was only one way to descend the stairs. The banister was useless, the banister held and hindered. No! The only way to descend the stairs was to stand accurately on the top stair of all and look straight ahead like a diver and then suddenly let the feet go. The feet went down the stairs with quite a rush that way, but it was important not to look at the feet nor to think about them either.

Richard got down to the hall in this manner and he stood in the hall very pleased with himself and listening. They were in the dining-room; he could hear the voices plainly, and he advanced slyly to the door of the dining-room. Yes, they were in there, he could hear them talking and he was listening. Good, very good! Richard got down, and sprawled on the tiled floor with his eye to the keyhole. Observation Post No. 2, Richard thought, oh, very, very good — Richard saw and heard everything.

They were all seated round the dining-room table with Mr. Bannerman, the lawyer, at the head and Arthur at the foot. Aunt Carrie was there and Hilda and Adam Todd and the man Teasdale. Mr. Bannerman had a great many papers and Arthur had papers too, and Adam Todd had one single paper but Hilda and Aunt Carrie and Teasdale had no papers at all. Mr. Bannerman was speaking.

“It is an offer,” Mr. Bannerman said. “That’s how I regard it. It is an offer.”

Arthur answered:

“It’s not an offer; it’s contemptible, it’s an insult.”

Richard heard the trouble in. Arthur’s voice and he was pleased. Arthur looked bowed and hopeless, he spoke with his forehead resting in one hand. Richard chuckled within himself.

Mr. Bannerman scrutinised a paper he did not need to scrutinise. He looked lean and dried up and tight about the collar. He balanced his monocle which had a broad black ribbon and said smoothly:

“I repeat that it is an offer, the only offer we have received, and it is tangible.”

Silence. Then Adam Todd said:

“Is it impossible to arrange to dewater the pit? To rebuild the bank? Is it quite impossible?”

“Who is going to put up the money?” Arthur exclaimed.

“We’ve been over all this before,” Mr. Bannerman said, pretending not to look at Arthur yet looking at him all the time.

“It seems a pity,” Todd murmured dejectedly. “A great pity.” He raised his head suddenly. “What about the pictures, your father’s pictures? Can’t you raise the money on them?”

“They’re worthless,” Arthur answered. “I had young Vincent out to value them. He just laughed. The Goodalls and Copes you couldn’t give away. Nobody wants them now.”

Another silence. Then Hilda spoke decisively.

“Arthur must have no more worry. That’s all I have to say. In his present state he’s not fit to stand it.”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged, and he shielded his face more with his hand. He said heavily:

“You’re decent, Hilda. But I know what you’re all thinking, what a hopeless mess I’ve made of it. I did what I thought was right and best. I couldn’t help anything. It just came. But you’re all thinking this would never have happened if my father had been here.”

Outside the door Richard’s face became suffused with satisfaction. He did not really understand, of course, but he saw that there was trouble and they wanted him to set the trouble right. They would call him in.

Arthur was talking again. Arthur said dully:

“I was always moaning about justice. And now I’ve got it! We squeezed the men and flooded the mine and finished the men. And now when I try to do everything for them the men turn round and flood the mine and finish me.”

“Oh, Arthur, my dear, don’t talk that way,” Aunt Carrie whimpered, putting her hand tremulously towards Arthur’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “But that’s the way I see it.”

“Suppose we confine ourselves to business,” Mr. Bannerman said very drily.

“Go on, then,” Arthur said heavily. “Go on and settle the damned thing and let’s be done with it.”

“Please!” Mr. Bannerman said.

Hilda intervened.

“What is this offer then, Mr. Bannerman? How does it work out?”

Mr. Bannerman adjusted his monocle and looked at Hilda.

“The position is precisely this. We are faced on the one side with a dislocated pit, flooded workings and burnt-out gear. On the other side you may place this offer to take over the Neptune, purchase the whole non-producing concern, lock, stock and barrel, and if I may respectfully say so, flood water as well.”

“They know very well they can get rid of the water,” Arthur said bitterly. “I’ve spent thousands on these underground roads. It’s the finest pit in the district and they know it. They’re offering not one-tenth of the value of the pit. It’s sheer insanity to take it.”

“Times,” Mr. Bannerman said, “are difficult, Arthur. And the particular circumstances are more difficult still.”

Hilda said:

“Suppose we accepted this offer?”

Mr. Bannerman hesitated. He removed his monocle, studied it.

“Well,” he said, “we should be clear of our liabilities.” He paused. “Arthur, if I may venture to say so, was reckless in his expenditure. We must remember the liabilities in which we are involved.”

Hilda looked at Mr. Bannerman darkly. That we particularly exasperated Hilda for Mr. Bannerman was not involved and Mr. Bannerman had no liabilities whatever. Rather sharply Hilda said:

“Can’t you get an increase on the offer?”

“They are keen people these,” Mr. Bannerman answered. “Very keen people indeed. This offer is their final offer.”

“It’s sheer robbery,” Arthur groaned.

“Who are they?” Hilda asked.

Mr. Bannerman fitted back his monocle delicately:

“They are Mawson & Gowlan,” he said. “Yes! Mr. Joseph Gowlan is the negotiating party.”

There was a silence. Arthur lifted his head slowly and looked across at Hilda. His voice was savagely ironic.

“You know the fellow, don’t you?” he said. “These new offices in Grainger Street. All black and marble. The site alone cost them forty thousand. He’s the Joe Gowlan who worked as a hand-putter in the Neptune.”

“He does not work there now,” Mr. Bannerman said precisely. Inspecting the heading of the notepaper before him he declared: “Messrs. Mawson & Gowlan have now the controlling interest in Northern Steel Industries Ltd., in United Brassfounders Ltd., in the Tyneside Commercial Corporation, in Corporation and Northern Securities Ltd., and in the Rusford Aeroplane Co.”

There was another silence. Adam Todd seemed very unhappy and he chewed a clove as if the flavour of the clove was not good.

“Is there no other way?” he said, shifting restlessly on his seat. “I know the stuff that’s in the Neptune. Wonderful stuff. It’s always been Barras’s Neptune. Isn’t there any other way?”

“Have you any suggestion?” Mr. Bannerman inquired politely. “If so be kind enough to let us have it.”

“Why don’t you go to this Gowlan,” said Todd suddenly, turning to Arthur, “and try to get in with him?… Bargain with him. Tell him you don’t want to sell for cash. You want to amalgamate with him. You want a seat on the board, shares, just to be in with him, Arthur. If only you get in with Gowlan you’d be absolutely made!”

Arthur reddened slowly. “That’s a grand idea, Todd. But unfortunately it’s no use. You see, I’ve tried it.” He faced them all and with a sudden outburst of bitter cynicism he cried: “I went up to Gowlan two days ago, up to his damned new offices. God! You ought to see them — solid bronze doors, Carrara marble, teak and tapestry elevator. I tried to sell myself to him. You know what he is. He began by swindling Millington out of the foundry. He swindled his shareholders in the boom. He’s never done an honest day’s work in his life. Everything he’s got has come crookedly — from sweating his workmen, corruption on contracts, that big munitions ramp. But I swallowed all that, tried to sell my soul.” Trembling, he paused. “It would have made you laugh. He played with me like a cat with a mouse. He began by telling me how honoured he was but that our ideas seemed to be slightly different. He went on about the new aeroplane works at Rusford where he’s turning out military aeroplanes by the hundred and selling them to every country in Europe. He enlarged on the prospects of the Rusford ’plane because it has what he called greater killing power than any other line. He took me on bit by bit, putting out a hint here and a promise there, until I’d sworn away everything I’d ever believed in. And when he’d got me stripped naked he laughed at me and offered me a job as underviewer at the Neptune.”

Yet another silence, a long silence. Dan Teasdale moved restively, and for the first time spoke.

“It’s a damned shame.” His ruddy face was alive with indignation. “Why don’t you chuck the whole thing up, Arthur, and come down with us? We don’t make money. But we don’t want it. And we’re perfectly happy without it. There’s better things — that’s what Grace has taught me. Health, and working in the fresh air, and seeing your children grow up strong. You come down, Arthur, and start fresh with us.”

“I should look well,” Arthur said in an agony of dejection, “among the chickens.”

Bannerman made another gesture of impatience. “Might I ask what your instructions are, then?”

“Haven’t I told you to sell?” The words came with a terrible disillusionment, and Arthur rose abruptly as though to terminate the whole affair. “Sell the Law too. Gowlan wants that as well. Let him take the whole damn lot. He can have me as underviewer too, for all I care.”

Outside the door, sprawling on his knees, Richard Barras gaped and stared. Richard’s face was very red now, and terribly confused. He did not fully gauge what was happening within. But he grasped with his poor muddled brain that there was trouble at the Neptune which he alone could readjust. Moreover, they had all forgotten about him and his power to achieve the impossible. It was splendid. He sat back on his haunches on the tiled floor of the hall. They were not talking any more inside now and he was a little tired from sprawling and he wanted greater comfort to enable him to think.

Suddenly, as he squatted there, the door of the dining-room opened and they all came out. The unexpectedness of it slumped Richard over upon his back. His dressing-gown flew up exposing his lean shanks, his underwear, his very person. The whole pitiful travesty of the man was there, shrunken yet distorted, cunning yet inane. But Richard did not mind. He sat there, as he was, on the cold tiles of the vestibule, and he looked very sly and he laughed. He sniggered.

Every face expressed concern and Hilda ran forward crying:

“My poor father!”

Teasdale and Hilda helped him to his feet and assisted him upstairs to his room. Bannerman, one eyebrow lifted, shrugged his shoulders and took a formal good-bye of Arthur.

Arthur remained standing in the hall, his eyes fixed on the yellowish eyes of Adam Todd who, all those years before, had implored him not to swim against the stream. He said suddenly:

“Let’s go into Tynecastle, Todd. I think I want to get drunk.”

SEVENTEEN

For the next few days Richard lay very low. After the incident entered in his writing-book as Discovery at Observation No. 2, Hilda had spoken gravely upon the advisability of keeping him in bed. He was so feeble now and so uncertain upon his legs that Hilda insisted, before she left for London, he must at least remain in his bedroom. That alarmed Richard for Richard was aware that he could not conduct operations from his bedroom. So he feigned most exemplary behaviour, was good and docile and did whatever Aunt Carrie told him.

All his thoughts were now concentrated upon his great new idea for regenerating his Neptune pit. The whole of that Friday forenoon he was so excited by his idea he could not contain himself. As he sat in his room a hammer kept beating in his head, and his scalp was tight like the skin of a drum. Once he almost thought the electricity had got him but he lay back and closed his eyes until at last they turned it off.

When he came round he found Arthur in the room standing before him.

“Are you all right, father?” Arthur asked and he looked at his father with sadness filmed over the fixity of his face. Arthur could not behold this poor shrunken silly old man, nor feel that sly and bloodshot eye wavering across his, without sadness. He said:

“I thought I’d come up and have a word with you, father. Can you understand what I say?”

Could he understand! — the insolence sent the blood bursting again through Richard’s head. He drew within himself at once.

“Not now.”

“I’d like to straighten things out for you, father,” Arthur said. “It might make it easier for you. You’re restless and so excited. You do not realise that you’re not well.”

“I am well,” Richard said angrily. “I was never better in my life.”

“It struck me, father,” Arthur went on, wishing to break as gently as he could the impending disruption, “that it mightn’t be a bad thing if we gave up the Law and took a smaller place. You see—”

“Not now,” Richard interrupted. “To-morrow, perhaps. I won’t listen. Some other time. I simply won’t listen. Not now.” He lay back again in his chair with closed eyes and would not listen to Arthur until Arthur at last gave up and went out of the room. It was not his intention to talk to Arthur yet. No, indeed! He would dictate his terms to Arthur later, when the regeneration of the Neptune was complete. Here he opened his eyes with a start, his remote yet feverish stare transfixing the blank ceiling vacantly. What was it? Ah, he remembered. The vacancy left his face, the dull eye watered and gleamed; why had he not thought of it before, why not, why? The pit, of course, his Neptune pit! It was superb, his terrible yet brilliant idea. He must defy them all by going to the Neptune in person.

Tremulous with agitation and excitement, he rose and went downstairs. So far so good. There was no one about; everyone was occupied and worried and distressed. He slunk into the hall, where, hurriedly, he took his hard hat and pressed it upon his head. His hair had not been cut for some time and it stuck out behind his hard hat in a tangled fringe. But Richard did not mind. With great secrecy he let himself out by the front door and stood balancing upon the steps. The drive lay before him with the gate open and unguarded beyond. It was all forbidden ground, dangerous ground, far away from the lawn and the laburnum tree. Both Hilda and Dr. Lewis had made it seriously forbidden and dangerous. The whole thing was a terrible undertaking. But Richard did not mind that either. He compassed the steps and the drive in one stuttering rush and was out, at last, and free. He staggered, it is true, and almost fell; but what did that matter, his staggering, when he was so soon to be rid of it, staggering, hammering, electricity, the whole horrible conspiracy against him?

He walked up the drive towards the top of Sluice Dene. He was much too clever to take the ordinary road to the Neptune, for that road would certainly be watched and he would be intercepted. No, no! he knew better than that. He took the long way round, the way which went behind the woods of Sluice Dene and across the fields and the Snook and into the Neptune from the back. He exulted in the brilliance of his counterstroke. Wonderful, wonderful!

But it had been raining heavily and the road he took was muddy and bad. The heavy rain had left big puddles in the ruts and Richard could not lift his feet. Soon he was splashed with water and mud. He floundered along through the water and the mud with his little starts and staggers until he reached the stile at the top of Sluice Dene.

At the stile he drew up. The stile presented an unconsidered difficulty. Richard saw that he would have to climb the stile. But Richard could not raise his foot more than six inches at the utmost and the height of the step upon the stile was at least eighteen. Richard could not climb the stile and tears came trembling into his old dazed eyes.

