The Swimmer

by David Haynes

  I wish I were writing about the joyous moment where all the men had been saved but I am not.

  Alec Prideaux and two of his best men were to be lowered into the shaft. It was known that three miners had become entombed against the rock, having stepped off the man engine most fortuitously before it cracked completely. Two were known to be alive during the day but could not be raised until others had been secured. The three were raised slowly and cautiously, but had died during the day. It was but a brief moment, yet I witnessed Mr Prideaux and his colleagues lose faith in themselves. In that instant, I laid my hand across his shoulder and felt a shudder of repressed emotion. Yet, far stronger than that, I felt the strength of that man’s thumping heart. He turned to the others and with resolve, said. “Come on boys, Captain Newton is still below, we will not be leaving him or Davies. Levant will have no more men.” A great cheer came from the men.

  I will be back again at first light and when I write again, I hope it will be with better news.

  “It’s definitely not a mistake, he was there throughout the whole bloody mess. What I find surprising…actually take that back, it’s not surprising at all. Polglaze hasn’t been mentioned at all, it’s almost as if he wasn’t there. Surely he would’ve helped.”

  May could detect a tone of anger creeping into Joe’s voice. “Judging by current standards, helping others isn’t exactly a strong point for the Polglaze family. Something of a family trait I’d say.”

  “The only thing that family has ever been interested in is money, simple as that.” Henrietta added.

  October 22nd 1919

  I have composed this in my head countless times. Each time it makes no sense, yet the matter of which I now must write may, someday make sense to someone.

  I arrived at Levant at a little after seven o’clock this morning. It was cold, dark and damp; the first constant of the day. The second constant being Mr Prideaux; ever present and ever optimistic. Even over the rim of his tin cup, the steam from his sweet tea failed to disguise the weary look conveyed in his eyes. His smile belied what was in his heart.

  Without a working pump, the mine had started filling with water almost immediately. Although the flow was at first slow, its relentless passage could not be prevented. So on this third day, Mr Prideaux was faced with the knowledge that the men still below, would likely be dead.

  By the time I had arrived; he had already been lowered into the mine on more than one occasion and on each occasion claimed to have conversed with Mr Newton. Due to the rising water level, he was, however, unable to reach him; at least from where we were all gathered.

  The news regarding Mr Davies was, as we had feared. The rising water had trapped and quickly swallowed him. Mr Newton had managed to take himself further out under the ocean floor but in doing so had entombed himself further.

  Mr Polglaze, had by this time shown himself, although he was given no warm welcome. Especially by Mr Prideaux, who eyed him with a look of malevolence which I would never believe him capable of.

  Mr Prideaux and his loyal followers sat in the early morning drizzle and although I was not party to their discussions I knew they were conjuring a plan of rescue for poor Mr Newton. I believe Mr Prideaux capable of battling Lucifer himself in order to protect his comrades.

  It was interesting to note that Mr Polglaze dithered on the extremity of the group and appeared to cock an ear in their direction but offered no opinion of his own.

  Finally, and after a significant passage of time, Mr Prideaux began sending the men, who had been his ever-present followers, away and back to their homes. Several refused to move until they were physically pushed away by him. One by one they all left, leaving just the three of us.

  I could not understand his course of action and challenged his decision to leave poor Mr Newton below. I was mistaken of course, and blame weariness for thinking he would do that. Mr Polglaze and Mr Prideaux, both men of formidable physical stature then conducted a conversation above my head whilst I stood between them. Mr Newton knew Levant better than any man alive, even Mr Prideaux. He impressed upon Mr Polglaze that he should be taken to a shaft on The Brisons. There, he would expect to find Mr Newton, alive and well. He had sent the men away because he could not, and would not ask anything more from them.

  I offered my services, such as they were, and our three-man party were taken by cart to Priest’s Cove, where Mr Prideaux negotiated the loan of a fisherman’s boat.

  Both men took oars and soon we were out onto the ocean, travelling at speed towards the isles. Mr Prideaux, even though he hadn’t slept for three days matched Mr Polglaze stroke for stroke.

  I have never been one for travelling on the ocean and I spoke my silent prayers into the drizzle for the entire journey. With little effort we circled the isles and arrived at a small inlet where we were able to pull the boat to safety.

  Soon we were atop the isles and I gazed down into what appeared to be the very depths of hell. I was informed that in times gone past, when men were less civilised; the hole had served as a prison. It was a prison from which none were released.

  I cannot say that I wished to enter that hole or wished for any of our party to enter it either. After Mr Polglaze and Mr Prideaux had secured ropes, Mr Prideaux was lowered, slowly into the blackness and out of my view. I cannot say how long he was lowered or how many lengths of rope were extended, but it seemed an eternity until Mr Polglaze was able to loosen his grip.

