Masters of Our Fate: Pomp and Poverty, #4

Theodore Norlong

1874

2

He pushed me into that machine, I’m telling you.

Theodore Norlong observed the man in front of him. His left arm cut off at the elbow into a stump. The sleeve where a forearm should be hung limp like washing on a line. He had to admit the story sounded insane, but it wasn’t unheard of for a boss or a manager to nudge someone into the path of dangerous machinery if they said the wrong thing.

Did anyone see this incident, Mr. Perkins?

Theodore suppressed a yawn. He had sat in the little the little union headquarters of the Society of Amalgamated Engineers in Whitechapel, which was nothing more than a clerk’s office, without a break since that morning. The black air drifted towards the ceiling. The pipe of the old clerk in the corner made the room smell like the aftermath of an inferno.

What do you mean, did anyone bloody well see it? Whole shop saw it. How could they miss it? Mr. Perkins grew red in the face. If you’re not going to believe me just say so I can stop wasting my time here. Thought the union was supposed to be helping.

I need the facts. Theodore threw back his golden hair, which had faded in the last couple of years. When we take legal action against these people, we need to have our stories straight. These are the questions they are going to ask us. Theodore tried to comfort Mr. Perkins with a smile. Please, Mr. Perkins, answer my questions as if you are in a court.

Mr. Perkins made little growling sounds as he fought between catching his breath and entering into a blind rage. He finally sat down in the chair Theodore had offered him in the open space of the office twenty minutes previously. What do you want to know?

Right. Theodore picked up his metal tip pen. Who saw the accident? We need someone credible we can call upon if needed. It is the only way to get you the compensation you deserve.

Mr. Perkins recounted the story again, this time not sparing the details. Earlier that day he’d made a joke about one of the managers who had a head like a cannonball. Somehow, the manager had heard the joke and who told it. Later that day, the manager cornered Mr. Perkins in a walkway between two stamping machines. He’d shoved him into it and the resulting burns had led to him losing an arm.

The managers did this because they knew most of the time they could get away with it. Theodore hated to admit Mr. Perkins was wasting his time. Judges tended to side with the business, even if the worker’s friends were witnesses.

Mr. Perkins’s gaze flicked to the only private space in the headquarters, the place where Trevor kept his office, although his solicitor used it mostly. Trevor had never been one for bureaucracy.

Trevor Blakely held the door to his office open and gestured inside. Theo, will you come and help me with this?

Trevor still led the trade union through popular demand. He dressed in shirt sleeves and oversized trousers. Only Theodore’s wife Gertrude had managed to convince him to dress in the manner of an administrator. That was about as far as Trevor went when it came to respectability, otherwise, he acted like any industrial worker.

One moment.

"Now, Theo, this is about you know what.

Theodore blushed and turned back to Mr. Perkins. I hope you will forgive me for this, but I must excuse myself briefly. There is some urgent business to attend to, and it cannot wait.

Mr. Perkin’s jaw tightened in response, but he crossed one leg over the other and didn’t raise any resistance. Trudging into the office, Trevor’s enormous pan-sized hand slammed the door behind him. Trevor waved the letter in Theodore’s face.

Do you see who this is from? said Trevor.

I do, but how did you? I thought reading was far beyond you.

Trevor grumbled under his breath. You shut your face you. I could see the mark on it. Can read the man’s signature that he puts on all his letters, can’t I? Now read it out to us.

Theodore took the letter and leaned against a cabinet filled with legal books. They were the domain of Trevor’s legal counsel, John Booth, who used Trevor’s office more than Trevor did. Trevor barely had any use for an office. The only reason he spent any time in it was to invite Theodore inside to read his letters, since he had never deigned to learn how to do it himself.

Unfolding the piece of paper, Theodore read aloud. Mr. Blakely, I regret to inform you that after extensive research has been conducted there is no potential for the law on picketing to be changed at this time.

Short and to the point, yeah?

That and the usual legal nonsense. Theodore showed the few lines on the page to Trevor.

Trevor closed his eyes and punched the wall.

Okay, do calm down. There is no need for you to lose your head.

Lose my head? You’ve got a nerve saying that. We can’t do much of anything when those Liberal bastards stopped us from picketing companies. Now all we can do is stand at the side whilst they bring in as many blacklegs as they want. What else can we do if we don’t get the law changed?

There is always a way, said Theodore.

Aye, if we picket them anyway the government can take us to court and confiscate everything we have. Fat lot of good that’ll do for us. Nah, we have to stick within the law. That’s all we can do here, I’m afraid.

Then we have to keep trying.

