The Stars Look Down (80 page)

With a jerky movement he looked at the clock. He must let Armstrong know at once. He flung open the door and
went quickly along the corridor towards Armstrong’s room.

He spent half an hour with Armstrong deciding which of the men must go. It had come to that now. Arthur himself insisted on weighing and considering each individual case before striking out the name. Nothing could have been more painful for him; some of the men were old hands, experienced and skilful men who had been getting coal in the Neptune for twenty years and more. But they had to go. They had to go to join the six hundred men upon the dole, to swell the destitution and discontent that seethed in Sleescale.

At last it was done. Arthur watched Armstrong cross the yard to the timekeeper’s box with the white sheet fluttering in his hand. A strange sense of having slain these men worked within his breast, hurting him. He raised his hand to his forehead and pressed his forehead regardless of the trembling of his hand. Then he turned and walked back into his own office.

The office was not empty. Just inside the door Hudspeth was waiting for him, waiting with a red and angry face. Hudspeth had a lad with him, a big lump of a youngster who stood sulkily with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his cap. The lad was Bert Wicks, Arthur saw, the son of Jake Wicks, the men’s checkweigher. He worked in Globe Coal. One look at the pair showed Arthur it was trouble, and his nerves vibrated through his body.

“What is it?” he said, trying to remain calm.

Hudspeth said:

“Look.” And he held out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

They all stared at the cigarettes and the box of matches, even Bert Wicks stared, and the effect of these trivial articles was clearly enormous.

Hudspeth said:

“In the stables, too. In the new Globe roadway, sitting there smoking in the stables, among the straw—excuse me, Mr. Barras, but you wouldn’t believe it. Forbes, the deputy, just brought him outbye!”

Arthur kept staring at the cigarettes and the matches; he seemed unable to withdraw his eyes from the matches especially. Little waves kept bursting over him, over his nerves. He had to keep his whole body clenched to suppress the waves which broke over him and over his nerves. There was firedamp in the new Globe headings, recent inspections
had revealed firedamp in explosive concentration. He was afraid to look at young Wicks for fear everything inside him would break loose.

“What have you to say?”

“I didn’t do nowt,” Bert Wicks said.

“You were smoking.”

“I wore only hevin’ a puff in the stable. I diddent do nowt.”

A little shiver went through Arthur.

“You took matches inbye. You were smoking.”

Wicks said nothing.

“In spite of the regulations,” Arthur went on with set lips, “and all my warnings about naked lights in Globe.”

Bert Wicks twisted the peak of his cap. He knew what the men thought about Arthur, what they said about him too, cursing everything he did from his coddling to his blasted safety regulations. He was tough, Bert was, he was not going to let himself be put down. Half frightened and half sullen, he said:

“My fethur says there’s niver been no firedamp in the Neptune. He says the order agin matches is all b—s.”

Arthur’s nerves broke, everything inside him broke loose. The ignorance, the stupidity, the insolence. He had sacrificed himself, nearly ruined himself, yes, half killed himself with work and worry to make the Neptune safe, to give the men a decent deal. And this was the answer. He lost himself. He took a step forward and hit Wicks in the face.

“You fool,” he said; his breath came panting like he was running. “You cursed ignorant fool. Do you want to blow the pit to bits? Do you want us with another disaster? Do you want that? Do you want it, I say? Here am I throwing decent workmen out the pit with you skulking about in a corner, loafing, smoking, ready to blow us all to damnation. Get out, for God’s sake. Get out of my sight. You’re sacked. Take your matches and your filthy cigarettes. Go on, get out before I kick you out.”

He caught Wicks by the shoulders, spun him round and fired him through the door. Wicks went sprawling his full length on the corridor outside, and hit his leg against the step. Arthur banged the door.

Silence in the office. Arthur leaned back against his desk, still breathing like he had been running; he seemed scarcely
able to breathe. Hudspeth gave him one quick perturbed glance. It was instinctive that glance and Arthur saw it.

“He deserved it,” he cried. “I had to sack him!”

“Ay, you wouldn’t want to keep a lad like him,” Hudspeth said, staring awkwardly at the floor.

“I can’t sit down under that sort of thing!”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Hudspeth said, still staring uncomfortably at the floor. He paused. “He’ll go straight and tell his father, of course—Jake Wicks, the check-weigher.”

Arthur struggled for control.

“I didn’t hit him hard.”

