Ravenscliffe (51 page)

‘Interesting times, Mr Wadsworth,’ he had said. ‘Interesting times.’

The next day, back in Barnsley, Amos had listened to an account of this brief encounter.

‘You’ll be all right then, when I’m beaten by Thorne again next time round,’ he had said. ‘You’ll be sittin’ pretty in MacDonald’s office in Westminster, openin’ ’is post, brewin’ ’is tea.’

‘Aye, well,’ Enoch had said. ‘Think on.’

When Amos arrived it was past ten o’clock.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he said, nipping in with an apology before the sour expression on Enoch’s face got translated into words. ‘Got caught up wi’ summat. Bloody ’ell man, this room’s like a cave. Let’s ’ave some light.’

It was gloomy; Enoch realised that, now that he wasn’t alone in the room. He stood, a little stiffly because his legs were protesting at being so long in a sitting position. He struck another match and lit the lamps, though the half-hearted glow improved things only marginally.

‘Them globes are sooty,’ Amos said. ‘You want to trim your wicks.’

Enoch looked at him over the top of his spectacles.

‘Any more domestic advice, or shall we get on?’ he said.

‘Go on then, what ’ave you got for me?’

Enoch picked up the top four sheets of paper from his desk and handed them to Amos, who began to read.

‘I want you to steer clear of local concerns this time,’ Enoch said. ‘I want you to tackle wider, national issues, international ones an’ all. Free trade versus protectionism, nationalisation of industries, taxes on t’rich for t’benefit of t’poor, a universal ’ealth service.’

Amos ignored him and for a while continued to read, then he looked up. ‘Fancy language, this,’ he said.

‘You need to sound more like a statesman.’

‘As opposed to what?’

‘Don’t get narky. All I’m saying is that, from time to time, you need to speak like a parliamentarian. It’s all well and good being a man of t’people, but you ’ave to show ’em that as well as being like ’em, you’re also different to ’em.’

‘But I’m not different.’

‘You are, though. You’ve got ambition and passion and t’power of oratory; you ’ave words at your disposal – my words, sometimes, admittedly – to articulate what they think, but can’t say.’

Amos held up the pages. ‘No good if they don’t understand what I’m on about,’ he said.

‘They’ll get t’gist. Look, folk don’t want a man in power who’s just like they are. Folk want a man in power who ’as a quality that sets ’im apart.’

‘You’ve been thinkin’ about Ramsay MacDonald again, ’aven’t you?’ Amos said in the mock-injured tones of a jealous lover. Enoch laughed.

‘Well, aye, since you mention it. MacDonald’s a man with t’common touch who nevertheless leaves nob’dy in any doubt that ’e’s destined for ’igh office. Did you ’ear Keir ’ardie when he campaigned for Merthyr in 1900?’

Amos shook his head. ‘Too busy mining,’ he said.

Enoch ignored the barb and ploughed on with his point. ‘Well, it were t’same thing. A workin’ man addressing t’workers, but using this inspired rhetoric, words that send you off to t’polls to put a cross by ’is name.’

Enoch’s heroes: that he had them still was one of the things Amos liked so much about him. Time, experience and the relentless grind of life hadn’t inured Enoch to the magic of his old enthusiasms; for a Yorkshireman, he was surprisingly uncynical.

‘Anna reckons I should be campaigning on women’s suffrage,’ Amos said now, changing tack.

Enoch sat back in his chair and gave this new thought a moment’s consideration.

‘Adult suffrage,’ he said, ‘not female suffrage. Female suffrage is just a distraction.’

Amos whistled. ‘Don’t be saying that to Anna.’

‘Why not? Adult suffrage includes adult women. Why should disenfranchised women take priority over disenfranchised men?’

‘Because Anna says so,’ Amos said. He was only half joking.

‘I’ve seen them Pankhursts in action,’ Enoch said. ‘I reckon they see Labour as a shortcut to winning t’vote.’

‘And what’s up wi’ that?’

‘We ’ave one principal aim, Amos: to get more working men in Parliament. This Labour movement doesn’t ’ave firm enough foundations yet to go championing every so-called good cause. You stand up in Ardington and start shouting “Votes for Women” when there’s still one in four working men who don’t qualify, and you’ll look like a right crackpot.’