Trevor took the letter and scrunched it into a ball. He bounced it on the floor and kicked it under his desk. Try? I hope you have something in mind.

Actually, I do, if you will stop losing your temper for just a minute. We need to get the law changed, so we need political support for it. We have to go into politics. This day had to come. It was impossible for us to remain on the side forever.

Trevor scoffed and moved back to his desk. Slumping in his chair, he folded his arms on the table in front of him. Politics. Like we can get into politics. I’m working class and you’re honorary working class.

Theodore nodded. He knew that he could no longer wield any of the connections or advantages from his former life. Too much time had passed since then. Yet he couldn’t claim to be working class, either. His voice and mannerisms gave it away.

Trust me, Trevor.

––––––––

The working classes entering the political class didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen because a party wouldn’t select a candidate unless they were of a certain class. In other words, candidates had to have money and see things the same way as the rest of the party. Theodore sat in the living room of the modest little home he and Gertrude owned in a quiet street called Thornton Court.

Are you going to eat that or are you going to play with it all day? said Gertrude.

Theodore’s crossed his eyes as he viewed the piece of cold bacon dangling from his fingers. I may.

Gertrude swiped the food from his hand and swallowed it herself. My mother always told me not to waste food.

Theodore raised his eyebrows. Well, darling, my father used to throw food out of the window just because he had stopped eating and the other guests had not.

And what is that supposed to mean?

Theodore leaned forward. I will tell you what it means. It is of absolutely no relevance whatsoever.

Gertrude giggled. Why are you so melancholy today? It is like your mind is not here.

He prepared to explain it when the door opened and a little chocolate-haired figure ran into the room. Owen Norlong, dressed in short trousers, jabbed his finger at the cold bacon from breakfast and appealed to his mother.

Can I have some bacon? said Owen.

Do you not ever stop eating?

Owen shook his head. I’m hungry.

Nonsense, Gertrude, he is only seven, said Theodore. The boy is growing and needs more food to keep him big and strong. Is that not correct, Owen?

Owen turned to him. See, father knows what he’s talking about.

Does he now? Well, I suppose I will have to bow to your wishes.

Gertrude took Owen’s hand and guided him to the kitchen. She shot a look over her back that said they would be talking about this matter again later.

Theodore had heard the story of Owen’s real father. Francis Hortbury had raped Gertrude and refused to have anything to do with the child. Gertrude had taken her revenge with the help of Trevor’s union, but Owen had never known the truth. As far as he was concerned, Theodore was his father and his parents had remained happily together since his birth.

Gertrude padded back into the room with freshly cleaned bed sheets folded over one arm. I have Owen preoccupied with eating the leftovers from breakfast. Now tell me why you are so melancholy. What is bothering you?

The union.

Ah. Gertrude folded the bed sheets over the armchair opposite.

Theodore frowned. Whenever he mentioned the union in the presence of Gertrude, it was her cue to get up and go away. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with the union since they beat and chased Charlie Burns and his family out of London for betraying them to Sir Dudley Valentine.

Very well, said Theodore. According to a letter we received, we are unable to overturn the law on picketing. This severely limits our power and prevents us from effectively dismantling employers who abuse their power. My only option is to enter politics and become an MP.

Gertrude stared at him, her eyes betrayed nothing. He half expected her to burst out laughing because the idea sounded so absurd in his own head.

How? Gertrude folded her hands in her lap.

I have no idea. I said to Trevor that I had a plan, but it was a bluff to calm him down. He dismissed the idea as foolish when I raised it with him. I had to keep his spirits up in some way, did I not?

Then what will you do in the meantime?

Theodore clicked his tongue. I am out of ideas.

Gertrude got to her feet, floated over, and planted a kiss on his lips. I will support you however you decide to do this.

Theodore licked the taste off his lips and placed a hand over his heart when she turned her back. Like the first time they kissed when he was at St. John’s Boarding School, she still sent his pulse racing. He, too, got up and after Gertrude went off to see to Owen, he left the house. There was no destination in mind and no firm idea as to what he would do, but he had to find inspiration from somewhere.

––––––––

Thomas Burt was the leader of the Northumberland Miners’ Association. He was a regular guest speaker at union rallies around the country. The upper classes feared his radical beliefs. Later this year, he planned to stand for election as a working class Member of Parliament.

Theodore laid in wait at the backdoor of the Stratford Working Men’s Club, a few miles to the east of central London. After a guest speaker finished, he’d come out of the back door and usually move on to the next speaking engagement. Speakers usually talked in multiple halls every night to increase the reach of their audience.

Mr. Burt, Theodore stepped in front of the door as it opened. The applause and the distant din of working men beginning a night of drinking followed his target outside. Excuse me, could I talk to you for one moment?

