‘No, perhaps you wouldn’t.’ Her voice was almost as loud as his; but then, taking a deep breath and her tone changing, she said, ‘But then you’re very fortunate, Simon. You’ve always been very fortunate; in fact, you don’t know you’re born. Now I’ve got to go back, Mrs Drew likes us all there at teatime on a Sunday . . . in the sty.’
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry.’ His head was turned to the side now and she answered, ‘Yes, so am I . . . Goodbye, Simon.’ Her voice was soft, but he didn’t answer and she turned away. Pulling her coat closer around her neck, she bent her head and ran back to the row.
Simon stood and watched her until the door closed on her, and then, turning towards the horse, he put his two hands on the saddle and bent his head towards them as he muttered to himself, ‘Well, I tried, so what has to be will be. Let things take their course.’
Nine
Mark Sopwith was experiencing a deep loneliness which was making him feel as if he were hollow right through. The house appeared empty, and even when there was a movement in it it seemed to be at a slower pace. Mrs Lucas had assured him that he had no need to worry about the household, she would see that it ran as smoothly as before.
It was Pike who presented him with the monthly accounts. These, he noticed, were reduced hardly at all, yet there were six people less to feed. But he let it pass, at least for the present; there were more serious problems on his mind. This morning he was to make a thorough inspection of the mine with his agent. The day before yesterday they had repaired the clack-valve in the pump on the fourth level and the water there was now much lower. They had also had a new bucket attached, a heavier type which helped with the downstroke in the cylinder. Yet things were still not right; there was more seepage coming in from the upper level, and this was likely being fed by a spring near the burn having diverted itself. Springs were hell to locate; they caused more trouble than the river because you knew where the river was.
Then his private affairs: he’d had one polite note from Eileen saying that the children were well and happy and that when they broke up for the Christmas holidays, weather permitting, she’d allow them to come and stay overnight.
His teeth had clenched hard on that line – she would allow them to come and stay overnight. Was this to be the pattern of the future, his children for one night? No, he wasn’t going to stand for that. All right, let her have a legal separation, then he’d put in a legal claim, and in that way he’d have his children for so many months, well, at least weeks in the year.
He had breakfasted at the same time as usual but this morning he did not rise from the table immediately he had finished, but remained seated staring towards the bright glowing fire to the right of him; and as he did so he asked himself again if this was to be the pattern of his life. He couldn’t marry again unless she divorced him. And if he took a mistress it would mean seeing her only at intervals, whereas what he needed at this moment was a companion more than a mistress, a loving companion, someone to sit opposite him, smile at him, listen to him, touch his hand – he didn’t want to roll with her . . . All right, if that too should happen to be in the picture it would be a bonus, but he just wanted a woman near him, close, warm. He had friends, or rather he’d had friends before this affair had flared into the open. Since Eileen left he had seen Albert Cragg just once, and then Bernice hadn’t shown her face. Only Albert had called, and he had the nerve to convey diplomatically to him that Bernice, having been a friend of Eileen’s . . . well, he understood, didn’t he? Yes, yes, he understood.
John Tolman had called too, but also unaccompanied by Joan. Only Olive and Stanley Fieldman had visited together, when Stan in his hearty way had thumped him on the back as he said, ‘You’ll ride the waves, laddie. Never fear, you’ll ride the waves.’ That was the only reference he had made to the scandal of which he had become the chief figure. But what about Agnes? Olive Fieldman hadn’t been as reticent as her husband and he gathered from what she said that Agnes’ escapades had become so notorious that every decent door was now closed to her. But as Olive had pointed out, it didn’t seem to worry her in the least; she was a most remarkable person.
Yes, Agnes was indeed a most remarkable person. She wasn’t really a woman at all, merely a ravenous collection of primeval instincts, with a ruthless disregard for everything and everyone who didn’t suit her purpose. It didn’t seem to trouble her in the least that she was blatantly violating the standards of the society in which she moved.
