by Annie Clarke
Miss Ellington nodded. ‘Half the bottle only, then, Fran. I’ll take the other to the canteen for your break, and see if we can’t lay on water for everyone. Then you can finish this on the bus home. File out now, and Mrs Raydon will let you know where you’re to go.’
Fran gulped it down as Mrs Raydon checked them off on her list. Finally, with half the bottle left, Miss Ellington took it from her and repeated, ‘Such a sensible idea from your mam. You’re on stemming again. If you need to wee, tell Mr Swinton and he’ll send someone with you because, as you know, you’re not allowed to wander about on your own. And do think of getting your hair cut.’
Fran thought of the Sledgeford dance on Saturday and had no intention of doing any such thing, so said nothing, just as they all said nothing. Like the others, Amelia patted her hair before ramming on her turban, and watching her, Fran thought how strange it must be for her, the only southerner, the only posh girl. No wonder she got it wrong sometimes, and she made herself a promise that she would try to be kinder to the girl.
Stan clumped along the back alleys towards the pithead with Sid and Norm and the rest of the pitmen bound for the shift. He could hear Davey crooning above the sound of the hooter as the lad slung his arm over Stan’s shoulders.
‘Ah well, our bonny Stan, got sick of sorting someone else’s coal hoyed up from the murky depths, did yer? Going to hew yer own, eh? We’ll be keeping you out of mischief, never fear.’
Sid and Norm jostled them, shaking their heads. ‘Nay, we’ll not be doing that – he’s a clever beggar, he can look after himself.’ The four of them laughed as Davey tightened his arm around Stan’s neck until he gagged, then released him.
‘You’re a bugger, our Davey,’ coughed Stan, trying not to laugh.
‘Aye, and yer love me for it,’ Davey grinned. All four walked abreast, their bait tins hanging from their belts. Ahead of them their fathers walked together, ignoring their respective offspring. The winding gear was singing in the breeze, the slag heap smouldered brightly in the wind and Stan felt his heart lift. No more screens, just the job he knew like the back of his hand, working alongside his marrers, even if his muscles would have to relearn it all.
Davey muttered as they drew nearer the pithead yard. ‘I doubt the whelp’ll be arriving in his roadster today. He must know the pit’ll be a sight more mucky than the screens, and that bloody silly towel all over the seat won’t be worth a damn.’
Norm, looking behind, then in front, muttered, ‘Can’t see his da letting him have the Rolls.’
Sid held up his hand as though listening to someone. ‘A little bird says it’s the gardener’s bike he has a loan of.’
They were still laughing and chatting when they reached the yard, passing the gate man, and there was Ralph, with a bike, a red face and a big frown.
‘Howay, should have had a bet on it,’ Sid said. ‘How do we know if it’s the gardener’s? Still time though – a bob on it, someone?’
Stan kept his face rigid. A bike? He must not laugh. He waved. ‘Ready for the fray, Ralph?’
‘Pedalled all the way, lad?’ asked Davey. ‘By, and into the wind an’ all.’
Ralph merely looked at him through hooded eyes.
‘Bet your arse knows all about it?’ said Norm.
Stan pointed to an open-sided shed where there were already a load of bikes propped against each other. ‘They go there.’
Ralph stared at the ragtag and bobtail of bikes, even one without a saddle. ‘I’ll prop mine against the manager’s office wall.’
After looking at Stan, who shrugged, then nodded, Davey walked over to Ralph and and stood in front gripping his handlebars, saying quietly, ‘You won’t. You’ll put it with the others because you’re trying to be one of the lads. If you want their help, you have to make a bliddy effort.’
Sid arrived beside Davey and said, ‘And trust us, lad, you’ll not half need their help, and ours.’
Stan watched the struggle on Ralph’s face and for a moment he thought the lad would throw his bike on the ground in a paddy and stalk off and away home. The thing was, half of him wanted him to do it, but the other half wanted Ralph to succeed. Volunteering for the mine was crazy, but brave, and the lad’d soon stop this Fran nonsense. He must, or Stan would take Fran aside and insist that she let him interfere. Up to now, she’d been too bliddy stubborn, saying it would cause more trouble in the long run.
He heard Davey say, as the miners clumped past, caps pulled down and sideways, glances thrown, ‘You’re doing a good thing here, lad. Carry it through, proper like, eh, and it’ll serve your name well.’
