Falling on his hands and knees he squirmed between the legs of the pushing men, crawled round behind the counter, and found the cash drawer. Unlocked! Gloating over old Murchison’s carelessness, Joe slipped his hand into the smooth bowl, his fingers clutched at the silver in the bowl, a good round fistful, and slid it easily into his pocket. Then, rising to his feet, he darted through the door and took to his heels.
As Joe came out of the shop Robert entered it. At least, he stood on the threshold, the uneasiness upon his face turning slowly to dismay.
“What are ye doing, lads?” His tone was pleading: the pathos of this misdirected violence hurt him. “Ye’ll get in trouble ower this.”
Nobody took the slightest notice of him. He raised his voice.
“Stop it, ye fools. Can’t ye see it’s the worst thing ye could do? Nobody’ll have any pity on us now. Stop. I tell ye, stop.”
No one stopped.
A spasm came over Robert’s face. He made to push into the crowd, but just then a sound behind caused him to swing round full in the lamplight. The police: Roddam from the Quay-side beat and the new sergeant from the station.
“Fenwick!” Roddam shouted instantly in recognition and laid his hands on Robert.
At that shout a louder shout went up from those inside:
“The cops! Get out, lads, it’s the cops.” And an avalanche of living, inextricably mingled forms disgorged itself through the door. Roddam and the sergeant made no attempt to stop the avalanche. They stood rather stupidly and let it go past them; then, still holding Robert, Roddam entered the shop.
“Here’s another, sergeant,” Roddam said in sudden exultation.
Amongst the desolation of the looted shop, swaying helplessly astride the beer barrel, sat Slogger Leeming. He held to the bung-hole with one blissful finger. He was blind to the world.
The sergeant looked at Slogger, the shop, then at Robert.
“This is serious,” he said in a hard, official voice. “You’re Fenwick. The man who started the strike.”
Robert returned his look steadily. Robert said:
“I did nothing.”
The sergeant said:
“Of course you did nothing.”
Robert opened his lips to explain; saw suddenly the hopelessness of it all. He said nothing. He submitted. He was taken with the Slogger to the cells.
SEVEN
Five days later, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Joe Gowlan strolled easily along the Scottswood Road of Tynecastle, making scrutiny of those windows which displayed the card APARTMENTS. Tynecastle, that keen bustling city of the North, full of movement and clamour and brisk grey colour, echoing to the clang of trams, the clatter of feet, the beat of ship-yard hammers, had engulfed Joe graciously. Joe’s eyes had always been turned towards Tynecastle — it was only eighteen miles from his native town — as a place of possibilities and adventure. Joe looked well, a bright-complexioned, curly-haired young man with his boots dazzlingly brushed and a cheerful air of knowing his way about. But for all his shiny look Joe was broke. Since he had run away from home, the two pounds in silver, stolen from Murchison’s till, had been pleasantly dissipated in a style more sophisticated than Joe’s untarnished aspect might have suggested. Joe had seen the gallery of the Empire Music Hall, the inside of Lowe’s bar, and other places. Joe had bought beer, cigarettes and the most captivating blue postcards. And now, his last sixpence honourably spent in a wash, a brush and a shine, Joe was looking for a decent lodging.
Down the Scottswood Road he went, past the wide iron pens of the cattle-market, past the Duke of Cumberland, past Plummer Street and Elswick East Terrace. The day was dull but dry, the streets pulsed pleasantly, on the railway lower down an incoming train whistled importantly, and was answered by the deep chord of a steamer’s siren as she warped out in the Tyne below. Joe had a stimulating sense of life around him and within him he felt the world like a great big football at his feet and lustily prepared to boot it.