He rose and went to the fire and, holding his hands out to the flame, he asked of it, ‘What am I going to do?’ and the answer came tersely, ‘Get down to business. Robinson will be waiting for you.’
It could have been about eleven o’clock. Tilly had just loaded a full skip on to Betty Pringle’s back. Betty was eleven years old, her body was thin and her shoulders permanently stooped, and her face, when it was washed, gave one the impression of age, even when she laughed, for her eyes never smiled.
Betty never complained, even when the skip was piled so high that the coal stuck in her neck she said nothing. Her father had been killed in this mine three years ago and she and her twelve-year-old brother were the only means of support for her mother, who was ailing with ‘the sickness’.
At first Tilly had barely filled the child’s skip, but this had brought the barrow man storming up the roadway saying he would report them both to the keeker and they would have their money docked if the skips weren’t filled properly, for it was taking him twice as long to get his corves filled and therefore he was behind in taking his loads outbye. And so from then Tilly filled the skips to the required measure, and spat out the coal dust not only to clear her throat but as a significant reply to what she thought of the barrow man.
Indeed Tilly was learning, and fast.
Today the work was excruciating. Straightening her back, she went hurriedly towards the shelf where Katie kept the tin box holding the candles. To get to the shelf she had to splash through water that came up to her calves. She didn’t mind; it was warm and for a moment it washed the grit from out of her clogs.
Tempers were on edge along the whole face; the hewers were swearing at the putters, the putters were swearing at the women and children because they couldn’t keep pace with transporting the coal from the face to the middle landing; everything about them was sodden wet; everybody was working in water. It was into this atmosphere that one of the putters came running back from the middle road with the news that Alf, the horseman, had just told him that the boss, the master, the check weighman, and the agent were all on their way up to number four face.
‘Well, let the buggers come,’ was the general comment. ‘Oh aye, especially him. Let him see the real conditions in his bloody mine. Another foot and we can’t go on. Aye, let him come. Let them all come.’
Half an hour later they came, in single file: the check weighman first, then Mark, followed by the agent; and they were all wearing high knee-boots.
They stopped almost opposite to where Tilly and Katie were working. No-one had stopped work and no-one spoke. The voiceless silence was eerie, there was only the tapping of the picks and the grating of the shovels. Then the check weighman said, ‘It’s risen in the last hour.’ He stuck a rod in the ground, then added, ‘Four inches.’
‘Well it can’t be all coming from number three drift; you’ve seen to that, haven’t you? The pump’s working?’ Mark had turned to the check weighman and he answered, ‘Aye, sir, we’ve seen to that. But it’s up above I fear the trouble is.’ He pointed towards the roof. ‘’Tis as if there were a leak in the river and it was finding its outlet here ’cos we’re touching on river level at this point.’
It was as the agent spoke for the first time, saying, ‘And that’s quite possible. Yet we checked the fissures just a short while ago,’ that a strange noise alerted everybody. The men at the face stayed their picks in mid-air, and when a big rat that was perched on a shelf suddenly leapt forward and scampered down the road away into the dimness, a
weird cry rang round the enclosed space. It galvanised everybody. Men, women, and children, tumbling and yelling, made for the road, and the check weighman’s voice above everyone else’s now seemed to verge on a scream as he cried, ‘Run! Run, sir!’ But even as the man thrust out his arm to grab Mark, a wave of water swept them all forward like matchwood.
Tilly heard herself yell as she lost her footing and sprawled into the water. She could swim a little, having taught herself in the burn, but now the motions of her flaying arms were impeded by bodies and clutching hands, and faces with wide open mouths confronting her one minute then spun away from her the next. The whole terrifying nightmare scene was lit by a lantern here and there on shelves where the water had not yet reached.
