by A. J. Cronin
Harry Nugent: Do you reaffirm that while working in Scupper Flats he expressed alarm about the possibility of an inrush?
David: Yes, he spoke of it several times.
Harry Nugent: To you?
David: Yes, to me.
Harry Nugent: Now, please, Mr. Fenwick, did you attach any importance to what your father said?
David: Yes, I did, I was worried. In fact, as I’ve told you, I went so far as to speak to Mr. Barras himself.
Harry Nugent: You actually took this matter to Mr. Barras himself?
David: Yes.
Harry Nugent: And what was his attitude?
David: He refused to listen to me.
Lynton Roscoe (rising): Sir, I protest. Mr. Nugent, not only in connection with this witness but with other witnesses, has laboured this matter beyond all bounds. I find it quite impossible to leave it where it is.
The Commissioner: Mr. Roscoe, you will have full opportunity to cross-examine this witness again if you so desire. (Turning to Nugent) But I suggest, Mr. Nugent, that we have nothing more to learn from this witness.
Harry Nugent: I have no more to say, Mr. Chairman. I have merely drawn your attention again to the possibility that the disaster might have been avoided.
Nugent sat down. But Lynton Roscoe sprang to his feet again and with a pompous gesture stopped David as he made to leave the box.
Lynton Roscoe: One moment, sir. Where did this alleged conversation take place?
David: On the Wansbeck stream. We were fishing.
Lynton Roscoe (incredulously): Do you really ask us to believe that your father, although in mortal fear of death, went calmly to amuse himself by fishing? (Sardonic pause.) Mr. Fenwick, let us be frank. Was your father an educated man?
David: He was an intelligent man.
Lynton Roscoe: Come, come, sir, confine yourself to my questions. Was he educated, I ask you?
David: Not in the restricted sense of the word.
Lynton Roscoe: I take it, sir, despite your unwillingness to admit the fact, that he was not educated. He had, for instance, no knowledge of the science of mining engineering? Answer me, yes, or no.
David: No.
Lynton Roscoe: Have you such knowledge?
David: No.
Lynton Roscoe (sarcastically): You follow the teaching profession, I understand?
David (hotly): What has my teaching got to do with the Neptune disaster?
Lynton Roscoe: That is exactly the question I propose to ask you, sir. You are a junior teacher in a County Council School without even, I believe, the qualification of the B.A. degree. You have admitted your complete ignorance of the science of mining engineering. And yet—
David: I—
Lynton Roscoe: One moment, sir. (Thumping the table.) Had you or had you not any authority from the men to act in this matter?
David: No.
Lynton Roscoe: Then how did you expect Mr. Barras to do other than ignore your presumptuous interference?
David: Was it presumptuous to try to save the lives of these hundred men?
Lynton Roscoe: Don’t be insolent, sir.
David: Insolence doesn’t belong exclusively to you.
The Commissioner (interposing): I think, Mr. Lynton Roscoe, as I remarked before, we have already exhausted the usefulness of this witness.
Lynton Roscoe (throwing out his hand): But, sir—
The Commissioner: I think it may close this matter if I state, without prejudice, that I impute no motives to Mr. Richard Barras other than the very highest.
Lynton Roscoe (smiling and bowing): I respectfully thank you, sir.
The Commissioner: Do you wish to address me further, Mr. Lynton Roscoe?
Mr. Lynton Roscoe: If you please, sir, merely to affirm the facts shortly. We may congratulate ourselves that the issue arising out of the disaster is so clear. The absence of any plan, drawing or sketch which demonstrated the Old Neptune workings is beyond doubt. These old workings, as I have shown, were abandoned in 1808 at a time long before there was any legislative provision requiring the filing of plans or the lodging of information regarding the abandonment of a pit, and when, as you may imagine, the keeping of records, indeed the conduct of mining in general, was primitive in the extreme. We are, by your leave, sir, not responsible for that! The evidence is that Mr. Richard Barras was a trusted employer and that he controlled the operations in Scupper Flats in the best and highest tradition of the industry. He did not know of the impending peril.
