The little boy fidgeted between his father’s legs.  He had him locked in an embrace within his two arms but it was no use, he wanted to go and play, so Plozzer let him go and he flew out of the kitchen door taking a mongrel dog with him.  Martin and Stephen made small talk while Mrs Plozzer busied herself with the teapot and then she found that her best china had been put away dirty and so it had to be washed before his lordship and Mr Stephen could take their tea with any decency.

At last it came and it was good and strong and Martin asked her to sit down, although she was in her own kitchen.

“Now tell me again what this was all about,” said Martin.  Plozzer hesitated and looked to his wife.  Martin said: “Tell me now as your landlord, not as a magistrate.”  Plozzer gulped before he began.

Martin had been on the bench, which was his duty every other month.  Sometimes there were no cases at all for Branksome-le-Bourne was somewhat of a sleepy hollow and great crimes were rare.  Plozzer had been charged by the constable with being drunk in a public place and smashing one of the new electric standards that had only recently been erected in the main road.  This had been affected with a stone when Plozzer’s first attempt, with an empty larger bottle, had not met with success.  The landlord of the The Feathers had appeared and given evidence that Plozzer was already quite inebriated when he had come into the public house at 9:00 pm and he had been refused more.  The constable said he had been alerted by Mr Destombe to the breaking glass and had come upon Plozzer standing under the light shaking his fist and swearing incoherently.  The electric company had submitted that the cost of repair was 4/6 and so Martin had fined him that much with an additional sum of 5 shillings for public drunkenness.  Martin had hoped he had done this correctly and looked to the clerk for confirmation; he had a splitting headache due to an excess of the French liqueur, Cointreau, the previous evening when The Plunger and some of his artistic friends had been down for the weekend.

“I am in arrears with the rent, your lordship, as you must know,” said Plozzer.

“Yes, Mr Blake tells me its three months since you have paid rent.  Is this connected with last week’s outburst?”

“Well, in a way, your lordship.  Things haven’t been going too well: two of my crops have failed and the barrel medic has not been a success with the sheep.”

“Did you spread copper before you planted?”

Plozzer shook his head sorrowfully.  “I meant to, but I was feeling too poorly and then I had to hurry to get in a crop at all—having left it so late like. The truth is that the farm hasn’t been paying and it’s only the fact that Mrs Plozzer,” and here he looked at his wife who was sitting across from him, “has been working over in Wareham that meant we could make ends meet.”

“And now I’ve been laid off, your lordship,” said the women.  “I was in the packing department and we were putting the brass parts for electric light globes into cardboard boxes.  The foundry had already laid off the men two weeks before.”

“I see,” said Martin, “this is due to the coal strike, I presume?”

They nodded their heads. “There’s seven other families in the village same as us,” added Plozzer.

“But they didn’t get drunk and make a nuisance of themselves or am I to expect seven more cases before me?”

Plozzer went red and murmured something contrite.

“What do you think, Stephen?”  The Plozzers looked at Stephen expectantly as they respected his judgement as the village stud and captain of the First XI and saw him as someone who could mediate between villager and lord.

“Well, you need to see a doctor first.  If you are too ill to farm, then the farm should go to another who can.”  The Plozzers looked alarmed. “Then you need to see Mr Blake about what to plant; we can’t have any more failures.  Blake should also reschedule your rent so you can make it up over the next year or so.  Three months is not such a big sum.  About nine pounds is it?” Plozzer nodded.  “Perhaps the court has a poor box, Lord Branksome that the Plozzers could apply too?”

“No, no no!” cried Plozzer.  “We don’t want no charity; we will pay the money we owe.”

“Well said, Plozzer!” declared Martin, “and with any luck the wretched strikers will go back and Tatchell’s will open again.”

When they returned to their bicycles Stephen said:  “You were wrong on one point: the miners are locked out, they’re not on strike.”

“They have no right to strike and cause such misery…well… I don’t mean strike…”

“Mala, those 800,000 miners have had their pitiful wages cut, what else can they do but refuse to work?  Their work is terrible and they are on starvation wages—they have fallen to less than four pounds a week and now they want to cut them by a further 13%.”

“I haven’t seen a coal mine or even a mining town, but I have seen this village and because there is no coal, Plozzer has got himself in trouble and there are many other families who rely on Tatchell’s.”

“The mine owners need to take a cut in their dividends, Mala, it’s unconscionable.”

“I don’t think they are paying high dividends, Derby, if I read the newspapers correctly and I also believe our miners are far less productive than miners in other countries— Germany for example.  Even if they took cuts in their dividends that would never make up enough for a pay rise for a million miners. ”

“‘Less productive’?  Do you mean they receive higher wages for what they do or they dig less coal?”

“I’m not sure—the second I think.  Isn’t that so?” Stephen wasn’t quite sure either, but didn’t want to concede the point.

“And is it the miners or the mines who is unproductive?” said Stephen glaring at Martin, with his eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, without dividends, how can the mine-owners attract capital to modernise?  And the government couldn’t go on subsidising their wages like they have been for the last nine months; they’ll just have to accept that that’s the way things are.  I know it is terrible but…’

“That’s your trouble, Mala,” said Stephen hotly, “you too readily accept that the way things are, as the way they should be; you’re rich and they’re poor; that’s the way it is.  I hate to say it, but it shows a want of principle, Mala.”

