His first real inspection of the park was on that Saturday afternoon when he lunched with Bebbington. David’s performance at the election and his largely increased majority had impressed Bebbington, for Bebbington was that kind of man, always eager to cultivate the right people, to attach himself to success—which explained why Bebbington had come forward with Nugent to introduce David to the House. Later Bebbington strolled up.
“Going out of town this week-end?”
“No,” David answered.
“I had made arrangements,” Bebbington continued impressively, studying the effect sideways. “A house party at Larchwood Park—you know, Lady Outram’s place—but at the last minute I’ve got landed to speak at the Democratic Union on Sunday evening. Beastly, isn’t it? How I loathe the week-end in town! Lunch with me on Saturday if you’ve nothing better to do.”
“Very well,” David agreed, after a second’s hesitation. He did not care much for Bebbington but it seemed boorish to refuse.
They lunched in the green and gold restaurant of the Adalia at a window table with a glorious view of the river. It was immediately clear that in this famous and exclusive place Bebbington knew everybody. And a great many people knew Bebbington. Conscious of the eyes directed towards his erect yet supple figure, Bebbington was pleasant to David in a patronising style, explaining the ropes, whom to run with and whom to avoid. But mainly he talked about himself.
“It was a toss up with me, really,” he remarked, “whether to decorate the F.O. or go labour, I’m ambitious, you know. But I think I’ve been wise. Don’t you think there’s more scope with the party?”
“What kind of scope?” David asked bluntly.
Bebbington raised his eyebrows slightly and looked away as though the question were not in the best of taste.
“Aren’t we all?” he murmured gently.
This time it was David who looked away. Already Bebbington nauseated him with his vanity, his self-seeking, his steely, unwavering egoism. He let his gaze wander round the restaurant, noting the swift service, the flowers, iced wine, rich food and elegant women. The women especially—they blossomed in this warm perfumed air like exotic flowers. They were not like the women of the Terraces, with calloused hands and faces puckered by the eternal struggle to live. They wore costly furs, pearls, precious stones. Their finger nails were crimson, as if delicately dipped in blood. They ate caviar from Russia, pâtè from Strasbourg, early strawberries forced under glass and carried by aeroplane from Southern France. At an adjoining table a young and pretty woman sat with an old man. He was fat, hook-nosed, bald. His pendulous cheeks shone with gross living; his paunch, protruding against the table, was obscene. She languished towards him. An enormous diamond, large as a bean, was on her forefinger. He ordered a magnum of champagne, explaining that they always put the best wine in the magnums. Though he wanted only a glass he always demanded a magnum. When presently his bill was brought, presented with a genuflection before him, David saw six pounds placed by his fat hand upon the plate. They had trifled with food and drink, these two, for a bare half-hour, and the cost would have kept a family in the Terraces for a month.
A sense of unreality came over David. It was not, it could not be true, this enormity of injustice. A social order which permitted such inequality was surely rotten to the core.
He was very silent for the rest of the meal, and his appetite was gone. He remembered the days of his boyhood, of the strike, when he had gone to the fields and eaten a raw turnip to stave the pangs of hunger. His spirit revolted at this pandering luxury; he breathed with relief when at last he got away. It felt like getting out of a hothouse, where deadly and voluptuous odours intoxicated the senses and destroyed the soul. Striding back home to his lodgings, it was then that Battersea Park seemed open and undefiled.
The reaction to that inaugural luncheon with Bebbington was an almost passionate strengthening of his resolution to live simply. He had come across a strange book: The Life of the Curé d’Ars. The curé was a religious, naturally, a simple village priest in a country district of France, but the austerity of his life and the bare frugality of his diet deeply impressed David. After the wallowing he had witnessed at the Adalia, David felt a new respect for the simple man of Ars whose single daily meal was made up of two cold potatoes washed down with a glass of water from the well.
