by A. J. Cronin
David’s heart seemed to stand still, his body to contract, ice-like, at the sound of the name.
“Joe Gowlan!” he repeated, tonelessly.
There was a strained silence. Wilson smiled grimly.
“It only came out last night. He’s at the Law now—living in style. Since he’s opened the Neptune he’s become the local swell. He’s got Ramage in tow, and Connolly and Low. He’s got most of the Conservative Executive eating out of his hand. There’s been a big push from Tynecastle, too. Yes, he’s been nominated; it’s all arranged and settled.”
A heavy bewilderment mingled with a kind of terror came over David—he could not believe it, no, the thing was too wildly, too madly impossible. He asked mechanically:
“Are you serious?”
“I was never more serious in my life.”
Another silence. It was true, then, this staggering and brutal news. With a set face, David picked up the suit-case and started off with Wilson. They came out of the station and down Cowpen Street without exchanging a word. Joe, Joe Gowlan, turning over and over, relentlessly, in David’s brain. There was no doubt about Joe’s qualifications—he had money, success, influence. He was like Lennard, for instance, who, with a fortune made from gimcrack furniture, had nonchalantly bought Clipton at the last election—Lennard, who had never made a speech in his life, who spent his rare visits to the House standing treat in the bar and doing cross-word puzzles in the smoke-room. One of the nation’s legislators. And yet, thought David bitterly, the easy-going Lennard was hardly the exemplar. Joe would use the House for more than cross-word puzzles. There was no knowing to what diverse and interesting uses Joe might turn his position if he won the seat.
Abruptly David turned away from his bitterness. That was no help. The only answer to the situation was that Joe must not get in. O God, he thought, walking into the keen sea wind, O God, if I only do one thing more let me beat Joe Gowlan at this election.
Filled more than ever with the sense of his obligations, he had breakfast with Wilson at Wilson’s house and they went over the position intensively. Wilson did not spare his facts. David’s unforeseen delay in returning to Sleescale had created an unfavourable feeling. Moreover, as David already knew, the executive of the Labour Party had not favoured his re-nomination; ever since his speech on the Mines Bill he had been marked down as a rebel, treated with hostility and suspicion. But the party, indebted to the Miners’ Federation for affiliation fees, had been unwilling to block the Federation nominee. Yet this had not prevented them sending an agent from Transport House in an effort to influence the miners towards another candidate.
“He came up like a confounded spy,” Wilson growled in conclusion. “But he didn’t get any change out of us. The Lodge wanted you. They pressed the matter with the Divisional Executive. And that was the end of it.”
After that, Wilson insisted that David go home to get some sleep before the committee meeting at three. David felt no need of sleep, but he went home; he wanted to think things out by himself.
Martha was expecting him—he had wired her the night before—and her eyes flew to his black tie. Her eyes revealed nothing as they took in that black tie and she asked no question.
“You’re late, surely,” she said. “Your breakfast’s been waiting this hour past.”
He sat down by the table.
“I’ve had breakfast with Wilson, mother.”
She did not like that, she persisted:
“Will you not even have a cup of tea?”
He nodded.
“Very well.”
He watched her as she infused fresh tea, first pouring hot water in the brown teapot, then measuring the tea exactly from the brass canister that had been her mother’s, he watched her sure and firm movements and he thought with a kind of wonder how little she had changed. Not far off seventy now, still vigorous and dark and unyielding, she was indomitable. He said suddenly:
“Jenny died three days ago.”
Her features remained impenetrable, slightly formidable.
“I thought that must be the way of it,” she said, putting the tea before him.
A silence fell. Was that all she could say? It struck him as insufferably cruel that she could hear of Jenny’s death without speaking one word of regret. But while he despaired of her vindictiveness, she declared, almost brusquely:
“I’m sorry it has grieved ye, David.” The words seemed wrung from her. Then, following something like embarrassment, she looked at him covertly. “And what’s like going to happen with you now?”
“Another election… another start.”
“Ye’re not tired of it, yet?”
“No, mother.”