Martin felt hot tears welling up, but was determined to remain coherent. “How dare you, Derby!  I know that things must change and that I should have wealth taken from me to help others, but I at least recognise it.  I understand how things are better than you do.  You think yourself so pure and principled, but it’s really just a refusal—an inability— to see things as they really are.  Principles are all too easy and incorruptible; real life isn’t like that.  We have to accept the world as it is as a starting point at least.  And while I’m thinking about it, I don’t believe that everyone should have exactly the same—even as a theoretical principle.”

“How can you say that, Mala?  Everyone should be treated the same.”

“Treated, but not have…to assume that no one should be richer than another person, or rather to assume that level means equal falls into the ‘natural fallacy’.  There is no logical reason why that should be so.”

“First year philosophy, Mala?”

“If you are being so nasty, Derby, yes, but equal is not necessarily level. Plozzer should have the same justice as you or me before the law, but that doesn’t mean he should have the same income.”

“But you know as well as I that poor people don’t get equal justice and it’s justice before you in the case of Plozzer.” 

“Well, we are in furious agreement, Derby, because I agree they should and we should make it so and I did my best with Plozzer when he came before me; I think that was a dirty thing to say.”

“Well, are the miners getting justice when their wages are cut so savagely?”

“I don’t know.  Is it justice that Tatchell should have to close his factory because there is no coal or that the railway workers refuse to deliver it?” Other hurtful things were exchanged and then they glared at each other.

They commenced to ride again, but did not speak or even look at each other.  Martin spent the rest of the day in his garden where he ruthlessly pruned the cistus incanus while Stephen went down to the gymnasium and bloodied his knuckles on the punching bag.  Chilvers reported raised voices at 6 o’clock.

There was silence over dinner until Martin spoke.  “I’m going up to London tomorrow, Derby.”

“Oh, I can’t come until Tuesday as I have a Committee Meeting for the Gymnasium ladies.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but kept himself in check as he did not want to let Stephen to have the advantage.

When Carlo woke them in the morning, he found to his surprise that they were asleep on opposite sides of the great bed.  They drank their early tea, read their post and scanned their respective newspapers in silence.  The papers were full of depressing news and the Trades Union Congress had called for a general strike in support of the miners.

“His lordship is driving up to London today, Carlo.  You go with him.”

“Very good, Mr Stephen, but who will look after you?”

“Me? I don’t need anyone to look after me.”

“Oh sir, please don’t say that.  I do a satisfactory job with your clothes and your bath and with the razor, don’t I?”

Stephen realised that he had upset him.  “I’m sorry, Carlo, of course.  What would I look like going out if it weren’t for you?  I’d be mistaken for a rag-and-bone man and you did a beautiful job of shaving me ‘down there’ yesterday; my balls feel wonderful—although your efforts are wasted on some people.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Stay with Mr Stephen.  Glass will tend to me in London.”

There was an argument and a coin was tossed.  Carlo would go up with Martin.

When Stephen arrived in London a couple of days later, Martin was not at home.

“His lordship has gone off to Hyde Park, Mr Stephen.  They’ve called for volunteers at the food depot and we have been listening to the news on the wireless, sir— there are no newspapers—they were asking for ex-officers to volunteer as ‘special constables’, sir.  Are you going back into uniform, sir?”

“I don’t think so, Mr Glass,” said Stephen abruptly and then he went into the red drawing room to listen-in himself, but he found he would have to wait until the evening to hear the news on 2Lo so he went up to his room.

“Oh Mr Stephen!” cried Carlo, looking distressed, as he came in. “I feared you might not come at all and then I wondered if his lordship would ever go back to Croome.”

“We’ve just had a difference of opinion, that’s all Carlo.  It will blow over.”

“I don’t like to see you not sleeping together.”

“Well, it might be a little dishonest if we did, but I must say I’m looking forward to a resumption…”

“I’m sure his lordship is also,” said Carlo quickly, “although I didn’t tell you that, sir.  By the look of you I think you might require my services.”

“You mean like when we were in the War?  Well, this is a little war I suppose.”

Carlo took Stephen into the bathroom and removed all his clothes and carefully hung them up.  He set the taps running.  Then Carlo stood breast to breast with Stephen and looked him steadily in the eyes.  Stephen felt a little guilty about his recent behaviour and it took him a few minutes before he could return a steady gaze.  Meanwhile Carlo had grasped Stephen’s cock with his right hand and was milking it vigorously, holding it firmly at a downwards angle when it was inclined, of its own accord, to rise up to Stephen’s muscular stomach.

“Oooh, just like that, Carlo,” was all Stephen could say, as their eyes remained locked.  Then Stephen put his two big arms on Carlo’s shoulders and rested heavily.  Carlo thought his knees might give way.  He increased his wrist action; his hand was becoming tired, but he was determined to press on, despite the fatigue.  Stephen leaned his groin inwards and a look of intense concentration passed across his face.  There was an audible splash as Stephen spilled a big load on the bathroom floor in eight heavy streams.  Carlo kept up the pressure, almost as a punishment for Stephen’s stupidity over the last few days and was milking him painfully.

“Ow, stop Carlo!  There’s no more.  It’s sore!”  Stephen then was convulsed with laughter.  “That was very intense.  Thank you, I needed that.”

They looked down on the tiles where there was a considerable pool of Stephen’s seed.  “I wish I could spill a load like that, Mr Stephen, but even in my prime…and his lordship should be here.”

“At least he would help clean it up,” laughed Stephen.

