Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“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 quarter 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.