by A. J. Cronin
Richard moved restively.
“What other pump?”
“The hogger-pump you spoke about three months back, the day the lads came out. It ud take a lot of that water out Scupper Flats. Take it quicker, I mean, leave less muck for to stand in…”
Cold as ice, Richard said:
“You are sadly mistaken if you think I am proceeding in Scupper Flats. That coking coal must await another contract.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Hudspeth’s earthy face coloured deeply.
“That’s all, then,” Barras said in his clear, reasonable voice. “You might let it be known that I’m glad for the men’s sakes they’re going back. All that unnecessary hardship in the town has been abominable.”
“I’ll certainly do that, Mr. Barras,” agreed Armstrong.
Barras was silent; and as there appeared nothing more to be said Armstrong and Hudspeth left the house.
For a moment Barras remained with his back to the fire, thinking; then he locked away the whisky in the sideboard, picked up two lumps of sugar which had fallen on the tray and methodically replaced them in the sugar basin. It hurt him to see untidiness, to think even of a lump of sugar being wasted. At the Law nothing must be wasted, he could not stand it. Especially in small ways this was manifest. Matches he habitually stinted. He would use a pencil to its last bare inch. Lights must be turned out regularly, soap ends pressed into the new cake, hot water husbanded, even the fire banked with a modicum of dross. The sound of breaking china drove the blood to his head. Aunt Carrie’s chief virtue, in his eyes, was the rigour of her housekeeping.
He stood quietly, examining his white, well-cared-for hands. Then he opened the door, and slowly ascended the stairs. He did not see Arthur, whose upturned anxious face made a tremulous white moon in the semi-darkness of the hall. He entered his wife’s room.
“Harriet!”
“Yes, Richard!”
She was sitting up in bed with three pillows behind and a bed rest in front, crocheting. She had three pillows because someone had said three pillows were best. And she crocheted because young Dr. Lewis, her newest doctor, had prescribed it for her nerves. But now she paused, her eyes raised to his. Her eyes had thick black eyebrows above and very brown skin underneath, the pigmented skin of the complete neurotic. She smiled, rather apologetically, and touched her glossy hair, which lay undone, framing her sallow face.
“You don’t mind, Richard? I had one of my bad headaches. I had to make Caroline give my scalp a little brush this afternoon.” And she smiled again—her suffering invalid smile, the sad smile of the invalid, a confirmed invalid. She suffered from her back, her stomach, her nerves. From time to time she had the most prostrating headaches for which toilet vinegar was useless, for which everything was useless but Caroline’s gentle brushing of her head. On these occasions Aunt Carrie would stand for an hour on end gently, soothingly brushing Harriet’s head with long slow strokes. No one had been able to get to the root of Harriet’s trouble. Not really. She had exhausted Drs. Riddel, Scott and Proctor, the doctors of Sleescale; she had seen half the specialists in Tynecastle, she had turned in despair to a nature healer, a homeopathist, a herbalist, an electrical physicist who swathed her in the most marvellous magnetic belts. Each of the quacks had started by being wonderful, the man at last, as Harriet said; and each had sadly proved himself—like Riddel, Scott, Proctor and the Tynecastle specialists—to be a fool. Not that Harriet despaired. She had her own case in hand, she read persistently, perseveringly, patiently, a great many books upon the subject of her own complaints. Useless, alas! All, all useless. It was not that Harriet did not try. She had tried every medicine under the sun, her room was surrounded by bottles, dozens of bottles, tonics, sedatives, liniments, alleviatives, antispasmodics, everything—all the physic that had been prescribed for her in the past five years. It could at least be said of Harriet that she never threw a bottle away. Some of the bottles had only one dose out of them—Harriet had such experience that after even one spoonful she could say: “Put it away. I know it’ll do me no good.” The bottle was put on the shelf.
It was terrible. But Harriet was very patient. She was confined to bed. Yet she ate very well. At times, indeed, she ate magnificently, that was part of her trouble, her stomach it must be, she had such gas. She was amiable, though, she had never been known to disagree with her husband, but was always docile, yielding, sympathetic. She shirked none of the more intimate wifely duties. She was there: in bed. She had a big white body, and an air of sanctity. She conveyed the strange impression of being like a cow. But she was very pious. Perhaps she was a sacred cow.
