by A. J. Cronin
***
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 state of the coal-mining industry is so tragic that measures would be immediately undertaken to alleviate the distress in the coal-fields, reorganise the industry from top to bottom, both on its productive and marketing sides, and shorten the hours of labour. A Labour majority would Nationalise the Mines and Minerals as the only condition for satisfactory working. It would develop the scientific utilisation of coal and its valuable by-products, now largely wasted.
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 o
f 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.”