Stephen scooped a quantity of his warm seed onto his fingers from the end of his cock and held them out to Carlo.  Carlo dearly wanted to taste it but steeled himself and said: “By rights that should be for his lordship and I wouldn’t feel right under the circumstances.  Now, in the bath, Mr Stephen and no splashing as I’ve only brought this one suit.” 

When Martin returned there was a thaw in the icy relations between the boys.  “Derby, they didn’t need any more volunteers at the food depot, but some of the chaps from school—Custard and Biffo and that lot— have become volunteer ’bus drivers and they asked me to join.  I start tomorrow,” said Martin in triumph.

“Well, that is very good, Mala, although I can’t agree that it is right to be a blackleg.  Those drivers are striking to support their brothers in the mines; they’re going without their own wages and so times will be hard in many homes.”

“Well I think of it as helping keep the country going.  How can people get to work with no ’buses, tubes and trains?”

“I would never accuse you of being selfish, Mala.  I hope it goes well.”

Carlo could not tell how things had gone overnight because Martin was already up and dressed when he came in at 6:00 am.  “I have to report to Shepherds Bush, Carlo.  I’ll drive myself.  Do I look alright?” Carlo surveyed his lordship.  He was wearing a pair of plus-fours with brogues and a Fairisle pullover.  “A lot of the chaps are wearing blue ties in support of the government.”

“Good luck sir,” said Carlo.

“Good luck, Mala!” called Stephen from the bed.

Stephen spent the day listening-in to the wireless and then went to the Saville Club.

Martin came home tired but elated.  “It was marvellous, Derbs.  I drove the bus from Wood Green into the Bank.  It was a bit more complicated than the bus at Branksome and you have to be careful of low bridges and trees- some clerks lost their bowlers but there were no serious injuries.  Then in Hammersmith there was a picket line and they tried to pull me off the driver’s seat, but I put my foot down and drove straight through them.  You should have seen them scatter.  In the afternoon they had a ‘special’ assigned to each bus and some barbed wire to protect the driver.  I took masses of clerks home from work at 5:00 but I became a bit lost so I just dropped them off wherever they asked me too.  I think that is a much better system, don’t you?  I’m sure more people would take omnibuses if they didn’t have to go to a whole lot of places people didn’t want to.”

Stephen held his tongue until they were getting ready for bed— an early night because of Martin’s early start.  “Mala, I volunteered for tomorrow too.”

“Well done, Derbs!  Are you on a ’bus?  They also need chaps at Lot’s Road power station, I believe.’

“No Mala I’m on a picket line down at London Docks.  We are trying to prevent the troops from breaking the strike.”

“Oh Derby!  You’re agin’ us.”

“I’m afraid so, Mala.”

Martin was quiet for a few minutes then said: “Well if you are sure, I will respect that.  You will probably have the most frightful fun down there, but do be careful.  I know Baldwin has said the troops won’t be armed, but if Churchill gets his way there will be bloodshed.”

“Thank you, Mala, I will be careful.  Do you know what the King said when the Daily Mail said the strikers were revolutionaries?”  Martin shook his head.  “Try living on their wages before you judge them.”

“He’s right.  It is a dispute, not a revolution.  We don’t do revolutions in this country do we?  We seek compromises and leave some of the old, familiar structures in place.”

“Yes, that is very true and perhaps I overlooked that the other day—you know when we were on our bikes.  Let us hope for a compromise.”

Stephen and Martin both left for their respective positions dressed in remarkably similar garb, save for Stephen’s tie, which was red.

Martin had a lovely day and there was little trouble from strikers except when his ’bus was pelted with stones in the Old Kent Road.  His afternoon run from the Bank to Putney Bridge, however ran into difficulties.  He had warned them that fuel was in short supply, but picketers had prevented petrol tank wagons from leaving the depot.  Martin had a full ’bus, with many trying to squeeze onto the stairs.  The extra weight made the ’bus groan as it made its way up the Strand and into Trafalgar Square.  By the time they reached Piccadilly the ’bus was starting to lurch.  Clearly the petrol tank was nearly empty. “We better pull over said the ‘special’ and I’ll find a telephone to call for petrol.”  The bus shuddered onwards for bit and then Martin made the decision to cross to the wrong side of the road and the vehicle came to a halt before the doors of Branksome House.

“I’m terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Martin as he swung up on the step. “We will get you to your homes just as soon as we can get some petrol.”

Martin and the astonished constable disappeared inside and Glass directed the latter to the telephone while Martin took Glass outside and together they counted the passengers.  There were forty-two—with a few defections as some thought they would make for the Underground nearby.

Fifteen minutes later a table had been set up on the footpath and Glass and the footmen were serving hot, strong tea to the stranded commuters. M. Lefaux himself came out with a tray of choux pastries.

By the time the petrol tank had arrived the passengers were having such a nice time they were reluctant to climb aboard to resume their journey.  But they did and Martin was thanked warmly at every stop and by the time they reached Putney Bridge—more than an hour late—the last dozen passengers gave him a round of applause.  Martin stood in his seat, swept his cap off and grinned at them.  It had been a memorable day.

It was late when Martin returned home.  Stephen was already there, but before he could say anything he saw to his dismay that Stephen was injured.

“It’s nothing, Mala.  They had horses and batons.  I copped one in the face.  The line was broken and the Army are unloading the ships as we speak. We’ve been defeated.”

