A Modern Tragedy (30 page)

“No, I didn't,” replied Milner with truth. But he could scarcely keep out of his face the elation which stirred his blood. The mere thought of a conflict with the employer class was a trumpet-call to him; he longed to be in the forefront of the industrial battle. With an effort he recalled himself to everyday realities, however.

“He won't do it yet, if we all stand firm together,” he said with decision. “Nobody must give in their name. It's all a bluff. We'll have a meeting at dinner-time, and one of them as goes home then can slip up with a message to the union.”

The informal meeting in the dinner hour was stormy, and much angry criticism was levelled at Milner's conduct of affairs. Epithets flew, and he was accused in round terms of bad leadership, swelled head, being too fond of the sound of his own voice, stirring up trouble, and putting the case badly to the union and the Lumbs. At one moment there was almost a vote of censure proposed against him, and several men hinted that a new shop-steward wouldn't be amiss.

Milner, his black eyes gleaming, his sallow face quivering with excitement, defended himself with passionate eloquence. It was chiefly the older men who attacked him, and the younger men soon rallied to his support.

Why should they be expected to accept every reduction an employer chose to offer? Why should they be suddenly asked to abandon an agreement which had been in force for more than ten years? Why should they tamely agree, without a word of protest, to dock themselves of several shillings a week? They'd a right to put up a fight against a reduction, hadn't they? It was only human nature to stick up for yourself, wasn't it? Other men in other mills would still go on earning the piece-rates they were asked to give up—this from Harry. And why should any one man have the right to decide how they should live? demanded Milner fiercely. In any case, the vote had been unanimous the other evening; surely they weren't going back on their own vote now?

“He can't do anything if only we all stand together,” repeated Milner with passion. “Nobody must give in their name, and then we've got him in a band.”

“He can't just sack the lot of us like that,” protested another man uneasily. “Why, it's as good as a lock-out!”

There was a chorus of agreement, and a voice shouted: “We won't accept his notice!”

“Aye, that's right,” said several men approvingly; and one added: “We'd best get th' union to write and tell him so.”

Accordingly on the second morning after the posting of the notice—during which period no names had been given in—Arnold received a letter from the union informing him that the employees concerned had considered the posting of his notices regarding a week's notice to terminate their employment, and the conditions of reëngagement, and had asked the union to advise Messrs. Lumb that they confirmed their previous decisions, as expressed in interviews and correspondence.
They will decline
, continued the letter,
to act upon your notice, and cannot accept either your modified piece-work proposals or the reversion to day rates
.

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Arnold impatiently. “Decline to act upon my notice! They must be mad!”

He wrote a hot reply to the union, pointing out the perfect legality of his proceedings, and referring them to his previous letters, then went down into the mill to try to make the position clear to his employees by personal conversation.

He approached one or two whose age, skill and personality made them prominent, and told them sternly that they could put any nonsense about not accepting his notice right out of their heads. The notice was perfectly within his right to give, and he had formally given it. Either they gave in their names by Saturday as willing for re-engagement on the new terms, or their employment terminated when the buzzer sounded next Wednesday evening.

“And what guarantee have we that you'll tek us all on at new rates?” demanded one man. “T' notice didn't say owt about that.”

“Aye—or keep us when you've got us?” demanded Harry Schofield, who had joined the group. “What guarantee have we o' that?”

“None,” said the harassed Arnold sharply. “You know what trade is just now, don't you? I shall do the best I can for you; that's all I can say.”

“Seems to me we're going to be done out of a job either way,” commented one man with a sniff.

There was a murmur of agreement, and Harry observed: “I reckon we'll do best to do as Milner says, and stick out together for the piece rates.”

Arnold exclaimed in exasperation. “Now look here, Harry,” he said in a tone he strove to make conciliatory. “Don't be a fool about this—don't let yourself be led by the nose by Milner. Of course he's your brother, so I don't want to say anything against him, but you know yourself that the chaps chosen for shop-stewards are always the most inflammatory gas-bags in the place.”

