Alex muttered something and went back to his room. He was rattled by Jenkins’ last remark. ‘Had an eye’ for Effie – what a thing to say! It made him sound a real Lothario. But then he remembered that April afternoon. Was he really being fair to Effie, doing things like that? A kiss would mean a great deal more to her than it would to one of Mother’s socialites.
And looking back, it wasn’t just the kiss. His tongue had almost run away with him. ‘If we are going to . . .’ he’d begun, and almost mentioned something permanent, though he had stopped himself in time. But he hadn’t promised anything, just talked of ‘walking out’. Surely there could be no harm in that? All the same he’d kissed her, and that altered everything. Effie would still be justified in having hopes of him.
Even when he went on duty, later on that night, he couldn’t put the question of Effie from his mind. Mother’s suspicions of his knowing the Knights’ parlour-maid today had shocked him into facing up to things. It was obvious, to anyone with sense, that marriage to Effie was not available to him. Their respective families would never stand for it. Yet he was not the sort of man to offer less – or Effie the sort of girl who would agree to it! He remembered what she’d said about visiting his home, and she was obviously right. Mother had proved it. They came from different worlds.
So what was he doing, walking out with her? He mustn’t ‘lead her on’, as the unpleasant saying went. He would have to talk to her about it, that was all – face her next time, and tell her the truth: that he was getting far too fond of her and it would be better if they did not meet again. He would try to find a way to put it tactfully – that he had years of training to look forward to and he could not expect her to save herself for him. Better, if she had a follower at all, for it to be some decent fellow from the mine.
It was such an awful prospect that he couldn’t sleep. He told himself that he was mostly anxious about hurting her – it had been so sweetly touching the way she kept the flowers as a memento of their little walks. Naturally a parting would be very hard, but it was for the best, and no doubt her family would be actually relieved if she started going home every week again. He was being very sensible, he assured himself, and was only sleepless because the floor was hard.
But the more he tossed and turned the more it dawned on him that actually the truth was something else. What kept him wakeful was the thought of losing her – of weeks and weeks of empty summer days without her cheerful prattling and artless happy laugh. None of her swift smiles, no upward glance, no gentle Cornish burr. Mother would try to match him with one of those ghastly girls whom she kept inviting for his benefit. Or – worse – Miss Caroline!
He was almost relieved when the duty sergeant roused him from his bed and sent him with his bull-dog lantern out into the rain, looking for a burglar who had robbed a house nearby.
‘My lor’, Effie! You will never guess!’ Lettie was almost bursting with her tale. It was Tuesday and they had met up in the haberdashery again, but there were others in the shop and there might be listening ears. Miss Blanche was busy with a customer, so Lettie pulled her friend into the corner by the knitting wool where they could not be overheard. ‘I swear you could have knocked me over with one of the feathers from Miss Caroline’s new hat. Went in with a tray of tea and there he was – sitting in the drawing-room and looking quite at ease.’ She glanced slyly at Effie from underneath her lids.
He friend was looking appropriately mystified. ‘Who was?’
‘Why, your constable of course!’
Effie had turned a gratifying shade of red. ‘Alex! Whatever was he doing there?’
‘Having luncheon with Miss Caroline, it seems – though they had finished eating by that time. Cook says she thinks the mothers dreamed the party up – apparently the two ladies have known each other years and they ran into one another in the town – accidentally for the purpose, Cook appears to think. Mrs Dawes was naturally invited to luncheon at the house and practically begged to bring her son as well – the coachman says she dropped all sorts of hints – and courtesy obliged the Major to agree, even if your Alex is just a constable. Mrs Knight was practically in ecstasy when she got home, I hear. She would love to find a husband for Miss Caroline – most of the other suitors haven’t lasted long. There was some scandal with a cousin of the house, who was involved in a divorce – a lot of better families back away from things like that – and Miss Caroline is as wilful as a nanny-goat herself. But no doubt a policeman would know how to handle it.’
Effie said, ‘I see!’ a little woefully.