Tears and fury; oh, a terrible fury. He was not defeated, he was not. The stile was merely part of the conspiracy; he must defeat it too, the stile, the conspiring stile. Trembling with rage Richard raised his arms and fell upon the stile. His belly hit the top bar of the stile, for a second he was balanced, as though swimming, upon the top bar of the stile, then he toppled and was over. Wonderful, wonderful, he was over! He fell heavily on his face and head into a puddle of slush and he lay panting and stunned and slobbering while the hammer and electricity worked at him through the slush and the mud.

He lay quite a long time there, for the big hammer seemed to have burst something inside his head, and the mud was cool against the outside of the burst place in his head. But he got up at last, oh yes, he got up, elbow, knees and a dreadful clamber to his feet. The earth swayed slightly and he had lost his hat and his face and clothes and hands were terribly daubed with mud. But never mind, never mind all that. He was up again and walking. He was walking to the Neptune.

Walking was not so easy now. The hammer had hit so hard, his right leg was dull and dead, he had to drag it along with him, like a sort of supercargo. That was peculiar, for usually both hammer and electricity worked upon his left leg, but now they had got his right leg and his right arm too. His whole right side was paralysed.

On he went, behind the wood and along the path towards the Snook, staggering and dragging the leg, bareheaded and bedaubed with mud, his red-injected eye fixed feverishly upon the headstock of the Neptune which showed above the last row of houses that bordered the Snook. Although he wished to go quickly he went very slowly; he was all bound and clogged; he knew that he was going slowly and this infuriated him. He tried to make himself go quicker and could not; he had the idea that something was happening at the Neptune, a conspiracy or a catastrophe, and that he would not get there in time. This drove him frantic.

Then the rain came on, a heavy lashing shower. The rain streamed upon him and upon his old bare head. The rain flattened the long grey hair upon his old bare head, washed the mud into his eyes, battered and soaked and blinded him.

He stopped, all the fury washed out of him, and he stood quite still under the hissing rain. He was frightened. And suddenly he began to cry. His tears mingled with the rain and wetted him the more. He moved blindly forward. He wanted shelter.

At the end of the row of houses which bordered the Snook stood a small public-house, known as The Hewer’s Rest, a poor and wretched place which was kept by a widow named Susan Mitchell. Nobody went there except the poorest workers from around the Snook. But Richard went there, into the public-house known as The Hewer’s Rest.

He came in as though blown by a gust of wind and rain and he stood on the stone floor, dripping wet and swaying upon his feet like an old drunk tramp. Only two men were in the bar, two labouring men in moleskins, who were playing dominoes, their empty beer mugs beside them on the one trestle table. They stared at Richard and they laughed. They did not know Richard. They thought Richard was an old tramp who had certainly had his gill. One winked at the other and spoke to Richard.

“How, hinny?” he said. “Ye’ve been to a weddin’ I see.”

Richard looked at him and something in Richard’s look, as Richard swayed there, made both of the men laugh. They shook with laughter. Then the second man said:

“Niver mind, man. We’ve all been glee-eyed in our time.”

And he took Richard by the shoulders and steered him to the wooden settle at the window. Richard fell into the settle. He did not know where he was and he did not know who were these two men who both stared at him. He fumbled in his pocket with his numb hand for his handkerchief and as he pulled it out a coin came with it and rolled on the stone floor. It was a half-crown.

The second man picked up the coin and spat on it and grinned.

“Eh, mon,” he said. “You’re a champion, right enough. Is it a half-gill, hinny, a half-gill the piece?”

Richard did not understand, so the second man rapped on the counter hard:

“Three half-gills,” he called out.

A woman came out of the back, a thin dark woman with a pale face. She filled three measures of whisky but as she filled the third she looked doubtfully at Richard.

“He’d do better without it,” she said.

The first man said:

“A drop more’ll do him no harm.”

The second man came over to Richard.

“Here, hinny,” he said. “Drink this.”

Richard took the glass the man gave him and drank what was in the glass. It was whisky and the whisky took his breath and warmed him inside and started the hammer beating inside his head. The whisky made him remember the Neptune too. He thought it had stopped raining. The men were staring at him, too, until at last he became frightened of the men. He remembered himself as Richard Barras, owner of the Neptune, a man of dignity and substance. He wanted to be out, away from here and at the Neptune. He rose with an effort from the settle and staggered at the door. The laughter of the men followed him.

When Richard came out of The Hewer’s Rest the rain had ceased and the sky broken. The bright sun, striking across the steaming waste of the Snook, glittered into his eyes and hurt them, but through the blinding brightness he made out the headstocks of the Neptune rising in a kind of celestial glory. The Neptune, his Neptune, the Neptune of Richard Barras. He struck across the Snook.

The journey across the Snook was a strange and dreadful journey. Richard Barras was not conscious of the journey. His feet stumbled amongst the sodden hummocks and slushy runnels of the troubled land. His feet betrayed him and threw him mercilessly. He crawled and climbed. He floundered like a strange amphibian. But he knew nothing. He did not feel it when he fell, nor when he got up and fell again. His body was dead, his mind was dead, but his spirit soared in a great live purpose. The Neptune, the Neptune pit, the glory of those rising headstocks of the Neptune drew his spirit and held it. The rest was a mere vague nightmare.

But he did not reach the Neptune pit. Half-way across the Snook he fell and did not rise. His face beneath its crust of mud was ashen, his lips dry and blue, his breath coming in a quick stertor. There was no electricity now. The electricity was gone, leaving his body flaccid; but the hammering was bad again, the hammering was worse. It beat and beat inside his head and tried to burst again. Feebly he tried to rise. Then the hammer in Richard’s head struck one final blow. He fell forward and did not move. The last rays of the setting sun, striking across the charred headstocks of the pit, lit up the troubled land and found him there, quite dead. His lifeless hand, stretched forwards, grasped a handful of dirt.

EIGHTEEN

It was the day of the Third Reading of the Mines Bill, which had now reached the Report Stage, skilfully whittled away and studded with Opposition Amendments. At this moment an amendment in the name of the hon. member for Keston, Mr. St. Clair Boone, was under consideration. Mr. St. Clair Boone, with admirable legal precision, had formally begged to move that in line 3 of clause 7 before the word “appointed” there should be inserted the word “duly.” For over three hours a bland discussion had resulted on this quibble, affording ample opportunity for the Government and its adherents in the Opposition to eulogise the Bill.

Seated with folded arms and expressionless face David listened to the debate. One after another the Government henchmen rose to enumerate the difficulties with which the Government was faced and the extraordinary efforts the Government were making, and would continue to make, to overcome them. Burning with indignation, David listened — speeches by Dudgeon, Bebbington, Hume and Cleghorn, every word an expression of compromise, of procrastination. His ear, trained by experience and attuned by his present emotion, caught the inflection in every phrase — the latent apology, the sedulous intention to make the best of a bad job. Seated there, cold yet burning, David waited to catch the Speaker’s eye. He must speak. Impossible to sit passively under this betrayal. Was it for this he had worked, fought, dedicated his life? As he waited, all his exertion in those last years came before him: his humble beginning in the Federation office, his struggle through the welter of local politics, his long and unremitting effort through these last years — striving, drudging, putting all his soul into the work. And to what purpose if this futile measure, this repudiation of every pledge, this travesty of justice, marked the consummation of it all!

He raised his head abruptly, filled with a fury of determination, fixing the present speaker with a dilated eye. It was Stone who now stood on his feet, old Eustace Stone who had begun as a Radical, switched to the Liberal ticket and then, in the war, blossomed once and for all in true Tory colours. Stone, a master of political casuistry, cunning as an old fox, was extolling the Bill in the hope of a peerage in the next honours list. All his life Stone had hungered for a peerage, and now he sniffed it like a luxurious bunch of grapes lowered inch by inch until it hung almost within reach of his snapping jaws. In an effort to extend his popularity, he flung bouquets right and left, striking a flowery and declamatory note. His thesis was the nobility of the miner, which he artfully developed to discredit all arguments that the Bill might provoke further disaffection amongst the men. “Who in this House,” he proclaimed sonorously, “will dare to declare that the veriest shadow of disloyalty lurks in the heart of the British miner? In this connection no fitter words were ever spoken than those so poetically uttered by the Rt. Hon. Member for Carnarvon Boroughs. Indeed I crave the indulgence of this House to quote the memorable lines.” He pursed his lips roundly and recited: “‘I have seen the miner as a worker and there is none better. I have seen him as a politician and there is none sounder. I have seen him as a singer and there is no sweeter. I have seen him as a footballer and he is a terror. But in all capacities he is loyal and earnest and courageous…’”

O God, groaned David, how long must this go on? He thought of the burning of the Neptune, an act of sabotage, in itself an inexcusable madness, yet solely expressive of the mutiny of the miners against their fate. His very soul flamed with passionate resentment as one hypocritical phrase after another dripped from the lips of the wily Stone. He glanced swiftly at Nugent who sat beside him, his face covered with his hand. Nugent felt this as deeply as he; but Nugent had greater resignation, a sort of fatalism which caused him to bow more easily before the inevitable. He could not bend like that. Never, never. He must speak, he must. In an agony of purpose he strove for calmness, for composure, for courage. As Stone at last meandered to the end of his peroration, beaming upon the House, and sat down, David sprang to his feet.

He waited, tense, immobile; he caught the Speaker’s eye. He drew a long breath that entered his chest slowly, painfully, and seemed to flow through all his body in a great wave of resolution. At that instant he determined to make one great despairing effort, to pit the strength of his lifelong purpose against the Bill. Another breath. Command came to him, command and courage. He began slowly, almost impersonally, with such a deadly sincerity that, after the bombast of the previous speaker, the attention of the House was immediately riveted upon him.

“I have been listening to the Debate for the entire afternoon. I wish with all my heart I could share the admiration of my hon. Friends for this Bill.” A silence. “But while I have been listening to their polished phrases I could not refrain from thinking of the men to whom the hon. Member who has preceded me has so poetically referred. This House knows that on several occasions I have directed its attention towards the distress in the mining areas of this country. I have on more than one occasion invited the hon. Member to accompany me to my own constituency to see with his own eyes the terrible and hopeless despair which stalks the streets there. To see the derelict men, women whose hearts are broken, little children with starvation written on their faces. If the hon. Member had accepted my invitation I imagine he would have gasped in a kind of wonder: ‘How on earth do these people live?” The answer is that they do not live. They exist. They exist in a broken and demoralised condition, bearing a burden which is the more insufferable because it falls heaviest upon the weak and the young. Hon Members will no doubt rise and tell me that I am wallowing in exaggerated sentiment. Let me refer them to the reports of school medical officers in these districts, in my own district, where they will find full and ample confirmation of the facts. Children suffering from lack of clothing, children without boots, children far under average weight, children certified as subnormal because of lack of nourishment. Lack of nourishment! Perhaps hon. Members have sufficient intelligence to understand the meaning of that polite euphemism. Recently, at the opening of this parliament, we had again the opportunity of witnessing all the splendour, pomp and pageantry which, my hon. Friends will assure me, bespeaks the greatness of our nation. Did any of my hon. Friends contrast it, for one second, with the beggary, poverty, misery and penury which exists within the greatness of that nation? Perhaps I do this House a grave injustice.” A note of bitter indignation now crept into the voice. “On two occasions I have heard an hon. Member rise with the suggestion that the House ‘put round the hat’ to alleviate the suffering in these mining areas. Could anything be more infamous? Worn to the point of exhaustion as they are, these people do not want your charity. They want justice! This Bill gives them no justice. It is lip service, it is hypocrisy. Does not this House realise that the coal-mining industry by its very nature is different from all other industries? It is unique. It is not merely the process of getting coal. It is the basic industry which provides the raw material for half the prosperous industries of this country. And the men who produce this unique and vital commodity at the risk of their lives are kept in penury and misery, employed at a wage which would be insufficient to pay the cigar bills of certain hon. Members of this House. Does any Member of this House honestly believe that this inadequate and hypocritical Bill will finally save the industry? If so I challenge him to come forward. Our present mining system has grown haphazard — not as the result of economic causes — but because of historic and personal causes. As has been said, it is planned not for geological, but for genealogical reasons. Do my hon. Friends realise that we are the only important coal-producing country in the world where there is no national communal control over the mineral itself? Two Royal Commissions have emphatically recommended the Nationalisation of minerals in order that the Sate might reorganise the coalfields on modem scientific lines. This present Government, before it came into office, pledged itself to nationalise the mines. And how does it now redeem that pledge? By continuing the chaos, seeking blindly for an outlet through the old competitive system, applying the stranglehold of restricted production, reducing output instead of widening markets, subsidising discarded mines to keep them closed, turning the working class, the wealth producers of this country, on to the streets in hundreds and thousands. I warn this House that you may continue for a short time in that way but the end inevitably is the degradation of the workman and the ruin of the nation as a whole.” His voice rose. “You cannot get more blood from the veins of the miners to revitalise the industry. Their veins are shrunken white. Wages of beggary and conditions of famine have existed in the mining districts ever since the war, when the hon. Member who preceded me kept telling the country we had only to kill sufficient Germans to live in peace and prosperity till the end of our days. Let this house take heed. It cannot condemn the mining community to further years of misery.” He paused again, and his tone turned persuasive, almost pleading. “This proposed Bill by its very nature admits the failure of the individual pit in the face of competition by the great combines. Does not this, of itself, state conclusively the case for a nationally owned industry? The House cannot be blind to the fact that there has been prepared a great nationally owned scheme to eliminate waste, work at the highest efficiency, reduce costs and prices, and to stimulate high-power consumption. Why has the Labour Government of this country ignored this integration in favour of a shadowy capitalistic amalgamation? Why has not the Government boldly said: ‘We are going once and for all to clean up the mess left by our predecessors. We are going to end for ever the system which has landed us into this chaos. We are going to take over on behalf of the nation the mining industry and run it for the welfare of this country’?” A final silence, then David’s voice rose to his highest pitch of passionate entreaty. “I appeal to the House in the name of honour and conscience to examine the case I have put before it. And before the House divides I appeal especially to my colleagues in this Government. I implore them not to betray the men and the movement which put them here. I implore them to reconsider their position, to throw out this palliative measure, to implement their pledge and bring in a straight Bill of Nationalisation. If and when we are defeated on the floor of this House we will go to the country for a mandate. In the name of humanity, I beg you, I entreat you to seek this mandate armed with that glorious defeat.”

