Story, Volume II

by Dai Smith

  Coming up behind, watching, listening, he hung poised over his round-nosed shovel. By knocking-off time they were established butties, but it took him a few shifts to orient himself to the Longwall. It was something to cope with. Night shift soured him. He slept poorly by day, split in two parts, morning and late afternoon. Grouchy at home, ‘Like a bear to live with’, in Sue’s opinion, her dourness tormenting him. There was no yielding in her. Home had always nourished his morale. Outside the house he made his own way, following the only rule: Fight to have and hold what’s yours.

  He learned how to doze while standing, hanging forward over his shovel, a wafer of consciousness sensing the roof and crackling, sagging coal. Sometimes the cutter crept on and on, leaving him drooped, duff spreading out in a thick level carpet behind the jib. Six inches deep and deepening, the Longwall ploughing slower, groaning, burning the picks. Unless conditions were suspect, Billy left him alone. He’d chip hauling speed to zero until the jib cleared itself. Gabe repaid by taking on heavy work. He dragged the cable when they moved to another face, he heaved, levering the crowbar when they flitted out of the seam onto the cutter trolley.

  No question of guilt regarding bouts of dozing. He awoke easily, muttering, ‘Night shift be buggered, I’ll never acclimatise myself. It’s only good for owls and fucken grave robbers.’

  Most shifts they catnapped for a few minutes at grub-time. Billy nominated dry sections of conveyor face.

  After sandwiches and mouthfuls of water they settled down for a little sleep, breaking mining law, liable to prosecution. Billy’s alibi: ‘It takes a sneaky bastard to spy on a man when he’s at his grub.’

  Comfortable on warm, powdery gumming, he agreed. The waster deserved a running kick.

  ‘What I mean to say, once a bloke’s on top of his job, see?’ insisted Billy.

  ‘Right, let’s take five.’

  He relied on Billy to rouse him. Billy prolonged groaning yawns, or clanged the lid on his tommy box or raised his water jack for loud echoing gargles. Or related dirty jokes to spurt his consciousness. Cruel at four o’clock in the morning, wrenched between conscience and the flesh. Billy affirmed duty with rectitude, while ever concentrating on making it as light as possible.

  One night they were in D face off the main heading. Broken roof had fallen behind them as they were cutting down. One of those bondage shifts when everything went hellish. The tow post pulled loose three times, the picks blunted from chewing through a rising roll of slag inside the coal, and Billy Holly swore he was in the throes of tonsillitis. Sweat streaked his haunted face, coalescing with icy streamers from the roof. Damp globules highlighting his pale gingery eyebrows, dripped off the tip of his small, beaky nose. This hard, grubbing shift, aggravated by visits from Iago Eynon who preached responsibility. Fevered Billy lost his cutter man’s caution. He took risks. Iago squatted with them at grub-time shooting tobacco juice and quoting estimates per man hour, per length of stent if day-shift colliers had no ready-cut coal waiting for them in the morning.

  He felt harassed behind the cutter, the onus on himself to keep the jib clear. The Longwall ripped quickly under dangerous sections of roof. He crouched from one steel prop to the next, his fears eased by cold metal against his ribs. Often he shovelled one-handed at full reach of his arm. On ahead of the cutter, two repairers were chopping and fixing extra timber props. Behind them the whole face pounded, coal crashed down, grinding roof fissures fractured, buckling timber flats above the props. Time after time he scurried to safety in front of the machine.

  It was a normal conveyor face squeeze, temporary, worsened by the longwall coal cutter. Self-protection hinged on experience gambled by chance.

  Worn by fever and strain at the end of the shift, Billy tottered back to pit bottom. The following night however, saw him riding down in the last bon, thick-speaking from his inflamed glottis, yet steadfast, saying, ‘We’ll change the picks first thing. Won’t take us long.’

  ‘Righto,’ he said. Didn’t think you’d be here tonight, Coch. Missis boot you out of the house?’

  ‘Mine’s a good un, don’t you fret. Seen Iago?’

  ‘Went down earlier.’

  ‘Hear the way he carried on last night? Notice how he gets his pound of flesh out of the daft likes of you and me? Crafty bugger, Iago is, on the quiet.’

  ‘We won’t see much of him this shift. They’re re-laying the double-parting on Gomer’s heading.’

  ‘Better not, or I’ll be fast into him.’ Billy rocked promissory Tap-taps on his heels.

  ‘You’re a bloody hog for punishment,’ he said.