“He’ll be making out you near killed him. They’re rare ones for trouble that Wicks lot.” He broke off, turned to the door. “I better go over,” he said. He went out.

Arthur remained supporting himself against the desk. It was a mistake he had made, a horrible mistake, the cumulation of his anxiety and strain had made him make this horrible mistake, striking Bert Wicks.

Hudspeth had gone over to smooth out the mistake. He hoped it would be all right. He straightened himself and entered his little changing room that opened off the office. He had arranged to inspect New Paradise this morning and he got into his pit clothes. As he stepped into the cage to go inbye he still hoped it would be all right.

But it was not all right. When Bert Wicks picked himself up he made for the bank where his father stood checking tubs as they came rolling down the track. His leg hurt him where it had hit against the step and the more he thought about his leg the more his leg hurt him. He became afraid to put any weight upon his leg.

His father, Jake Wicks, saw him coming like that, afraid to put weight on his leg. Jake stopped the tubs.

“What’s up, Bert?” he asked.

In a high blubbering voice Bert told him, and when Jake had heard everything he said:

“He can’t do a thing like that.”

“He did it,” Bert answered. “He knocked us down and kicked us, he did. He kicked us when I wor down.”

Jake rammed the book he kept for checking tubs into the inside of his jacket and hitched his leather belt tight.

“He can’t do it,” he said again. “He can’t get away with that sort of thing on us.” Frowning, he reflected. All because
poor Bert had forgotten to take a couple of matches out of his pocket before he went inbye. All because of that and these blasted new regulations. Would anybody stand it?—let alone him, the men’s checkweigher at the pit. He said suddenly: “Come on, Bert.”

He left the tubs altogether and he walked Bert the whole way up to the hospital. Dr. Webber, the young resident house surgeon, newly qualified and not long appointed to the hospital, was on duty and Jake, with the peremptory manner of a man who knew his own position, asked Dr. Webber to examine Bert’s leg. Jake Wicks, besides being check-weigher to the men, the post which Charlie Gowlan had once held, was treasurer to the Medical Aid Committee. It was quite important for Dr. Webber to be pleasant to Jake Wicks and he was most pleasant and obliging, making a long and grave examination of Bert’s leg.

“Is the leg broke?” Jake asked.

Dr Webber did not think so. In fact he was practically certain that the leg was not broken, but you could never be sure and in any case it was not wise to be sure. The medical journals were always turning up with fracture cases, nasty cases of damages too, damages against the doctor. And Jake Wicks was an unpleasant customer. Dr. Webber, not to put too fine a point on it, was afraid of Jake, and he said:

“We ought to have an X-ray.”

Jake Wicks thought an X-ray would be a good idea.

“Suppose we keep him in for twenty-four hours,” Dr. Webber suggested pleasantly. “Twenty-four hours in bed won’t hurt you, Bert, just to be safe, have a proper diagnosis. How does that strike you?”

It struck Jake and Bert as being quite the best course under the circumstances. Bert was put to bed in the men’s ward and Jake went straight down to the Institute and rang up Heddon at the Lodge offices in Tynecastle.

“Hello, hello,” he said cautiously. “Is that Tom Heddon? This is Jake Wicks, Tom. You know, Tom, the Neptune checkweigher.” Jake’s tone with Heddon was rather different from his tone with Dr. Webber.

“What is it?” Heddon’s voice came curtly over the wire. “And cut it short, for God’s sake. I haven’t all day to listen to you. What
is
it?”

“It’s my lad, Bert,” Jake said very propitiatingly. “It’s assault and victimisation. You’ve got to listen, Tom.”

For a full five minutes Heddon listened. He sat at the other end of the wire with the receiver clapped to his ear, listening darkly, intently biting his thumb nail and spitting the tiny pieces on to the blotter before him.

“All right,” he said at the end of it. “All
right
, I tell you I’ll be along.”

Two hours later when Arthur rode to bank from the Paradise and came out of the cage and across the yard Heddon was seated in the office, waiting on him. The sight of Heddon gave Arthur a shock; he went cold instantly. Heddon did not get up, but sat squarely in his chair as though planted there. And he did not speak.

Arthur did not speak for a minute either. He walked through to the bathroom and washed his hands and face. Then he came out, drying himself, but he had not washed himself properly, for his hands left a dark smudge on the towel. He stood with his back to the window, wiping his hands on the towel. He found it easier to keep doing something. He was not so nervous if he kept on wiping his hands. Trying to speak casually he said:

“What is it this time, Heddon?”

