To Probyn, with a family of eleven to support, it was a worrying time, for without union membership there would be no strike pay for him, though his army pension meant it might not be so catastrophic for the Kilmasters as for other non-members. Nevertheless he knew it would mean a difficult period.
When the strike was postponed for another month, Probyn breathed a sigh of relief, maintaining the hope that the Government would come up with some winning package before the deadline. It was but a temporary respite. Despite all attempts to avert it, the agitators were to force events to a disastrous conclusion. On 16 October a state of emergency was declared.
That the railwaymen decided against a sympathetic strike appeared to make little difference. Coal was the crucial element, this being immediately rationed under the Defence of the Realm Act. Their lighting reduced, factories were compelled to close. Within days, thousands of men in iron and steel lay idle. There was rioting in Downing Street. Town centres were almost as dark as they had been in wartime and so was the mood of the people.
Faced with a crisis, Eliza was beginning to reveal her true colours. ‘Worst decision I ever made, coming down here.’ She shoved a poker in the fire and lifted the coals gingerly so as to produce only sufficient flame to heat the water and not have it burn away too quickly. Her hand might be moderate but her voice was terse.
‘It would have been just as bad in West Hartlepool,’ pointed out her husband.
His calmness annoyed her. ‘Maybe! But I wouldn’t have had to make the food stretch so far, and who knows how long it’s going to last?’
‘It’ll last as long as it has to,’ murmured Probyn.
Eliza cursed the poor fire, then ordered two of the boys to drag in the zinc bath whilst she herself set towels before the hearth.
Hot water was drawn into a large jug and transferred to the bath.
Joe beheld the few inches of water.
Reading his astonishment, Eliza forestalled his question. ‘Before you ask! We’ve been told to use less.’
‘Are the people who make the water on strike?’ asked Duke as he stripped.
Father explained to the youngster, ‘No, we’ve got to use less because there’s hardly any coal to heat it.’
‘But I thought we got our coal free, Father?’
‘In a manner of speaking, it’s part of my wages, but with the mines closed there’s no coal being produced and it’s having to be rationed, not just to us, but to the people who run the factories and make the electricity, in fact in every place you can—’
‘If you stand talking much longer this bath will be cold as well as shallow,’ Eliza interjected.
Probyn eyed her for this interruption, but indicated for his sons to do as they were told, concluding, ‘Never underestimate the vital importance of coal, boys. Like water, it’s the source of life.’
Throughout the rest of October the peace parley continued, the miners rejecting all Government proposals. But, lacking support from the NUR, their position was weak and when a temporary measure was offered, meeting their demand of two extra shillings per shift if they agreed to increase output, this was put to the members. With the vote producing only a narrow majority for continuation of the strike, there was reluctant acceptance of the Government’s wage offer, thus generating a trickle back to work.
Yet again, relief was transitory, for most accepted that it was only a matter of time before the situation resurfaced. It was good, however, to be back at work, and all those involved used the opportunity to build up their coffers before the next crisis, Probyn similarly eager, if only because the restitution of pay would mean an end to Eliza’s grumbling.
Marching keenly to an afternoon shift through that wintry November mist he had barely taken two steps beyond his door when he almost collided with Father Flanagan. Since Grace’s death the priest no longer held open invitation to the Kilmasters’ household; this, added to the fact that the Roman Catholic Church had lost a convert, made for an awkward meeting.
But any grudge Flanagan might hold was hidden well for he stopped to chat.
‘Good day to ye, Probyn.’ He whipped a dewdrop from his long nose, his moisture-laden finger moving quickly upwards and smoothing the thin strands of silvery hair into place. ‘’Tis a cold one.’ Giving the other only time to nod in agreement he launched into more serious topic. ‘What do ye make of this latest outrage by the IRA – fourteen British officers murdered in their beds! Such dastardly cowards. It makes me ashamed to be Irish, I can tell ye.’ A grave look on his face, he shook his head several times, before patting the other’s arm. ‘Ah well, I can see you’re off to work I don’t want to stop ye—’
‘No, that’s all right!’ Thinking he might have been too unwelcoming of this encounter, Probyn injected his tone with verve. ‘I’m early.’
