FOURTEEN
That cold December morning, Arthur walked down to the Neptune and entered his office. He was early. He hung up his hat and coat, stood for a moment staring at the calendar, then he went forward quickly and tore off the date. Another day. Surely that was something. He had survived another day. He sat down at his desk. Although he had just risen from bed he had slept badly and felt tired already, tired of the endless struggle, of this endless battering against the economic forces which threatened to destroy him. His face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of a man consumed by worry.
He pressed the bell upon his desk and immediately Pettit, his clerk and timekeeper, brought in the morning mail — the letters arranged methodically, the largest beneath, the smallest on the top. Pettit was always very neat.
“Morning, Pettit,” Arthur said automatically. He felt his voice artificial though he tried to make it cordial and encouraging.
“Morning, Mr. Barras. Heavy ground frost last night, sir.”
“Yes, it’s cold, Pettit.”
“Perishing, sir. Shall I put more coal on the fire?”
“No thanks, Pettit.”
Almost before Pettit was out the door Arthur reached for the top letter, the letter he had been expecting, the letter from his bankers in Tynecastle.
Slitting the stiff envelope he read the formal communication quickly, not surprised, in a sense not even dismayed. The present policy of the bank was opposed to further short-term loans, they deeply regretted their inability…. Arthur let the letter drop. Regret, of course, was a fine word; everybody had the deepest feeling of regret when compelled from the highest motives to refuse a request for money. He sighed. Yet he had anticipated this answer even before he wrote. He had reached the limit of his overdraft, borrowed the last farthing upon his equipment and headgear; he had the advantage at least of knowing where he stood.
He remained seated at his desk — though he was tired it cost him an effort to keep still, his nerves demanded some violent outlet. And with a certain feverish intentness, he reviewed the situation. The strain of it was visible upon his brow.
It was a long road he had travelled since the days of the disaster. And now there was no road but merely a kind of bog, an industrial morass, the slump. Coal had fallen a further fifteen shillings per ton; and even so he could not sell it. The combines, the big amalgamations were selling coal. But he, the small private producer, was powerless. Yet his overhead kept up: his pumps must be maintained, his royalties paid—6d. on every ton which he took out of his pit. And the men? Here he sighed again. By his policy of conciliation and safety he had hoped to carry them with him. But all along he had been sadly disillusioned. They seemed actually to resent his attempt to reorganise them, to suspect the motive behind his sweeping reforms. To many his wonderful pithead baths were still a source of irritation and ribald comment. He knew he was a bad leader. Often he wavered in his decisions, was persuasive when he should have been firm, stubborn when a stronger man would have laughed and yielded. The men saw his weakness and played upon it. Old Barras’s bullying they understood: they had feared, even admired it. But Arthur’s altruism and high ideals they had mistrusted and despised.
The pitiless paradox stung Arthur to the quick. He lifted his head in a hot wave of exasperation. He refused, yes, refused to admit it.
He was not beaten. At a low ebb merely. He would go on, win through. The tide must flow again; it was not far off flowing now. He applied himself to the problem with renewed intensity. In the fever of his concentration the position clarified, the fact became lucid, the figures marshalled themselves before his mind’s eye. The pit was mortgaged, his credit exhausted, his output the lowest in twenty years. But he had a strong conviction that trade would presently mend. The slump must end, it must end soon. He would hang on, hang on until the end of the slump, then all would be well. He could keep going for another twelve months at least, this he knew with certainty. He had considered it, in anticipation of the bank’s refusal, worked it all out to the last detail. There was nothing he had not foreseen. A case of cutting down, further economy, of holding on, yes, sitting tight and holding on. He could do it, he knew that he could do it.
He drew a sharp nervous breath. The cutting down was the worst, but it simply had to be. Another fifty men must go today; he would take them out Five Quarter Seam and close the headings there till trade improved. It broke his heart to give these fifty their time, to send them to join the six hundred men from the Neptune already on the dole. But he had no option. He would take them back the moment, the instant, he was able.
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: