The Stars Look Down (77 page)

She repeated it:

“Sammy Fenwick.” Her eyes devoured him, his pale face and nobby forehead, and bright blue eyes, his growing figure in the home-made, patched suit, his thin legs ending in the heavy boots. Though Sammy could not guess it, for months and months now Martha had watched him, every day she watched him as he went to school, watched him
surreptitiously from behind the curtains of the side window of the house in Lamb Lane. He was growing so like her own Sammy; he was ten years old now. It was agony for Martha not to have him near her. Would nothing ever break her icy pride? Cautiously, she said:

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re my grandma,” he said at once.

She coloured deeply, and with pleasure. Sammy had broken the ice at last, shivered the frozen covering of the old woman’s heart.

“Come here, Sammy.”

He came and she took his hand in hers. Sammy felt it awfully strange and he was inclined to be scared, but he walked with her to the house in the lane. They went in together.

“Sit down, Sammy,” Martha said. It gave her an exquisite, an unbearable pleasure to speak the name of Sammy once again.

Sammy sat down, looking round the kitchen. It was a good kitchen, absolutely clean and as it should be, like his own kitchen, but the furniture was better and there was more of it. Then Sammy’s eye lit up; he saw that Martha was cutting a cake, cutting an enormous wedge of plum cake.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the cake, balancing his books and his cap on his knees, then filling his mouth with the cake.

Her hard dark eyes dwelt absorbedly upon his young face. It was her own Sammy’s face.

“Is it a good cake?” she asked intensely.

“Yes, mam,” he said, wiring into it, “it’s fair champion.”

“Is it the best cake you ever tasted?”

“Well!” He hesitated, troubled, afraid to wound her feelings; but he had to speak the truth. “My mother makes as good a cake when she has the stuff. But she hasn’t had the stuff, not lately.”

But even this could not break the spell of Martha’s rapture.

“Your uncle’s on the dole?” she asked. “Pug Macer?”

His thin young face flushed.

“Well, yes, Pug is now, but only for the time being like.”

“Your father would never have been on the dole,” she declared with pride.

“I know,” he said.

“He was the best hewer in the Neptune.”

“I know,” he said again. “My mother told me.”

Silence. She watched him finish, then she cut him another piece of cake. He took it with a shy smile, her own Sammy’s smile.

“What are ye goin’ to be when you grow up, Sammy?”

He reflected, while she hung upon his answer.

“I’d like to be like my father,” he said.

“You would,” she whispered. “Ay, ye would, Sammy.”

“Ay.”

She stood quite motionless. She felt weak, ravaged, overcome. Her own Sammy come back to her, to carry on the brave tradition; she would see it yet, Sammy Fenwick again the best hewer in the Neptune. She could not speak.

He finished the last crumb of cake, recovered his cap and books from off his knees and rose.

“Don’t go yet, Sammy,” she protested.

“My mother’ll be wondering,” he replied.

“Take this in your pocket then, Sammy, take this for your bait, Sammy.” Feverishly she cut him another wedge of cake, wrapped it in greased paper, picked a red apple from the dresser, made him stow cake and apple in his pocket. At the door she paused: “Come and see me to-morrow, Sammy.” And her voice was pleading… pleading…

“Righto,” he said and darted like a little trout down the path.

She stood watching, watching until he was long gone. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen. She moved slowly, as if with difficulty. In the kitchen she caught sight of the cut cake. She stood there silent and immobile while across the screen of her impassive sight a flood of memory poured. All at once her face broke. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her head upon her arms, and sobbed bitterly.