I’m sorry. Thomas Burt adjusted his round spectacles. I must really be getting to my next appointment.

Mr. Burt. Theodore jogged alongside him. I come from the Amalgamated Society of Engineers. You have heard of Trevor Blakely, have you not? You spoke at one of his rallies six months ago.

Thomas stopped. So this is something important? Official union business is it?

Yes, I would not stop you outside a hall if it was not an urgent matter. Could we go somewhere private for a drink?

Aye, we could go somewhere private, but I’m not going to any gentlemen’s clubs, mind. I’m not from round that area and I’m certainly not going somewhere where I’m not good enough to get in on my own merits.

Of course not. We can go anywhere you like.

Alright, very well. Burt stroked the enormous white beard covering the bottom of his nose to the tip of his chin. I know a place round here. It’s The Dog’s Bollocks.

Okay, I don’t care what it’s like. What is it called?

That’s what it’s called. The Dog’s Bollocks. Now come on I can only spare a few minutes before I’ve got to be at another club. It’s only a few streets away so shouldn’t take me too much time to walk there.

Theodore blushed at his faux pas and moved into step with Burt. Most people didn’t believe he was really part of a union. Trevor once asked him if he could change his accent into something more acceptable, but it had never worked. Theodore preferred to wear it as a mark of pride, an example of where he’d come from and the change he’d undergone.

The Dog’s Bollocks was a tiny pub on the corner of Shafer Road. Burt dragged him back when Theodore missed it and crammed him inside. Several people noticed Thomas Burt and he took a few moments to shake hands an exchange words with them. Theodore found it difficult to comprehend how a union leader from Northumberland had such fame this far away from home.

Afraid we’ll have to stand, said Thomas.

They both squeezed into a space at the bar, walled in by bodies on either side of them. Thomas ordered them a dark-looking beer each. Theodore struggled to pick up his drink without knocking someone else’s out of their hands.

So what is it you wanted from me? Thomas wiped a dark stain from his shabby suit and upturned starched collars.

I was reliably informed that you would be standing for election in Morpeth next month.

February 17th, you’re right there. You won’t be voting for me, will you? Burt chuckled.

Actually, if I could vote in your constituency I would. If it was not for 1867, I would not have had the vote either.

The second wave of voting reform after 1832 had come in 1867. It had added thousands of men to the voting registers. It meant that political parties actually had to pay attention to ordinary people, although the working classes and women remained exceptions.

Eh, you’re kidding me. You’ve probably had the vote since the beginning of time. With a posh voice like yours. You speak right.

Theodore shrugged. Once upon a time, perhaps, but various events conspired against each other and I am no longer able to rely on the class I was born into. I am at the bottom, along with everyone else, and have been so for years.

Sorry to hear that.

Theodore took the hollow remark. I was coming here to talk to you about how we can get an MP in so we can let the unions picket again.

Ah, another one. Well, if they elect me I’ll be trying to get that reversed as well. It’s a disgrace that people can’t protest when and where they like. So, Mr. Blakely’s union wants to have an MP elected in its name, does it?

Yes.

Theodore hoped this wouldn’t come back to bite him. Trevor had never said yes to his idea. He’d only grunted when he thought of the idea.

Then what do you want to know?

How did you put yourself up as a candidate? How did you get the backing of one of the major parties as someone who is from the working classes?

Suppose you don’t read much about what’s going on up north, do you? I’m Liberal-Labour, mate. That means the Liberals knew I was going to split their vote, so they agreed to give me a helping hand. But I’m Independent Labour at heart. They’re just backing me, and I have to respect them for that. I’m up against some army captain.

Do you think you will win?

Only God can know that. Hoping enough people can vote so I’ll get in with real popular support. But if you want to go up as a Liberal-Labour candidate, it’s easy enough. Get enough people to say they’ll vote for you and make sure Gladstone knows about it. Thomas drained the last of his glass. And with that said, I’m going to say good luck to you. I’ve got a meeting to get to.

Burt clapped him on the shoulder and made a space for another man to fill.

Theodore rubbed the rim of his tankard. The idea had never been floated to the union and the election campaign was already underway. He had little time to get himself on the register as a candidate, and if he couldn’t prove to the local Liberal association that he had the power to split their vote, he would potentially allow the Conservative opposition in under the Imperialist Benjamin Disraeli.

More importantly, where would he stand as a candidate?

––––––––

A week later and Theodore could hardly believe how quickly things had moved. He’d told Trevor about his plans to stand as a Liberal-Labour candidate and Trevor couldn’t have been more pleased with him. It had surprised Theodore. He’d half expected to have to fight with him to get him to agree to the idea. It sounded far-fetched at best.