When he had drunk his tea, he went upstairs to lie down for a few hours. He closed his eyes, but for a long time sleep eluded him. The thought remained hammering in his head, insistent, and agitating, like a prayer—O God, let me keep Joe Gowlan out, let me keep him out. Everything he had battled against all his life was concentrated in this man who now opposed him. He must win. He must. Willing that with all his strength, a drowsiness came over him, he fell asleep at last.
The next day, October 16th, was the official nomination day, and at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, at the very outset of the campaign, David encountered Joe. The meeting took place outside the Town Hall. David, accompanied by Wilson, was advancing up the steps to hand in his papers, when at that moment, Joe, escorted by Ramage, Connolly and the Rev. Low, all members of his executive, together with a number of his supporters, swung through the doorway and began to come down. At the sight of David, Joe stopped short dramatically, and faced him with a manly recognition. He stood two steps above David, a fine expansive figure, his chest thrown out impressively, his double-breasted jacket open, a large bunch of blue cornflowers in his buttonhole. Towering in rough-hewn grandeur, he held out his meaty hand. He smiled—his hearty, man-to-man smile.
“Well met, Fenwick,” he cried. “Better early than late, eh? I hope this is going to be a clean contest. It will be on my side. Fair play and no favour. And may the best man win.”
There was a murmur of approval from Joe’s partisans, while David went cold outside and sick within.
“Mind you,” went on Joe, “there’s going to be no kid gloves about it though, no gloves at all; it’s going to be bare fists all the time. I consider I’m fighting for the Constitution, Fenwick, the British Constitution. Don’t make any mistake about that, I warn you. All the same we’ll fight clean. British sportsmanship, see, that’s what I mean, British sportsmanship.”
Again there was a cheer from the rapidly accumulating crowd of Joe’s supporters, and in the enthusiasm of the moment several pressed forward and shook hands with him. David turned away in a cold disgust. Without a word he went into the Town Hall. But Joe, quite undismayed by the incivility of his opponent, continued shaking hands. Joe was not proud, he would shake any man’s hands, by God, provided the man was decent and British and a sportsman. Standing there on the steps of the Town Hall, Joe was moved to express that sentiment to the assembly now before him. He declared:
“I’m proud and willing to shake the hand of any decent man.” A pause of deep feeling. “Provided he’ll shake hands with me. But don’t let the Bolshies come up and try it on. No, by God, no!” Joe threw out his chest pugnaciously. He felt lusty, powerful, he was glorying in it now. “I want you lads to know that I’m against the Bolshies and the Reds and all the other scrimshankers. I’m for the British Constitution and the British Flag and the British Pound. We didn’t do our bit in the war at home and abroad for nothing. I’m for law and order and sport and sociability. That’s what I’m fighting the election for, and that’s what you’re voting for. No man has the right to leave the world as bad as he finds it. We’ve got to do what we can to make the world better, see. We’ve got to stand by ethics and education and the ten commandments. Yes, by God, the ten commandments! We’re not going to stand any antichristian Bolshie anarchism against the ten c
ommandments! And no anarchism against the British Flag and the British Constitution and the British Pound. That’s why I’m asking you to vote for me, lads. And if you want to keep yourselves in work don’t you forget it!”
Led by Ramage, cheers were raised and raised again. The cheers intoxicated Joe; he felt himself a born orator, elevated by the approval of his own conscience and of his fellow men. He beamed and shook hands with everyone near him, then he marched down the steps.
As he reached the pavement, a little boy got entangled with his legs and fell. Stooping in an excess of kindliness, Joe picked him up and set him on his bare feet.
“There,” he laughed paternally. “There!”
Joe’s laugh seemed to startle the boy, who was a very ragged little boy of about six, with a pallid underfed face and uncut hair falling over big frightened eyes, and all at once he began to cry. His mother, holding a baby to her with one arm, came forward to pluck him out of Joe’s way with the other.
“He’s a fine little lad, missus,” Joe beamed. “A regular champion. What’s his name?”
The young woman flushed nervously at finding herself the object of the great man’s attention. She tightened the skimpy shawl which bound the baby to her and ventured timidly:
“His name’s Joey Townley, Mr. Gowlan. His father’s brother, that’s to say his uncle, Tom Townley, worked in the heading next yours in the Paradise, when you used to work inbye yourself. Before you became… like you are now… like.”
