Easterleigh Hall (7 page)

Soon they'd be at the bottom, safe for that moment. With a jolt they were there, in the dust and the heat. It was his world. It was what he knew. He could read Auld Maud, the creaking of the pine uprights, and the coal, the roof, the movement of the air, he could almost taste her moods. He could smell the sleck. They all could. They were a band of brothers.

They waited for the lower banksman to come and release the barrier. The lamp hung from Jack's hand. A few of the others talked, some cleared the coal from their throats. Some were silent. Did they run through talisman thoughts as he did when they hit rock bottom? He earned good money, he had a marra he couldn't leave, he had other marras in his group that he couldn't desert for if he did how could he ever sleep easy again, knowing that they were down here, beneath the waves, beneath the fields? Each descent he thought these thoughts, and so far they had kept him safe.

Eric, the lower banksman, unlatched the barrier. Martin nudged Jack. ‘Have you heard that the whelp Auberon Brampton is back? Soiled his copybook at university good and proper; failed his exams, too much boozing and gambling. Come on, Eric, we can't earn until we get there. Get the barrier back, for Christ's sake.'

Eric grunted and then whistled as he always did, and didn't alter his pace one iota. The men were shifting their weight from foot to foot. ‘Eric, man, get a bloody move on.' It was Sam this time.

The barrier went back.

‘About ruddy time,' Ben muttered, elbowing past Eric. They started their trudge to the coalface, but as they did Jack heard Eric call out, ‘All right for some, going over to Deputy. There's a word for that.' Jack stopped. His da called him on. ‘Leave it.'

Ben walked into him, pushing him forward. ‘Howay with you lad, leave it to Sam.'

Jack heard Sam, one of the last from the cage, say, ‘Sorry about that, Eric, did I kick you? Must have been something I heard. It would do you more good to keep your gob shut and your mind open.'

Jack snatched a look at Martin, who muttered, ‘Well, who's Eric to pass judgement, daft bugger. We need a deputy on our side, that's what we think, so forget anyone else.' He lifted his head and shouted, ‘You hear that, Eric?'

Yes, they were all in this together, and Jack smiled, really smiled for the first time since he'd opened his eyes this morning. They all pressed themselves against the sides as the full coal wagons passed, driven back to the cages by the putter boys who called out to their Galloway ponies to hoof it. It was the end of one shift, the start of another. Soon Timmie would be with the Galloways, but first he'd be a trapper on the doors, controlling the flow of air, and now Jack's smile faded. Trappers could fall asleep in the darkness which was lit only by the weak pool of light thrown by their lamps. If he slept he'd likely be crushed as a runaway wagon or a putter's cart tore into the closed gate. Jack had to talk to Timmie again, make him aware he had to get the gates opened in time.

Their lamps cast light only over the immediate area. Rats scurried, dust rose, the roof sighed, men shouted to one another above the clatter of the wagons, the neighing of the ponies, the noise which never stopped. Jack nodded to his father as they approached Fred Scrivens' old desk in his kist, or work station, a mile and half from the face. ‘Howay with you then, Da.'

His father was carrying an axe and saw to cut new props or salvage others. It was the most dangerous job in the mine, and it was this that had taken off Fred's legs when he'd clawed out a prop for reuse and the roof had crashed in. He'd been lugged in a tub back to a wagon courtesy of a putter, a bairn who had vomited all the way. Jack grimaced; the sooner the lad got used to the bloody battlefield down here the better.

Fred was taking a long time to die in the infirmary, but while he lived his family had a house so he'd cling on no matter the pain. ‘Has Scrivens' missus moved in with relatives yet?' Jack called to no one in particular. Sam replied above the shuffling, ‘Last I heard her brother over Gosforn way was taking her in, and the bairns.'

Fred Scrivens would die now.

His da had not diverted to the kist but was still trudging. ‘Have you lost your sense of direction, Bob?' Ben called from the back as they continued past the turn-off.

‘No, I'm coming with you, Ben. From now on no one goes to their placement without me checking it out. How can I write a report if I haven't seen it?' He nodded back to his kist where he would produce his reports in between checking the props, checking for gas and airflow, keeping an eye on the water and pumps, checking that the trappers were awake as they sat in the dark opening and shutting the doors quickly, so as not to interrupt the airflow more than necessary.