Barras looked at her as from a long way off. How exactly did he regard her? At the moment it was impossible to say.
“Is your headache better now?”
“Yes, Richard, it is a little better. Not gone, but a little better. After Caroline had done brushing my hair I made her pour me a little of that valerian mixture young Dr. Lewis gave me. I think it helped.”
“I meant to bring you some grapes from Tynecastle but I forgot.”
“Thank you, Richard.” Amazing how often Richard forgot those grapes; but the intention was there. “You went to Todd’s, of course.”
His expression stiffened ever so slightly. Arthur, still busy with his enigma, should have seen that look.
“Yes, I went there. They are all well, Hetty looking prettier than ever, full of her birthday; she’s thirteen next week.” He broke off, turned towards the door. “By the way, the strike’s broken. The men start in to-morrow.”
Her small mouth made the letter O; she placed her hand protectively against her flannelette swathed heart.
“Oh, Richard, I’m so glad. Why didn’t you tell me at once? That’s splendid, such a relief.”
He paused, the door half open. He said:
“You may expect me to-night.” Then he went out.
“Yes, Richard.”
Harriet lay on her back, the pleased surprise still lingering upon her face. Then she took a slip of paper and a silver pencil with a small cairngorm set at the end. She wrote neatly: “Remember tell Dr. Lewis heart gave a great thump when Richard delivered good news.” She paused, meditatively, then underlined the word great. Finally she took up her work and began placidly to crochet.
FIVE
It was quite dark as Armstrong and Hudspeth came through the big white gates of the Law and entered the avenue of tall beech trees—known locally as Sluice Dene—which led towards Hedley Road and the town. They walked some distance apart, and in silence, for neither cared much for the other; but at last Hudspeth, smarting under the snub he had received, ground out bitterly:
“He makes a man feel like dirt on times. He’s a cold devil right enough. I cannot make him out. I cannot make him out no how.”
Armstrong smiled to himself in the darkness. He despised Hudspeth secretly as a man of no education, a man who had worked his way up, succeeding more through doggedness than actual merit; he was often irritated, humiliated even, by the other’s bluntness and physical assertiveness; it was pleasant to see him humiliated in his turn.
“How d’you mean?” He pretended not to understand.
“What I damwell say,” said Hudspeth disagreeably.
Armstrong said:
“He knows what he’s about.”
“Ay, he knows his job. And God help us if we didn’t know ours. He’d not spare us. He’s that perfect himself he’d have no mercy whatever. Did you hear him, too?” He paused, mimicking Barras bitterly, “All the unnecessary hardship In the town. Good Christ, that was funny.”
“No, no,” Armstrong said quickly. “He meant that.”
“Meant it like hell! He’s the meanest devil in Sleescale and that’s saying something. He’s just flaming inside over losing his contract. And I’ll tell you another thing since I’m about it. I’m damned glad we’re shot of Scupper Flats. Though I’ve kept my trap shut I’ve been feeling pretty near Fenwick’s way about that bloody
water.”
Armstrong darted a sharp, disapproving glance at Hudspeth:
“That’s no way to talk, man.”
There was a short silence, then, sulkily, Hudspeth declared:
“It’s a sheugh of a place, anyhow.”
But Armstrong said nothing. They tramped on in silence, down Hedley Road, and into Cowpen Street past the Terraces. As they drew near the corner a blare of light and a hubbub of voices from the Salutation made both men turn their heads. Armstrong remarked, with an obvious desire to change the subject:
“They’ve a full house to-night.”
“Ay, and a tight one,” Hudspeth answered, still sulking. “Amour has started tick again. The first time he’s had the slate out for a fortnight.”
Not speaking any more they went on to post the notices.
SIX
Back in the Salutation the row increased. The pub was full jammed to suffocation, swirling with smoke, words, bright lights and the fumes of beer. Bert Amour stood behind the bar in his shirt-sleeves with the big chalked slate—the tally of men and drinks—slung on the wall beside him. Bert was a knowing one; for the last two weeks in the face of curses and entreaties he had refused all credit; but now, with pay-Saturday a near-by certainty, he had re-established himself at a stroke. The bar was open; and payment deferred.