Heddon lifted a ruler from the desk and began to play with it.

“You know what it is,” he said.

“If it’s Wicks you’ve come about,” Arthur said, “I can’t do anything. I discharged him for rank disobedience.”

“Is that so?”

“He was caught smoking inbye in Globe. You know we’ve found firedamp there. I’ve spent a lot of money making this pit safe, Heddon. I don’t want any worse trouble than what we’ve had.”

Heddon crossed his legs easily, still holding the ruler. He was in no hurry. But at last he said:

“Bert Wicks is in hospital.” He told it to the ruler.

Arthur’s inside turned over and went hollow. He felt sick. He stopped wringing his hands upon the towel:

“In hospital!” After a minute: “What’s happened to him?”

“You should know.”

“I don’t know.”

“They think his leg’s broken.”

“I don’t believe it,” Arthur cried. “I didn’t do anything. Mr. Hudspeth was there. He’ll tell you it was nothing.”

“Wicks has got to be X-rayed to-morrow—that’ll show you if it’s nothing. Dr. Webber’s orders. I’ve just come from the hospital.”

Arthur was very pale now; he felt weak. He had to sit down on the window sill. He remembered that young Wicks had fallen heavily outside the door.

“For God’s sake, Heddon,” he said in a low voice. “What are you getting at?”

Heddon dropped the ruler. There was no sweetness or brotherly love about Heddon; his job was to be violent and arbitrary and he intended to do his job.

“Look here, Barras. I’ll speak plain. You lost your temper to-day and assaulted a man. Don’t deny it. Never mind what the man did. You assaulted him with violence. You’ve as good as broke his leg. That’s a serious matter. It isn’t a question of reinstatement. It’s criminal. Don’t interrupt. I’m talking. I represent every man that’s left in your bloddy pit and if I lift my finger they’ll walk out on you.”

“What good will that do them?” Arthur said. “They want to work, they don’t want to walk out.”

“The men have got to stand together. What affects one affects all. I don’t like this Neptune pit. It stinks with me this pit ever since that time back when you had the flooding. I’m not going to stand no nonsense.”

The violence in Heddon’s voice knocked the heart right out of Arthur.

“Do you know how I’ve slaved at this pit?” he protested weakly. “What are you getting after?”

“You’ll find out in plenty of time,” Heddon answered. “We’ve called a meeting at the Institute for six o’clock. There’s a strong feeling about it. I’m only warning you. It’s no good your doing anything now. It’s done. You’re in a mess. You’re in one hell of a mess.”

Arthur did not speak. He was limp, sick of Heddon and Heddon’s threats. These threats were part of Heddon’s business. Heddon was trying to bully him and probably succeeding. But in his heart he could not believe that Heddon would bring the men out, the men who were at the Neptune were too glad to be in work to come out. The destitution in the district was terrible, the town festering with unemployed; the men in work were the lucky ones. He stood up listlessly.

“Have it your own way,” he said. “I know you don’t want trouble.”

Heddon stood up, too. Heddon was used to men who banged the desk with their fists and snarled at him and told him to get to hell out of here. He was used to bluster and counterbluster, oaths, threats and blasphemy. He was paid to fight and he fought. Arthur’s lethargy brought a vague pity to his eyes.

“That’s everything,” he said. “You’ll hear from us later.” And with a short nod he walked out.

Arthur remained motionless. He was still holding the half-folded towel and he completed folding the towel. He went into the bathroom and hung the towel up on the hot pipe. Then he saw that the towel was not very clean. He picked it off the rail and dropped it in the empty bath to be removed.

He changed into his ordinary clothes. He could not be bothered to take a bath to-night. He was still tired and listless and sick. Everything was a little unreal; he felt light inside his clothes, as if he did not belong to them. He was so sensitive he could feel acutely, but once his feeling had traversed a certain point of acuity he became numb. He was numb now. He caught sight of himself suddenly in the small square of mirror hung on the white enamel wall. No wonder he felt done up. He looked ten years more than his age of thirty-six, there were lines round his eyes, his hair was lustreless, almost gone upon the top. Why was he wasting his life like this, making an old man of himself before his time, chasing insane ideals, embracing the mad illusion of justice? Other men were enjoying their lives, making the most of their money, while he stuck here at this joyless pit working the treadmill thanklessly. For the first time he thought, God, what a fool I’ve been!