“Well, well,” Joe rejoined, beaming. “Would you believe it! And does your husband work in the Neptune an’ all, Mrs. Townley?”
Mrs. Townley blushed more deeply, confused, ashamed, terrified at her own boldness.
“No, Mr. Gowlan, sir, he’s on the dole. But, oh sir, if he could just get back in work…”
Joe nodded his head with sudden gravity.
“You leave it to me, missus. That’s why I’m fightin’ this election,” he announced fervently. “Yes, by God, I’m goin’ to change things for the better here.” He patted little Joe Townley’s head and smiled again, facing the crowd with magnificent modesty. “A fine little lad. And Joe too! Well, well, who knows, he might turn out to be another Joe Gowlan hisself!”
Still beaming, he moved away towards his waiting car. The effect was superb. News spread up and down the Terraces that Joe Gowlan was going to take back Sarah Townley’s man and give him a first-class job inbye, the best heading in the pit. There were a few like Sarah Townley in Sleescale. It all did Joe a vast amount of good.
Joe’s power as a speaker developed. He had good lungs, absolute assurance and a throat of brass. He blared at them. He was virile. He developed slogans. Huge posters appeared and spread across every hoarding in the town.
Down with Idleness, Tribulation, Sickness, Poverty and Sin!
Up with Law, Order, Sport and the British Constitution!!
VOTE FOR JOE GOWLAN!!!
He was a bulwark of morality; but, of course, intensely human, a man’s man, a regular sport. At his first meeting in New Bethel Street School, after exhorting his listeners to support the Flag, he beamed upon them slyly:
“And put your shirt on Radio at the next Gosforth Park Races.” Radio was his own horse. The tip sent his stock booming.
Often, too, his dignity as a man of substance and position would yield, dissolve, melt down to the bones of god-fearing humility.
“I’m one of yourselves, lads,” he cried. “I wassent born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was brought up hard and proper. I fought my way up. It’s my policy to give every one of you the chance to do the same!”
But his trump card, never thrown down openly, but skilfully displayed up his sleeve, was his power to afford them employment. Though he was human, one of themselves, a man who had been ground through the mill, he was nevertheless the Boss. Behind all his brag and bluster he exhibited himself as their benefactor, who had taken over the derelict Neptune, who now proposed to find honest work for every man jack of them. That would come, naturally, after the Election.
His campaign grew in flamboyance and power. Ramage, who had once kicked the youthful Joe’s backside for stealing a pig’s bladder, was now his most devoted toady. At Ramage’s behest, the Rev. Low preached a fervid sermon from New Bethel Street pulpit, extolling the virtues of law and order and Mr. Joseph Gowlan, and condemning to the everlasting outer darkness those who dared to vote for Fenwick. Connolly, at the gas-works, had declared openly that any employee who did not support Gowlan was a b—Red and would be sacked on the spot. The Tynecastle Press was solid for Joe. Jim Mawson, enigmatically in the background, pulled several strings in the high cause of humanity. Every day two aeroplanes flew over from the Rusford works and gambolled in advertisement above Sleescale. On fine afternoons there was even some accidental sky writing. Money talked in many devious ways. Strange men were seen in Sleescale, mingling with the workers, making groups at the street corners, standing treat in the Salutation. As for promises—Joe promised everything.
David saw the forces marshalled against him, and he fought back with a desperate courage. But how pitiful his weapons were against Joe’s armoury! Everywhere he turned he felt an insidious grip upon him, limiting his activities, crushing him. Unsparingly, he redoubled his efforts, using all his physical resources, all the training and experience of his political career. The more he battled, the more Joe countered. The heckling, which from the outset had interrupted David’s meetings, now became unmerciful. Ordinary interruptions he could deal with and often turn to his own advantage. But this heckling was not legitimate. It came from a gang of Tynecastle rowdies who turned up at every meeting organised under Pete Bannon, ex-middle weight and bartender from the Malmo Wharf, ready and willing for trouble. Free fights regularly took place; it became the rule for all David’s outdoor meetings to be broken up in wild disorder. Wilson, the agent, protested furiously to the police and demanded adequate protection. His protest was apathetically received.
