A TURN OF THE SCREW
On the Friday following Jock Walker's visit to Mrs. Sinclair, a notice
was put up at the pit by Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall, to the effect
that a collection would be taken next day on behalf of Geordie Sinclair.
The notice was posted up before Andrew and Peter descended the pit for
the day.
"Black Jock," as Walker was called by the miners, saw the notice before
it had been ten minutes posted, and deliberately tore it down. He then
visited Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall at the coal face.
"I suppose you an' Andrew are goin' to gather for Geordie Sinclair the
morn?" he said, addressing Peter.
"Ay," Peter answered, "we were thinkin' it was aboot time somethin' was
done. There's four bairns an' their two selves, an' though times are no'
very guid for ony of us now, it maun be a lot worse for them. Geordie
has been a guid while off."
"Do ye think, Peter, they are in such need?" asked Walker, with a hint
in his voice that was meant to convey he knew better.
"Lord, they canna be aught else!" decisively returned Peter. "How can
they be? I ken for mysel'," he went on, "that if it was me, I wad hae
been in starvation lang syne."
"Weel, wad ye believe me when I tell ye--an' it's a fact--they're about
the best-off family in this place, if ye only kent it."
"What!" cried Peter in surprise, "the best-off family in the place!
Lord, I canna take that in!"
"Maybe no'," said Walker, "but I ken, an' ye're no' the first that's
been taken in by Nellie Sinclair. If ye notice, she never tells any
thin' to anybody; but she lets ye carry the notion in your mind that
she's in great straits. She's a cute one, Nellie."
"Weel, Nellie does keep hersel' to hersel'," admitted Peter. "She's no'
given to clashin' and claverin' about the doors like some o' the rest o'
the women; but I canna' for the life o' me see where she can be onythin'
but ill aff at this time."
"Weel, I ken when folk are bein' imposed on," said Walker, in a knowing
tone, "an' I tore down your notice this mornin'. I didna want to see you
mak' a fool o' yersels. I ha'e been considerin' for a while," he went
on, speaking quickly, "about puttin' a stop to this collectin' business
at the office on pay Saturdays, for it just encourages some men to lie
off work when there's no' very muckle wrong wi' them; after they get the
collection they soon start work again. Ye had better no' stand the morn,
for I might as well begin at once and put a stop to it."
Up till now Andrew Marshall had not spoken; he was a silent man, given
more to thought than speech, but this was a way of doing things he did
not like.
"But ye might let us tak' the collection first, and then put up a notice
yersel sayin' that a' collections have to be stopped. It wad be best to
gi'e the men notice."
"No," said Walker, "there's to be nae mair collections taken. I might as
well stop it this time as wait. So ye'll no' stand the morn."
"Will I no'?" returned Andrew challengingly. "How the hell do ye ken
whether I will or no'?"
"I ken ye'll no'," replied Walker, with quiet menacing tones; "the
ground at the office belongs to the company, and is private. So ye can
do it if ye like, but ye'll be weel advised no' to bother."
"I don't gi'e a damn," cried Andrew explosively, "whether the ground is
private or no'. I'll take that 'gathering' for Geordie Sinclair the
morn, though ye ha'e a regiment o' sodgers at the office."
"Very well," said Walker, as he departed, "if ye do, ye can look out."
Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and spat savagely on the ground;
he then replaced it with great deliberation and looked gloomily at the
stoop-side. He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; his
neck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point of
turning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was half
closed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemed
to wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet," as his
comrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burning
accident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose added
still more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the other
hand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek,
and a clump of tufty hair on his head.
"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes,
as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side.
"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the little
bing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' his
dirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"
"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at his
snoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sitting
silent and glum, gazing at his little lamp.
"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again.
"Just what I said," returned Andrew with quiet firmness. "I'll take that
collection the morn, some way or another, if I should be damned for it.
Does he mean to say that we can let folk starve?" He lifted his pick and
began to hew the coal with an energy that told of the passion raging
within him.
"Does he mean to think I'm goin' to see decent folk starve afore my
e'en?" he asked after a while, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
"No' damned likely! Things ha'e come to a fine pass when folk are
compelled to look at other folk starvin' an' no' gi'e them a crust."
"Do ye think there's onything in what he said about them bein'
weel-aff?" asked Peter cautiously, while his big eye tried to wink.
"Nellie is a wee bit inclined to be prood an' independent, ye ken, an'
disna say muckle about her affairs. An forby we don't ken very muckle
about her; she's an incomer to the place, and she might ha'e been
weel-aff afore she married Geordie, for aught we ken."
"It disna matter," replied Andrew, "I dinna care though
they had thousan's. What I don't like is this
'ye'll-no'-do-this-an'-ye'll-no'-do-that' sort o' thing. What the hell
right has ony gaffer wi' what a man does? It's a' one to him what I do.
I'm nae slave, an' forby, I dinna believe they are weel-aff. They maun
be hard up."
"But he'll maybe sack ye," suggested Peter, "if ye take the collection."
"Well, let him," cried Andrew, now thoroughly roused, "the bastard! I
would see the greyhounds o' hell huntin' him roun' the rocks o' blazes
afore I'd give in to him!"
Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when it
suddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, might
not care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection the
next day.
