The Black Mountains (73 page)

The road, as it curved away again up South Hill, was a seething mass of men. And as he listened, the band began to play again, ragged now, as if half the instruments were missing, but still belting out a defiant ‘Men of Harlech.'

Puzzled and a little alarmed without really knowing why, he hurried across the bridge and saw a small group of men who had broken away from the main procession smoking and spitting as they watched the tail end disappear round the bend of the hill. Among them were James, Jim, and Walter Clements.

“What in the world is going on?” he asked when he reached them.

“Trouble,” James said shortly. “I've never knowed them so mad. We'd just took a vote on the strike and decided we was going to carry on when the news came through.”

“What news?” Jack asked.

“The strike's over.” Jim spat deliberately at the kerb. “At least it's supposed to be. We've been sold down the river again, and we'm fighting mad about it. But we don't want nothing to do with that lot and what they'm going to do.”

Jack stared up the hill. Only a few men were visible now, but be could still hear the noise, the shouts and the ragged band music.

“Where are they going?” he asked. But in his heart of hearts, he already knew.

“They'm off up to the big house to get O'Halloran,” James told him. “They'm going to tar and feather him—or so they say. Well, we don't want no part of anything like that.”

“But why?” Jack asked. “ What's he done?”

They shook their heads. “ Nothing really. Though there was talk of him retiring on all the money he's made out of the pits. But I don't envy him. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes, the mood they'm in.”

“No, t'won't do no good him hiding inside his fine house,” Walter Clements put in. “ They'll break the door down soon as look at it, and have him out of it.”

Jack said nothing. Slow horror was filling him, driving out all his fears and resentment. The men's patience had finally been exhausted, and this last straw had somehow turned them into a howling mob, crazy for revenge. They were marching up the hill to Hal's house with violence in mind. He didn't care much what they did to Hal. He was old enough to take care of himself. But Stella was there, if his mother was to be believed, and he couldn't leave her to their mercy.

Without a word he began to hobble along the street after them.

“Where d'you think you're going?” James called after him.

He hesitated, knowing that if he admitted to what was in his mind, they'd stop him. “ To see what happens,” he said over his shoulder.

“Don't be so daft. You don't want to get mixed up in it,” James called, but he took no notice.

He hurried on, cursing his leg for the way it was slowing him down, and wishing for the moment that he had his crutches back. He'd really been able to swing along on those.

The evening had become close, and before he had gone far, sweat was running down his neck and soaking his shirt, But he kept going. Half-way up the hill he caught the tail-end of the marchers, and the wild atmosphere struck him with the same fearful apprehension that he had felt on sighting an enemy aircraft in the war.

“For Christ's sake, where do you think you're going?” he asked one of the marchers.

“Don't you know? We'm going to tar and feather old Hal. He's bloody well asked for it.”

“Why?” Jack panted.

“Living it up while we're starving. Making out to be our friend, while all the time … We'll show him, don't you worry.”

The hill began to flatten out and O'Halloran's house came in sight, a big, stone-built dwelling set back in its own grounds.

The leading marchers were in the garden already, trampling plants and small bushes underfoot as they surged forward, chanting now at the tops of their voices:

“We want Hal! We want Hal!”

“Come out, you yellow bellied coward, or we'll come in and get you!” one man yelled above the uproar, and Jack saw the curtains of one of the bedrooms move.

He was not the only one.

“We know you're there, you bugger. Come on out!”

Jack looked around him in disbelief. They were mostly men he knew, men he'd known all his life as peaceable and slow to anger. But now some madness had taken hold of them, and driven by hunger and despair, they were seeking revenge upon the person who was to them the bosses' figure-head, Hal, the man who stood between them and the hated owners.