  They found Iago waiting for them, dollops of his tobacco juice glistening on the flat, steel clad Longwall.

  ‘News for you, Gabe. Monte says you’re ready to cross Billy on afternoons. I told him you could handle this cutter.’

  He dropped the sack of sharpened picks. ‘Leyshon reckoned I’d only be on this job till he found another man.’

  Sliding his backside off the machine, Iago crawled on hands and knees until he was able to stand up in the roadway. ‘Gabie-boy, you’re in the same position as five weeks ago, as I understand it. Either drive the cutter or take fourteen days notice as from tonight.’

  ‘Al’right, al’right, on your fucken way then, don’t rub it in,’ he said. And he realised, here’s the discipline. Old Monkey Lips in Dove Street, he put the jinx on me when he yapped about discipline. Monkey Lips should have been with us when we cut down through D face last night. Born and bred bloody chimp, he’d cry for mercy.

  Billy shouted after the retreating cap lamp, ‘Switch the power on, Iago!’ and, ‘Now then, boy, told you he was a proper bastard. Him and Monte, they make a cowin’ pair.’

  ‘No rush, take our time changing the picks,’ he said.

  ‘Course! We got a pretty dry run in front of us tonight too, thank Christ.’

  After unlocking the jib he signalled Billy to haul forward a few yards until the jib straightened itself out from under the seam. Billy linked the tow rope to the jib, ready to chip it back at right angle to the machine. He trilled a pigeon fancier’s whistle for Gabe to start changing the picks.

  Reaching for the sack, he dabbed his hand on Iago’s tobacco juice. Minutes later Billy did the same thing. From shared animus they cursed the official and his family. Straining wits, blaspheming him almost respectfully in the manner of miners, sailors, soldiers, prisoners, slaves. Language alien to domesticity, inane to the eye, the ruination of dialectic, gross heaped on dross, idiom of tongues obeying harmless, subtle phantasmagoria. He changed the picks one at a time. Short stubby picks locked in the chain by a single nut-headed grub screw. Simple, just tug on the spanner, remove the blunt pick from its socket, tighten in the sharp pick. Blunt picks were bagged ready for the blacksmith next morning. Billy hunkered at the controls. Heeding the word from Gabe, he chipped the chain around the jib. Between times he oiled the machine. He sloshed half a pint on Iago Eynon’s trade marks, covered them with duff and scraped it all off with a shovel. And Billy sang a doleful O more and more, I adore you. Gianina mia in thoughtless bath-tub tenor.

  Cochyn kidding himself as the great lover, he thought. Him hopping on his bad feet, crooning from that little mouth under that hook of a nose, hair the colour of apricot jam sprouting over his lugholes. He’s like a bloody tropical parrot. God Almighty, you’ll only find his kind here in Golau Nos or some similar place where the spunk of every man’s ancestors has taken a lambasting from trying to prove himself stronger in the goolies than in the gumption. I bet Coch’s a sticker on the nest. He’s the goods all right. Found himself a woman, which is more than I can say. After I buy my Standard Eleven I’ll be on the lookout. Bloody chronic, not having a regular girl. I’ll end up like our Sue. Least she gave it a try before chucking the towel in. First buy the car. Afternoon shift… by Jesus, best shift invented for saving a few quid a week.

  He moved away from the jib. ‘Right, Coch’ – there weren’t many picks left to renew
.

  Billy tipped the chipper, inching the chain around.

  ‘That’ll do butty.’ The chain stopped. He shuffled in close again on his left knee, right leg outstretched, dragging the spanner and sack of picks with his left hand.

  Then it happened. Perhaps a lump of coal fell on the controls, or a flake of roof. Later, Billy pledged on the lives of his children that he hadn’t touched the chipper. The chain roared around, the tow rope began hauling the jib into the coal, and a cutter pick jabbed through Gabe’s right boot, thinly slicing skin where the arch curves under. The leather held. His boot rammed against the coal and the cutter stalled, power to mince granite whining, raging from the motor. But the chain stopped dead. Miracle, luck, anything beyond reason.

  Billy cut the motor, he unlocked the pick and loosened Gabe’s bootlace.

  His foot pulsed fire on Billy’s lap. ‘My jack, Cochyn, pour some water over the fucken thing.’

  Billy fingered the reddened underside of his sock, ‘Bleeding, man, best take a look at it.’ Removing the sock, ‘Ah, good Christ,’ said Billy.

  He brought his foot up high across his left thigh. It felt worse than it looked.

