Durham Trilogy 01. The Hungry Hills

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Are you still half asleep?’ Alfred complained. ‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Davie grinned and patted his neighbour on the back, ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘Don’t, it’s bad for you,’ Alfred joked over the noise of the engine house. They passed the screens and entered the winding room just as the hooter blew for the change of shift. Squeezing into the cage, Davie found himself crouched next to his former neighbour, Wilfred Parkin. The boy was now a putter working on the same flat as Davie.

  ‘Morning,’ Davie greeted him cheerfully. Wilfred looked at him sleepily and grunted an acknowledgement. It was all Davie could get out of the plump-faced young man; before the strike they would have passed the time disputing football until they reached the deputy’s kist. At least the lad did not refuse to work with him, unlike members of his own family.

  As they wound down the shaft to the bottom, the other cage passed them on its way up. For an instant, in the glare of light through the mesh, Davie was sure he saw his father ascending to the pit bank. His white-bearded face was expressionless, yet recognition flashed in the red-ringed blue eyes. Davie wanted to laugh at the sight; it reminded him of pictures in the children’s Bible stories he used to see at Sunday School. His father was a stern-faced prophet disappearing into the heavens; the irreverent thought amused him. I’ll go and see the old bugger on my way home, Davie determined.

  The deputy, Cummings was waiting at his desk.

  ‘I’ve checked the flat half an hour ago. Bit gassy in-bye, so gan canny,’ he instructed. The men continued down the tunnel, splashing through water up to their calves.

  ‘Bit gassy,’ Davie snorted. ‘There’s enough gas in the Victoria seam to light St James’s Park.’

  Twenty minutes later they were crawling on all fours along the face. With the unspoken co-operation of men who work well together, the hewers set about their task of kerving the rock with their picks. For several hours Davie lay on his side in the foul-smelling tunnel and hewed. They stopped for their bait mid-shift and took a welcome break.

  ‘That new deputy’s giving me a suntan - the amount of times he’s been along here and shone a light in my face,’ Davie grumbled.

  ‘Someone had better tell him we work at our own pace,’ Alfred suggested.

  ‘We’re ready to fire her anyways,’ Davie said, getting up off his haunches, ‘then Wilfred can get cracking on filling his tubs. All right, son?’ He nodded at the wheezing boy. ‘You sound like your dad’s bellows,’ he laughed.

  ‘Just feel a bit queer,’ Wilfred said, snapping shut his tin of half-eaten sandwiches.

  ‘Aye, I’ve got a headache this morning too,’ Alfred sympathised.

  ‘Too much beer yesterday, I say,’ Davie teased, not wanting to admit the fusty air was making him feel sick.

  Alfred drilled a hole near the top of the face and filled it with black powder from the tin strapped to his shoulder. With the shot eased gently in place, he tamped the end of the hole with clay and pricked it with a copper pricker to leave a tiny opening for the fuse.

  A few minutes later he called, ‘Ready, everyone back!’

  The men in the surrounding stalls moved to a safe distance. Alfred lit the fuse and scrabbled backwards.

  There was a hiss, a pop and then a massive, deafening bang as the explosive went off, igniting gas from the surrounding rock. Davie was thrown back by the force of the blast, knocking his head against an empty truck. For a moment he lay stunned, wondering where he was. Then there was an ominous rumble in the walls about them and the ceiling where they had been working moments before gave way in a torrent of stones. Davie’s lamp snuffed out and he blinked as the darkness blinded him.

  He heard a man scream out as the treacherous rocks caught him. The cramped tunnel filled quickly with suffocating dust, and, with the instinct for survival electrifying him into action, Davie crawled in the dark in the direction of the shaft bottom. Miraculously the way seemed unblocked. Retching, his eyes stinging, Davie clamped his cap over his mouth to prevent the evil dust from snatching away his breath.

  He gasped in horror as he found himself crawling over the lifeless body of a young putter, and panic gripped him as he struggled to escape from the tunnel. There was hardly any air to breathe; it was as if a giant vacuum had sucked the life out of the seam. A deathly silence descended and no one answered his muffled calls. The walls seemed to press in around him in the blackness, crushing his chest and lungs.

  All at once he was aware of movement beneath one of the disabled trucks, turned on its side by the force of the explosion.

