Rough Clay

by Chrissie Loveday

  ‘That’ll be the baby,’ Harry said, nodding wisely. ‘They always bring out the best in people.’

  They celebrated New Year’s Eve quietly with Barry and his wife. They now had a baby son, who was put to bed upstairs for the evening. They solemnly drank a toast ‘to better times’, in draught beer that Barry and Archie had fetched home from the pub in lemonade bottles.

  ‘Not quite like some of the parties we’ve had in the past, is it?’ Barry said to his cousin. ‘Remember those nights at the Castle?’

  ‘Can I forget them? You were doing so well with your band Barry. I hope you haven’t given up on it.’

  ‘Certainly not. When the lads come back, we shall soon get going again.’

  ‘I’m just glad he hasn’t had to go away,’ Nadine told them all. ‘There’s something to be said for having one of these essential occupations. Good job you weren’t still trying to run your band. You’d never have been able to use that as an excuse.’ Nadine was still slightly jealous of the close relationship between the two cousins.

  ‘Always did say that it was a good idea to get a qualification. Who’d have thought a mere draftsman could be considered as a vital part of the war effort on the home front?’ Barry grinned.

  ‘Talking of war efforts at home, did you hear about this home guard they’re setting up?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Why, are you going to volunteer?’ Barry asked.

  ‘I think it’s expected. When we move to Walton, on this new estate they’re building, every able bloke will be expected to join. Make up for not being sent off to fight, I s’pose. Might even be a laugh.’

  ‘Typical blokes,’ Dora grimaced. ‘If you don’t join up for real, you have to play at being soldiers.’

  ‘You won’t be saying that if we end up saving all our lives.’ The debate went on for some hours. Clearly the women didn’t take the idea seriously but the men enjoyed the prospect of doing their bit. Harry and Mary went off to their beds, while the others sat discussing, wondering what the coming year would bring.

  ‘Damned war. When shall we ever get back to doing what we all want to do?’

  ‘Some folk never will again,’ Dora said softly. It was a sombre moment as the young people gave thought to the uncertainty of their lives. Soon after midnight, Nadine, Barry and their baby left.

  ‘Happy New Year, love,’ Archie said to his wife as they settled down. ‘Early start tomorrow. Today. Wake me up, won’t you?’

  Life at the Swynnerton Ordnance Factory had quickly settled into a dull routine. There were constant bangs as the minor accidents became a part of the routine. Occasionally more serious explosions rocked the buildings and made everyone’s ears ring. Even though it was a new year, most people went about their work just as they had the previous day. Archie was working in something of a no-man’s-land, stuck between managing a group of workers and helping to develop some new processes. His skills at management and knowledge of the chemicals in the pottery industry meant that he was capable of much more than simple production line work. He had felt strangely edgy all morning, as if he was waiting for something to happen. He put it down to the late night celebrating New Year. He ate his lunchtime sandwiches with a group of the others. Some of the office workers joined the group, sitting at one side of the workshop.

  ‘They were talking of some pit explosion,’ one of the secretaries was saying. ‘Someone who drove down with some supplies told us.. It was up Burslem way somewhere. That’s your neck of the woods, isn’t it, Archie?’

  ‘Yes, me Dad works at Sneyd.’ The cold chill was running down his back and he felt himself breaking out in a sweat. He thought about the miners at his Dad’s pit who were, unusually, working this New Year. But then, he tried to tell himself, so were dozens of others. There were loads of pits all over the Burslem area. All the same, the feeling of dread didn’t leave him. He thought of the sweltering heat below ground. The dry dusty air, if air it could be called. His Dad had told him what it was like at the coal face. As his son got older, Ralph had been more honest about the horrors of life below the ground. ‘Sweat runs off you and leaves paler tracks down your face. Every time they blast a new bit of the seam, there’s dust filling the air. We move in almost before it settles and start picking at the rubble. You don’t bother waitin’ ’cos it doesn’t ever get much better. You keep going. Keep digging. Ripping out the next bit of the face. If you once stop, you realise how dirty and dusty it is and how knackered you’re feeling. There’s good seams under Sneyd. Not too much waste among the rock. You think another couple of truckloads and it’ll be over for another day. But it’s not till that moment when the cage comes up top again, you can relax. You drag the cleaner air into your lungs with gratitude for another shift over and done.’