There was a dead silence When David sat down, a silence which was at once undecided and intense. The House, in spite of itself, was impressed. Then Bebbington, in a voice of cool detachment, threw out the words:

“The hon. Member for Sleescale Borough evidently believes that this Government can nationalise the mines with the same facility as he takes out a dog licence.”

A ripple went over the House, uncomfortable, uncertain. Then came the Hon. Basil Eastman’s historic sally. The hon. Member, a young Tory back-bencher from the Shires, who spent his rare visits to the House in a state of hereditary coma, had one rare parliamentary qualification which endeared him to his party. He could make animal noises to perfection. And now, roused from his habitual lethargy by the mention of the word dog, he sat up in his seat and yelped suddenly in imitation of a startled hound. The House started, held its breath, then tittered. The titter grew, swelled to a laugh. The House roared with delighted laughter. Several Members rose, the question was put, the Committee divided. It was a happy ending to a crisis. As the members poured into the division lobby, quite unnoticed David passed out of the House.

NINETEEN

He walked into St. James’s Park. He walked rapidly as though towards some fixed destination with his head slightly advanced and his eyes staring a long way in front of him. He was quite unconscious of being in the Park, he was conscious only of his defeat.

He felt neither humiliation nor mortification in his defeat, but simply a great sadness which pressed upon him like a weight and bore him down. Bebbington’s final sneer gave him no pain, Eastman’s derision and the laughter of the House left no rancour. His thoughts were projected out with himself as though towards some point at a far distance where they centralised and fused in a light of sadness, and the sadness was not for himself.

He came out of the Park at the Admiralty Arch for he had, unconsciously, walked round by the Mall, and here the noise of traffic broke through his far, fixed sadness. He stood for a moment staring at the rush of life, men and women hurrying and hurrying, taxis and omnibuses and cars streaming before his eyes, streaming in the one-way traffic, racing and accelerating and hooting, as though each one amongst them were trying desperately to be first. They cut in and squeezed past one another, and took to the last inch every advantage they could take, and they all went the same way. In a circle.

He gazed and the pain deepened in his sad eyes. The mad swift rush became for him the symbol of the life of men, the one-way traffic of man’s life. On and on; on and on; always in the same direction; and each man for himself.

He studied the faces of the hurrying men and women and it seemed that each wore a queer intentness, as if each face were absorbed by the intimate and special life behind the face and by nothing else. This man was absorbed by money, this other by food, and the next by women. The first had taken fifty pounds from some other man on the Stock Exchange that afternoon and he was pleased, the second reviewed the mental images of lobster and pâté and asparagus and puzzled his brain as to which would gratify him the most, while the third balanced in his mind his chances of seducing his partner’s wife, who had smiled at him in a significant manner at dinner on the previous night.

The terrible thought struck David that each man in this vast hurrying stream of life was living for his own interest, for his own satisfaction, for his own welfare, for himself. Each man was conscious only of himself, and the lives of other men stood merely as the adjuncts of his own existence — they did not matter, it was he who mattered, he, the man himself. The lives of all other men mattered only in so far as they affected the man’s own happiness, and the man would sacrifice the happiness and the lives of other men, cheat and swindle, exterminate and annihilate, for the sake of his own welfare, his own interest, for the sake of himself.

The thought crushed David; he turned from it and from the mad circling rush of the traffic. Abruptly he walked away. He went up the Haymarket. In the Haymarket at the corner of Panton Street some men were singing in the street, a group of four men, he could see that they were miners. They stood facing each other, all young men, and all bent together with their foreheads nearly touching. They sang a song in Welsh. They were young Welsh miners and they were destitute — singing in the streets while all the wealth and luxury of London rolled past them.

The song finished, and one of the men held out a box. Yes, he was a miner, David saw. He was well shaved and his clothing though poor and ill assorted was clean — as though he wanted to keep himself up and not let himself go down into those depths which waited for him. David could see the tiny blue pit scars on his clean well-shaven face. David put a shilling in the box. The man thanked him without obsequiousness and with an even greater sadness. David thought, has that shilling helped more than all my work and striving and speaking in the last five years?

He walked on slowly towards the Piccadilly tube.

He crossed over to the tube, took his ticket and got into the next train. Sitting opposite was a workman reading the evening paper, reading an account of David’s speech which was already in the late editions. The man read slowly with the paper folded very small while the train thundered through the dark reverberating tunnels of the underground. David had a great impulse to ask the man what he thought about the speech. But he did not ask.

At Battersea Station David left the train and walked towards Blount Street. He felt tired as he let himself into No. 33, and he ascended the worn carpeted stairs with a certain relief. But Mrs. Tucker stopped him before he had gone half-way up. He turned to face her as she spoke from the open door of her sitting-room below.

“Dr. Barras was on the telephone,” she said. “She rang up several times but wouldn’t leave a message.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tucker,” he said.

“She said to ring up whenever you came in.”

“Very well.”

He imagined Hilda had rung up to condole with him, and while he was grateful he was not yet in the mood for her condolences. But Mrs. Tucker persisted:

“I promised Dr. Barras you’d ring up the minute you came in.”

“Oh, very well,” he said again and he turned to the telephone which was on the half landing behind him. As he called Hilda’s number he heard the satisfied click of Mrs. Tucker’s door.

He was some time in getting Hilda’s number but the moment he got through Hilda answered. There was one second of ringing tone and then Hilda’s voice. Hilda had been sitting at the ’phone, waiting.

“Hello, Hilda, is that you?” He could not help his voice being dull and tired.

“David,” she said, “I’ve been trying to get you all the afternoon.”

“Yes?”

“I want to see you, now, at once.”

He hesitated.

“I’m sorry, Hilda, I’m rather tired just now; would you mind very much…”

“You must,” she broke in. “It’s important. Now.”

There was a silence.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I can’t say, oh, I can’t say over the wire.” A pause. “But it’s your wife.”

“What!”

“Yes.”

He stood with the receiver in his hand galvanised out of his tiredness, his inertia, everything.

“Jenny,” he said, as if to himself.

“Yes,” she repeated.

There was another momentary silence, then speaking rapidly, almost incoherently:

“You’ve seen Jenny. Where is she? Tell me, Hilda. Do you know where Jenny is?”

“Yes, I know.” Hilda’s voice came back and stirred him anew.

“Tell me, then. Why can’t you tell me?”

“You must come over,” she answered flatly. “Or if you wish I’ll come over to you. We can’t go on talking over the ’phone.”

“All right, all right,” he agreed quickly. “I’ll be over with you now.”

He hung up the receiver and ran down the stairs which he had ascended so slowly. He hailed a passing taxi-cab in Bull Street and drove in a great hurry to Hilda’s flat. Within seven minutes he was ringing the bell of Hilda’s door.

The maid was out and Hilda let him in herself. He looked at Hilda eagerly, feeling his heart thumping from eagerness and hurry; he searched Hilda’s face.

“Well,” he said quickly. He almost hoped that Jenny might be at Hilda’s flat; perhaps that was Hilda’s reason for asking him to come to the flat.

But Hilda shook her head. Her face was pale and sad as she took him into the room which overlooked the river and he sat down without looking at him.

“What is it, Hilda?” he said. “There’s nothing wrong?”

She sat very still and upright in her severe dark dress with her black hair drawn back from her pale brow and her beautiful pale hands resting in her dark lap. She looked afraid to speak and she was afraid. She said:

“Jenny came to my clinic to-day.”

“She’s ill?” Concern flooded his face.

“Yes, she’s ill.”

“In hospital?”

“Yes, in hospital.”

A silence. All the quick gladness in him changed to quick pain. A lump came in his throat.

“What is it?” he said. “Is Jenny very ill?”

“Yes, she’s rather ill, David, I’m afraid.” And still she did not look at him. “She came to my out-patients’ this afternoon. She doesn’t know how ill she is. But she just came in, asking for me, because she knew of me…”

“But is it serious?” he said anxiously.

“Well, yes… internal trouble…. I suppose in a way it is.”

He stared at Hilda not seeing Hilda but seeing Jenny, poor little Jenny, and there was trouble and a great tenderness in his eyes.

He made an instinctive gesture, exclaiming:

“I’ll go to the hospital now. Don’t let’s waste another minute. Shall you come with me or shall I go myself?”

“Wait,” she said.

He paused half-way to the door. Even her lips were pale now; she was dreadfully distressed. She said:

“I couldn’t get Jenny admitted to St. Elizabeth’s. I did my very utmost, but I couldn’t; there’s something behind it, you see, the cause — Oh! I had to arrange, I had to send her… I had to get her into another hospital… first.”

“What hospital?” he asked.

She looked at him at last. He had to know, some time he had to know, and so she said:

“The Lock Hospital in Canon Street.”

At first he did not understand and he stared at Hilda’s distressed face in a kind of wonder; but only for a few seconds did he stare like that. A cry of pain came out of him, inarticulately.

“I could not help myself,” Hilda said; and she withdrew her eyes because it hurt her to see him suffer. She stared out of the window towards the river which flowed in full stream beneath her. The river flowed silently and there was silence in the room. The silence in the room lasted a long time, lasted until he spoke.

“Will they let me see her?”

“Yes. I can arrange that. I’ll ring up now.” She hesitated, eyes still averted. “Or would you like me to come?”

“No, Hilda,” he muttered. “I’ll go myself.”

He stood there while she used the telephone and spoke to the house surgeon and when she said it was all right he thanked her hurriedly and went out. He felt faint. He thought for a moment that he was going to faint and he hung on to the spiked railings round the block of flats. It was hateful to do this; he was afraid Hilda would be watching from the window and see him, but he could not help himself. A gramophone was playing in one of the bottom flats; it was playing You are my heart’s delight. Everyone was playing and singing that song just now — it was the rage of London. He remembered he had eaten nothing since lunch-time. He thought, I’d better eat something or I shall make a scene at the hospital.

He let go of the cold iron spikes and went along the Embankment to a coffee-stall which was there. The coffee-stall was really a cabmen’s shelter, but the man in charge must have seen that he was ill for he gave him hot coffee and a sandwich.

“How much?” David said.

“Fivepence,” the man said.

While David drank the coffee and ate the sandwich the gramophone tune kept going in his head.

The Lock Hospital. It was not so far from the coffee-stall and a taxi took him there quickly. He sat hunched up in the taxi, which was clean and new with a bunch of yellow paper flowers stuck in a chromium vase. There was a faint lingering of scent in the taxi, scent and cigarette smoke. The yellow paper flowers seemed to exhale a perfume of scent and smoke.

The doorkeeper of the Canon Street Lock Hospital was an old man with spectacles; he was old and slow and in spite of Hilda’s having ’phoned there was some delay. David waited outside the old man’s box while the old man spoke to the ward upon the house telephone. The mosaic floor had a pattern of red and blue and the edges of the floor were curved towards the walls to prevent the accumulation of dust.

The lift whined up slowly and he stood outside the ward. Jenny, his wife, was inside that ward. He heart began to beat with suffocating rapidity. He followed the sister into the ward.

The ward was long and cool and white and on either side were the narrow white beds. Everything was beautifully white and in each beautifully white bed was a woman. You are my heart’s delight the gramophone kept playing, on and on, inside his head.

Jenny. At last it was Jenny, his wife Jenny in the end bed, in the last beautifully white bed of all, behind a beautiful white screen. The known and loved face of his wife Jenny came into his sight among the beautiful and strange imposing whiteness of the ward. His heart turned over inside of him and beat more suffocatingly. He trembled in every part of his body.

“Jenny,” he whispered.

The ward sister took one look at him and left him. The ward sister’s lips were pursed and her hips swaggered.

“Jenny,” he whispered again.

“I thought you’d come,” she said, and she smiled at him faintly with the old questioning and propitiating smile.

His heart broke within him, he could say nothing, he sank into the seat beside the bed. Her eyes hurt him the most, they were like the eyes of a beaten dog. Her cheeks were netted with fine red veins. Her lips were pale. She was still pretty and she did not seem old, but her prettiness was faintly bloated. She had the tragic look of one who has been used.

“Yes,” she said, “I thought you’d come. It was funny like me going in to see Dr. Barras, but when I got sick I didn’t want a stranger. And I’d heard of Hilda Barras. And us being friendly in Sleescale with her and that… Oh, well, there it was! And oh, I thought you’d come.”

He saw that she was pleased to see him. Nothing of the terrible emotion which consumed him. Faintly, apologetically pleased to see him. He struggled to speak.

“Are you comfortable here?” he asked.

She flushed, a little ashamed of what in the old days she would have called her position. She said awkwardly:

“Oh yes, ever so comfortable. I know it’s the public ward, but sister’s ever so nice. Quite the lady.” Her voice was slightly husky. One of the pupils of her beaten eyes was wide and black and larger than the other.

“I’m glad you’re comfortable.”

“Yes,” she said. “I never was one for hospitals though. I remember when dad broke his leg.” She smiled at him again and her smile lancinated him — again the cringing of the beaten dog. In a low voice he said:

“If you’d only written to me, Jenny!”

“I read about you,” she said. “I read about you ever so much in the papers. Do you know, David”—her voice took on a sudden animation—“do you know once you passed me in the street? In the Strand it was; you passed me as close as close.”

“Why didn’t you speak to me?”

“Well — I thought I would, then I thought I wouldn’t.” She coloured slightly again. “I was with a friend, you see.”

“I see,” he said.

A silence came.

“You’ve been in London,” he said at last.

“That’s right,” she agreed humbly. “I got to like London something terrible. The restaurants and the shops and that like. I’ve been getting along all right, very well in fact. I wouldn’t like you to think I’ve been down on my luck all the time. I’ve had a lot of good times.” She paused. She stretched out her hand for the drinking-cup that stood beside her bed. He reached quickly for the cup and gave it to her.