This offended Harry both in his pride of family and pride of class. “We choose them as looks after our interests best, I reckon,” he said stiffly.

“Well, you made a mistake when you choose Milner, then,” said Arnold drily. “Don't you realise, Harry, that you mayn't even get the dole? You're refusing to work at full union rates of pay, you know, all the lot of you.”

“Of course if you're trying to bully us into it,” said Harry, indignant: “That's intimidation, that is, Mester Arnold.”

“Aye,” said one of the older men: “Mester Lumb wouldn't talk that like, if he was here.”

This allusion to his father's continued absence stung Arnold to the quick. “Very well,” he threw out hotly. “I'll say no more. Have it your own way. Do as you like. Make fools of yourselves to your hearts' content. But don't say I didn't warn you.”

He walked away with a hasty step, and made no further attempts at persuasion. Indeed they would have been useless, for the men were now thoroughly alienated and angered; their blood was up, just as Arnold's was, and they were determined not to be beaten. In a word both sides were spoiling for a fight.

By Saturday noon only six men had given in their names as willing to re-engage on the new terms, and none of these held key positions. Messrs. Lumb were working that morning—the first time for months that the mill had run on a Saturday. This was, in fact, a last minute rush on Arnold's part to get work through before the fatal Wednesday; but the men did not realise this, and were cheered by what they took for a sign of trade revival. They felt more than ever certain that Arnold could not afford to lose their services if Valley Mill was going to grow busy, and dispersed to their homes at noon in some jubilation.

Milner spent the afternoon in and about the Municipal Library. He changed his book, studied some weekly newspapers in the reading-room, and then sat down on the terrace outside—it was a lovely day—reading and thinking. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction with the progress of the Lumb dispute; he had led the men to triumph, warded off a brutal attack on the living standard of his class, made a striking demonstration of trade union solidarity. He had no doubt at all that now Arnold Lumb had seen the unshakable determination of his men, he would resume negotiations with them through the union; the notices would be suspended for the duration of the negotiations; there would be lots of meetings and letters; and, finally, after a good deal of grumbling, Arnold Lumb would give in, making, to save his face, some silly stipulation which after a few weeks would be allowed to drop and remain forgotten. Yes, Milner was well satisfied with the part he had played. He had struck a
firm blow in his great cause. “The world should be managed primarily for those who work, not for those who own,” he reminded himself intensely, and went off home to tea.

The day was so warm that many members of the Thwaite Street households were sitting out on their yellow-stoned steps; several of the old people, whose bones needed softer care, being accommodated with chairs on the pavement. None of the Schofields were visible, however; and this surprised Milner—for the sociable Harry and the sun-loving Jessie were fond of sitting thus—until he reflected that he might be later than he had thought, and his family already at tea. He quickened his step, passed through the open doors into the Schofields' living room, and found the household sitting there in silence. Old Mrs. Schofield was rocking herself steadily in an ominous kind of way; an open newspaper lay on Harry's knee; Jessie had the baby standing on her lap, but was gazing over his shoulder and responding only mechanically to his caresses; Dorothy, playing silently on the hearth-rug, looked up at her uncle with a subdued and timid air; there was no sign of a meal on the table. Obviously something was wrong.

“What's up?” asked Milner briefly, hanging up his cap behind the door.

“You'll soon find out what's up, my lad,” said Mrs. Schofield in a menacing tone.

“Tek a look at that,” said Harry, passing him the newspaper (which proved to be the evening issue of the
Hudley News
, bought by Harry for the cricket scores) at arm's length, and pointing to a place on it with his thumb.

Milner read the item. It was an advertisement from Arnold Lumb for experienced scourers and cloth-finishers, concluding:
full union rates paid
.

Milner turned pale.

“It's all bluff,” he said hoarsely. “It means nowt. He can't manage without us.”