  ‘Bruised and that bit of a cut. Fetch my jack.’

  ‘Bones all right, Gabe?’

  Flexing toes and ankle, ‘Aye, bound to be.’

  ‘We ought to keep it warm. Can you hang on here while I fetch Iago Eynon?’

  ‘No option. Gimme my jack before you go.’

  At this point, handing him the tin jack, Billy again vowed he hadn’t touched the controls. How could he while lodging the empty oil can on the gob wall?

  ‘Jonnack now, I didn’t touch the chipper. Honest, boy, honest!’

  Said Gabe, ‘I’m not blaming you, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘What’s the pain like? Can you walk out?’

  ‘I’m staying. Those mean bastards, they’ll crop me half a shift.’

  ‘Sure now, Gabe?’

  Who laughed, ‘Bugger off, get me a bandage.’

  It was late in the shift when Jobie Lewis asked them if they would help one of the heading miners.

  ‘What’s it worth?’ Billy said.

  Jobie unclipped his lamp, hit the glass bullseye with a tiny squirt of tobacco juice, wiped it clean with his thumb, offering, ‘I’ll book it down now,’ says Gabe. ‘Next time you plant your filthy gobs on the cutter I hope your tongue blows out as well.’

  They walked the two hundred yards to the development heading. NCB planners were reopening an old supply road to exploit a new district. Jobie left them at a junction off the main, ‘I’m only asking you blokes to give Stan Evans a hand with a pair of rings, that’s all. It’s pinching a bit in there, but do your best. See you on top pit.’

  Gabe and Billy entered the mouth of the old heading. ‘Stan’s making four quid a yard,’ said Billy. ‘Us two, boy, we’ll be booked in as dead-work. Stan’ll gain the benefit.’ He paused, teetering on his heels, singing, ‘Tell me the old, old story,’ then ‘Bullshit baffles brains. Members of the working class, we been fed bullshit since day one.’

  ‘You remind me of my old man, except you’re fucken vulgar,’ says Gabe.

  Far ahead, flickering like a glow-worm, they saw the heading man’s lamp.

  Gabe held Billy’s wrist, ‘Hush a minute. Listen. Hear that? Wouldn’t mind betting it’s a proper crib in there.’ He flung his arms around Billy, ‘Butty, you bolt up the fishplates. Got your skyhooks handy?’

  Billy tilted his head back, gazing at twelve foot rings arching the heading. Some were twisted, fishplates gaping, held by skewed nuts and bolts. Thin puffs of dust jerked down through mildewed timber lagging lapping from ring to ring. They heard their own breathing and the persistent whispering of moving earth. ‘It’s pinchin’ al’right,’ Billy said.

  ‘Pinching! It’s all on the bloody move. Steady, hold on, Coch, plenty of time.’

  Small rivulets of grained rubble drifted down behind the drystone-walled sides of the heading. They dribbled, stopped abruptly like scatterings from the claws of watchful rats. High up inside the roof, booming rolled, nagging on and on, echoing distant as fading thunder. Billy sniggered, stepped backwards, impelled by the tension of his neck, his raised chin exposing the jig of his Adam’s apple. A fist-sized piece of rock thumped muffled on the overhead canvas airbag which ventilated the reopened heading. Dust shone innocently, swirled away to nothing. Another stone fell on the airbag. Billy darted, tucking himself close to the roadside, one boot resting on 2" compressed air pipe column clipped low down on the rings. ‘Long way off yet,’ said Billy.

  Says Gabe, ‘Aye, hope it stays a long way off.’

  They walked in fifty yards, halted, hearing harsh tearing of timber, like crossed branches strained by winds. Common enough, the way it creaked slow and steady.

  Billy said, ‘Old ground, she’ll settle by and by.’

  Gabe spat superficial anger, ‘Let’s put this bloody ring up and clear off out.’

  The heading man grumbled, ‘Where the hell you been? I asked Jobie for help hour an’ a half ago.’ Bulky Stan Evans, middle-aged, wearing a half-sleeved woollen vest, badgerly hair like lathe shavings bushed on his chest. A cud of tobacco seldom left his nibbling front teeth. Brown stain crystallised on the rims of his pink lips.

  Gabe said casually, ‘Go easy on the mouth, Stan. We came straight off the cutter.’

  ‘Where’s your reg’lar butty?’ inquired Billy genially.

  Lifting off his helmet, Stan wiped his bald skull with a hairy forearm. ‘Christ knows. Youngsters these days, they chuck money away like it was dirt.’

