The Stars Look Down (75 page)

That night Nugent came up to David’s flat. He sat down, feeling for his pipe, searching the room with his quiet, contemplative eyes. His face looked more cadaverous than ever and the strands of hair streaked across his brow were few and thin but his boyish and impenetrable cheerfulness prevailed. He lit his pipe, then he said:

“I’ve been meaning to come up for some time. It’s a snug little place you have here.”

“Not so bad for a pound a week,” David answered shortly. “It isn’t all here, of course. The blasted frying-pan is in the kitchen.”

Nugent’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“You mustn’t bother about that sort of nonsense,” he said kindly. “It’ll probably do you a bit of good with the lads up North.”

“I want to do them a bit of good,” David chafed.

“That’ll all come,” Nugent said. “We can’t do much at the moment beyond marking time. We’re up against a solid Tory wall, 419 seats to our 151. What can you do in the face of that? Nothing but sit tight and wait till our turn comes. Mind you, I know how you feel. You want to get into something.
And you can’t do it. You want to be done with formality and red tape and divisions and the whole smug procedure. You want results. Well, you just wait, David. One of these days you’ll have plenty of chance to cut loose.”

David was silent; then he said slowly:

“It’s the damned procrastination that seems so senseless. There’s trouble brewing in the mines. You can see it a mile away. When the settlement runs out the owners will come up in a body for longer hours and lower wages. In the meantime things are allowed to drift.”

“They kept playing about with the idea of another subsidy.” Nugent smiled gently. “In 1921 ten million pounds were evaporated in a subsidy. Then they had the great idea—a commission, always a brain-wave. But before the commission brings out its findings, the Government pays another subsidy. Then the commission brings out its findings and condemns all subsidies. It’s highly instructive. It’s even amusing.”

“When in the name of God are we going to get Nationalisation?” David asked in a burning voice. “It’s the only solution. Have we got to wait till they offer it to us on a plate?”

“We’ve got to wait till a Labour Government gets it,” Nugent said quietly. He smiled. “In the meantime carry on with your blue books and your frying-pan.”

There came another silence. And Nugent went on:

“The personal equation is important. There’s so many damned distractions and side issues to the game that you’re apt to get lost in them unless you’re careful. There’s nothing like public life for searching out a man’s private weaknesses. Personal ambition and social ambition and damned selfishness and self-interest, that’s the curse of it, Davey. Take your friend Bebbington, for instance. Do you think he cares about the twenty-odd thousand Durham miners that returned him? Not one twopenny curse! All he cares about is Bebbington. Man, it would break your heart. Take Chalmers, for another. Bob Chalmers was a perfect zealot when he came up four years ago. He swore to me with tears in his eyes that he would get a seven-hour day for the spinners or kill himself in the attempt. Well! the seven-hour day hasn’t come to Lancashire yet and Bob isn’t dead. He’s very much alive. He’s been bitten by the gold bug. He’s in with the Clinton lot, passing on useful information, and making money hand over fist in the City. Cleghorn is another. Only it’s the social side with him. He married a society wife. See! And now he’d
miss any committee under the sun for a West End first night with the lady wife. I try to be generous, but I’m telling you, David, it would drive a man to despair. I’m no saint, but I hope to God I’m sincere. That’s why I’m glad to my very roots to see you dug in here and trying to live a plain and honest kind of life. Stick to it, man, for God’s sake, stick to it!”

David had never seen Nugent so overwrought. But it was only for a moment. He took command of himself again, the habitual serenity flowed back into his face.

“Sooner or later you’ll be up against it. You’ll run into corruption like a pitman runs into styfe. The place is thick with it, David. Watch the bar of the House of Commons. Watch who you drink with. Watch Bebbington, Chalmers and Dickson. I know I’m talking like a good templar’s tract, but it’s God’s truth none the less. If you can only be straight with yourself it doesn’t matter a damn what else happens.” He knocked out his pipe: “That’s the end of the sermon. I had to get rid of it. And after that, if I ever walk in here and find your mantelpiece cluttered up with trashy invitations I’ll kick you good and hard. If you want to amuse yourself, come round and watch the cricket with me at the Oval, when the good weather comes in. I’m a member. And I’m fond of it.”

David smiled:

“That’s your form of corruption.”

