Easterleigh Hall (33 page)

He patted Jack as he passed. ‘Keep careful, lad.'

‘Always, Da.' His da's face was already black with dust, his teeth white even in the low light from the lamp. Jack's would be the same. How the hell could a pitman offer someone like Grace anything, and why would she look at a lad, for that was what he was alongside her. She was around thirty and he coming up to twenty-three, but he never thought of age when he was with her.

His da's footsteps were receding. He took the pick and worked with Martin until his da came again, bringing two more props, examining the roof and eating his bait with them where the roof was a bit higher, crunching coal dust as well as bread and dripping.

Down by the cage Timmie and Tony stopped work and sank on to their haunches. They had stripped off their shirts and were sweating in the heat, gulping down water from their tin bottles. It was warm but wet. They ate their bread and dripping and kept enough to feed Twilight, who was standing patiently a few yards from them. Mam had given Timmie four cakes, two each. He divvied them up.

‘Millie made them after our Evie went back to work yesterday. Our Evie taught her.' Tony nodded as Twilight shifted his weight from foot to foot. Timmie scooped the last of the cake crumbs into his mouth, nodding towards the Galloway. ‘What d'you reckon he thought about being dragged away from the fields after the strike?'

Tony wiped his mouth, took a drink, leaned back his head and sighed. ‘A load of bollocks is what he thought.'

Timmie knew that he and Tony would be marras for ever. There was no one else he'd rather be working with. By, but he was a heathen all the same, since he'd not cross the road for a lead soldier. He jammed the stopper in his water bottle. ‘Up and at 'em, man,' he said. ‘The tubs'll be piling up.'

Bob eased himself up. ‘I'm away, lads. Take care now.' He stooped very low, stumbling along the seam, listening, always listening to the roof, to the sides, and cursing as an outcrop caught his back. Another scab torn away. He groaned quietly, feeling the soreness of his knees, the stiffness in his thighs and back. Sometimes he thought he'd not be able to get up for a shift, but it wasn't an option. Young Evie was getting so close now to being able to manage a hotel, so she said, and to hear Millie talk she was a right canny cook, his lass was. He felt the grin crease the dust on his face. She was right, they should start small. There was a sound. A crash, a whoosh of air. He turned, and stumbled back to the face.

There was a heap of coal between Jack and Martin. ‘It's all right, Da, I was taking the last of the top coal and the wedge stuck fast. I took the pick to ease it and the whole bloody lot came down, right between the two of us. It's our lucky day. It just got our bloody ankles, nothing too bad. Just a graze.'

Bob felt his heart beating too fast and too loud. ‘Then don't take a bloody pick to it. Worm it out, use a bit of nous, for God's sake.'

Jack grinned at his da. ‘Calm yourself, man. You're not getting rid of us that easy, is he Mart?' Bob could hear the shake in his son's voice, and in Martin's too as he replied, ‘Not unless he's placed a charge and is waiting to blow it just as we pass.'

‘Clear that lot,' Bob ordered, ‘and call in the putter. I'm off to see Timmie, at least he's got a grain of sense about him.'

The other two laughed as he set off again, his nerves jangling. He stopped on the way to check the props at the other faces, and all along the seams. He had to draw out some props from a seam that was defunct, hauling them back quickly, gathering them as the roof sagged but held.

Timmie checked that his token was still strung inside the tub, because he didn't want to work like this and find the weighman didn't know it was his piece. He pushed the tub down the dark hot low seam towards the face, black sweat pouring from him. The cakes had been grand and he wondered again what it would be like living in a hotel, away from the village, from his marras, and a bit of him wanted to go, but most of him wanted to stay. Here was his life. Here, in this bastard of a pit with the dark, and the sounds of cursing, singing, tubs, picks, boots, and the charges his da set.

He slowed, wiped his forehead and spat into the dark at any rats lurking, then shoved hard again, his shoulders straining, his head lowered. Bastard seam, just too damn low for Twilight and Tony. There were other deputies, but his da was the best. He was the best at everything, well, next to Jack. ‘And by, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but near Jack,' he said. He liked to hear his own voice, otherwise it was too dark, too creaky, too hot.

