Maggie Rowan

by Catherine Cookson

  But one day she had not been completely shot away, and her body lifted off the couch and she was conscious again, and she heard the doctor swearing. But this had not made her afraid of the electric treatment. Not until she found that she walked with just a hand on her elbow from that couch back to her bed in the ward. And then she became afraid…of this thing which made her do what she couldn’t make herself do…walk…walk without aid.

  It was some time, too, before she realised how large a place Poynters was, and how stocked full it was of people like herself…or worse; and she decided that if she was to go mad then she would prefer it, even try to make it, the sullen, quiet way; for depression was preferable to laughter; even the terrible crying of the woman in the next bed she could stand, and her constant repetition of ‘I can’t bear it…I can’t bear it,’ but not the laughter of the woman opposite. And the greatest terror she had ever known, and which retarded her progress by weeks, was when, for no apparent reason, a gurgle of strange laughter welled up in her own throat.

  It had taken Doctor Dickinson to explain this away. He did so by giving a simple illustration of a very tired child, who would toss itself about, laughing and crying alternately. Her nerves, he said, were very, very tired, and they were asking for rest. So were Mrs Bateman’s nerves. Her laughter did not mean that she was going mad. No-one here was mad, or going to go mad; they would all be better through time. And she would be better.

  She hadn’t believed him. Yet all he said was true. There was Mrs Bateman now, sitting by the fire, quietly knitting, and her laughter was no longer immoderate; and Miss Jackson, sitting at the table playing patience. She was the one who had kept saying she couldn’t bear it. And he had also been right about herself: she was better…in all but one thing.

  Doctor Dickinson had said to her only that morning, ‘You’re going to be better than you’ve been for years. And don’t worry about not being able to think of your husband…that will come. And then you will want to see him and be quite ready to go home…Now don’t worry; we won’t make you go a minute before you want to.’ He had patted her hand and said, ‘We like having you.’

  It was as if she was the only one in the whole place to whom he gave a thought. She knew this was silly, but he made you feel like that.

  He had asked, ‘How’s the dressmaking going?’ And she had said, ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the thinking?’

  And she had said, ‘Not so good.’

  ‘That’ll come, never fear.’

  It was difficult for her to realise that thinking had caused her nerves and that because she hadn’t been given a child she had subconsciously determined to have Stephen, for in doing so she would be supplying her mother-hunger and she would also be getting her own back on Maggie. She had not known that her life had been soured by Maggie’s power to bear a child. She had never imagined she herself could be sterile, for it would have been quite impossible for her to accept the fact that the fertility of her mind was not matched by the fertility of her body. In her simple way of looking at things she had worked it out that wanting children so much, had it lain with her alone, she would have had them. Yet what she must face up to was that David had given another woman a child. The woman concerned did not touch her; it was strange but she felt no jealousy of her now; the jealousy would seem to be levelled against David’s power to create. Yesterday the doctor had said ‘Won’t you see your husband, he has come all this way? If you will once make yourself speak to him, I promise you that this feeling will go.’

  But she had shaken her head and pleaded, ‘Don’t make me.’

  That was the last obstacle—once she could think of David, then see him, she would be ready to go home.

  Miss Jackson, speaking to no-one in particular, said, ‘This time next week I’ll be aboard ship sailing into the sun. Do you think anything nice will happen to me?’

  ‘The men’ll be daft if it doesn’t.’ The two women turned towards each other and laughed. ‘With your looks I don’t know what you’ve got to worry about,’ said Mrs Bateman.

  ‘I’m not worrying…just thinking. Did they give you any idea when you’ll be going out?’

  ‘Not for a week or two…Doctor Dickinson seems bent on keeping me away from the stove and the washtub. By’—she glanced around the room—‘I’m going to miss all this. Hotel life isn’t in it. What do you say, Mrs Taggart?’

  Ann lowered the magazine. ‘Were you speaking?’

  ‘I was saying that this is like a posh hotel.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Are you coming to the singsong after supper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to “Moaner”,’ said Miss Jackson.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Mrs Bateman, turning her attention assiduously to her knitting as the door handle rattled.

  But it was a nurse who entered, saying, ‘Mrs Taggart. Matron would like to see you.’

  ‘Matron?’ Ann rose, her eyes widening and seeming to swamp her small face. Matron very rarely sent for you, she generally came herself. And it was nearly seven o’clock.

  Her eyes and those of the other two women questioned the nurse; but she volunteered no information; and Ann walked by her side through the main lounge and into the matron’s office.

  The matron was not alone, the doctor was with her; and he rose as Ann entered the room and said, ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Taggart.’

  Ann looked from one to the other; then asked quietly, ‘Is something wrong? Is it my mother?’

  ‘No. Not your mother.’ The doctor came forward and took her hand. ‘It’s your husband.’ He stared into her face and her eyes became dark, and she moistened her lips and waited for him to go on.

  And when he made no further attempt to speak, she swallowed hard and her words seemed to tumble over themselves out of her mouth. ‘The…the pit. There’s been an accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s hurt?’