Lettie did not wish to cause her friend unnecessary grief but there was an odd pleasure in passing on this news. It gave a sort of power, in a peculiar way – and what she was saying was no more than the truth. Besides, the sooner Effie knew, the less she would be hurt and the better it would be for everyone. That’s why Lettie added, with a little smile, ‘Miss Caroline seemed very charmed with him.’
Effie said nothing.
After a moment, Lettie had to speak. ‘You could have knocked me down for sixpence when I saw him sitting there! I almost dropped the tea-tray with the teapot and the sandwiches and all and before I thought I’d blurted out “Hello, Mr Dawes!” Well, you can imagine! The mistress nearly bit my head off for taking liberties and Miss Caroline was frowning fit to burst. I was expecting a right royal dressing-down after the visitor had gone – but when she got me on my own, all she did was ask me how I came to know his name.’
‘I hope you didn’t tell her? Or I’ll be in the soup!’
Lettie shrugged. ‘I said that I had met him when that corpse was found and he came asking questions at the Westons’ shop. That seemed to be enough. In fact it made Miss Caroline go all dewy-eyed. Went on about how brave and clever he must be, dealing with such things – as if looking at a dead man was something terrible. Proper taken with your Alex, that was clear to see. Anyway, the upshot of it is, he’s coming back to lunch again next week – and they two are going out riding. Your Alex is going to have her father’s horse.’
Effie was looking slightly stricken as she said, ‘Not “my” Alex, really, is he then?’
Lettie felt rather guilty, but she said cheerfully, ‘Well you did tell me you thought you weren’t well suited, anyway. And it solves your little problem for you, doesn’t it? No need to worry that you let him kiss you, now. Just be glad he did it while he had the chance. No harm done; just a pleasant memory.’ She picked up her pile of books. ‘Now I’d better get these back and find some more to take.’
Effie said dully, ‘Won’t matter much, I suppose.’
Lettie gave a laugh. ‘That’s what you think, Effie. I’ll have to be a lot more careful what I choose this week. Miss Caroline is very likely going to look at them for once. Your constable has had a strange effect on her. This lot was piled up in
the drawing room, and he saw them and asked her if she liked to read. Well, to hear her talk you’d think she’d read the
lot, though of course she’d never glanced at them at all. But ever since she has been doing nothing else – though even then she doesn’t read them properly. Seems to look at the first few pages and the last – and leave it go at that.’
But Effie wasn’t listening. She simply muttered, in a strangled voice, ‘I’ll have to go, myself. Bye-bye, Lettie.’ And she hurried from the shop.
Lettie found that she was secretly relieved. It was a shame about the policeman, naturally it was, but all this had saved her an embarrassment. She’d promised Effie to tell her the truth about the stork, and now she wouldn’t have to – which was just as well. Mind you, Bert could give some lessons! She gave a little laugh and took her selection of volumes to the desk.
It was not really anybody’s fault – even Captain Maddern said so, and he’d been shift-captain at the mine a dozen years and ought to know. It was just an accident – a weakness in the rocks.
It wasn’t even as if they had been blasting at the time, only preparing the places to put the charge
s in. More than likely there had been a hidden fault and boring the shot-holes had just struck into it and caused the ‘run’ of stone. There was always a possibility of a rock-fall in a stope, especially when you were working ‘overhand’, digging out the ore above your head. Walter knew that, but he still blamed himself. He was the leader of the little team – the ‘pare’ – and it was his decision where to place the drill. If he had not had half his mind on other things – what Joe had said to him about his girl – perhaps he would have spotted the signs of weakness in the stope and the whole catastrophe would never have occurred.
He lay there on the makeshift stretcher and tried to shake his head. He still could not believe the suddenness of this. Two men injured and another dead. Not that he had been all that badly hurt, himself. He might have felt less guilty if he had. But the sight of Tommy Richards’ legs sticking out from under half a ton of rock – all that was visible of his oldest friend and mate – and the retrieval of the crushed corpse afterwards would live with Walter for ever, he knew. And even that was not the worst of it. Tommy’s son Jimmy, the youngest member of
the team, who was only just thirteen and only recently come down to underground, was badly hurt as well. Walter had managed to pull him back in time to save his life, but a piece of flying granite took him in the eye and it would be a wonder if he ever saw again.
