by Maggie Hope
Merry stood on the patch of grass that surrounded the old ventilation shaft watching the party of men and boys milling around. They had rigged up a rope ladder and a lad of about nineteen was now sitting astride the top of the shaft, legs astride and bending down perilously low to peer inside.
‘There’s nowt to see down there, Da,’ he announced, sitting up straight again. He gave Merry a sideways glance as he spoke to his father, who stood at the bottom with another rope slung over his shoulder. ‘Nowt but water by the sound of it.’
‘Give a shout, Robbie lad,’ advised his father, who was Bob, the colliery joiner. ‘Mebbe he might be on a ledge or something, asleep.’
Or mebbe dead, he thought but didn’t say so, not in front of the bit lass. She was in a bonny taking over the lad, her brother she said it was. Though that was something of a mystery an’ all – how could it be her brother? Everyone knew when the disaster at Old Jane Pit had happened.
It was a fine day and when she’d come into the rows a crowd of off-shift men were by the ball alley on the gable end of one of the houses. The lass was obviously in a state about something. He recognised her as the lass from Old Pit, Mrs Trent’s granddaughter. So he had asked her what the matter was.
The miners were paid once a fortnight and this was the hungry week, so they couldn’t afford the club or the institute. It had been easy to get a few of them together to go and search out the lad.
‘I never knew she had a brother,’ said one, looking puzzled. He had once worked at Jane Pit.
‘Aye well, she has,’ said Bob. ‘He’s nowt but a bairn, only thirteen, so howay, let’s get going. I’ll get rope from the joiner’s shop.’
‘Rope, what do you want rope for?’
Bob sighed. ‘Will you stop asking questions and get the lads organised? The lass is worried to death, can you not see? We’re going up by that ventilation shaft on the old pack-donkey trail. You know, on the lonnen to Eden Hope.’
So now the gang of them were here, on a sunny autumn afternoon, looking for the lad and picking a few late brambles while they were on and stuffing them in their mouths.
Bob climbed the ladder and sat atop the wall of the shaft by his lad. It wasn’t exactly black down there; some light was getting in but it wasn’t possible to see the bottom apart from the occasional glint of water, or at least something wet. He put his hand around his mouth and bellowed. ‘Ben? Ben are you there, lad?’
The sound reverberated round the shaft but there was no answer.
‘I can go down, Da,’ said Robbie. ‘If I tie a rope round me I can reach that platform there, any road.’
‘Aw, I don’t know,’ his father replied doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t dare go home if owt happened to you. Your mam would kill me.’
‘Go on, I want to Da.’
In the end, the boy prevailed. The rope was secured on the outside and Robbie descended, walking down the wall with his feet as he held on to the rope. The men waited anxiously, ready to haul on the rope should it show signs of giving way, but it held firm.
An anxious ten minutes later Robbie was shouting to be brought up and they all joined in hauling on the rope.
‘There’s nothing to see, Da,’ he said as he climbed onto the rim of the shaft, breathing heavily. ‘I doubt he’s not down there. Or if he is he’s a goner.’
Merry, standing on the grass at the bottom, gasped and thrust her fist into her mouth.
‘Mind what you say!’ snapped Bob.
‘Sorry Da.’
‘It might not have been him that broke the ladder at all, pet,’ said one of the pitmen. ‘Look, if he’s about here we’ll find him, I promise you.’ He turned to the others. ‘Howay lads, spread out, we’ll search the woods.’
Eleven
Miles Gallaghesr was writing a letter to the mine owner, his employer. Mr Bolton also owned the Arthur Bolton Ironworks in Middlesbrough and rarely came near the mines in south-west Durham, which supplied the ironworks with the coke needed to smelt iron. In many ways he was a remote figure even to Miles, his agent. Yet he insisted on detailed, meticulous reports on a weekly basis and, of course, the mines had to keep up the steady supply of coal for coking. Apart from this, Miles had a fairly free hand, he thought with satisfaction.
