by James Hanley
Mr Williams faced the crowd. ‘Men! Men! Attention! Order! …’ To the speaker the crowd appeared to sway, to swell, to move forward, tremble, break forces, then gather as one again.
‘I appeal … Stand fast where you are. I … I have seen this sort of thing before. I …’ He turned round and looked questioningly at Mr Power, as though to get the confirmation and support of that silent individual. But that gentleman did not respond. Mr Power was no longer interested. John Williams had arranged to speak for ten minutes and then let Mr Power do the rest. Instead of which, he had held the board for nearly an hour. Mr Power was bored. He was also a little jealous.
Desmond Fury caught John Williams’ glance, and shouted across, as he pointed to the hotel window from which the bibulous gentleman had made a retreat, ‘It’s a trap. A police trap.’ Mr Williams did not hear. It was too late to hear anything. The crowd had caught the words ‘trap – police’. The spade-workers, the veterans of the movement, said to themselves, ‘Spy! Agent provocateur!’ The crowd’s movements changed. As Mr Williams looked at the people in front they seemed to assume almost fantastic proportions. The gentleman who had so hurriedly disappeared from the window had not been entirely deaf to the sea of sounds that rose towards the window where he stood. Angry murmurs, obscene comments. It was indeed a whiff of the crowd’s temper that came up to him this Sunday afternoon.
When John Williams first saw the man at the window he said to himself, ‘Has the fellow no common sense? No decency? Is he not alive to the very obvious fact that his own person threatened danger? Or is he merely a repetition of another gentleman, French by birth, who during the Paris riots stood at an hotel window in just the same way? Why doesn’t the fellow go away?’ Such were Mr Williams’ thoughts. He had travelled Saturday night and part of Sunday to address this meeting. Was it to be a failure? Was it to end up in bloodshed? A peaceful meeting? If anything was more fickle than a woman, it was a crowd. A crowd was a curious thing. Mr Williams had his own ideas about it. It was a monster without any aim or sense of proportion – a headless monster. Mr Williams shouted to a near-by inspector, ‘If you don’t want trouble, you will ask that gentleman up there to go away from the window.’ The officer looked at Mr Williams. Then a loud crash of glass drowned his reply. Somebody had hurled a brick through the window. The cause of the commotion had tactfully made his exit from the rear of the hotel. This abutted on the railway station. The gentleman went into the toilet and carefully removed his flower, which he threw down the bowl. He then emerged on to the station platform; from there, after following various devious routes, he made his way to the street. A few minutes later he was lost in the crowd. The crash of glass was followed by yet another. Mr Williams now knew that the meeting was at an end. Any idea of controlling this angry mob seemed as remote as the moon. Well, he had been in such situations before. He knew his business too well. The crowd in front now began to shout, to yell. Mr Williams tried to drown them with his own voice. It was useless. He stood bewildered, powerless. His eyes wandered to the company of mounted men. The horses seemed more restless than ever. And what was the sudden movement at the back of the crowd? Mr Williams hammered on the table with his fists. ‘Order! Quiet! Quiet! Keep cool!’ A veritable shower of stones was now hurled at the hotel window. There was a sudden concerted rush for the platforms. At the same time the mounted police drew rein. The people shouted, ‘Ah!’… From the open window of the Forester Hall came a stentorian voice, calling through the megaphone, ‘Clear the Square! Clear the Square!’
Mr Williams was almost in tears. He shouted himself red in the face. ‘Stand fast! Stand fast! Don’t move an inch.’ But already he could see the ranks of mounted police widening. In the rear some scuffles were taking place. These holes, corners, and cellars had not yielded up their occupants for nothing. What had happened? The leaders’ eyes searched the crowd. A concourse of ten thousand people were ringed in the Square. From the platforms men shouted at the top of their voices, ‘Stand fast! Stand fast!’ The police were already advancing. They intended to carry out their orders to clear the Square. Individuals appealed to individuals, banter was rife. The people stood fast. Why should they be cleared from the Square? Were they a herd of animals? Mr Williams was quite powerless now. This controllable crowd was beyond control. The people stood waiting. A volley of stones met the advancing police. Batons were drawn.
‘Look out! Look out!’ Before the rush Mr Williams went down. The platform collapsed. A hundred hands tore it down. People armed themselves with wooden staves. Pockets were filled with stones. Iron railings were pulled out. Now the police came forward at a run. The crowd broke. Shouts, screams, curses, laughter, the crash of glass, the breaking of wood. The mass of people swayed, held for a moment, rushed forward, scattered, gathered en masse again, and made a rush from the Square. At that moment the mounted police came forward at a gentle trot. Batons, now drawn, made a strange humming noise as they sang through the air and landed on heads with a sickly thud. Confusion and fear joined forces.
