Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

David clattered down the steps with the men, crossed the pit yard, took his place in the pay line outside the offices. It was a bright June day. The hard outline of the headgear, stocks and spinning pulleys, even the smoking upcast stack, was softened by the languid beauty of the day. A wonderful day to be leaving the pit.

The line moved slowly forward. David saw his father come out of the cage, he had been the last to ride the bank, and take his place right at the end of the line. Then he observed the dogcart from the Law drive through the yard gates. The occurrence of the dogcart was quite normal: every pay-Saturday Richard Barras drove down to the offices while the men stood lined up for their envelopes. It was a sort of ritual.

The dogcart took a neat sweep, its yellow spokes flashing in the sun, and brought up opposite the offices. Richard Barras descended, holding himself erect, and disappeared through the main door of the offices. Bartley was already at the horse’s head. Arthur Barras, who had been wedged between the two, remained seated in the dogcart.

From a distance, as he moved slowly forward, David studied Arthur; wondered about him idly. Without in the least knowing why, he felt a strange sympathy for Arthur; an extremely odd sensation, peculiar, paradoxical almost, as if he were sorry for Arthur. It was ridiculous considering their respective situations. Yet the small boy, undersized for his age, perched all by himself upon the seat of the dogcart with his soft fair hair ruffled by the breeze, looked so very much alone. He invoked protection. And he was so serious, his gravity, his serious preoccupation lay upon him like a sadness. When he discovered that he was pitying Arthur Barras David almost laughed aloud.

His turn at the window came. He went forward, received his pay envelope thrust through the opening by Pettit, the cashier. Then he lounged over to the yard gates to await his father. As he reached the gate post and leaned his back against it, Annie Macer passed down Cowpen Street. At the sight of him she smiled and stopped. She did not speak; Annie seldom spoke until she was spoken to; no, she stopped and smiled out of friendship; but she waited until he should speak to her.

“All by yourself, Annie?” he said companionably. He liked Annie Macer; he really did like her; he could understand perfectly why Sam should be so gone on her. She was so simple, fresh, homely. She had no pride. She was herself. Transparently there was no nonsense about Annie. For some absurd reason he associated Annie with a little silvery fresh herring. Yet Annie was not little, nor had she the least resemblance to a herring. She was a big-boned strapping girl of his own age, with generous hips and a fine firm bosom; she wore a blue serge skirt and coarse hand-knitted stockings. Annie knitted these stockings herself; she had never read a book in her life; but she had knitted a great many pairs of stockings.

“It’s my last day this, Annie,” he declared, making conversation to detain her. “I’m done with the Neptune for good… water, muck, ponies, tubs and all.”

She smiled tolerantly.

“I’m not sorry,” he added. “No, you may bet your life I’m not sorry.”

She nodded her head understandingly. There fell a silence. She looked up and down the street. Then with her friendly smile she nodded again and went off.

Pleased, he followed her with his eyes. It struck him that she had not spoken a single word. Yet he had enjoyed every minute of her company. Good for Annie Macer!

Turning again he looked towards his father: he was still a long way from the window. What a time Pettit was taking to-day. He leaned back, kicking his heels against the post.

Suddenly he became aware that he, in his turn, was being observed: Barras, escorted by Armstrong, had returned to the dogcart, they stood together, the owner and the viewer, staring directly at him. He stared back at them, dourly, determined not to be put down by them; after all, he was leaving the pit, wasn’t he? — he didn’t give tuppence now. For a minute they continued talking, then Armstrong laughed respectfully, raised his hand and beckoned him over. He had half a mind not to go, yet he did go, taking care, however, to go slowly.

“Mr. Armstrong tells me that you have won a scholarship at the Baddeley.”

David saw that Barras was in high good humour; yet felt the keen scrutiny of his small cold eyes.

“I’m very pleased,” Barras went on, “to hear of your success. What are you after — at the Baddeley?”

“I want to take my B.A.”

“H’m — your B.A.? Why don’t you go in for mining engineering?”

David answered defiantly, something in Barras provoked his defiance:

“I’ve no interest in the work.”

His defiance slid off Barras like water off cold stone.

“Really… no interest?”

“No! I don’t like it underground.”

“You don’t like it,” Barras echoed aloofly. “You want to take up teaching.”

David saw that Armstrong had told him.

“No, no. I’ll not stop at teaching.” He regretted the remark instantly. That hot defiant pride had betrayed him into revealing himself. He felt the incongruity of it, standing there in his pit clothes with Arthur there in the dogcart looking and listening; he felt like some sickly hero of an autobiography — Log Cabin to White House; but he was stubborn enough not to withdraw. If Barras asked, he’d tell him outright what he meant to do.

But Barras seemed to have no curiosity whatever, no consciousness of antagonism. He simply went on, as though he had not heard David, went on to moralise:

“Education is a fine thing. I never stand in anyone’s way. When you finish at the Baddeley you might let me know. I’m on the Board! I might get you into one of the County schools. We always have a place for junior teachers.”

He seemed to recede from David behind the strong lenses of his glasses. Remotely, thus, he slipped his hand into his trousers pocket, pulled out a large white palmful of silver. In his unhurried style he picked out a half-crown, weighed it mentally; then he put it back, selecting instead a two-shilling piece.

“Here’s a florin,” he said calmly, rather majestically, making it a gift and a dismissal.

David was so dumbfounded he took the coin. He stood with it in his hand while Barras mounted, took his seat in the dogcart. He was dimly conscious of Arthur’s friendly smile upon him. Then the dogcart moved off.

A wild impulse to laugh came over David. He recollected the text in the tract Wept had given him. “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Inwardly he repeated: “Ye cannot serve God and mammon. Ye cannot serve God…” It was funny, oh, it was funny!

He turned abruptly and went towards the yard gates where Robert now stood, in his turn, waiting for him. David saw that his father had been a spectator of the whole scene. He saw that his father was furious. Robert was pale with fury, he kept his eyes down, not looking at David.

They went out of the yard together, side by side, walking up Cowpen Street. Not a word passed between them. A little way up they were joined by Swee Messer. Immediately Robert began to talk to Swee in an ordinary friendly way. Swee was a good-looking blond-haired lad, always light-hearted and gay, a filler, not in the Paradise but in Globe Coal, higher up. Swee’s real name was Oswey Messuer, his father was the barber in Lamb Street, a naturalised Austrian who had been settled twenty years in Sleescale. They were popular, father and son, each in his own sphere, the son gaily filling tubs in the pit, the father meekly lathering chins in the parlour of his shop.

Robert went on talking to Swee as though nothing had happened to disturb him. As Swee branched off along Freehold Street he said: