A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  He peeled off his jacket, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and began to throw aside the loose scree. It was a hot and unrewarding job, besides being hard on the fingernails, and he decided that if he found nothing in five or ten minutes he wouldn’t waste any further time on it. Very soon he had quite a cairn of stones beside him and a considerable hollow at his feet. In places he had excavated to bare earth or solid rock, but in the centre there was a patch where the collection of loose stones seemed endless. This was suggestive, but it hardly promised success. It might well mean that there had been a hole there at some time but that it had become completely choked, like a filled-up well, and would take days or weeks to clear. The obvious thing was to get some of the men up from the estate and let them do the donkey-work. He was just on the point of abandoning the task when he uncovered a smooth granite boulder, some eighteen inches across. Beside this, and pressing against it, was another, smaller boulder and some big stones, all jammed tight.

  He sat back on his haunches, considering the position. If only he had some sort of lever he might be able to move one of those boulders. He tried using the end of his stick but gave up for fear he might break it—it was an old friend, notched with the names and dates of various peaks and rocks he had “bagged” in his more leisurely youth. It seemed a pity not to make sure now; after all, he had plenty of time, and it would be rather amusing if he could lead Julie to a full-sized cave when she returned. In the end he went back to the cottage and found an iron bar among some old junk that the builders had left in the barn. He carried it up over his shoulder, thinking that this was an odd way to spend a morning.

  Now that he was properly equipped he made good progress. Very soon he had prised away one of the stones and pushed the end of the crowbar into the soil well down under the smaller boulder. A piece of rock placed under the bar gave it leverage. At first everything seemed solid and immovable, but as he changed the direction of his thrust he saw the boulder shift a fraction of an inch and he threw all his weight on the lever.

  Suddenly, the whole lot gave way. The jammed boulder jerked upwards and Quilter lost his balance and went sprawling back on to the turf. There was a long rumbling crash and a slithering of scree. When he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to examine the results of his handiwork, he saw with a thrill of pleasure and no little amazement that Joseph had been right. At his feet there was a hole about the size of a flagstone, with jagged, yellowish-white sides, and it had absorbed without difficulty the two boulders, the crowbar, and a mass of stones.

  Fascinated, Quilter peered down. It wasn’t a vertical drop; it sloped away at an angle that offered an easy descent to any active person and at a depth of about eight feet it seemed to flatten out and become more of a passage—as the diagram, indeed had indicated.

  Quilter had never done any underground exploration and he certainly wasn’t organised for it, but by now his curiosity was thoroughly aroused and he felt he couldn’t leave without a closer look. Very carefully he lowered himself down the hole, his feet finding good holds on the rough limestone walls, his fingers gripping handy projections of rock. His eyes took a little time to get used to the dim light, but his confidence increased once he had made sure that there was firm standing room at the bottom. A moment later he had reached the elbow bend, having suffered no more damage than a torn shirt.

  He struck a match and bent low. The continuation of the hole was very narrow, a passage no more than three feet across, but it fell away in a gentle slope and was quite dry. He could come to no harm here. Too interested now to worry about the state of his clothes he got down on to his stomach, his head a little lower than his feet, and worked his way cautiously down the tunnel, stopping at frequent intervals to strike matches and see what lay ahead. The going was a little rough and the downhill position was uncomfortable but there was room enough to move without difficulty and the slope was still flattening out. Somewhere around here, if the diagram had been correctly drawn, there should be a big drop. He edged forward a few inches at a time.

  Suddenly he reached a point where his outstretched hand could feel no ground ahead, but only empty space. The flickering light of a match failed to reveal anything at all in any direction. He wriggled back a little, found a loose piece of rock, and cast it into the blackness. There was a moment of silence and then there came a violent crash from the depths right beneath him, followed by the sounds of shattering and ricocheting.

  Quilter drew back with a feeling of awe. This was something quite outside his experience and he wasn’t at all sure that he liked it. Anyway, it was obvious that he couldn’t go any farther. He worked his body round in the tunnel and a few minutes later he was clambering out into the bright sunlight.