‘Get your mucky hands off my bike, Davey ruddy Bedley, and don’t lecture me. You’ve no right, and don’t forget that, ever.’
Ralph shoved his bike straight at Davey and Sid, both of whom leapt aside, cursing. Stan moved to block Ralph’s way, standing with his legs either side of the front wheel, thrusting his face just a couple of inches from Ralph’s, smelling his cologne. Dear God, did the whelp never learn?
‘Look, lad, we’ve tried this nicely, and now we’ll try it t’other way. That’s of course if you want any respect from the men, and if you don’t want your da hearing what you just said, you jumped-up little arse. Now get that bliddy bike into the shed, shut your gob and follow us quick sharp. And for God’s sake, don’t wear cologne into a bleedin’ pit.’
Stan brushed past Davey, Norm and Sid, who followed silently, heading towards the cages which were droning up and down taking clean men into the pit, and bringing out others who were weary, and black with coal dust. Stan checked for Ralph, but he was just standing by his bike, looking lost. Stan swung around and roared back, standing nose to nose with Ralph again. ‘Your bliddy bad manners won’t get you anywhere down there, yer stupid beggar. The blacklocks don’t have ears, and the rats don’t listen. They’ll be up yer leg, quick as a wink after yer willy when yer doing a Jimmy Riddle, less’n we guide yer. Follow us now, this minute. This is your last chance, for I’m past putting up with your nonsense.’
Davey and the others had kept on walking, and still the fore shift pitmen clomped past, giving sideways glances, knowing something was afoot with the whelp. Stan stepped back, then, as the hooter sounded a warning for the start of the shift, Tom the overman called, ‘Hall, get over here.’
Stan hurried over to the office, and Tom reminded him it was his job to keep the whelp out of mischief, above and below ground, so what was the beggar doing fannying about with his bike?
‘What do you think I’m trying to do, Tom?’ Stan shouted. ‘Though I’d rather let him make a bloody fool of himself, because that’s all he deserves. I’m heading for the cage, it might give him a scare and he just might get a bliddy move on.’
He stormed on, catching up with Davey. ‘If we leave him, it might make him follow. I’m just fed—I mean, he’s getting away with bliddy murder whichever way you look.’
Davey murmured, ‘Well, if you include your sister and me in that, Fran thinks it’s all summat to do with that bloody football, so if it is, it’s partly my fault. I shouldn’t have stabbed the bliddy thing. His mam gave it to him.’
They slowed as they approached the cages, and looked at the marrers and realised they’d heard and were shaking their heads, because they’d all been there. Stan thought of the silence as the shredded paper had fluttered down the back lane and the triumph on the whelp’s face, even though he knew it was Davey’s Granpa Percy’s gift, made while he was coughing up his lungs, and dying.
He remembered how they had all stood alongside Davey, their arms crossed, feeling justice had been done with the piercing of Ralph’s ball. As they waited for him to sling his hook, Fran had yelled at the whelp that he was a feeble minded spiteful boy who needed his arse whacked. Only then had he run off.
In a way though, Davey was right, stabbing Ralph’s mam’s ball was bad, but Mr Massingham had had it repaired, while all the Massingham bairns could do with theirs was to sweep it up, and burn it. St
an sighed, and said, ‘I’ll have to go and sort him out if he doesn’t come.’ The pit was the lad’s chance for them all to build bridges, they were adults after all.
Ralph pushed the bike to the shed and shoved it hard against the others. What did it matter if it got scratched, it was only the chauffeur’s. What’s more, it’d teach the cocky young beggar to laugh as his master had wobbled off. What was the matter with these people, didn’t they know which side their bread was buttered? He walked along with the other men to the lamp shed, where he knew Stan would have waited, as instructed by the overman, because the Massinghams owned all of them, every damned one.
Stan loitered while his marrers collected their lamps and two tokens each from the cabin. Davey joined him, muttering ‘I’ll wait with yer, lad.’
Stan nodded. ‘No, Davey, you get on. He’ll be along because imagine him telling his da he’s walked off. Besides, he’ll know he couldn’t come into the villages anymore.’
Davey whooped with laughter. ‘Well, that’d mean he couldn’t wait at the bus shelter. Besides, even as a bairn he only ever visited to throw his weight around, and – wait one … Maybe that’s why he’s pestering the life out of Fran and me, just throwing his weight around in a different way?’
