The Shadow of War (7 page)

Burnley Mechanics' Institute is the town's finest building. A neoclassical Victorian masterpiece, its Palladian façade, complete with Corinthian columns and elegant pediments, would readily serve as a gentleman's club in St James's, in London. Although it is beginning to acquire the grime that is the hallmark of Burnley's other buildings, its soft honey-coloured sandstone still stands out against the darker shades of the local millstone grit.

While it would sit well in London's club land, the clientele in the Mechanics' Reading Room on this warm sunny evening could not offer a greater contrast to the aristocrats of White's or Boodle's. The gathering is an odd assortment; they number fewer than thirty and have a wide range of views, but all are committed socialists of one kind or another. All, that is, except Tommy Broxup and Mick Kenny, who are there to see the kind of people their wives admire so much and seem to spend more and more time talking about.

The audience is devoted to improving the lot of Burnley's downtrodden masses, but few of them are from the town's impoverished communities. In the main, they are schoolteachers, civil servants and office workers; most have clean suits and are well turned out. There are only half a dozen men who look like mill workers or colliers, and two of them are Tommy and Mick. Only five of the gathering are women.

Mick's wife, Cath, and Tommy's wife, Mary, are seated at the front. The two men are at the back, trying not to be noticed. The two girls are at the front because they want to
be close to the night's guest speaker, Mr Harry Hyndman, the mercurial leader of the newly formed British Socialist Party.

Cath has been committed to the cause since 1905, when her father took her to the annual conference of the Social-Democratic Federation, which was held in Burnley. Only just thirteen at the time and not able to understand much of the political jargon, she was, nevertheless, entranced, especially when Hyndman spoke. He talked of the ‘regeneration and emancipation of humanity' and said that the mission of socialists was to ‘remove from the great mass of the people all the hideous conditions of environment which make their lives a living hell'.

He finished with rousing lines that brought tears to Cath's eyes; words she would remember for the rest of her life.

‘Those of us who would free others must themselves be free; those who would purify others must themselves be pure; those who would strengthen others must themselves be strong. If we are all those things, we will have in our hearts the first faint gleam of the dawn of a new social era. Comrades, let us march forward together.'

After Mick and Tommy's meeting in the Keighley Green Club, Cath and Mary have become firm friends and Mary is devouring the reams of socialist literature that Cath is giving her. Both excelled at school but, as girls, have no future other than a life in the mill. Mary left school at thirteen to become an ‘
under-fettler
', a role for which a small child is ideal, as it involves cleaning the cotton waste from under the working looms.

She is now a fully fledged four-loom weaver and works at the Daneshouse Mill in Stoneyholme, where Tommy is a
tackler
, responsible for the maintenance of the looms. Cath works at the Trafalgar Mill in the Weavers Triangle in the centre of the town. Both mills are large and successful, employing hundreds of weavers. Cath and Mary are already
notorious as ‘troublemakers'. As the vast majority of weavers are men, and most of them resent women moving in and taking their jobs, the unions are almost as hostile to them as the owners. All the union officials are men and, as Cath puts it, ‘left wing when it comes to men's wages and conditions, but right wing when it comes to women'.

Mr Hyndman is introduced by the chairman, a member of the local Fabian Society, who describes the guest speaker's illustrious record at Trinity College Cambridge, where he read mathematics, before becoming a lawyer and journalist. He was a first-class cricketer, playing for the MCC and Sussex, and travelled the world, becoming friends with, among others, Mr Karl Marx and Mr Friedrich Engels. Tommy and Mick are impressed by the visitor's cricketing pedigree but are clueless about the identities of Marx and Engels, except that they know they are not cricketers.

Hyndman gives an inspirational speech, which is received with rapturous applause. After the speech, there are numerous questions, few of which make much sense to Tommy and Mick, who are becoming restless. They have been in the pub and had a few jugs of beer, which is not conducive to intellectual insight. Suddenly, Tommy jumps to his feet to ask a question. When the chairman asks him to name himself and his affiliation, Mary and Cath turn round. A look of horror immediately flashes across their faces.

