Bearmouth

by Liz Hyder

  But what? he says.

  Well I ent too shore where she is see. Where the farm is. The nayme o the villidge and all. And Newt Coombes, well it ent my nayme really is it?

  What you sayin Newt?

  Well, can I really come and live wi you? Cos wi Ma, there ent much room see and if you had spayce… I kno Im anuvver mouth to feed and—

  Corse, he says. I sed it and I ment it too. We will manidge. Weve manidged this far eh?

  He opens his tin, strykes a match and lytes a stump o candul.

  Fore more matchiss left, I say.

  He nods.

  I feels hungree and my belly dos rumble.

  Ill go first, I says. Im a better swimmer.

  Shore? he says and I nod.

  I taykes off my hevvy boots, still wet. Peels off my socks. He looks away as I taykes off my shirt and trowsers leevin just my unders.

  Im reddy, I says.

  He holds the lyte up, still lookin away and I walks into the water. Slowly slowly feelin the chill o it on my skin.

  It gets deep fast and I gasp as I near go under.

  Reddy, I says.

  Good luck, he says.

  And I taykes a deep breath and then I dives.

  I keeps my eyes open maykin the most o the lyte from the candul way above me. Tis deep water but cleer.

  I sees a dark patch low down and I dives towards it. Tis a tunnel. I come back up and tells Devlin but I dunt wayte for his answer fore I taykes one big deep breath and am down again and swimmin towards it.

  Tis wyde enuff to swim throo comftablee and I go harf along it fore my lungs are fayre to burstin. As I go to turn I sees a flicker o lyte and I swims towards it even tho I ent shore whevver I am dreamin or seein somethin real.

  My lungs go flat and I can feel my eyes goin as the air is pushd out o me but then Im out.

  I heeve the air in deeply and it dos tayste so sweete.

  Lyke flowers and shuggar and bein spinky clene arfter a barth.

  I looks around. I am in a cayve but it ent a full cayve. There is a tree growin all green and leeves ryte throo a hole in the roof and up up.

  I looks up at the sky behind the tree and it must needs be nyte as there ent no sun and tis dark still but there is a silver cloud ryte there as I looks up and tis so bryte tis lyke my eyes are fayre sore. And I kno a moon is behind it and I looks away for fear o bein blinded by it.

  Tis lyke I am new born. And I carnt help myself. I cryes wi the sheer joy o it as the white bryteness dos wash over me.

  Tis only when I get my breath back and dryes my eyes that I realise I must go back. Devlin is not such a strong swimmer as me and twill be harder for him.

  It dos tayke three goes fore he manidges to mayke it out. I has to harf pull him throo. I heeves him out onto the rocks as the moonlyte shines into the cayve. He lies on his back as we gets our breath back.

  Tis lyke lectrick, I says blink blinkin at it.

  Devlin coffs and coffs and then I realise he is larfin.

  We mayde it, he says larfin. We mayde it.

  We gathers our breath back for who knos how long.

  I got to go back, I says. I kno my boots ent the best but theyre all I got.

  Devlin goes to get up but I stops him.

  Ill get yours and all, I says.

  Dunt be long, he says and I grins at him.

  You dunt even kno a faster swimmer than me eh, I says and he larfs.

  I have to do it in two goes, the boots are hevvy and drag me down, tis hard work but I dos it. I rests a while at the base o the tree whilst Devlin wrings out the sodden wet clothes, empteein the boots o water and busyin himself tyin the clothes into two bundles wi the boot layces as I catches my breath. It feels lyke but a moment and he is dun.

  Alryte? he says and I nod. Come on then, says Devlin and he gives me my clothes and boots all tied up wi a neat loop to carry em by.

  I throw em over my sholder and we starts lookin for footholds in the tree.

  We climbs up, our unders still wet from the swim, branches in my hand ruff and scratchee. Leeves brushin gainst my skin lyke ticklin me. The taste o fresh air in my lungs as we climbs up up the tree out o the cayve and towards the lyte. We are tired and hungree, still wet and harf nayked and our boots and clothes feel hevvy as we drags them up behind us, harf cawt on branches.

  As we nears the surfiss, I reetches up and grasps the edge o the openin. Grass. Beneath my fingers for the first time in an ayge. Tis wet wi nyte dew. I grab the ground and heeves myself out onto it, diggin my fingers into the soil and tastin the air as I do so.

  I crawls forwud a little way from the cayve openin, nees on grass and Devlin crawls out next to me, harf sobbin.

  I sees trees in the distance gainst the lyte o the moon.

  I sees hills and outside and I cryes wi joy and puzzlement and relief.

  I am fayre worn out and I collapses onto my back, feelin the damp grass pricklin ruff underneeth my skin. Theres a spyders web jewlld lyke the most preshus thing by my hand. I reetches out and touches it.

  I breethes it all in. The dampness o the grass, so fresh and clene. Tis sweete and bryte and new, lyke happyness. A bird hoots in the distance and the wind brushes the trees. A breeze runs along my skin lyke kindness.

  We lays there, next to each uvver soakin it all in. My eyes slowly gettin used to the bryteness o the moon even tho tis not a full one yet.

  You sed once to me that it taykes one person to start a revolushun, I says. But that ent true is it?

  Tis, he says. It took you is all.

  No, I says. Taykes more than one. One to start it and uvvers to believe it can happen.

  He smyles and taykes my hand in his.

  We lies there for a moment underneeth the stars twink twinklin in the sky. And it dos remind me o all the canduls o Bearmouth just lyke Thomas sed.

  Come on, I says as I gets to my feet and pulls him up.

  Where to? he says.

