After the Storm (16 page)

‘The Federation and the owners agreed to a compromise at an interim stage of the inquiry, hence the hours and pay and then public ownership or state control, whatever you want to call it, was considered and – glory be – Sankey came out in favour. But, and it’s the biggest “but” you’ll find, the government betrayed the miners and refused to accept the recommendation.

‘Under the owners, you see, the profits are not ploughed back into the industry to increase efficiency and safety. There is no security. There is no attempt to set up other industries now that coal and steel are in decline.’

Archie knew all this but he let his friend continue. He seldom spoke as such and it would do him good.

‘The men are bitter, Archie. It’s something they’ll never forget, never forgive. Betrayal ruins trust forever, it will affect relations between the government and the miners for a long while yet.’

‘And how do they feel about the unions now? Surely they’ll feel let down. First it’s the government, then the TUC, or maybe that’s how it will look in their eyes?’

Bob rose and walked to the window. It was snowing. He drew the curtains and returned to his seat and smiled at Archie.

‘You’re right. They’ll see that in conditions of high unemployment there is little the unions can do. Membership will
fall off, dues will lessen so there will be a decrease in financial support and even weaker unions. It’s a vicious circle.’

He saw that Archie’s glass was empty and refilled it. ‘It’ll be a white Christmas anyway, the sledges will be out tomorrow.’

Archie nodded absently. ‘Will the government leave it at that? Allowing prevailing conditions to curtail your power?’

Bob smiled. ‘That’s the interesting one of course. They’re preparing another bloody Disputes Bill, trying to stop us striking, supporting each other. We shall just have to wait and see whether it leaves us toothless. Labour will not be able to oppose it in the Commons with its small party.’ He sipped his drink. His throat felt dry from the long discussion. ‘I would like to see the day when even the middle classes will have unions. That and better employment figures. That will give us conditions for a concerted push, a better world.’

Opposite him, Archie nodded his agreement, his mind dwelling on Bob’s last words, and then he felt the familiar feeling of panic come to him here, in this safe front room. He made his movements slow and careful as he raised his glass and took a drink. He tried to stop the words which were forcing themselves out into the room but it was no good.

‘I was once in a concerted push, you know,’ and he laughed, but it was not a humorous noise, ‘or rather should have been.’

Bob Wheeler had been deep in the problems of the unemployed, chasing them round in his mind and he took a moment to grasp what Archie was saying. He sensed then the giving of a confidence, one that he feared might ruin the tenor of their friendship based on a comfortable, somewhat detached atmosphere of political discussion which never grew intimate. He looked at Archie rather more closely; he was drunk but that was nothing unusual. There was something else though now, something which darkened his eyes, pulling him back to another time and place.

Bob was attempting to defuse the situation. ‘I was always at the back of the big push you know. The transport columns never got to the front. They were shelled though.’

Archie seemed not to have heard and Bob knew that he had lost him for now. He had seen it and listened before to those who had never quite left the war behind. The fire leapt in the grate as he leant forward and put on a log. He liked log fires and had one every Christmas Eve. There was a small Christmas
tree by the window, lit by the glow from the gas lamp. The pine smell filled the room and presents for his neighbours lay amongst its branches until tomorrow when he would take them next door in time for Christmas lunch.

He waited.

Archie said again, ‘Or I should have been.’ He looked up as Bob pushed a log further on. The flames curled round and began to blacken the wood.

‘It was all a bugger. Best forgotten,’ Bob soothed quietly.

But Archie was not to be dissuaded.

‘The barrage had started in the evening. We were to attack the next day. You see, they liked to soften up the Germans first, but all it did was warn them we were coming and shake the ground so the trenches began to crumble. I was sent with my platoon to replace the sandbags and shore up the trenches. We worked all night.’ His voice was measured and too slow. He was not seeing the fire but the wet earth. ‘It had been raining you see, raining for days and Ypres is heavy clay. We couldn’t dig deep trenches because of that so we had had to build up the traverses and lay duckboards because of the mud and if you fell off you drowned. The water couldn’t run away you see, it just went on making mud, inches, then feet, and they wanted us to go for a big push.’ His laugh was sudden and harsh. ‘Bloody mad they were. You couldn’t walk in that mud, let alone storm the bloody huns. No man’s land was a marsh by then.’