I cannot believe that Mr. Nugent, in the course of his cross-examination of the witness Fenwick, really implied that certain of the men who had lost their lives in the disaster had previously expressed their apprehension at water flowing into Scupper Flats.
I ask you, sir, having considered Fenwick’s evidence, on the matter of his father’s communications to him, to say that there is not one fragment of foundation for such a monstrous suggestion. At best it is a casual conversation; we have the sworn evidence of every responsible official of the colliery that not one of the workmen or local inhabitants expressed any fears or misgivings to them.
The witness Fenwick has insisted, with an acrimony which we deplore, upon his interview with Mr. Richard Barras on the night of the 13th April previous. But, sir, what importance could the manager of any colliery attach to such an irrelevant and impertinent approach as that made by Fenwick on the night in question? Had some responsible and competent person, say Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Hudspeth or some other official raised this query the case would have been altogether different. But an outsider, speaking in such uninformed and ambiguous terms of danger and water and wetness in the pit? The Neptune, sir, was essentially a wet pit and the amount of water flowing therein conveyed no possible indication of the approaching inrush.
In a word, sir, we have fully established that the management had no knowledge of the fact that they were in immediate proximity to old waterlogged workings. There was no plan, owing to a defect in the legislation previous to 1872. That, sir, is the crux of the situation. And there, with your permission, I leave it with you.
The Commissioner: Thank you, Mr. Roscoe, for your admirable and lucid summary of the case. I am not sure, Mr. Nugent, whether you wished to address me.
Harry Nugent rose slowly to his feet.
Harry Nugent: Mr. Chairman, I have little more to say at present. Later, I intend to raise the whole question of the legislation affecting wet mines in the House of Commons. This is not the first inrush of water that has taken place. We have had similar cases, lack of opportunity to see necessary plans and a large loss of life. I must repeat how serious this question is. If we are going to get safety in mines it is high time something was done about it. We are all familiar with cases where colliery owners are careless, I might even say worse than careless, underground when they get near a boundary, particularly if it presents prospects of desirable coal. It is an irregularity inseparable from the system of private ownership. Even in our good years in the mines of this country we averaged killing four men every day, 365 days of the year. Think of it, sir, a man killed every six hours, a man injured every three minutes. We have been accused of acrimony in this case. I want you to understand that I concern myself less with this local issue than with the general issue of safety in mines. We are forced to use these accidents to agitate for better conditions and more favourable legislation, for it is only when these accidents happen that we get a little sympathy. The so-called progress in the coal industry, instead of resulting in the diminution of the death and accident rates, has resulted in their increase. And we honestly believe that so long as the economic system of private ownership exists this waste of human life will continue. That, sir, is all I have to say at present.
The Commissioner (briefly): Then I have now to declare this Inquiry closed. I should like, however, to express my indebtedness to all who have taken part in the investigation. I wish also to convey my sympathy to the bereaved families, particularly towards those of the ten men whose bodies have not yet been
recovered from the pit. In conclusion, I want to congratulate Mr. Richard Barras on his heroic efforts on behalf of the entombed men and to place immediately on record that, from the evidence heard before me, he leaves this court without a stain on his character.
A murmur, a great sigh of relaxed tension filled the court. As the Commissioner rose, there was a clatter of chairs, a rapid hum of talk. The double doors at the back were thrown open, the court began to empty quickly. When Barras and Arthur reached the steps outside, Colonel Gascoigne and a number of others pressed forward in congratulation. Actually a faint cheer was raised. More people crowded round, eager to shake hands. Bareheaded, slightly flushed, holding himself erect, Barras stood on the topmost step with Arthur, still deadly pale, behind him. He seemed in no hurry to move from the glare of publicity. He looked about him, an eager, vindicated expression on his face, readily accepting any hand held out to him. Something emotional in his attitude flowed towards the waiting men. Another cheer went up and another, louder than before. Deeply gratified, Barras began to move slowly down the steps, still hatless, accompanied by Gascoigne, Lynton Roscoe, Bannerman, Armstrong, Jennings and, last of all, by Arthur. The crowd parted deferentially before this imposing group. Barras led the way across the pavement, head well up, his eye eagerly picking out known faces, acknowledging salutations, dropping a grave word here and there, feeling the popular sentiment veering towards him, a man leaving the court without a stain on his character, unsmirched by the mud flung at him, those last words ringing in his ears: “Your truly heroic efforts on behalf of the entombed men.” The party’s progress towards the Law became something of a triumph.