‘I'm Tommy Broxup. I'm affiliated to nowt, but I'm still askin' me question. Mr Hyndman, tha can talk like a good 'un, I'll grant thee that. But when that lad introduced thee, he told us abaht Cambridge an' all that. So, I'm wonderin', when tha spouts abaht t'poverty o' workin' people, 'ow dost tha know what tha's talkin' abaht?'

There are a few ripples of laughter in the room, but most are embarrassed that a local man, speaking with an accent they are all trying hard to lose, should be so rude to their guest. Mick pulls Tommy's jacket to get him to sit down.

Mr
Hyndman is unperturbed, smiling broadly.

‘Mr Broxup, those of us who are fortunate by accident of birth to have been afforded many of life's privileges carry a great responsibility to help, where we can, to right the world's wrongs. I cannot hide my past, or pretend it didn't happen, nor would I want to. I'm proud of what I have achieved. All I would ask of you, as a fellow human being, is to judge me by what I do now and what I do in the future, not by my past.'

The speaker's thoughtful reply brings another round of enthusiastic applause, particularly from Cath and Mary. It also impresses Mick. He looks at his new pal, Tommy, who, despite his somewhat inebriated state, is thinking deeply. A few more questions are asked before the meeting is brought to a close. As it does so, Tommy gets to his feet and walks to the front of the room. The audience, knowing Tommy's predilection for violence, is anxious, but Hyndman seems untroubled and strides forward to meet Tommy halfway. He is as tall as the Burnley man, but much larger, with his long auburn beard making him look quite formidable.

Tommy grasps Hyndman's hand and shakes it vigorously.

‘I were out of order, Mr Hyndman. Tha's reet, tha' musn't judge a man by 'is background.'

‘My name is Henry. May I call you Tommy?'

‘Aye, yer may. I hear tha laiks at cricket. Me an' a couple o' lads are laikin' agin Lowerhouse tomorrow. Come an' 'ave a knock.'

‘But I'm an old man. And not registered, Tommy.'

‘It doesn't matter, we're only Burnley Thirds. Just a few o' t'lads; casual, like.'

‘Well, I'm speaking in Nelson at seven thirty, and I haven't wielded a bat in many a year …'

‘Tha'll be alreet, we start at five thirty. We'll get the Lowerhouse lads to concede t'toss and tha can open fer us. Rose
Grove Station is just up t'road. Nelson is only fifteen minutes.'

‘Well, Tommy, on that basis, how can I refuse?'

The following evening, at five thirty on the dot, to the bewilderment of the twenty or so spectators and to the chagrin of the Lowerhouse Third Eleven, Henry Hyndman, founder of the British Socialist Party, opens the batting for Burnley Cricket Club's Thirds. Over seventy years old, and several stones heavier than when in his prime, he bats with the trousers of his heavy woollen suit pushed into his socks and tucks the bottom of his beard into his waistcoat. There are many in the crowd who remark on the uncanny resemblance to the great cricketing legend, ‘The Champion', Dr William Gilbert Grace.

Tommy also opens, but is out for two in the second over, bringing in Vinny Sagar, Tommy's pal and the club's most promising youngster. When Hyndman has to retire an hour later to catch the train to Nelson, he has scored 78 off just 51 balls, including 3 sixes and 13 fours, with Vinny contributing a commendable 16. The great socialist leader leaves the field to a standing ovation and a handshake from the members of both teams.

Tommy is the last to grasp his hand.

‘Thanks to thee, Henry.'

‘Thank you, Tommy; I hope you go on to win.'

‘We will. Vinny'll get fifty, he
ollus
does, and we'll make a hundred and sixty, thanks to thy seventy-eight. They'll be lucky to get a hundred and twenty.'

‘It was my pleasure, Tommy. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.'

Tommy walks over to the boundary with Hyndman and beckons to one of the spectators to escort his guest to the station.