“Funny,” she said. “Like a little tea-pot.”

“Are you thirsty?”

“Well, no, it’s just in my stomach. It oughtn’t to take long to put right. Dr. Barras is going to operate on me when I’m strong enough.” She said it almost proudly.

“Yes, Jenny,” he agreed.

She handed him back the drinking-cup and looked at him. Something in his eyes made her own eyes fall. There was a silence.

“I’m sorry, David,” she said at last. “I’m sorry if I didn’t treat you right.”

Tears started into his eyes. He could not speak for a moment, then he whispered:

“You get better, Jenny, that’s all I want you to do.”

She said dully:

“You know what this ward is?”

“Yes,” he said.

There was a silence. She said:

“They’ll give me treatment before my operation.”

“Yes, Jenny.”

Another silence, then all at once she began to cry. She cried silently into her pillow. Out of her eyes, that were like the eyes of a beaten dog, the tears welled silently.

“Oh, David,” she gasped, “I’m ashamed to look at you.”

The sister came up.

“Come, come now,” she said. “I think that should be all for to-night.” And she stood there, dispassionate, formidable.

David said:

“I’ll come again, Jenny. To-morrow.”

She smiled through her tears:

“Yes, come to-morrow, David, do.”

He rose. He bent forward and kissed her.

The sister saw him to the swing doors. She said coldly:

“You ought to know, it’s hardly wise to kiss anyone in this ward.”

He did not answer. He went out of the hospital. In Canon Street outside a barrel organ was playing You are my heart’s delight.

TWENTY

Towards ten o’clock Aunt Caroline looked out at the fine October day from the window of her room in Linden Place and decided pleasurably that she would take “a little walk.” Twice a day now, forenoon and afternoon, when the weather was favourable, Aunt Caroline took a little walk. Foremost amongst the pleasures of being in London were these little walks which Aunt Caroline so quietly and gently took.

Yes, Aunt Caroline was in London. Strange indeed to find herself in that mighty hub of Empire which had always puzzled and intimidated her from afar! Yet was it so strange? Richard was dead, the Neptune sold, reclaimed and restarted by Mawson, Gowlan & Co. The Law, alas, was gone too, for Mr. Gowlan had himself taken up residence in the house and was reported to be spending enormous sums upon its reconstruction and its gardens. Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt Caroline winced at the thought of rude hands laid upon her asparagus bed. How could she have borne these changes and have still remained in Sleescale? Nor had she been invited to remain. Arthur, turned sullen and morose, engaged as underviewer at the pit, had not invited her to share the small house he had rented in Hedley Road. Indeed, she would never forget that dreadful night when he returned from Tynecastle the worse for drink and harshly told her she must now “shift for herself.” Poor fellow! He little knew how his words had cut her. Not, mind you, that she would have dreamed of dragging on, the victim of odious sympathy, within the ambit of her former dignity. She was only sixty-four. She had £120 a year. It was independence — and London, city of intellect and culture, lay waiting. Gasping at her audacity, she had nevertheless reasoned it out in her own careful fashion. In London she would be near Hilda, who had lately been kind to her, and not far distant from Grace, who had always been kind to her. Dear Grace — thought Aunt Carrie — still simple and unassuming and poor, living a carefree life with her husband and her brood of children, careless of money and all material things, but happy, healthy and happy. Yes, she would certainly spend a month or two at Barnham every year. And there was Laura, too, Laura Millington, settled through all those years with her invalid husband at Bournemouth. She must certainly look Laura up. Altogether prospects in the South of England looked bright for Aunt Carrie. The last thirty years of her life she had lived chiefly in the sick-rooms of Harriet and Richard. Perhaps in her secret heart Aunt Carrie was a little tired of sick-rooms and the turning of dirty linen therein.

Bayswater, naturally, was the district towards which she was drawn. No one knew better than Aunt Carrie that Bayswater had “come down”—but then she had a certain proud consciousness of having come down herself. The remnants of gentility in Bayswater awoke a sentimental echo in her heart and made her head incline with not unhappy resignation. And Linden Place was so very suitable, the green of the trees in spring was delicate and charming against the faded yellowish paint upon the old stuccoed houses and there was a church at the end of the street which afforded both atmosphere and solace. Lately Aunt Carrie had turned even more devout and, in St. Philip’s, matins and evensong, which she regularly attended, often drew tears of voluptuous tenderness from her eyes. From the spire of St. Philip’s a high clear bell rang occasionally, and the milkman called pleasantly in the street and the smell of roasting mutton came from many basements. Mrs. Gittins’s house, No. 104c, where after full investigation Aunt Carrie had selected her room, was of an eminent respectability and the bath, though cracked and flaking its enamel, was always clean. The twopence in the slot geyser gave excellent hot water and, most properly, the washing of clothes in the bathroom was strictly prohibited. All Mrs. Gittins’s people were elderly ladies except for one young Indian gentleman, a law student, but even he, though coloured, kept the bath meticulously clean.

Conscious of her manifold advantages, Aunt Carrie turned from the window, and surveyed her room. Here she was in comfort, surrounded by her own things, her treasures — what a blessing that in all her life she had never thrown anything out! — the room was furnished practically with her precious and valued possessions. On the table stood the model of the Swiss chalet which Harriet had brought her forty years ago from Lucerne; the carving was really delightful and there were models of little cows inside — and to think that once she had almost sent it to the St. James’s Jumble Sale! There, too, hanging from the black bell-handle by the marble mantelpiece were the three postcards which Arthur had once sent her from Boulogne and which she herself had framed a long time ago in passe-partout. She had always liked these postcards, the colouring was cheerful and of course the foreign stamps, still upon the back, might, in time, be valuable. And there, on the other wall, was the poker-work memorial she had done for dear Harriet fourteen years before. The poetry, beginning Auspicious day when first you breathed, was quite beautiful and the poker work! — well, she had been considered an adept at poker work in her time.

They were all here, all her things, her photographs, her album on the table, her set of Goss china, the yellowish globe of the world preserved from the schoolroom, the big cowrie shell that always stood beside it, the game of solitaire with one glass ball lost by Arthur at the age of seven — oh, her panic, then, that Arthur might have swallowed it! — the pen wiper and blotter combined, the court guide and gazetteer of 1907, everything, she had even saved the wicker fly-whisk which she had bought for Richard towards the end.

This single room held the record of Aunt Carrie’s life and in it Aunt Carrie could not bemoan her lot. No, she counted her blessings here and counted them gratefully. But meanwhile she was going for her little walk — ah yes. She advanced to the small square of mirror and put on her hat. She had bought her hat seven years ago and it was rather faded now perhaps, with a feather that was slightly emasculate. But still a perfectly good hat — black “went” with almost anything. Pulling on her gloves, she took her tightly rolled umbrella under her arm as though it were a gun. She swept her room with a final look: the half loaf of bread and the little jug of milk neatly stowed on the shelf, the tomato left over from yesterday beside them, the lid on the cocoa tin to keep out the damp, the gas ring safely turned out, the window open just enough to let in the air, no matches left lying about, everything tidy and in order. Satisfied, with her head in the air, Aunt Carrie went out.

She strolled along Linden Place into Westbourne Grove looking into the windows and admiring many of the articles in the shops. Then at the end of Westbourne Grove she turned into Merrett’s with an air of familiarity and purpose. Merrett’s was a delightful place, quite the best of the large department stores where it was possible to inspect and admire everything, simply everything. For half an hour Aunt Carrie moved about the aisles of Merrett’s, head to one side under the antique black hat, gazing at everything, even stopping once or twice to inquire the price. The assistants were civil to a degree — particularly gratifying since Aunt Carrie’s purchases in Merrett’s could never be extensive. Her financial position, on one hundred and twenty pounds a year, was perfectly secure, yet the fact remained that she could not be reckless. But this morning she was reckless. For some weeks she had kept her eye upon a letter opener, indistinguishable from real ivory and fashioned incredibly into a parrot’s beak at one end — how on earth do they do it? Aunt Carrie marvelled — oh, a gem of a letter opener, the price of which was ninepence. But this morning Aunt Carrie’s eyes widened with delight. The letter opener bore a little card marked Reduced to 6½d. Good gracious! — such an opportunity, such a bargain! Aunt Carrie bought the letter opener, and saw it wrapped in green paper and tied with green string. There and then she decided she would give the letter opener to Hilda.

Pleased with her purchase, for it was a point of honour with her to buy something in Merrett’s once in a while, Aunt Carrie advanced to the lift. In the lift the girl attendant was dressed like a jockey and by pressing a button she went swishing up with Aunt Carrie to the top floor. “Reading, writing and rest-room,” called out the lift girl smartly. It was a beautiful room with cedar panelling and mirrors and agreeable chairs, full of newspapers and periodicals and ladies in the act of resting. And it was free, too, absolutely and unbelievably free.

As Aunt Carrie stepped out of the lift her umbrella, which she still carried like a gun, prodded the lift girl in the buttocks.

“Oh, pardon me,” Aunt Carrie cried, her feather quivering with apology. “Quite a mistake I assure you.”

“It’s quite all right, madam,” the lift girl answered.

Such civility!

An hour passed while Aunt Carrie read the papers. A number of ladies like Aunt Carrie seemed to be reading the papers. Perhaps the mirrors created an optical illusion, so many of the ladies were elderly, and a little pinched and clothed in faded black and eager to make the most of the free newspapers. In point of fact the papers were full of news this morning. The country was in a whirl of excitement. Mr. MacDonald had been to see the King again, the National Cabinet was making splendid statements and there was great talk of the coming election. Aunt Carrie was all for a National Government — it was so secure. There was an excellent article in the Tribune entitled, Don’t Let the Socialists Squander YOUR Money, and another in the Meteor, Bolshevism Gone Mad. Aunt Carrie read them both. She went through all the papers with great enjoyment — with the exception of one dreadful Labour rag which was full of distorted reports of destitution in the South Wales valleys. She had always had so little time for reading at the Law. She appreciated her leisure now.

The same lift took her down again and the same lift girl smiled at her. She was a pleasant girl that, indeed she was, Aunt Carrie hoped sincerely she would have promotion.

Outside Merrett’s, Aunt Carrie set her course towards Hilda’s flat, with the intention of delivering her present. She went, as usual, by Kensington Gardens. It was a pleasant road to the Gardens but it held a great temptation in the shape of Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. Aunt Carrie could seldom resist the delightful home-made cakes and biscuits and in spite of her unusual extravagance at Merrett’s she entered Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. The young lady knew her, smiled, went to the wire basket and took a twopenny iced cake which she placed in a paper bag.

“It looks like rain,” the young lady remarked, handing Aunt Carrie the bag.

“Oh, I hope not, my dear,” Aunt Carrie said handing the girl twopence. She now had the letter opener and the twopenny cake which, nibbled delicately, would make her tea a joy. Quite a morning’s shopping.

The Gardens were beautiful, the children in particular by the Round Pond were always adorable. To-day there was one, just a toddler, Aunt Carrie thought to herself, just a little toddler in a tiny red tailor-made coat who toddled and toddled and nearly toddled away from his nannie into the pond. The little love.

There were the sea-gulls too, which swooped and screamed for bread and bacon rind, oh, Aunt Carrie was thrilled by the sea-gulls. So much bread had been thrown to the sea-gulls that the edges of the Round Pond were fringed with floating bread, hundreds of pieces of floating bread. Cast your bread upon the waters, Aunt Carrie thought, but it was strange nevertheless to see all that bread gone to waste when, if that dreadful paper she had read in Merrett’s was to be believed, so many children went in want of it. But it could not be; it was a gross exaggeration; besides there was always charity.

Comforted, she walked down Exhibition Road. South Kensington was delightful, and Chelsea too, Carlyle and the mulberry-tree — or was it bush? Aunt Carrie neared Hilda’s flat. She greatly enjoyed visiting Hilda. Indeed, at the back of Aunt Carrie’s mind a vague hope lingered that Hilda might one day ask her to keep house for her. She saw herself in high-necked black admitting seriously ill and important people to Hilda’s consulting-room — the more gravely ill and important the better. Although Aunt Carrie had emancipated herself from the sick-room, sickness still retained a certain morbid fascination for her.

Hilda was in, the maid declared, and Aunt Carrie, smiling her special smile towards Hilda’s maid, the faintly ingratiating smile she had towards the servants at the Law for thirty years, followed her into the flat.

But here a shock awaited Aunt Carrie. Hilda was not alone and it sent Aunt Carrie into a perfect flutter to see that Hilda’s visitor was David Fenwick. She came to a full stop inside the door of Hilda’s room and her peaked face flushed.

“I’m sorry, Hilda,” she breathed. “I had no idea. I thought you were alone.”

Hilda rose. She had been sitting in silence, and she seemed not entirely pleased to see Aunt Carrie. But she said:

“Come in, Aunt Carrie. You know David Fenwick.”

In a greater flutter than ever Aunt Carrie shook hands with David. She was aware that Hilda and David were friends. But the sight of him in the flesh, her nice young man who had once tutored Arthur and who now made such terribly inflammatory speeches in Parliament, almost overcame her. She subsided in a chair by the window.

David glanced at his watch.

“I’m afraid I must be going,” he said to Hilda, “if I’m to be at the hospital this afternoon.”

“Oh, don’t let me drive you away,” Aunt Carrie cried hastily. She thought him pale and worn. His eyes were worried, too, dreadfully worried; they had a look of pained expectancy.

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” she went on quickly. “I thought it might rain, but it hasn’t.”

“I don’t think it’ll rain,” Hilda said after an awkward pause.

Aunt Carrie said:

“Indeed, I hope not.”

Another pause.

“I came across the Gardens,” Aunt Carrie persisted. “They’re very beautiful just now.”

“Are they?” Hilda said. “Yes, I suppose they are just now.”

“There was the dearest little mite by the Round Pond,” Aunt Carrie continued, smiling. “In a tiny red coat. I do wish you could have seen him. He was sweet.”