  Freedom, I says. Remember. And one day, tis sed, the Mayker will give us a sine, I says.

  We will all be foregivven

  And we will rise up to the land

  And the lyte that the Mayker holds there in his parm

  Will be givern to all of us

  And all shall prosper in this life and the next.

  Amen, I says.

  Amen, says Devlin.

  And we walk hand in hand in the pale white moonlyte to the beginnins of a new world.

  Acknowledgements

  All writers will tell you that they’ve been writing for years which, certainly in my case, is true enough. I’ve been lucky enough to have a small and invaluable support network who have encouraged me over the years and without whom Bearmouth would probably not exist.

  Writing West Midlands have been incredible—if you’re a writer, find your regional writer development group, treasure them and give them cake. Thanks to Jonathan, Emma, Heddwen and Lovely Liv for hot beverages and invaluable support.

  In spring 2018, I was lucky enough to win the Bridge Awards/Moniack Mhor Emerging Writer award and am indebted to the team behind it. A confidence boost at a time when I needed it most, it’s meant that I’ve been able to have priceless writing time on retreats. Thank you, you glorious bunch!

  Thank you to my parents who have encouraged my creativity at every turn and to my ‘twin’ Hannah Khalil for being amazing over so many years, I would never have got here without you. Thank you too to the marvellous Katy Moran for invaluable advice and editing tips early on and to Rachel Buchanan for feedback, philosophical rants and long walks. Thanks to Simon Bolton for geeky giggles, to Sara-Jane Arbury for creative inspiration, to Caitlin for the MTE (Most Travelled Envelope), to the creative whirlwind that is Sandra Salter and to the ever awesome Jules and Mart for laughter, parties and support.

  Thank you to the Ludville Massive—Sian, Iran, Imogen, Tom and Miche, Jean the Poet, Ashleigh, Dulcie and Aidann, Paul S, the Gin Pigs, Lyn, Shaun, Bruford, you are all marvellous. Thanks to Tobe for letting
me borrow your name—and to Saffron, else she’ll get furious she’s not included. Thanks also to the E17 Official Support Network particularly Lucy Franklin, Imogen Carter and Ali G. Thanks also to all the lovely folk who’ve shouted about this book far and wide particularly Emma Finnigan, Maura, Thi, Ruth, Nick Pegg, Kiran, and the Riot ladies.

  I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Naomi Luland for being one of the earliest readers of Bearmouth and for having faith in me for more years than I can remember. Mate, I owe you one.

  Although Bearmouth is a work of fiction, it is inspired by the real-life experiences of miners in Victorian times. Two books in particular had a significant influence, so much so that I named key characters in memory of them—B. L. Coombes’s These Poor Hands and Ray Devlin’s Children of the Pits.

  Huge thanks to my dear friend and wonderful agent Anwen Hooson for always believing in me.

  Massive thanks to the glorious story wizard Sarah Odedina, the best editor anyone could possibly wish for. I am indebted to the Amazing Adam Freudenheim at Pushkin Press for his faith in both me and in Newt’s story. Big thanks also to the wider and super supportive Pushkin family, particularly eagle-eyed editorial assistant Rory on what was an incredibly challenging book to work on with all of Newt’s many inconsistencies… Thank you also to the ever patient Yeti Lambregts for her startling cover design.

  And last but very much not least, thank you to my awesome other half Rob, who makes it all worthwhile.

  TEEN AND YA FICTION

  FROM PUSHKIN PRESS

  THE RED ABBEY CHRONICLES

  MARESI

  NAONDEL

  MARESI RED MANTLE

  Maria Turtschaninoff

  Translated by Annie Prime

  ‘Combines a flavour of The Handmaid’s Tale with bursts of excitement reminiscent of Harry Potter’s magic duels’

  Observer

  THE BEGINNING WOODS

  Malcolm McNeill

  ‘I loved every word and was envious of quite a few… A modern classic – rich, funny and terrifying’

  Eoin Colfer

  THE RECKLESS SERIES

  1. THE PETRIFIED FLESH

  2. LIVING SHADOWS

  3. THE GOLDEN YARN

  Cornelia Funke

  ‘A wonderful storyteller’

  Sunday Times

  PIGLETTES

  Clémentine Beauvais

  Translated by Clémentine Beauvais

  ‘A triumph of a book; so funny, so original, so sharp, so warm’

  Katherine Rundell, author of Rooftoppers

  THE DISAPPEARANCES

  Emily Bain Murphy

  ‘The Disappearances is a wonder of a book. I lost myself in this world where reflections, scents and stars go missing, and revelled in its reveal’

  Kiran Millwood Hargrave, author of The Girl of Ink & Stars

  THE WILDINGS

  Nilanjana Roy

  ‘A stylish, bloody, literary addition, set in India and already a considerable critical success there. Rich in cat telepathy and shuddery feral madness’

  Guardian

  THE OKSA POLLOCK SERIES

  1. THE LAST HOPE

  2. THE FOREST OF LOST SOULS

  3. THE HEART OF TWO WORLDS

  4. TAINTED BONDS

  Anne Plichota and Cendrine Wolf

  Translated by Sue Rose

  ‘A feisty heroine, lots of sparky tricks and evil opponents could fill a gap left by the end of the Harry Potter series’

  Daily Mail

  Copyright

  Pushkin Press

  71–75 Shelton Street

  London WC2H 9JQ

  The right of Liz Hyder to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988

  Original text © 2019 Liz Hyder

  Bearmouth was first published in Great Britain by Pushkin Press in 2019

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  ISBN 13: 978–1–78269–244–7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press

  www.pushkinpress.com