Stephen did not return to the picket lines.  Martin continued to drive the bus, but things became more organised as the government seemed to regain control.  An ugly little newspaper, the British Gazette, appeared but even opponents of the strike preferred the BBC to Mr Churchill’s publication.  “You’d better not tell him I was on the other side when we next meet, Mala, said Stephen whose yellow bruises were fading.

Then it was all over.  The Trade Union Congress met at Downing Street, without the miners’ representatives, there was an agreement that was not honoured in the end and the workers went back without any gains for the striking miners whatsoever.

“I think it was a mistake, Mala,” said Stephen as they lay in bed turning over the events.  “The miners will go back with nothing, having been betrayed by people like Jimmy Thomas who misrepresented everyone’s position.  They went into it mistaking their solidarity for victory, rather than just a basis for it.  They would have been better off agreeing with Samuel’s proposals and then fought with the government to pin down the details. I hate to admit it, but Baldwin was right not to enflame passions on both sides.”

“It’s very easy to say you see the other point of view, but unless you agree with it, do you really see it at all?”  There was no answer and Martin tried to put his arm around Stephen’s neck, but found that he couldn’t comfortably so he grasped Stephen’s lovely cock under the blanket instead.

Who’s master and who’s man was a vexed issue here as well as across the country, thought Martin, but he was quite prepared for his naked lover next to him to be both and could only hope that he would never withhold his labour or reduce his productivity now that he had the upper hand. 

***** 

It was some weeks later that the boys had just returned to Croome from a board meeting at the golf links in Stephen’s motor.  The links was going well and there was even talk of limiting membership until the back nine was completed in 1927.  The hotel was also starting to pay its way and the latest railways holiday guides had it prominently listed.  It was the opinion of the Board that they could start paying back some of their borrowings over the next financial year.

“Derby,” began Martin.  “Did you know that we could have sold the freehold to the links and to those new houses going up?”

“But I thought you couldn’t,” said Stephen, being careful of the narrow and irregular road—it having seen no improvement along the lines so forcefully and logically suggested by Dwight and Bunny.  “I thought it was part of the entail or something.”

“It was, but there was new legislation in Parliament last year.  It is now possible to break the entail when there is a financial need; the estate doesn’t need to go to the heir.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I’ll tell you: When I was up in London— when I was being so stupid over the strike…”

“No it was me, Mala; I was pig headed and doctrinaire and a bit of a prig.”

“Yes, so you were, you have just reminded me.”  Stephen looked across; he was being teased.  “When I was in London,” continued Martin, “I saw Sir Danvers Smith.  I am making a new will and I am leaving the house and the estate to you if I predecease you and have no children.  I’m sorry that I can’t leave you the title—that is unchanged in law.”

“Why Mala, that’s very noble of you.”

“That’s because I am a noble.”

“Even so, it will be damned hard to be a socialist with Croome as an address.”  Martin raised an eyebrow at him.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well you could say that you might die first—but don’t say it, please.” 

Stephen drove on in stunned silence for a minute and this was broken by Martin again. “Derbs, we’re also going on a holiday.”

“A holiday?  You don’t mean to Venice again or to see Bunny and Dwight?”

“Not so romantic, I’m afraid.  I want us both to see a mining town—to see conditions for ourselves.  Mr Destrombe has been collecting funds for his younger brother’s parish in West Tipton.  It’s quite distressed, I believe, and I said we would take the money up to him and asked if he could introduce us to some people— you know, miners and mine owners.”

“Why that’s extraordinary of you, Mala!  You’re full of surprises and hidden depths.  I never would have expected this in a million years.”

Martin smiled, for that was just the reaction he wanted from Stephen.

 *******

It was as Mr Poole and Mr Knight that the boys took the train to West Tipton via Wolverhampton.  The Black Country was actually very beautiful, with intense green fields in the valleys and duller green on the high moors, but it was human beings who had spoiled it.  West Tipton had a long and noble history, but unlike Branksome and indeed unlike London, this epoch was dead to the local inhabitants whose history only began a century before with the expansion of mining and the opening of the canals.  It was ironic that Stephen had mentioned Venice for here were canals aplenty but of a different order and while it was possible to admire them for their engineering achievement— cutting through hills and bridging valleys—they were not beautiful or a source of joy to the inhabitants, but stinking sewers surrounded by decaying industry.  On the skyline the poppet heads of the mines were joined by the chimneys of heavy industry, for West Tipton was a consumer as well as a producer of coal and there were many ironmasters in the town.  Mrs Gatskell had not exaggerated in North and South.

And the town: dismal rows of flat-fronted brick terraces with grubby yards beyond number containing regimented rows of privies and festooned with washing which turned grey in the perpetual drizzle mixed with soot.  The green hills nearby, even from the highpoints of the town, were shrouded in smoke and low clouds.

Mr Destrombe’s church and rectory were also rather grim Victorian gothic piles, but the boys received a warm welcome and were invited to stay.

“That’s very kind of you Mr Destrombe, but we have already deposited our kit at the Criterion, but tea would be most welcome,” said Martin.

“My brother writes a good deal about the both of you and I feel that I know you already, if I may be permitted to say so.  But do tell me the purpose of your visit to West Tipton, such a long way from Branksome-le-Bourne.”

“Well, we feel that this part of England is so utterly unknown to us and that we should make an effort.  The recent troubles has thrown it into relief and I’m afraid Mr Knight-Poole and I had political differences based on our ignorance.”  Martin had gone red at the memory of this, but Stephen nodded and took over.