What was Walter going to say to Mrs Richards now?
He had seen her just this morning, standing at her gate, laughing as she gave her son and husband their ‘crowst-bags’ for their lunch and waving as they all three walked down to the mine. Beautiful fine morning, with the sun bright on the sea – you could not have guessed that it would end this way. Poor woman, Jimmy was the only child she had: it would be a long time before she laughed again.
Yet it had begun like any other shift: changing into their flannels and fustians in the ‘dry’, where they had been left drying overnight: each man kneading a lump of clay into a candle-holder, and sticking a lit taper to his felt ‘tull’ hat, and hanging the remainder of the candles from a button of a working coat – waistcoat or jacket, as the case may be. Then joshing and joking with the other men as they walked over to the ‘ope’, and singing as they went down the half-mile of ladders to the level they were working at. Walter’s choice
of level – that was the tragic thing.
Like all the other pare-leaders at Penvarris Mine, he was a ‘tributer’ – meaning (as he’d said to Joe) that he had a contract with the mine for so much per ton of tin – so that his earnings (and the earnings of his team) depended on how much ore he won. He had the choice of where his pare would work: that was the skill of it – judging where the seams were and which way they would run – and Walter’s judgement had generally been among the best, though there had been some lean times, as there always were. Of course, he’d started like everybody did, being a part of someone else’s pare – still did if he was working doublers in place of someone sick – but he was proud to be the leader of his team. It made you feel a proper man, he often said – almost as if you were working for yourself, because you were the only one responsible.
It was that responsibility that hurt him most today – much worse than the smashed ankle and the bruising on his back. He had chosen to open up that stope – working from the bottom level first. It had looked promising when he prospected it. He had seen the green of copper shining in the stone, and where there was copper there was often tin below. And he had been right, as well – this last week or two the stone they’d sent up in the trolleys to be crushed had been assessed as being rich in ore. Jimmy and Tommy would be owed a day or two’s good pay – and they’d both paid into the Miners’ Friendly every week so there’d be something to help the widow for a little while.
The widow! Even now it was impossible to believe the truth of that. One minute there was Tommy, taking turns with him at hammering in the bore-bit while Jimmy held it in position in the hole, the next there was a shouted warning from the stope above, then a rumble from just above their heads. Walter had a recollection of a shout – ‘She’s going to run! Take cover!’ – as he seized the boy and thrust him bodily into the tunnel at their backs. It was a narrow tunnel and they had to bend as a report like gun-shot echoed through the mine. He looked around for Tommy but he could not see for sudden dust. The walls around them trembled and the very air appeared to shake, blowing out their candles to leave them in the dark, as with a roar like thunder the rock began to fall. Instinctively Walter had thrown himself full-length, covering his eyes and ears to shield the blast, but Jimmy did not have a miner’s instincts yet and he must have raised his head to shout out ‘Father!’. And the rest was history.
It had seemed a long, long time before the help arrived, and with it the candles that showed the dreadful truth: Tommy’s twisted bloodstained legs emerging from the pile and the dreadful gash where Jimmy’s eye had been. Even now, as he was carried on the stretcher to the winze, where they could winch him to the surface, Walter could see that nightmare picture in his mind.
‘You’ve been lucky, Walt Pengelly!’ Captain Maddern was at his elbow still. ‘I’m sure they’ll fix that broken ankle good as new. And that back will quickly heal – only surface cuts and bruises where bits of rock have hit. Only small stuff, but it makes a mess. Good thing you had the sense to shield your head – you’ve only got a little gash from flying stone – not like poor Jimmy who took it in the face. But it’s down to you that he’s alive at all. And if you hadn’t thrust that boy away and lain yourself across him, he very likely would be dead as well.’
