The Stars Look Down (79 page)

Quite suddenly, on December 11th, the Bill was introduced. Sponsored by the President of the Board of Trade, supported by the Attorney-General and the Minister for Mines, it was formally presented for the first time. The House was not particularly full, nor was there any sense of the momentous in the air. The whole thing passed undramatically, even hurriedly. The title of the Bill was short, generalised and elusive. A bare ten lines quickly read out; a bare ten minutes from first to last, and the thing was over. David listened with a rising apprehension. He could not fully understand. There was, as yet, no indication of the scope of the Bill; yet, even at this early stage, its limited application was borne in on him. Rising hurriedly, he went into the lobby and made representations to several members of committee, urgently requesting a draft copy of the Bill. He even approached Bebbington in his anxiety to secure the draft. By that same night the full text of the draft was in his hands. Only then did he appreciate the significance of the new measure. His reaction was indescribable. He was not only stunned. He was appalled.

It so happened that on the 11th Nugent had been called up to Edgeley and David spent the evening alone, studying the draft. Even yet he could not believe the evidence before his eyes. It was incredible, staggering—a shattering blow.

He sat late into the night, thinking, trying to define his own line of action. Resolution firmed within him. He saw all that he could do, all that he must do.

On the next day he attended early at the meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party Committee. It was a small meeting, perhaps half the normal size. As he surveyed the meagre gathering, David’s heart sank. Lately, ministers had been irregular in attendance, but this to-day was especially significant, the more so as the Minister for Mines was absent. Only Dudgeon, Bebbington, Nugent, Ralston, Chalmers and some twenty-odd members of committee were in the room. An after-luncheon feeling hung about the air—Chalmers had the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat loose, while Cleghorn, with a half-shut drowsy eye, settled himself to snatch a comfortable nap.

Jim Dudgeon was in the chair. He glanced at the papers in his blotter, swept the table with his owl-like gaze, then read rapidly:

“The programme of the House this week will include discussion on unemployment, debate on housing and the second reading of the Coal Mines Bill…”

David jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Chairman,” he exclaimed, “on a point of order may I ask whether this Bill is intended to represent the policy of the Labour Party?”

“Hear, hear!” called out several members from the committee left wing.

Dudgeon did not look in the least put out. He eyed David affably, up and down.

“Have you any reason to believe that it does not represent the policy of the party?”

David struggled for calm, yet he could not restrain a biting sarcasm from his tone.

“It would appear that this Bill, in its present form, is slightly inadequate. We were returned to this House pledged to Nationalisation. We bound ourselves in a signed manifesto to alleviate the tragic distress in the coalfields, and to reorganise the industry on national lines from top to bottom. And how are we proposing to do it? I am not aware if all the members of this committee have seen the full text of this Bill. But I have seen it. And I can assure them that it outrages every promise that was given.”

There was a silence. Dudgeon rubbed his chin reflectively, peering at David from behind his big horn rims.

“The point you forget is that we’re in office here, we’re not in power. We must make shift the best way we can. The Government is bound to compromise.”

“Compromise! This isn’t a compromise. It’s sheer cowardice. The Opposition could not have produced a Bill which panders more to the owners. This Bill is all coalowner. Retaining the quota system, throwing out the minimum wage proposals, blinking at the ‘spread over’—it is a Tory Bill and every member of the House will shortly be aware of it.”

“Just a minute,” Dudgeon murmured blandly. “I’m a practical man. At least, I’ve got a reputation for bein’ a practical man. I believe in goin’ to the point. Now what exactly is your objection?”

“My objection!” David broke out. “You know that this
Bill offers no fundamental solution to our difficulties. Its essential purpose is to market coal. It is a ridiculous attempt to reconcile two definitely irreconcilable principles. The quota system is a positive injury to the miners and can never be anything else. When you compare what we pledged ourselves to do and what the Government now proposes to do, the thing becomes a crying outrage.”

“And even so, what is the alternative?” protested Dudgeon. “Remember our position.”

“That’s exactly what I do remember,” David declared in a white heat of indignation, “our position and our honour.”