“Fill them up, Bert, lad.” Charley Gowlan thumped hard with his pint pot and called for another round. Charley was not drunk, he was never really drunk, he became saturated like a sponge, he sweated and took on the pallid look of veal, but no one had ever seen him wholly soused. Some of the crowd about him were well lit-up, however—Tally Brown, old Reedy and Slogger Leeming in particular. The Slogger was quite wildly drunk. He was a rough lot, the Slogger, with a red, bashed-in face, a flat nose and one blue-white cauliflower ear. He had been a boxer in his youth, and had fought in the St. James’s Hall under the captivating title of the Pitboy Wonder; but drink and other things had burned him out; he was back once more in the pit—no longer a pitboy and no longer a wonder; with nothing to show for the prowess of those golden days but a hot good nature, a vicious left swing and the sadly battered face.
Always the unofficial toastmaster in the pub, Charley Gowlan rapped on the table again; he was displeased at the lack of levity in the company, he wanted the old cosy sociability of the Salutation to be re-established. He remarked:
“We’ve had to put up wi’ plenty in the last three months. Come on, lads, wor not downhearted. It’s a poor heart that niver rejoices.” His pig-like gaze beamed over the company, seeking the familiar lush approval. But they were all too sick and surly to approve. Instead he caught Robert Fenwick’s eye fixed sardonically upon his. Robert stood in his usual place, the far corner by the bar, drinking steadily, as though nothing held much interest for him now.
Gowlan raised his pot.
“Drink up, Robert, mon. Ye might as well get wet inside te-night. Ye’ll be wet enough outside te-morrow.”
Robert appeared to study Gowlan’s beery face with singular detachment. He said:
“We’ll all be wet enough some day.”
The company shouted:
“Shut up yer face, Robert.”
“Be quiet, mon. Ye had yer say at the meetin’.”
“We’ve heerd ower much about that these last three months.”
A film of sadness, of weariness came upon Robert’s face, he looked back at them with defeated eyes.
“All right, lads. Have it yer own way. I’ll say nowt more.”
Gowlan grinned slyly:
“If yer feared to go down the Paradise why doan’t ye say so?”
Slogger Leeming said:
“Shut up yer face, Gowlan. Yer nowt but a blatterin’ woman. Robert here’s my marrow. See! He hews fair an’ addles fair. He knows more about the bloddy pit than y’ know about yer own mickey.”
There was a silence while the crowd held its breath, hoping there might be a fight. But no, Charley never fought, he merely grinned beerily. The tension lapsed into disappointment.
Then the door swung open. Will Kinch came into the pub and elbowed his way uncertainly to the bar.
“Stand us a pint, Bert, for God’s sake, I feel I could do wi’ it.”
Interest reawakened, and was focused upon Will.
“How, then! what’s the matter with ye, Will?”
Will pushed the lank hair back from his brow, gripped the pot and faced them shakily.
“There’s plenty the matter wi’ me, lads.” He spat as though to cleanse his mouth of dirt. Then with a rush: “My Alice is badly, lads, she’s got the pneumonia. The missus wanted her to have a drop hough tea. I went down to Ramage’s a quarter hour since. Ramage hissel’ was standin’ there, ahint the counter, big fat belly an’ all. ‘Mister Ramage,’ I says perfectly civil, ‘will ye gie us a small end o’ hough for my little lass that’s badly an’ aw’ll pay ye pay-Saturday for certain.’” Here Will’s lips went pale; he began to tremble all over his body. But he clenched his teeth and forced himself to go on. “Weel, lads, he looked me up an’ down, then down an’ up. ‘I’ll give ye no hough,’ he says, jest like that. ‘Aw, come, Mister Ramage,’ I says upset like. ‘Spare us a little end piece, the lock-oot’s ower, pay-Saturday’s come a fortnight certain, I’ll pay ye then as God’s my maker.’” Pause. “He said nowt for a bit, lads, but jest gien me that look. Then he says, like he wer speakin’ to a dog, ‘I’ll give ye nothin’, not even a rib of bone. Yer a disgrace te the town, you an’ yer lot. Ye walk out on your work for nowt, then come cadgin’ to decent fowks for charity. Get out of my shop afore a have ye thrown out’.” Pause. “So aw jest got out, lads.”