Mrs. Tucker was distressed by David’s intentions upon the Spartan life. She was an elderly voluble Irishwoman—her maiden name she proudly declared to have been Shanahan!—with green eyes and a freckled face and fiery red hair. Her husband was a collector for the Gas Company and she had two grown-up unmarried sons clerking in the City. She had none of the natural indolence of her race, her fiery hair precluded that, and she was used, in her own phrase, to arranging the men. David’s refusal to allow her to cook breakfast and supper for him struck at the roots of the Shanahan pride and set her talking freely. She was a great talker, Nora Shanahan that was, and her talking brought mortifying results.
On the last Saturday afternoon of January David went shopping in Bull Street, which was a main thoroughfare just round the corner from Blount Street. He often bought fruit in Bull Street or biscuits or a piece of cheese—there were shops in Bull Street that were both cheap and good. But this afternoon David bought himself a frying-pan. For a long time he had coveted a frying-pan as being simple, and quick in the mornings, and not gaudy then or any other time. And now he had the frying-pan. The girl in the ironmongery found the frying-pan an awkward article to wrap up and after splitting several newspapers and causing David and herself a good deal of amusement she gave over the attempt and asked David if he would take it like that. So David took the new and naked pan and carried it unashamedly to 33 Blount Street.
But at the door of 33 Blount Street something happened. A young man in plus fours and a rain-coat and a soft hat, whom David had seen hanging about at odd times lately, suddenly unslung a camera and took a shot at David. Then he raised the soft hat and walked rapidly away.
Next morning, in the middle of the Daily Gazette, the photograph appeared under the caption: The Frying-pan M.P., while below a good half a column extolled the asceticism of the new miners’ member from the North. A short but snappy interview with Mrs. Tucker was appended, full of brogue and bunkum.
David’s face coloured with anger and dismay. He jumped up from the table and hurried to the telephone on the half-landing. He rang the editor of the Gazette and protested indignantly. The editor was sorry, extremely sorry, yet he could not see what harm had been done. It was a good puff, wasn’t it?—a really top-notch puff? Mrs. Tucker was equally unable to understand his annoyance; she was highly delighted to have got her name in the papers—respectably, she added.
But David went up to the House that morning feeling resentful and small, hoping the incident had been overlooked. But it was a vain hope. A mild derisive cheer greeted him as he entered. His first recognition—ridicule! He reddened and hung his head, burning that they should think he had courted such a cheap advertisement.
“Just laugh it off,” Nugent suggested mildly. “That’s the best way. Laugh it off.” Nugent understood. But Bebbington did not. Bebbington was coldly satirical and aloof; he saw the incident as carefully prearranged and he did not hesitate to say so. Perhaps he grudged David the publicity.
That night Nugent came up to David’s flat. He sat down, feeling for his pipe, searching the room with his quiet, contemplative eyes. His face looked more cadaverous than ever and the strands of hair streaked across his brow were few and thin but his boyish and impenetrable cheerfulness prevailed. He lit his pipe, then he said:
“I’ve been meaning to come up for some time. It’s a snug little place you have here.”
“Not so bad for a pound a week,” David answered shortly. “It isn’t all here, of course. The blasted frying-pan is in the kitchen.”
Nugent’s eyes lit up with amusement.
“You mustn’t bother about that sort of nonsense,” he said
kindly. “It’ll probably do you a bit of good with the lads up North.”
“I want to do them a bit of good,” David chafed.
“That’ll all come,” Nugent said. “We can’t do much at the moment beyond marking time. We’re up against a solid Tory wall, 419 seats to our 151. What can you do in the face of that? Nothing but sit tight and wait till our turn comes. Mind you, I know how you feel. You want to get into something. And you can’t do it. You want to be done with formality and red tape and divisions and the whole smug procedure. You want results. Well, you just wait, David. One of these days you’ll have plenty of chance to cut loose.”
David was silent; then he said slowly:
“It’s the damned procrastination that seems so senseless. There’s trouble brewing in the mines. You can see it a mile away. When the settlement runs out the owners will come up in a body for longer hours and lower wages. In the meantime things are allowed to drift.”
