Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

“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 want 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.

“Business is lookin’ up,” he remarked to David. “This is the second time they’ve caught me to-day.”

Overhearing, Bebbington smiled coldly; he carefully took the foreground.

“It’s not surprising,” he said, “considering that I arranged it both times.”

Harry Nugent said nothing, but when the train steamed out David’s last impression, as he stood there with Heddon beside him, was the quiet serenity of his face.

Towards the beginning of the following February when Arthur secured the contract with Mawson, Gowlan & Co., he felt it was the turn of the tide at last. Business at the pit had been deplorable for the past twelve months. Reparations, in wringing coal from Germany, had damaged the export trade on which, at the Neptune, they very considerably depended. France naturally preferred cheap or free coal from Germany to Arthur’s beautiful but expensive coal. And as if that were not enough, America had most unkindly entered the European field, a powerful and relentless competitor for Britain’s exclusive war-time markets.