Amos sat down on the couch. Unused to regular service, its springs complained. ‘We should steer clear altogether then.’ He yawned, widely, convulsively.

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Enoch said. ‘I’m saying there’s
iniquities in our voting system that need tackling. One vote per ’ousehold is patent madness when you ’ave maybe three grown sons still living under your roof. I reckon that’s an issue that could be a vote winner for you round ’ere. And I’ll tell you what, there’d be no danger of a Tory win, or even a Liberal one, if every working-class man ’ad t’right to vote. Amos?’

There was no response.

‘Amos,’ Enoch said, more loudly, and Amos opened one eye. ‘I’m jiggered,’ he said. ‘Dog tired,’ and he closed it again.

‘Well, if you will turn up so bloody late. Where were you, anyroad?’

Again, no response. Enoch sighed heavily, like a disgruntled wife at the end of her tether. He stood and fetched a blanket from a wooden chest at the end of his bed, and draped it over Amos, pushing him sideways at the same time so that he ended up prone on the couch. This manoeuvre was accomplished none too gently, though Enoch tucked him in, huffing and tutting as he did so. A night sleeping in his good suit and tomorrow he’d wake up stiff and cross, berating Enoch for the lack of fresh milk for his tea. He stood for a moment looking down at Amos, who had surrendered to sleep still wearing his cap. Best leave it on, Enoch thought; it’ll not be getting any warmer in ’ere.

He went back to his desk, sat down again, and began to write.

A
mos should have been with Enoch by eight o’clock, and if he’d done as he’d planned, if he’d followed his diary and kept life simple, he would have made it comfortably. Union meetings at New Mill, Long Martley and Middlecar had taken him to half-past five, and he could have then popped home for a plate of Mrs Birtle’s Monday night bubble-and-squeak before catching the half-past six train from Netherwood to Barnsley. Instead, he’d taken a left turn at the top of Middlecar Lane and walked three miles to Dreaton Bridge. He’d bought a pie and a pint from the Bridge Tavern – poor fare, the pie cold, the beer warm – and had then continued on to the colliery on the southern outskirts of the town; he had no appointment, it was outside his geographical remit and – as such – it was absolutely none of his business. But he’d gone anyway, propelled by an impulse to see for himself just what Eve’s brother was up to.

Silas had been quick to assert himself: that much was clear without even walking the cinder path to the pit yard. A glossy new sign had been erected declaring Dreaton Main to be under the ownership of Whittam and Co., Avonmouth, Bristol: Managing Director Silas Whittam Esq. There was a crest of
some description, an emblem, painted alongside the company name. Amos squinted at it, trying to make it out. Waves, by the look of it, and a banana palm. He laughed; if that didn’t sum up the absurdity of this situation, he didn’t know what did.

The pit yard was fairly quiet; the doors to all the surface buildings were closed and the few men he could see paid him no attention. Amos stood at the centre of the yard and looked around in a leisurely way like a man in a gallery, admiring the exhibits. Collieries had never inspired odes to their beauty, but Dreaton Main wasn’t a bad-looking place. It was filthy with smoke and coal dust, and the slag heaps were as dispiriting as they were anywhere, but the workshops were built from mellow grey stone with slate roofs, as if someone years ago had actually given more than a second thought to their appearance and striven for something better than the habitual motley collection of outbuildings, whose cheap construction gave them the impermanent, higgledy-piggledy look of a failed frontier town. The headstocks and pulley wheels were in the old style and made of wood, but they looked in good order; better, at any rate, than the ones Amos had trusted his life to for thirty years at New Mill. The general impression was of a well-maintained place of industry: newly tarred weatherboards and freshly painted woodwork, the same nautical shade of blue as the sign at the top of the track. It was a surprise to Amos, this well kept yard, and an unwelcome one; he had hoped for something less.

A lad appeared, head down, leading a pony, and Amos hailed him.

‘Now then, son, I’m ’ere to see t’gaffer. Who’s on today?’

‘Mr Long,’ said the boy, immediately taken in by Amos’s bluff.

‘Frank Long?’

‘No.’ The boy looked confused. ‘Eric Long. There is no Frank Long.’

