Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

The next day, October 16th, was the official nomination day, and at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, at the very outset of the campaign, David encountered Joe. The meeting took place outside the Town Hall. David, accompanied by Wilson, was advancing up the steps to hand in his papers, when at that moment, Joe, escorted by Ramage, Connolly and the Rev. Low, all members of his executive, together with a number of his supporters, swung through the doorway and began to come down. At the sight of David, Joe stopped short dramatically, and faced him with a manly recognition. He stood two steps above David, a fine expansive figure, his chest thrown out impressively, his double-breasted jacket open, a large bunch of blue cornflowers in his buttonhole. Towering in rough-hewn grandeur, he held out his meaty hand. He smiled — his hearty, man-to-man smile.

“Well met, Fenwick,” he cried. “Better early than late, eh? I hope this is going to be a clean contest. It will be on my side. Fair play and no favour. And may the best man win.”

There was a murmur of approval from Joe’s partisans, while David went cold outside and sick within.

“Mind you,” went on Joe, “there’s going to be no kid gloves about it though, no gloves at all; it’s going to be bare fists all the time. I consider I’m fighting for the Constitution, Fenwick, the British Constitution. Don’t make any mistake about that, I warn you. All the same we’ll fight clean. British sportsmanship, see, that’s what I mean, British sportsmanship.”

Again there was a cheer from the rapidly accumulating crowd of Joe’s supporters, and in the enthusiasm of the moment several pressed forward and shook hands with him. David turned away in a cold disgust. Without a word he went into the Town Hall. But Joe, quite undismayed by the incivility of his opponent, continued shaking hands. Joe was not proud, he would shake any man’s hands, by God, provided the man was decent and British and a sportsman. Standing there on the steps of the Town Hall, Joe was moved to express that sentiment to the assembly now before him. He declared:

“I’m proud and willing to shake the hand of any decent man.” A pause of deep feeling. “Provided he’ll shake hands with me. But don’t let the Bolshies come up and try it on. No, by God, no!” Joe threw out his chest pugnaciously. He felt lusty, powerful, he was glorying in it now. “I want you lads to know that I’m against the Bolshies and the Reds and all the other scrimshankers. I’m for the British Constitution and the British Flag and the British Pound. We didn’t do our bit in the war at home and abroad for nothing. I’m for law and order and sport and sociability. That’s what I’m fighting the election for, and that’s what you’re voting for. No man has the right to leave the world as bad as he finds it. We’ve got to do what we can to make the world better, see. We’ve got to stand by ethics and education and the ten commandments. Yes, by God, the ten commandments! We’re not going to stand any antichristian Bolshie anarchism against the ten commandments! And no anarchism against the British Flag and the British Constitution and the British Pound. That’s why I’m asking you to vote for me, lads. And if you want to keep yourselves in work don’t you forget it!”

Led by Ramage, cheers were raised and raised again. The cheers intoxicated Joe; he felt himself a born orator, elevated by the approval of his own conscience and of his fellow men. He beamed and shook hands with everyone near him, then he marched down the steps.

As he reached the pavement, a little boy got entangled with his legs and fell. Stooping in an excess of kindliness, Joe picked him up and set him on his bare feet.

“There,” he laughed paternally. “There!”

Joe’s laugh seemed to startle the boy, who was a very ragged little boy of about six, with a pallid underfed face and uncut hair falling over big frightened eyes, and all at once he began to cry. His mother, holding a baby to her with one arm, came forward to pluck him out of Joe’s way with the other.

“He’s a fine little lad, missus,” Joe beamed. “A regular champion. What’s his name?”

The young woman flushed nervously at finding herself the object of the great man’s attention. She tightened the skimpy shawl which bound the baby to her and ventured timidly:

“His name’s Joey Townley, Mr. Gowlan. His father’s brother, that’s to say his uncle, Tom Townley, worked in the heading next yours in the Paradise, when you used to work inbye yourself. Before you became… like you are now… like.”

“Well, well,” Joe rejoined, beaming. “Would you believe it! And does your husband work in the Neptune an’ all, Mrs. Townley?”

Mrs. Townley blushed more deeply, confused, ashamed, terrified at her own boldness.

“No, Mr. Gowlan, sir, he’s on the dole. But, oh sir, if he could just get back in work…”

Joe nodded his head with sudden gravity.

“You leave it to me, missus. That’s why I’m fightin’ this election,” he announced fervently. “Yes, by God, I’m goin’ to change things for the better here.” He patted little Joe Townley’s head and smiled again, facing the crowd with magnificent modesty. “A fine little lad. And Joe too! Well, well, who knows, he might turn out to be another Joe Gowlan hisself!”

Still beaming, he moved away towards his waiting car. The effect was superb. News spread up and down the Terraces that Joe Gowlan was going to take back Sarah Townley’s man and give him a first-class job inbye, the best heading in the pit. There were a few like Sarah Townley in Sleescale. It all did Joe a vast amount of good.

Joe’s power as a speaker developed. He had good lungs, absolute assurance and a throat of brass. He blared at them. He was virile. He developed slogans. Huge posters appeared and spread across every hoarding in the town.

Down with Idleness, Tribulation, Sickness, Poverty and Sin!

Up with Law, Order, Sport and the British Constitution!!

VOTE FOR JOE GOWLAN!!!

He was a bulwark of morality; but, of course, intensely human, a man’s man, a regular sport. At his first meeting in New Bethel Street School, after exhorting his listeners to support the Flag, he beamed upon them slyly:

“And put your shirt on Radio at the next Gosforth Park Races.” Radio was his own horse. The tip sent his stock booming.

Often, too, his dignity as a man of substance and position would yield, dissolve, melt down to the bones of god-fearing humility.

“I’m one of yourselves, lads,” he cried. “I wassent born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was brought up hard and proper. I fought my way up. It’s my policy to give every one of you the chance to do the same!”

But his trump card, never thrown down openly, but skilfully displayed up his sleeve, was his power to afford them employment. Though he was human, one of themselves, a man who had been ground through the mill, he was nevertheless the Boss. Behind all his brag and bluster he exhibited himself as their benefactor, who had taken over the derelict Neptune, who now proposed to find honest work for every man jack of them. That would come, naturally, after the Election.

His campaign grew in flamboyance and power. Ramage, who had once kicked the youthful Joe’s backside for stealing a pig’s bladder, was now his most devoted toady. At Ramage’s behest, the Rev. Low preached a fervid sermon from New Bethel Street pulpit, extolling the virtues of law and order and Mr. Joseph Gowlan, and condemning to the everlasting outer darkness those who dared to vote for Fenwick. Connolly, at the gas-works, had declared openly that any employee who did not support Gowlan was a b — Red and would be sacked on the spot. The Tynecastle Press was solid for Joe. Jim Mawson, enigmatically in the background, pulled several strings in the high cause of humanity. Every day two aeroplanes flew over from the Rusford works and gambolled in advertisement above Sleescale. On fine afternoons there was even some accidental sky writing. Money talked in many devious ways. Strange men were seen in Sleescale, mingling with the workers, making groups at the street corners, standing treat in the Salutation. As for promises — Joe promised everything.