by James Hanley
‘He’s a heck of a time,’ said Mr Postlethwaite.
‘I’m rather surprised,’ remarked Desmond. ‘I never thought he would go to the meeting.’
‘H’m!’ muttered Mr Postlethwaite. ‘You can’t tell your father from one minute to another, Desmond. Pity you don’t work alongside him.’
Suddenly out of a side street there appeared with the thunderous rush of water a crowd of men and women. It swung into the road, flooding the sidewalk, carrying everything in its wake, passing strangers, people coming home from church and chapel. It seemed to swell, to open fanwise, to draw everything to it. Where had it come from? It was making its way down the hill. Desmond Fury drew aside, Mr Postlethwaite jumped, flung his arm round the brass rail outside the window of the Drums and Fifes, and said to Desmond, ‘What’s this?’ All Andrew Postlethwaite could see now was a mass of faces, a living map. Young and old, tall and short, fat and thin. Then this crowd began to sing. The noise was deafening. In a moment it had picked up both Desmond and Mr Postlethwaite in its stride. There was no escaping it. It was like an all-embracing octopus. Mr Postlethwaite shouted, ‘Hey! Hey! What the hell …?’ but a woman’s elbow seemed to jam itself in his mouth. Desmond hung on to the little man. Amongst this drab crowd, Andrew Postlethwaite’s check suit seemed more out of place than ever.
‘Stick to me!’ Desmond Fury shouted in his ear.
The crowd seemed to have worked the two men into its midst. There was no time to think, no time to stand, to make a rush from it. It swung down the hill, increasing as it went. Before this tidal flow everything went down. Desmond Fury now with a single hand tried, as he was bowled along with the mass, to search his pockets for his delegate’s ticket. Without that ticket he would not be allowed in the Square.
‘Christ!’ he growled under his breath. He was conscious of the warm, sourish, animal-like smell that seemed to rise from this fretted mass. Again and again he endeavoured to stop, to pull himself and Mr Postlethwaite aside. When they reached Upper Nile Street the miracle happened. To his right Desmond saw a public convenience. Now was his chance. He gripped tighter upon Mr Postlethwaite’s arm. Then with a powerful lunge of his body he crushed his way through, A women fell. There were shouts, curses, screams.
‘Aye! There! You swine! Knockin’ a woman down. Hey, kick him!’
Desmond did not hear them. There was only one thing to do. To push through, to kick, to wrestle, to smash one’s way free of this yelling mob. As he tore through what seemed to him like flying bodies, some of the crowd fell back. Carried on by his own impetus he fell, bringing Mr Postlethwaite on top of him. But they had reached their objective. Desmond dragged himself to his feet. He pulled his companion up. ‘Quick! In here.’ They rushed into the urinal.
All space was taken up by men who had just come out of a neighbouring public-house. Mr Postlethwaite leaned against the grey slate wall. ‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘Phew! That was a corker, that was.’
Desmond made no reply. He was listening to the passing feet. It sounded almost like thunder. There seemed to be no end to it.
‘Well! This is a fix,’ he remarked. Three men had left the urinal. There was elbow-room. He seemed unconscious of the sudden silence. Mr Postlethwaite put his head out. Then he laughed. ‘All clear,’ he said. The road was indeed quite clear, save for a few groups of straggling people, and the usual collection of men standing outside each public-house window. These groups of men outside the pubs were generally old men, sailors, longshoremen. On Sundays they never failed to be in reminiscent mood.
‘Well,’ remarked Desmond, ‘I’ve got to get down to that Square. And I have about twenty minutes to do it in. The police are drawn up at the bottom of the hill. A man would never get through with that crowd.’
‘No,’ replied Mr Postlethwaite. He smoothed his moustache. ‘No. Those beggars are only out for mischief.’
‘Of course. You can’t keep them out of it. Looters out for some excitement.’
‘I wonder where your Dad got to?’ said Mr Postlethwaite, as though he had just recalled the fact that Dennis Fury and himself had left Hatfields together to attend the meeting.
‘Heaven knows,’ said Desmond. They set off down the hill. As they touched the crest of it, they paused for a moment to look down. What they looked down upon was a veritable forest of heads. This forest of heads represented one section only of the mass meeting. Above the heads, banners flew proudly in the wind. Desmond exclaimed excitedly, ‘This is great, Mr Postlethwaite.’