As he watched, one man ran forward, hammering on the door, and others picked up stones and clods of earth. It was a riot, the most dangerous situation Jack had seen in peacetime, and his only thought was to get to Stella.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching him, he found a path at the side of the house. There, by the greenhouses, he saw one lad about to put a stone through the glass and catching him by surprise he hit him so squarely on the jaw that the boy lost his footing and fell backwards into a cucumber frame. Not waiting for him to pick himself out, Jack went on.

The back door was locked. He had expected it would be. And he had little hope that they would answer his knocking. But someone must have been in the kitchen and heard the glass cucumber frame smash, for he saw a face peeping anxiously from behind the curtains, and he ran forward, knocking on the window.

“Stella! Is Stella there?”

The face, that of a timid maidservant, disappeared, and moments later the inside door opened and he saw Stella come into the porch. She was pale and frightened, but when she saw Jack she opened the glass door quickly, pulling him inside and locking it after him.

“Jack! Thank God, you're here! They've gone mad!”

He took her arm, and it was as if their separation had never been.

“Let me get you out of here, Stella. If we slip out this way and up the garden, we can go down over the fields and along the bottom of the batch.”

She shook her head. “No, Jack, I can't.”

“No one will see. They're all round at the front.”

“I can't leave Mummy and Daddy. I just can't do it.”

“But they're violent, Stella. They want to tar and feather your father, and God only knows what they'll do if they get in here. I couldn't stop them.”

“I'm not leaving, Jack,” she said stubbornly. “Mummy and Daddy are in the bedroom. You'd better come up.”

He followed her up the stairs, and she clung to his arm all the way. He thought he had never seen her so frightened, and when they reached the landing looking out over the front garden he could see why. From up here, the mob looked even more menacing, a sea of snarling upturned faces. Someone, looking up, must have seen them move, and a clod of earth struck the window.

Jack drew Stella away, up the last flight of stairs to the top floor. In the front bedroom, Hal and his wife were having some kind of argument, and Mrs O'Halloran turned to Stella with, “ Stella, for goodness sake, tell him…” before realizing she was not alone and stopping in mid-sentence.

“This is Jack,” Stella said briefly. “You've heard me talk of him.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs O'Halloran smiled vaguely from a social habit too strong to be broken even in circumstances like these, then the mask dropped and she ran to Stella, catching at her arm.

“Stop your father, dear, do! Tell him he can't do it!”

“Do what?” she asked.

“I'm going out on that balcony to talk to the men,” Hal thundered, pointing to the French windows that gave on to a small stone balcony. “ They'll see sense. They're bound to. I just don't know what all the fuss is about.”

“You can't go out there, dear!” Mrs O'Halloran cried in real distress. “ Oh, tell him he can't do it, Stella!”

“She's right, Mr O'Halloran,” Jack said. “The mood they're in they'll be right up here and get you.”

“Well, we've got to do something!” O'Halloran roared. “Look at them out there—all over my fuchsias!”

“Never mind your fuchsias, Daddy…”

“Hal, you can't go out there! I won't let you!”

O'Halloran ignored them both. A lifetime of living in a houseful of women had given him plenty of practice in doing just that. He crossed to the wardrobe, puffing up an ottoman and standing on it to reach on top.

“Where's that gun of mine? If they don't mind themselves, I'll blast a few rounds off at them. That'll cool ' em off!”

“Let me talk to them,” Jack said suddenly.

They all stopped talking and looked at him.

“
You
?” O'Halloran boomed, echoing the thoughts of the others.

“Yes, me,” Jack said. “I'm a miner's son. They know that. At least let me try.”

As they hesitated, looking at one another, there was another roar from below, and taking the decision, Jack moved purposefully.

“Go on out of this room, all of you, and barricade the door,” he told them. “Then if they do come up after me, they won't get any further. Go on!” he said again when they made no move.

Stella was the first to recover her wits. She put a hand on each of their arms. “Mummy, Daddy, do as he says.” Then, in spite of their protests, she led them firmly out of the room.