  ‘It’s not known.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s still down.’

  Still down. It seemed that the whole of her life had tended towards the moment when David would be still down…shut in the pit.

  ‘I…I must go home.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Yes, as soon as you like.’

  Even as the doctor spoke she was turning towards the door; and once in the corridor, her legs began to move faster than they had done for months, until she was running.

  Chapter Sixteen: The Last Extremity

  David continued along his district, and as of habit swung his lamp to shine on that part of the roof where the pressure had squeezed the wooden wedge, rammed between the roof and the pit prop, into a circle of splaying splinters. The prop itself was bent but had not cracked, and his hand went out to it in a casual slap. The section had settled all that it was going to settle; there was nothing to fear from her; she was like a permanent invalid who would never die.

  He walked on, his eyes moving ahead with the lamp rays, looking for some unfamiliar sign. So used was he to this road that the position of each rock had become part of a pattern: it was settled; it was put. Yet still his eyes searched.

  He came to the loading station, but the conveyor belt was not pouring the coal into the tubs, for it was the back shift, the shift in which the face conveyer was pulled yet another four feet six inches nearer the new face and the hazardous job of drawing the supports from the roof above the used face and dropping it was put into operation. This too was the shift when the roadway had to be driven forward and the mothergate trunk conveyor belt brought up, and this was yet another shift when he must face Tom twice.

  During the course of his inspection he was of duty bound to visit every man twice during the shift, and now as he clambered over the stationary belt and entered the mothergate the muscles of his body began to stiffen and his jawbones to give series of cracks, and he said to himself, ‘I needn’t look at him; I don’t re
ally need to go near him…he’ll be in-by.’ Yet he knew that he would go in-by…just to be near him. His jaw cracked so hard that it pained him. If only he would speak, go for him, curse him, even try to bash him. He would know where he stood then. Or would he? Would he ever again know where he stood? This kind of life was pure hell. He had not clapped eyes on Ann for months; and it was odd that he had not heard either hers or Tom’s voice from that night. The silent house, the irritation of doing for himself—he would not live at his mother’s because, although from his brothers he had heard nothing worse than ‘You’ve been a bloody fool’, he felt their condemnation was strong…he had smirched their respectability—these were telling on him. Above ground he suffered mostly because of Ann, but down here it was Tom who filled his horizon. Had he known Tom still felt like that about her it would never have happened…Yes, it would. For the thousandth time the truth reared its head at him. That night he had been bewitched with whisky and then with her. And she wasn’t to blame altogether, for she hadn’t known who he was. But she knew all right now, and she wouldn’t answer his letters. Yet he must do something for the bairn. February…it should be born about now.

  The sweat stood out on his forehead, and he drew his arm across it. She had returned the last letter and the money, and not a word had she said.

  He could not bring himself to go and see her, for apart from the fact that he did not entirely trust himself he was afraid of running into Tom. He had no indication of how things stood between them, for no-one mentioned either of their names to him; the matter was a closed subject, yet somehow he felt that Tom was seeing her. One thing was clear and certain…Tom was still mad about her, and mad at him. Mad really did not quite fit the feeling that emanated from Tom towards him, yet he could find no other word…he could not bear to think it was hate…And then there was Ann…it was as if she was dead, as if she had died that night.

  When he reached the end of the mothergate, one of the stone men standing near the face conveyor-belt machine said, ‘Danny would like a word with you, Dep.’

  He nodded and, dropping to his hands and knees, began to crawl along the face. The going was difficult. He passed two men lying on their stomachs in the cutting track, and said, ‘Hallo there, Charlie…Hallo, Harry. How goes it?’

  ‘OK, Dave, so far.’

  ‘Good.’

  As he crawled on he tried to think of Danny to keep his mind from Tom.

  Make a good dep would Danny. Then why didn’t he try? Said he didn’t want to get beyond himself. That wasn’t the real reason. It was pen fright, like he himself once had. That was at the bottom of it. Tom liked Danny…They were pals. There he was, back on him again.

  He rested for a moment on his stomach. The light from his cap reflecting from the facets of the coal made them shine like those of diamonds. His eyes focused on them as if they must stand witness to his thoughts and hold him to the decision he was now making…he would speak to Tom when he got through. Once he had spoken he would feel better.

  A little further on he stopped again and examined a fault in the roof where it had dropped about eight inches. He let his light play over it for some time; then he muttered aloud before moving on again.

  When he came to the place where Danny was pulling at the cable attached to the cutting machine he called, ‘Here, a minute.’

  Danny, almost naked, dropped the cable and asked, ‘What’s up?’

  And again David said, ‘Here a minute,’ and turning, crawled back along the face, Danny following. Reaching the hitch, he said over his shoulder, ‘Look there,’ and he manoeuvred his lamp about the roof.

  ‘She’s moved,’ Danny said.