  ‘Help me,’ a voice wailed, ‘please help!’

  ‘Wilfred?’ Davie called through his cap.

  ‘I’m trapped under the tub, Davie man, help me,’ the boy sobbed.

  Davie hesitated. Instinct told him he had merely minutes left in which to get out before the lack of oxygen overcame him. If he stopped now to help the luckless Wilfred it might mean the end of both of them.

  Fleetingly he conjured up a picture of Iris’s saucy face, and wished with all his heart that he was safe above ground with her now. He stuffed his cap further into his mouth and turned to reach out for Wilfred.

  ‘You push and I’ll pull.’ He gave calm, muffled instructions to the terrified putter. As he became more light-headed, his vision more blurred, the empty tub began to move, rocking back on to the rails.

  Davie gulped for air, aware that the tunnel was growing lighter. Someone’s coming to pull us out, he thought, sinking back with relief. Closing his eyes he could see himself above ground, smelling the sweet air. He was walking along a riverbank with Iris holding his hand and smiling. Ridiculous, of course, because he was stuck in a black hole with Wilfred Parkin. He wanted to ask Wilfred if he recalled the time he had let Parkin’s pig loose in the street. Perhaps the lad was too young to remember. In a minute he would ask him, when he had got his breath back. He could feel Wilfred tugging on his arm, yet there was no need to hurry. He just needed to rest for a moment.

  That morning, Louie saw Sam off to his new job. Her husband had been taken on at a pit near Ushaw Moor known locally as the Cathedral because of its tall twin shafts. The under-manager had been a childhood friend of Samuel Ritson’s and had looked sympathetically on the plight of Samuel’s son. He could offer only the position of part-time stoneman, but it was a start and Sam seemed pleased to be working again.

  ‘Gives a man his self-respect,’ he had told Louie as she kissed him goodbye on the doorstep. It would take him over an hour to walk to the pit, for there was no money for train fares. ‘It may mean a move to Ushaw Moor, Louie,’ Sam had warned, ‘if the job becomes full-time. But we’ll see.’

  Louie had said nothing to this, hoping silently that they would not have to leave Whitton Grange. She could not imagine living anywhere else. It was a tough existence at times, but it was her home and these were her people. They would never get another colliery house as long as Sam was barred from working at the Eleanor or Beatrice, but one day they might be able to afford to rent one of the new whitewashed council houses. She felt a flicker of optimism now that he had found work at last.

  With Sam gone, Louie set about the usual Monday morning task of washing. With a certain flicker of pride she noticed that theirs was the first wash-house in the street to be lit up, that she had the first fire crackling under the washing pot. The water was boiling and the first round of washing was being possed in the tub before the rest of the family had had breakfast.

  ‘Don’t forget your clean handkerchiefs,’ she reminded Sadie as she packed her bag for the week. Louie now had to do all Sadie’s washing on a Saturday when she returned from Durham so that she could have clean underwear and blouses ready for her departure on Monday. The girl was reading a book at the table as she finished her boiled egg and toast.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Louie nagged, ‘you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘Can’t I stay until Uncle Jacob gets in?’ Sadie pl
eaded.

  ‘No,’ Fanny answered firmly, stripping the sheets from the pull-out bed Sadie used at weekends. ‘He’ll be tired and wanting his bath. You’ll see him soon enough.’

  Sadie gathered up her books and stuffed them into her satchel.

  ‘I’ll walk you down to the station if you like,’ Eb volunteered.

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ Sadie answered happily and pulled on her coat. She loved it when one of her relations saw her off on the train; it made her feel important in front of the other pupils. Frank Robson and Tom Gallon would not dare pull her hair if Eb was there to protect her.

  ‘Let me do your buttons up,’ Louie fussed as she fastened Sadie’s coat. ‘You’ll catch your death out there this morning. Now give me a kiss and be off,’ she ordered.

  Sadie gave her an affectionate kiss and hug, then did the same for Fanny. Not that her aunt was as cuddly these days; her arms and hands felt as brittle as winter twigs, and hugging her always set off her sandpaper cough.

  ‘See you on Friday!’ Sadie called cheerfully as she left. She skipped down Hawthorn Street trying to keep up with Eb’s long strides. Her tall cousin was quieter than ever these days. Sadie attempted to draw him into conversation.