"Of course, Peter," he said, after he had thought the matter over, "if
ye don't care to take the collection wi' me, I won't press ye. I'll no'
think ony worse o' ye if ye don't. Ye ha'e a big family, while I ha'e
only the wife to look after. Sometimes I think it's lucky we ha'e nae
weans; I can flit, and ye might no' be able to rise an' run. But I mean
to take the collection onyway, for I don't like a man to order me what I
ha'e to do."
"Oh, I wasna mindin' that, Andra," replied Peter, trying to make Andrew
believe that he had not guessed the truth. "I'll take the collectin wi'
ye, an' Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes."
"No, Peter, ye'll do naethin' o' the kind. I'll take it mysel'." And
Andrew would not move from that decision.
Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroad
that Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at the
office, and had threatened him with arrest. There were wild rumors of
other penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to see
Andrew draw his pay and walk home. They concluded that Andrew had
thought better of it, and had been cowed into submission. When darkness
began to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home in
the village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. There were
few houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to give
was often greater than the means. In each house Andrew had to give in
detail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit.
"The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!" the good-wife would cry
in indignation. "It's a pity but he could ken what starvation is
himsel'. It might make him a bit mair like a human bein'."
"That's true," Andrew would agree.
In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he was
not disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker's
disapproval by contributing. Again, some were wholly hostile. They were
the "belly-crawlers," as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at a
meeting, those who "kept in" with the management by carrying tales, and
generally acting as traitors to the other men.
"No, I'll no' gi'e ye onythin'," would be the reply; "he can just be
like me an' gang an' work for his bairns. Forby, look at yon stuck-up
baggage o' a wife o' his. She can hardly pass the time o' day wi'
ye--she thinks hersel' somethin'."
"Very well," Andrew would reply, "maybe ye ha'e mair need o't for other
things." And he would pass on to the next house.
He had gathered between three and four pounds, contributed sometimes
even in pennies, and going to Geordie's house, he knocked at the door.
This was the most uncomfortable part of his work, and he stood shifting
from one foot to the other, wondering what he would say when he entered.
Mrs. Sinclair was busy washing the floor and cleaning up, after having
been at work all day washing for someone in the village. She wiped her
hands and opened the door.
"How are ye a' keepin' the night?" inquired Andrew, as he stepped inside
at Mrs. Sinclair's invitation, feeling more and more uncomfortable. It
was a hard enough matter to go and ask others whom he knew had little
to spare, but now, having got the money, he did not know how he was
going to hand it over to Nellie. He ruminated for a time as to how he
would break into the subject. He knew that Nellie Sinclair must have
heard of the collection, and guessed his errand, for he saw that she,
too, was uneasy and agitated.
"How are ye a' the night?" he again enquired, to break the silence.
"Oh, I'm no' so bad at a', Andra," replied Geordie. "I'm feelin' a wee
bit easier the night. How's yersel'?"
"No' so bad," answered Andrew, putting his hand in his pocket for his
pipe.
"Dash it! I'm away without my pipe," he said with a show of annoyance.
"Can ye len' me yours, Geordie, to get a smoke? I ha'e my tobacco and
matches. Ye see," he went on, speaking more rapidly, "I thought I would
just slip round to see how ye was keepin'."
Andrew knew that Geordie would not have had a smoke for a long time, and
this was his way of leaving him with a pipeful of tobacco.
"I think my pipe's on the mantelshelf," returned Geordie, "but I doot
it's empty."
Andrew took down the pipe, filled it generously, set it alight, and sat
for a few minutes trying vainly to keep up a connected conversation.
After he had puffed a few minutes at Geordie's pipe he laid it down,
dived his hand into his trousers pocket as he made for the door. He
pulled forth the money, which was in a little bag, and laid it down on
the table, saying: "I'm no' guid at this kind of thing, Geordie. There's
something for ye from the men. Guid nicht!" and he was off, leaving
Nellie in tears and Geordie in glum silence.
Mrs. Sinclair's tears were tears of rebellion as well as of gratitude.
She was touched by Andrew's delicacy, but her independent spirit was
wounded at having to take help from anyone. She thought of the children
and of her husband, who needed nourishment, and taking up the little bag
she poured its contents into her lap, while her hot tears fell upon the
money. Little Robert, who was sitting watching, and who had never in
all his life seen so much money, ran to his mother with a cry of
delight.
"Oh, mammy, will I get sweeties noo?" and the boy danced with glee, as
he shouted, "I'll get jeely-pieces noo, hurray!"
That night there was happiness in Geordie Sinclair's house, for there
was food in plenty, and it seemed as if the children would never be able
to appease their hunger.
The "jeely-pieces," or slices of bread with jam on them, disappeared
with amazing rapidity, and Geordie had some beef-tea, which seemed to
improve him almost as soon as he had taken it. For the first time for
many months Mrs. Sinclair and the children went to bed with satisfied
appetites; and the children's dreams were as the incidents in the life
of a god, exalted and happy, and their mother's rest was unbroken and
full of comfort.
But on Monday morning Andrew Marshall had to pay the price of the
happiness he had been instrumental in giving them, for he was informed
by one of Walker's henchmen that his place was stopped. The excuse given
was that it was too far in advance of the others. Andrew knew what that
meant, and as he went home, fierce rebellious feelings stirred within
him. Peter Pegg, he was glad to know, had got started on "oncost" work,
and Andrew felt he had done right in not allowing Peter to take the
collection with him.