Bob handed him a drink. ‘Come on, Archie, have this and where’s your pipe?’ But Archie couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see the drink.

All he could hear was the noise of the whizz-bangs, the machine-gun fire. He felt his hands beginning to shake and he put them between his thighs. He did not have time to breathe deeply, there was too much to say.

‘I was to take my men over in the first push at dawn. The sun rises in the east, but of course you know that. Just for a few moments as dawn came up we could see the Germans before they saw us, and in those few precious minutes we could get out and over the top and maybe not get killed.’

Bob took a swallow of his Scotch. Archie was rocking backwards and forwards, but Bob was not alarmed; it was a familiar pattern with other friends, other survivors. He waited, hoping that when it was over Archie would not regret his
confession because Bob now knew that this is what he was about to hear.

‘Gas is dirty soldiering, you know.’ Archie was talking in a conversational tone now. ‘Dirty soldiering. The noise was getting worse. It was still dark but there wasn’t long to go until daylight, until we went over. I was by the signal dug-out. If I hadn’t been there, it would all have been different. Captain Mollins called out: “Manon, get down to the gas company, they’ve lost their officer. Shot through the head. Let off the gas. It’s got to go before dawn. We want it on the Germans and clear of no man’s land by the time we get over. Get on with it, man.”’

Archie’s voice was no longer calm, its pitch was higher, the strain was in every word.

‘I slipped as I turned to him. My sergeant held me up. The mud was greasy beneath my hand and I was on my knees. A shell hit the trench further down, the barrage was still blasting away, the noise was horrendous. Mud flew over us. “But sir,” I said “there’s no wind.”’

Archie was shaking, he was wiping his hands as though to free them of mud, but they were shaking too much so he put them between his thighs again.

‘“Do as you’re bloody well told, Manon. We need that gas. It’s five of clock already, man. We’re going over at six.” He was shouting, his face pushed towards me but I could only just hear him against the crash and scream of the shells. I pushed back towards the gas enclave, climbed over the collapsed trench to get there. There were bits of men in it. I trod on a leg. The gas team were waiting. The shells from our battery were falling short, landing around us. There was flying mud everywhere. It was impossible to think.

‘The sergeant was struggling with the valve on the gas cylinder. “Give me that,” I said, and took the spanner, it was icy. The rain had stopped and there was a mist so I knew there was definitely no wind. I sent a runner back, Bob. “Tell him there’s no wind,” I said. We were pushing back the sandbags all the time. They were being shaken down as fast as we replaced them. My sergeant was killed by a sniper, shot through the eye. The runner came back. The captain had said, “Get it off now,” so I did.’ Archie was quieter now.

‘The cylinder discharged all right, but the gas fell back into
the trench. It’s heavier than air you see and there was no wind to blow it across.’

Bob nodded but Archie did not see.

‘It fell back and the company stampeded, struggling to get their gas masks on. Why didn’t they put them on before? Why hadn’t I ordered them to? God knows.’

He was shaking and rocking. ‘They stampeded over the top but they weren’t the only ones. The push had started too soon, we had lost our advantage of the light and the Germans put flares up and could see us all.

‘The wire wasn’t cut in front of us. My mask was on, I don’t know how. I was alright but those who had survived the gas were being cut to ribbons on the wire, shot to bits and hanging like rag dolls a few feet in front of the trench. I was cutting it, trying to cut it, tear a way through when I felt a hand on my leg, pulling at me. It was my corporal drowning, yellow-faced in the gas, his buttons already tarnished green.

‘“Murderer, murderer,” he bubbled. Someone from further down the line was screaming. I trod on him, Bob, ground him into the mud, anything to get him away from me, and then a shell exploded, it must have been near. Knocked me out but didn’t kill me. God damn it, it didn’t kill me.’

All he could hear were the screams and the guns. He looked at his hands and rubbed the palms and Bob could see that they were crossed with white scars. He reached across and held Archie’s wrist. Forced him to take a drink, guided it to his mouth. The frenzied shaking had ceased.

