‘. . . not a paradox at all,’ Dick was saying. ‘Merely the fruits of my upbringing as a mine-owner’s son. The whole art is to play one set of workers off against another. Now, I admit I have a low opinion of the intellect of dons, but I have no amount of respect for their capacity to look after themselves. They’d certainly go on strike rather than listen to the sort of tosh they’d have to if Woffles wrote his own essays.’
Woffles nodded agreement, though his slightly wrinkled brow showed that he might not have understood the argument. It was hard to tell. As Dick had once said, the mode for the silly-ass look made it difficult to tell where one was with a genuine silly-ass like Woffles. He was a large young man, played rugger for his college and would have been in line for a Blue if he’d been prepared to train at all. Tom had once seen him running from the Bulldogs, and had been amazed by his turn of speed until he had collided with a lamp-post and laid himself out. He was, of course, on opposite sides from Dick in the fashionable, but to Tom thoroughly tedious, skirmishes between the hearties and the aesthetes, but being old Yorkshire friends the pair got along very well in private. As they were both in their fourth year—Dick, like Tom, to read Greats, and Woffles in theory to make one more attempt to pass at least one examination but really to run the Drag—most of their Oxford friends had gone down and they now saw a good deal of Tom and each other. Woffle’s face, flattish, square, still tanned from late-season skiing, bore a look of puzzlement even in repose, though his pale blue eyes always gleamed with interest, as though eager to confront life’s next mystery.
‘You must not tease Woffles,’ said Bertie. ‘He’s been reading a book.’
‘Who now can claim that Oxford has ceased to be a seat of learning?’ said Dick.
‘What’s more, the book has given him an idea,’ said Bertie. ‘That’s why I’ve asked you fellows to breakfast. Shall I explain, Woffles, or will you?’
‘I’ll start and you can take over when I get stuck. It’s an awfully good book. I’ve read it again and again, and I bet you have too. It’s The Black Gang. Do you remember, there’s this fellow Drummond who gets a few of his pals together and they put on masks and go round bashing up Bolshies? I thought we might try a spot of that.’
He looked round the table, full of puppyish good-will, as though he had brought his lead and was asking to be taken for a walk. Tom managed to stop himself from laughing aloud and at the same time remembered to look and see how Bertie was taking this lunatic proposal—a proposal which, apparently, he had already heard and to discuss which he had driven down to Oxford and given this champagne breakfast. For once Bertie seemed unaware that he was being observed, because he was himself watching Dick Standish. His face was the usual mask of indolence, but for the moment the eyes were clearly those of a personality behind the mask.
‘First catch your hare,’ said Dick. ‘How many Bolshies do you know, Woffles?’
‘Don’t move in that sort of circle,’ said Woffles. ‘But look here, there’s a lot of them around. Everybody says so. Toby Callivant was telling me only the other day about some don at Balliol who got squiffy and started singing “The Red Flag” at High Table. And there’s that fellow Russell, had the divorce, brother’s some sort of earl—he went to Moscow, didn’t he?’
‘So your proposal is that we should pay a call on Bertrand Russell and soften him up with rubber truncheons. Would we have to wear morning suits with our masks, do you think? I’m a great respecter of the peerage.’
‘No problem about the Balliol man,’ said Tom. ‘Spread the word in Trinity and we’d be over the wall in a jiffy.’
‘Tar and feather the whole High Table,’ said Dick. ‘Be sure of getting the right man.’
‘I wish you’d take this seriously,’ said Woffles. ‘Bertie’s come down from London to back me up. We don’t have to know who the Bolshies are—we can pay some blighter to find out.’
‘Advertise for a traitor in The Weekly Worker?’ asked Dick.
‘Oh, dash it!’ said Woffles.
‘I think he’s stuck, Bertie,’ said Tom.
‘I’m glad you weren’t around when the fellow invented the wheel, Dick.’ said Bertie. ‘Woffles has got a sound notion—it just needs a few of the details filling in. For instance, has the rumour penetrated this seat of learning that there is about to be a General Strike?’