  After a while they crawled back to the cutting machine, and David exclaimed, ‘Don’t bore until I’ve had another look. I’ll be back shortly. There’s plenty of time. It might be nothing; on the other hand…’

  He left the sentence unfinished, and his gaze travelled ahead to where a man was starting to withdraw the roof props, and again his jawbone cracked…He would have to pass him, with only inches between them…What could he say? How could he begin?…‘Look, lad, I’m sorry?’ Or, ‘Tom, can you forget it?’…God, he couldn’t bring himself to start in any way.

  He turned to Danny again, playing for time. ‘You wanted to see me. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so. It’s nothing very much, only…’

  ‘All right.’ David cut him short. ‘I’ll see you later. I’ll be back afore long to have a look at that.’ He jerked his head along the face.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t let that worry you,’ said Danny.

  ‘I’m not; but I’ll be back.’

  He moved off and came abreast of Tom, and although he kept his eyes straight ahead he was conscious of the black, forbidding profile. He hesitated for a second, but the pause was hardly noticeable before he crawled on again. This was no time for personal issues, he had his work to do. The excuse was apparent to himself.

  Every foot of the roof towards the tailgate came under his eye, but nothing showed that could cause him any alarm; roof sections moved continually, then settled into place. If you became windy about every cracked pit prop the pit would never be open: yet better to play safe than be sorry.

  An hour later, almost two-and-a-half hours before his usual time for returning, he was back at the tailgate, driven there by a force against which his reasoning was powerless.

  The exit was entirely blocked.

  After a second of stupefied staring he turned in his tracks and raced to the haulage road. There was the possibility that the fall was at one end only, and that the men at the face, hearing it, would have escaped by the mothergate.

  He gathered men to him as he went; but when they reached the mothergate all was quiet, that awful quiet that had the power to turn a man’s stomach…Where were the others? He knew where they’d be. They had heard the fall at yon end and had gone in.

  This end of the face was still clear, and, flinging himself down, he crawled in. He had expected to get no further than the hitch, for he thought it was the fault that had given way; but he was relieved and surprised to find this particular roof section still holding. His conscience wouldn’t have the chance to judge him on that. It was beyond, where the cutting machine was, that the fall must have taken place.

  He soon came to it and, as usual when actually confronted with the catastrophes that were the spawn of the pit, his head became cool and his mind held nothing but that which was needed for the moment.

  He passed his hand with a sweep over his eyes, squeezing away the sweat. What now? Only two men could work side by side here, and it was going to be a hell of a job to get this stuff back along the face. And they would have to look slippy too.

  He listened for a moment, his head held to one side; and there was no need to order quiet from the men behind. Only their deep breathing drifted on the heavy, pressing silence, and it was not joined by the sound of any tapping signal from the trapped men.

  He was turning his head to speak to the man close by him when a sound did come to him. It came out of the earth, almost on a level with his ear, startling him. It was a choking groan.

  Like terriers, the man and he began to claw at the rocks and rubble, grabbing and scraping around the place from where the sound had come, and they almost laughed when a well-known voice, choking and spluttering, said, ‘My God! I nearly had it.’

  ‘It’ll take more than that to kill you, Danny,’ called David.

  ‘Why, Dave, man.’

  Both David and the man at his side grabbed at the hand that was thrust through the cuttings, and in a remarkably short time Danny’s head and shoulders followed.

  ‘Aw, man…Dave.’ Danny’s voice sang the name, and David said, ‘Catch on.’

  They entwined their hands round Danny’s, and with their feet and knees digging into the bottom they heaved until they had him clear.

  Once through, Danny clung to David for a moment. ‘God alive! I was sure I’d had it then.’


  ‘You’re all right, lad. Where’s the others?’

  ‘Tom’s behind…his foot’s caught. I couldn’t see Joe.’

  He did not mention his brother, so David asked, ‘And your Bill?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Danny. ‘There was a noise towards the tailgate, not like a fall at all, and Bill went through to see what it was. Then we heard him shout. He must have been coming back towards us. Then it really did happen; the whole roof shuddered, and it seemed that most of it came down. When it cleared I couldn’t see Joe, and Tom was fast. I tried to but I couldn’t clear him on me own, so I made along this way—it looked pretty clear—and I was just here when the second fall came…It was like a miracle. It fell behind and afore me, and there I was, in a pocket; and I thought it was me grave.’

  ‘Who’s that, dep? How’s things?’ Another voice came from behind David.

  ‘It’s Danny; he’s OK…Tom’s fast and the others further on. Let’s get started…You want to go out, Danny?’

  ‘No, by God!’

  ‘All right,’ said David over his shoulder; ‘pass the gear up.’

  Now started the almost impossible task of getting the fallen stone and slack out of the narrow passage. With small picks and shovels and with bare hands David, then Danny, passed the debris on to the next man, and he on to the next. They worked as a team, a clockwork team that had been wound up to the limit of its speed. As the slack and stones were passed out props came in and the men supported the roof as they advanced. The fifteen yards to the cutter took two hours to clear, and in the course of those two hours different men came to and went from David’s side, among them the overman, the under-manager, and the manager. The latest apparatus was at hand, but nothing would answer the purpose of the present moment but men’s actual hands and the careful removal of each stone.