David’s political development came like the development of the human body—it was a slow growth, imperceptible from day to day, yet apparent when balanced against his
stature of five years before. Though his purpose was so definite and strong he advanced towards it by long and difficult roads. The political meteor flashes only through the imagination of the novelist. David experienced the reality. He worked; he worked unbelievably hard; and he waited. He learned many things; but chiefly to cultivate the faculty of patience. His maiden address was followed, some months later, by another speech on the distress in mining areas. The comment which this occasioned caused him to be approached by several of the party leaders for data on this subject. Several admirable orations bearing on the distressed areas were made thereafter in the House for which David received no credit although the speeches were almost entirely his. Later, however, by way of recognition, he was invited to sit on a departmental committee investigating the question of industrial disability in mines. During the next twelve months he worked with this committee on nystagmus, beat knee and the incidence of silicosis in non-metalliferous mines. Before the end of that session he was co-opted to a board pursuing an inquiry into the qualifications of mine officials under the existing legislature. In the following year Nugent, billed to speak at the mass demonstration held by the T.U.C. in the Albert Hall, fell ill with influenza, and at his urgent request David was called upon to deputise. Addressing an audience of five thousand, he made the speech of the evening, a speech of flaming ardour, humane feeling and trenchant style. Paradoxically enough, the glamour of this one evening focused more attention upon him than all his hard work of the previous two years. He became noticed at the conferences. It was he who prepared the memorandum for the T.U.C. on Nationalisation of the Mines, and the proposed Power and Transport Commission. His paper, Electric Power and National Progress, was read at the American Labour Conference. Thereafter he became chief miners’ representative on the board reviewing the question of water dangers in mines. By the autumn of 1928 he was a member of the Parliamentary Labour Party Committee and finally, at the beginning of the following year, he reached the peak of his achievement. He was appointed to the executive of the Miners’ Federation.

David’s hopes ran high. In himself he felt extremely well, clear-headed, able to cope with any amount of work. And more than ever he sensed the favourable turn of events. The
present Government was moribund, sadly preparing to die. The country, sick of stale policies, reiterated platitudes and the old die-hard administration, was raising eyes of conjecture towards a fresh horizon. At last, through their constitutional hidebound apathy, people were beginning to question the soundness of a political and economic system which left want, misery and unemployment unrelieved. New and bold ideas went into circulation. Men no longer retreated in terror from the suggestion that capitalism, as a system of life, had failed. Recognition grew that the world would never be reconstructed by the violence and suppression of economic nationalism. Workers on the dole were not now designated shiftless scum. The factitious explanation of “world conditions” became a hypocritical echo, a music-hall joke.

David felt with all his soul that Labour’s chance must come. There would be an election this year, an election which must be fought on the question of the Mines. The party stood pledged to it. And what a glorious platform it made: this great national constructive scheme to benefit the miner and bring prosperity to the community.

That bright April morning, David’s spirits were high as he sat by the window in his rooms, glancing through the paper. It was Saturday. He was looking forward to a morning spent on the new Low-Temperature Report, a recent process it was proposed to incorporate in the Power section of the scheme, when, unexpectedly, a diversion occurred. The telephone rang.

He did not immediately answer it, for usually Mrs. Tucker went first, but as the ringing continued he dropped his paper and descended to the half-landing where he picked up the receiver. Straightaway Sally’s shrill, throaty voice came over the wire—he recognised it at once.

“Hello, hello,” she said, “you must be awful busy. I’ve been trying to get you for the last five minutes.”

Smiling into the receiver he exclaimed:

“Sally!”

“So you knew me?”

“You’re unmistakable.”

They both laughed and he said:

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Stanton’s Hotel, you know, near the British Museum, and Alf is along with me.”

“But what in all the world are you doing up here?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Davey,” she answered, “I’m going to be married. So I thought I’d take dad for a bit of a trip to London before I got hitched up. The Pigeon Show’s on at the Crystal Palace and dad did want to see it.”

“Why, that’s great news, Sally,” he declared, both surprised and pleased. “Who is he? Have I met him?”

“I don’t know, David.” Her voice was happy, a shade self-conscious. “He’s Dick Jobey of Tynecastle.”

“Dick Jobey,” he exclaimed. “Why, Sally, that’s a great match.”

A silence; he could feel that she was gratified; then she said:

“I want to see you, David. And Alf does too. Will you have a bite with us to-day? Listen. We’ve arranged to go to the Crystal Palace this afternoon, but come along and have an early lunch with us at the hotel. Come now, David.”

He reflected: Saturday and the Report could wait.

“All right,” he cried. “I’m with you. I’ll be along shortly after twelve. Yes, I know Stanton’s, Sally. I’ll be there.”

He came away from the telephone still smiling—there was something incorrigibly light-hearted about Sally which never failed to cheer him.