Bob looked keenly at Archie. ‘It happened all the time, old friend. It was a nightmare and no one was to blame in that chaos.’

Archie smiled but it was without humour. ‘I’ve said that a thousand times, Bob, and it just doesn’t bloody help. I killed a lot of people that day and I wonder every night, I wonder, if it wasn’t because I just wanted to kill myself. I’d just returned from burying Mary and wanted to die, so did I let off that gas deliberately?’

There was silence in the room except for the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the crackle of the fire.

‘No,’ Bob said gently. ‘No, you didn’t, and it’s best not to think about it. Life is very strange and we do the best we can.
That’s all, we just muddle through.’

Archie seemed exhausted, perhaps a little more at peace with himself, but Bob was not sure. He watched him as he slowly collected himself.

‘Anyway,’ Archie said in a voice which betrayed his tiredness, ‘it’s over with now, and yes, maybe one day we will get middle-class unions. Baldwin really would go demented if he thought that was on the cards. Who knows, Bob, maybe one day you’ll have Labour back in. You should think of that, think of big-time politics for yourself.’

Bob silently applauded Archie’s attempt to regain the thread of their earlier conversation. ‘No, Archie, I’m too old for that particular game. Not enough fire in the belly. I’ve too much to do here anyway, too much everyday trouble in the area.’

A silence fell, a companionable silence, and Bob was relieved that, if anything, the relationship had been improved by the glimpse into a private hell.

Their glasses were empty and the fire was dying. Archie looked at the clock. ‘It’s very late. You must get some rest.’ He looked at Bob earnestly. ‘It’s good that you have much to do. That’s the way it should be, my friend. Thoughts of tomorrow.’ As he rose he nodded. ‘Yes, that’s as it should be.’

They moved from the front room into the hall which was lit by a solitary gas lamp. Archie took his worn coat and hat; Bob helped him into it. His scarf was still hanging on the hook and Archie took it and wound it round his neck while Bob opened the door.

The snow had stopped and there was only a light sprinkling on the ground. The night air stabbed at their lungs and Archie lifted his scarf across his face.

‘Have a good sleep, Archie,’ said Bob, touching his elbow.

Archie stood looking out across the street. ‘It’s the dreams though, Bob, the faces, the voices. They make strange bedfellows these days and there’s too much noise in my head to find answers to them or the problems of the shop.’

He shrugged and began to walk down the street, his feet unsteady on the slippery cobbles. He turned back to Bob. ‘Today, my little Annie did what I should have done; did as she thought right, and I punished her.’ He paused, ‘Thank God these children at least won’t know the feel of a war.’

He moved away, lifting his hat to Bob.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Bob called after him and watched until he reached the corner. He closed the door. He did not know what else to do.

The tram-stop was a bare one hundred yards from their shop and the morning was crisp and most houses were quiet. It was Boxing Day. The tram rattled to a stop and Archie pushed Annie and Don, then Tom and Betsy before him on to the platform. He might be without his watch, but who cared. Today was special. Today his family was going to Newcastle, to the pantomime, and Donald could redeem the damned watch any damn time he wished. He, personally, had no need of a watch any more. He felt euphoric, as though the decision he had made had drawn every line stronger, every colour brighter and the years were shed and the minutes savoured.

His gaiety was infectious and the children scrambled on to the bench laughing, pushing and poking. Betsy and Archie settled themselves opposite. Betsy had borrowed powder from Ma Gillow to hide the meandering red veins in her cheeks and nose. She’d begged a coat for the day also though she still had no gloves that would fit over her knuckles, so instead she kept them bunched in her pockets.

Annie was wedged between Don and a stranger whose heat penetrated and touched her. She tensed, stiffening against the sway and lurch and fought away from the pressure of the unknown body which pressed closer to her than her closest friend Grace would ever dare. The woman had thighs that should have been hanging in the butcher’s but which instead nudged against her and her floppy bosom pulled at the buttons fastening her coat. She had a sweaty face and perspiration lay along the line of her scarlet lipstick which was sticky and had gathered into a lump at the corner of her mouth. Annie wondered how she ate without clogging up her innards.