Martha was expecting him — he had wired her the night before — and her eyes flew to his black tie. Her eyes revealed nothing as they took in that black tie and she asked no question.
“You’re late, surely,” she said. “Your breakfast’s been waiting this hour past.”
He sat down by the table.
“I’ve had breakfast with Wilson, mother.”
She did not like that, she persisted:
“Will you not even have a cup of tea?”
He nodded.
“Very well.”
He watched her as she infused fresh tea, first pouring hot water in the brown teapot, then measuring the tea exactly from the brass canister that had been her mother’s, he watched her sure and firm movements and he thought with a kind of wonder how little she had changed. Not far off seventy now, still vigorous and dark and unyielding, she was indomitable. He said suddenly:
“Jenny died three days ago.”
Her features remained impenetrable, slightly formidable.
“I thought that must be the way of it,” she said, putting the tea before him.
A silence fell. Was that all she could say? It struck him as insufferably cruel that she could hear of Jenny’s death without speaking one word of regret. But while he despaired of her vindictiveness, she declared, almost brusquely:
“I’m sorry it has grieved ye, David.” The words seemed wrung from her. Then, following something like embarrassment, she looked at him covertly. “And what’s like going to happen with you now?”
“Another election… another start.”
“Ye’re not tired of it, yet?”
“No, mother.”
When he had drunk his tea, he went upstairs to lie down for a few hours. He closed his eyes, but for a long time sleep eluded him. The thought remained hammering in his head, insistent, and agitating, like a prayer — O God, let me keep Joe Gowlan out, let me keep him out. Everything he had battled against all his life was concentrated in this man who now opposed him. He must win. He must. Willing that with all his strength, a drowsiness came over him, he fell asleep at last.
The next day, October 16th, was the official nomination day, and at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, at the very outset of the campaign, David encountered Joe. The meeting took place outside the Town Hall. David, accompanied by Wilson, was advancing up the steps to hand in his papers, when at that moment, Joe, escorted by Ramage, Connolly and the Rev. Low, all members of his executive, together with a number of his supporters, swung through the doorway and began to come down. At the sight of David, Joe stopped short dramatically, and faced him with a manly recognition. He stood two steps above David, a fine expansive figure, his chest thrown out impressively, his double-breasted jacket open, a large bunch of blue cornflowers in his buttonhole. Towering in rough-hewn grandeur, he held out his meaty hand. He smiled — his hearty, man-to-man smile.
“Well met, Fenwick,” he cried. “Better early than late, eh? I hope this is going to be a clean contest. It will be on my side. Fair play and no favour. And may the best man win.”
There was a murmur of approval from Joe’s partisans, while David went cold outside and sick within.
“Mind you,” went on Joe, “there’s going to be no kid gloves about it though, no gloves at all; it’s going to be bare fists all the time. I consider I’m fighting for the Constitution, Fenwick, the British Constitution. Don’t make any mistake about that, I warn you. All the same we’ll fight clean. British sportsmanship, see, that’s what I mean, British sportsmanship.”
Again there was a cheer from the rapidly accumulating crowd of Joe’s supporters, and in the enthusiasm of the moment several pressed forward and shook hands with him. David turned away in a cold disgust. Without a word he went into the Town Hall. But Joe, quite undismayed by the incivility of his opponent, continued shaking hands. Joe was not proud, he would shake any man’s hands, by God, provided the man was decent and British and a sportsman. Standing there on the steps of the Town Hall, Joe was moved to express that sentiment to the assembly now before him. He declared:
“I’m proud and willing to shake the hand of any decent man.” A pause of deep feeling. “Provided he’ll shake hands with me. But don’t let the Bolshies come up and try it on. No, by God, no!” Joe threw out his chest pugnaciously. He felt lusty, powerful, he was glorying in it now. “I want you lads to know that I’m against the Bolshies and the Reds and all the other scrimshankers. I’m for the British Constitution and the British Flag and the British Pound. We didn’t do our bit in the war at home and abroad for nothing. I’m for law and order and sport and sociability. That’s what I’m fighting the election for, and that’s what you’re voting for. No man has the right to leave the world as bad as he finds it. We’ve got to do what we can to make the world better, see. We’ve got to stand by ethics and education and the ten commandments. Yes, by God, the ten commandments! We’re not going to stand any antichristian Bolshie anarchism against the ten commandments! And no anarchism against the British Flag and the British Constitution and the British Pound. That’s why I’m asking you to vote for me, lads. And if you want to keep yourselves in work don’t you forget it!”
Led by Ramage, cheers were raised and raised again. The cheers intoxicated Joe; he felt himself a born orator, elevated by the approval of his own conscience and of his fellow men. He beamed and shook hands with everyone near him, then he marched down the steps.
As he reached the pavement, a little boy got entangled with his legs and fell. Stooping in an excess of kindliness, Joe picked him up and set him on his bare feet.
“There,” he laughed paternally. “There!”
Joe’s laugh seemed to startle the boy, who was a very ragged little boy of about six, with a pallid underfed face and uncut hair falling over big frightened eyes, and all at once he began to cry. His mother, holding a baby to her with one arm, came forward to pluck him out of Joe’s way with the other.
“He’s a fine little lad, missus,” Joe beamed. “A regular champion. What’s his name?”
The young woman flushed nervously at finding herself the object of the great man’s attention. She tightened the skimpy shawl which bound the baby to her and ventured timidly:
“His name’s Joey Townley, Mr. Gowlan. His father’s brother, that’s to say his uncle, Tom Townley, worked in the heading next yours in the Paradise, when you used to work inbye yourself. Before you became… like you are now… like.”
“Well, well,” Joe rejoined, beaming. “Would you believe it! And does your husband work in the Neptune an’ all, Mrs. Townley?”
Mrs. Townley blushed more deeply, confused, ashamed, terrified at her own boldness.
“No, Mr. Gowlan, sir, he’s on the dole. But, oh sir, if he could just get back in work…”
Joe nodded his head with sudden gravity.
“You leave it to me, missus. That’s why I’m fightin’ this election,” he announced fervently. “Yes, by God, I’m goin’ to change things for the better here.” He patted little Joe Townley’s head and smiled again, facing the crowd with magnificent modesty. “A fine little lad. And Joe too! Well, well, who knows, he might turn out to be another Joe Gowlan hisself!”
Still beaming, he moved away towards his waiting car. The effect was superb. News spread up and down the Terraces that Joe Gowlan was going to take back Sarah Townley’s man and give him a first-class job inbye, the best heading in the pit. There were a few like Sarah Townley in Sleescale. It all did Joe a vast amount of good.
Joe’s power as a speaker developed. He had good lungs, absolute assurance and a throat of brass. He blared at them. He was virile. He developed slogans. Huge posters appeared and spread across every hoarding in the town.