At half-past eleven he took the underground for Museum Station and walked along Thackeray Street towards Stanton’s, a quiet, unostentatious hotel in Woburn Square. It was a bright morning; a sense of spring was in the air, the trees of the Square were already in leaf and a gay chirruping of sparrows came from in front of a seat within the Square Gardens where an old man sat feeding them with crumbs. The passing taxicabs had a gay note, too, as though they rejoiced in the fineness of the day. He arrived at the hotel a few minutes before noon but Alf and Sally were waiting for him in the lounge. They greeted him affectionately.

It was some years since David had seen Alf Sunley but Alf was not greatly changed. His moustache was perhaps more tobacco stained and ragged, and his face more sallow, and the crick in his neck more pronounced, but he was still the same friendly, common, doggedly unassertive little man. He wore a new black suit for the occasion, very stiff and new and rather big for him, and a new made-up tie, and his boots were probably new for they squeaked whenever he moved.

But Sally had changed. Taking after her mother, perhaps, she had turned round as a barrel, little bracelets of plumpness were on her wrists and her face was frankly fat. She smiled at David’s hastily concealed surprise.

“Yes, I’ve put on a bit, haven’t I? But never mind. Let’s go and have some lunch.”

They had lunch. They sat at one of the tables in the quiet restaurant while the sun shone in on them and they had cold meat and salad. The cold meat and salad tasted good and the rhubarb tart which came afterwards was good too. Sally ate a hearty lunch and enjoyed it. She had a bottle of Guinness all to herself. Her plump little face flushed, and her figure seemed almost to expand with the excellence of the meal. When she had finished she drew a satisfied breath and shamelessly eased her waistbelt. David smiled across at her.

“So you’re getting married. I thought something like that would happen one day?”

“Dick’s a good chap,” Sally sighed contentedly. “Not much to say, but one of the best. I can tell you I’m lucky. You see, David, I’m getting a bit sick of the road. I’ve been goin’ round the Payne-Gould circuit till I’m giddy. I’m sick of summer pierrots and winter pantos. And besides, I’m putting on weight something terrible. In a couple of years I’d only be fit for the fairy queen. An’ I’d a sight rather have Dick than the demon king. I want to settle down and be comfortable.”

He gazed at her quizzically, remembering the terrible strivings of her early youth, the passionate desire for fame upon the boards.

“But what about that great ambition, Sally?”

She smiled comfortably.

“That’s got a bit of fat on it too, lad. You’d ’ve liked me how they make them in the story books. With my name in big lights in Piccadilly.” She stopped laughing and shook her head; then lifting her eyes she looked at him steadily. “It’s one in a million does that, David. I’m not her. I’ve got a bit of talent maybe, but that’s the end of it. Don’t you think I haven’t found out by now. Put me against the real thing and I don’t exist.”

“Oh. I don’t know, Sally…” he remonstrated.

“You don’t,” she answered with something of her old fierceness. “Well, I do. I’ve tried it and I know where I get off. We all start out with great ideas as to where we’re going,
Davey, but it’s precious few that gets there. I’m lucky to have found a half-way stop that suits me.”

There was a silence. Sally recovered herself immediately, yet, though the fire died out of her eyes, she remained unusually serious. She began to play with her spoon, abstractedly, drawing circles with the handle upon the tablecloth. Her face was overcast as if something had recurred to her and now lay upon her mind. Suddenly, as though taking a decision, she glanced at Alf, who lay back in his chair, bowler hat over his eyes, sleepily using the wooden toothpick he had just shaped from a match.

“Alf,” she remarked meditatively, “I want to have a word with David. Take a stroll round the Square for a couple of minutes.”

“Eh?” Alf sat up, taken by surprise. He stared at her.

“You’ll find David and me here when you come back,” insisted Sally.

Alf nodded. Sally’s word was always law. He rose and readjusted his hat. As she watched him go Sally reflected:

“He’s a good sort, Alf, a regular treat. Thank God, I can get him away from his white lead now. I’m buying him a bungalow at Gosforth. Dick’s told me to go ahead. I’m settling Alf there and letting him breed homers to his heart’s content.”