Despite her good intentions Aunt Carrie had the confused feeling that Hilda was not really attending to her. Vaguely taken aback she gazed at David, who stood silent and preoccupied by the window.

Aunt Carrie smelled trouble in the air — she had a nose for trouble like a fox for a hunting morning. Curiosity rose within her. But David looked at his watch again, then glanced towards Hilda.

“Now I really must go,” he said. “I’ll see you again at three.” He shook hands with Aunt Carrie and went out. Pricking up her ears, Aunt Carrie could hear him talking to Hilda in the hall, but to her disappointment could not make out what he said. For once curiosity mastered timidity. When Hilda returned she exclaimed:

“What’s the matter, Hilda dear? He seemed so upset. And what did he mean by hospital?”

For a moment Hilda gave no appearance of having heard. Then her answer came unwillingly as if once and for all she wished to cut short Aunt Carrie’s curiosity.

“It’s his wife. She’s in hospital. Being operated on this afternoon.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” gasped Aunt Carrie, and her eyes went wide in a spasm of satisfied sensation. “But—”

“There aren’t any buts,” Hilda cut in shortly. “I’m doing the operation and I prefer not to discuss it.”

Aunt Carrie’s eyes went wider than ever. There was a silence, then she murmured, humbly:

“Shall you make her better, Hilda dear?”

“What do you expect?” Hilda retorted rudely.

Aunt Carrie’s face fell. Oh dear, oh dear, Hilda could still be very abrupt when she chose. She wanted terribly to ask Hilda what was wrong with David’s wife, but Hilda’s expression forbade it. Crestfallen and subdued she sighed deeply and was again silent for a minute. Then, remembering suddenly, her face lit up. She smiled:

“Oh, by the way, Hilda, I’ve brought you the sweetest little present. At least”—modestly—“I think it’s rather sweet.” And, beaming towards the sombre Hilda, she gaily produced the letter opener.

TWENTY-ONE

At half-past one that afternoon David set out for St. Elizabeth’s Hospital — where, following a satisfactory blood-test, Jenny had now been transferred. He was aware that he was much too early, but he could not bear to sit still in his rooms thinking of Jenny under the operation. Jenny, his wife, being operated on to-day!

Often during these months of treatment which had been necessary to fit her for the operation he had asked himself about his feeling for Jenny. It was not love. No, it could not be love, that was dead a long time ago. But it was a great and overwhelming feeling nevertheless. And it was something more than pity.

Her story was quite clear to him now; she had told him snatches here and there, lying occasionally and embroidering always, but failing pitifully to make fiction out of fact. When she first came to London she took a post at one of the big department stores. But the work was hard, much harder than at Slattery’s, and the pay small, much smaller than her optimism had allowed her to imagine. Soon Jenny had a friend. Then she had another friend. Jenny’s friends had all been perfect gentlemen at the start and had shown themselves in the end to be perfect beasts. The lady-companion story was of course a myth — she had never been out of England. He found it strange that Jenny should have so little sense of her own position. She had still the same childish facility for excusing herself, the same childish capacity for tearful self-compassion. She was hurt and she was down, but it was not she who was to blame. “Men, David,” she wept. “You wouldn’t believe. I never want to see another man, not as long as I live.”

Still the same Jenny. When he brought her flowers she was deeply gratified, not because she cared much for flowers, but because it would show sister she was “a cut above” the others in the ward. He suspected Jenny had elaborated a little tale for her sister, no doubt a polite, romantic tale. It was the same when, on her transference to St. Elizabeth’s, he had arranged for her to have a side-room — it indicated to the new sister how highly he “thought of her.” Even in hospital she was romantic. It was incredible, but it was true. When she had condemned the bestiality of man she asked him please to hand her the tube of lipstick from her bag which she had smuggled into the locker beside her bed. She kept a tiny mirror hidden under her bedside table so that she might arrange herself before his visits. The mirror was forbidden, but Jenny kept it; she wanted to be nice for him, she said.

David sighed as he turned from the Embankment towards the hospital. He hoped things would all turn out right in the end — he hoped this with all his soul.

He looked at the clock above the hospital archway. He was still too early, but he felt he must go into the hospital. He could not wait outside, hang about in the street, he must go inside. He went past the porter’s box and walked upstairs. He came to the second floor where Jenny was and he stood in the cool, high vestibule.

A great many doors opened off the vestibule — the door of Hilda’s room, sister’s room, the waiting-room. But one pair of glass doors drew his eyes, the doors of the operating theatre. He stared at the doors of the operating theatre, two white-frosted glass doors, and it hurt him to think what was going on behind these doors.

The sister in charge, Sister Clegg, came out of the ward. She was not the theatre sister. She looked at him with a mild reproof. She said:

“You’re much too early. They have only just begun.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered. “But I had to come.”

She walked away without asking him to go into the waiting-room. She simply left him there, and there he stood, with his back against the wall, making himself unobtrusive so that he might not be asked to go away, watching the white-frosted doors of the operating theatre.

As he watched the doors they became transparent and he could see what was taking place inside. He had often assisted at operations in the base hospital, he saw it all clearly and exactly as though he were in the theatre himself.

Exactly in the centre of the theatre there was a metal table which was less like a table than a shining machine with shining levers and wheels to enable it to be contorted into strange and wonderful positions. No! it was not like a machine either. It was like a flower, a great shining metallic flower which grew on a shining stem from the floor of the theatre. And yet it was neither machine nor flower, but a table on which something was laid. Hilda was on one side of this shining table, and Hilda’s assistant upon the other, and round about, clustered closely as though they were pressing in upon the table and trying to see what was laid upon the table, were a number of nurses. They were all in white with white caps, and white masks, but they all had black and shiny hands. Their hands were dripping and rubbery and smooth.

The theatre was very hot and it was full of a hot bubbling and hissing. At the head of the table the anæsthetist sat on a round white stool with metal cylinders near and red tubes and an enormous red bag. The anæsthetist was a woman, too, and she was very calm and bored.

Great coloured bottles of antiseptic solution stood near the table and trays of instruments which came hot from the steaming sterilisers. The instruments were handed to Hilda. Hilda did not look at the instruments, she simply held out her black rubbery hand and an instrument was placed there, and Hilda used it.

Hilda bent over the table slightly to use the Instruments. It was almost impossible to see what was on the table because the nurses pressed round closely as though looking and trying to screen what was on the table. It was Jenny, though, the body of Jenny. And yet it was not Jenny, nor Jenny’s body. Everything was covered up and swathed in white as with a great secrecy, white towels clipped everywhere, covering white towels.

Only one neat square of Jenny’s body remained uncovered and the neat square showed up distinctly against the white clipped towels because the square was coloured a fine bright yellow. The picric acid did that. It was inside this square that everything was taking place, inside the square that Hilda used her instruments, her smooth rubbery hands.

First there came the incision, yes, the incision came first. The warm shining lancet drew a slow firm line across the bright yellow skin and the skin took lips and smiled in a wide red smile. Little jets of red spouted from the smiling red lips and Hilda’s black hands moved and moved and a ring of shiny forceps lay all round the wound.

Another incision, deeper and deeper inside the red mouth of the wound, which was not smiling now, but laughing, the lips were so wide.

Then Hilda’s hand went right inside the wound. Hilda’s black shiny hand drew small and pointed like the black shiny head of a snake and penetrated deep within the wound. It was as though the laughing red mouth swallowed the head of the snake.

After that more instruments were used and the forceps in the ring lay thickly one upon another. The confusion of instruments seemed inextricable, but it was not inextricable, it was all necessary and mathematical. It was impossible to see Hilda’s face behind the white gauze mask, but Hilda’s eyes showed above the white mask and the eyes were steeled. Hilda’s hands became the projection of Hilda’s eyes. They too were inexorable and steeled.

It was necessary to be steeled. In the operating theatre the healthy body was a disenchantment, but in disease the body was obscene. Men should be brought to the operating theatre to view the last extremity of the painted smile. Useless, quite useless. Forgetfulness was too easy. Even now the wound itself was losing its horror and its instruments and forgetting and becoming again a warm smiling wound, a painted smile.

The lips of the painted smiling wound drew together as the sutures quickly went in. Hilda put in the sutures with a beautiful precision and the lips of the wound puckered together thinly. It was nearly over now, sealed up and finished, and forgotten. The hissing and bubbling faded a little and the room did not seem to be so hot. The nurses did not press so closely round the table. One coughed into her mask and ended the long silence. Another began to count the bloodied swabs.

In the cool high vestibule David stood motionless with his eyes upon the frosted doors. And at last the doors swung open and the wheeled stretcher came out. Two nurses wheeled the stretcher which moved without sound on its rubber tyres. The nurses did not see him as he pressed back against the wall, but he saw Jenny upon the stretcher. Jenny’s face was twisted sideways towards him, flushed and swollen; the eyelids and cheeks especially were very swollen and suffused as though Jenny were in a deep and beautiful drunken sleep. The cheeks puffed in and out as Jenny snored. The hair had fallen out of Jenny’s white cap and was tangled as if someone had tried to tug it out. Jenny did not look romantic now.

He watched the swing doors of the ward close upon the wheeled stretcher as they took Jenny to her room at the end of the ward. Then he turned and saw Hilda coming down the incline from the theatre. She advanced towards him. She looked cold and remote and contemptuous. She said abruptly:

“Well, it’s over, and she ought to be all right.”

He was grateful for her hardness; he could not have borne anything else. He asked:

“When can I see her?”

“Some time this evening. It was not a long anæsthetic.” She paused. “By eight o’clock she should be receiving visitors.”

He felt her coldness and again he was glad; kindness would have been odious, too abominable for words. Something of the hardness and cold brilliance of the theatre still clung to her and her words cut sharply like a knife. She would not stand in the vestibule. Almost impatiently, she flung open the door of her room and went in. The door remained open and although she appeared to have forgotten him he followed her into the room. He said in a low voice:

“I want you to know that I’m grateful, Hilda.”

“Grateful!” She moved about the room picking up reports and laying them down. Under her cold hardness she was deeply upset. Her whole purpose had been the success of the operation, she willed herself fiercely to succeed, to demonstrate before him her skill, her brilliance. And now that it was done she hated it. She saw her exquisite handiwork as brutal and crude, adjusting only the relations of the body and leaving the adjustments of the mind and soul untouched. What was the use! She patched up the carcass of the animal and that was about all. This worthless woman would return to him, sound only in body, still morbid in her soul. It rankled more deeply with Hilda because of her own feeling for David. This was not love — oh no, it was subtler far than that. He was the one man who had ever attracted her. At one time indeed she had almost willed herself to fall in love with him. Impossible! She could not love any man. The sense of her failure, that she could like but never love him, made it harder than ever to restore this woman, this Jenny, to him. She swung round. “I shall be here at eight this evening,” she said. “I’ll leave word then if you may see her.”

“Very well.”

She went to the tap and ran the water hard, filled a tumbler and, masking her emotion, drank it.

“I must go round the ward now.”

“Very well,” he said again.

He went away. He went down the stairs and out of the hospital. At the end of John Street he jumped on to a bus going towards Battersea Bridge and in the bus his thoughts ran deeply. No matter what Jenny had done to him or to herself he was glad that she had come through. He could never dissever himself completely from Jenny, she was like a light shadow which had always lain across his heart. Through all these years of her absence she had still lived with him dimly, he had never forgotten her, and now that he had found her and everything was dead between them his curious sense of being bound and obligated to her persisted. He saw, perfectly, that Jenny was cheap and common and vulgar. He knew that she had been on the streets. His attitude should normally have been one of horror and disgust. But, no, he could not. Strange. All that was best in Jenny presented itself to him, he remembered her moments of unselfishness, her sudden kind impulses, her generosity with money, especially he remembered the honeymoon at Cullercoats and how Jenny had insisted that he take the money to buy himself a suit.

He descended from the bus and walked along Blount Street and into his room. The house was very quiet. He sat down by the window and stared at the tree-tops of the park which showed above the opposite roofs, at the sky which showed beyond the tree-tops. The silence of the room sank into him, the tick of the clock took on a slow and measured rhythm, it was like the tramp of marching feet, of men marching slowly forward.

He straightened himself unconsciously and his eye kindled towards the distant sky. He did not feel himself defeated now. The old stubborn impulse to fight and fight again was resurrected in his soul. Defeat was only contemptible when it brought submission in its train. He would abandon nothing. He still had his faith and the faith of the men behind him. The future remained to him. Hope came back to him with a great rush.

Rising abruptly, he went over to the table and wrote three letters. He wrote to Nugent, to Heddon and to Wilson his agent in Sleescale. The letter to Wilson was important. He assured Wilson he would be in Sleescale on the next day but one to address the meeting of the local divisional executive. There was a vigorous optimism in the letter. He felt it himself as he read the letter and he was pleased. These last few days, while the approach of Jenny’s operation had banished all other thoughts from his head, the political situation had rapidly approached a head. In August, as he had predicted, forces in finance and politics had forced the vacillating Government out of office. The previous week, on October 6th, the temporary coalition had voluntarily dissolved. Nomination day for the new election was on the 16th October. David’s lips came together firmly. He would fight that election as never before. The proposed National policy he regarded as a determined attack upon the worker’s standard of living, instituted to meet a situation caused by the great banking interests. Drastic cuts in unemployment benefit were justified under the grotesque phrase “equality of sacrifice.” Sacrifices by the workers were intended to be certain, sacrifices by other sections of the community less so. Meanwhile four thousand millions of British capital were invested abroad. Labour was faced with the greatest crisis in its history. And it did not help Labour that certain of her leaders had thrown in their lot with the Coalition.

Half-past six. A glance at the clock showed David it was later than he had imagined. He made himself a cup of cocoa and drank it slowly, reading the evening paper which Mrs. Tucker had just brought in. The paper was full of garbled propaganda. Keep Industry safe from Nationalisation. Bolshevism gone mad. The Nightmare of Labour Control — these phrases struck his eye. There was a cartoon indicating a valiant John Bull in the act of stamping on a loathsome viper. The viper was plainly labelled: Socialism. Several of Bebbington’s choicer sayings were prominently reported. Bebbington was now a hero in the National Cause. The day before he had declared: “Peace in Industry is threatened by doctrines of class warfare. We are safeguarding the worker from himself!”