There have been some complaints from the local council concerning the general state of areas surrounding worked-out mines. Therefore I made time to ride around the vicinity of Old Jane Pit, the scene of the unfortunate explosion fourteen or so years ago. There is evidence of people living in the old cottages and also a tinker’s encampment close by. I will give orders for them to be evicted and the site tidied up. This will easily be paid for by the materials still salvageable from the area.
Miles sat back and stared out of the window at the garden. All the flowers were gone now and the trees bare, the bushes sodden with rain and blowing in a northerly wind.
It was quite true that the council were making noises, prompted by the Auckland Chronicle. Only last week there had been an article in the Chronicle complaining about the areas of barren waste left behind when a worked-out mine was abandoned. It was as well to show a willingness to do something about it, especially when the expense would be minimal. And of course he had his own reasons for clearing the area of vagabonds, reasons that were nobody’s business but his own.
Miles got to his feet and walked over to the fireplace, turning his back on the fire and lifting his jacket a little to let the heat of the flames get to his backside. His thoughts turned to his son, Tom.
Tom was living in the town in some poky boarding house in Tenters Street. It was ridiculous when this house was big enough to allow him three or four rooms should he wish for them – even if he himself did marry Miss Bertha, Miles thought. Tom could have his own rooms in the east wing; Bertha was unlikely to object, why should she?
He contemplated marriage to her with little enthusiasm. There was no quickening of the pulse at the thought, not at all like the time before he married Tom’s mother. But what the hell, there were compensations, not least the prospect of managing the mines she would own when her father turned up his toes. Mr Porritt was just about in his dotage now; it would be a kindness to take the responsibility off his hands. The old man had made it plain that he wanted to see his daughter settled as soon as maybe, too.
He would go over there later on when he had seen to the matter of Old Pit. He crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell to summon Polly.
‘Tell Johns I want Marcus saddled and ready in ten minutes,’ he said to her when she appeared. ‘And tell Cook I won’t be in to dinner,’ he added.
‘Yes sir,’ said Polly and withdrew. Johns was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a piece of Cook’s excellent fruitcake. He sighed heavily, took a large swallow of tea and stood up.
‘That man seems to know when I’m having my ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d best go then.’ Stuffing the remains of his cake in his mouth he went out to the stable.
Cook compressed her lips. ‘That man will suffer with his innards, having his eating interrupted like that,’ she said. She watched him through the window, a stocky little man with rolled-up shirtsleeves and open waistcoat, and only a few wispy hairs on top of his head.
Polly glanced at Edna knowingly. Cook was soft on Johns; it was plain for anyone to see. It was becoming something of a joke in the kitchen.
‘Now then, get on with your work,’ Cook said sharply as she caught sight of their smirks. ‘Have you even started on the dining room?’
Miles rode down the field and opened the gate that led onto the old line. Marcus nickered at an old pit pony that had been put out to grass and it trotted over. As he paused to open the gate the two horses rubbed noses; Miles looked at the galloway with disfavour. One of his eyes was milky and blind, the other looked to be going the same way; there were blue-black scars across his face and on his back, no doubt from when he had been working low seams where even his ten hands in height were too big.
Miles pulled his horse away, took him through the gate and closed it after him. He trotted along outside the hedge and the old galloway trotted along inside, whinnying. Lonely no doubt, Miles told himself. He would have to have a word with the manager – better to have the animal put down than leave him alone in that field in the cold of the coming winter. He would have a word with Mackay, the manager at Winton.
Merry scrubbed away at the bedpans in the sluice. Her fingers were red and raw from the carbolic acid solution she was using to sterilise the enamel pans, and even though she was used to that she winced as the solution got into a keen on her forefinger. She ran the cold tap on it quickly and the sharpness eased.
‘Are you nearly finished, Nurse?’
Sister’s voice behind her made Merry jump; she turned off the tap and turned to face Sister Harrison who was standing by the door.
‘Yes, Sister. This is my last one.’ She finished the bedpan quickly and put it in the rack.