  ‘I haven’t seen any of your paintings recently.’

  ‘Haven’t done any,’ Eb confessed.

  ‘I don’t do any drawing at school,’ Sadie grumbled. ‘I have to do needlework instead.’

  Eb snorted. ‘And you don’t like needlework?’

  ‘I hate it,’ Sadie was adamant, ‘and Miss English tells me off for licking the thread and making it dirty.’ Eb laughed softly.

  Sadie suddenly brightened. ‘Would you teach me drawing? I’d love to make pictures like yours.’ Eb felt a twinge of gratitude to his young cousin for her request.

  ‘If you’d like that,’ he agreed.

  ‘Of course I would,’ Sadie answered and slipped her hand into his.

  They arrived at Whitton Station with ten minutes to spare.

  ‘Can we go and see Iris and Raymond?’ Sadie asked shyly.

  ‘Don’t think there’s time.’ Eb was reluctant.

  ‘Iris and Louie had a row last week at Miss Beatrice’s wedding,’ Sadie confided. ‘Iris wanted to know why Louie had stopped visiting them.’

  ‘Louie’s been seeing Iris and Davie?’ Eb asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, but you mustn’t tell Sam, or I’ll get a hiding from Louie.’ Eb smiled to himself to think of his sister challenging Sam’s authority and making secret trips to see her brother. How like Louie not to let a point of principle stand in the way of her loyalty to her own flesh and blood. He felt ashamed of his own reluctance to see Davie or Iris; he had stayed out of the way and avoided taking a stance on the issue. By doing so he knew he was perpetuating the bitterness and division that cut the community like open weeping wounds.

  Eb gave in. ‘If we’re quick we can say hello to Iris.’

  To Sadie’s disappointment there was no one at home, but then she remembered Iris’s neighbours, the Hutchinsons, and, sure enough, Iris and Raymond were there. Eb sensed a certain tenseness and assumed it was coolness towards him.

  Sadie seemed uninhibited by the atmosphere. ‘Have you any messages for your family?’ she asked Iris, heaving Raymond to his feet and attempting to carry him around.

  ‘Just send my love.’ Iris waved a hand. ‘I might come through to Durham and see them soon.’

  ‘They’d like that.’ Sadie smiled and dumped Raymond among Molly’s children. ‘Is Davie at work?’

  ‘Aye,’ Iris answered shortly.

  Eb gave her a considering look. ‘Everything all right?’ he enquired.

  Iris sighed. ‘Had a bit of a barny before he left,’ she admitted. ‘You probably know what it’s about.’ She gave him a suspicious look. Eb had no idea, and said so.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter then,’ Iris sighed. ‘It’s nothing we can’t work out between ourselves.’

  There was no time for the cup of tea that the fair-haired Molly offered. Eb was glad that Iris had found a pleasant friend to keep her company; Molly appeared sympathetic and had a kind face that smiled easily.

  ‘I’ll call again,’ he promised Iris awkwardly. That’s if you’d like me to. I don’t intend to turn my back on Davie anymore.’

  ‘He’ll be glad about that,’ Iris smiled, ‘and I’d like to see you too.’

  They dashed back to the station and Eb bundled Sadie on board into a noisy carriage of friends. She waved from the window as the train hissed and started to move, and Eb turned for home.

  It was mid-morning and Louie was blueing the shirts to give them extra brightness when Eb walked into the yard.

  ‘She got safely away,’ he told her before she could ask. Louie nodded with satisfaction. ‘We saw Iris,’ he continued. Louie stopped moving the shirt around in the dyed water. ‘I said I’d call again. I know you’ve been visiting too.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have said,’ Louie answered tersely.

  ‘I’m glad you have,’ Eb reassured his sister. ‘Whatever he’s done, Davie is still our brother and we shouldn’t cut him off.’

  ‘Was Davie there?’ Louie looked up hopefully, pushing hair out of her eyes.

  Eb never replied, because at that moment the quiet humdrum of the morning was shattered by three short, ominous blasts from the pit hooter. Eb and Louie looked at each other in concern.