“It’s none of our business,” Roddam told him impudently. “This Bannon has nothing to do with us. You can find your own b—stewards.”
The clean campaign continued, developing along subtler lines. On the morning of the following Tuesday, on the way to his committee rooms, David was met by a notice, roughly splashed in white paint on the wall at the end of Lamb Lane: Ask Fenwick about his wife. His face paled, he took a step forward as if to wipe out the indignity. Useless, quite useless. The notice shrieked all over the town, every prominent wall and house-end, even the railway sidings, bore the brutal and unanswerable words. In a mist of pain and horror, David went along Lamb Street and entered his rooms. Wilson and Harry Ogle were waiting on him. Both had seen the notice. Ogle’s face worked with indignation.
“It’s too bad, David,” he groaned. “It’s too damnable. We’ve got to go to him… lodge a protest.”
“He’ll only deny it,” David answered in a steely voice. “Nothing would please him better than for us to go whining to him.”
“Then by God we’ll get our own back somehow,” Harry answered passionately. “I’ll have something to say about him when I speak for you at the Snook to-night.”
“No, Harry.” David shook his head with sudden determination. “I’ll have no retaliation.”
Lately in the face of this organised persecution he had felt neither anger nor hatred, but an extraordinary intensification of his inward life. He saw this inward life as the real explanation of man’s existence, independent of the forms of religion, inseparably detached from the material plane. Purity of motive was the only standard, the real expression of the soul. Nothing else mattered. And the fullness of this spiritual interpretation of his own purpose left no room for malice or hatred.
But Harry Ogle felt otherwise. Harry was on fire with indignation, his simple soul demanded fair play, or at least the plain justice of measure for measure. At the Snook that night, where, at eight o’clock, he was holding a supporters’ open-air meeting on his own, Harry was
carried away and so far forgot himself as to criticise Joe’s tactics. David had been up at Hedley Road End, the new miners’ rows, and he did not reach home until late. It was a darkish, windy night. Several times a sound outside caused him to look up in anticipation, for he expected Harry to look in to let him know how the Snook meeting had gone. At ten o’clock he rose to lock the front door. It was then Harry stumbled in upon him, his face white and bloodied, half-fainting, bleeding profusely from a gash above his eye.
Lying flat on the couch with a cold compress laid on the gaping wound, while David sent Jack Kinch tearing for Dr. Scott, Harry gasped shakily:
“Coming back over the Snook they set about us, Davey—Bannon and his hooligans. I’d happened to say about Gowlan sweatin’ his employees like, an’ about him makin’ fightin’ aeroplanes an’ munitions. I’d have held my own, lad, but one o’ them had a bit o’ lead pipe…” Harry smiled weakly and fainted altogether.
Harry took ten stitches in his forehead, then Harry was carried to his bed. Naturally, Joe flamed with righteous wrath. Could such a thing happen on British soil! From the platform of the Town Hall he denounced the Red Fiends, the Bolshies, who could turn, even, and assault their own leaders. He sent Harry Ogle messages of sympathy. Great prominence was given to Joe’s solicitude; his most magnanimous trumpetings were printed verbatim in the newspapers. Altogether, the incident redounded highly to his credit.
But the loss of Harry’s personal support was a serious blow for David. Harry, a respected figure, carried weight in Sleescale with the cautious element, and now the older men, mystified and slightly intimidated, began to think better of attending David’s meetings. At that moment, too, the wave of hysteria sweeping the country against Labour reached its climax. Terror was driven into the hearts of the people by wild predictions of financial ruin. Frenzied pictures were drawn of the worker, paid in handfuls of worthless paper, desperately seeking to purchase food. And far from attributing the impending cataclysm to the end results of the existing economic system, everything was laid upon the shoulders of Labour. Don’t let them take your money, was the cry. The issue was Money. We must keep our Money, at all costs keep it, preserve it, this sacred thing. Money… Money!