  We both stood over the precipice; quite what we expected to see I could not say, but the darkness was fathomless.

  I held my breath in check until I felt a pain in my chest. I wanted to shout down to him, to find out how he fared. Several times I heard muffled echoes rising from the pit and I looked towards Mr Polglaze, who held the rope around his considerable back. He did not meet my gaze and kept his eyes fixed on some unseen mark in the darkness below, allowing the rope to pass yard by yard through his thick fingers.

  Suddenly he straightened. His eyes widened and I saw the last length of rope slip silently into the hole. Mr Polglaze had lost his grip, or so I believed.

  What I write next is the truth and I am damned for my part. But so help me, that devil knew where my weakness is, and he preyed upon it.

  I told him, ‘We must fetch another rope, we must send for a rescue party,’ but he made no movement; he just stared into the hole. Knowing what I know now, he was calmly calculating what his next step would be.

  I started towards him and took his arm, ‘Come on,’ I implored again, ‘we must fetch the others.’

  Mr Polglaze then turned to me. “Mr Prideaux and Mr Newton will not be rescued.”

  “Tell me Reverend. How long will your church survive now that the Methodists have stolen your flock? A month, six months maybe?”

  “Mr Polglaze, we must hurry. Those men can still be saved.” I started towards the passage we had taken on the ascent, but Mr Polglaze took me by the elbow; his grip tightened.

  “I can make sure your church is always going to be there. No matter how many Methodists there are.”

  I looked up into his eyes; those cold grey eyes and I knew I was a lost man.

  Mr Newton and Mr Prideaux will be mourned at my church along with the other twenty-nine souls who perished. It matters not that their bodies were left below for their heroism is undisputed.

  There are questions still unanswered but I have sold my soul for my church and my faith; of which I have none.

  October 29th 1919

  Today we buried our heroes. They sleep beneath the yew and beside them stands a monument which has been paid for by their shattered bones and spilt blood.

  Polglaze and his family attended the service, and all those families shook his hand and treated him with respect. It was all I could do, not to spit in his face. He has provided the widows and families of the deceased a sum of money, of which they are deserved and grateful. For Mrs Newton and Mrs Prideaux he has provided a pension of which they are also grateful but not deserved. I
say this not from ill will but out of belief that neither man should be dead.

  October 30th 1919

  The matter is settled and the deed is done. Mr Polglaze today provided me with a banker’s cheque for £5000, and written contract for an annuity of £2000 per annum. The price is my silence over the matters at The Brisons, of which I am never to speak again. In any circumstance this is unlikely. I cannot bear the cowardice, greed or pride which has driven me into this faithless place where my soul now resides.

  My only consolation is that the beloved church is guaranteed.

  Joe sat back and rubbed his temples. “This doesn’t tell us anything, at least nothing concrete.” He was clearly frustrated.

  May turned the next few pages of the book. “There’s nothing else about this. It looks like the rest of the book is just a normal church register.” She flicked through the pages until she found the last entry. “There doesn’t even seem to be anything about his death in here.” She turned the damaged book over on her knee, so the back hard cover was facing her. “Although I suppose that event would probably be in the following diary.” Without giving it any thought she opened the back cover and let it fall silently shut. She lifted it again, and was about to let it fall again, when Joe gently took her wrist.

  “Just hold on a sec.” Without letting go of her wrist he moved it upwards and May lifted the back cover; more handwriting was on the inside of the endpaper. “What do we have here then?”

  November 14th 1938

  It is not to be an easy passage for me. The mutated cells which dominate my body are ending my life, and they are doing so with great efficiency and no little pain. I have held my silence and will continue to do so. Save for one last effort at redeeming my actions.

  I have played my part in the deceitful actions of the church, but in doing so I have paid the ultimate price of my soul.

  My actions since October 1919 have not been in order to save my soul but to rectify my mistakes and gather evidence on my torturer. His trust in me has been explicit. He knows any deceit on my part would not only be ruinous for him but also for myself. I care little for myself but the church, I still hold dear.

  In obtaining his trust I have been made party to certain information. This disclosure has been concealed and is most damning. The documents were placed by my hand into the safe hands of our loyal postmaster and dispatched with a covering letter to someone in whom I trust. May god have mercy on my immortal soul.

  Reverend George Hooper.

  May looked at Joe and shrugged. “I suppose he’s painted us a nice picture of a coward and a bent priest but I’m not sure where it leads us.”

  “It tells us the Reverend did a bit of detective work and posted something to someone. What, where and who, that’s what we have to work out.”

  May closed the book and turned to look at Henrietta. “What do you think Henrietta? Any ideas?”

  Henrietta removed her glasses slowly and allowed a large grin to spread across her face.

  May frowned. “What are you smiling at? Henrietta?”

  Henrietta looked at them both in turn. “There’s something else you should both see now; something which adds a little more substance to the picture.”