On number eleven stand Desmond Fury stood hemmed in by a group of men. Mr Andrew Postlethwaite was amongst this group. The difficulty with those on number eleven platform was that they could not move. The platform seemed to be encircled by a continuous procession of flying bodies. Mr Postlethwaite now realized that, like George, he should have stayed at home. Not so Desmond Fury. The situation was one in which he was quite capable of holding his own.Twice Mr Postlethwaite had watched for an opportunity of flinging himself into the Square. But now the slightest movement was fraught with disaster. A movement of any kind seemed a threat, an ultimatum. Already blood had been drawn.
Mr Postlethwaite was not deaf to the sickly thud of the batons. A section of the crowd had forced its way out of the Square. Whistles blew, bronze-like voices roared through megaphones, galloping hoofs struck fire from the stones. ‘Look out!’ shouted Desmond. The mounted police were coming towards number eleven platform at a gallop. Mr Postlethwaite spat and shouted, ‘Bastards!’ The horses came on. The man next to Mr Postlethwaite swayed, screamed, ‘Oh Christ!’ and proceeded to vomit over Mr Andrew Postlethwaite’s new check suit. The owner of the suit was quite unaware of this. His attention had been drawn to a woman, a rather stout woman, wearing a black shawl over her head. She had been knocked down in a sudden rush. The horses advanced. They were almost upon her, and Andrew Postlethwaite was certain they would trample upon her. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed, and possessed of strength of which he never seemed aware until now, he broke free and flung himself, almost as if diving into water, over the platform to the Square. He fell in a heap. He was caught up into a group of men. All were struggling upon the ground, making frantic endeavours to get to their feet. In the midst of this lay the woman. As Mr Postlethwaite regained his breath he looked up and saw a long baton swinging downwards. ‘My God!’ He covered his eyes with his hands. He saw the horses upon him. Frantically he dragged himself to his knees and waited, arms outstretched. As he stood there, hemmed in by a yelling mass of bodies, he put his hand in his pocket and drew out his clasp-knife. He would, he vowed, slit the first horse. ‘Ugh! Ugh!’ he said, as the batons sang through the air.
‘Hey! For Christ’s sake! You swine! That’s a woman! Take his number! Take his number!’
‘Here’s my bloody number!’ roared the policeman, his horse’s hot breath almost in Mr Postlethwaite’s face, and crashed his baton down upon the man’s head. As Mr Postlethwaite fell, a huge figure seemed to whirl into the air, landing upon horse and rider.
‘Ah!’ Desmond Fury screamed as he pulled down the man from his horse.
Behind the Forester Hall there had been assembled a dozen wagonettes. These wagonettes were full of women and children. Their destination was Corlton, where a concert was being given. But this assembly of happy and excited children had now been drawn into the conflict. Their destination was no longer Corlton. Their destination was Safety. On the first mad rush of the crowd the children had screamed. The mother
s accompanying them made every endeavour to pacify them. This trip to Corlton was an annual affair. The children were cripples from the various charitable homes scattered about. It had been advisable to warn them. They must get clear as soon as possible. Now the convoy was wedged in, their occupants the unwilling witnesses of the fracas. A section of the crowd had streamed into Corys Street, where the assembled wagonettes stood. It was obvious that the children could not get any further than there. In the excitement they had one by one made their way out of the wagonettes. The moment their feet touched the ground they were caught up in the madness and confusion. Some of them had been carried headlong to Powell Square itself. The parents made vain efforts to find their offspring. All were swallowed up in the mob. In a sortie near the Court, some of these women and children had gone down before a rush of both mounted and foot police. A baton was something more than a piece of weighted wood. It was the symbol of authority, it had no respect for neutrality. The very hand that wielded it succumbed to its power. Its sickening hum, as it swung to and fro in the air, had taken the place of the indistinct hum. Its song had assumed control. It had taken the place of hooter and whistle, of all the concourse of sounds that usually came from out the industrial ant-heap. Trains, trams, ships, docks, cars, machines, were silent. On this Sunday afternoon there was only the yelling mob, the red-faced and sweating police, and the stiff wooden interrogator that sang ceaselessly through the air. The authorities took counsel. This was no peaceful meeting. This was open revolt. This was the mob getting its head. The twelve wagonettes seemed outside their thoughts and deliberations. That assembly of derelict vehicles gave the impression of some fugitive column that, caught in the tidal flows of mob anger and authoritative fury, had flung out its occupants and consolidated itself with a calm determination down one side of Corys Street. It took the drivers all their time to keep control of the frightened animals, from whose hoofs there periodically beat a veritable tattoo upon the stones, whilst they sent showers of sparks flying right and left. The drivers, all thought of Corlton having vanished from their minds, settled themselves down to a game of waiting. This was really a siege; some time in the evening, they hoped before dark, the mob would drift away, and they could proceed back to their repository. They did not expect the sudden change of programme.