“They kept playing about with the idea of another subsidy.” Nugent smiled gently. “In 1921 ten million pounds were evaporated in a subsidy. Then they had the great idea—a commission, always a brain-wave. But before the commission brings out its findings, the Government pays another subsidy. Then the commission brings out its findings and condemns all subsidies. It’s highly instructive. It’s even amusing.”
“When in the name of God are we going to get Nationalisation?” David asked in a burning voice. “It’s the only solution. Have we got to wait till they offer it to us on a plate?”
“We’ve got to wait till a Labour Government gets it,” Nugent said quietly. He smiled. “In the meantime carry on with your blue books and your frying-pan.”
There came another silence. And Nugent went on:
“The personal equation is important. There’s so many damned distractions and side issues to the game that you’re apt to get lost in them unless you’re careful. There’s nothing like public life for searching out a man’s private weaknesses. Personal ambition and social ambition and damned selfishness and self-interest, that’s the curse of it, Davey. Take your friend Bebbington, for instance. Do you think he cares about the twenty-odd thousand Durham miners that returned him? Not one twopenny curse! All he cares about is Bebbington. Man, it would break your heart. Take Chalmers, for another. Bob Chalmers was a perfect zealot when he came up four years ago. He swore to me with tears in his eyes that he would get a seven-hour day for the spinners or kill himself in the attempt. Well! the seven-hour day hasn’t come to Lancashire yet and Bob isn’t dead. He’s very much alive. He’s been bitten by the gold bug. He’s in with the Clinton lot, passing on useful information, and making money hand over fist in the City. Cleghorn is another. Only it’s the social side with him. He married a society wife. See! And now he’d miss any committee under the sun for a West End first night with the lady wife. I try to be generous, but I’m telling you, David, it would drive a man to despair. I’m no saint, but I hope to God I’m sincere. That’s why I’m glad to my very roots to see you dug in here and trying to live a plain and honest kind of life. Stick to it, man, for God’s sake, stick to it!”
David had never seen Nugent so overwrought. But it was only for a moment. He took command of himself again, the habitual serenity flowed back into his face.
“Sooner or later you’ll be up against it. You’ll run into corruption like a pitman runs into styfe. The place is thick with it, David. Watch the bar of the House of Commons. Watch who you drink with. Watch Bebbington, Chalmers and Dickson. I know I’m talking like a good templar’s tract, but it’s God’s truth none the less. If you can only be straight with yourself it doesn’t matter a damn what else happens.” He knocked out his pipe: “That’s the end of the sermon. I had to get rid of it. And after that, if I ever walk in here and find your mantelpiece cluttered up with trashy invitations I’ll kick you good and hard. If you want to amuse yourself, come round and watch the cricket with me at the Oval, when the good weather comes in. I’m a member. And I’m fond of it.”
David smiled:
“That’s your form of corruption.”
“Exactly! It costs me two guineas a year. And I wouldn’t give it up if they offered me the party leadership.” With a look at the clock he rose quietly and stretched himself. “I must be going now.” He moved to the door. “By the by, I haven’t forgotten about your maiden speech. There’ll be a grand chance for you in about a fortnight when Clarke proposes the amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. That’s an opportunity to get something off your chest. Good night.”
David sat down when Nugent had gone. He felt better, soothed within himself. Nugent always exerted that influence upon him. It was perfectly true that he had been restless—the inertia of parliamentary routine was a dull anticlimax to the fierce encounter of the election and the burning enthusiasm of his beliefs. He resented the slowness, the waste of time, the pointless talking, the absurd questions, the suave answers, the polite insincerity—all dust in the eyes. Instead of a swift whirring of wheels he heard only the ponderous clanking of the machine. But Nugent made him feel his resentment as both natural and absurd. He must cultivate patience. He considered eagerly and with a certain apprehension his maiden speech—it was decidedly important that his speech should be arresting and good; he must make certain about that speech. It was a wonderful opportunity, the Amendment to the Miners’ Safety Bill. He saw already, quite clearly, how he would deal with it, the points he would make, what he must emphasise and avoid. The speech began to form beautifully and strongly, to create itself like a living thing, within his mind. He was lifted right out of the room by the force of his own thought; the pit absorbed him and he was once again in the dark tunnels where men worked in constant danger of mutilation and death. It was so easy not to worry about these things if one did not know. But he did know. And he would force the living image of his knowledge into the minds and hearts of those who did not know. It would be different then.