He was on the uphill now, and he got his back to the tub, shoving it, forcing his legs to brace against the weight. It was so damn dark but somehow your eyes learned to see. Sid and his marra were working this seam. Timmie liked Sid, he'd buy Timmie a beer at the club without a lecture, and let Timmie buy him one back.

The seam was levelling out and the roof was lifting. He stood straighter, then totally upright. The relief was immense but he knew it would drop down again soon, which it did. The rails ran right up to this face but you couldn't get a pony along here, not in a million years. He'd hitch up with Tony on the way back but he'd be down the Fenton seam now, picking up some other tubs. The roof was bloody low again, but Sid was working the face in a high-roofed cavern and he'd be there soon. He shoved again and heard Sid calling, ‘Got a tortoise as a putter, have we lad? Hope you paint your toy soldiers quicker than this?'

Timmie shouted, ‘They're not toys, they're lead soldiers. Accurate, they are.' The men laughed.

He helped Sid's marra, Dave, to shovel in the coal as Sid continued to hew, his back bare in the heat, and bleeding. He'd knocked scabs off and had a cut. Well, who hadn't?

‘Watch the descent, lad,' Sid called as Timmie shoved the heavily laden tub away from the face. ‘Can't have that last soldier we've all heard about being left unpainted.'

They all laughed, again.

He shoved the tub along, his back and shoulders aching even more under the strain, ducking down as the roof lowered, his arms spreadeagled and gripping the edge as he breathed in and tried to remember where the descent started. It wasn't steep, but you could get a bit of a lick going if you didn't pull back in time. He felt it then, the easing of weight, and it seemed too soon. He leaned back, pulling, but it wasn't braking as it should, but then it caught. His thighs and arms were tight and felt as though they'd snap, daft beggar that he was. He breathed out hard with relief.

Then he heard his da calling, ‘Timmie lad, just coming to see all's well.' He was coming along the track. Timmie lifted his head, relaxed just a fraction and that was a mistake because the tub seemed to pull away. God, it had a life of its own. It was going down the slope and he threw himself backwards, digging in his heels, gripping the tub, harder and harder but it felt as though his hands were slipping and his father was there, somewhere in the dark ahead of him. The tub was gathering speed, quicker, quicker. His heels were skidding along within the tracks. He tried to hammer in his heels but he was moving too fast.

Timmie called, ‘Get off the track, Da. Get off the bloody track.' He couldn't hold the tub. His mind was racing. He let go, running alongside, racing it, beating it. He threw himself in front, digging in his legs, slowing it. ‘Get off the track, Da!' he screamed but it was pushing him, shoving, it was too strong, he couldn't hold it. Just couldn't hold the bloody thing and now he could see his da, flattened against the wall as the tub was pushing him faster than his legs, pushing, pushing. He tried to shove back but he was going over. For God's sake, he was going, his legs weren't working, they were lagging. He must get away from the front, he must leap for the side, but it was pushing him, shoving him, down. Down. He just couldn't stop it, and he saw his da leap out and on to the track, his hands outstretched.

‘Timmie!' he heard him screaming, ‘Timmie, my lad.'

‘Da,' he called but he knew it hadn't left his throat because it was too late, his face was in the dust and there was no light. Just a thundering noise and a huge and massive pain which never seemed to stop.

Bob had reached his son after the tub had passed over him. He held him as the tub jolted off the rails and into the side, tumbling the coal over his legs while some fell down to the track, the tub crashing after it. ‘I need to check the props.' He could hear his voice. ‘I should check the props, Timmie lad.' He was howling, but he should check the props. He should listen to the roof, for the creaks and the groans and the hisses. He should, but all he could hear was his own howling and then there were hands on him, holding him, easing him to the side. Sid was shouting, ‘Get Jack, for God's sake get Jack.'

Jack and Martin squirmed and writhed back from the face more quickly than they had ever moved in their lives, following Dave who had hollered, ‘Jack, you're needed, now. It's Timmie. It's your da.'

Once they were able they crouched and ran and it didn't matter that the outcrops tore at their backs and heads. They ducked and weaved past other hewers and putters, who dropped their tools and followed. They were out to the narrow tracks and the buzzer was going. Someone was dead. Not his someone. No, not his someone. ‘No, not my someone, not my someone,' he was shouting, and Martin was shouting back, ‘Nay way, lad. They're too canny.'