Beyond Plummer Street Joe paused outside a house which bore the sign, Lodging House: Good Beds: Men Only. He contemplated the house thoughtfully but, with a faint negation of his curly head, sauntered on. A moment later a girl, walking quickly in the same direction, came abreast of him and then passed by. Joe’s eyes glistened; his whole body stiffened. She was a neat little piece right enough, small feet and ankles, trim waist, smart hips, and her head in the air like a queen. His gaze lingered enviously, followed her as she crossed the road, skipped up the steps and briskly let herself into 117A Scottswood Road. Fascinated, Joe stopped and moistened his lips which had gone rather dry. In the window of 117A Scottswood Road was a card which said APARTMENTS. “By gum!” Joe said. He buttoned up his jacket and, crossing without hesitation, he rang the bell.
It was she who came to the door, made, by the removal of her hat, suddenly more intimate to him. She was even nicer than he had thought: about sixteen, maybe, with a small nose, clear grey eyes and a waxen complexion into which her recent walk had whipped a fresh colour. Her ears were very small and close to the side of her head. Her mouth was the nicest though, he told himself. It was a big mouth, not deeply red, but very soft with an entrancing little membrane to the upper lip.
“Well,” she asked sharply.
Joe smiled at her modestly, lowered his eyes, took off his cap and twisted it in his hands. No one could register homely virtue better than Joe: he did it to perfection.
“Excuse me, miss, but I was lookin’ for lodgings.”
She did not smile back at him; her lip curled, she considered him distastefully. Jenny Sunley did not like her mother to keep lodgers: not even the single lodger whom the spare top back accommodated. She thought it low, and “lowness” was to Jenny the unpardonable sin.
She smoothed her blouse, put her hands upon her neat shiny belt, and said with a certain arrogance:
“I suppose you better come in.”
Stepping reverently he followed her into the narrow passage, and was conscious instantly of the smell and sound of pigeons. Coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo! He looked up. No pigeons were visible, but on the half landing the bathroom door stood open revealing a small string of washing: long black stockings and several white garments. Hers, thought Joe delightedly, swiftly; but he masked his eyes before she had time to blush. She did blush though, for that neglected door, and her tone was suddenly shrewish as, with a toss of her head, she declared:
“It’s in here if you want to know. The back room!”
He went after her, entering “the back room,” a small blowsy much-lived-in apartment, full of old bits of horse-hair furniture, penny magazines, presents from Whitley Bay and bags of pigeon meal. Two blue chequer homers sat solemnly on the mantelpiece. Beside the hot fire, rocking herself gently in a squeaky chair, reading Home Chat, sat an indolent, untidy woman, with big eyes and a lot of hair piled up on the top of her head.
“Here, ma, it’s somebody about the room.” And flinging herself haughtily upon the broken-springed sofa, Jenny picked up a battered magazine and took, most conspicuously, no further interest in the matter.
Mrs. Sunley went on with her rocking comfortably. Only the crack of doom would have stopped Ada Sunley making herself comfortable. She was always making herself comfortable: taking off a shoe, or easing her stays, or having a little baking soda to break the wind, or a cup of tea, or a little sit down, or a look at a paper till the kettle boiled. Ada was a fat, friendly, dreamy slattern. Occasionally she nagged her husband, but mostly she was easy-going. She had been in service in her “young days,” a “good family,” she always insisted. She was romantic, she liked to look at the new moon; and superstitious, she never wore green, walked under a ladder or spilled salt without throwing it over her left shoulder; she adored a good novelette, especially the kind where the dark quiet one “got him” in the end. She wanted to be rich, she was always going in for competitions, limericks chiefly, and hoping to win a lot of money. But Ada’s limericks were hopeless. She often had remarkable ideas, Ma’s brain waves, they were called, amongst the family: to repaper a room or cover the sofa in a nice pink plush, or re-enamel the bath, or retire to the country, or start a hotel, or a ribbon shop, or even to write “a story”—she was sure she had the gift. But none of Ada’s ideas ever came to fruit. Ada never got far from her rocker. Alf, her husband, frequently said to her mildly: “My Gawd, Ada, you’re barmy!”