“Exactly! It costs me two guineas a year. And I wouldn’t give it up if they offered me the party leadership.” With a look at the clock he rose quietly and stretched himself. “I must be going now.” He moved to the door. “By the by, I haven’t forgotten about your maiden speech. There’ll be a grand chance for you in about a fortnight when Clarke proposes the amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. That’s an opportunity to get something off your chest. Good night.”

David sat down when Nugent had gone. He felt better, soothed within himself. Nugent always exerted that influence upon him. It was perfectly true that he had been restless—the inertia of parliamentary routine was a dull anticlimax to the fierce encounter of the election and the burning enthusiasm of his beliefs. He resented the slowness, the waste of time, the pointless talking, the absurd questions, the suave answers, the polite insincerity—all dust in the eyes. Instead of a swift whirring of wheels he heard only the ponderous
clanking of the machine. But Nugent made him feel his resentment as both natural and absurd. He must cultivate patience. He considered eagerly and with a certain apprehension his maiden speech—it was decidedly important that his speech should be arresting and good; he must make certain about that speech. It was a wonderful opportunity, the Amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. He saw already, quite clearly, how he would deal with it, the points he would make, what he must emphasise and avoid. The speech began to form beautifully and strongly, to create itself like a living thing, within his mind. He was lifted right out of the room by the force of his own thought; the pit absorbed him and he was once again in the dark tunnels where men worked in constant danger of mutilation and death. It was so easy not to worry about these things if one did not know. But he did know. And he would force the living image of his knowledge into the minds and hearts of those who did not know. It would be different then.

As he sat by the fire, very still and tense, there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Tucker entered the room.

“There’s a lady to see you,” she announced.

He came back to himself with a start.

“A lady?” he repeated, and all at once a wild hope entered his head. He had always felt that Jenny was in London. Was it possible, could it possibly be that Jenny had come back to him?

“She’s downstairs. Shall I show her up?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

He stood up, facing the door, with a queer turning of his heart. Then his expression changed, his heart ceased to turn, the swift hope passed as soon as it had risen. It was not Jenny but Hilda Barras.

“Yes, it’s only me,” she declared, with her usual directness, seeing the sudden alteration in his face. “I got an idea of your whereabouts from the paper this morning and I determined to thrust my congratulations upon you. If you’re too busy say so and I’ll clear out.”

“Don’t be absurd, Hilda,” he protested. It was an amazing surprise to see Hilda Barras but after his first disappointment he was pleased to see her. She wore a plain grey costume and a plain but good fox fur. Her dark severe face struck a familiar chord of memory; he suddenly remembered their flaming arguments in the old days. He smiled. And the
strange thing was that she smiled too; she had never smiled when he knew her before—not much.

“Sit down,” he said. “This really is an event.”

She sat down and peeled off her gloves; her hands were very white and strong and supple.

“What are you doing in London?” he inquired.

“That’s rather good from you,” she said calmly. “Considering that you’ve been here about a month. That’s the worst of you provincials.”

“Provincial yourself.”

“Are we going to start an argument?”

So she remembered the arguments too! He answered:

“Not without hot milk and biscuits.”

She actually laughed. When she laughed she was quite pleasant: she had very good teeth. She was much less forbidding than she had been; her contracted, sullen frown was gone, she looked happier and sure of herself. She said:

“It’s quite obvious that while I’ve been following your career with interest you’ve completely forgotten my existence.”

“Oh no,” he contradicted. “I knew you had qualified, about four years ago, as a doctor.”

“A doctor,” she echoed sardonically. “What kind of thing is that? You’re not mixing me up with the Luke Fildes picture by any chance? No, there’s no ipecacuanha and squills about me. I’m a surgeon—thank God. I took my M.S. with distinction. It probably doesn’t interest you, but I’m an honorary at the St. Elizabeth’s Women’s Hospital, just across the river from you here—Clifford Street, Chelsea.”

“That’s fine, Hilda,” he said, pleased.

“Yes, isn’t it?” There was no satire in her voice now, she spoke simply and sincerely.

“You like it, then?”

“I love it,” she said with a sudden intensity. “I couldn’t live without my work.”

So that’s what has changed her, he thought instinctively. Just then, she glanced up, and with almost uncanny perception she read his mind.

“I was a beast, wasn’t I?” she said calmly. “A beast to Grace and Aunt Carrie and everybody—including myself. Don’t contradict me, please, even for the sake of argument. This visit is really an act of reparation.”