“We would like to meet some miners and some mine owners if you think that would be possible.”

“Well, the locals here are very suspicious of strangers and they mustn’t think you are newspaper reporters or ‘from the government’, or you won’t get anywhere.  If I explain you are my guests it might be a different matter.”

“How do you find conditions in your parish, Mr Destrombe?” asked Martin.

“About as bad as they can get.  St Paul’s tends to attract the wealthier strata of society, but we have hundreds of families who work down the pits—that is, when there is work to go to.  The chapel and the Salvation Army could tell you a thing or two and Father Coughlin at the Roman Church has a big congregation of Irish from Liverpool who have suffered terribly.

“You know, it wasn’t like this before the War or even during it.  Coal and iron were in demand and miners’ wages were as high as 6 pounds a week even just five years ago.  Many a miner’s home had a piano in the front room on hire purchase and they took their families to the seaside in August.  Now one in every three is on the dole and wages have been cut to the bone.  This strike has done no one any good and many families—the ones who weren’t taken back— are subsisting on what they can grow on their allotments and on what they receive in rations from the relief.  That is a truly terrible thing, for these are proud people.”

Martin and Stephen solemnly digested this information.  “What is the main pit here?” asked Martin.

“The Sunbeam Colliery, you can see it from out in the road and you will hear the whistle for the next shift any moment now.  The absence of that whistle had become a symbol of the terrible times and even I am overjoyed when I hear it once again.”

“And the owner?”

Well, Lord Forth is the chairman of the board, but he no longer lives in England.  He has lived in Menton for the last fifteen years— it’s his lungs.” Stephen thought of all those who could not escape the smoke so easily.  “But I can introduce you to Mr Sedgley who is the mine manager.  He is a blunt man, but not an evil one as the union would like to paint him; he has a job to do and it is in his interest that the mine keep operating.”

“You mean it is in danger of closing?”

“Oh yes.  I’m sure it’s not paying its way—not without Mr Baldwin’s subsidy.  If it closes there will be nearly a thousand out of work.”

The topic changed to Branksome and Martin saw Mr Destrombe sigh at the thought, no doubt, of his brother’s easy living.

 *******

The next day they went with Mr Destrombe to see Sedgley.  Martin and Stephen came through the enormous gates in the high brick wall that separated the Sunbeam colliery from the rest of the town, but in a very real way the influence of the mine, like its smoke and piercing whistle, penetrated into every home, hearth and bedroom in the town despite these high walls.  Men’s lives and their work were inseparable; or rather they were so in the better times.

It was the change of shift and Martin and Stephen found themselves surrounded by a crowd of men in boots and caps who carried their dinners in little tin pails or Gladstone bags.

From Sedgley’s high window they began to understand the mine below them. Sedgley was a man with a hard, red face— as hard at the corners of his mouth as the shiny brass chain that stretched across his waistcoat.  He had been taciturn at first, but when it became clear that the boys were not spies—being so ignorant of mining that this became obvious at once—and not ‘from Lundun,’ he opened up a bit, but still adopted the challenging aggression in his manner of speech, typical of the region and its hardened inhabitants.

“So you want to know history of t’mine, do you?”

“Yes, said Martin. Is it old?”

“Old? Is it old you’re asking?”

“Yes, is it?”

“It is old, Mr Poole and perhaps there is not much more coal to be won, but that is a lively debating point in this town.  We can’t modernise it without more capital and we can’t raise more capital without showing a profit.  I’m being straight with you.”

“And the other mines in the West Midlands?”

“T’other mines? You’re asking after t’other mines?”

“Yes, the other mines,” said Martin feeling exhausted as every question was returned with a challenge.

“Some better some worse.  We can’t compete with German and American coal.  The pound is too high.”

This was something the boys had not considered.  “You mean since we’ve gone back on the gold standard?”

“The gold standard?  Aye, it makes it cheaper to buy coal, but harder to sell our own.”

“And the Union?”

“You want me t’tell you about Miners’ Union, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Union won’t be happy until t’mine is closed and there are no jobs at all.  They are fools and have been played for fools by the TUC who encouraged them to strike rather than negotiate.”

“Could we go down in the pit?”

“Go do t’pit? You want to go down in’t pit?”

“Yes!” they said in unison.

Sedgley didn’t think that would be possible and that the Union wouldn’t allow it, but he asked the shop steward who was at hand.  At first he said no, then Stephen had a whispered conversation with him and he gave a curt nod to Sedgley.

“What did you say, Derby?” asked Martin as they put on helmets and overalls.

“I told him I was on the picket line at London Docks,” said Stephen.

The descent into the mine was truly terrifying.  It was not one shaft as they had naively imagined but there were many landings and levels and inclines. Wooden wagons rumbled by, reminding Stephen of Bunny’s tunnels under the streets of Chicago.  Brass tokens were attached to each wagon identifying the miner who had filled it, for they were paid at piece rates.  It was unbearably hot and the boys thought that ventilation was utterly inadequate. The miners were half naked. Towards their journey’s end the ceiling became terrifyingly low and Martin refused to go on.  Stephen also felt sick, so they never got to see the men with picks at the coalface, that must have had to lay on their sides to win the coal, but this was enough; it was a job from hell.

