by A. J. Cronin
“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”
Calmly, Martha went on brushing the shoes.
“I’ve always brushed them,” she said, “ay, when they was five pair instead of one. There’s no cause like for me to be stoppin’ now.”
“Why don’t you leave them for me to do?” he persisted. “Why don’t you sit in and have your breakfast with me properly?”
“There’s some folks not that easy to change,” she said, brushing away defiantly at the shoes. “And I’m one of them.” He stared at her in perplexity. Now that she had come to keep his house for him she was never done working for him. Everything. He had never been looked after better in his life. And yet he felt that she was withholding something from him; he felt a dark brooding, like a satire, under every action she directed towards his comfort. Watching her, he tested her, out of curiosity:
“I’m lunching with Harry Nugent today, mother.”
She picked up the second shoe, her strong and masterful figure outlined against the window and her face darkly inscrutable. Breathing on the leather, she said scornfully:
“Lunching, you say?”
He smiled into himself: yes, that was it, she gave herself away. Deliberately, he continued:
“Having a bit of snap with Harry, then, mother, if you like that better. You’ve surely heard of Nugent. Harry Nugent, M.P. He’s a particular friend of mine. He’s a man worth hanging in with.”
“So it would appear.” Her lips drew down.
He smiled more than ever into himself, leading her on with his pretence of boasting.
“Ay! not everybody has the chance to lunch with Harry Nugent, M.P.—a big man in the Federation like him, it’s an honour, don’t you see, mother.”
She looked up with the dark scorn in her face and a bitterness on her tongue, then she saw that he was laughing at her. She reddened to think how he had trapped her and, trying to cover it, she stooped quickly to set his shoes to warm by the fire. Then a grim smile twisted her lips.
“Brag away,” she said. “Ye’ll not take me in.”
“But it’s true, mother. I’m a regular time-server. I’m worse even than you think. You’ll see me in a boiled shirt before you’re done with me.”
“I’ll not iron it for you,” she said, her lips twitching. It was a triumph for his strategy. He had made her smile.
A pause. Then, taking advantage of her humour, he said with sudden seriousness:
“Don’t be so set against me in everything I do, then, mother. I’m not doing it for nothing.”
“I’m not against you,” she retorted, still stooping by the fire to hide her face. “I’m just not over-fond of what you’re doing. All this council work and politics and that like. This Nationalisation business you’re always on for—and that like foolery. I don’t hold with that at all. No, no, it’s never been my style or the style of any of my forebears. In my time and their time there’s always been mester and man in the pit and it’s fair unnatural to think of anything else.”
There was a silence. In spite of the harshness of her words he could feel that she was softer, better disposed towards him. And on an impulse he turned the subject. He exclaimed:
“Another thing, mother.”
“Well,” she said suspiciously.
“About Annie, mother,” he said, “and little Sammy. He’s a grand little chap now and Annie’s doing for him a treat. I’ve wanted to speak to you about it for a long time. I wish you’d forget all the old bitterness, mother, and have them to the house. I do wish you’d do it, mother.”
Her face froze instantly.
“And why should I?”
“Sammy’s your grandson, mother,” he answered. “I’m surprised you haven’t been thrilled about that before, you would if you knew him the way I do. And Annie, well, she’s one of the best, mother. Old Macer is laid up in bed now, he’s a regular grumbler, moaning and groaning all the time, and Pug’s keeping bad time at the pit, they’ve hardly enough to rub along with. But the way Annie keeps that place together is nothing short of marvellous.”
“What has that to do with me?” she said, tight-lipped and bitter. His generous praise of Annie had cut her to the quick. He saw that suddenly, saw he had made a mistake.
“Tell me,” she repeated in a rising tone, “what has it got to do with me, the wild, bad lot that they always were?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said quietly and went back to his paper.
A minute later, while he was reading she put more bacon on his plate. It was her way of showing that she was not unreasonable, but kind, according to her lights. He took no notice. He thought her wildly unreasonable, but he knew that talking was no good. Talking was never any good with Martha.