  21

  May yawned and shivered as she watched Henrietta disappear into the kitchen. “The plot thickens. If that’s at all possible.” She looked closely at Joe’s eye; the swelling made his skin tight and shiny. “How do you feel?”

  Joe smiled back. “Honestly? Like crap and when she’s shown us whatever she’s got hidden away back there I want to climb into bed, shut my eyes, or eye in this case and sleep for a week.”

  “Any room for me in that little scenario?” May winked.

  Joe laughed in spite of his weariness and aching limbs. “So long as you play nicely.” He stood up and placed another log on the fire.

  Henrietta re-appeared carrying a bright red notebook; she handed it to Joe. “Have a look through that and see what you make of it. I’ve already read it, so you two have a look between you.”

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  “Just have a look and you’ll understand.”

  Joe opened the front cover and scrawled untidily in black ink at the very top of the page was the name, George Hooper. He turned the book over in his hands and flicked through the pages rapidly. The book felt entirely different to the weighty, high quality paper Hooper’s diary had been written on. He turned to May who took the book from him and repeated the action. “This is a modern book, the sort you can get at any newsagent or stationer.” She opened it up again. “I’d say this is a much younger version of our Reverend and someone who had access to a biro by the looks of it.” She handed the book back to Joe who opened it immediately.

  The book wasn’t as it had first appeared, and had been prepared with one purpose in mind, and that purpose was an account ledger. Joe again flicked through the pages, far too rapidly for May.

  “Hold on there Hawkeye, at least let me have a cursory look.”

  He passed it to her. “Sorry, but accounts aren’t exactly what I’d call a riveting page turner.”

  “Unlike Desire and Decay I suppose.” May took the book from Joe without looking up.

  “You know Henrietta? I can go off people very quickly.” Henrietta simply smiled back.

  May turned the pages slowly and deliberately. “I’ve seen this done before; it’s a direct lift from an original ledger, to represent the genuine article.”

  “For what purpose?” Joe asked.

  “Could be any purpose really, like when you want to protect the original so you can mark it. This is the ledger for The Polglaze Mining Company,” She flicked to the end of the book, “and they’re almost up to date.”

  Joe turned to Henrietta. “Where did you get these and whose are they?”

  “Didn’t you read the first page?” She continued smiling.

  “Yes, George Hooper…” Joe narrowed his eye. “Henrietta?”

  “Yes, Joseph.”

  “Would I be correct in thinking, George Hooper is the name of our dead swimmer?”

  May stopped looking at the accounts. “And I’m guessing he’s a direct descendant of Reverend G. Hooper.”

  “Bingo!” Henrietta shouted.

  “I think you know a little bit more than you’re letting on, don’t you?” Joe asked.

  Henrietta shrugged. “Maybe just a tiny little bit.”

  “And?” He urged.

  “What I told you about Adam was correct. Right up until I worked out who he actually was and then we were able to have a proper conversation.” She nodded at May, whose head was buried in the accounts book. “May was right. George was the great nephew of Reverend G. Hooper and although the part Reverend Hooper played in the Levant incident has never been common knowledge, it was known to Hooper’s brother. And I believe he was the recipient of the documents mentioned in the diary. Quite simply, George Hooper was here to put a stop to Polglaze opening the mine again.”

  “You mean he didn’t want the past dredging up and damaging his family name?” Joe asked.

  Henrietta shook her head. “No, I don’t believe that was his motivation. He wanted the past dredging up, he wanted my grandad bringing up to the surface along with your great grandad. He wanted them burying with the dignity and respect they deserved.” She nodded at the ledger. “And he wanted Polglaze to pay for what his family had done; not only to every family who worked the mine but also to his family. He wanted to make sure he had all the facts and up until a few weeks ago, none of his family had ever seen that diary. They suspected what was in it of course and from what he told me, Reverend Hooper had alluded to it several times to his brother. Once he knew for sure what’d been written, he married it with the account ledger and it all fit into place.”

  “So what was he intending to do with it all?” Joe was attempting to ignore the painful throbbing sensation building up behind his eye, and failing.

  “Just to bring out the truth
, and to give to people what is rightfully theirs. I believe it was as simple as that.”

  “Levant never made a penny for twenty years, according to this ledger.” May tapped the book. “Even when tin prices were through the roof, it just about turned over enough to support itself. I can’t see anywhere where shares were paid out, at least not in any great amounts.”

  “So how did it stay open for so long? I mean, a business has to make enough money to make it viable; otherwise it’s a waste of time. So why bother keeping it open?” Joe asked.

  May turned the pages slowly. “I’ve got the ledger report for the year ending 1919. According to this book, that was the last year of trading for Polglaze Mining. It shows a considerable profit and more importantly, it indicates a return on the investment for the shareholders.”