Inside the hall David remained motionless in his seat, hearing the cheers, the heavy movement of feet outside, staring at the blank sweating walls, the flies buzzing on the dirty window panes. Deliberately he held himself in check. No use to give way, no use at all.
A touch on the shoulder made him turn slowly. Harry Nugent stood beside him in the deserted hall. Nugent said kindly:
“Well, it’s all over.”
“Yes.”
Studying David’s impassive face, Nugent sat down beside him.
“You didn’t expect anything else, did you?”
“Well, yes.” David seemed to reflect seriously. “Yes, I expected justice. I know he was to blame. He ought to have been punished. Instead of that they compliment him, cheer him, let him go.”
“You mustn’t take it too hard.”
“I’m not thinking about myself. Why should I? Nothing has happened to me. It’s the others.”
A faint smile came upon Nugent’s lips. It was a very friendly smile. Throughout the Inquiry he had seen a lot of David, and he was strongly drawn to him.
“We haven’t done so badly,” he meditated. “Now we’ll be able to force the Mines Department to act over this question of abandoned waterlogged mines. We’ve been waiting on the chance for years. That’s the main issue. Can you see it that way?”
David raised his head, stubbornly fighting the emptiness within him, the ache of defeat.
“Yes, I see that,” he muttered.
The look in David’s eyes moved Nugent suddenly from his serenity. He slipped his arm round David’s shoulders.
“I know how you feel, lad, but don’t fret. You did well. Your evidence helped us more than you believe.”
“I did nothing. I wanted to, but I didn’t. All my life I’ve been talking about doing something…”
“And so you will. Give yourself a chance. I’m going to keep in touch with you. I’ll see what can be done. And in the meantime keep your pecker up.” He rose, glancing towards the door where Heddon stood in conversation with Jim Dudgeon, awaiting him. “Listen, David. Be at the station at six to-night. I’ll have another word with you then.”
He nodded encouragingly and walked over to Heddon and Dudgeon. The three moved off towards the temporary lodge office in Cowpen Street.
A moment later David rose and reached for his hat. He walked out of the hall and down Freehold Street. He was completely fagged. With typical intensity he had concentrated everything on the Inquiry, for six days he had not been near the school. And the result was this. He hunched his shoulders doggedly, taking hold of himself again. This was no time for the luxury of going to pieces, for petty spite and hysteria.
Along Freehold Street he went, across the road, and into Lamb Street. But there, opposite the Scut, a man called after him. It was Ramage. The butcher wore a dirty blue linen coat with an enormous blue and white apron belted round his middle. He had just come up from his slaughter-house where he had been down at the killing, the backs of his hands were mottled with dried blood. The warm afternoon sun set a haze of red about him.
“Hey, Fenwick, here a minute!”
David stopped but did not speak. Ramage eased his thick neck away from his collar, then stuffed both hands in his leather belt, and lay back, studying David.
“So y’ve finished your day’s work at the Town Hall?” he declared with heavy sarcasm. “No wonder y’look proud of yourself. God Almighty, y’ve been a credit to Sleescale this past week. Standin’ up to argue with Lynton like y’ were bloody lawyer.” His sneer grew. He was evidently posted in the last details of the Inquiry. “But if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t look so set up about it. Maybe y’ll find this business has cost more’n ye bargained for.”
David waited, facing Ramage. He knew something was coming. There was a pause, then Ramage abandoned his sarcasm, his brows drew down in that bullying way.
“What the hell d’ye think y’ve been up to, leaving the school without permission, these last six days? D’ye think ye own the bloody place…”
“I went to the Inquiry because I had to.”