Jack gripped his da's arm. ‘Just make sure you check the roof if you're drawing out roof props. Don't die for the bugger's cutbacks. There should be no need to take out the real old ones, he knows that. It's never safe. The props were put there for a reason, course they bloody were.' He ended on a cough. Bloody dust. ‘Don't kick up, Mart, for God's sake, man.'

‘Hush your noise, Jacko,' Martin grunted.

‘Don't take on about props, lad. It just “is”, isn't it,' his da said. The lamps cast deep shadows on sepia faces.

On they trudged, another mile to go out under the sea. His da would make a good deputy, though it still stuck in his throat along with the bloody dust. Mart must have read his mind. ‘So, Bob, have you joined the Brampton Lodge yet?'

He listened as his father grunted into the silence that fell amongst the men, ‘I'll have to, but why not? I'll hear what's going on and what plans are being cooked by management.'

The others nodded and continued their talk of pigeons or quoits, whippets or painting while he and Martin discussed the negotiations for the eight-hour shifts that were due to start in January 1910.

Jack murmured, ‘You just wait, Brampton'll cut the piece rate on top of cutting the hours. He's just waiting for any change that lets him slip it in. I don't know why they do all this squealing about the Liberals and their taxes, because they just pass their shortfall down to us. It'd be a different bloody tale if the taxes were raising money for them instead of pensions and medicine for us. That's if they get this National Insurance Act passed, it'll likely be hoyed out instead. Or should I say “thrown” in a posh voice?'

‘Let's worry about one thing at a time, man. It's the shifts that come first right now,' Martin grumbled. ‘The government means to help the workers, of course they do with the hours cut, but we need the twelve hours' money. Grand your da's on the inside. We'll maybe hear something useful to take to Jeb.'

Jack nodded. ‘And then Jeb can feed it to the union agents. They're the ones doing the negotiating.'

‘Aye, but they'll come back to us before they agree, won't they, man?'

Jack shrugged. ‘God knows. If they don't, will we strike on a matter of principle? If we did, would we win? Would we hell.'

They paused as Bob led Thomas and George to their placement and hunkered down, waiting. Jack set his lamp down and touched his nose. The dust was on his swollen eyes, but not in them.

Martin muttered, ‘You don't reckon Bastard Brampton'll take over the allocation of placements?' He leaned back on the wall of coal. He sat, rather than hunkered, as a prop had crashed on to his leg a couple of years ago, leaving it stiff, and he needed to ease it when he could. Bob returned and they groaned their way upright and trudged on, Jack taking his place alongside Martin, gripping his arm, his marra's words still resonating. It was something he'd never thought of. ‘Take over the cavil? No owner ever has and none ever would. It's democracy in action, that allocation process is, bonny lad. We draw for our work stations and no bloody great lump is going to change that. You'd really be talking strike then.'

Jack stared ahead. The cavil was mining tradition, it was set in stone. Every quarter they all met in the Reading Room and held the cavil – each marra pair drawing lots for their work placements in the mine, with not an owner in sight. Just them, and Lady Luck. If you lucked out on a good seam on that cavil, then you'd maybe pick up on a better one next go-round. He said, ‘It's sacrosanct.'

Martin spat into the dark as a huge rat was caught fleetingly in his lamplight, scampering past. ‘Got one of the beggars.' Behind him some of the others who hadn't yet peeled off to their placements laughed. Jack nudged him, calling over his shoulder at the others, ‘He'll be notching his hits on his belt soon, daft beggar.'

Martin jogged his arm so that his lamp cast chaotic shadows. ‘Aye, maybe. And if you churn out any more long words we'll have to notch your tongue out. Too much reading under the covers is bad, lad. You'll go blind.'

Ben and Sam laughed from behind them. The floor dipped a few inches and they scudded up the dust. The roof was lowering, they were stooping. It was killing on the neck. It was hotter.

Bob peeled off to the left, taking another two to their placement. ‘Keep going, I'll catch up.'

The roof was lowering by the stride. They could see little by the light of their lamps, but enough. ‘Penny for 'em,' Martin grunted.