‘Is it? Indeed,’ said the little man, ‘if we get through those lines of police it will be very great.’
‘Have you a card with you? You could come to the stand with me,’ Desmond continued, ‘and you might even be able to find a chair.’
‘I don’t want no chair,’ replied Mr Postlethwaite; once more he began to smooth out his moustache. This action was a sort of signal that Mr Andrew Postlethwaite was now about to fall into reflective mood. At the moment he was asking himself a question. Should he continue? It was all right getting there; it was the getting back. And as for that ugly-looking crew from Hotspur Road, he certainly didn’t like the look of them. He heard Desmond say, ‘I saw George this morning. I tried to get him to come down. But nothing doing.’ It made Andrew Postlethwaite laugh.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you’ll never get George to these meetings, Desmond.’
‘No! He’s got horse sense, hasn’t he?’
‘Well, I suppose a fellow can please himself. Sometimes I think it looks good to see a fellow who can stand outside all this kind of stuff.’ Unconsciously he had raised Desmond Fury’s ire.
‘Of course, of course! They’re the kind of people who do nothing,’ said Desmond. ‘They remain hidden in the background. But when the object fought for has been achieved, they come forward for their share. Don’t they?’
‘Aye,’ Mr Postlethwaite said. ‘Aye.’
‘Here we are,’ remarked Desmond. As he spoke, a policeman came up to them.
‘You can’t get past this barrier,’ he said. Mr Postlethwaite seemed to shrink under the officer’s glance, a glance that was at once suspicious. Perhaps it was Andrew’s check suit. Desmond Fury pulled out his card.
‘Stewards at number eleven,’ he said curtly, and pushed past the policeman, dragging Mr Postlethwaite with him. It was now the officer’s turn to quail before Mr Fury. He moved aside and they passed through the crowd. Everybody stared at them. Not a few commented quite openly upon Mr Postlethwaite’s suit. Andrew was not deaf to these comments. By the time he reached number eleven stand he was almost crimson. Now men called out to him – ‘Hello, Postlethwaite!’ At last, he thought, he was secure. Desmond had worked his way to the foot of the platform, leaving Mr Andrew Postlethwaite talking excitedly to his workmates from the loco sheds.
‘Hello, Fury!’ called a voice. Desmond turned round. A tall thin man, dressed in a black suit and wearing no hat, came pushing his way forward. His name was Thompson. He was a paid official of the Federation.
‘How do?’ said Desmond, shaking hands. They turned their backs upon the crowd and began an animated conversation.
‘Williams and Power are late,’ remarked Mr Thompson.
‘Yes,’ and Desmond looked across the thousands of heads towards the Castle Hotel. All he could see was the upper windows, that led out to a miniature veranda. One window had heavy curtains drawn across it.
‘Well,’ said Desmond, ‘they can’t be long. It’s always awkward. Especially when you have a crowd of men like that.’ He swung his arm in the direction of the mass.
‘The authorities are well represented,’ remarked Mr Thompson. He took a pipe from his mouth and proceeded to fill it. Desmond nodded his head.
‘That can make little or no difference to us,’ said Desmond. ‘I can tell you that if these leaders stand by their word the authorities will have no trouble.’
Mr Thompson commented upon field tactics. Every factory gate, every station, shed, dock, warehouse, a
nd foundry was picketed. As he mentioned this to Desmond he smiled. Mr Thompson felt like a general on the eve of battle who has just completed his plans. On less significant occasions the difference of opinion between Desmond Fury and Mr Thompson would have been ventilated. Mr Thompson was a man who liked to do his work quietly. He liked to sit in the background and make plans. Not for him the rough-and-tumble spade-work. This seemed to him more suited to a man of Desmond’s type. Desmond’s opinion was that he had been doing spade-work too long. He had ideas, and he was ambitious. The very sight of Mr Thompson in his black suit, with his white linen collar and blue tie, was enough to convince Desmond that he had done enough spade-work. Suddenly the whole Square resounded to shouts, calls, cheers. They were coming at last. The leaders were here. Mr Williams was a man much like Mr Postlethwaite both in build and manner. Mr Power, on the other hand, seemed to have no affinity with the gathering. Mr Power looked like a bank manager. He was faultlessly dressed. The crowd was not slow to make comment about the differences between the two men. Shepherded by half a dozen policemen and an inspector, the two leaders were shown to the central platform. They climbed slowly up the wooden steps. The Square became silent. Only the police fringing the crowd seemed to be talking, whispering to each other. During the momentary silence the sound of horses’ hoofs beat the air, and there appeared, suddenly and as though they had risen out of the earth itself, a company of mounted police. The horses were pulled up. They tossed their heads, stamped their feet. The restlessness of the animals served as a clue to the thoughts of the men mounted upon their backs. The men stared over the crowd. The crowd was something that did not exist. They were looking much further ahead than the crowd. Having reached the platform, Mr Power sat down. Mr Williams walked to the front of the platform and stood silent, surveying the assembly in front of him. Mr John Williams had addressed meetings before. He was quite used to crowds. He knew them like a book. Behind him sat Mr Power. Mr Power knew crowds too, and was even more thorough than Mr Williams. He had studied them psychologically. The Square seemed to shake beneath the boisterous cheering. Then a silence. Mr Williams raised his hand. ‘Friends,’ he said. It was like a sharp word of command. ‘We are here today to demonstrate our solidarity …’ Cheers. That was Mr Williams’ slogan. He now began his speech.