“Y’ didn’t have to. Y’ went out of downright spite. Y’ went to sling muck at one of the leadin’ men in the town, a public man like myself, a man who got ye the job what ye never deserved. Y’ve turned round and bit the hand that fed ye. But, by God, y’re goin’ to regret it.”
“I’m the best judge of that,” David said curtly and he made to go.
“Wait a minute,” Ramage bawled, “I’ve not done with ye. I’ve always thought ye were a trouble maker like your father afore ye. Y’re nothing but a rank rotten socialist. We’ve no use for your kind teachin’ in our schools. Y’re goin’ to be chucked out.”
A pause. David considered Ramage.
“You can’t put me out.”
“Oh, can’t I? Can’t I though?” Triumph blared into Ramage’s snarl. “Y’ might like to know we called a meetin’ of the School Board last night to consider y’re conduct an’ agreed unanimous to demand your resignation.”
“What”
“No whats about it. Ye’ll get your notice from Strother in the morning. He wants a man what’s gotten a B.A. t’is name; not a half-baked pitman like yourself.” For a full minute Ramage indulged himself in the delicious satisfaction of watching David’s face, then, with a sardonic grin fixed on his meaty lips, he swung round and barged his way into his shop.
David walked along Lamb Street, head down, eyes on the pavement. He let himself into his house, went into the kitchen and began automatically to make himself some tea. Jenny was in Tynecastle at her mother’s, he had sent her there this last week to spare her the worry of the Inquiry. He sat down at the table, stirring his cup, round and round, not even tasting the tea. So they were trying to sack him. He knew at once that Ramage meant every word he had spoken. He could fight, of course, appeal to the Northern Teachers’ Association. But what would be the use? His face hardened. No, let them do what they liked. He would talk to Nugent at six, he wanted to be out of this blind alley of teaching, he wanted to do something. O God, he did want to justify himself, to do something at last.
At quarter to six he left the house and set out for the station. But he had not gone more than half-way when he heard a commotion at the head of the street and, looking up, he saw two news-boys tearing down the hill with their billh
eads wildly fluttering. He stopped and bought a paper, all the rumours and latent fears which the Inquiry had overlaid flashing into the foreground of his mind. And there across the front page sprawled the headline: British Ultimatum Expires Midnight.
TWO
Towards one o’clock on the second Saturday of September, 1914, Arthur came home from the Neptune to the Law. Normal conditions prevailed at the pit again, work had recommenced, the whole tragic business of the disaster appeared buried and forgotten. But Arthur’s face expressed no satisfaction. He walked up the Avenue like a tired man. He entered the grounds of the Law and, as he had expected and dreaded, the new car had arrived. Bartley, who had been to Tynecastle for a month’s tuition, had brought the new car down himself and it was drawn up in the drive in front of the Law, a landaulet, all smooth maroon enamel and shiny brass. Barras stood beside the new car and as Arthur passed he called out:
“Look, Arthur, here she is at last!”
Arthur stopped. He was in his pit suit. He stared heavily at the car and he said at length:
“So I see.”
“I have so much to do I must have a car,” Barras explained. “It was quite ridiculous not to have seen that before. Bartley tells me she runs magnificently. We’ll run in to Tynecastle this evening and try her out.”
Arthur appeared to be thinking. He said:
“I’m sorry… I can’t come.”
Barras laughed. The laugh, like the car, was new. He said:
“Nonsense. We’re spending the evening with the Todds. I’ve arranged for us all to have dinner at the Central.”
Arthur stopped staring at the car and stared at his father instead. Barras’s face was not flushed but it gave the impression of being flushed: the eyes and the lips were fuller than they had been, the small eyes behind the strong lenses in particular had a protruding look. He seemed restless and vaguely excited, perhaps the arrival of the new car had excited him.
“I didn’t know you were in the habit of giving dinners at the Central,” Arthur said.
“I’m not,” Barras answered with a sudden irritation. “But this is an occasion. Alan is going to the front with his battalion. We are all proud of him. Besides I haven’t seen Todd for some time now. I want to look him up.”