  Now that he was safely back on the surface, the thought of the chasm seemed less alarming. He lit a cigarette and sat down on the grass to study Joseph’s diagram. The place must be of tremendous size, for the second drop indicated on the paper was shown as appreciably larger than the first. It would be most exciting to explore down there and it was evidently possible because Joseph had done it. It wasn’t a thing he could do on his own, though—he’d need an experienced companion, someone who was really at home underground. Mentally he ran through the names of his climbing acquaintances, but none of them as far as he knew had had anything to do with caves.

  He was still thinking about it as he resumed his walk, for the place had stirred his imagination. There were, he recalled, clubs that spent their whole time exploring holes in the ground—perhaps he could get in touch with one of them. Potholers, that was what the fellows called themselves. But he’d never heard of any of them operating in the Lakes.

  Potholers! Half a minute, though, that did ring a bell—there was someone. That young fellow—what was his name? One of his own supporters, in a quiet way. Quilter could remember his features quite plainly, he’d met him at a meeting. And there’d been a letter from him in the local paper not so long ago, about some cavern in Yorkshire that he’d explored just before coming to the district—Quilter had noticed it because it had been printed just underneath a letter of his own. He could almost see the name on the cutting—it had begun with an A, something like Askey. No, not Askey—Anstey, that was it. Peter Anstey. And now Quilter remembered who he was, too—he was the science master at Coalhaven Grammar School. A pleasant, intelligent young man—just the type to be interested. It might be well worth while to get in touch with him.

  Quilter’s thoughts switched to other matters now and it wasn’t until he got back to the cottage, in the late afternoon, well-lunched and pleasantly fatigued, that he thought of the pothole again. If he was going to do anything about it he ought to get hold of Anstey right away, but the question was how to find him. Through the headmaster of the school, perhaps, or—wait—he might be in the telephone book. Quilter fetched the local directory, ran quickly through the A’s and found two Ansteys, but no Peter Anstey. He was about to look up the headmaster’s number when he remembered that. Anstey was a newcomer to the district and might not yet be in the book.

  He took up the telephone and confided his problem to the girl at Directory Inquiries. Almost at once she supplied the information he wanted—there was a Peter J. Anstey with a Coalhaven number. “Shall I connect you?”

  “If you please,” said Quilter.

  He listened to the ringing tone, an expectant smile on his lips. He was wondering what sort of view Julie would take of pot-holing as an alternative to rock-climbing. In imagination he was already exploring the hole and triumphantly overcoming all its difficulties. He’d probably get quite a bit of local publicity out of the exploit—and that always helped. People liked their M.P.s to be physically active. That chap who sat for South Leicestershire—what was his name, Fothergill—his majority had shot up three thousand after he’d jumped into a canal to rescue a child from drowning. But that was a bit different, of course.

  The ringing was interrupted by the girl’s voice. “I’m sorry, there’s no reply.”
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br />   “All right,” said Quilter, “I’ll try later.” He made a note of the number on the telephone pad and went out to the barn. He’d better do something about covering up the hole in the meantime—it wasn’t very likely that anyone would walk up there after dark but a sheep might fall down it and anyway it was best to be on the safe side. He prodded about among the tools and timber, cement and paint, and presently found what appeared to be an old loft door, about two feet six square, which would just do the trick. He slung it in the back of the station wagon and drove slowly up the bumpy track. It proved to be an excellent lid and a couple of heavy stones placed on top of it ensured that it wouldn’t be kicked or blown away.

  Back at the cottage, Quilter tried the Coalhaven number again, and this time his luck was in.

  “Peter Anstey speaking,” said a crisp pleasant voice.

  “Ah. This is Laurence Quilter. We have met, I think.”

  “Mr. Quilter! Why, hello, sir!” Anstey was friendly, but obviously puzzled.