It was with relief that they regained the doubtful fresh air of West Tipton.  One lasting impression was how long it took to descend and get to the coalface and how it was an equally long journey to come back up.  The other impression was that the mine was finished.  It had an unmistakably doomed air about it.

 *******

The next day was different.  Mr Destrombe had arranged for them to meet the Tatlocks, a local family.  He took them to one of the anonymous terraces.  He didn’t knock because a women kneeling at the open door was vigorously scrubbing the step as if she were trying to expunge the stain of original sin itself.

“Good morning Mrs Tatlock,” said the vicar.

“Oh Mr Destrombe, hello,” she replied looking up.  “Whatever must you think of me; I would normally have had this done hours ago, but I was tending to my husband.  He has the most terrible bedsores that is giving him gyp.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it.  He is in our prayers, Mrs Tatlock.”  And, as if in confirmation, a terrible coughing could be heard coming from somewhere inside.

Introductions were made and Mrs Tatlock pushed a strand of hair back from her careworn eyes and wiped her hands on her apron.  They were invited into the parlour and Martin and Stephen felt like dreadful intruders, having no sensible purpose for being there at all.  “My husband is very ill with miner’s lung, Mr Poole,” she explained frankly to Martin.  “He has not been able to work since 1919 and now he can’t even rise from the bed.” Then she added a postscript redolent with sadness and pride:  “He was a ‘leading hand’— in charge of a whole shift he were—before he took ill, like, and we done alright then.”

The parlour was clearly ‘the best room’ but it also doubled as a bedroom for there was a stretcher bed and bedding under the window.  There were several cardboard boxes of what appeared to be collars and cuffs stacked behind a stand that held an aspidistra that flourished in spite of dust and soot.  It became clear that Mrs Tatlock was sleeping there to be close to her husband.  Marks on the terrible wallpaper and on the shabby velvet fringed lambrequin that covered the mantelpiece showed where pictures and ornaments—surely a pair of Staffordshire dogs—had once stood proudly, now presumably pawned.  There was a Singer sewing machine under a cloth— obviously too valuable to let go—and Martin wondered if there had been a piano in the good times.

“My two youngest are still in school and we depend on our Jim’s wages.  He went down t’pit when neither my husband nor I wanted it for him.  But he went against our wishes and now we are dependent on him.”

There was another bout of coughing and Mrs Tatlock disappeared only to return a moment later.

“Mr Poole and Mr Knight have come from my brother’s parish in Dorset, Mrs Tatlock,’ said Mr Destrombe. “They have been busy raising money to help folk up here, since the strike.”

“Well, my husband mustn’t hear this, but I am not too proud to take anything that is offered, although there is plenty much worse off than us.  We have nothing from week to week and we had no money coming in at all for seven months, but we don’t go hungry or cold, but I’m at my wits end and if things was different I would leave this place as quick as you could say knife.”

“Where would you go?” asked Mr Destrombe.

“South, to London.  Jim could get a job and I could save my young Teddy from t’ pit.  I know my husband would never leave, but…” the rest remained unvoiced.  Presently Mr Destrombe said good afternoon and left, the boys remaining with Mrs Tatlock who was telling them about the recent difficult times.  They liked her; she was honest and not in the least affected.

Just then there was a noise.  Jim was home.  They went out into the kitchen to meet him.  He was a big lad with a sunny smile, but he was so dirty it was difficult to form an accurate impression.  He had come in through the backyard in an endeavour to keep the front of the house clean.  He handed over his wages to his mother and she took his blackened work clothes out into the yard where there was a washhouse.  Jim then took out a tin dish and it was filled with hot water from the stove.

“Can’t you wash at the pit?” asked Martin rather rudely.  “I mean,” he said correcting himself, “does the Sunbeam mine have no baths?”

Jim was cheerful as he was washing himself stripped to the waist with a flannel and a fragment of soap.  He lifted up his arms and soaped vigorously under his attractive armpits.  “No, it’s an old fashioned outfit.  It’s the washtub for me and curry from me mum for making the house dirty.  Are you boys staying t’ tea— it’s payday so there will be a joint.”

Martin and Stephen looked at each other.  Suddenly Stephen said: “You play cricket, Jim; I saw the cup on the mantelpiece in the front room.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “You’re a player Mr Knight?” A discussion of the sort Martin had witnessed many times immediately took place and then Stephen said: “We love to stay to tea, but you’d have to let us pay our way.  We know how things have been.”  To their surprise, Jim did not object.

“Mum!” he called and the lady appeared. “Mr Knight and Mr Poole will be having their tea with us.  Send Judy down to the co-op and get something nice.  We’re going down t’pub till tea.  I’d better have a proper bath seeing it is a special occasion.”  The tin tub was fetched from the yard and it was set in front of the fire.  Mrs Tatlock was busy in the front room and attending to her husband whom the boys had yet to see.  Jim shed his remaining clothes with commendable simplicity and lowered himself into the bath.  Martin wasn’t surprised that he had a big cock set in an abundance of curly black hair.  He scrubbed his grey skin white with a nailbrush, Martin sure that he’d make his nipples bleed, all the while keeping up a conversation about cricket and other such matters with Stephen.

The boy and the girl arrived home from wherever they had been and were immediately sent to the shops for the provisions for their supper.  Martin pulled the little girl aside and gave her a ten-shilling note.  He boldly asked her: “Judy, how much do you owe on tick?”