Jack followed them, locking the door after them and pushing the key into one of his inside pockets. Then, pausing only to summon his courage, he crossed to the window.

It was exactly like flying an operation, he thought. He'd done that over and over again. He had to do this only once. And it wasn't a matter of life and death—at least, he hoped it wasn't!

As soon as they saw him at the window, the roar went up again, but he did not let it deter him. He lifted the catch on the French windows, pushed them open and stepped out on to the balcony.

For a moment the roar seemed to rise up and swallow him, but he went forward until he was at the very edge of the stone balcony, his hands resting on the balustrade. Beneath him, the faces were no longer familiar and he wondered if he had been wrong to think he could influence them. These weren't the men he had known since boyhood. They were a hungry, crazy mob. They wouldn't listen to him. It had been stupid and presumptuous of him to think they would.

Slowly, very slowly, he raised his hands, motioning them, without much hope, to silence. At first, among the shouts, he heard his name. Then, to his enormous relief, the roar seemed to lessen until he thought he could risk shouting above it.

“For Christ's sake, what do you all think you're doing? You're like a lot of animals, gone crazy. What good do you think this will do?”

“We want Hal!” came back the shout, a hundred voices almost as one.

“What for?” Jack shouted back. “What's he done?”

“He's sold us down the river. That's what. Sold us down the river!”

“That's not true,” Jack yelled above the hubbub. “And even if it were, what the hell do you think you're going to achieve this way? You ought to stand back and look at yourselves. I can't believe you're the men I've grown up with. Take you, Mr Presley, what are you going to tell your wife when you get home? That you've been up at the manager's house throwing stones at his window and trampling all over his garden? And as for you, Ewart Brixey, I shouldn't want to face your mother if I was you. I should be too bloody ashamed of myself!”

The roar became an uneasy muttering. Above it, someone shouted, “Who d'you think you bloody are?”

“I'm a miner's son and proud of it,” Jack yelled back. “But I'm not feeling very proud at the moment, standing here and looking at you. You've got a grievance, of course you have. But this isn't the way to put it right. It's nothing to do with Hal. It was Lloyd George who betrayed you. He's the one to get at if you can.”

“What, march to bloody London?” called one wag.

“If you want. That would make folk sit up and take notice. But if you don't think your feet would stand it, there are other ways, civilized ways, not making fools of yourselves like this.”

“How then?” somebody called.

“You get a vote, don't you? Use it. Kick Lloyd George so far out of office he can never get back. Oh, there's ways if you look for them. But it's not like this. This way you're a disgrace to Hillsbridge and a disgrace to the coal mines. And the lot of you should be ashamed of yourselves!”

He paused, pressing down hard on the stone balustrade. He was shaking from head to foot, and he had no idea whether or not he had done any good. To him, the men looked as angry and dangerous as ever, twisting and turning this way and that, looking to their mates for a lead. Then, to his amazement, he heard one voice louder than all the others.

“He's right, lads. He's right!”

Jack held his breath, afraid almost to hope that the tide might be turning. Then the muttering became a murmur of agreement, and he realized the crowd was gradually diminishing—those at the back had already drifted away. He remained on the balcony, and beneath him they turned in twos and threes, casting furtive, shamefaced looks back towards the house as they sidled away.

“Back to the square, lads,” someone shouted in an effort to muster something of the previous spirit, but it was all over, and they knew it. As Jack watched them go, he felt not only relief, but sadness that a proud and responsible body of men should have been brought to this.

Damn Lloyd George, he thought. Damn the owners. Damn everyone who thought he could exploit the miner and drive him to the limits of his endurance. It would be a long time before the men of Hillsbridge forgot the shame of having been goaded beyond that endurance, a long time before they forgot the glimpse they had had into a world where law and order had been pushed over the knife-edge on which it balanced and mob rule had reigned, if only for a short time.

And Jack thought he would never forgive those who, by their complacence, had stripped the dignity from men he had known and respected all his life.