Dead silence had come upon the company while Will spoke; and he finished in a mortal stillness. Bob Ogle moved first.
“By God!” he groaned. “That’s too much.”
Then Slogger jumped up, half-tight.
“It is too much,” he shouted, “we’ll not put up wi’t.”
Everybody started talking at once; an uproar. Slogger was on his feet, shouldering drunkenly through the crowd.
“I’ll not lie down under this, lads. I’ll see that bastard Ramage for mysel’. Come on, Will. Ye’ll have the best for the lass and not a measly end o’ hough.” He caught hold of Kinch affectionately and dragged him to the door. The others surged round, followed, supported them. The pub cleared in a minute. It was a miracle: no “time, gentlemen, please” had ever cleared that bar so quickly. Full one minute—empty the next. Robert alone waited, watching the astounded Amour with his sad, disillusioned eyes. He had another drink. But at last he went, too.
Outside, the crowd was swelled by a score of the younger men, the corner lads, the hangers on. They had no idea what it meant, but they scented excitement, trouble, a fight—since Slogger was laying his weight about. They marched in a body down Cowpen Street. Young Joe Gowlan shoved his way into the thick of it.
Round the corner they went and into Lamb Street, but when they got to Ramage’s a check awaited them. Ramage’s was shut. The big shop, closed for the night, was blank, unlit, presenting nothing but a cold iron-shuttered front and the name above: James Ramage—Flesher. Not even a window to smash!
Balked. Slogger let out a howl. The drink was in his blood; and his blood was up. He wasn’t done, no, by God, he wasn’t. There were other shops, here, next door to Ramage, shops without shutters, Bates, for instance, and Murchison, the licensed grocer’s, which had nothing but a plain bar and padlocked door.
Slogger let out another yell.
“We’re not beat, lads, we’ll take Murchison’s instead.” He made a run at the door, raised his heavy boot, smashed hard on the lock. At the same time somebody from the back of the crowd threw a brick. The brick shattered the window of the shop. That did it: the crash of the glass gave the signal to loot.
They swarmed round the door, beat it down, burst into the shop. Most of them were drunk and all of them had not seen proper food for weeks. Tally Brown seized a
ham and shoved it under his arm; old Reedy grabbed at some tins of fruit; Slogger, his maudlin sympathy for Will Kinch’s Alice completely forgotten, knocked in the bung of a barrel of beer. Some women from the Quay, attracted by the noise, pressed in behind the men and began in a panic to snatch at anything: pickles, sauce, soap, it didn’t matter so long as it was something, they were too terrified to look, they simply snatched feverishly and thrust what they took below their shawls. The street lamp outside threw a cold clear light upon them.
It was Joe Gowlan who thought of the till, Joe had no use for the grub—like his dad he was too well fed—but Joe could use that till.
Falling on his hands and knees he squirmed between the legs of the pushing men, crawled round behind the counter, and found the cash drawer. Unlocked! Gloating over old Murchison’s carelessness, Joe slipped his hand into the smooth bowl, his fingers clutched at the silver in the bowl, a good round fistful, and slid it easily into his pocket. Then, rising to his feet, he darted through the door and took to his heels.
As Joe came out of the shop Robert entered it. At least, he stood on the threshold, the uneasiness upon his face turning slowly to dismay.
“What are ye doing, lads?” His tone was pleading: the pathos of this misdirected violence hurt him. “Ye’ll get in trouble ower this.”
Nobody took the slightest notice of him. He raised his voice.
“Stop it, ye fools. Can’t ye see it’s the worst thing ye could do? Nobody’ll have any pity on us now. Stop. I tell ye, stop.”
No one stopped.
A spasm came over Robert’s face. He made to push into the crowd, but just then a sound behind caused him to swing round full in the lamplight. The police: Roddam from the Quay-side beat and the new sergeant from the station.
“Fenwick!” Roddam shouted instantly in recognition and laid his hands on Robert.
At that shout a louder shout went up from those inside:
“The cops! Get out, lads, it’s the cops.” And an avalanche of living, inextricably mingled forms disgorged itself through the door. Roddam and the sergeant made no attempt to stop the avalanche. They stood rather stupidly and let it go past them; then, still holding Robert, Roddam entered the shop.