His instinct was correct and she answered, “£2/10/6, sir”

He gave her that sum also and sent her off with her young brother.  Stephen had seen what had transpired and smiled at him.  Martin felt that their breech of some weeks previously was now healed.

Jim dressed in his Saturday clothes and put his best cloth cap on at a jaunty angle on his mop of freshly washed hair and they set off for the public house on the corner.  Martin and Stephen were passed off as friends of Mr Destrombe and, apparently as the vicar was known to enjoy a pint, there was less awkwardness than there might otherwise have been.  Martin explained he was a farmer and hoped that he would not be asked too many awkward questions.

Jim was apparently well liked and so Martin and Stephen were also accepted.  Stephen asked him questions about life down the pit.  Apparently Jim was just starting an apprenticeship as a repairer of clocks when his father’s illness and the family crisis that it precipitated fell upon them all and he was forced to give up the position for the more lucrative life of a miner. However, this coincided with the drop in wages since the War and the recently crippling strikes.  He was particularly concerned for his mother who was weighed down under the burden of his father’s illness and had recently started taking in washing and sewing to supplement their pitiful income, despite her constant tiredness.  Then Jim confessed, in a whisper, that he had almost given in to the temptation of becoming a ‘scab’, and accepting work for lower pay while the other men were on strike.  He went pale at the thought of this.

They had downed quite a few pints when Jim said that they had better get back for their Saturday tea.  They brought some bottled lager to take home, Jim with the intention of giving his father, ‘just a little sip’ for old time’s sake.  Martin found a flower barrow and bought some Shirley poppies for Mrs Tatlock.

Back at the house, Jim brought the visitors into the sick room.  Mr Tatlock looked like a living skeleton and Martin was surprised that he breathed life at all; it was truly awful.  Worse was his wracking cough, which must have hurt every bone in that emaciated frame that lay upon the shabby bed.  He managed to acknowledge the boys with a pair of terrified eyes but his son’s kindness with the beer was misplaced for the poor man vomited it up and then was embarrassed.  Mrs Tatlock came in the room with a bowl of broth and the visitors departed while she fed her dying husband, a spoonful at a time.

The groaning tea table put the rest of the household in a jolly mood.  There was a leg of mutton, which would also provide meals later in the week, roast vegetables, a suet pudding and, clearly the choice of the little girl, an orange for each of them.  Tea was taken with the meal along with brown bread and butter.

While the others washed up, Jim took Martin and Stephen into the front room where the bottled beer was opened.  Oddly there was no trouble in making conversation.  Mrs Tatlock came and joined them and had half a glass herself. “I’m not chapel,” she explained.

Then the little ones came in before their bedtime.  “Can I sit on your knee Lord Branksome?’ Judy asked.

“Yes, of course,” replied Martin and lifted her up before he realised what she had said.

“What did you call me?” The others were now looking at him.  The little girl jumped down and left the room only to return with an old copy of The Tattler.  Martin gave an inward groan.  The little mite opened to a page where there was a not very flattering, although clearly recognizable, picture of Martin at the Savoy Hotel.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, “my name is Martin Poole, but I am Lord Branksome.  Mr Destrombe’s brother is our vicar—that much is true.  I’m sorry I was not more truthful.”  He almost rose to leave but was waved to sit again by Jim.  He began to gulp beer to cover his embarrassment.

“I thought he were a bit posh for a farmer, Mum,” said Jim grinning.

“Aye, and I could tell he’d never had too many meat teas.  We don’t put the butter on our bread plates first—we can’t afford to waste it,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.  Martin went red.

“Well I’m not a lord,” said Stephen.

“Oh we never suspected you, Stephen,” said Jim with a grin.  “I’m afraid it’s the fault of our Judy who likes those books with pictures of royalty and toffs in them.  Plays at being a princess.”  Judy looked unashamed and resumed her seat on Martin’s knee.

There was more beer, confessions from Martin and at 10:00 Mrs Tatlock produced yet another pot of strong tea and made toast on the fire.  It was late and Martin stood to go.  He wobbled dangerously and sat down again heavily.  The others laughed.  “I think you’d better stay here,” said Jim. “They won’t let you into the Criterion like that.  Tomorrow’s Sunday, you can come to church with us.”

This was agreed to.  Martin was helped up the stairs, trying not to be sick. A chamber pot was placed at his disposal and he was directed to the single bed that was normally occupied by, Teddy, the little boy.  Martin’s clothes were removed and he was put to bed where he fell asleep instantly.

Jim’s bed was an old brass one. “You and me here, Stephen.  I snore I’m afraid.” Stephen said he was grateful for the bed and wouldn’t hear the snoring— conveniently forgetting about his own.  Jim shed his clothes and stood there, airing his balls. “I suppose thou hast fancy silk pyjamas at home.”

“No,” was all Stephen said and dropped his trousers, smiling to himself.

“Well, thou art a big fellow and no mistake.”

Stephen said nothing and got under the blankets.

“Before I started down the pit I had a lass I was walking out with, but she didn’t want to marry no miner so she dropped me for the lad what drives the milk float.” Jim got into the bed naked as well. “So sometimes in the night…well a lad can’t always help himself, can he?…so I apologise to thee in advance for any surprises, Stephen; I’m no choirboy, I’m afraid.”

Stephen smiled at Jim’s use of the intimate ‘thou’ and ‘thee’; it was nice. “No, you’re a man, doing a man’s job, Jim.  I’m very proud of you…and I’m afraid you’ll almost certainly feel me in the night.”