He was only trying to be comforting, as Walter was aware – but somehow, as he was jogged along the tunnel, by the flickering flames of candles stuck on projecting rocks, he found that he was clinging to the reassuring words. They emerged into the larger space beside the winze, and the cool clean air descending from the shaft – after the heat and dust of further in – worked on Walter like a draught of medicinal wine.
He took great gulps of it, and for the first time since the accident he found his voice. It sounded very hoarse and faraway, even to his own ears, and his lips were dry with dust but he did manage to say, ‘Someone tell my daughter and let Joe Martin know.’
But then they put the stretcher in the cage to winch it up and the pain of his leg and ankle came wafting over him. He tried to raise his head, but found it hurt too much. He must have been more injured than he thought. The world went black and he did not speak again. He must have been unconscious – or something close to it – for several hours, for he knew nothing further until he found himself propped up in an unfamiliar bed with Effie at his side and the mine doctor bending over him.
Four
Effie was in the empty breakfast room with a pile of sheets and towels and pillowslips spread out in front of her. The room was chilly, since it was rarely used (Mrs Thatchell always had her breakfast sent up on a tray); no fire was ever lit and it smelt shut-up and musty, and even with the shutters back the light was very poor. Effie hated being in there, but she had to check the laundry marks on everything to go to the Sanitary Steam Laundry before the boy with the cart arrived to pick them up.
It was a job she cordially detested, too. Some of Mrs Thatchell’s linen had once been poorly marked in a patent ink that had not proved to be ‘indelible’ at all, so that the initials ‘J.K.T.’ in the corner of the hem had half-washed out with time. Effie’s task was to ‘refresh’ the stamp, by covering the letters exactly as they were with proper Indian ink: a fiddly business, made more difficult because the steel nib that Mrs Thatchell provided for the job was old and scratchy and easy to get crossed. (Rather like the owner of the sheets herself, Effie thought wickedly, but it was no joking matter.) Besides, the wretched pen inclined to smudge.
She was just struggling with a lace-edged bolster case when she was aware of a sudden commotion at the door downstairs, followed by Mrs Lane’s voice muttering to a man.
Dear Heaven, surely the laundry cart h
ad not already come? If so this re-marking would have to wait until next time – it was only to be hoped the items came back home all right. Effie jammed the lid back on the ink bottle and hastily cleaned the offending nib on the pen-wiper. She would have to bundle up the laundry as it was, and she hadn’t yet double-checked to make sure that all the items were written on the list. She began to do so, hastily: bed sheets (linen) 2; pillowslips (embroidered) 2: calico single bed sheets . . . She would never get it done.
She was interrupted by the breathless arrival of Cook.
‘Effie! You are wanted. There’s a man here from the mine.’ Mrs Lane came hurrying across and did the strangest thing – she put her arms round Effie.
It was as well that Effie had put the ink-pot down, or she would certainly have dropped it with the shock. ‘What’s happened?’ It was clearly something terrible.
‘There’s been some sort of accident and your father’s hurt. Still alive, mind – though it seems there’s others dead.’
Effie heard her own voice saying, ‘Badly hurt?’ though she had no consciousness of framing any sound.
‘Couldn’t rightly say, my handsome. Bad enough, I think,’ Mrs Lane said, in a gentle tone. ‘Seems as how he passed out with the pain and they had to have the mine doctor to have a look at him. Best you get down there and see him for yourself.’
‘A doctor!’ Effie caught her breath. It must be really bad. You didn’t call the doctor if it wasn’t serious. Of course they’d had one come when Ma had been so sick, but it had done no good, and afterwards Pa had had to pawn his watch to pay the man his fee. And now he was the one they’d called the doctor for! She pulled off her working apron and was halfway to the door, when a thought hit her. ‘But Mrs Thatchell . . .’
‘No doubt she will grumble, but she’ll let you go, once she hears what’s happened, I am sure. She was good to me a year or two ago when my brother Fred was ill. Tell you what, you go and get your coat on and I’ll go to see her first – put in a word for you – then she’ll be prepared and won’t snap your head off before she’s heard you out.’
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