You want me to stand in Birmingham? said Theodore with wide eyes.

Course. Liberal heartland. Everyone knows that. A Tory turns up in Birmingham and they get their faces smashed in. Why do you think they never win over there? Trevor kissed Gertrude on the cheek as she finally emerged from the kitchen.

And good evening to you too, Trevor. You two are not speaking of politics again, are you? We are just about to sit down for dinner. I have a guest to collect soon. They will be joining us, so please finish your conversation.

Eh, sorry, girl, but it’s important. We’re going to get your husband elected. Imagine him as a Member of Parliament.

Gertrude eyed her husband. That is not difficult to imagine, Trevor. But heed my warning. You have five minutes.

Hold on, said Theodore as Gertrude made to go back into the steam-filled kitchen. Who do you have to collect in one minute? Could they not find the address themselves? You never told me about any of this.

Must I tell you everything?

Theodore’s cheeks went pink. No, but it would have been nice to know we were welcoming someone else. Who are they?

Her name is Rose Gillard and you have never met her. She is a good friend of mine and I hope you will make her feel welcome.

Theodore looked back at the table that had taken over the living room. Gertrude had laid it with a white table cloth and blemished silver cutlery, the best people of their means could afford. He decided not to press her anymore and returned to the living room.

So where was I? Trevor stuffed his pipe with tobacco. Ah, right, so Birmingham. It’s got three seats and we’re going to get you in one of them. The Liberals agreed that as long as we stand only one candidate they’ll let us in. Apparently, they think the Conservatives were trying to see if they could make a move.

Theodore raised his eyebrow. Who put that in their minds?

Trevor slapped a finger across his nose. Never you mind. Point is they’re letting you do it and you’re going to win, I’m sure of it.

Oh come now. I have not even visited Birmingham since you told me the news. The people have little idea who I am. Why would they vote me in over someone else?

Trevor struck a match and the tobacco in his pipe rose like a new-born phoenix. Because you’re probably going to be unopposed.

Sorry? Gertrude moved past them and slammed the door behind her.

Unopposed, Gerty. He’s already going to be an MP. As long as he don’t get himself disqualified or killed on the way to the count, he’s as good as in. Congratulations. Trevor grabbed his hand and shook it so hard it rattled his brain inside his skull.

Theodore laughed. So, I have won, have I?

That’s right. You’ve won.

Theodore fidgeted with his hands in glee. He wasn’t sure whether he was happiest about being able to fight his cause from inside the corridors of power, or laugh in the face of his father Lord Norlong, who sometimes bothered to attend sessions at the House of Lords.

A short while later, the door opened again and Theodore had to stop a sound from escaping his mouth. In the doorway was a type of woman Gertrude had once been part of. It was simple to tell from a distance where she came from. The holes in her shawl and the breaks in her dress, covered by patches of worn fabric sewn over the top revealed she came from the slums.

This is Rose Gillard, said Gertrude. Rosy, this is Trevor Blakely and my husband Theodore Norlong.

Trevor was the first to come forward without any hesitation. He welcomed her into the house and guided her to a seat at the dining room table. Theodore’s eyebrow furrowed as he chastised himself for hesitating. Had anyone noticed?

Come on, Theo, sit down. Gertrude wrapped an arm around his and sat him down in a chair next to Rosy. At the little table, their legs weren’t far from touching. The whiff of contraband perfume drifted under his nose.

Gertrude took her place, and Trevor took his next to hers. All through the dinner everyone but Theodore chatted and conversed. Rose seemed nervous, but gradually she unwound and found her voice. Theodore only spoke when spoken to and tried to excuse himself as many times as possible.

What is the matter with me?

So, Theodore, said Rose. What game are you into? Her eyes flickered in the living room lights as she said it.

Theodore stiffened up. I work with Trevor. The unions are my employment. It is nothing, really.

Christ’s sake, Theo, said Trevor. You’re going to be an MP before you know it. Should be telling everyone you meet. You’re the next generation of working class politicians. They’ll be talking about you in the history books.

Really? Rose dropped her glare onto him again and gave him a half-smile.

Yes, indeed. Theodore spent as long as possible guzzling down his beer.

Why does that look seem familiar to me?

At the end of the meal, Trevor offered to take Rosy back home. Theodore and Gertrude didn’t stop him. They both left just before ten. When they departed, Theodore let out a sigh and fell against the armchair they’d pushed to the corner of the room to make way for the table.

What in the Lord’s name has come over you? Gertrude rounded on him.

Theodore rubbed his clammy