‘I saw a cartoon about it in Punch, I think,’ said Dick, taking care to yawn as he spoke. ‘Aren’t we supposed all to rally round in benighted areas like Clapham and get the trams going?’
‘Exactly,’ said Bertie. ‘And what do you think the tram-drivers will be doing then?’
‘Running a book on where the trams end up,’ said Dick. ‘Woffles driving a tram would be a better laugh than Kid Boots. Have you seen that, Bertie? Rather dreary, really . . .”
‘Stick to the point,’ said Bertie. ‘You’re wrong about the tram-drivers. They’ll be down at Clapham too, seeing that the trams never get out of the sheds. There are going to be some ugly scenes, chaps.’
‘Surely the police . . .’ Tom began.
‘Not enough to go round. No, what we want is a posse of fellows to show up at spots like that and keep order—see that the trams get out and so on. I’m only using trams as an example, mind you. Same applies to trains, buses, unloading at the docks, coal depots and so forth. Even that’s only a start, and we haven’t got time to get it organised. Organisation’s the key, and not just on our side. You don’t think the men will turn up at the sheds to stop the trains running without a bit of organisation, do you? Take that organisation away and the problem’s at least half solved. This is where Woffles’ notion comes in. I propose to form a secret flying squadron to see that the Bolshies don’t do any organisation, and I want you three in on it.’
This was an unfamiliar Bertie. He was tilting his chair back from the table and his fingers twirled the stem of his half-empty glass so that the wine climbed almost to the rim. His voice was light as ever, but the habitual note of facetiousness was missing. He was still looking directly at Dick.
‘I follow your drift,’ said Dick. ‘But why me? Woffles is a thug, and Tom spends his spare time knocking people around in a boxing-ring—I can see they would be useful. But where is the lolling contemplative going to fit into this squadron of yours? I’d he happy to design the uniform, of course. Masks purple, with a touch of gold braid?’
‘Wouldn’t plain purple be enough?’ said Woffles.
‘Shut up, Dick,’ said Bertie. ‘I don’t want Tom for his boxing—though of course it might come in handy. I want him because of who his father is, and even more I want you because of who your father is. Listen. We can’t organise the whole country. There isn’t time. We haven’t got the people. We couldn’t even manage one county. My idea is that we should try the thing out this time on a small scale in the area we know, and make it work. Then . . . you realise there’s going to be a next time, chaps, and another after that, and so on? This strike next month looks serious, but it’ll be nothing more than a side-show compared with what we’ll be seeing by nineteen-thirty. And by then we will be able to cover the whole country. We’ll have an army! But this time we’ll concentrate on our home ground. Tom’s father is very thick with Lord Foxhaven—in fact he’s your godfather, isn’t he, Tom?—and Foxhaven’s Lord Lieutenant. We’ve got to have some pull with the police. That’s vital.’
‘Get them to arrest us with trick handcuffs so that we can slip away as soon as we’re round the corner?’ asked Dick. ‘I’m sure Lord Foxhaven will be delighted to arrange for that.’
‘Do shut up, Dick. The police are vital because they know a lot of things they can’t act on. Time and again in an affair like this they’re perfectly well aware of who’s causing all the trouble, but they can’t do anything about it because the blighter’s taken care to stay the right side of the law. There’s nothing the police would like better than to know someone who they could pass a quiet word to, and next thing the trouble-maker would break a
leg, or find his office broken into and all his files gone, or simply disappear into thin air. That’s why I want Tom. And I want you even more, Dick, because your father’s Deputy Chairman of the Yorkshire Federation of Coal Owners . . .’
‘Is he now?’ said Dick. ‘I knew he was something—but why is he only Deputy Chairman? I must have a word with him about that. Can’t have the older generation slacking, you know.’