Desmond Fury listened attentively. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘that gets to the heart of the problem.’ He turned enthusiastically to Mr Postlethwaite.
‘What do you think of that, Mr Postlethwaite?’
‘Damned good,’ replied the other. He puffed away contentedly at his pipe. ‘What a sea of faces,’ he was thinking. Where on earth had all these people come from? At last Desmond came and sat down by him.
‘If we can get the men into the right mood, and I don’t think Williams will have much trouble, I think the miners’ case is as good as won.’ He looked at Mr Postlethwaite, and for the first time he laughed. He had only just this minute noticed the texture of his friend’s suit.
‘Aye.’ It was more of a growl than an expression of approval. ‘Aye,’ replied Mr Postlethwaite. ‘That’s easy, quite easy to say that. You don’t know these sods of bosses like I do. You’re only a bloody nipper, me lad. It could be as easy as all that. D’you think the bosses are going to be worried into submission by this?’ Mr Postlethwaite waved his hand towards the crowd. ‘Look!’ he entreated. ‘Just take a look. That’s what they think.’
‘But a lot of policemen might mean something else,’ remarked Desmond. ‘If they had a clear and honest case it wouldn’t need an army of police to back it up.’
‘Oh!’ said Andrew. ‘You’ve got it wrong again, Fury. Those fellows are no more interested than my backside. All they’re out for is to take care of property, to see nobody steals a brick out of the Forester Hall.’ He spat. ‘Yes – and the damned theatre over there. A hive of inikity. They ought to pull-it down. Nothing but leg shows week after week. The young fellers these days are really going off their onion, I seem to think.’
Desmond Fury didn’t seem interested in this sudden burst of oratory on Andrew Postlethwaite’s part. He now turned his attention to the speaker, and proceeded to ignore the man, finally to forget his very existence. Mr John Williams held his audience. Cheer after cheer followed every utterance. Once or twice he looked at Mr Power. Mr Power sat silent, a look of utter boredom upon his face as his eyes wandered slowly from end to end of the serried rows of faces. After a while they seemed to lose all human semblance. When Mr Power reached this stage he knew it was time for him to get up and address them. But Mr Williams seemed to be expanding, to be carried away on his own flow of speech. Desmond thought, ‘Some day I’ll be there too. And I’ll be different.’ He kept looking from Mr Williams to Mr Postlethwaite. He had decided to politely ignore Mr Power, that gentleman having ignored him, and not only him but the other half-dozen delegates who had assembled and now sat together on one corner of the platform. Looking at him now, Desmond recalled the occasion of his election to the Executive, and how keenly he, Desmond, had voted against his appointment. Desmond Fury felt it was all wrong. Why should men like Mr Power steal all the thunder whilst the working man had to do all the spade-work? Desmond had been doing spade-work. Tiring, unthankful tasks. And he had seen men like Mr Power welcomed with open arms. But what did these men know? He thought they knew nothing. After Mr Power had spoken at the Federation Conference he was certain of it.
‘And all you have to do, my friends, is to stand fast, to be cool, to fold your arms. If you do that, the cause is won.’