David smiled grimly and let the paper fall upon the table. When he got back to Sleescale he would have something to say upon that same point. Something a little different perhaps.

By now it was after seven o’clock and he rose, washed his face and hands, took his hat and went out. The strange lightness persisted within him and was heightened by the beauty of the evening. As he crossed Battersea Bridge the sky was red and gold and the river held the coloured brightness of the sky. He reached the hospital in a mood very different from his despondency of the afternoon. Everything was easy if one had courage.

At the top of the stairs he ran straight into Hilda. She had just made her evening visit and was standing with Sister Clegg in the vestibule talking for a moment before she went away. He stopped.

“Is it all right for me to go in?” he asked.

“Yes, it is quite all right,” Hilda said. She was more composed than she had been in the afternoon. Perhaps, like him, she had reasoned herself into this composure. Her manner was remote and formal, but it was above everything composed. “I think you will find her extremely comfortable,” she added. “The anæsthetic has not upset her; she has come through it all remarkably well.”

He could find nothing to say. He was conscious of them both studying him. Sister Clegg in particular seemed always to have a feminine unconquerable curiosity towards him.

“I told her you were coming,” Hilda said calmly. “She seemed very pleased.”

Sister Clegg looked at Hilda and smiled her cold smile. Aside, she said:

“She actually asked me if her hair was all right.”

David flushed slightly. There was something inhuman in Sister Clegg’s frigid exposure of Jenny’s vanity. A quick reply rose to his lips. But he did not make that reply. As he raised his eyes to Sister Clegg a young nurse rushed out of the ward. She was a junior nurse or she would not have rushed like that. Her face was flour white. She looked frightened. When she saw Sister Clegg she gave a little gasp of relief.

“Come, Sister,” she said. “Come!”

Sister Clegg did not ask any question. She knew what that look meant on a junior nurse’s face. It meant an emergency. She turned without a word and walked back into the ward. Hilda stood for a moment; then she too turned and walked into the ward.

David remained alone in the vestibule. The incident had happened so suddenly it left him at a loss. He did not know whether he ought to pass through the ward if there was some trouble in the ward. But before he decided Hilda was back again. Hilda was back with an almost unbelievable urgency.

“Go into the waiting-room,” Hilda said.

He stared at Hilda. Two nurses came out of the ward and walked rapidly towards the operating theatre; they walked abreast, vaguely unreal, like the advance of a forthcoming procession. Then the lights of the theatre clicked on and the frosted glass doors of the theatre showed bright and white like an illumined cinema screen.

“Go into the waiting-room,” Hilda repeated. The urgency was in her voice now, in her eyes, her harsh commanding face. There was nothing else to do. He obeyed; he went into the waiting-room. The door closed behind him and he heard the quick sound of Hilda’s steps.

The emergency was Jenny, he knew that with a sudden chilling certainty. He stood in the bare waiting-room listening to the sound of feet crossing and recrossing the vestibule. He heard the whine of the lift. He heard more steps. A period of silence followed, then he heard a sound which absolutely horrified him: it was the sound of someone running. Someone ran from the theatre to Hilda’s room and then ran back again. His heart contracted. When discipline yielded itself to such haste the emergency must be serious oh, desperately serious. The thought caused him to stand motionless as though frozen.

A long time passed, a very long time. He did not know how long. Half an hour, perhaps an hour, he simply did not know. Immobilised, strained to an attitude of listening, his muscles refused to allow him to look at his watch.

Suddenly the door opened and Hilda entered the room. He could not believe it was Hilda, the change in her was so great; she seemed exhausted and spiritually spent. She said almost wearily:

“You had better go to see her now.”

He came forward hurriedly.

“What has happened?”

She looked at him.

“Hæmorrhage.”

He repeated the word.

Her lips contracted. She said very distinctly and bitterly:

“The moment Sister came out of the room she raised herself in bed. She reached for a mirror. To see if she was pretty.” The bitterness, the defeatedness in Hilda’s voice was terrible. “To see if she was pretty, if her hair was straight, to use her lipstick. Can you think of it? Reaching for a mirror, after all I’d done.” Hilda broke off, wholly overcome, her hardness of that afternoon forgotten, her sole thought the destruction of her handiwork. It prostrated her. She flung the door wide with a helpless gesture. “You’d better go now if you wish to see her.”

He went out of the waiting-room and through the ward and into Jenny’s room. Jenny lay flat on her back with the end of the bed raised high on blocks. Sister Clegg was giving Jenny an injection into her arm. The room was in confusion, basins everywhere and ice and towels. The pieces of a smashed hand mirror were lying on the floor.

Jenny’s face was the colour of clay. She breathed in little shallow gasps. Her eyes were upon the ceiling. They were terrified, the eyes; they seemed to cling to the ceiling as though afraid to let the ceiling go.

His heart melted and flooded through him. He fell on his knees beside the bed.

“Jenny,” he said. “Oh, Jenny, Jenny.”

The eyes removed themselves from the ceiling and wavered towards him. Excusingly, the white lips whispered:

“I wanted to be nice for you.”

Tears ran down his face. He took her bloodless hand and held it.

“Jenny,” he said. “Oh, Jenny, Jenny, my dear.”

She whispered, as though it were a lesson:

“I wanted to be nice for you.”

Tears choked him; he could not speak. He pressed the white hand against his cheek.

“I’m thirsty,” she gasped feebly. “Can I have a drink?”

He took the drinking cup — funny, like a little tea-pot! — and held it to her white lips. She raised her hand weakly and took the drinking-cup. Then a faint shiver went through her body. The liquid in the drinking-cup spilled all over her nightgown.

Everything had turned out for the best for Jenny in the end. The little finger of her hand which still held the drinking-cup was politely curved. That would have pleased Jenny if she had known. Jenny had died polite.

TWENTY-TWO

At half-past eight on the morning after Jenny’s funeral David stepped on to the platform of Sleescale Station and was met by Peter Wilson. The whole of the previous day, October 15th, had been a swift unreality of sadness, completing the last pitiful arrangements, following all that remained of Jenny to the cemetery, placing a wreath of flowers upon her grave. He had travelled from London by the night train and he had not slept much. Yet he did not feel tired; the keen wind blowing from the sea struck along the platform and braced him with a tense energy. He had a curious sense of physical resistance as he put down his suit-case and shook hands with Wilson.

“Here you are,” Wilson said, “and not before time.” Wilson’s slow, good-natured smile was absent. His little pointed beard made those restless jerks which always indicated some disturbance in his mind. “It’s a great pity you missed your meeting yesterday, the Committee was extremely put about. You can’t know what we’re up against.”

“I imagine it’s going to be a hard fight,” David answered quietly.

“Perhaps harder,” Wilson declared. “Have you heard who they’re putting up against you?” He paused, searching David’s eyes with a perturbed inquiry; then he threw out violently: “It’s Gowlan.”

David’s heart seemed to stand still, his body to contract, ice-like, at the sound of the name.

“Joe Gowlan!” he repeated, tonelessly.

There was a strained silence. Wilson smiled grimly.

“It only came out last night. He’s at the Law now — living in style. Since he’s opened the Neptune he’s become the local swell. He’s got Ramage in tow, and Connolly and Low. He’s got most of the Conservative Executive eating out of his hand. There’s been a big push from Tynecastle, too. Yes, he’s been nominated; it’s all arranged and settled.”

A heavy bewilderment mingled with a kind of terror came over David — he could not believe it, no, the thing was too wildly, too madly impossible. He asked mechanically:

“Are you serious?”

“I was never more serious in my life.”

Another silence. It was true, then, this staggering and brutal news. With a set face, David picked up the suit-case and started off with Wilson. They came out of the station and down Cowpen Street without exchanging a word. Joe, Joe Gowlan, turning over and over, relentlessly, in David’s brain. There was no doubt about Joe’s qualifications — he had money, success, influence. He was like Lennard, for instance, who, with a fortune made from gimcrack furniture, had nonchalantly bought Clipton at the last election — Lennard, who had never made a speech in his life, who spent his rare visits to the House standing treat in the bar and doing cross-word puzzles in the smoke-room. One of the nation’s legislators. And yet, thought David bitterly, the easy-going Lennard was hardly the exemplar. Joe would use the House for more than cross-word puzzles. There was no knowing to what diverse and interesting uses Joe might turn his position if he won the seat.

Abruptly David turned away from his bitterness. That was no help. The only answer to the situation was that Joe must not get in. O God, he thought, walking into the keen sea wind, O God, if I only do one thing more let me beat Joe Gowlan at this election.

Filled more than ever with the sense of his obligations, he had breakfast with Wilson at Wilson’s house and they went over the position intensively. Wilson did not spare his facts. David’s unforeseen delay in returning to Sleescale had created an unfavourable feeling. Moreover, as David already knew, the executive of the Labour Party had not favoured his re-nomination; ever since his speech on the Mines Bill he had been marked down as a rebel, treated with hostility and suspicion. But the party, indebted to the Miners’ Federation for affiliation fees, had been unwilling to block the Federation nominee. Yet this had not prevented them sending an agent from Transport House in an effort to influence the miners towards another candidate.

“He came up like a confounded spy,” Wilson growled in conclusion. “But he didn’t get any change out of us. The Lodge wanted you. They pressed the matter with the Divisional Executive. And that was the end of it.”

After that, Wilson insisted that David go home to get some sleep before the committee meeting at three. David felt no need of sleep, but he went home; he wanted to think things out by himself.

Martha was expecting him — he had wired her the night before — and her eyes flew to his black tie. Her eyes revealed nothing as they took in that black tie and she asked no question.

“You’re late, surely,” she said. “Your breakfast’s been waiting this hour past.”

He sat down by the table.

“I’ve had breakfast with Wilson, mother.”

She did not like that, she persisted:

“Will you not even have a cup of tea?”

He nodded.

“Very well.”

He watched her as she infused fresh tea, first pouring hot water in the brown teapot, then measuring the tea exactly from the brass canister that had been her mother’s, he watched her sure and firm movements and he thought with a kind of wonder how little she had changed. Not far off seventy now, still vigorous and dark and unyielding, she was indomitable. He said suddenly:

“Jenny died three days ago.”

Her features remained impenetrable, slightly formidable.

“I thought that must be the way of it,” she said, putting the tea before him.

A silence fell. Was that all she could say? It struck him as insufferably cruel that she could hear of Jenny’s death without speaking one word of regret. But while he despaired of her vindictiveness, she declared, almost brusquely:

“I’m sorry it has grieved ye, David.” The words seemed wrung from her. Then, following something like embarrassment, she looked at him covertly. “And what’s like going to happen with you now?”

“Another election… another start.”

“Ye’re not tired of it, yet?”

“No, mother.”

When he had drunk his tea, he went upstairs to lie down for a few hours. He closed his eyes, but for a long time sleep eluded him. The thought remained hammering in his head, insistent, and agitating, like a prayer — O God, let me keep Joe Gowlan out, let me keep him out. Everything he had battled against all his life was concentrated in this man who now opposed him. He must win. He must. Willing that with all his strength, a drowsiness came over him, he fell asleep at last.

The next day, October 16th, was the official nomination day, and at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, at the very outset of the campaign, David encountered Joe. The meeting took place outside the Town Hall. David, accompanied by Wilson, was advancing up the steps to hand in his papers, when at that moment, Joe, escorted by Ramage, Connolly and the Rev. Low, all members of his executive, together with a number of his supporters, swung through the doorway and began to come down. At the sight of David, Joe stopped short dramatically, and faced him with a manly recognition. He stood two steps above David, a fine expansive figure, his chest thrown out impressively, his double-breasted jacket open, a large bunch of blue cornflowers in his buttonhole. Towering in rough-hewn grandeur, he held out his meaty hand. He smiled — his hearty, man-to-man smile.

“Well met, Fenwick,” he cried. “Better early than late, eh? I hope this is going to be a clean contest. It will be on my side. Fair play and no favour. And may the best man win.”

There was a murmur of approval from Joe’s partisans, while David went cold outside and sick within.

“Mind you,” went on Joe, “there’s going to be no kid gloves about it though, no gloves at all; it’s going to be bare fists all the time. I consider I’m fighting for the Constitution, Fenwick, the British Constitution. Don’t make any mistake about that, I warn you. All the same we’ll fight clean. British sportsmanship, see, that’s what I mean, British sportsmanship.”

Again there was a cheer from the rapidly accumulating crowd of Joe’s supporters, and in the enthusiasm of the moment several pressed forward and shook hands with him. David turned away in a cold disgust. Without a word he went into the Town Hall. But Joe, quite undismayed by the incivility of his opponent, continued shaking hands. Joe was not proud, he would shake any man’s hands, by God, provided the man was decent and British and a sportsman. Standing there on the steps of the Town Hall, Joe was moved to express that sentiment to the assembly now before him. He declared:

“I’m proud and willing to shake the hand of any decent man.” A pause of deep feeling. “Provided he’ll shake hands with me. But don’t let the Bolshies come up and try it on. No, by God, no!” Joe threw out his chest pugnaciously. He felt lusty, powerful, he was glorying in it now. “I want you lads to know that I’m against the Bolshies and the Reds and all the other scrimshankers. I’m for the British Constitution and the British Flag and the British Pound. We didn’t do our bit in the war at home and abroad for nothing. I’m for law and order and sport and sociability. That’s what I’m fighting the election for, and that’s what you’re voting for. No man has the right to leave the world as bad as he finds it. We’ve got to do what we can to make the world better, see. We’ve got to stand by ethics and education and the ten commandments. Yes, by God, the ten commandments! We’re not going to stand any antichristian Bolshie anarchism against the ten commandments! And no anarchism against the British Flag and the British Constitution and the British Pound. That’s why I’m asking you to vote for me, lads. And if you want to keep yourselves in work don’t you forget it!”