  ‘It’s not time for the change of shift,’ Louie said unnecessarily. Eb went to the gate and looked up the lane. Through the flags of washing he could see other anxious faces appear, sleeves rolled up and red-raw hands on hips, all chores abandoned. Questions and rumour rippled down the street like semaphore.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ Eb told Louie and raced out of the back yard. He was joined by others desperate to know the cause of the warning siren. Ten minutes later he reached the pit gates among a throng of troubled pitmen.

  ‘There’s been an explosion in the Eleanor,’ a deputy greeted them, ‘the Victoria seam - there’s a blockage - a dozen men unaccounted for.’ Without thinking, Eb volunteered to go below with the rescue party. He knew from Iris that Davie would be down there and he could not desert his brother now. Fighting the panic that gripped his stomach and throat, he crouched in the cage with the other rescuers and felt the old familiar fear as he dropped into the pit.

  Four hours later, Louie and her mother were still standing waiting with the other women in the back lane. Jacob and John had gone to seek news. All they knew was that there had been an accident and that there were men trapped and missing down the Eleanor. Washing flapped listlessly in the chilly breeze, a mournful backdrop that reminded Louie of winding sheets. Edie Parkin was sobbing quietly into Clara Dobson’s shoulder. Her Wilfred had not come out.

  Louie made tea and brought it out to her neighbours. Another half an hour passed and then there was a commotion at the top of the street. A crowd appeared leading a stretcher being carried by four men. Edie Parkin rushed towards them. Louie heard her screech her son’s name and saw her fall on the stretcher. Her heart sank. But when Edie turned around she was smiling, gushing tears of relief. As they drew closer to home and the neighbours thronged about, Louie could see the white strain of pain on Wilfred’s face. Both legs were bound in makeshift bandages, but he was alive.

  ‘He’s fine,’ one of the men called out. ‘Doctor’s seen him. He’s a lucky lad.’ The man shook his head sombrely.

  Two men detached themselves from the group who had escorted the young putter home.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve bad news, Mrs Kirkup,’ one of them muttered, pulling off his cap. ‘It’s your Davie.’

  ‘Davie?’ Fanny repeated with incomprehension. Louie felt her insides jerk at her brother’s name.

  ‘They’ve managed to rescue his body - they’re bringing him home now. There’s nothing more they could have done. I’m sorry.’ Fanny gave a soft moan.

  ‘Not my Davie? My poor baby.’ She bowed her head. Louie
watched her mother crumple under the shocking news and reached out to support her. She could not believe the man’s words; she had not wanted to contemplate that Davie might be down there.

  ‘They’re bringing him here. Should I fetch his widow?’ the pitman offered. Widow; the word stung Louie. He meant Iris, of course. Pretty, vivacious Iris was now a widow. Was it possible?

  ‘If you would,’ Louie heard herself reply calmly. ‘She lives in Whitton Station.’

  ‘Aye,’ the man nodded, ‘there’s another hewer from there been killed. Alfred Hutchinson, they called him, marra of Davie’s.’

  Louie shuddered at the words, thinking of his wife Molly and her three children, oblivious to the tragedy. Iris had persuaded her to meet Molly on one visit and she had warmed to the woman immediately. They had talked about their lost babies and Louie had marvelled at the woman’s kindness and strength. But surely no one was strong enough to bear this too?

  As the pitman left, Louie heard the rumble of the covered stretcher cart as it creaked down the street. She hardly dared to look at the death wagon, as the children callously called it. Walking beside it were her father, John and another man blackened in coal dust. It was only as they arrived at the gate that Louie recognised the harrowed face of Eb under the black grime.

  Together the men lifted the stretcher from the cart and carried the body into the house. Louie helped her mother through the door behind them, watching her brothers lay Davie’s soiled, limp corpse on the long draining board. All her life, Louie had seen her mother keep the washboard scrubbed and clean, clear of all dishes, in preparation for the unmentionable. ‘Just in case,’ Fanny had once said, and the young Louie had accepted the ritual. Now the spectre that haunted every pitwoman had been visited on their home.

  Louie found herself ordering John to fetch water from the pump and boil it up on the fire. Overcoming her fear of touching her dead brother, she began gently to remove his clothes. Her mother took them from her, unable to take her eyes from her son. Together they silently set about the grisly job of cleaning him. Louie marvelled at how there were no marks of violence on Davie’s sinewy body. He looked as if he lay sleeping on the cold draining board, peaceful and untroubled, as she had seen him so many times before.