At half-past four in the afternoon, Powell Square was like a battlefield. The crowd seemed to have renewed its determination. Its object was the storming of the Castle Hotel. Up the road the smashing of glass could still be heard. Ambulances began to make their appearance opposite the Forester Hall. About the Square lay men with bleeding heads, and terrified children clung frantically to pillars and posts. In the first charge there had been a maddening rush for safety. The stone lions were used as places of refuge, men and women climbing up to sit astride their backs. Holes and corners contained their quota too. If it had been possible to rip open the ground beneath them men would have done so, for they had been forced back and front by drawn batons. Mr Postlethwaite was lying in a pool of blood under the statue of the Earl of Breconsfield. A few yards away a mounted policeman lay on his face, which was bruised and swollen. Just at his feet lay his horse. It was dead. Somebody had driven an iron spike clean through its breast. Desmond Fury had disappeared. Andrew Postlethwaite’s face was covered with blood. More ambulances, more police. Two ambulance men picked up Mr Postlethwaite and placed him on a stretcher. Outside the Forum Theatre an even more desperate situation had arisen. A section of the crowd, numbering some five hundred shouting men and women, were endeavouring to smash down the doors of the theatre. There was nothing inside that they wanted. They only wanted to escape. For the third time they had met a baton charge with sticks, bottles, and stones. Their supply of ammunition was used up. They only saw the raised batons, and beat against the doors, which at last gave way. The mass of frenzied people streamed into the theatre.
When Desmond Fury threw himself at the mounted policeman, he had one thought uppermost in his mind. He must kill this man. But the officer on the horse was equal to the occasion. He met Desmond’s rush with a swing of the baton; Fury dodged it, clung to the horse, and seizing the reins with his hand shot out his powerful fist, throwing the officer, who had risen in the saddle, off his balance. The mounted man let go his baton and gripped Desmond about the waist. Beneath the horse’s flying hoofs two men had already gone down. Desmond Fury, using every ounce of his strength, flung himself upwards until he was almost breast to breast with the policeman. At the same moment the horse reared, whinnied, and collapsed, blood pouring from its breast. Desmond Fury and the officer rolled over to the ground. The officer now discovered that the other man was no mean adversary. Desmond Fury worked his way over the body of the policeman, caught his raised fist in one hand, and without a moment’s hesitation struck with the other. ‘Swine! Swine!’ Then he fled. He was now the centre of another yelling crowd at the corner of Horton Street. Desmond Fury had one idea. To get free. To be clear. If he could cross Horton Street he would find shelter – one of the shops. Then he would wait for a lull. When he got his chance he would run for it. If he could manage to reach the bottom of Mile Hill he would be as safe as houses. He did not know where Mr Postlethwaite had got to. He only realized that the baton had swung dangerously over the man’s head and he had flung himself at the mounted policeman. Here one could not draw breath, one could not think. One was held, intoxicated by the very sights and sounds. He did not know what time it was. He only knew that the mass meeting had been a failure: that the police were ready, and had laid their plans well. He only knew that the great meeting had been turned into a kind of arena, packed with angry, shouting people: that a gentleman in morning dress had appeared at the window, complete with flower, and had roused the crowd’s ire. Who had thrown the stone? No one would ever know. Desmond, watching the mob stream into the theatre, suddenly flung up his hands. ‘Ha!’ he thought. ‘That’s it,’ and he began to beat his way through the bodies about him. For a single moment he stood alone in the cleared space. Then he ran. No policeman followed, only some people. Laughter and a shower of stones hurled after him. ‘Coward, coward!’ What was that? ‘Coward!’ Desmond Fury flung himself through the door now torn off its hinges. The dark musty corner of a waiting-room seemed to beckon to him. He flung himself into it and lay down. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘Phew!’ Then an arm moved. He was lying prone over a woman’s body. ‘Please, please,’ a voice said.