Both stood quietly, thinking, until Norm and Sid looked around, raising their eyebrows. ‘He’s still not here then? D’you reckon we should go and find him?’
Stan shrugged, and they waited as other pitmen passed them. ‘Nice to ’ave yer back in t’pit, lad,’ one said, jerking his head. They realised why when they heard Ralph say from behind them, ‘So, everyone collects a lamp, do they, and tokens? I can’t remember what the trainer said. And sorry, chaps. Bad manners do not maketh the man.’
Stan exchanged a glance with Davey, who gave the slightest of shrugs. Norm said, ‘Aye, man, that’s reet. Two tokens it is, same as the other hewers, and them fillers who put our coal into the tubs, and the putters who shove ’em to the roadway for the ponies to take on to the cage.’
As the others went on, Stan and Ralph took a lamp, hung one of their tokens on a hook, and kept one for themselves, to hand in at the end of their shift. If they didn’t they’d have the whole bloody shift looking for them, and as they waited for the cage, Stan explained how the system had saved him and Davey when the roof came down on them when they were working on a stubborn part of the face.
As the men moved forward to get in the cage he saw Sid, Davey and Norm had waited to one side for them. The banksman called out, ‘Get a bliddy wriggle on, Stanhope Hall, anyone’d think yer don’t want to get to work.’
All five of them squashed in with the others and Stan gripped Ralph’s arm. ‘Yer’ll feel as if yer bread and dripping’s in yer throat. Don’t let it out.’
Around them men laughed, and Davey muttered, ‘If yer do, spout it over our Stan, eh?’
The banksman hooked the chain over and said to Ralph, ‘Yer listen to yer marrers today, sir. Can’t have yer taken back to yer da with a broken fingernail, can we?’
Ralph’s smile was weak, but his shoulders straightened.
So, ‘sir’ was what they should call him? Stan thought, but that wasn’t going to happen. Ralph was to be a hewer, it’s what he said he wanted, and hewers weren’t ‘sir’, not ever.
‘Off yer go then, ta ta, lads.’ The gate man pulled the chain across and they all fell silent. No one spoke, though the clamour of those waiting for the next cage continued, and then whoosh, down they went, taking the air out of Stan’s lungs. Ralph leaned against him. Stan gripped his arm, hoping he wasn’t going to faint.
‘It’s ruddy broken,’ Ralph panted. ‘We’re falling.’
‘Nay, lad, it’ll slow soon enough.’ Stan stayed still. He was home. He could smell the coal, the muck, he could hear the whispers around him, see Davey and Sid hard at it, quarrelling about who owed who a pint, and Norm counting in his head because he hated the bliddy cage, he said, whenever he got the opportunity.
The cage slowed, then slammed to a stop. Stan had bent his knees, but had forgotten to tell Ralph, who almost fell. ‘Sorry, lad,’ Stan muttered. ‘Should have said. Had forgotten meself but me legs did it on their own.’
Edgar said from the back, ‘Comes of swanning off to t’south. Makes yer soft, lad.’
Stan gestured.
‘I’ll tell yer da what yer just did with your finger, so I will,’ said Edgar. ‘And he’ll skelp yer backside.’
‘I’ll hold our Stan while he does it, an’ all,’ Norm called.
‘I used to stick newspaper in my pants when my teacher whacked me,’ Ralph called.
As they left the cage and set off down the roadway which was lit by lamps screwed into the walls, someone called back, ‘Bet it were The Times an’ all. Thick as a plank, they say.’ Stan and Davey winced. Would Ralph see the insult for what it was?
Ralph called back, ‘Probably. Such good quality paper, don’t you know.’
The men laughed and Ralph looked confused. They walked on, the wall lamps flickering along the wide roadway. Ralph walked alongside Stan with the marrers behind, though the other pitmen spread out, unwilling to be with the boss’s son. They passed an overman working in his office.
‘I thought you said we’d have to crouch?’ Ralph said.
‘Just wait, and save your energy, this is the best bit.’ Stan coughed. ‘And don’t scuff the dust, for pity’s sake. Lift your feet, and tread careful, man, or we’ll all be eating coal dust, and don’t trip on the rails, eh.’