As he sat by the fire, very still and tense, there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Tucker entered the room.
“There’s a lady to see you,” she announced.
He came back to himself with a start.
“A lady?” he repeated, and all at once a wild hope entered his head. He had always felt that Jenny was in London. Was it possible, could it possibly be that Jenny had come back to him?
“She’s downstairs. Shall I show her up?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
He stood up, facing the door, with a queer turning of his heart. Then his expression changed, his heart ceased to turn, the swift hope passed as soon as it had risen. It was not Jenny but Hilda Barras.
“Yes, it’s only me,” she declared, with her usual directness, seeing the sudden alteration in his face. “I got an idea of your whereabouts from the paper this morning and I determined to thrust my congratulations upon you. If you’re too busy say so and I’ll clear out.”
“Don’t be absurd, Hilda,” he protested. It was an amazing surprise to see Hilda Barras but after his first disappointment he was pleased to see her. She wore a plain grey costume and a plain but good fox fur. Her dark severe face struck a familiar chord of memory; he suddenly remembered their flaming arguments in the old days. He smiled. And the strange thing was that she smiled too; she had never smiled when he knew her before—not much.
“Sit down,” he said. “This really is an event.”
She sat down and peeled off her gloves; her hands were very white and strong and supple.
“What are you doing in London?” he inquired.
“That’s rather good from you,” she said calmly. “Considering that you’ve been here about a month. That’s the worst of you provincials.”
“Provincial yourself.”
“Are we going to start an argument?”
So she remembered the arguments too! He answered:
“Not without hot milk and biscuits.”
She actually laughed. When she laughed she was quite pleasant: she had very good t
eeth. She was much less forbidding than she had been; her contracted, sullen frown was gone, she looked happier and sure of herself. She said:
“It’s quite obvious that while I’ve been following your career with interest you’ve completely forgotten my existence.”
“Oh no,” he contradicted. “I knew you had qualified, about four years ago, as a doctor.”
“A doctor,” she echoed sardonically. “What kind of thing is that? You’re not mixing me up with the Luke Fildes picture by any chance? No, there’s no ipecacuanha and squills about me. I’m a surgeon—thank God. I took my M.S. with distinction. It probably doesn’t interest you, but I’m an honorary at the St. Elizabeth’s Women’s Hospital, just across the river from you here—Clifford Street, Chelsea.”
“That’s fine, Hilda,” he said, pleased.
“Yes, isn’t it?” There was no satire in her voice now, she spoke simply and sincerely.
“You like it, then?”
“I love it,” she said with a sudden intensity. “I couldn’t live without my work.”
So that’s what has changed her, he thought instinctively. Just then, she glanced up, and with almost uncanny perception she read his mind.
“I was a beast, wasn’t I?” she said calmly. “A beast to Grace and Aunt Carrie and everybody—including myself. Don’t contradict me, please, even for the sake of argument. This visit is really an act of reparation.”
“I hope you’ll repeat it.”
“Now that is nice of you,” she flushed slightly, grateful. “I’ll be quite frank. I’ve terribly few friends in London, terribly and pathetically few. I’m too stiff. I’m no good at meeting people. I don’t make friends easily. But I always did like you. Don’t misunderstand that, please. There’s no silly nonsense about me. Not one particle. So I only thought that if you were willing we might sharpen our wits against each other occasionally.”