  Archie shuddered, thinking the chances were that the cage had not come up to the surface, this one last time. He couldn’t imagine the horror of suffocating under the ground. It brought home every reason why he’d refused to follow his father deep in that terrible dark place. Many sons did follow the family tradition. Many families worked side by side down there. The chances were that several members of the same family would have perished, side by side in this tragedy. He went into the office and asked one of the girls to make a phone call for him. The offices of the local paper were the only place he could think of. He had to know for sure though secretly, he already guessed. The look on the secretary’s face was enough. It was indeed his Dad’s pit that had suffered the explosion. Some men had got out and some were still trapped below ground. Others, it was reported, had been killed instantly. There was no means of his getting home until the end of the afternoon, when the transport arrived. He walked round in a daze, pale faced and sick with dread. He stumbled onto the coach and sat staring out of the window. He tried to plan what he should do but nothing seemed clear or possible. As the bus stopped, he dashed into a shop and put three halfpence on the counter for the evening paper. He scanned the headlines.

  SNEYD COLLIERY EXPLOSION.

  Rescue Teams Continuing Investigation.

  48 MEN STILL IN THE PIT.

  He felt physically sick as he read down the page.

  Two men dead. Two gravely injured. One suffering secondary shock. Forty-eight still in the accident area.

  The explosion had happened at seven-fifty in the morning just as all the men were starting work. He shook his head. He’d been starting work at the same time himself, unaware of anything. He remembered his feeling of unrest during the morning and wondered about the powers of telepathy. The details were still confused when this edition had gone to press and he scanned down the page for more details. He knew his own father was among the missing men. He felt tears burning the back of his eyes, thinking that his father could be lying waiting for the faint sounds of rescue. Were his friends lying dead around him? Was he still fighting to get air into his damaged lungs? Was it all over? Maybe someone had got through in the time that had passed since the paper came out. He turned and walked slowly down the pleasant tree-lined avenue that was his home. He had made his break from the dirty, dusty life he’d lived and was beginning to achieve his ambitions. Before the damned war had started. If it hadn’t been for the damned war, his Dad would never have been working New Year’s Day. It was just as bad, if not worse, as being killed in action in some foreign part of the world. He looked up. Dora was waiting outside the house, wearing her coat over her overall.

  ‘You’ve heard then,’ she said simply. It was not a question. He held out the paper to her. ‘I know. We fetched one earlier. It is your Dad’s pit, isn’t it?’ He nodded, unable to speak. ‘It might not have been his area though. We don’t know.’ Dora put her arms around him, trying to bring comfort.

  ‘He’s there all right. I’ve known summat was up, all day.’

  ‘Do you want to go over to be with your Mum?’

  ‘I dunno. There’s nowt I can do. But I s’pose someone should be with her.’

  ‘There may be something on the news. We’ll put
the radio on while you have your tea. And you must have something to eat. You need to keep up your energy.’

  ‘I couldn’t, love. It’d choke me. Just thinking of him down there,’ he shuddered. ‘And last night, we were sitting here, laughing and joking. Makes me feel so guilty.’

  ‘You or William might have been down there with him, if your Mum had her way. Doesn’t bear thinking of. Look here, it’d be better if you went over tomorrow. By the time you’d get there tonight, it’d be nearly midnight.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right. Makes more sense to go in the morning.’

  The following hours were a mixture of hope and despondency. The mine chiefs made constant statements. The rescue teams came up with stories of hearing noises. The second day, everyone knew that there was no longer any hope for the missing men. The air was too bad and there were too many rock falls for speedy recovery. The death toll was estimated at fifty-eight. The group of wives and families waiting at the pit-head made a pathetic sight. Archie had expected his mother to be among the group but she was still at her home, looking pale but pretty much the same as always.

