by A. J. Cronin
“Come, Arthur, eat your pudding, dear,” Aunt Carrie, chiding him gently, recalled his perplexed eyes to his plate. St. George’s pudding, made up of cake-ends, the burnt pieces, which he detested. But he struggled with it, hoping his father would notice and approve. Hilda had finished already, was staring straight ahead with her dark, forbidding expression. Grace, smiling and artless, was enjoying a secret happiness with herself.
“Shall you be home for tea, Richard?” Aunt Carrie asked respectfully.
“Yes! At five o’clock.” The voice was concise and self-controlled.
“Yes, Richard.”
“You might ask Harriet if she has any commissions for me, to-day.”
“Yes, Richard.”
Aunt Carrie inclined her head. She always showed a glad passion of obedience towards Richard; and in any case her head was usually inclined. She carried it to one side in token of her submission; submission to everybody and to everything; but chiefly to her lot in life. She knew her position, did Aunt Caroline Wandless. Though she was of a good Northumberland family, a county family, she did not presume upon it. She never presumed, not even upon the fact that she was Richard’s sister-in-law. She looked after the children, gave them lessons every forenoon in the schoolroom, sat up with them when they were sick, waited hand and foot on Harriet, prepared delicacies, did the flowers, darned socks, knitted comforters and turned over the dirty linen of the household, all with an air of genteel subservience. Five years before, when Harriet took to her bed, Aunt Carrie had come to the Law, to make herself useful as she had always done on the occasions of Harriet’s confinements. At forty, with a thickening figure, a pale plump face, a brow creased by a slightly worried frown and neutral untidy hair, she was still making herself useful. She must have had innumerable opportunities to assert herself. But she had never forgotten that she was a dependant, she had acquired the little tricks of the dependant. She kept a tea-pot in her own room and a private store of biscuits; while the others were talking, she would slip out of a room silently, as though deciding suddenly she was not wanted; in public she spoke with marked correctness to the servants, but in private she would talk to them agreeably, even familiarly, with pleasant propitiating ways: Now, Ann, would you care to have this blouse? Look, it’s hardly worn, child… She had a little money of her own: about one hundred pounds a year from Consols. She dressed always in the same shade of grey. She limped slightly from a carriage accident in her youth and there was a vague inference, wholly untrue, that she had, at the same time, been badly treated by a gentleman. She was extremely fond of hot baths and took one every night of her life. Her horror was that she might be found using the bathroom when Richard required it. Occasionally this gave her nightmare, from which she awoke pale and sweating, convinced that Richard had seen her in the bath.
Barras surveyed the table. No one was eating.
“Will you take a biscuit, Arthur?” he inquired firmly, with his hand on the silver lid of the squat glass barrel.
“No, thank you, father.” Arthur swallowed tremulously.
Richard filled his glass with water, held it for a moment with a steady hand. The water seemed more clear, more cold because he held it. He drank slowly.
Silence. Richard rose and went out of the room.
Arthur almost burst into tears. Why, why was his father not taking him to Tynecastle, on to-day of all days, when he wanted to be near him? Why was he not taking him to Todd’s? His father obviously had business with Adam Todd, who was a mining engineer, his father’s oldest friend; but that didn’t matter, he could have taken him surely, and let him play with Hetty. With a swelling heart he hung about the hall, which Aunt Carrie always referred to as the vestibule, staring at the pattern of black and white tiles, staring at his father’s lovely pictures on the walls, hoping against hope. Hilda had gone straight upstairs, marching to her room with a book. But it didn’t matter. There was never much feeling between Hilda and himself. She was too abrupt, severe, unreasonably passionate; she appeared always to be struggling within herself, struggling against something unseen. Though she was only seventeen, three months ago, just before the strike began, she had put her hair up. That removed her further than ever. He felt that Hilda was not lovable. She was not good-looking either. She was harsh, with an air of despising everything. She had an olive skin. She did not smell nice.
While he stood in the hall, Grace came down from the schoolroom with an apple in her hand.
“Let’s go and see Boxer,” she begged. “Do let’s go, Arthur.”
He gazed down at Grace. She was eleven years of age, a year younger, a foot shorter than himself. He envied Grace her happiness. Grace had the happiest disposition. She was a sweet, lovely, dreadfully untidy child. The crock-comb pushed lop-sidedly through her soft fair hair gave her little face a comic look of wonder. Her big blue eyes radiated an artless innocence. Even Hilda loved Grace. He had seen her, after the most violent display of temper, catch hold of Grace and hug her passionately.
Arthur considered: should he go with Grace, or should he not? He wanted to go, yet didn’t want to go. He could not make up his mind, it was always painful for him to make up his mind. He wavered. At last he shook his head.
“You go,” he said sombrely. “I’m worried about the strike.”
“Are you, Arthur?” she asked wonderingly.
He nodded; and the feeling that he was denying himself the pleasure of seeing the pony munch the apple made him even sadder than before.