“Just don’t push me out and onto the floor with that big one, Stephen,” concluded Jim as he turned over and determined to keep himself to his half of the bed.  Stephen smiled to himself and turned the opposite way, intending to confine himself to his half, although it was nice to feel the warmth radiating from the big, happy lad, naked and next to him.  

Stephen and Jim were awake just after 6:00.  Jim whispered to Stephen in the pale light that there was no whistle on Sundays as there was no shift down the pit, but he couldn’t help but wake up at the same hour just the same.

“I’m sorry Stephen, but I was pressing into thy back; I couldn’t help it.  I’m so hard that I will n’ere be able to put me trousers on to go t’ church.  I’ll have to stay here in bed all day!”

“Don’t worry, Jim, I’m in the same condition.” He rolled over on his back. “Here, feel how hard I am.  It might never go down and I’ll starve to death here.”

In the intimacy of the bed and in the early hour, Jim extended a hand and grasped Stephen’s cock.  He couldn’t put his fingers around it.  “Tis like an iron rod…or the handle of a cricket bat,” he said in awe.  He boldly pulled it back and let it slap against Stephen’s flat stomach.  “I’m not as big as thee.”

Stephen reached across and Jim spread his legs.  Stephen grasped his erect member and said, “You aren’t a small lad yourself, Jim, and I think a policeman might like to carry something like that on his beat.” Jim grinned in the dark at the praise.

“Our mum will come knocking soon as she wants us all turned out for church parade.  What are we going to do?”

“What do you usually do?”

“Not much, that is, not until I’m sure Teddy is fast asleep in the next bed.”

“Well I can hear Martin snoring, not that it would make any difference, he’s always at it,” said Stephen, giving his own cock a few preliminary strokes.

Jim did the same and soon they were furiously masturbating under the blankets, making little grunts and sighs and sparing the odd sideways glance to see what the other was up to.  It was getting quite warm and sweaty under the blankets and Stephen loved the smell.  There was a climax and Jim threw the blankets back and spilled on his stomach.  It was too dark for Stephen to exactly survey the extent of the damage.

Stephen threw the blankets back on his side and increased his pace, using two hands now, and raising his naked buttocks from the mattress arched his back.  Jim was leaning on his elbow, watching shamelessly.  Then Stephen spilled.  Seven powerful jets were vomited from his virile member, the first one coating the underside of his own chin.  He shuddered as he squeezed the last drops out and then collapsed back on the bed.

“Bloody hell!” said Jim. “Is it always like that?”

“Sometimes more,” said Stephen, looking at him and trying not to laugh.

Jim climbed from the bed, holding his dripping cock, and returned with a handkerchief from the chest of drawers.  He handed it to Stephen who commenced to wipe himself down, starting from his chin and working over his left shoulder and then down his chest.  He handed the cloth to Jim who went to wipe himself but found the handkerchief was sodden with Stephen’s load.  He rose again and produced two more handkerchiefs and they completed the job, breaking into giggles at what had just transpired.

“Martin, wakeup!” called Stephen, reaching out and shaking Martin in the next bed.

“Oh, where am I Derby?” he said in pain. “Oh!” he said, evidently remembering.

He sat up.  The light was now a little stronger in the bedroom.  He looked over and saw Stephen and Jim both sitting up in bed with their hands behind their heads, showing off their naked chests and armpits.  They were grinning and Martin could distinctly smell sweat and semen.

“It’s Sunday, Mala.  We relax today.  Are you hard?”

“Yes,” replied Martin.

“Well do something about it.  We have already taken care of ourselves while you snored, but we’ll watch.”

“I don’t snore,” said Martin and grasped his own cock and wondered if this would make his headache better or worse. 

***** 

By 8 o’clock when the bell had ceased its gloomy tolling, they were all seated in church and listening to Mr Destrombe conduct the service while Jim’s bedroom was left to air with the window open.  The vicar was surprised to see Martin and Stephen and smiled at them.

Mrs Tatlock made sure that her family was turned out ‘respectable’ although she was on tenterhooks the whole time thinking of her husband left at home.  Most of the people were dressed similarly, but Martin became aware that there were families a lot worse off than even the Tatlocks, with threadbare garments and sunken cheeks that spoke of illness and missed meals.

They returned to the house and had a breakfast of eggs and bacon with fried bread, washed down with more strong tea.  “Thank you for the money, Martin,” said Jim.  “Judy told me what you did.  We can now face the co-op with a clear conscience.  We’ll be almost famous, for every family in West Tipton owes money to the shopkeepers.”

Martin wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Mrs Tatlock. “If ever you come to London, this is the name of my solicitor.  He will help you—help Jim get a job.  Please use it.  I will tell him to expect you one day.”

The lady gave a tight smile. “One day, perhaps.  Who knows?  Thank you, Lord Branksome.”

“No, thank you for your hospitality.  We have enjoyed ourselves and hope we haven’t put you out.”

“Not at all.  You have been pets and no one will believe I have had a lord under my roof.  I better keep it quiet or they will accuse me of being in league with Lord Forth.”  

***** 

It was only a week later that Mr Destrombe cycled up to Croome with a letter from his brother.  Mr Tatlock had died.  Martin fervently hoped that Mrs Tatlock would have her way and rescue her remaining family from the Black Country.  The people were heroes, but the price was too high, he sorrowfully concluded. 

To be continued…