“For God’s sake!” Chalmers interposed coarsely, with his eyes on the ceiling. “What does this member want?”

“What I want is to see this Bill amended to the form when it implements our pledge and satisfies the conscience of every man inside the party. Then take it to the House. If we’re defeated we go to the country on our Bill. Then the men know that we fought for them. We could not have a better case.”

Another cry of “Hear, hear,” from the far end of the room; but in the main a murmur of disapproval went up from around the table. Chalmers bent slowly forward.

“I’ve been put here,” he said, prodding the table with one forefinger to emphasise his words, “and I’m going to stay put.”

“Don’t you realise,” Dudgeon resumed affably, “we’ve got to show the country our ability to govern. We’re winnin’ golden opinions for the way we’re handlin’ affairs.”

“Don’t delude yourself,” David returned bitterly. “They’re laughing at us. Read the Tory papers! The lower class aping their betters. The tame menagerie. According to them we’re not governing, we’re performing. And if we run away from them over this Bill they’ll have nothing but contempt for us!”

“Order, order,” Dudgeon sighed reproachfully. “We don’t want any hard words inside the party.” He blinked at David in a kind of genial exasperation. “Haven’t we made it clear to you that we’ve got to go slow?”

“Slow!” echoed David savagely. “At this rate we’ll still be preparing to nationalise in another two thousand years.”

For the first time Nugent spoke.

“Fenwick is right,” he said slowly. “On point of principle there’s no question but what we ought to fight. We may keep
ourselves here for another twelve months playing at power, keeping up the sham, simply deluding ourselves. But we’ll go out on our necks in the end. Why not go out with flying colours? And, besides, as Fenwick says, we’ve got the men to consider. They’re pretty well at the end of their tether on Tyneside. I’m telling you and I know.”

Cleghorn said acidly:

“If you’re asking us to resign from office because of a few Tynecastle malcontents you’re walking in the wrong street.”

“Did you call them malcontents when you asked for their votes?” David cried. “It’s enough to drive the men to revolution.”

Chalmers banged irritably on the table.

“You’re making a damned nuisance of yourself, Fenwick. Revolution be damned! We don’t want any Russian ideas brought up at a time like this.”

“Most uncomfortable for the middle classes!” Bebbington agreed in a sneering undertone.

“You see,” Dudgeon went on smoothly, “we all admit there ought to be a complete revaluation of human effort. But we can’t go and repudiate the present system offhand like we were throwing away an old boot. We’ve got to be careful. We’ve got to be constitutional. Damn it all, I’m too popular to do anything against the British Constitution.”

“You prefer to do nothing.” A flood of anger rushed over David. “To sit and draw a Cabinet minister’s salary while thousands of miners starve on the dole.”

There was an outcry at this and cries of “Order, order! Withdraw!”

“I’m not going to commit political suicide for nobody,” Dudgeon muttered, reddening.

“Is that the opinion of this committee?” David asked, looking round intensely. “What do you propose to do? To keep your word or break it?”

“I propose to keep my reputation for sanity,” Bebbington said icily.

“Hear, hear!” shouted several; then Cleghorn’s voice: “I move next business, Mr. Chairman.” The cry was taken up.

“I ask you to reconsider the form of this Bill,” David intervened desperately. “I can’t believe that you refuse to amend it. Leave the issue of Nationalisation alone. I appeal to you at least to consider the insertion of a minimum wages clause.”

Chalmers, this time moving irritably in his chair:

“Mr. Chairman, there is no time obviously to take this discussion further. Surely the member can keep his theories to himself and trust the Government to do all that is possible in the present circumstances.”

Several voices then cried:

“Next business, Mr. Chairman.”

“I’m not talking to you in terms of theories,” David shouted. “I am talking to you in terms of men and women. I warn the committee that the Bill will drive the miners to despair, to rioting…”

“You will have an opportunity of amending it at the proper time,” Dudgeon countered shortly. Then aloud: “What is your pleasure?”

A loud shout from his supporters:

“Next business.”

Despairingly, David attempted to carry on a cross-bench argument. It was no use. Dudgeon’s voice monotonously took up the thread of the interrupted meeting. The business of the Committee proceeded.