Led by Ramage, cheers were raised and raised again. The cheers intoxicated Joe; he felt himself a born orator, elevated by the approval of his own conscience and of his fellow men. He beamed and shook hands with everyone near him, then he marched down the steps.

As he reached the pavement, a little boy got entangled with his legs and fell. Stooping in an excess of kindliness, Joe picked him up and set him on his bare feet.

“There,” he laughed paternally. “There!”

Joe’s laugh seemed to startle the boy, who was a very ragged little boy of about six, with a pallid underfed face and uncut hair falling over big frightened eyes, and all at once he began to cry. His mother, holding a baby to her with one arm, came forward to pluck him out of Joe’s way with the other.

“He’s a fine little lad, missus,” Joe beamed. “A regular champion. What’s his name?”

The young woman flushed nervously at finding herself the object of the great man’s attention. She tightened the skimpy shawl which bound the baby to her and ventured timidly:

“His name’s Joey Townley, Mr. Gowlan. His father’s brother, that’s to say his uncle, Tom Townley, worked in the heading next yours in the Paradise, when you used to work inbye yourself. Before you became… like you are now… like.”

“Well, well,” Joe rejoined, beaming. “Would you believe it! And does your husband work in the Neptune an’ all, Mrs. Townley?”

Mrs. Townley blushed more deeply, confused, ashamed, terrified at her own boldness.

“No, Mr. Gowlan, sir, he’s on the dole. But, oh sir, if he could just get back in work…”

Joe nodded his head with sudden gravity.

“You leave it to me, missus. That’s why I’m fightin’ this election,” he announced fervently. “Yes, by God, I’m goin’ to change things for the better here.” He patted little Joe Townley’s head and smiled again, facing the crowd with magnificent modesty. “A fine little lad. And Joe too! Well, well, who knows, he might turn out to be another Joe Gowlan hisself!”

Still beaming, he moved away towards his waiting car. The effect was superb. News spread up and down the Terraces that Joe Gowlan was going to take back Sarah Townley’s man and give him a first-class job inbye, the best heading in the pit. There were a few like Sarah Townley in Sleescale. It all did Joe a vast amount of good.

Joe’s power as a speaker developed. He had good lungs, absolute assurance and a throat of brass. He blared at them. He was virile. He developed slogans. Huge posters appeared and spread across every hoarding in the town.

He was a bulwark of morality; but, of course, intensely human, a man’s man, a regular sport. At his first meeting in New Bethel Street School, after exhorting his listeners to support the Flag, he beamed upon them slyly:

“And put your shirt on Radio at the next Gosforth Park Races.” Radio was his own horse. The tip sent his stock booming.

Often, too, his dignity as a man of substance and position would yield, dissolve, melt down to the bones of god-fearing humility.

“I’m one of yourselves, lads,” he cried. “I wassent born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was brought up hard and proper. I fought my way up. It’s my policy to give every one of you the chance to do the same!”

But his trump card, never thrown down openly, but skilfully displayed up his sleeve, was his power to afford them employment. Though he was human, one of themselves, a man who had been ground through the mill, he was nevertheless the Boss. Behind all his brag and bluster he exhibited himself as their benefactor, who had taken over the derelict Neptune, who now proposed to find honest work for every man jack of them. That would come, naturally, after the Election.

His campaign grew in flamboyance and power. Ramage, who had once kicked the youthful Joe’s backside for stealing a pig’s bladder, was now his most devoted toady. At Ramage’s behest, the Rev. Low preached a fervid sermon from New Bethel Street pulpit, extolling the virtues of law and order and Mr. Joseph Gowlan, and condemning to the everlasting outer darkness those who dared to vote for Fenwick. Connolly, at the gas-works, had declared openly that any employee who did not support Gowlan was a b — Red and would be sacked on the spot. The Tynecastle Press was solid for Joe. Jim Mawson, enigmatically in the background, pulled several strings in the high cause of humanity. Every day two aeroplanes flew over from the Rusford works and gambolled in advertisement above Sleescale. On fine afternoons there was even some accidental sky writing. Money talked in many devious ways. Strange men were seen in Sleescale, mingling with the workers, making groups at the street corners, standing treat in the Salutation. As for promises — Joe promised everything.

David saw the forces marshalled against him, and he fought back with a desperate courage. But how pitiful his weapons were against Joe’s armoury! Everywhere he turned he felt an insidious grip upon him, limiting his activities, crushing him. Unsparingly, he redoubled his efforts, using all his physical resources, all the training and experience of his political career. The more he battled, the more Joe countered. The heckling, which from the outset had interrupted David’s meetings, now became unmerciful. Ordinary interruptions he could deal with and often turn to his own advantage. But this heckling was not legitimate. It came from a gang of Tynecastle rowdies who turned up at every meeting organised under Pete Bannon, ex-middle weight and bartender from the Malmo Wharf, ready and willing for trouble. Free fights regularly took place; it became the rule for all David’s outdoor meetings to be broken up in wild disorder. Wilson, the agent, protested furiously to the police and demanded adequate protection. His protest was apathetically received.

“It’s none of our business,” Roddam told him impudently. “This Bannon has nothing to do with us. You can find your own b — stewards.”

The clean campaign continued, developing along subtler lines. On the morning of the following Tuesday, on the way to his committee rooms, David was met by a notice, roughly splashed in white paint on the wall at the end of Lamb Lane: Ask Fenwick about his wife. His face paled, he took a step forward as if to wipe out the indignity. Useless, quite useless. The notice shrieked all over the town, every prominent wall and house-end, even the railway sidings, bore the brutal and unanswerable words. In a mist of pain and horror, David went along Lamb Street and entered his rooms. Wilson and Harry Ogle were waiting on him. Both had seen the notice. Ogle’s face worked with indignation.

“It’s too bad, David,” he groaned. “It’s too damnable. We’ve got to go to him… lodge a protest.”

“He’ll only deny it,” David answered in a steely voice. “Nothing would please him better than for us to go whining to him.”

“Then by God we’ll get our own back somehow,” Harry answered passionately. “I’ll have something to say about him when I speak for you at the Snook to-night.”

“No, Harry.” David shook his head with sudden determination. “I’ll have no retaliation.”

Lately in the face of this organised persecution he had felt neither anger nor hatred, but an extraordinary intensification of his inward life. He saw this inward life as the real explanation of man’s existence, independent of the forms of religion, inseparably detached from the material plane. Purity of motive was the only standard, the real expression of the soul. Nothing else mattered. And the fullness of this spiritual interpretation of his own purpose left no room for malice or hatred.

But Harry Ogle felt otherwise. Harry was on fire with indignation, his simple soul demanded fair play, or at least the plain justice of measure for measure. At the Snook that night, where, at eight o’clock, he was holding a supporters’ open-air meeting on his own, Harry was carried away and so far forgot himself as to criticise Joe’s tactics. David had been up at Hedley Road End, the new miners’ rows, and he did not reach home until late. It was a darkish, windy night. Several times a sound outside caused him to look up in anticipation, for he expected Harry to look in to let him know how the Snook meeting had gone. At ten o’clock he rose to lock the front door. It was then Harry stumbled in upon him, his face white and bloodied, half-fainting, bleeding profusely from a gash above his eye.

Lying flat on the couch with a cold compress laid on the gaping wound, while David sent Jack Kinch tearing for Dr. Scott, Harry gasped shakily:

“Coming back over the Snook they set about us, Davey — Bannon and his hooligans. I’d happened to say about Gowlan sweatin’ his employees like, an’ about him makin’ fightin’ aeroplanes an’ munitions. I’d have held my own, lad, but one o’ them had a bit o’ lead pipe…” Harry smiled weakly and fainted altogether.

Harry took ten stitches in his forehead, then Harry was carried to his bed. Naturally, Joe flamed with righteous wrath. Could such a thing happen on British soil! From the platform of the Town Hall he denounced the Red Fiends, the Bolshies, who could turn, even, and assault their own leaders. He sent Harry Ogle messages of sympathy. Great prominence was given to Joe’s solicitude; his most magnanimous trumpetings were printed verbatim in the newspapers. Altogether, the incident redounded highly to his credit.

But the loss of Harry’s personal support was a serious blow for David. Harry, a respected figure, carried weight in Sleescale with the cautious element, and now the older men, mystified and slightly intimidated, began to think better of attending David’s meetings. At that moment, too, the wave of hysteria sweeping the country against Labour reached its climax. Terror was driven into the hearts of the people by wild predictions of financial ruin. Frenzied pictures were drawn of the worker, paid in handfuls of worthless paper, desperately seeking to purchase food. And far from attributing the impending cataclysm to the end results of the existing economic system, everything was laid upon the shoulders of Labour. Don’t let them take your money, was the cry. The issue was Money. We must keep our Money, at all costs keep it, preserve it, this sacred thing. Money… Money!

With almost superhuman endurance, David threw himself into a final effort. On October 26th he toured the town in the old light lorry which had borne him to his original success. He was in the open all day, snatching a mouthful of food between times. He spoke till his voice was almost gone. At eleven o’clock, after a last naphtha-flare meeting outside the Institute, he returned to Lamb Lane, and flung himself upon his bed, exhausted. He fell asleep instantly. The next day was polling day.

Early reports indicated a heavy poll. David remained indoors all the forenoon. He had done his best, given of his utmost; for the present he could give no more. Consciously, he did not anticipate the result, nor preconsider the verdict to be delivered upon him by his own people. Yet beneath the surface, his mind struggled between hope and fear. Sleescale had always been a safe seat for Labour, a stronghold of the miners. The men knew he had worked and fought for them. If he had failed it was not his fault. Surely they would give him the chance to work and fight for them again. He did not underrate Gowlan, nor the strategic advantage of Gowlan’s position as owner of the Neptune. He was aware that Joe’s unscrupulous methods had undoubtedly split the solidarity of the men; cast doubts and suspicion on his own reputation. Remembering that hateful reference to Jenny, which had damaged him more than all Joe’s misrepresentation, David’s heart contracted. He had a quick vision of Jenny lying in the grave. And at that a surge of pity and aspiration came over him, the old familiar feeling, intensified and strengthened. He wanted with all his soul to win, to prove the good in humanity rather than the bad. They had accused him of preaching Revolution. But the only Revolution he demanded was in the heart of man, an escape from meanness, cruelty and self-interest towards that devotion and nobility of which the human heart was capable. Without that, all other change was futile.

Towards six o’clock David went out to visit Harry Ogle and while he walked slowly up Cowpen Street he observed a figure advancing along Freehold Street. It was Arthur Barras. As they approached each other David kept his eyes straight ahead, thinking that Arthur might not wish to recognise him. But Arthur stopped.

“I’ve been up to vote for you,” he said, quite abruptly. His voice was flat, almost harsh, his cheek sallow and inclined to twitch. The odour of spirits came from his breath.

“I’m obliged to you, Arthur,” David answered.

A silence.

“I’d been underground this afternoon. But when I came outbye, I suddenly remembered.”

David’s eyes were troubled and full of pity. He said awkwardly:

“I hardly expected your support.”

“Why not?” Arthur said. “I’m nothing now, neither red nor blue nor anything else.” Then with sudden bitterness:

“What does it matter, anyhow?”

Another silence, through which the words he had just spoken seemed to wrench at Arthur. He raised his heavy eyes to David’s helplessly.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “Ending up like this.” With an expressionless nod he turned and made his way down the street.

David continued on his way to Ogle’s, touched and profoundly troubled by this encounter, where so little had been said and everything implied. It was like a warning: how terrible defeat could be. Arthur’s ideals were shattered, he had stepped away from life, shrinking, with every fibre crying: “I have suffered enough. I will suffer no more.” The battle was over, the flame had gone out. David sighed as he turned into Ogle’s house.

He spent the evening with Harry, who was considerably better and in bright spirits. Though both their minds were concentrated on the coming result, they talked little of the election. Harry, however, in his gentle, thoughtful manner, predicted victory — anything else was unthinkable. After supper they played cribbage, to which game Harry was an addict, until nearly eleven o’clock. But David’s eyes kept straying towards the clock. Now that he must know so soon, an intolerable sense of strain possessed him. Twice he suggested it was time for him to go, that the counting at the Town Hall must be well upon the way. But Ogle, aware, perhaps, of David’s anxiety, insisted that he remain a little longer. The result could not be known before two o’clock. In the meantime here was a comfortable fire and a chair. So David acquiesced, curbing his restlessness, expectation and uneasiness. But finally, just after one o’clock, he rose. Before he left the room Harry shook him by the hand.

“Since I can’t be there, I’m going to congratulate you now. But I’m sorry to miss the sight of Gowlan’s face when he hears you’ve licked him.”

The night had turned still now, and there was a bright half moon. As David neared the Town Hall he was amazed at the crowds in the streets. He had some difficulty in forcing himself towards the steps of the Hall. But he got in at last and joined Wilson in the lobby. Inside the Council Chamber the open count was taking place. Wilson turned enigmatically and made room for David beside him. He looked tired.

“Another half-hour and we’ll know.”

The lobby was filling up with people. Then, from outside, came the slow hooting of a car. A minute later Gowlan entered at the head of his party — Snagg, his agent, Ramage, Connolly, Bostock, several of his Tynecastle associates, and in honour of this final occasion, Jim Mawson in person. Joe wore a coat with an astrakhan fur collar which hung open, displaying his evening clothes beneath. His face was full and slightly flushed. He had been dining late with his friends; and after dinner there had been old brandy and cigars. He swaggered down the lobby, through the crowd which parted before him, then outside the council room door he drew up with his back towards David and was immediately surrounded by his partisans. Loud laughter and conversation immediately engaged the group.

About ten minutes later old Rutter, Clerk to the Council and Recording Officer, came out of the room with a paper in his hand. Immediately there was a hush. Rutter looked immensely important; and he was smiling. When David saw that smile on Rutter’s face his heart gave a thud, then sank within him. Still smiling, peering over his gold-rimmed glasses, Rutter searched the crowded lobby, then, holding his importance, he called out the names of the two candidates.