At quarter to nine he folded his paper and rose from the table. She helped him on with his coat.
“You’ll not be late,” she said. “In spite of this grand lunch.”
“No.”
He smiled at her before he went out the door. It was no good being angry with Martha either.
On the way to the station he walked smartly. The morning was cold, the road already ringing with an early frost. Several of the lads walking from the Terraces to the Neptune saluted him—if he was inclined to be conceited, here, he thought ironically, was the chance. He realised that he had become a prominent figure in the town, yes, in the district, but he realised it without vanity. The greeting which Strother gave him outside New Bethel Street really amused him—a quick half-scared glance of recognition, full of unwilling admiration. Strother was terrified to death of Ramage, chairman of the Board. He had suffered misery from his bullying, and all that he, David, had done to Ramage delighted and frightened Strother and made him long to shake David by the hand. It was funny—in the old days Strother had looked down upon him with such contempt!
Half-way along Freehold Street he saw the new line of half-erected miners’ houses stretching off the Hedley Road. In the distance he saw men carrying hods of bricks, mixing mortar, building, building… it excited him… the queer symbolism behind it, the note of promise, of victory. If only he could raze the Terraces with their broken stone floors, ladder staircases, bug-infested walls and outside privies, make ten new rows like this, plant them—he thought with a smile—in full view of the Ramage mansion on Sluice Dene.
He got into the train absently, forgetting to read his paper. At Tynecastle he walked to Rudd Street in the same thoughtful mood. At the corner of Rudd Street outside a newspaper shop one of the placards made an enormous shriek: Mines for the Miners. It was a Labour paper. The placard next made another enormous shriek: Peeress Rides Pony at Park Lane Party. It was not a Labour paper. I wonder, reflected David with a sudden glow, and he was not thinking about the peeress.
In the office Heddon had not appeared. David hung up his coat and hat, had a word with old Jack Hetherington, the caretaker, then went into the inner room. He worked all morning. At half-past twelve Heddon came in, apparently in a bad temper for, as was usual in such circumstances, his manner was uncommunicative and brusque.
“You been to Edgeley, Tom?” David inquired.
“No!” Heddon kept flinging about the papers on his desk looking for something, and when he found it he did not seem to want it. “What have you done with these Seghill returns?” he barked a minute later.
“I’ve entered them and filed them.”
“The hell you have,” Heddon grunted. “You’re one of them conscientious b—s!” He looked quickly at David, then away again in a queer mixture of discomfiture and affection. He tilted his hat back on his ears and spat violently towards the fireplace.
“What’s wrong, Tom?” David asked.
“Oh, shut up,” Heddon said. “And come on. It’s time for the bloddy banquet. I’ve been wi’ Nugent all morning and he said we wassent to be late. Jim Dudgeon and Lord God Almighty Bebbington’ll be there too.”
Heddon remained silent as they went along Grainger Street towards the North-Eastern Hotel. It was only quarte
r to one and much too early when they reached the hotel. But they sat down at one of the wicker tables in the lounge and Heddon, as he had probably intended, had a couple of drinks and after that he seemed better. He looked at David with a kind of gloomy cheerfulness.
“As a matter of fact, I’m damned glad about it,” he said. “Only it’ll be a wrench.”
“What in the name of heaven are you talking about?”
“Nothing, sweet b—a—, as Shakespeare said. Hello, here are the toffs.”
He got up as Harry Nugent, Dudgeon and Clement Bebbington came in. David, rising to his feet, shook hands warmly with Harry and was introduced to Dudgeon and Bebbington. Dudgeon pumped his hand like an old friend but Bebbington’s grip was cool and distant. Heddon finished his whisky at a gulp, and although Dudgeon proposed drinks all round Nugent simply shook his head and they all went into the restaurant.