‘Fernyhough’s Chairman, but he doesn’t count for anything. Your father’s the man. The strike’s about coal, you see? The other unions are striking to try and stop the mine-owners locking the miners out, but I bet their hearts aren’t in it. The railwaymen won’t do anything to help get the trains going, but they won’t do much to stop them either. That’ll be the miners, and they won’t manage much without organising. Your father, Dick, is in a position to find out who’s behind any trouble that’s going to break out. When Woffles explained his idea you said “First catch your hare,” and you were right. That’s the difficulty, but with your father’s help and Tom’s I think we can get a good idea of where the hares are lurking. After that I can find any number of sturdy young fellows like Woffles to do the actual jugging.’
Bertie was tilting his chair a shade further, to a point where it looked as though it was already off balance, but somehow he didn’t tumble. Tom had been absorbed in watching him, in perceiving clearly for the first time the energy and ambition Father had guessed were there, and so had barely wondered what he thought of the plan as far as it affected him. Bertie was wrong about the railwaymen of course. Even one week’s riding on foot-plates had been enough to make Tom sure that though they were not anxious to strike, once they had struck they wouldn’t be halfhearted . . .
‘To judge by the tone of your re-marks,’ said Bertie, ‘you don’t seem all that keen to plunge into the world of action, Dick. Tell me one thing before you make up your mind—what sort of a future do you see for yourself in this vale of tears?’
‘Only the past has any interest for a man of my temperament. The future, frankly, is a bore.’
‘You will find it even more of a bore if you haven’t any money to soften its rigours,’ said Bertie. ‘You don’t imagine, when the Boishies take over, they’ll want to keep you in the manner to which you’ve been accustomed? When they’ve nationalised the mines and redistributed the land into farming co-operatives, there’s not going to be much left of the Standish fortune. You’ll be wise to come in with me, Dick.’
‘You haven’t considered the alternative,’ said Dick.
‘What might that be?’
‘To go in with them.’
‘Oh, come,’ said Woffles.
Slowly, enjoying the luxury of surprise, Dick took his wallet from his breast-pocket and drew out a rectangle of card which he flipped across the table. It curved in flight and fell in front of Woffles, who picked it up and read it aloud.
‘Communist Party of Great Britain! My dear old Dick!’
‘I know a few Bolshies, you see,’ drawled Dick. ‘I move in that kind of circle. It’s all right, Bertie—I’m not going to peach on you. I’ve been thinking of resigning from the Comrades since that row last term.’
‘What was that?’
‘Don’t you remember? The police raided Party Headquarters and took a lot of papers away. One of the things they found out was the names of a couple of undergraduates—not me, thank heavens. Birkenhead tried to get them sent down, though what the Secretary of State for India . . .’
‘Don’t resign,’ interrupted Bertie, evidently as uninterested in the past as Dick claimed to be in the future.
‘Perhaps I won’t,’ said Dick. ‘My real reason for joining was to rag the guv’nor, but when it began to boil over last term I saw it mightn’t be such a rag after all. I am an example, you see, of what the Comrades quite rightly refer to as dilettantism. It was quite amusing for a bit, but the rigours of the Marxist prose style are a terrible thing for a dilettante to endure . . .’
‘Don’t resign,’ said Bertie again.
‘I don’t know that it’ll be all that useful to you, Bertie. The Comrades who know what’s going on are terribly secretive, even with other Comrades. I think I might be able to get something out of the guv’nor—but I want more of a hand than you’ve dealt me. I don’t know about you fellows, but I’ve found myself wondering more and more what it would have been like if I’d been old enough for the War. Would I have been any good at that sort of thing? Since the apples of the tree of knowledge—at least the Oxford branch of that tree—have turned to Dead Sea fruit in my mouth, the question has been troubling me quite surprisingly. It seems to me that you are offering us the chance to find out.’
‘I wouldn’t have been the slightest good in the trenches,’ said Woffles. ‘I’d have been in a blue funk every time a shell came near me.’
‘You’d have been a top-notch regimental officer,’ said Bertie. ‘But God help your men if you’d ever got beyond half-colonel. Right, Dick. I’ll take you on those terms. What about you, Tom? Are you on?
‘Fraid not.’
‘Oh?’