Flanagan rubbed his hands to ward off the cold and explained his presence. ‘I’m just going round making sure there’s no undue hardship after the strike. Are you all right yourselves?’
Probyn assured him they were fine at this house. ‘I don’t know how long for, though. It sounds simple enough, the more coal produced the higher the wage, but you and I both know that it rarely works to the miners’ advantage. There always seems to be factors outside our control.’
‘Indeed.’ Father Flanagan nodded thoughtfully. ‘And how is young Clem? I haven’t seen him at Mass in a long while.’
Probyn looked awkward, knowing the enquiry held a rebuke for him. ‘Well, you know what these young people are like, Father…’
‘And some not so young.’ The tall figure cocked his head and tried to force the other into meeting his eye.
Probyn rose to the occasion, but his account was rushed. ‘He’s got bronchitis, the lad.’
With the onset of the cold damp weather Clem had gone down with his usual debilitating ailment. ‘You’re welcome to come in and see him.’ He gestured at his front door, and, upon Father Flanagan’s acceptance, retraced his steps and threw it open.
Eliza’s jaw dropped at the entry of the priest. Clem, too, appeared embarrassed for his upper half was stripped bare. Prior to the intrusion his stepmother had been applying balm to his chest and back in order to relieve his wheezing; its pungent aroma filled the room, making everyone’s eyes water.
‘Sorry, I thought you’d be finished,’ Probyn told Eliza, his apology in part for inviting the priest in when he knew her views on Catholicism.
‘Carry on, don’t mind me,’ Father Flanagan told the pair brightly. ‘I just came to see how the patient is.’
Clem relaxed a little, and, seated beside a roaring fire, hunched over for his stepmother to continue her ministrations, her hand performing circular motions over his slim white frame.
Somewhat embarrassed by Eliza’s rudeness, Probyn displayed manners. ‘Please, sit down, Father. Can I make you a cup of tea?’
Flanagan caught Eliza’s darting, narrow-eyed look at her husband. ‘No, no, you get off to work, Probe. I’ll not stop. Hope you’re soon recovered, Clem. We’ll look forward to seeing you at Mass in a few weeks.’ This said, he left along with Probyn.
The pair of them once more alone, Eliza laid a hand on Clem’s bare back. ‘Eh, I can feel it ruttling away in there. Let’s hope that rubbing did the trick.’
Assuring her it had done him good, Clem looked up at her gratefully, trying to hold his cough at bay for he knew what a vexatious sound it was – it even annoyed him.
She patted his ribs in motherly fashion. ‘Put your shirt on and I’ll get you a mug of hot lemon. We’ve got to get you right for church.’
And they both laughed.
* * *
Though the two men were not to meet in church, there was to be plenty more scope for discussion on Ireland for Probyn and Father Flanagan if ever they met by chance in the street. The new year was to see more desperate battles and appalling bloodshed, the rebels’ dastardly acts even extending to the mainland, attempts being made to sabotage oil stores, cotton mills, coke premi
ses, and indeed anywhere that might cause mischief.
With unemployment topping a million, the opening months of 1921 were ridden with disputes over reductions in wages in one industry or another, ranging from all-out strikes to petty squabbles. But none was to compare in magnitude to that which was brewing on the coalfields. Under the terms of the temporary solution mooted last November, the Government had placed joint onus on the coal-owners and miners to come to some arrangement on a future scheme for the regulation of wages by the end of March, at which date the Government’s wartime control of the industry was set to expire. Both sides were desperately trying to negotiate a permanent scheme before the deadline and agreed about everything except one point: the miners wanted a national wage, whilst the owners insisted that rates must be based on the ability of individual districts to pay.