Sister looked round the sluice for signs of slipshod work she could complain about but she had to admit there were none. The draining boards were scrubbed white and everything was spick and span. Her eye fell on Merry however, and she looked disapproving. The girl’s hair was slipping down from under her cap and wisps were hanging on her neck. The heavy rubber apron she was wearing on top of her cotton one was twisted round and damp around the waist where she had leaned over the sinks.
‘Go and tidy yourself up, Nurse,’ said Sister. ‘What Matron would think if she saw you like that I don’t know. Be sharp about it too, we’re almost ready to go to dinner. You are to go first turn today.’ Sister Harrison didn’t approve of Nurse Trent, though she had to admit that the girl had improved since she conveyed her doubts to Matron. It had been disappointing that the girl was not dismissed; instead she had received a severe warning from Matron. Perhaps someone had put in a good word for the Trent girl.
Merry gazed into the tiny mirror in the nurses’ cloakroom. She had hung the rubber apron in the cupboard in the sluice, rolled down her sleeves and retrieved her stiff cuffs from the drawer. Now she took off her starched, enveloping cap and pinned her hair more securely before replacing it.
There were shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep and worry about the whereabouts of Ben. ‘Where are you, Ben?’ she whispered into the mirror, but of course there was no reply, not even in her heart. Sighing she turned for the door; it wouldn’t do to keep Sister waiting.
Merry was living in the Workhouse Hospital now. Not in the workhouse wards but in a tiny room of her own that Dr Gallagher had advised her to apply for. It was bare of furniture except for the bed and hooks to hang up her clothes, but at least it was handy for her work, which meant she could spend more time looking for Ben. All her spare time was spent in looking for Ben. Sometimes Robbie, the joiner’s son, helped her. Robbie was sweet on her, she knew, but she hadn’t time for anything like that. She was glad of him to help her in her search, though sometimes she felt a pang of conscience that she was using him.
‘I don’t care,’ Robbie said to her more than once. ‘I’ve nothing better to do.’
It was a fortnight now since Ben had disappeared. Merry was sure something terrible had happened to him. It must have done or he would have got in touch with her. Why would he run away to sea? Ben had shown no interest in going to sea; not once had he mentioned it. The police in Auckland weren’t interested either. She had even gone to the police station in Shildon but they were uninterested too.
‘Lads are always running away from home,’ the desk sergeant had said.
‘He wouldn’t,’ Merry had replied and the desk sergeant had sighed.
‘Right then,’ he had said. ‘Let me have his birth certificate and I’ll put out a call.’
That was the trouble; she didn’t have a birth certificate for Ben; not a birth certificate or a baptismal certificate. She searched Gran’s box where she kept all her papers. She found her own certificates, her mother’s death certificate and also her father’s. ‘Killed in a pit explosion,’ it said. ‘Buried in the pit.’
The trouble was, the dates didn’t match up. How could Ben be her brother when he was born so long after her mother and father were dead? Merry’s thoughts went round and round it in her head whenever she had a moment to herself or lay down in bed to try to catch some sleep; and now, as she walked to the nurses’ eating hall. They didn’t eat with the paupers, getting marginally better rations.
The trouble was, the Board of Guardians kept back three-quarters of her wages to pay for her room and food, which made her only slightly better off than the paupers. Soon, when she had time, when she could spare an hour from her search for Ben, she would get a room in the town. Then she could save a little on food perhaps, towards a home for herself and Ben when he returned. For he would return, of course he would; the alternative was unthinkable.
She thought of that day when the off-shift men had helped her search for Ben. They had searched everywhere, but there were no more signs of him. Two men had even gone down the disused ventilation shaft again, climbing down from staging platform to staging platform. All rickety, all creaking alarmingly, but they had been tied securely together by a rope anchored at the top. Her heart had been thumping wildly as she waited for their shout, dreading the possibility of them finding Ben’s body.
‘Nothing to see down there,’ they had reported. ‘Nothing but an almighty stink.’