Cheers! Mr John Williams wiped the sweat from his forehead. Now he stole a sly glance at the immaculately dressed Mr Power, and he chuckled inwardly. He had stolen his fire – his time – his thunder. With something amounting to pride, almost ecstasy, he stood erect and looked out at the gathered thousands. ‘Hands up, then, in favour of that resolution.’ More cheers. A forest of hands rose into the air.
‘And now your duty lies at every dock-gate – at every railway station, yard, office, shed, factory, and foundry – at every quay, terminus, and depot.’ The cheers were almost deafening.
Desmond Fury, carried away by this flow of oratory, clapped his hands, shouting, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ The shout was taken up by the assembly. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for John Williams!’
‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Even Andrew Postlethwaite became infected. He knocked out his pipe, put it in his pocket, and joined in the clapping. He turned to Desmond.
‘Looks as though Power will speak in the Park now. Are you going with the procession?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Oh! Well, I’m going home,’ said Mr Postlethwaite. ‘I couldn’t walk another five miles after this. Soon’s this crowd has broke up, I’m off.’ Desmond Fury was quite deaf to the remark. He was looking to the left of the assembly at a group of people wedged in between the stone lions. It seemed a policeman had had to push his way through this crowd. This he did without any by-your-leave. The people herded together resented it. It would not have been so bad had the officer in question said, ‘Make way, please.’ He had just barged through. An enthusiastic member of the crowd had had no compunction about withdrawing a pin from his coat and roughly prodding this thirteen stone of authoritative flesh and blood in the rear. At once the officer, sensing the culprit, struck out with his fist. Confusion immediately. Open curses and threats. ‘Swine! Swine! For two pins they’d knock you flat, the bastards!’ This ugly little interlude in the quiet, orderly meeting was most perturbing to Mr Williams. ‘Order! Order there!’ shouted the delegates. ‘Order!’
Mr John Williams was speaking again. The incident closed. The policeman emerged with a very red face, and taking up his new position near the platform, scowled at Mr Williams, who politely ignored him. The crowd was all attention once more, though the atmosphere still seemed disturbed. That little tiff with the policeman had not been forgotten. It wasn’t authority that was being questioned by the crowd, but the manners of
authority.
Whilst Mr Williams was speaking, a new phenomenon had presented itself. This took the form of an elderly gentleman who, in full morning dress, came and stood at the open window of the Castle Hotel. He stood for a moment gazing indifferently down upon the sea of faces below him, then stepped out on to the veranda. As suddenly he withdrew. The gentleman gave the appearance of having dined well, even a little too well, for a hand shot out and grabbed him by the back of his coat. This sudden jerk seemed to have disarranged the pink bloom that he sported in the lapel of his coat. The waiter behind him smoothed down his ruffled coat and adjusted the flower. The sounds from below came through the open window. It may have been the voice of Mr John Williams, or the warm animal-like smell that rose from these packed bodies, or the whisperings in the various groups, but the gentleman, a little unsteadily, walked out to the veranda again, and again the ever-attentive waiter caught his coat: ‘Careful, sir! Careful, sir!’
The gentleman, deaf to these entreaties, now looked down at the assembly. ‘Profanum vulgus,’ he said. ‘Canaille.’ Then he spat upon the veranda floor. But it was not this sudden remark that turned the key in the whole situation. Nobody had heard the words, few indeed in that assembly would have understood them. It wasn’t the words, but the action. And as though to finish off with the requisite verve and polish, he once more pulled out his pink flower and readjusted it. Having done this, he patted his person almost affectionately. The waiter pulled him in again. At the same time somebody at the back of the crowd shouted, ‘Look at ’im! Look at ’im!’ and pointed with a hand that made wild aimless movements above the heads towards the window. Everybody looked. The man was obviously drunk.
‘Look at ’im! Bloody Cap’list! Bloody Cap’list!’ Even Mr Williams turned and looked up at the window. The crowd had caught sight of the rather bibulous gentleman. He seemed quite unaware of the extraordinary interest he had so suddenly created. Perhaps he had simply meant to get the air, or perhaps, like Mr Williams, he was interested in crowds. They now looked at him from every possible angle. They looked at him frontally, in profile; they studied him from head to foot. Mr Williams was a back number. The Cause – Solidarity – paled before this phenomenon. To add to the sudden interest there came murmurs from the crowd, whilst the hand in the distance still waved aimlessly in the air and its owner in a thick guttural voice beseeched the assembly to – ‘Look at ’im!’ ‘Flower in his blinkin’-co-coat too. Hic!’