Immediately Joe’s group pressed through the double doors after Rutter. At the same time Wilson rose.

“Come on,” he said to David; and his voice held a note of anxiety.

David rose and crowded with the others through the council room. There was no order, no sense of precedence, merely a flood of tense and unrestrained excitement.

“Please, gentlemen, please,” Rutter kept repeating, “allow the candidates to come through.”

Up the familiar iron staircase, through the small committee room and at last out upon the balcony. The cool night air came gratefully after the heat and lights within. Below an enormous gathering of people filled the street in front of the Hall. The pale half moon sailed high above the headstocks of the Neptune and laid faint silver scales upon the sea. A mutter of anticipation kept rising from the waiting crowd.

The balcony was very full. David was squeezed forward to the extreme corner. Beside him, carried away from Gowlan by the press, was Ramage. The fat butcher stared at David, his big hands twitching, his deep-set eyes lit, beneath their bushy grey brows, by excitement and spite. The frantic desire to see David beaten was written on his face.

Rutter was in the middle of the balcony now, facing the hushed crowd, the paper in his hand. One moment of deadly stillness, electric, agonising. Never in all his life had David known a moment so painful, so agitating as this. His heart beat wildly within his breast. Then Rutter’s shrill high voice rang out:

Mr. Joseph Gowlan… 8,852

Mr. David Fenwick… 7,490

A great shout went up and it was Ramage who led it. “Hurrah, hurrah!” Ramage bellowed like a bull, waving his arms, ecstatic with delight. Cheer after cheer split the air. Joe’s supporters were mobbing him on the balcony, overwhelming him with congratulations. David gripped the cold iron rail, striving for control, for strength. Beaten, beaten, beaten! He raised his eyes, saw Ramage bending towards him, lips working with outrageous delight.

“You’re beat, damn you,” gloated Ramage. “You’ve lost. You’ve lost everything.”

“Not everything,” David answered in a low voice.

More cheers, shouts, persistent calls for Joe. He was in the direct centre of the balcony now, against the railing, drinking in the adulation of the dense, excited crowd. He towered above them, a massive, dominant figure, black against the moonlight, unbelievably enlarged and menacing. Below, the pale faces of the people lay before him. They were his — all his, they belonged to him, for his use, to his purpose. The earth was his, and the heavens. A faint hum came distantly — a night flight of his Rusford planes. He was a king, he was divine, power illimitable was his. He was only beginning. He would go on, on. The fools beneath his feet would help him. He would mount to the heights, crack the world with his bare hands, split the sky with his lightning. Peace and War answered to his call. Money belonged to him. Money, money, money… and the slaves of money. Raising both his arms towards the sky in a gesture of supreme hypocrisy he began:

“My dear friends…”

TWENTY-THREE

Five o’clock on this cold September morning. It was not yet light and the wind, pouring out of the sea darkness, rushed across the arches of the sky and polished the stars to a high glitter. Silence lay upon the Terraces.

And then, breaking fitfully though the silence and the darkness, a gleam appeared in Hannah Brace’s window. The gleam lingered and ten minutes later the door opened and old Hannah came out of her house catching her breath as the icy wind took her. She wore a shawl, hobnailed boots and a huddle of petticoats lined with brown paper for warmth. A man’s cap was pulled upon her head hiding her thin straggle of grizzled hair, and bound longwise about her old jaws and ears was a swathe of red flannel. In her hand she carried a long pole. Since old Tom Calder had died of pleurisy, Hannah was now the caller of the Terraces, and glad enough these hard times for “the extra little bit” the work brought in. Waddling slightly because of her rupture, she made her way slowly along Inkerman, a poor old bundle, scarcely human, tapping the windows with her pole, calling the men due on the foreshift of the pit.

But outside No. 23 she spared her knocking. Never any need to call up No. 23, then or now, never, never, thought Hannah with a flicker of approval. Past the illumined window Hannah went, shivering her way along, lifting her pole, knocking and calling, calling and knocking, disappearing into the raw dimness of Sebastopol beneath.

Inside No. 23 Martha moved about the bright kitchen briskly. The fire was already ablaze, her bed in the alcove made, the kettle steaming, sausages sizzling in the pan. Deftly she spread a blue-checked cover on the table and laid a place for one. She wore her seventy years with lightness, even with alacrity. On her face there lay a look of indomitable satisfaction. Ever since she had come back to her own house in Inkerman, her old place, her own home, that deep-set satisfaction had burned in her eyes, easing the sombre furrow on her brow, making her expression strangely gay.

A survey of her arrangements showed everything in order, and a glance towards the clock — that famous marbled pot-stour trophy — indicated half-past five. Moving lightly on her felt slippers she took three brisk steps upwards on the open ladder and called to the room above:

“David! Half-past five, David.”

And listening, one ear tilted, she waited until she heard him stirring overhead — firm footsteps, the sound of water splashing from the ewer, his cough several times repeated.

Ten minutes later David came down, stood for a moment holding his cold hands to the fire, then sat in at the table. He wore pit clothes.

Martha served him his breakfast without delay, the sausages, her home-made bread and a pot of scalding tea. Real tenderness was in her face as she watched him eat.

“I’ve put some cinnamon in the tea,” she remarked. “It’ll cut that cough of yours in no time.”

“Thanks, mother.”

“I mind it used to help your father. He swore by my cinnamon tea.”

“Yes, mother.” He did not immediately glance up, but in a moment, lifting his head suddenly, he caught her unawares. Her expression, quite unguarded, was startling in its devotion. Quickly, almost with embarrassment, he averted his eyes: for the first time in all his recollection he had seen open love for him in her face. To cover his feelings he went on eating, bending over the table, sipping the steaming tea. He knew, of course, the reason of this new demonstrativeness — it was because he was back in the pit at last. Through all those years of study, of schoolmastering, of the Federation, yes, even of Parliament, she had sealed her heart against him. But now that he had been driven to return to the Neptune she saw him truly her son, following the tradition of his father, a reality, a man at last.

It was not an instinct of bravado which had forced him to the pit again but the plain and bitter fact of sheer necessity. He had been obliged to find work, and to find it quickly, and it was amazing how difficult the task had been. There was no room now in the Federation office; the antagonism of Transport House had shut him out there; in his half-qualified state teaching was absolutely closed to him; he had been compelled to turn inbye — standing in the line before Arthur in the underviewer’s office, begging to go underground again. Misfortune had not come to him alone — his shift in this predicament was far from being unique. Labour’s annihilation at the Election had placed many unseated candidates in a desperate position. Ralston was clerking in a Liverpool ship-broker’s office, Bond assisting a photographer in Leeds, and Davis, good old Jack Davis, was playing the piano in a Rhondda cinema. How different from the position of the apostates! He smiled grimly, thinking of Dudgeon, Chalmers, Bebbington and the rest, basking in national popularity, tranquilly subscribing to a policy which cut at the very heart of Labour conviction. Bebbington in particular, featured and photographed in every paper, broadcasting on all stations the week before — a noble speech, resounding with platitudes and pietic jingoism — was hailed as the saviour of the nation.

Abruptly, David scraped back his chair and reached for his muffler which lay on the rails above the range. With his back to the fire he swathed it about his neck, then laced on his heavy boots, stamping them comfortable on the stone floor. Martha had his bait-poke ready, all neatly stowed in greased paper, his can filled with tea and safely corked. She stood polishing a big red apple on her skirt, polishing until it shone. As she put it in his poke with the rest she smiled.

“You were always set on an apple, Davey. I minded when I was in the co-operative yesterday.”

“Ay, mother.” He smiled back at her, both touched and amused by her obvious solicitude. “Only I didn’t get so many in those days.”

A slight reproving shake of her head. Then:

“You’ll not forget to bring Sammy up to-night, like. I’m bakin’ currant cake this mornin’.”

“But, mother,” he protested, “you’ll have Annie after you, if you keep stealing Sammy every meal-time.”

Her gaze wandered from his; there was no rancour in her face, only a vague embarrassment.

“Oh well,” she mumbled, at length, “if she feels that way she better come up herself like, too. I cannot have my Sammy work his first shift in the pit without I gie him currant cake.” She paused, masking her softness with a pretence of severity. “D’ye hear me, man. Ask the woman to come up too.”

“Right, mother,” he answered, moving towards the door.

But she had to see him off, and with her own hands to open the door for him. She always did that for him now, it was the highest sign of her regard. Facing the keen darkness she answered his final nod with a slow movement of her head, then stood with one hand on her hip, watching his figure step out along Inkerman. Only when it had vanished did she close the door to return to the warmth of the kitchen. And immediately, although it was so early, she began with a kind of secretive joy to lay out her baking things — flour and currants and peel — laying them out eagerly, tenderly, to make the cake for Sammy. She tried to hide it, but she could not, the look of happiness that dwelt triumphantly upon her proud dark face.

Along the Terraces David went, his footfalls ringing and echoing amongst the other footfalls of the early frigid twilight. Dim shapes moved with him in comradeship, the shapes of the twilight men. A muffled word of greeting: “How, Ned”; “How, Tom”; “How, Davey.” But for the most part silence. Heavy-footed, bent of head, breath coming whitely from the frost, a faint pipe glow here and there, massing forward in shadowy formation, the march of the twilight men.

Ever since his return to the Neptune, David felt this moment deeply. He had failed, perhaps, to lead the van in battle, but at least he was marching with the men. He had not betrayed himself or them. Their lot remained bound to his lot, their future to his future. Courage came to him from the thought. Perhaps one day he would rise again from the pit, one day, perhaps, help this plodding army towards a new freedom. Instinctively he lifted his head.

Opposite Quay Street he crossed the road and knocked at the door of one of the houses. Without waiting for an answer he turned the handle, ducked his head and entered. This kitchen, too, was full of firelight. And Sammy, ready to the last bootlace, stood waiting impatiently in the middle of the floor while Annie, his mother, considered him silently from the shadow of the hearth.

“You’re in good time, Sammy lad,” David cried cheerily. “I was afraid I’d have to pull you out of bed.”

Sammy grinned, his blue eyes disappearing from sheer excitement. He was not very tall for fourteen years, but he made up for it in spirit, thrilling to the great adventure of his first day underground.

“He could hardly get to sleep last night for thinking about it,” Annie said, coming forward. “He’s had me up this last hour.”

“Eh, he looks a regular pitman,” David smiled. “I’m pretty lucky to have him for my trapper, Annie.”

“You’ll be careful with him, Davey,” Annie murmured, in a quiet aside.

“Oh, mother,” protested Sammy, colouring.

“I’ll watch out for him, Annie,” David said reassuringly. “Don’t you worry.” He glanced towards Annie who now stood with her fine pale face warmed by the fire glow, the top button of her blouse, unfastened, revealing her smooth straight throat. Her figure, erect even in repose, had both strength and softness. Her faint anxiety for Sammy, only half concealed, caused her to seem curiously young and untried. All at once, his heart moved in affection towards her. How brave she was, how honest and unselfish! — she had real nobility. “By the by, Annie,” he remarked, making his words offhand, “you and Sammy are invited up to-night. There’s going to be a regular spread.”

A silence.

“Am I really asked?” she said.

He nodded emphatically, quizzically.

“My mother’s own words.”

The trace of wistfulness left her; her eyes fell; he could see that she was deeply gratified at this recognition, at last, from the old woman.

“I’ll be glad to come, Davey,” she said.

Sammy, already at the door, was chafing to be away. He turned the handle, suggestively. And David, with a quick good-bye to Annie, followed him outside. Down the street they went, side by side, towards the pit. David was silent at first; he had his own thoughts. That look in Annie’s eyes as they lingered upon Sammy had strangely inspired him. Courage and hope, he thought, courage and hope.

They passed Ramage’s shop. When they came out of the Neptune at the end of the shift the shutters would be down, the door open, a Ramage planted there, waiting to gloat upon David’s humiliation. Every day of those four weeks, Ramage had waited, wickedly jubilant, exacting the last ounce of triumph from his victory.

And now David and Sammy drew near to the pit yard. They made a little detour to avoid some trucks on which, printed large in white, was the name MAWSON & GOWLAN. On they went, part of the slowly moving stream of men. Above them, looming in the darkness, rose the new headstocks of the Neptune, higher than before, dominating the town, the harbour and the sea. David stole a sidelong glance at Sammy whose face had now lost a trifle of its exuberance, intimidated by the nearness of the great event. And, drawing closer to the boy, David began to talk to him, diverting his attention towards other things.

“We’ll go fishing, Saturday, you and I, Sammy, September’s always a good month up the Wansbeck. We’ll get some brandlings at Middlerig and up we’ll go. Are you game, Sammy?”

“Ay, Uncle Davey.” With eager yet doubtful eyes upon the headstocks.

“And when we come back, Sammy, hanged if I don’t stand you a pie and lemonade in old Mrs. Wept’s.”

“Ay, Uncle Davey.” Eyes still fascinated upon the headstocks. And then, with a little rush. “It’s pretty dark when you get down, like, isn’t it?”

David smiled encouragingly.

“Not on your life, man. And in any case you’ll soon get used to it.”

Together they crossed the pit yard and, with the others, climbed the steps towards the cage. And sheltering Sammy, David guided him safely through the crush into the great steel pen. Sammy pressed very close to David now and in the confines of the cage his hand sought out David’s hand.

“Does it drop quick?” he whispered, with a catch in his throat.

“Not so quick,” David whispered back. “Just hold your breath the first time, Sammy lad, and it’s not too bad.”

A silence. The bar clanged. Another silence. The sound of a distant bell. They stood there, the men, massed together in the cage, massed together in the silence and the dimness of the dawn. Above them towered the headstocks of the pit, dominating the town, the harbour and the sea. Beneath them, like a tomb, lay the hidden darkness of the earth. The cage dropped. It dropped suddenly, swiftly, into the hidden darkness. And the sound of its falling rose out of that darkness like a great sigh which mounted towards the furthermost stars.