The long cream-coloured room, with windows opening on one side to the quiet Eldon Square and on the other to the bustle of the North-Eastern Station, was almost full, but the head waiter met them and showed them to a table, bowing considerably to Bebbington. It was clear he recognised Bebbington. Clement Bebbington had been in the public eye a good deal lately—tall, cool, inconspicuously well-dressed, with a superior air, a restless eye, suave courtesy and an unpleasant smile, he had a way of magnetising attention towards himself, of making himself news. There was about him a tempered look that came from a hectic ambition studiously concealed beneath that outer shell of rather bored indifference. Essentially he was an aristocrat, product of Winchester and Oxford, he went about socially in London quite a bit and fenced every morning at Bertrand’s for exercise. Whether he was attracted towards the Labour galley from conviction or for reasons of health Bebbington did not disclose, but at the last election he had fought Chalworth Borough, a Conservative stronghold, and handsomely won the seat. He was not yet on the Executive Council but his eyes were on it. David detested him on sight.
Dudgeon was quite different. Jim Dudgeon, like Nugent, had been on the Miners’ Executive for years, small and burly and genial, careless of his h’s, a raconteur and singer of jovial songs. For nearly twenty-five years he had been returned unopposed from Seghill. He called everybody by their Christian names. His horn-rimmed glasses gave him the look of an old owl as he blinked up at the waiter and, using his hands to indicate size and thickness, ordered a large chump chop accompanied by a tankard of beer.
They were all ordering: Heddon the same as Dudgeon, Nugent and David roast beef and baked potato, Bebbington a grilled sole, toast Melba and Vichy.
“It’s good to see you again,” Nugent said to David with his friendly, reassuring smile. There was a great friendliness about Harry Nugent, a sincerity which came straight from his candid, unwavering personality. He did not, like Bebbington, strive to be convincing; his manner was unforced, he was perfectly natural, simply himself. Yet to-day David sensed some purpose behind Nugent’s encouragement. He felt Bebbington and Dudgeon taking stock of him too. It was curious.
“Not a bad place this,” Dudgeon said, chewing roll, gazing round and rubbing his hands.
“You like the mirrors, don’t you?” Bebbington’s unpleasant smile flickered. “With a little careful straining at the collar you can have the incalculable satisfaction of observing six Dudgeons at one and the same time.”
“That’s right, Clem, that’s right,” Dudgeon agreed, rubbing his hands more genially than ever. Though Jim could laugh and weep from sheer emotion at moments of political crisis, he was as insensitive to ridicule and personal abuse as a hippopotamus. “A nice-lookin’ girl that over there with the blue in her shapoh.”
“Our little Don Juan!”
“Ah, I’ve always had a soft side to the fair ones, Clem, lad.”
“Why don’t you step over and make an assignation for this evening?”
“No, Clem, no, on second thoughts I won’t. A good idea though, if we wasn’t catching the three o’clock for London!”
At this Heddon laughed, and Bebbington with a cold astonishment seemed to discover him all at once and then immediately to forget him.
Nugent turned to David:
“You’ve been busy stirring up Sleescale, I hear.”
“I don’t know about that, Harry,” David answered with a smile.
“Don’t you believe it,” Heddon interposed bluntly. Heddon was smarting under Bebbington’s arrogance, determined not to be put under by any half-baked politician from London. He had downed a pint of bitter on top of two doubles of Scotch and was just in the mood to throw his weight about. “Haven’t you read the papers? He’s just put a new housing scheme through that’s the best in the country. He’s got an ante-natal clinic opened, and free milk for necessitous kids. They’ve always been a set of grafters down there; local government has been one long sweet laugh, but now there’s an honest man got in amongst the back-scratchers and they’re all sitting up with the fear of God in them askin’ to be let join the Band of Hope.” Heddon took a dogged pull at his bitter. “Ah, if you want to know, he’s bloddy well wiped the floor with them.”
A silence followed. Nugent looked pleased. Dudgeon dosed his chump chop with ketchup and said with a grin:
“I wish we could do that with our lot, Harry. We’d knock off Duckham and water pretty quick.”
At the mention of the recent Report David leaned forward with sudden interest.
