Jim Dudgeon was in the chair. He glanced at the papers in his blotter, swept the table with his owl-like gaze, then read rapidly:
“The programme of the House this week will include discussion on unemployment, debate on housing and the second reading of the Coal Mines Bill…”
David jumped to his feet.
“Mr. Chairman,” he exclaimed, “on a point of order may I ask whether this Bill is intended to represent the policy of the Labour Party?”
“Hear, hear!” called out several members from the committee left wing.
Dudgeon did not look in the least put out. He eyed David affably, up and down.
“Have you any reason to believe that it does not represent the policy of the party?”
David struggled for calm, yet he could not restrain a biting sarcasm from his tone.
“It would appear that this Bill, in its present form, is slightly inadequate. We were returned to this House pledged to Nationalisation. We bound ourselves in a signed manifesto to alleviate the tragic distress in the coalfields, and to reorganise the industry on national lines from top to bottom. And how are we proposing to do it? I am not aware if all the members of this committee have seen the full text of this Bill. But I have seen it. And I can assure them that it outrages every promise that was given.”
There was a silence. Dudgeon rubbed his chin reflectively, peering at David from behind his big horn rims.
“The point you forget is that we’re in office here, we’re not in power. We must make shift the best way we can. The Government is bound to compromise.”
“Compromise! This isn’t a compromise. It’s sheer cowardice. The Opposition could not have produced a Bill which panders more to the owners. This Bill is all coalowner. Retaining the quota system, throwing out the minimum wage proposals, blinking at the ‘spread over’—it is a Tory Bill and every member of the House will shortly be aware of it.”
“Just a minute,” Dudgeon murmured blandly. “I’m a practical man. At least, I’ve got a reputation for bein’ a practical man. I believe in goin’ to the point. Now what exactly is your objection?”
“My objection!” David broke out. “You know that this Bill offers no fundamental solution to our difficulties. Its essential purpose is to market coal. It is a ridiculous attempt to reconcile two definitely irreconcilable principles. The quota system is a positive injury to the miners and can never be anything else. When you compare what we pledged ourselves to do and what the Government now proposes to do, the thing becomes a crying outrage.”
“And even so, what is the alternative?” protested Dudgeon. “Remember our position.”
“That’s exactly what I do remember,” David declared in a white heat of indignation, “our position and our honour.”
“For God’s sake!” Chalmers interposed coarsely, with his eyes on the ceiling. “What does this member want?”
“What I want is to see this Bill amended to the form when it implements our pledge and satisfies the conscience of every man inside the party. Then take it to the House. If we’re defeated we go to the country on our Bill. Then the men know that we fought for them. We could not have a better case.”
Another cry of “Hear, hear,” from the far end of the room; but in the main a murmur of disapproval went up from around the table. Chalmers bent slowly forward.
“I’ve been put here,” he said, prodding the table with one forefinger to emphasise his words, “and I’m going to stay put.”
“Don’t you realise,” Dudgeon resumed affably, “we’ve got to show the country our ability to govern. We’re winnin’ golden opinions for the way we’re handlin’ affairs.”
“Don’t delude yourself,” David returned bitterly. “They’re laughing at us. Read the Tory papers! The lower class aping their betters. The tame menagerie. According to them we’re not governing, we’re performing. And if we run away from them over this Bill they’ll have nothing but contempt for us!”
“Order, order,” Dudgeon sighed reproachfully. “We don’t want any hard words inside the party.” He blinked at David in a kind of genial exasperation. “Haven’t we made it clear to you that we’ve got to go slow?”
“Slow!” echoed David savagely. “At this rate we’ll still be preparing to nationalise in another two thousand years.”
For the first time Nugent spoke.
“Fenwick is right,” he said slowly. “On point of principle there’s no question but what we ought to fight. We may keep ourselves here for another twelve months playing at power, keeping up the sham, simply deluding ourselves. But we’ll go out on our necks in the end. Why not go out with flying colours? And, besides, as Fenwick says, we’ve got the men to consider. They’re pretty well at the end of their tether on Tyneside. I’m telling you and I know.”
Cleghorn said acidly:
“If you’re asking us to resign from office because of a few Tynecastle malcontents you’re walking in the wrong street.”
“Did you call them malcontents when you asked for their votes?” David cried. “It’s enough to drive the men to revolution.”
Chalmers banged irritably on the table.
“You’re making a damned nuisance of yourself, Fenwick. Revolution be damned! We don’t want any Russian ideas brought up at a time like this.”
“Most uncomfortable for the middle classes!” Bebbington agreed in a sneering undertone.
“You see,” Dudgeon went on smoothly, “we all admit there ought to be a complete revaluation of human effort. But we can’t go and repudiate the present system offhand like we were throwing away an old boot. We’ve got to be careful. We’ve got to be constitutional. Damn it all, I’m too popular to do anything against the British Constitution.”
“You prefer to do nothing.” A flood of anger rushed over David. “To sit and draw a Cabinet minister’s salary while thousands of miners starve on the dole.”
There was an outcry at this and cries of “Order, order! Withdraw!”
“I’m not going to commit political suicide for nobody,” Dudgeon muttered, reddening.
“Is that the opinion of this committee?” David asked, looking round intensely. “What do you propose to do? To keep your word or break it?”
“I propose to keep my reputation for sanity,” Bebbington said icily.
“Hear, hear!” shouted several; then Cleghorn’s voice: “I move next business, Mr. Chairman.” The cry was taken up.
“I ask you to reconsider the form of this Bill,” David intervened desperately. “I can’t believe that you refuse to amend it. Leave the issue of Nationalisation alone. I appeal to you at least to consider the insertion of a minimum wages clause.”
Chalmers, this time moving irritably in his chair:
“Mr. Chairman, there is no time obviously to take this discussion further. Surely the member can keep his theories to himself and trust the Government to do all that is possible in the present circumstances.”
Several voices then cried:
“Next business, Mr. Chairman.”
“I’m not talking to you in terms of theories,” David shouted. “I am talking to you in terms of men and women. I warn the committee that the Bill will drive the miners to despair, to rioting…”
“You will have an opportunity of amending it at the proper time,” Dudgeon countered shortly. Then aloud: “What is your pleasure?”
A loud shout from his supporters:
“Next business.”
Despairingly, David attempted to carry on a cross-bench argument. It was no use. Dudgeon’s voice monotonously took up the thread of the interrupted meeting. The business of the Committee proceeded.