‘My mistake, much obliged. And what do they call you?’

‘Edward Wakefield.’ He fidgeted, scuffing the toe of his clogs on the stones; his eyes darted left and right.

‘Morten Wakefield’s lad?’

‘Aye.’

This was a stroke of luck. Amos knew Morten Wakefield from his knur and spell days: a cheerful bloke, with an endearing willingness to stand a man a pint, which singled him out in these parts.

‘Is ’e about then?’

‘No, ’e’s on days.’ The pony chucked his head in a mild display of impatience and the boy, clearly beset by anxiety, said, ‘I’d best get on, mister.’

‘Right-o Edward, but do your father a favour and give ’im this.’

Amos delved into his capacious jacket pocket and produced a YMA pamphlet, red ink on white paper: Minimum Wage for Miners, it said; The Time is Now.

‘Arcadian Hall, Barnsley, next Wednesday, everybody welcome, tell ’im.’

The boy shrank back as if he was being handed a ticking bomb, and Amos laughed.

‘Go on, it won’t bite,’ he said.

‘No ta, you’re all right,’ the boy said, but Amos stood there anyway, holding out the leaflet, so he took it. He didn’t look at it, though; instead he shoved it hastily out of sight. By now he looked profoundly uncomfortable, and Amos felt a pang of pity for him, crippled as he was by youth and timidity. He nodded kindly at the boy, who clicked his tongue at the pony and moved off, just as, across the yard, a door opened and a man – smartly dressed, well groomed – looked out.

‘If you’re after work, we’re not hiring,’ he said. He wore a three-piece suit and a gold fob watch and these, with his
southern vowels and milk-fed complexion, gave him away as one of the Whittam imports.

‘Eric Long?’ Amos said, crossing the yard.

The man looked affronted at this unexpected familiarity. ‘Indeed. And you are?’

‘Amos Sykes, area organiser for t’Yorkshire Miners’ Association.’ He smiled and held out a hand.

The man gave a bark of incredulous laughter. His own hands were pushed into his trouser pockets and that’s where they stayed.

‘You have some damned cheek.’ He spoke authoritatively, but he couldn’t have been quite thirty, thought Amos. He had a spot of high colour on each cheekbone and an unfortunate, half-hearted beard; if its purpose was to hide the jutting chin, it had failed. Amos smiled genially, as if nothing could be pleasanter than this chance encounter.

‘You’re a Bristol man, Mr Long?’

‘None of your bloody concern. What’s your business here?’

‘Oh, nothing sinister. Just wanted to introduce myself, open up t’lines of communication.’

‘You’re wasting your time. We have a non-union policy at Dreaton Main.’

‘So I understand. That’s a very backward-looking attitude, Mr Long, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘I mind very much, as it goes. We’ll run this colliery as we see fit and we won’t be taking advice from your sort.’ He sniffed: getting up his nose then, thought Amos.

Behind him, across the yard, the winding gear began to move and a few men had begun making their way down the track from the village. It was an odd time for the shift change to start. At every pit in the vicinity the shifts – days, afternoons and nights – began and ended at the same time. Half-past five in the morning. Half-past one in the afternoon. Half-past ten at night. You could set your watch by the activity of the
winding gear. Here, though, it was half-six, and the present shift was just coming up; either the men were working shorter hours, or longer ones, and Amos would have bet the contents of his wallet on the latter.

‘Are you a mining man yourself, Mr Long?’ he said.

The man gave him a cold stare. ‘I am now,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll know that miners endure t’worst working conditions of any section of our society.’

‘Not here, they don’t. Now, I’m about to close this door and get on with my work, so you might prefer to leave, if you don’t want to look a fool in front of this lot.’ He indicated the men who were now gathering outside the time office.

‘Oh, don’t you worry about me,’ Amos said. ‘It’s your own reputation you should be tending.’ He glanced backwards at the miners in the yard, then back again. ‘Bit early for t’night shift?’ he said, but the office door closed in his face with chilly finality. Amos shrugged and wandered over to the men, who fell silent at his approach. This didn’t perturb him in the least. Miners were a suspicious breed, even at the pits where he was a regular visitor; here, his face was unknown.