‘Tell me, Henry, this socialism malarkey, every bugger bein' equal an' all that, will it ever 'appen?'

‘Undoubtedly,
Tommy. In fact, it already has – for example, during the Paris Commune, and a few other places – albeit briefly. If we can persuade men like you to believe in it, instead of old fuddy-duddies like me, it will happen for certain. And soon.'

Tommy is lost in thought as he watches his guest leave. Then the opposing captain bellows at him. It is his turn to umpire.

‘Art laikin' Tommy, or what?'

Burnley Thirds win the game easily.

That evening, Mick and Cath Kenny and Tommy and Mary Broxup are sitting with the team to enjoy a few post-match drinks in the Lowerhouse's small wooden pavilion. Cath is a teetotaller and is only drinking ginger beer, but Mary is fond of Mackeson, the new milk stout that is growing in popularity.

The men, who have played in their working clothes, have stripped off to their vests and trousers and taken off their clogs and socks. Mary and Cath are still wrapped in their long voluminous skirts and petticoats, their head and shoulders covered by heavy Lancashire shawls, the standard dress for mill workers. Only well-to-do ladies wear the latest Edwardian styles with pleated skirts, tailored jackets and feathered hats.

Cath is concerned that young Vinny is quaffing ale as quickly as Tommy and Mick.

‘Our Vinny, tha doesn't 'ave to drink them pints as quick as these two daft buggers.'

Mary agrees.

‘Our Tommy were a grand cricketer an' could laik a fair game o' football until he started suppin' ale by t'gallon.'

Tommy springs to Vinny's defence.

‘Stop
moitherin
', woman, t'lad'll be alreet. Let 'im enjoy his ale.'

Mick
thinks it's a good idea to change the subject.

‘So, Tommy, tha were impressed wi' Hyndman's battin', but what abaht 'is politics?'

‘Aye, he can bat; he's a proper cricketer. He's what, seventy? Not bad fer an old 'un.'

Mary notices that Tommy has not answered the other part of Mick's question.

‘An' his politics?'

‘Well, I've been thinkin'. He meks some good points, I'll give 'im that. Mary's told me abaht that Paris Commune thing. But it's all them long words – prola … terrion … or summat.

Cath comes to his rescue.

‘ “Proletarian”, Tommy; that's us, t'workin' class.'

‘You mean them as got nowt!'

‘Reet. T'socialists want to end all that an' create a fair an' equal world.'

‘It'll ne'er 'appen, lass.'

‘Oh it will, Tommy. Won't it, Mary?'

‘I 'ope so, Cath. But it means daft buggers like this lot comin' to their senses.'

Mary begins to raise her voice.

‘Dost tha' know, you men, two million o' thy comrades are on strike down south reet now? London's buildin' workers, dockers, an' all sorts; they've bin out fer weeks.'

Tommy tries to calm his wife down.

‘Mary, keep thy voice down. We're in a cricket pavilion, not a public meetin'.'

‘I won't keep me voice down! You lot need to listen, an' all t'other men in 'ere. That Mrs Pankhurst were arrested last week fer t'eighth time. An' they've been force-feedin' t'suffragettes fer years; it's not reet.'

Tommy rises to the bait, but with a mischievous grin on his face.

‘There's some what reckon they should be flogged. Or their husbands need to give 'em a good seein' to!'

Mary is
livid and clips Tommy around the ear. It makes little impact, and he starts to laugh loudly. So Mary picks up his half-empty mug of beer and throws its contents in his face. There is a sudden silence in the pavilion, and Tommy's expression changes dramatically. Mick sees what's happening, rests his hand on Tommy's arm and nods at Cath to get Mary home.

‘Tha'll be needin' another pint, our Tommy. Vinny, ged 'em in.'

Mary bursts into tears as Cath leads her to the door, where they bump straight into Nat ‘Twaites' Haythornthwaite, who has arrived to join the evening's drinking.

‘Eh, what's up 'ere, then?'

Mick pulls him into a chair.

‘Shurrup, Twaites, an' sit down.'