On and on they walked, the ceiling lowering, the half mile of roadway lights long gone, relying on their own lamps now. Stan could hear the creaking in between the coughing, hawking and chatting of the men. Yes, he could hear it, and imagined the great weight of coal across the roof planks and behind the pit props, squeezing and squeezing, desperate to fill up this empty seam. He looked ahead to Davey, limping just as he himself was. Almost twins they were, marrers to the core, and howay, they’d even been hurt together. Always together. Stan bent lower, pushing Ralph down, calling, ‘Ye’ll have to bend yer knees, man. If yer too hot, take off yer jacket, but if yer do and yer leave it here by the side, the blacklocks’ll take it over, or the rats, or maybe Mr Mouse and his tribe, so give it a reet good shake when yer pick it up.’
‘Dear God,’ Ralph panted.
On they went, Davey beckoning to Ralph to follow as he turned left down Menin Seam, which was even tighter. Norm and Sid followed, while Stan brought up the rear. They trod between rails along which the putter who shoved the tubs would come. That would be Ralph today. To give him his due, Ralph made no sound, just hunched down, plodding along, barely lifting his feet, but he’d learn, because it might not be Stan behind him another time and he’d get a roasting.
They finally arrived at the face and Davey, who was already streaming with sweat, tore off his clothes, throwing them in a bundle to the ground, leaving him wearing just his drawers and boots. Ralph hesitated, then did as they were all doing. Work started immediately, the marrers heaving and thrusting picks into the cracks the blasters had loosened overnight.
Ralph said, ‘Rather than push the tub, I’d prefer to work on the face.’ Stan sighed but handed the lad his pick, showing him the ropes. Ralph stabbed at the coal, his gleaming white underwear already blackening from the dust. After about twenty minutes, he threw the pick down, gasping, ‘I reckon you need someone to fill the tub, eh?’
Stan nodded gravely. ‘We do indeed.’ Ralph handed him back the pick, and started shovelling the coal into the tub, then shoving it back along the rails to the main seam where it would be hitched to the pony’s ‘train’, as Stan had explained it.
Hour after hour they worked, and Stan remembered how they didn’t even need a Jimmy Riddle because they were so dehydrated. At about eleven, the four hewers took a break, leaning back against the pit props. Stan faced Sid and Norm as he and Davey ate a jam and coal dust sandwich. Ralph arrived back with an empty tub brought by another pony ‘train’.
He joined them, carefully unwrapping his pâté sandwiches. ‘God, I’m hungry,’ he almost moaned, looking for somewhere to wipe his hands.
‘Wipe ’em down yer legs, lad, or on yer trousers yer left in the heap ower yonder,’ Sid said, nodding towards the small pile of clothes. Ralph stared at the clothes, then at his black-dusted legs, and just stuffed the sandwiches in his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed.
‘Make ’em last, bonny lad. One’s enough. You’ll get a bellyache because you’ll be straight back to work,’ Davey warned.
Stan saw the look on Ralph’s face and cut across anything he might say to Davey. ‘Bet yer right glad you were on the screens and toughened your hands.’
Ralph just looked at his sandwiches, and seemed to reach a decision. He folded half the second sandwich in the greaseproof paper, and replaced it in the tin. He slurped his cold tea and said, ‘Quite frankly, I’d prefer to face a ruddy Nazi charge than sit my arse on jagged coal, trying not to hear the ruddy rats, mice and those infernal monstrous black cockroaches or whatever the hell they are.’ He shuddered.
The other four laughed. ‘Aye, that’s just about a pitman’s prayer, I reckon, but back to work,’ said Stan.
They stood and Stan felt the waft of air from a ventilator door. He could hear the scrabbling of the mice, and somewhere the squealing of fighting rats. He collected his pick, then held it out to Ralph. ‘Want an hour?’
Ralph shook his head. ‘Let me get the hang of the tubs, eh? Tomorrow’s time enough for the pick.’
Bringing down a wedge of coal, Davey muttered, ‘Aye, lad, in your own time. You’ve done well today.’
When the bus arrived back at the shelter that evening, it was only Davey waiting for Fran. He watched his sister and the woman he loved step down from the bus, relief in their every movement.
‘He’s not here?’ Fran almost whispered, leaning into him.
‘I fancy he reckons he’s paid me back over the bloody footie, if that’s what it’s all been about. That’s what he said, weren’t it, all them years ago? That he’d take everything from me, or somesuch. Well, mebbe the pit’s making him grow up,’ Davey said as he held her close, worried more by her thinness than by the whelp. She seemed better in herself, though, didn’t she?