The Miners’ Federation held it to be grossly unfair that their members in poor districts should get less than those in rich areas – the Government had recognized this, why could not the owners see it? Similarly, it was because of such a lack of recognition that the miners were unhappy about decontrol, fearing that it would mean a loss of wages granted to them during the war, and demanded that the Government postponed its plan to hand the industry back to the owners, or at least to continue to subsidize it during this depression. Their fears were not without justification, for, in the last few months, not only had the value of exported coal fallen, but the orders for industrial and domestic consumption had also dwindled, the output figures reflecting these declines.
Abandoned, as they saw it, to the whims of the owners, the miners soon began to see last November’s pay rises whittled away by falling output. Faced with a thirty per cent reduction in wages, there was no alternative but to issue strike notices, plunging the country once again into another state of emergency.
* * *
Probyn might be laid off work but he was far from idle. As a result of the Government’s appeal for loyal citizens to attest for military service during the current crisis, vast numbers of unemployed flocked to respond to the poster in the Kilmasters’ front window – ‘Your Country Needs You’ – and a constant supply of recruits was to keep the old RSM busy throughout the day.
If at home, the children loved to hover outside the curtain that separated the recruiting office from the rest of their house, eavesdropping as Father lectured each man in turn – ‘Be warned, the army is no feather bed!’ – then weighed him, graded his height against a pencil mark drawn on the parlour wall, asked his religion and measured him for his uniform, then told him to present himself at Pontefract to receive the King’s Shilling. Sometimes, they would hear an oath – ‘Get those bladdy shoulders straight!’ – and unused to hearing such language from their father they would put their hands over their mouths to stifle a giggle. Once, there was even more fun when a woman came down to bombard him with insults over the recruitment of her underage son. But Father remained unfazed, telling her in an unruffled manner, ‘Don’t concern yourself, madam, the army will make a man of him.’ Nothing ever seemed to worry Father.
It was fortunate that the children did not understand how critical the situation was. As the strike progressed, each day brought new crises, the reduction of coal supplies affecting every branch of society, until by the end of the month there was total stoppage, pumpmen included, so pits were at risk of flooding. Volunteers were requested to save the collieries, and, on the brink of starvation, they came in their hundreds to brave the violence of the picket lines in return for a square meal. It was worse than anything Probyn could remember since ’93, when he himself as a young soldier had been ordered to control people who were friends and neighbours; control them with bayonet and bullet. It looked as if things were dangerously close to this again, for, along with the enrolment of special constables to protect the volunteers, there was talk of the Reserve being called out
Daily the situation worsened, the entire country hanging on the railwaymen’s decision to join the transport workers in voting to support to the miners, every heart sinking as the dreaded announcement was made: the Triple Alliance had decreed that a general strike would begin on Tuesday at midnight.
‘Triple Alliance,’ growled Probyn, beholding his evening paper in disgust. ‘Blasted Bedlamites more like. Since when have they been running the country? I didn’t vote them in.’ Part of his irritation came from being rushed off his feet, due to the recruitment drive; he had been at it all day, weighing and measuring.
‘Mother, I don’t think we’re going to have enough bread left for pack-up.’ Doris was carving a loaf for tea.
‘Put it on the list: the one marked “Luxuries”.’
Probyn ignored his wife’s sarcasm. ‘And these journalists don’t help, whipping things up.’ He quoted: “‘Neither winders nor pumpmen will work and pit ponies are in danger of drowning.” What rubbish! No miner would let his pony drown. They’re running about in the fields having a grand old time – What the devil?’ A crash from the front room had him leaping from his chair, Clem too, followed by Eliza and the children.
There was a hole in the front window where the recruitment poster had been, the remnants of it hanging in tatters around the frame, whilst on the floor lay a brick.
To sounds of outrage from Eliza, Probyn bent down to pick it up, his face grim.
‘I’ll get the bugger!’ Clem rushed for the door, no amount of summoning from his father preventing his impulsive dash.
Everyone hurried outside to see a flame-coloured head disappearing down the street in chase of the culprit. There was a scuffle, Clem’s head jerked back, then he seemed to go completely berserk, lashing out with fists and boots until the perpetrator crumpled to the floor unconscious, but even then Clem did not seem satisfied for he kept on pummelling the body and only by his father’s intervention was a murder prevented.