That cold December morning, Arthur walked down to the Neptune and entered his office. He was early. He hung up his hat and coat, stood for a moment staring at the calendar, then he went forward quickly and tore off the date. Another day. Surely that was something. He had survived another day. He sat down at his desk. Although he had just risen from bed he had slept badly and felt tired already, tired of the endless struggle, of this endless battering against the economic forces which threatened to destroy him. His face
was thin and lined, he had the appearance of a man consumed by worry.

He pressed the bell upon his desk and immediately Pettit, his clerk and timekeeper, brought in the morning mail—the letters arranged methodically, the largest beneath, the smallest on the top. Pettit was always very neat.

“Morning, Pettit,” Arthur said automatically. He felt his voice artificial though he tried to make it cordial and encouraging.

“Morning, Mr. Barras. Heavy ground frost last night, sir.”

“Yes, it’s cold, Pettit.”

“Perishing, sir. Shall I put more coal on the fire?”

“No thanks, Pettit.”

Almost before Pettit was out the door Arthur reached for the top letter, the letter he had been expecting, the letter from his bankers in Tynecastle.

Slitting the stiff envelope he read the formal communication quickly, not surprised, in a sense not even dismayed. The present policy of the bank was opposed to further short-term loans, they deeply regretted their inability…. Arthur let the letter drop. Regret, of course, was a fine word; everybody had the deepest feeling of regret when compelled from the highest motives to refuse a request for money. He sighed. Yet he had anticipated this answer even before he wrote. He had reached the limit of his overdraft, borrowed the last farthing upon his equipment and headgear; he had the advantage at least of knowing where he stood.

He remained seated at his desk—though he was tired it cost him an effort to keep still, his nerves demanded some violent outlet. And with a certain feverish intentness, he reviewed the situation. The strain of it was visible upon his brow.

It was a long road he had travelled since the days of the disaster. And now there was no road but merely a kind of bog, an industrial morass, the slump. Coal had fallen a further fifteen shillings per ton; and even so he could not sell it. The combines, the big amalgamations were selling coal. But he, the small private producer, was powerless. Yet his overhead kept up: his pumps must be maintained, his royalties paid—6
d
. on every ton which he took out of his pit. And the men? Here he sighed again. By his policy of conciliation
and safety he had hoped to carry them with him. But all along he had been sadly disillusioned. They seemed actually to resent his attempt to reorganise them, to suspect the motive behind his sweeping reforms. To many his wonderful pithead baths were still a source of irritation and ribald comment. He knew he was a bad leader. Often he wavered in his decisions, was persuasive when he should have been firm, stubborn when a stronger man would have laughed and yielded. The men saw his weakness and played upon it. Old Barras’s bullying they understood: they had feared, even admired it. But Arthur’s altruism and high ideals they had mistrusted and despised.

The pitiless paradox stung Arthur to the quick. He lifted his head in a hot wave of exasperation. He refused, yes, refused to admit it.

He was not beaten. At a low ebb merely. He would go on, win through. The tide must flow again; it was not far off flowing now. He applied himself to the problem with renewed intensity. In the fever of his concentration the position clarified, the fact became lucid, the figures marshalled themselves before his mind’s eye. The pit was mortgaged, his credit exhausted, his output the lowest in twenty years. But he had a strong conviction that trade would presently mend. The slump must end, it must end soon. He would hang on, hang on until the end of the slump, then all would be well. He could keep going for another twelve months at least, this he knew with certainty. He had considered it, in anticipation of the bank’s refusal, worked it all out to the last detail. There was nothing he had not foreseen. A case of cutting down, further economy, of holding on, yes, sitting tight and holding on. He could do it, he knew that he could do it.

He drew a sharp nervous breath. The cutting down was the worst, but it simply had to be. Another fifty men must go today; he would take them out Five Quarter Seam and close the headings there till trade improved. It broke his heart to give these fifty their time, to send them to join the six hundred men from the Neptune already on the dole. But he had no option. He would take them back the moment, the instant, he was able.