  “You’re wondering why I’ve rung you. The fact is, Anstey, I seem to remember that you’re interested in potholes …”

  “In what? I’m afraid I didn’t quite get you.”

  “Potholes—you know—holes in the ground—caves and things.”

  “Oh, potholes! Sorry, I couldn’t believe you really said that. Yes, I am, very interested. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve found one. Practically in my own back garden.”

  “Really?” Anstey sounded a trifle sceptical. “You’re sure it’s not an old well or something like that?”

  “Oh, no, it’s the real thing all right. I found an old plan of it among some family papers—it’s got several big chambers and it looks as though it might run for miles. I’ve been down the first bit of it but I got held up by a precipice. I wondered if you’d care to explore it with me—it’s really a job for an expert.”

  “You bet I would—it sounds terrific. I knew there were some small caves over near Glaramara but I’d no idea there was anything of interest round your way. When would you like mine to come, sir—to-morrow morning?”

  Quilter smiled at his keenness. “Why not?—as early as you like. You’ll have no difficulty in finding me—my cottage is the only one above the Plough Inn.”

  “Right, I’ll be there … By the way—have you done any potholing before, Mr. Quilter?”

  “No, but I’ve done plenty of climbing—you’ll find me quite safe.”

  “I’m sure of that,” said Anstey apologetically. “I only asked because there are some people who lose their heads a bit—quite naturally if they’re not used to it. What about equipment—shall I bring everything?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve nothing here except a few lengths of nylon rope and an old torch. If you like, I’ll bring the car over.”

  “No, that’s all right, I’ve got a sidecar. I can pile all the stuff into that. Leave it to me. Now about this precipice …”

  “There are two of them, actually, according to the plan.”

  “I see. Does it give any idea how deep the drops are?

  I’d like to know because of the ladders.”

  “No, it doesn’t give any measurements at all.”

  “M’m. Well, they can’t be all that deep, I shouldn’t think, We’ll see how we go, Right, I’ll be over about nine, then, Mr. Quilter.”

  “I’ll pack up some food and be all ready for you.”

  “There is just one other thing—have you told anyone else about the hole?”

  “Not yet. Don’t you want me to?”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you I’d like to keep it dark until we’ve explored the place. Once these things get around you never know who’s going to barge in.”

  Quilter chuckled. “All right, Anstey, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

  “And thank you for ringing me, sir.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” said Quilter. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Four

  He was beginning to wonder next morning whether something had delayed Anstey when the crackle of a motor cycle engine outside the barn announced his arrival.

  “Hello, sir,” he called, as Quilter went out to greet him. “Sorry I’m late—the bike developed a slow puncture and I had to stop and pump.” He was an impressive-looking young man in his late twenties, dark and strongly-built, with a square cleft chin. His manner had a trace of shyness, but the older man soon put him at his ease.

  “That’s all right, Anstey, we’ve got all day. Nice to see you again. How’s schoolmastering?”

  Anstey grinned. “The holidays and weekends are pretty good.”

  “Yes, that’s something I envy you—we politicians never seem to stop. Have you always been a schoolmaster?”

  “Good lord, no. I was in corvettes, for six years.” His glance followed Quilter’s to the heavily loaded sidecar. “Lot of stuff, isn’t there?”

  “Staggering. Shall we really need all that?”

  “We shall if the hole is anything like your description of it.”

  “You must have been up all night getting ready.”

  Anstey laughed, showing white teeth. “No, as a matter of fact most of it was already packed up when you rang. I was going over to Ingleborough to finish exploring a passage some of us opened up last week.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean I’ve upset your plans?”

  “Oh, not at all, there was nothing fixed—just a casual arrangement that I might join the others if I were free. But this is new ground—I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Well, come inside and see what you think of my greatgrandfather’s drawing first of all. There’s a spot of coffee left, too—we might as well finish it.” He led the way into the sitting-room. “Here you are—this is the thing that put me on the scent. I’ll leave you to study it.”

  When he returned with the coffee a few moments later, Anstey was still scrutinising the yellow paper, his eyes bright with interest.