  ‘No point standing out there with all them miserable faces for company,’ was all she would say.

  ‘There’s women that have lost everything. One of them had two lads, only sixteen and seventeen and her husband. There’s talk of setting up a relief fund.’ He was trying to say anything to break the hard, glassy expression on his mother’s face. ‘They . . . they haven’t found all of them yet. They haven’t found me Dad.’ He felt the tears at the back of his eyes but he couldn’t let his mother see. He felt as far away from her as ever. Even this tragedy failed to bring real, deep emotion to his mother’s eyes. The knock at the door made her move.

  ‘You’d better come in, Mavis Cartwright. Though I know what you’ve come to say.’

  The little woman came into the room and saw Archie standing close to the meagre fire.

  ‘Terrible business, lad. You’ll know why I’m here.’

  ‘They’ve found him, have they?’ Frances said sharply.

  ‘Aye. I’m so sorry. He was a hero. He was sheltering the last young lad. Trying to stop the blast from hitting him. They’re saying all the men in that section died right away. No-one suffered injuries. It was as if the air was sucked right out of the place. I’m sorry. What can I do? Make a cuppa or something?’

  Frances sat down and shook her head. She remained silent and Archie watched to see if she was going to cry.

  ‘It’s all right, Mavis. Thanks very much for coming round. I’ll see to her now. Thanks. And I’m sorry for your loss, too.’ The woman pulled a grubby scarf over her head and went back into the grey streets.

  ‘I can stay over if you like, Mum,’ he offered. In his heart, he wanted only to leave this dreadful place and get back to the warm, cheerful home his wife and her parents had made for him. But he knew he was being more selfish than ever and sat down again.

  ‘You best get back to that posh wife of yourn. I’m used to being on my own. I expect the funeral will be at the end of the week. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘But I can’t leave you like this. Not on your own.’

  ‘Bugger off can’t you? I want to be on my own.’

  Torn between his own grief and duty to his mother, he put the kettle on the fire and picked up the familiar brown teapot. He added more tea leaves to the pile already in the pot and poured boiling water in. He poured the dark, treacly liquid into a mug and stirred in the sterilised milk favoured by his parents. The tea took on its unnatural, orange-gold hue. He’d forgotten just how much he hated it. It was a symbol of something from the past. He left it untouched on the table.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll get back. Carole hasn’t been too well. I should see if she needs anything.’ His voice tailed off. He knew he was making excuses. Justifying his need to escape. ‘I’ll be in touch. You can always get a phone message to me at work.’

  ‘They’ll have to get him out first,’ Frances said without expression.

  ‘And don’t worry about anything, Mum. We’ll help out where we can. Funeral and that.’

  ‘I’d expect the pit bosses to pay for that. Their fault wasn’t it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Accident, they all say.’

  ‘They’d have to say that. Go on with you. Get to your own home. I’m all right.’

  ‘I’d better let our William know. I expect they’ll give him leave.’

  Leaving the gloomy, sad home behind, Archie made the long journey back to Dora. He felt tears burning behind his eyes. His father had been such a special person; always standing up for him if his mother disagreed with his plans. Thank heavens Dora had insisted they made that visit, what was it? Just a couple of nights back. He’d never have forgiven himself if he hadn’t seen his Dad that one last time. The fondness he’d shown to them and that hug as they’d left. Almost as if he’d known something was going to happen. He’d worked hard for all of them for his entire life. He’d seen little in the way of pleasure . . . or fun. What a waste, Archie decided, and made up his mind that whatever happened over the next months, war or no war, he was going to get the most pleasure possible out of life and he would make sure his wife and baby daughter had the best of everything he could manage. Perhaps the planned move would be the start of the next phase of his life.