‘Stop it! Stop it, Clem, that’s disgraceful!’ Whilst children and neighbours looked on in alarm, Probyn struggled to hold back his son, enfolding the much thinner body in his bulk.
‘He broke my fucking nose!’ Clem was still in a frenzy and had to be manhandled back to the house where his expletive was also to receive condemnation.
‘I will not have such filth!’
‘He was only sticking up for you!’ Eliza rebuked her husband, dabbing gently at Clem’s bloody nose with a damp rag.
‘Oh, a lot of good foul language is going to do anybody! Not to mention that he almost killed a chap.’
‘He deserved it,’ said Eliza, apologizing to Clem for causing him to wince. ‘Look at the size of the poor lad’s nose.’ It was beginning to swell, transforming his hawkish beak into a bulb.
‘Yes, and how are you going to explain that at work?’ demanded Probyn. ‘Because you needn’t think you’re staying off.’
‘He never even mentioned staying off,’ retorted Eliza. ‘He can just say he tripped and fell, can’t you?’ Having prevented the bleeding, she stood back and looked at Clem, who nodded, silently grateful.
She threw the bloodstained rag on the fire then turned to address Probyn again. ‘Hadn’t you better get that window fixed?’
* * *
There were no more bricks through the window, and in a last-minute decision the general strike, if not that of the miners, was called off, but none of this was to improve the atmosphere that had bubbled up inside the Kilmaster household. Oh, he and Clem had soon made things up, they always did, and one would not have known there had been any bad feeling as father and son relaxed together after tea, discussing the contents of the newspaper, the current subject being dwindling exports. But Probyn’s relationship with Eliza was another matter.
‘Never mind exports, what about our food?’ she demanded, squinting to thread a needle as she made ready to darn a hole in her stocking, the children involved in similar chores.
Probyn explained patiently, ‘It’s all connected, Liza. Exports provide our food. Those countries which normally buy from us are so impoverished they can’t pay fo
r our goods. It’s all very well the red dawn brigade demanding and getting higher wages but the bosses simply put up their prices to cover each rise. The country can’t go on like that or it’ll be bankrupt. And they can’t just blame the miners either, it’s a collective thing, and it hasn’t just suddenly happened – it’s been going on for years. We’re on the threshold of a calamity here and we’re all going to have to make sacrifi—’
‘That’s easy for a man to say!’ snapped Eliza, the harshness in her voice causing the children to duck further into their tasks, everyone hating it when she addressed Father like this, which had been happening more and more during the strike. ‘It isn’t you who has to eke out the wages.’
To help fight his exasperation, he reached for a cigarette and shoved a taper into the fire. ‘Can you not see beyond the end of your own nose, woman? I’m not just referring to our household budget, I’m talking on a much higher level.’ Pausing briefly, he drew on the cigarette, producing an angry glow. ‘Admittedly, it isn’t the bosses who’ll do most of the suffering,’ smoke emerged with his words. ‘Even if their businesses go under they’re unlikely to end up in the workhouse, but somebody’s got to call a halt, be prepared to exist on less wages, to take less profit, until the country’s back on its feet. The Government’s got to cut taxes too. You can’t expect to have four years of war, producing nothing but weapons and expect your customers to still be there when you go back to producing your normal merchandise. In some ways this depression’s a blessing, if it makes people come to their senses.’
‘A blessing, is it?’ Dark of face, Eliza snapped the thread with her teeth. ‘I’ll remember that when I’m trying to make half a crown stretch to ten bob.’
* * *
With the coal strike prolonged for another two months, there was no chance of Probyn escaping his wife’s nagging about money; nagging about everything. And she had no valid reason to complain; it was not as if her children were reduced to taking their daily meal at The Big Drum along with the strikers’ children, for Probyn’s army pension saw to that.
A Different Kind of Love Page 40