She was swallowing the filthy water in great gulps, she knew she was dying and it was no use struggling, but she struggled. Her hand went out sideways and found a rung of a ladder and she clung on to it realising it was the ladder leading up to some old workings where they had been dropping the roof only last week, and that if she could get in there she’d be safe.
As she attempted to pull herself upwards a hand came out and grabbed her shoulder, the nails digging into her flesh, and as she was dragged upwards the water, having billowed her skirt, left her knees bare and they scraped against the rough stone, but her agonised crying out was mixed with relief when she felt her feet touch solid ground although still under the water.
There was no light now and in the pitch blackness she kept tight hold of the hand. As she gasped for breath a whimper came from the side of her, and she put out her other hand and touched a small head that was just above the water and, gasping, she said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Betty. Me, Betty Pringle.’
‘Oh, Betty; thank God you’re safe, at least for the present. And . . . and who are you?’ She brought her hand now from Betty to touch her rescuer, and when she felt the sodden cloth of a coat she realised that he must be one of the three men, the weighman, the agent . . . or the master. She wouldn’t know until he spoke, but he didn’t speak. And now she stammered, ‘This . . . this is the old workin’. They . . . they were dropping the roof, but it’ll likely be dry further in.’
The hand was still holding hers but the man said nothing, and she thought: He’s stunned; whichever one of them it is he’s stunned.
‘Hang on to me.’ Her words were meant for both the man and Betty. The man still held her hand and after feeling the child grab at her skirt she moved forward, and the man came behind her.
The lay of the ground told her they were moving upwards, but they hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when the earth below them shook, and the roof above them shook. It seemed to Tilly in this moment that the whole world was rocking; and then she was screaming again, as was Betty.
She didn’t know whether it was the man who threw her forward or whether it was the upheaving of the earth, but she seemed to fly through space before her head hit something and a blankness descended on her.
When she came round the earth was steady again but her mouth was filled with dust. There was no water here. Slowly she raised herself upwards, but when she tried to stand she was impeded by something across her legs. Her groping fingers told her that these were two pit props, and when she felt the rocks on top of them she realised that they might have saved her from broken shins.
She tried to call out but the words stuck in her throat. She listened. There was no sound, only the sound within her, the terror that was rushing up to her throat to find release.
When at last she found her voice it was small, she could hardly hear it herself, and she said, ‘Is anybody there?’
There was no answer. She pulled herself clear of the props and began to crawl round on her hands and knees. She was muttering to herself now: ‘There’s been a fall, it’s a fall, the mouth of the old workings must have caved in. ’Twas the water; it couldn’t stand up against the water . . . Is anybody there? Betty! Betty!’ Her voice was getting stronger, and now she was yelling. ‘Mister! Mister!’ She had been climbing over mangled stones and props but now suddenly she could move no further forward because the stones and the props had become a steep wall.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! they must be under there, the man and Betty.’ She started calling again, ‘Mister! Mister! Betty!’ She stood up now, groping at the stones, and like someone demented she started to pull at them and throw them behind her.
When her foot touched something soft she dropped on to her knees and, groping blindly, she moved her hands over it, then almost shouted in her relief. It was the man. Like her, he too had been knocked out. But then her fingers tracing his body, her relief sank into dismay; he was lying on his back with his legs above him, and these had been caught. Her fingers moved down over one trouser to where his knee should be, but all she could feel here was a great block of stone. His other leg was hanging downwards and only the foot was caught above the ankle, fastened tight by a pit prop which in turn was weighed down by the wall of stone.
Now her hands were running over his face, then she was undoing his jacket, then his waistcoat. When her fingers touched his shirt her hands became still for her touch told her what the material was made of, fine flannel, a material so thin it was almost like silk. The children had had shirts like this. Oh my God! the master. When her fingers went through his vest and on to his flesh her head turned to the side as if listening, and when the beat of his heart came to her hand it seemed to pass up her arm and shock her into vitalised life, for now, lifting Mark’s head she cried, ‘Sir! Sir! wake up.’ When she got no response she edged herself forward so that she was half sitting, half leaning among the debris, and in this position and supporting his head against her thigh, she now started patting his face, like a mother trying to restore a child to life and gabbling all the while, ‘Come on. Come on. Please, please, wake up. Oh! sir, do wake up, please.’