3
Dennis Fury had changed his mind; as he left Mr Postlethwaite, telling him to ‘walk on’, he had practically come to a decision. When he came out into the street again, he stood for a moment on the kerb, looking in the direction of Andrew Postlethwaite. But the gentleman from next door was nowhere in sight. Mr Fury guessed at once. Andrew Postlethwaite had seized the opportunity to go in and have a wet whilst his friend delivered himself higher up the road. No use to curse Andrew for his miserliness. He, Mr Fury, had created the opportunity. Mr Postlethwaite never paid for other people’s drinks. That was a new rule with him. He had refused Miss Mangan’s invitation to the Star and Garter for the same reason. He couldn’t see anything in it. In the end all such invitations turned out to be that one paid for other people’s as well as one’s own. Not seeing his friend on the road, Mr Fury immediately said to himself, ‘Good enough! He’s gone into the Drums and Fifes. Then he can bloody well stay there.’ Mr Fury retraced his steps. Mr Postlethwaite could go to the devil. Damn mean, sliding into publics on the sly. From time to time Mr Fury looked round, not in the hope of seeing Andrew but of estimating the situation. From where he stood, he got a clear view of Mile Hill, and down it he saw crowds hurrying towards Powell Square. Yes, home was the best place on a Sunday afternoon. His stride was leisurely, the expression upon his face that of a peaceful and contented man. When Mr Fury was alone he certainly enjoyed his own company. From time to time he stopped and looked at the shops. Shops are entrancing, their windows full of lovely things. Here the road was not so crowded, and it narrowe
d considerably. It was flanked by equally narrow streets, each of which had its children playing about the gutters. The smell of roasting beef, of soup, of oranges, was in the air. It made Dennis Fury feel hungry, he had been out since eleven o’clock. He had gone to Mass, and from there right on to the Pitchpine, outside of which he had met Mr Postlethwaite by arrangement. He had asked Fanny to go to the late Mass, but she refused. Mr Fury was tired asking her. Mrs Fury always went to the earliest Mass. There were two reasons for this. One met nearly everybody in the parish at the eleven o’clock Mass. And again, Sunday in number three Hatfields was always a busy day; meals to cook, Mr Mangan to wash, dress and feed, house to be cleaned. When Dennis Fury returned about half-past twelve, armed with his Sunday paper, the house had been swept clean; Mr Mangan sat in his chair, with a clean shirt, collar, and tie; and the dinner was cooking. Today things were a little changed. The house had not got over Aunt Brigid’s invasion, nor Peter’s sudden return. It would be a while before the Fury household settled down to normal.
When Mr Fury reached the Prince’s Theatre, he stopped to look at the contents bill for the coming week. ‘H’m!’ he exclaimed. ‘Getting as bad as that Forum in the town.’ He turned off the road and walked in the direction of the Lyric. Might as well see what was doing. It was too early for tea yet, and besides, Fanny was bound to be out. She always went to the chapel meeting on Sunday afternoon. The Lyric Theatre stood at the top of Valley Street; it was reputed to be the best variety theatre in the north end of the city. Mr Fury slowly climbed the hill. He was thinking of nothing in particular; his mind was wholly vacant. His eyes were already endeavouring to read the contents bill that was displayed on a huge hoarding at the top of the Valley. Strike or no strike, he and Fanny would go to the Lyric. Fanny always looked forward to it. And although she was not very demonstrative after the performance, he was convinced she enjoyed it. Dennis Fury now stood looking at the contents bill. ‘Mac and Andrew – the Two Dancing Dolls. Ivano – the Master Juggler. The Five Tumblers. Anna Semple – Soprano.’ ‘Oh!’ said Mr Fury. ‘Looks good.’ He walked away, making a mental note of the artistes, visioning them in their different parts. He looked at his watch. A quarter past twelve! Not much use going home before five. Fanny wouldn’t be in. He walked further up the Valley, past the Lyric Theatre. Then he decided to go right to the top, and walk back through the Park. Mr Fury very rarely went to the Park. When he did go, he invariably met somebody he knew. He turned down Bolton Street, and entered the gates. The Park seemed deserted. Its atmosphere was cold and bleak. Mr Fury increased his pace. He looked at the miserable-looking trees with their coating of grime, the legacy of the industrial world, and once stopped to watch a sparrow, black as any chimney-sweep, peck frantically upon the gravel path, as though hidden beneath it were the choicest collection of worms and bread-crumbs. He stopped again to look at the deserted boat-house, badly wanting a new coat of paint, and the deserted boats drawn up on the slipway. Passing the boat-house, he found himself in an open space, across which an easterly wind was now driving. Mr Fury increased his pace. Clouds of dust and sand blew into the air. It seemed to Mr Fury that nothing in the world was more miserable-looking on this Sunday morning than the Avon Park. He decided to make for the bandstand, a sort of oasis in the wilderness. When he arrived there it was empty. He took one look at the cold, dismal interior, and decided to sit on one of the benches surrounding it. He was sheltered from the driving wind, which was increasing in velocity. ‘What a cold, miserable-looking place!’ thought Mr Fury. He pulled out his pipe. Having filled it, he got it firm and snug between his teeth, lay back, and puffed away contentedly.