When Grace had gone he stood listening. At last his father came downstairs. He carried a flat black leather case under his arm, but he took no notice of Arthur whatever, he went straight into the waiting dog-cart and was driven away.
Arthur was humiliated, broken-hearted, crushed. It was not that he minded missing Tynecastle, nor yet that he minded missing Todd’s. Hetty was nice, of course; he liked her long silky plaits, her bright smile, the warm feeling of her when, as she sometimes did, she flung her arms round him and asked him to buy her chocolate cream with his Saturday sixpence. Oh yes, he liked Hetty, he would marry her, no doubt, when he grew up. He liked her brother, too, Alan Todd; and he liked old man Todd—as Alan called his father—with his ragged, tobacco-stained moustache, the little yellow spots on his eyes and his funny scent of cloves and something else. But it did not in the least upset him not to see them. What upset him, ravaged him, tortured and killed him was this neglect—this miserable neglect from his own father.
Perhaps he wasn’t worth noticing, perhaps that really was the trouble. He was so small for his age and, he supposed, not very strong—he had heard Aunt Carrie several times: Arthur is delicate! Though Hilda had been to school in Harrogate and Grace was going soon, he, Arthur, would not go to school. He had so few friends, too, it was extraordinary how few people came to the Law. He was morbidly aware of himself as shy, sensitive, lonely. Being fair, he blushed easily, which often made him wish the ground would swallow him. He longed with all his soul for the time when he would be working with his father in the Neptune. At sixteen he would start, learning the practical side; then some classes, his certificate; and finally the wonderful day when he went into partnership with his father. Ah, that was a day to live for.
And meanwhile, with tears smarting in his eyes, he wandered aimlessly through the front door. The grounds of the Law lay before him, a fine span of lawn with a laburnum in the middle, then a paddock sloping to the dene. Two belts of trees lay upon either side, cutting off all that was unbeautiful in the view. Actually the house stood quite close to Sleescale, upon the law or hill which gave the place its name. Yet it might have been a hundred miles away for all that was seen of pit chimneys and pit dirt. It was a good stone house, square fronted, with a portico in the, Georgian style, a later addition built out behind, and a big conservatory attached. The front of the house was covered by smartly clipped ivy. Though it was completely unostentatious—how Richard hated ostentation!—everything was in the most spotless order: the lawn shaven, its
edges cut as by a knife, not a weed marring the long red blaze drive. There was a great deal of white paint about, the best white paint, on gates, palings, the window sashes and woodwork of the glass house. Richard liked it so; and though he kept only one man—Bartley—there were always plenty willing to come up from the Neptune to “crible for the mester.”
Arthur’s woebegone gaze travelled down the pleasant prospect. Should he go down to Grace? He thought yes, at first, then he thought no. Desolate, he couldn’t make up his mind. Then, as usual, he left it, wandering away from the decision, wandering back into the hall. Absently, he stared at the pictures upon the walls, these pictures on which his father set such store. Every year his father would buy a picture, sometimes two, through Vincent, the big art dealer in Tynecastle, spending what seemed to Arthur—whose ears absorbed the last detail of his father’s conversation—incredible sums. Yet consciously Arthur approved this action of his father, as he approved all his father’s actions, and he approved his father’s taste as well. Yes, they really were lovely pictures, large canvases, superbly coloured. Stone, Orchardson, Watts, Leighton, Holman Hunt, oh, Holman Hunt especially. Arthur knew the names. Knew that these—as his father said—would be the old masters of the future. One in particular, The Garden Lovers, entranced him with its sweetness, it was so lovely it gave him a queer pain, a kind of longing, low down in his stomach.
Arthur frowned, hesitated, looking up and down the hall. He wanted to think, to puzzle things out about this awful strike, his father’s strange and preoccupied departure for Todd’s. Turning, he went along the passage and into the lavatory. He locked himself in. Here, at last, he was safe.
The lavatory was his retreat; the place where no one could disturb him, where he took his troubles some days and on others gave himself to his dreams. The lavatory was a lovely place to dream in. It reminded him, somehow, of a church, a cathedral aisle, for it was a tall room with a cold churchy smell and a varnished wallpaper made up of little gothic arches, he got a feeling here like when he looked at The Garden Lovers.
Arthur let down the oblong varnished cover and seated himself with his head in his palms and elbows on his knees. He felt, suddenly, an extra pang of anxiety and stress. Overpowered by a desire for consolation, he shut his eyes tight. With that fervour which often took him, dear God, he prayed, make the strike end to-day, make all the men go back to work for my father, make them see their mistake, dear God, you know, dear God, how good my father is, I love him, dear God, and I love You too, make the men do right like he does and don’t let them strike any more, and let me hurry up and be with my father in the Neptune quick for Jesus’ sake, amen.
