by A. J. Cronin
“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 ti
mekeeper’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 sa
ke. 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?”