  “Yes, it could be quite a place,” he pronounced at last. “Pity we don’t know the scale, of course. I’d say it was a very rough drawing—we’d better not rely on it too much. Still, it’s impressive—most impressive. Mind if I hang on to it for the time being?”

  “By all means.”

  Anstey put the paper away in his wallet and gulped his coffee as though he could hardly wait to start. “How far away is the entrance and what’s the going like? I suppose we’ll have to do it, on foot and that’ll probably mean two journeys.”

  “On the contrary, there’s quite a good track all the way. I suggest we transfer the stuff to the station wagon as your bike’s out of action. We’ll be up there in a couple of minutes.”

  “Wonderful! A lot of holes are terribly inaccessible, you know, and the portage is often the heaviest part of the trip. I once had to borrow a donkey in France. Well, now, in that case we can change here—I’ve brought you a full kit. Half a minute, I’ll get it.” He went quickly out to the sidecar and was back almost at once with an armful of gear that included a couple of boiler suits of thick grey canvas.

  “I think this one should fit you, Mr. Quilter. They’re a bit clumsy, you’ll find, but anything lighter gets cut to pieces. They’re good for keeping water out, too, when there is any—see, they fasten at the wrists and ankles.” He demonstrated. “What about footwear?” He glanced down at Quilter’s rock-climbing boots and nodded. “Yes, that’s the idea.”

  “How do you come to have all this stuff?” asked Quilter, working a patent fastener. “Spares?”

  “It’s club property, actually. I’m still the secretary of an outfit in Yorkshire.” He turned Quilter round and inspected him. “Fine. Now the helmet.” He picked up a steel helmet, rather like the ones that miners wear, with an electric lamp in the front. “The battery fits snugly inside,” he pointed out, “so there’s no chance of getting it wet.”

  Quilter looked at himself in the mirror. “It’s a formidable kit, isn’t it? I feel more like a commando than a politici
an amusing himself on a day off.”

  Anstey laughed. “You wouldn’t go rock-climbing in carpet slippers, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t go rock-climbing at all at the moment—my wife’s forbidden it. I’m afraid she’ll hold you answerable if we don’t emerge from this cave.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, sir. Potholing’s safe enough if you treat it with respect—it’s the people who don’t who give it a bad name.” He tested the battery of his own helmet and slipped it on. It made him look very tough and businesslike. “Let’s see, you’ve got the food, have you?”

  “Right here,” said Quilter, patting his haversack.

  “Mind if I take a look? Sandwiches, chocolate, coffee—yes, that should keep us going. I’ve brought a bit myself, too. You can never be quite sure how long these trips are going to take.”

  “That sounds ominous. What’s the longest you’ve known?”

  “A hundred and sixty-eight hours,” said Anstey. Quilter stared. “You’re joking!”

  “No, it happened. Don’t be alarmed, though—that was quite exceptional. We were trying to link up two underground systems and it needed a full-blown expedition.”

  “Oh, I see—it was all planned?”

  Anstey grinned. “All except the last sixty-eight hours! Well, sir, shall we go?”

  Rather thoughtfully, Quilter followed him out to the sidecar and helped to transfer the remaining gear to the station wagon. “I should push the bike into the barn,” he said. “It doesn’t look as though it’ll rain but you never know.”

  Five minutes later they jolted to a standstill at the top of the hill. Quilter scrambled out, walked quickly across to the Pikes and raised the loft door with the air a chef inviting inspection of a dish. “There you are,” he said proudly. “Quilter’s Hole!”

  “And the green grass grew all around,” said Anstey, getting down on his knees and peering in. When he looked up he was beaming with pleasure. “Well, that’s a nice straightforward entrance. Let’s see, now.…” He stood for a moment gazing at the dried up beck and then walked to the edge of the hill until he could look down into the plain. “Yes, it’s most promising,” he said when he returned. “Of course, I can see now—it’s just the place for a pothole.”