“Well, I hope he can't,” said his mother with a sarcastic cackle, rocking herself vigorously to and fro. “If he can, tha'll hear summat tha won't like about it, I tell thee straight, my lad. I didn't bring nine childer into the world to be left without a man to addle for me in my old age, Milner Schofield.”

“You've got your pension, mother,” said Harry irritably.

“That won't go far wi' six on us,” said Mrs. Schofield with a practical air.

“Well, Milner and Harry'll be on the Labour Exchange at the worst, Mrs. Schofield,” put in Jessie soothingly, smiling and nodding at the child on her lap, who kicked and gurgled in reply. “They'll sign on all the week now, instead of three days, that's all.”

Milner and Harry exchanged a quick glance. Each read acute uneasiness in the other's eyes, and turned away his own lest it should be visible there too.

“You're very quick to tek it that this'll put us out of a job,” said Milner. (He could not bring himself to use the word
unemployed
in connection with himself and Harry.)

“The union'll have a lot to say about it first. It's more like a lock-out to my way o' thinking. It's a dispute, anyway, so we shall get strike pay.”

“Well, if that's so, we ought to put a notice in t' paper, warning other men off,” said Harry in a more cheerful tone.

“Aye, we did—I'll go see about it now,” said Milner eagerly.

He took down his cap and rushed out at once in search of the branch secretary, disregarding Jessie's suggestion that he should wait for his tea, glad to have something to do, or at any rate to appear to himself to have something to do, to ease the situation of his fellow employees.

When he returned, an hour later, hot and disheartened, he found his family sitting about in the same attitude of expectancy as before, the meal having meanwhile been eaten and cleared.

“We didn't wait for you, Milner,” said Jessie in a tone of apology, rising at once and filling the kettle.

“It's all right,” said Milner wearily. “I don't want owt to eat, but I'll be glad of a cup o' tea.” He made an effort, and forced himself to add: “T' secretary says, he says we mun wait till Wednesday. He'll see it gets in for Wednesday night.”

Harry received this in gloomy silence.

All day on Monday men streamed into the office of Messrs. Lumb in response to Arnold's advertisement. An intense curiosity, and a feverish bitterness, was felt by Messrs. Lumb's present workmen towards these newcomers. Tidings of their appearance was passed eagerly about the mill, and errands which led near the office were widely invented. It was generally agreed that there was nobody notable among the applicants—and this was probably true, for Arnold had provisionally booked, privately, a few men for the most important positions, immediately after posting the notice in the previous week.

The atmosphere of Valley Mill grew more tense and inimical every hour. Arnold, whose hair had developed streaks of grey, looked white and strained, and spoke in an artificial voice when any orders had to be given, but he was too busy interviewing applicants to be seen much outside the office.

In the mill nobody was normal; all work was performed either much better or much worse than usual, according to the effect which suspense and dread had on the workers' nerves. The dinner hour was a confusion of loud resentments; Arnold Lumb and Milner were the chief subjects of attack, but the union and the new workers came in for their share too.

“Scabs!” said Milner bitterly.

“Scab nothing!” retorted another man. “They're getting full union rates, aren't they?”

“They're blacklegs, all the same,” said Milner. “And come to that,” he added, fixing the man with a piercing eye, “You're one yourself, I reckon. You're one of them that's put your name down to stay on at the new rates, I'll wager; aren't you?”

“Aye, I am, and I'm non ashamed on it,” replied the other. “I'm leaving my old work o' Wednesday evening, and starting a new job o' Thursday morning; that's how I look at it. At full union time rates, mind.”

Milner gradually became unhappily conscious that, however right he was on the general question, the large principle, of resisting wage-cuts to the death as a blow aimed at the whole working-class standard of life, the special case he had chosen to fight was not a very strong one. To conceal this conviction, from himself and from the others, he began to talk more loudly and vehemently than ever; quivering with rage, he denounced Arnold's action as a piece of gross and vicious tyranny, the more vicious because it was so clever, so apparently conformable to trade union practice.