“Is there any immediate prospect of nationalisation?”
Bebbington and Nugent interchanged a glance, while Dudgeon retired in amusement behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. He put one nobby forefinger on the table-cloth before David.
“You know what Sir John Sankey submitted in his Report. All coal measures and colliery undertakings to be acquired by the Government. You know what Mr. Lloyd George said in the House of Commons on the 18th August. That the Government accepts the policy of State purchase of mineral right in coal, on which subjects all the reports of the Royal Commission were perfectly unanimous. Well! What more do you want? Don’t ye see it’s as good as done!” And, with every evidence of enjoyment, Jim Dudgeon began to laugh.
“I see,” David said quietly.
“It was pretty funny, the Commission.” Dudgeon laughed even more jovially. “You should have heard Bob Smillie arguing the toss with the Duke of Northumberland and Frank goin’ after the Marquess of Bute on the origin of his claim to royalties and wayleaves. All coming from the signature of a boy of ten, Edward the Sixth. Oh, we had a rare bit o’ fun. But God! that’s nothing. I’d have gave my hat to have had the scalpin’ of Lord Kell. His great, great, great-grandfather got all the coal lands through doin’ a pretty bit of pimping for Charles II. Can you beat it? Millions in royalties for a successful week-end’s pimping for ’is Majesty.” Dudgeon lay back and relished the joke until the cutlery rattled.
“It doesn’t strike me as amusing,” David said bitterly. “The Government pledged themselves to the Commission. The whole thing is a gigantic swindle.”
“That’s exactly what Harry said on the floor of the House of Commons. But, my God, that don’t make no difference. Here, waiter, bring me another lot of chips.”
While Dudgeon talked, Nugent studied David, remembering long discussions squatting behind the sandbags of the front-line station while a white moon sailed round a misery of wire and mud and shell-holes.
“You still feel pretty strongly about nationalisation?” he asked.
David nodded without speaking; in this company no answer could have been more effective.
There was a short pause. Silently, Nugent interrogated Dudgeon who, with his mouth full of potato, made an emphatic sound in his throat, then he looked at Bebbington who gave a faint and non-committal acquiescence. Finally Nugent turned to David.
“Listen to me, David,” he said authoritatively. “The Council have decided to amalgamate the three local areas here and create a complete new district. The new institute at Edgeley is to be the headquarters. And we wan
t a new organising secretary who’ll not only be District Treasurer but Compensation Secretary for the Northern Miners’ Association. We’re looking for a young man and a live man. I mentioned it to Heddon this morning but it’s official now. We’ve asked you to meet us here to offer you the post.”
David stared at Harry Nugent, completely taken aback, overwhelmed by the offer. He coloured deeply.
“You mean you’d like me to apply?”
Nugent shook his head.
“Your name and three others were submitted to the committee last week. This is the committee and you’re the new secretary.” He held out his hand.
Mechanically David took it, while the full force of the appointment struck home.
“But, Heddon…” He swung round suddenly, facing Tom Heddon, to whom he had been so obviously preferred, and his eyes clouded with dismay.
“Heddon gave you a fine testimonial,” Nugent said quietly.
Heddon’s eyes met David’s in one swift interchange when the hurt yet courageous soul of the man lay exposed; then he forced out his chin with vehemence.
“I wouldn’t have the job for love nor money. They want a young man, diddent you hear. I’m glued to Rudd Street. I wouldn’t leave it for nobody.” His smile, though rather strained about the edges, was almost successful. He thrust his hand upon David.
Bebbington surveyed his wrist watch, fatigued by this emotionalism.
“The train,” he said, “leaves at three.”
They rose and went by the side door into the station. As they crossed to the crowded platform Nugent lagged a little behind. He pressed David’s arm.
“It’s a chance for you at last,” he said. “A real chance. I’ve wanted you to have it. We’ll be watching to see what you can do with it.”
Beside the train a Press photographer was waiting. And at the welcome sight Jim Dudgeon put on his glasses and looked official: he adored being photographed.
