by A. J. Cronin
“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.