FOUR
Richard Barras returned at five o’clock to find Armstrong and Hudspeth were waiting for him. He arrived, with cold unhurried precision, frowning slightly, bringing the stem pulse of his personality into the house, to find them sitting on two hall chairs, side by side, staring at the floor in silence. Aunt Carrie in a flutter of uncertainty had put them there. George Armstrong was, of course, the viewer of the Neptune and would have gone ordinarily to the smoking-room. But Hudspeth was only the underviewer who had once been merely the overman, and he had, moreover, been with the safety-men, had come straight out the pit with dirty boots, wet knickerbockers, stick and leather cap complete. Impossible to admit him to sully Richard’s room. Altogether a difficult situation for Aunt Carrie; she had compromised by leaving them in the vestibule.
At the sight of the two men Richard’s expression did not change. He had expected them. But through the cold weight of his inflexibility a faint gleam momentarily irradiated his eye, then was instantly suppressed. Armstrong and Hudspeth rose. A short silence.
“Well?” Richard asked.
Armstrong nodded emotionally.
“It’s done with, thank God.”
Richard received the news without a sign, as though the faint break in Armstrong’s voice was repugnant to him. He remained erect, veiled within himself, apart. At length he stirred, made a gesture with his hand and led the way into the dining-room. He went to the sideboard, an enormous oak piece of Dutch origin carved in baroque taste with the heads of smiling children, and poured whisky into two glasses, then he pulled the bell, ordered tea upon a tray for himself. Ann brought it immediately.
The three men drank standing—Hudspeth put his tot away neat at one stolid swallow, Armstrong took his with a lot of soda in quick, nervous gulps. He was a nervous man, George Armstrong, a man who seemed always to live upon his nerves. He worried a great deal, was upset by trifles, lost his temper easily with the men but got through a vast amount of work by the sheer nervous intensity of his application. A medium-sized man going bald on the top, with rather a drawn face and pouches under his eyes, he was, in spite of his irritability, quite popular in the town. He had a good baritone voice and sang at the Masonic concerts. He was married, with five children, felt his responsibilities acutely and was, in his soul, desperately afraid of losing his job. Now he excused his nervous hand with his short deprecatory laugh.
“Before God I’m not sorry it’s over, Mr. Barras, the whole stupid business. It’s been a pretty rough time for all of us. I’d rather work a year double shift than go through these three months again.”
Barras ignored all this. He said:
“How did it end?”
“They had a meeting at the Institute. Fenwick spoke but they wouldn’t listen to him. Next Gowlan, you know Charley Gowlan, the checkweigher, he got up and said there was nothing for it but to start. Then Heddon let loose on them. He’d come in special from Tynecastle. He didn’t mince his meat. Not on your life, Mr. Barras. Told them they’d no right to have come out without Union support. Said the Federation disowned the whole business. Called them a pack of confounded fools, only saving your presence, Mr. Barras, he used a different word for trying to run things on their own. Then they voted. Eight hundred odd in favour of starting. Seven against.”
There was a pause.
“And what then?” Barras said.
“They came up to the office, a crowd of them—Heddon, Gowlan, Ogle, Howe and Dinning, and pretty small they looked, I can tell you. They asked for you. But I told them what you’d said, that you’d see none of them till they’d started in again. So Gowlan made a speech, he’s not a bad sort, for all he’s a boozer. Said they were beat and knew it. Heddon came on then with the usual Union claptrap, made a song and dance about taking the case to Harry Nugent in Parliament, but that was just to save his own face. To cut it short, they’re whacked, they’ve asked to start in on the fore shift to-morrow. I said we’d see you, sir, and let them know your answer by six.”
Richard finished his tea.
“So they want to start. I see,” he said. He appeared to regard the situation as interesting, and to review it without emotion. Three months ago he had secured the Parsons contract for coking coal. These contracts were precious, they were rare and very hard to get. With the contract in his pocket he had begun operations, driving into the Scupper Flats district of the Paradise and starting to strip the Dyke of its special coking coal, the only coking coal remaining in the Neptune.
Then the men had walked out on him, in spite of him, in spite of their Union. The contract was not in his pocket now, it was in the fire. He had forfeited the contract. He had lost twenty thousand pounds.
The pale smile fixed upon his lips seemed to say, interesting, upon my soul!
Armstrong said:
“Shall I post the notices then, Mr. Barras?”
Richard compressed his lips, let his eye dwell upon the obsequious Armstrong with sudden distaste.
“Yes,” he said coldly. “Let them start in to-morrow.”
Armstrong sighed with relief, he moved instinctively towards the door. But Hudspeth, whose obtuse mind dealt only with the obvious, stood twisting his cap in his hands.
“What about Fenwick?” he asked. “Has he to be started?”
Barras said:
“That remains with
Fenwick.”
“And the other pump?” went on Hudspeth laboriously. He was a big dull-looking fellow with a long upper lip and a heavy, sallow face.