‘Look, for a start you’re wrong about Father. The last way to get anything out of him is to send me along. You’d much better talk to him yourself. I’ve no notion what he’ll say, but I know he’s taking this strike just as seriously as you are. He thinks it’s going to happen, and if it lasts more than a few weeks we’re done for. But I promise you the last way to get him to help you is through the family. He probably wouldn’t even see you if you tried that. But go and talk to him straight and tell him what you want and he’ll at least listen. Don’t put on your lazy-bounder act, by the way. He’s seen through that. In fact he thinks there’s a bit more to you than meets the eye, so you’ve a good chance.’
‘Thanks, old man. I take it you’re planning to stay up and get your First. Can’t say I blame you.’
‘No, I’m . . . you remember that wire Father sent me while I was staying with you at Hendaye?’
‘Never forget it. Didn’t know a fellow’s jaw could drop that far.’
‘He wanted me to come home and learn how to drive a train. That’s what I was doing the week before last. It seems a pity to waste it, supposing this strike comes off.’
For the first time that morning Bertie seemed actually taken aback—far more than he had been by Dick’s disclosure of his membership of the Communist Party. Perhaps he didn’t care for the notion that somebody beside himself had been making plans—even thinking along roughly the same lines. At any rate he let his chair tilt upright, then took his pipe out of his side-pocket and frowned at the recesses of its bowl while he answered.
‘Yes. Yes I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Pity.’
‘How long is this going to last, d’you think?’ said Dick. ‘According to my guv’nor, the miners are ready to stick it out all summer.’
‘So I hear,’ said Bertie. ‘But the question is how long the other unions will back the miners up. Their leaders are little men, mostly. My bet is they’ve only got to get frightened and they’ll be looking for an excuse . . . When are your Finals, Dick?’
‘End of May. I don’t know . . . some ways I wouldn’t mind if it dragged on—give me an excuse for disappointing the guv’nor. He wasn’t what he insists on calling a ’varsity man, so he’s rather set store by me doing well . . . Next thing he’ll be buying a job lot of ancestors to hang on the walls at Throcking. You don’t have any to spare, do you, Tom? You know, people are strangely down on families making their way up the social ladder, but they don’t seem to have any idea what a trouble and worry it can be.’
‘Probably even worse coming down,’ said Bertie.
The words sounded entirely casual, with no perceptible shade of emphasis in them and no aim at any particular person in the room, but for the last few minutes Tom felt as though he had acquired an extra category of perception, or shed a hitherto unperceived layer of deafness where Bertie was concerned. Any remark now seemed to carry little pr
obing tentacles of meaning.
‘Dragged on?’ said Woffles, half a lap behind in the conversation. ‘That won’t do. Can’t have it running into Commem. Week. I’ve asked little Judy Tarrant up for the House Ball. Awfully jolly girl—I’m supposed to be marrying her some day—she’s my second cousin, you know, and her mamma and mine fixed it up when we were both still in our cradles, almost.’
‘Time you were making a move, Woffles,’ said Bertie, ‘or you’ll have some Johnny-come-lately running off with her under your nose.’
There was a minute pause. Bertie had not even glanced at Tom, but his remark had ended on a note of vague interrogation, as though it were somebody else’s turn to join the talk.
‘Which day’s the House Ball?’ said Tom. ‘I’ve asked her to Trinity. I hope you don’t mind. We’re Wednesday.’
‘We’re Tuesday,’ said Woffles, ‘so that’s all right. I didn’t know you knew her, Tom.’
‘I met her at Bertie’s, in France. Bertie had cunningly fixed to play the foursomes with Joyce Mallahide, but Judy and I beat them on the twentieth.’
‘I wonder what she’s doing Thursday,’ said Dick. ‘On the principle of draining life to the dregs, I suppose one ought to attend at least one Commem. Ball during one’s sojourn here.’
‘You’ll be too late, old boy,’ said Woffles. ‘She’ll have fixed herself up weeks ago. And she’ll have been to all those beanos they hold at Cambridge the week before.’
A Summer in the Twenties Page 4