  The funeral took place the following Saturday. The small group of family and a representative from the colliery watched the simple coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Little Carole whimpered at the cold, oblivious to the tragedy being enacted around her. Her parents tried to keep her head covered with her pink and blue blanket, as if this could somehow protect her from more than the cold. It seemed right that she attended the grim proceedings. She was too young to have any lasting memories. They believed it might have given small comfort to her grandmother and it was the last connection she would have with her paternal grandfather.

  There was a sense of unreality about the whole proceedings. It’d been in the paper and several people he didn’t know were standing around in the gloomy light. Every detail of the disaster and lists of the men lost had been in the Evening Sentinel and everyone shared the pain of loss. His mother looked somehow diminished and he felt the first stirrings of sympathy for the woman. William stood tall in his soldier’s uniform, looking grim and very grown up. He had a forty-eight hour pass so at least his mother wouldn’t be alone that night. Archie felt relieved to think he didn’t have to stay with her and the relief was swiftly followed by guilt. He was glad nobody could read his mind.

  Dora’s father had accompanied the family and was a strength to them all. He also provided some ham to make sandwiches for the small group returning to the house after the funeral. A glass of sherry each and the obligatory sliced, buttered fruit loaf were handed out and everyone but the close family escaped as soon as was considered decent.

  ‘I got the letter from the bosses,’ Frances announced in her usual expressionless voice. ‘William read it for me. They say how sorry they are and that they know words mean little. They’re quite right. A few bob wouldn’t come amiss.’

  Archie told her about the growing fund that had been set up by many of the local leaders. Everyone who had been bereaved would have a share, when the time came. She remained unimpressed.

  ‘There was even a message of sympathy from the King and Queen,’ Dora tried to comfort her. ‘I thought that was nice of them.’

  ‘Royalty never did owt for me,’ Frances said ungraciously.

  ‘You know, I don’t think anything would ever cheer your mother up. I know she’s had a lot to bear in the last few days, but she’s always been the same,’ Dora remarked as they finally made the journey home. ‘She’s very hard work, isn’t she?’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was May when Dora and Archie finally moved to the Walton estate. Their new home had a flat, reinforced concrete roof and was brick built, in a row
of six identical houses. There were rows more of identical houses, all set in identical roads. There were open spaces and wide grass borders along the roadside. The planners had done their best to provide safe houses that were comfortable to live in. The whole estate was growing fast, simple, partly prefabricated units that could be assembled quickly. Each ground floor had an air-raid shelter incorporated, windowless but with a ventilation opening high in the outside wall. There were three bedrooms and two living rooms. The back door opened into a long, narrow garden.

  ‘So much space,’ marvelled Dora.

  ‘It’s a start. And we’ll be able to grow our own vegetables, once we get the ground dug over. Somewhere for little Carole to play as well. I reckon we’ll be happy here. What do you think?’

  Dora felt happier than she could remember. Despite the shortages, at last she had a home of her own. She could arrange everything just as she wanted and didn’t have to ask anyone’s approval, apart from Archie of course, but they always agreed about everything. Proudly, she hung the painting Archie had done for her, for last Christmas. It was his first attempt, unframed and painted in oils with a scene of a Scottish lake. She began to get to know the neighbours, many of them with small children of their own. She wheeled the pram down to the welfare clinic and met several of the other mothers. They compared notes about the weights of their babies and collected supplies of orange juice and jars of cod-liver oil and malt, designed to supplement the diminishing rations they were able to find in the shops. There was a camaraderie among the women, unknown in times of peace and built on the need to manage and share the privations.

  The war droned on, news bulletins becoming a major part of the daily interest. Despite the all too frequent booms from the factory, she at least felt insulated from the worst of things. They heard from William occasionally. He had continued to instruct and train the men in his division and rose to sergeant. He had become almost obsessed with fitness but at least he had remained in England and was relatively safe. Dora wrote dutiful letters to her mother-in-law but never received a reply. She had no reason to suspect that it was largely because Frances could not read or write properly and didn’t have anyone to help her and assumed it was through lack of interest.