Tomorrow was the start of Merry’s spell of night duty. If she went to bed as soon as she went off duty she could be up at six o’clock in the morning and go over the ground again. Also, she had saved enough money to put an advertisement in The Northern Echo asking for any news of Benjamin Trent, aged fourteen years, who was missing from home. And she had a wild hope that he might have been back to Old Pit and left a message for her.
‘Any reward?’
The man behind the desk in the newspaper office looked over his spectacles at Merry. She was silent; for some reason she hadn’t thought of the need for a reward.
‘I could just put “reward”,’ the man said kindly, seeing her dismay. ‘If there is no answer it won’t matter, if there is you will surely find something.’
‘All right then,’ said Merry. It was pay day on Friday. She had been going to buy badly needed new ward shoes but if she cut out cardboard soles and put them inside the ones she had, well, perhaps she could make them last for another fortnight. Or maybe she could sell Gran’s rocking chair? She didn’t really want to but she had left it at Bob Wright’s house and worried that it was in their way, though Bob, being a joiner and superior to the miners, had a slightly larger house than they had.
She walked through the woods to Winton Colliery on her way to Old Pit. Going along the road towards the pit yard and waggon way, she almost bumped into Dr Gallagher as he came out of a back street, black bag in hand.
‘Nurse Trent!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why aren’t you at the hospital?’
‘I start night duty this evening, Doctor,’ said Merry. She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks at the unexpected meeting. She must look a mess, having come straight from the ward without bothering to wash or tidy herself. After all, she had thought to spend the day wandering the fields and old workings, just in case some clue to Ben’s whereabouts had been overlooked.
Tom gazed at her and smiled, she looked so pretty with her cheeks pink and her eyes bright from the sharpness of the frosty weather. Yet there was still a shadow of unhappiness about her.
‘Have you heard from your brother?’ he asked and she bent her head quickly to hide her suddenly damp eyes.
‘No,’ she said and pressed her upper lip hard against her teeth to stop the tears coming. She rarely cried but, of course, wouldn’t she just make a show of herself now, in front of Dr Gallagher? He would think her weak minded and silly.
Tom looked at her, noticing now how thin she had become. Her hands were red and chapped; seeing him look at them she thrust them into the pockets of her coat, for
she had no gloves despite the bitter cold.
‘Come and have a cup of tea in Mary’s teashop,’ he said. ‘It will warm you and we can have a talk. I’ve half an hour before surgery. I’ve been visiting Mrs Green, poor soul. I’m afraid there’s little anyone can do for her.’ Merry knew Mrs Green, though not very well. She was an old lady who was bedridden and lived with her daughter in the same street as the Wrights.
‘Well?’ Tom prompted.
‘Thank you, I will,’ said Merry. After all, what was half an hour? She could still go on with her search later and probably be better for the warm spell and the hot drink.
Twelve
Merry wandered along at the end of the lonnen, the old pack-donkey road now overgrown with straggly bushes and patches of dead nettles. She kept her eyes on the ground searching for what she didn’t know – a sign, anything that told her Ben had been that way. It was silly, she knew it was silly but she felt impelled to search and search even though this was ground she had been over before. She even went around bushes to make sure she wasn’t missing anything, then climbed over the gate and walked up the hedge at the other side.
She was into the edge of the woods now, the ground cold and dank. Dampness penetrated her old shoes and her toes were numb. A few flakes of snow were falling. Merry looked up at the patch of sky she could see between the trees; the clouds looked heavy with snow. She came to bushes overhanging the barely discernible path and kept in close to them as the snow increased.
Merry was bone weary with lack of sleep and being constantly on the go. She should go back, she knew, but really she wasn’t so far from Old Pit – she would be able to shelter in her grandmother’s house if need be. The path she was following was probably made by animals – rabbits or a badger – she knew that really. Yet she wandered along it, impelled to go on, further into the wood. She walked further round a bush, seeking for the shelter of a slight overhang of rock behind it.