Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

But at the door of 33 Blount Street something happened. A young man in plus fours and a rain-coat and a soft hat, whom David had seen hanging about at odd times lately, suddenly unslung a camera and took a shot at David. Then he raised the soft hat and walked rapidly away.

Next morning, in the middle of the Daily Gazette , the photograph appeared under the caption: The Frying-pan M.P., while below a good half a column extolled the asceticism of the new miners’ member from the North. A short but snappy interview with Mrs. Tucker was appended, full of brogue and bunkum.

David’s face coloured with anger and dismay. He jumped up from the table and hurried to the telephone on the half-landing. He rang the editor of the Gazette and protested indignantly. The editor was sorry, extremely sorry, yet he could not see what harm had been done. It was a good puff, wasn’t it? — a really top-notch puff? Mrs. Tucker was equally unable to understand his annoyance; she was highly delighted to have got her name in the papers — respectably, she added.

But David went up to the House that morning feeling resentful and small, hoping the incident had been overlooked. But it was a vain hope. A mild derisive cheer greeted him as he entered. His first recognition — ridicule! He reddened and hung his head, burning that they should think he had courted such a cheap advertisement.

“Just laugh it off,” Nugent suggested mildly. “That’s the best way. Laugh it off.” Nugent understood. But Bebbington did not. Bebbington was coldly satirical and aloof; he saw the incident as carefully prearranged and he did not hesitate to say so. Perhaps he grudged David the publicity.

That night Nugent came up to David’s flat. He sat down, feeling for his pipe, searching the room with his quiet, contemplative eyes. His face looked more cadaverous than ever and the strands of hair streaked across his brow were few and thin but his boyish and impenetrable cheerfulness prevailed. He lit his pipe, then he said:

“I’ve been meaning to come up for some time. It’s a snug little place you have here.”

“Not so bad for a pound a week,” David answered shortly. “It isn’t all here, of course. The blasted frying-pan is in the kitchen.”

Nugent’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“You mustn’t bother about that sort of nonsense,” he said kindly. “It’ll probably do you a bit of good with the lads up North.”

“I want to do them a bit of good,” David chafed.

“That’ll all come,” Nugent said. “We can’t do much at the moment beyond marking time. We’re up against a solid Tory wall, 419 seats to our 151. What can you do in the face of that? Nothing but sit tight and wait till our turn comes. Mind you, I know how you feel. You want to get into something. And you can’t do it. You want to be done with formality and red tape and divisions and the whole smug procedure. You want results. Well, you just wait, David. One of these days you’ll have plenty of chance to cut loose.”

David was silent; then he said slowly:

“It’s the damned procrastination that seems so senseless. There’s trouble brewing in the mines. You can see it a mile away. When the settlement runs out the owners will come up in a body for longer hours and lower wages. In the meantime things are allowed to drift.”

“They kept playing about with the idea of another subsidy.” Nugent smiled gently. “In 1921 ten million pounds were evaporated in a subsidy. Then they had the great idea — a commission, always a brain-wave. But before the commission brings out its findings, the Government pays another subsidy. Then the commission brings out its findings and condemns all subsidies. It’s highly instructive. It’s even amusing.”

“When in the name of God are we going to get Nationalisation?” David asked in a burning voice. “It’s the only solution. Have we got to wait till they offer it to us on a plate?”

“We’ve got to wait till a Labour Government gets it,” Nugent said quietly. He smiled. “In the meantime carry on with your blue books and your frying-pan.”

There came another silence. And Nugent went on:

“The personal equation is important. There’s so many damned distractions and side issues to the game that you’re apt to get lost in them unless you’re careful. There’s nothing like public life for searching out a man’s private weaknesses. Personal ambition and social ambition and damned selfishness and self-interest, that’s the curse of it, Davey. Take your friend Bebbington, for instance. Do you think he cares about the twenty-odd thousand Durham miners that returned him? Not one twopenny curse! All he cares about is Bebbington. Man, it would break your heart. Take Chalmers, for another. Bob Chalmers was a perfect zealot when he came up four years ago. He swore to me with tears in his eyes that he would get a seven-hour day for the spinners or kill himself in the attempt. Well! the seven-hour day hasn’t come to Lancashire yet and Bob isn’t dead. He’s very much alive. He’s been bitten by the gold bug. He’s in with the Clinton lot, passing on useful information, and making money hand over fist in the City. Cleghorn is another. Only it’s the social side with him. He married a society wife. See! And now he’d miss any committee under the sun for a West End first night with the lady wife. I try to be generous, but I’m telling you, David, it would drive a man to despair. I’m no saint, but I hope to God I’m sincere. That’s why I’m glad to my very roots to see you dug in here and trying to live a plain and honest kind of life. Stick to it, man, for God’s sake, stick to it!”

David had never seen Nugent so overwrought. But it was only for a moment. He took command of himself again, the habitual serenity flowed back into his face.

“Sooner or later you’ll be up against it. You’ll run into corruption like a pitman runs into styfe. The place is thick with it, David. Watch the bar of the House of Commons. Watch who you drink with. Watch Bebbington, Chalmers and Dickson. I know I’m talking like a good templar’s tract, but it’s God’s truth none the less. If you can only be straight with yourself it doesn’t matter a damn what else happens.” He knocked out his pipe: “That’s the end of the sermon. I had to get rid of it. And after that, if I ever walk in here and find your mantelpiece cluttered up with trashy invitations I’ll kick you good and hard. If you want to amuse yourself, come round and watch the cricket with me at the Oval, when the good weather comes in. I’m a member. And I’m fond of it.”

David smiled:

“That’s your form of corruption.”

“Exactly! It costs me two guineas a year. And I wouldn’t give it up if they offered me the party leadership.” With a look at the clock he rose quietly and stretched himself. “I must be going now.” He moved to the door. “By the by, I haven’t forgotten about your maiden speech. There’ll be a grand chance for you in about a fortnight when Clarke proposes the amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. That’s an opportunity to get something off your chest. Good night.”

David sat down when Nugent had gone. He felt better, soothed within himself. Nugent always exerted that influence upon him. It was perfectly true that he had been restless — the inertia of parliamentary routine was a dull anticlimax to the fierce encounter of the election and the burning enthusiasm of his beliefs. He resented the slowness, the waste of time, the pointless talking, the absurd questions, the suave answers, the polite insincerity — all dust in the eyes. Instead of a swift whirring of wheels he heard only the ponderous clanking of the machine. But Nugent made him feel his resentment as both natural and absurd. He must cultivate patience. He considered eagerly and with a certain apprehension his maiden speech — it was decidedly important that his speech should be arresting and good; he must make certain about that speech. It was a wonderful opportunity, the Amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. He saw already, quite clearly, how he would deal with it, the points he would make, what he must emphasise and avoid. The speech began to form beautifully and strongly, to create itself like a living thing, within his mind. He was lifted right out of the room by the force of his own thought; the pit absorbed him and he was once again in the dark tunnels where men worked in constant danger of mutilation and death. It was so easy not to worry about these things if one did not know. But he did know. And he would force the living image of his knowledge into the minds and hearts of those who did not know. It would be different then.