The men were gathering, but parted like the Red bloody Sea and it
was
his someone. It was his lovely someone lying there crushed between the rails, crushed like a bloody fly. He knelt, knowing that Timmie was dead, but he couldn't be, he had his soldier to paint. He turned him over and there he was, his young, lovely Timmie who wasn't lovely any more, who didn't look like Timmie any more, whose mother must never ever see him like this.

Someone handed him some sacking. ‘Here lad, put this over him. We'll bring up a tub and take him back.' The man was shouting over this awful howling that Jack couldn't understand. What was that noise? What was that awful awful noise? ‘Shut up, just shut up.' He tried to stand but his legs gave way. Sid and Martin held him up. ‘Steady lad, it's your da,' Martin said.

Jack saw him now, by the side of the rails, sitting slumped against the wall. His mouth was open and he was howling, like a dog. Another deputy was there and Jack somehow found strength and ran to him. ‘Da, where're you hurt?' He gathered him in his arms, and he was wet with blood, sticky blood and Ted the deputy shook his head. ‘A broken leg, lad, that's all. But he's just seen his son killed and that's your Timmie's blood and he can't stop the noise. You need to be strong for them all. For them all, you understand.'

Jack did, and he rocked his da until the wagon came along pulled by Twilight, driven by Tony who didn't know. No one had told the lad. Why didn't they tell him? Why? It was filling his head and that was what he said to his da. ‘Why didn't they tell the lad? Why, Da, he was Timmie's marra?'

It was then the howling ceased. Completely. He felt Da straighten his shoulders, and pull away. ‘Take care of the lad,' Da told Sid, who had hold of Tony and wouldn't let him go to Timmie. ‘The rest of you, get me to the cage. Get Timmie there too. It's time we went home.'

But his da was taken to the infirmary, while Timmie was carried on the stretcher to the colliery cart. The manager stood next to it, his hat removed. Mr Auberon did not join them. Was he even at the pit? If he had come, Jack would have killed him. He had reinstated the cavil too late. Too damn late. Far, far too late. Timmie was wrapped in sacking but Jack removed it and laid his jacket over him, and his father's jacket. The bonny lad deserved better than hessian.

Tony went to tell Evie. He'd lose his money for the time he spent. ‘What does that matter?' he said, his throat tight and hurting, loneliness already in him, because his marra was gone and he hadn't finished his soldiers. ‘He hasn't finished them,' he kept on saying as he started running.

Jack called after him, ‘Try and find Simon first. He should be with her.' But it didn't sound like Jack.

Evie was making pastry for the dessert flans, plum for one, apple for the other. Mrs Moore was resting. The servants were laughing around their table, some playing pontoon, some reading, some sleeping, some sewing. Most had waited up to let in the new year and they were still recovering. The new kitchenmaid, Dottie, was cleaning the fender. She was a worker and it was a welcome relief. She wasn't from Easton but near Gosforn, and her da was a hewer. Dottie said, ‘By, you can get a good shine going on this, Evie.'

Lady Veronica had said she would be down for an early tea at three. Evie snatched a look at the clock. Heavens, in ten minutes. The cakes were ready, the end of the table prepared with a tablecloth. True to her word, Lady Veronica had not mentioned their discussion in any way and neither had Evie, but it was evident that after the initial awkwardness there was a more relaxed attitude between the two of them. Not a friendship, of course, but the occasional glance, especially after it was reported that though Emmeline Pankhurst had been imprisoned, Christabel had not returned to Britain to support her.

‘Do that later, Dottie. Get yourself off to the servants' hall after you've put the stuff away, her Ladyship will be down any minute.' Evie snatched another look at the servants' hall and there was Roger, his head down over his newspaper. As though he could sense her he raised his head and stared, pure hatred in his face. Well, so be it, she didn't love him either. She would never know what had been said by Lady Veronica, but whatever it was it had been enough.

Evie felt the draught from the kitchen door and looked up. It was Simon. She rushed to check the kettle. ‘Come on in, lad, but make it sharp. Lady Veronica will be taking tea here in a moment.' She hurried back to the flan pastry, concentrating on that for it must be cleared away within two minutes. She called, ‘Were you born in a barn? Shut the door, then give yourself a quick warm in front of Dottie's gleaming fender. You're just in time with those apples, I was about to come searching for you. That store's worked well this year.'