‘More of the same. The bairns are going to be hungrier next year unless we hammer out a good deal,' Jack replied.

Da caught up as the roof became even lower and they bent double, kicking up crud with every step, and though they cursed they did so silently because to open their mouths invited a lungful of dust. Jack risked it for a moment. ‘Jeb's mebbe coming to talk about it all at the end of shift when we head to the cage.' He ended up choking and coughing.

‘Save it lad,' Luke called. ‘See you later.' He and his marra peeled off.

It was so hot this far down, sweat was streaming off Jack's face and dripping to the ground. He grinned, not a bad idea, they could do with some damping of the dust. His nose still hurt but it wasn't the first time it had been broken and not the last, if he kept on fighting. But he had to. They were not far off what they thought would be the price of Froggett's house. OK they weren't there yet, but it was doable. Just look at the Gala fight – five guineas. There could be other purses that big and with Evie's pay . . .

His father squeezed past, panting. ‘Time I took the front.' He was bent double as they all were now, and still the roof scraped their backs. More button scabs torn off. So what was new? His father set up a good pace. Deputyship needed men who cared, men who took safety seriously.

Ben shouted, ‘Am I talking to myself back here? Or do I just eat your dirt to amuse myself? Keep your bloody feet gentle in front, won't you? What d'you say, Sam?'

His brother retorted, ‘Keep your gob shut and you won't swallow so much.'

Da was at the turn-off to Jack and Martin's placement now, crouched down low. Jack's back was screaming as he followed, his legs bent. Martin was breathing hard and his leg must kill but you'd not hear a word from him. They changed to a crawl. His da was checking the props at the seam face, which was slightly higher. He was crouched on his knees, which was how the hewers would have to work. Jack eyed it up. Or maybe this shift would be spent lying on their sides. It depended how much they cut away.

‘Martin, Jack, get alongside.' Bob pointed with his saw at the sides. ‘I'll get some more props sent up. You'll need to set them as you cut away. The putters will have to push in the tubs for the coal and leave the Galloway wagons back where there's headroom. It'll slow you down, mark you, but don't be tempted to take bloody risks. You hear me now?' He looked up at the roof. ‘Get back now, both of you.'

They did as he checked the roof. ‘Right, lads, you're safe and sound.'

Jack and Martin grinned at one another. That was a new one – down a pit and safe and sound? His da saw them and shrugged. ‘Make sure you keep it that way.' He pressed Jack's shoulder as he passed. ‘You make sure,' he murmured.

‘Same for you, Da.'

Jack and Martin had drawn a favourable placement in the cavil, so their piece rates were good. Martin had gone on to the face and was busy already, wielding his pick in short jerks. Jack shovelled the chunks to the rear as they fell to the ground. ‘Putter!' he yelled. The tub came up as far as it could. Eddie shovelled the coal into the tub. Soon it could be Timmie doing that. Jack thrust his shovel beneath the coal as he thought for the first time, really thought, about a hotel. Well, why not, it was a grand idea, and Evie was a grand lass, as well as a grand cook. Timmie could work there, his da too. Well,
they
could. He couldn't leave his marra, never could he do that.

All morning they hacked with their picks and shovels in the light from their oil lamps. Would miracles happen, would the Bastard introduce electrics like some of the other pits? Would he hell. By bait time they'd stripped out of their hoggers and were down to their underwear, with sweat stinging their open cuts and running rivulets through their dust-coated bodies. They were lying on their sides getting at the under-coal.

Jack called a halt at midday, and they sat against the wall, pulling out their butties and casting great shadows on the walls of coal and shale in the yellow fluttering light. Jack's butties were stuffed with the remains of the ham, and for a moment he was at the beck again with Evie. She'd probably be serving up the servants' lunch now, and halfway through preparing the upstairs meal. How many courses would that be? At least she wasn't sweeping up the family's detritus or scuttling down the corridor to stay out of sight. What did the nobs think would happen to them if they cast eyes on a servant? That they'd turn to a pillar of salt? Beggars they were, but at least they were paying to aid her escape. He felt his mouth twist. There was a grand justice in it.

Martin handed him one of his butties. ‘Cheese. Swap?'