For the moment she had forgotten about Betty; then her head turning from one side to the other in the darkness she called, ‘Betty! Are you there, Betty? Can you hear me, Betty?’ And as she called once again the head resting against her moved and Mark let out a long agonised groan.
‘That’s it, sir, wake up. Wake up.’
‘What! What!’
She kept patting his face. ‘Come on, wake up. Wake up properly. Oh! please wake up.’
‘What is it? What happened?’
‘There was a fall, sir. You . . . you pulled me out of the water and . . . and we came into the drift and there was a fall.’
‘A fall?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can’t move.’
‘No, sir, your feet are caught, but . . . but it’ll be all right, they’ll come, they always come and get people out, they won’t be long.’
‘Who . . . who are you? I . . . I know you, don’t I?’
‘I’m Trotter, sir. I . . . I used to be the children’s nurse.’
‘Ah, Trotter. Trotter.’ His voice faded away and once again she was patting his face, saying, ‘Come on. Oh! come on, sir, wake up properly. Please wake up. Look, they’ll get us out, they have special men for gettin’ people out. Sam is one of them, Katie’s brother. Aw, come on, come on, sir. Can you hear me, sir?’
When he groaned she said, ‘That’s it, that’s it, keep awake. That’s what they say you’ve got to do, keep awake. You haven’t got to move about, just keep awake.’
‘I can’t move.’
‘No, but you soon will. Are you hurtin’, sir?’
‘Hurting? No, I’m not hurting, Trotter. I . . . I just don’t feel anything. Yes, yes, I do, my neck is stiff, I’m lying . . . rather twisted.’
When she shifted amid the tumbled stones, jagged edges here and there pierced her flesh; then she eased his head up between her small breasts and asked softly, ‘Is that better?’
‘Yes; yes, thank you.’ Again his voice from a whisper faded away; and there was silence about her once more, and it was as terrifying as the blackness. This was like no blackness she ha
d ever experienced before. No matter how long a road in the mine there had always been a glimmer of light somewhere; but this blackness was encasing her like a shroud. She could be in her grave, buried alive . . .
Her body trembled violently and she coughed, jerking his head on her breast, and he moaned and said, ‘Oo . . . h! Oo . . . h! How long ago did it happen? I . . . I seem to have been asleep.’
‘Not long, sir; about half an hour I should say.’
‘Is that all?’
There was a surprised note in his voice. Then his words spaced, he said, ‘I . . . wish . . . I . . . could . . . move.’
She made no answer, and again slowly he asked, ‘Do you think you might be able to move the stones from my feet, Trotter?’
Some seconds passed before she muttered, ‘I . . . I’d better not, sir; the . . . the way you’re lying I could bring the rest down on top of you.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘They won’t be long, sir, they won’t be long.’
‘The . . . the little girl?’
She didn’t answer, and he muttered, ‘Oh! dear, dear. Oh! dear.’
She sat now quite still saying no word. She didn’t know whether he had fallen asleep again but it didn’t seem to matter, her body was cramped, she felt weary, sort of bad, ill. Her mind was now picturing light. She saw herself walking over the open land back from Jarrow to the cottage, and she realised that time passed differently when it was spent in light. You didn’t really think of time in the daylight not unless you had to get somewhere in a hurry. There were so many things that showed up in the light and took up time, like the sky and the grass and cows in a field, and the burn. She liked the burn. Some days when it was running low and the water just dribbled over the stones it appeared to be talking, chatting. And then there were the larks. They made you forget time. You put your head back and tried to follow their flight, but even when you couldn’t see them any more you could hear them . . .
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 27