  ‘No worse than miserable old buggers like yourself,’ said Gabe. ‘C’mon, let’s shove this ring up.’

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ warned the heading man.

  4½' posts stacked near Stan’s last pair of rings, new timber for lagging, and a level-bedded tram of muck, sprags locking the front wheels. Both halves of the new roofing ring sloped against the sides of the tram. Small, meaningless puddles and shattered rock from previous shot firing concealed the end of the tram rack. A narrow seam of rider coal glistened damply some ten feet above the rubble.

  Stan indicated the rider, ‘When she runs out we’ll be into four feet of clean coal. She’s causing all the trouble, that dirty little rashing of mum-glo. Wouldn’t be so bad if there was something solid up above.’

  Back in the roadway, stones cascaded, echoed on the overhead lagging.

  Billy screwed up his small mouth, ‘Coming closer.’

  Stan tossed a pair of fishplates and four nuts and bolts on the tram of muck. ‘Who’s fixing?’

  Billy clambered up off the hitching plate. ‘Let’s have the bloody spanner.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it once you’ve got the bolts through,’ said Stan. ‘It’s on my toolbar.’ He and Gabe lifted one half of the new twelve-foot ring, resting the butt on the thick wooden sill. They raised the other half. Billy drew the crowns flush together. Gabe and Stan held perfectly still. Skinny, dextrous on the tram of muck, Billy slotted the fishplates in position and sent the bolts through. He gave the nuts a few turns by hand.

  Stan’s toolbar was ten yards back in the road. He lumbered hesitantly as timber squealed, rending across the grain, followed by sibilous roaring soft shale pouring out from a break in walling between the rings. ‘Damn and blast, couple of drams of muck back there,’ complained Stan, plodding out for his spanner.

  Billy looked down at Gabe, still humped against his half of the ring, ‘Slacken off, butty, she won’t topple now.’

  ‘Where’s he off to, for Jesus’ sake?’ says Gabe.

  The heading man was near the fallen shale, his cap lamp dancing as he examined dry-rotted overhead lagging. They heard his furious shout before the roar of the next fall drifted mazy curtains of dust. Stan’s light disappeared. From his perch on top of the tram, Billy saw it again, moving away, and Stan’s bellow rang up the tenor screaming, ‘Come on out!’

  ‘Get
moving,’ urged Gabe, offering his shoulder for Billy to jump down. Billy landed like a thrown bundle, rose to all fours, unhurt. He set off, trotting out. Gabe’s jacket hung over a corner of the tram. He snatched for it, saw Billy stop suddenly, heard heavy stuff rumbling farther out in the roadway, lags snapping, and Stan’s light disappeared again. Billy came backing away, soft stepping away like a wary primitive.

  ‘Keep going!’ yelled Gabe, glimpsing the heading man’s lamp shining far out, a small white glitter in blackness.

  ‘Can’t,’ Billy said.

  ‘We gotto make it,’ Gabe nudging him forward. ‘C’mon, Cochyn!’

  They were a few yards beyond Stan’s toolbar. Another fall spewed out from the left side of the road. They waited, cursing, praying for it to stop. Fishplates squealed like bats, releasing shrapnel-pinging stones. Gabe reasoned from his gut. There’s a bloody huge cwmp on the way. He said, ‘Let’s get out from here.’

  Baulked by frailty, his boots scuffling dust, ‘Back to the dream,’ said Billy.

  ‘We’ll soon be out on the main,’ argued Gabe, bundling him over the rubble. But there were no more falls. Every few yards the walls burst open. Softly roaring slides of crushed shale spilled out. Overhead rock cramming down on the rings broke the lagging, jagged stones smashing through, pelting like volcanic hail in the roadway. And not a flicker of Stan’s cap lamp.

  They were isolated, the earth rolling original chaos.

  A small stone struck Billy’s shoulder, up near the neck. As he pitched sideways another bigger stone skidded off his left buttock, ripping his trousers. The torn cloth flapped down. Gabe saw Billy’s underpants spread loose over his lean shape. Billy yelped to growling, rolling himself into a hedgehog ball. Gabe grabbed him beneath the armpits, hauled him towards the base of the rings until his grip was broken by chuting stone deflecting off his forearms. Gabe crouched low, tight to the rings. Floods of rubble continued, burying Billy’s head and shoulders. Grazed hands shielded between his thighs, without realising Gabe heard the sickening knock of stone against bone. The bones of his butty’s skull.