The White Dove. Rosie Thomas
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was frowning a little, and there was a sceptical twist to his mouth that indicated he didn’t think much of the speaker either. It was nice being here with him, Amy thought. The warmth of the room and the monotony of the speaker’s voice grew soporific, and she lost herself in comfortable dreams.
The second speaker was a blunt, brusque little man who launched himself into an analysis of trades union power bases. Amy’s interest quickened again, in spite of the happy reverie she had fallen into. She knew in theory that two or three extra shillings were important enough so that bargaining over them could go on for weeks, but she had never exactly thought what those shillings would mean every week to a man and his family. Much of the talk was beyond her, but it made her think for the first time about the right to work, its rewards, and the deprivation of those who had none. The memory of her own petulant behaviour on the night of Isabel’s wedding made her feel faintly uncomfortable.
The speaker moved on to talk about the power wielded by strikers, making Amy think back to her vague memories of the General Strike. Adeline had gone out in her silliest hat to serve soup to the strike-breakers. The sons of family friends had driven buses, and it had all been regarded as tremendously good fun. Tonight, surrounded by these intent faces, she saw it in a different light. Her feeling of discomfort deepened into shame, and she wriggled lower in her seat. Suddenly she was conscious of the diamond clip fastening the soft brim of her hat.
Before the last part of the meeting, Tony turned to grin at her. Amy saw that he was challenging her, and that the whole evening’s expedition was a challenge. He was more or less expecting her to be bored and uncomprehending. How would he judge her when he discovered that she wasn’t? Amy was aware that her perceptions were shifting slightly. She wanted Tony to approve of her, but she also wanted to know more about what she had heard tonight for its own sake.
Jake Silverman stood up again.
‘Thank you, Comrade Easterbrook,’ he said. ‘Now. I want to call for the meeting’s help in connection with the hunger march. The response from workers between South Wales and here has been excellent. The march will last twelve days, and we have been able to plan overnight stops in places where a school hall or something similar will be made available for the marchers to sleep in. The problem, ironically, arises when they reach London. Accommodation for men without money is harder to come by in this great city of ours. There will be several hundred men by the time the march reaches here, possibly a thousand or more. Even if every comrade here and in the movement offered his home, there would be barely enough room.’
‘Kingsway Hall?’ someone suggested.
‘Salvation Army hostels?’ another man said.
‘They deserve proper accommodation, and a reception after the petition has been presented,’ someone else shouted.
‘There’s time to raise the money,’ the girl in the turban called. ‘Let’s do them proud.’
Jake Silverman was beaming. He produced a hat and waved it. ‘Very well. We’ll begin here and now.’
‘There’s nothing Jake likes better,’ Tony whispered, ‘than orchestrating enthusiasm.’
The hat was passed along the rows and money clinked into it. When it reached the end of their row Amy fumbled in her crocodile-skin bag for her purse. There were two pounds in it. Never, Adeline said, leave yourself without money for a cab ride home. The hat reached her and she stuffed the notes into it.
‘Will you see me home?’ she asked Tony.
He winked at her. ‘Of course. It’s only a twopenny bus ride back to Bruton Street, after all.’
The meeting proceeded to heated discussions of where the marchers could be most comfortably and honourably accommodated, and how the money was to be raised to do it.
At last Jake Silverman waved his red and black plaid arms. ‘Thank you, all of you, very much. Our comrades in the South Wales Miners’ Federation deserve every effort. The meeting is closed now. Join us upstairs, if you can.’
At once, the crowd began to surge out of the room, which had grown uncomfortably hot. Amy had been engrossed and hadn’t noticed it, but now she pulled her hat off and shook out her hair. She saw the girl with the brass earrings looking at her.
Some people were clumping back down the stairs to the street door, but most of them were heading for the flat above. Tony and Amy were carried along with them.
Jake Silverman’s flat was a series of small, low rooms crowded with books, pamphlets and people. The jabber of talk hit them at the door. Hands were waving and gesticulating, voices were shouting each other down and clamouring to make a point before anyone else could refute it. Amy edged through the crowd in Tony’s wake and came to the kitchen. Jake Silverman was standing in the middle brandishing a wine bottle.
‘Come and get it,’ he shouted and a forest of empty glasses was thrust at him. He looked across at Tony. ‘Wield a corkscrew, Tony, will you?’
‘Jake, this is my friend Amy Lovell.’
Jake put down the bottle. ‘Pour it yourselves,’ he called out, and held out a hand to Amy. ‘Any friend of Tony’s is welcome here,’ he said simply, and took her hand in his large, warm one. Amy could almost believe that she felt the crackle as he touched her, he was so charged with energy. Jake’s arm enveloped her shoulders and he turned her to where the girl with the scarlet stockings and the earrings was frying sausages over a corner gas ring.
‘This is Kay Cooper.’ Jake kissed Kay enthusiastically on the mouth. ‘And Angel Mack.’ That was the turban girl. ‘This is Tony’s friend, Amy Lovell.’
Kay waved her sausage fork, and Angel said, ‘Hmm. Tony’s friend, eh? What did you think of the meeting?’
Amy glanced from one to the other. ‘Just that. It made me think.’
Suddenly, both the girls were smiling at her.
‘Have a sausage.’
‘And a glass of wine. Guaranteed to turn your tongue jet black.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Armed with food and drink, Tony took Amy away into the throng. He introduced her to everyone in sight.
‘Wait!’ she protested. ‘I’ll never remember who everyone is.’
‘You wanted to meet different people,’ he reminded her. ‘What do you think so far? Changed your social perceptions, has it?’
He was teasing her again, but Amy looked straight back at him.
‘Do you know, I think it has, a little.’
She was enjoying the smoky, crowded rooms and the lively babble of talk more than the grandest society party she had ever been to. She thought that she had never met such opinionated people in her life. Or no, that wasn’t quite true. Peter Jaspert was opinionated too, but his opinions stood at the opposite pole from those expressed here. She had never found Peter Jaspert particularly congenial, yet she felt perfectly at home here tonight.
Was this, then, where her sympathies lay? For some reason the idea excited her. By listening very carefully to the talk, and by putting it together with what she already knew from newspaper reports, Amy understood that the hunger marchers were miners from the Rhondda, out of work now, who were marching on London to deliver a petition at Downing Street. Sixty per cent of men were out of work in the valleys.
Amy stared at Kay, whose black curls shook with her passionate recital.
‘This Depression can only get worse. We’re cushioned from it here, you and me and all the rest of us, by our education and because we live in prosperous London. But out there, in the mines and the rest of industry, people are suffering every day.’
Amy thought, who could be more cushioned than me? Bethan came from the valleys, but she had never so much as mentioned these terrible things. How much more don’t I know about? How much more have I never thought about, or bothered to enquire about?
‘Hello