“I hope you’ll repeat it.”

“Now that is nice of you,” she flushed slightly, grateful. “I’ll be quite frank. I’ve terribly few friends in London, terribly and pathetically few. I’m too stiff. I’m no good at meeting people. I don’t make friends easily. But I always did like you. Don’t misunderstand that, please. There’s no silly nonsense about me. Not one particle. So I only thought that if you were willing we might sharpen our wits against each other occasionally.”

“Wits! he exclaimed. “You haven’t any!”

“That’s the spirit,” she said enthusiastically. “I knew you wouldn’t misunderstand me.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets and his back to the fire watching her.

“I’m going to have my supper. Cocoa and biscuits. Will you have some?”

“I will,” she agreed. “Do you make the cocoa in the frying-pan?”

“All square,” he admitted; and went into the kitchen.

While he was in the kitchen she heard him coughing and when he came back she said:

“What’s that cough?”

“Smoker’s cough. Plus a little German gas.”

“You ought to have it seen to.”

“I thought you said you were a surgeon.”

They had cocoa and biscuits. They talked and they argued. She told him of her work, of the operating theatre, the women who came under her knife. In a sense he envied her; this real outlet, a tangible succouring of suffering humanity.

But here she smiled:

“I’m no humanitarian. It’s all technique. Applied mathematics. Cold and deliberate.” She added: “All the same it has made
me
human.”

“That’s a debatable point,” he said. And they went at it again. Then they talked of his coming speech. She was interested and excited. He outlined his scheme on which she violently disagreed. It was all very pleasant and like old times.

Ten o’clock came. And she rose to go.

“You must come and see me,” she said. “I make much better cocoa than you.”

“I will,” he said. “But you don’t.”

In her walk back to Chelsea, Hilda reflected with an inward
glow that the evening had been a success. It had taken a strong effort of will on her part to make the visit. She had been afraid, knowing that it was a visit liable to be misunderstood. But David had not misunderstood. He was much too wise, altogether too sensible. Hilda was pleased. Hilda was a fine surgeon. But she was not very strong on psychology.

On the night of his speech she bought a late paper eagerly. It was noticed, and noticed favourably. The morning papers were more favourable still. The
Daily Herald
gave it a column and a half, even
The Times
referred in gracious terms to the sincere and moving eloquence of the new member for Sleescale.

Hilda was delighted. She thought, I will, I must ring him up. Before Hilda went into the wards she rang up David and congratulated him warmly. She came away from the telephone satisfied. Perhaps she had been a little too glowing. But the speech had been wonderful. And naturally, it was the speech which concerned her!

Arthur stood at the window of the office of the Neptune, staring out at the men who filled the pit yard, reminded painfully of the lock-out he had experienced in 1921, the first of a series of industrial disputes into which he had been dragged, all leading towards and culminating in the General Strike of 1926. He passed his hand across his brow, anxious to forget the whole senseless conflict. Sufficient that it was over, the strike broken and the men back, filling the pit yard, pressing forward, pressing and pressing towards the timekeeper’s shed. They did not ask for work. They clamoured for work. It was written upon their silent faces. Work! Work! At any price! To look upon these silent faces was to see how glorious had been the victory for the mine owners. The men were not beaten, they were crushed; in their eyes was the panic
fear of a winter of starvation. Any conditions, any terms, but work, work at any price! They pressed forward, elbowing and struggling towards the timekeeper’s shed where Hudspeth stood with old Pettit, behind the bar, checking and entering the sheet.

Arthur’s eyes remained bound to the scene. As each man came forward Hudspeth scrutinised him, weighed him up, looked at Pettit and nodded. If he nodded it was all right, the man got work and the man took his check and walked past the bar like a soul admitted into heaven past the judgment seat. The look upon the silent faces of the men who were admitted was strange: a sudden lightening, a great spasm of relief, of thanksgiving almost unbelievable at being readmitted to the black underworld of the Paradise. But not all the men were admitted, oh no, there was not work for all the men. With a six-hour shift there would have been work for all the men, but there had been a glorious victory for the forces of Law and Order, directed by an exultant, pro-Strike Cabinet, and backed by the British people, so the shift was an eight-hour shift. Never mind, though, never mind, don’t bother about that now, any terms, any conditions, only give us work, for God’s sake work!