A Million Tears (The Tears Series)

by Paul Henke

  This was his winter underground. When he got to America he would never go down a mine again, not as long as he lived. With a few sacrifices during these last few months, plus their savings and his father’s money he was sure they would be all right in America. While he sipped his tea and ate a dripping sandwich he thought about ‘sacrifices’. What the hell was there to sacrifice? He and Meg had talked about it without mentioning details because they knew there was little more they could give up. He looked at his sandwich in disgust. Christ, he was going to start on a double shift on bread and dripping. His stomach contracted and he had to force himself to chew and swallow. He knew he would be glad of it later.

  He shrugged on his heavy work coat, put the sandwiches Meg had made the night before into his pocket and left. Huddled inside his jacket, shoulders hunched, he walked quickly in the direction of the mine, grunting good mornings to the other miners he met.

  Evan went straight to number three shaft and crowded into the lift with the others. When they stepped onto the open cage the old man told them to mind their hands and with his usual cry of ‘Hell first stop,’ they descended. Evan craned his neck for a last glimpse of the stars, pinpricks of light against the black sky. He hated going down, where there was insufficient air, where the sweat never dried on your back and where the dust settled into everything, filling every hole in his body starting with his nostrils. Some of the men lit the lamps on the front of their helmets, the flickering yellow flame giving their faces a ghostly appearance. With a bone-jarring jerk the lift stopped: they cursed the lift attendant fluently while they stepped off the platform and let those going off shift climb on. There were no greetings, no laughter; this was a place to work and eke out a livelihood, a place hated and feared by the men. This was the place where they toiled to help Victoria’s England in its great industrial revolution, creating massive wealth but not sharing in it.

  Evan walked away, along one of the mine’s many branches that followed the seams of coal. The farther from the entrance he went the muggier it became and sweat soon formed on his forehead. He was weary before he started, with a tiredness which came from the spirit. He followed the bright rail tracks as they sloped gently down, gradually becoming steeper. He was thankful there were no ponies in his part of the mine. He hated the sight of the ponies, blind from being so long in the dark.

  Every few yards an oil lamp flickered, throwing shadows across the walls of the tunnel. As he trudged along heavy boots echoed in the quiet.

  He felt a vibration through his feet and stepped off the track, pressing himself against the side. A few moments later a half dozen empty trucks, with the lone brakeman on the last one, rattled into view. Seeing him, the brakeman slowed and Evan jumped on board, nodding his thanks. Over the next four hundred yards the train of trucks picked up a dozen men. It rounded the last bend, screeched to a halt and the men jumped off, forming themselves into small groups to start digging at the coalface.

  It was like a scene from Dante’s Hell, half naked men swinging pick axes, using shovels and, where the seam narrowed too much, crawling on their hands and knees to chip at the chunks of coal, pushing them back where one of the others would carry it to the trucks.

  Evan put his mind into a kind of stupor, not thinking about the work but dreaming. One day, he thought to himself, I shall tell Dai how I dream. He thinks he’s the only one, sitting with his atlas on his knees, in a land of his own. He does not, he cannot, know I am there as well, away from this hell, in a world of sunshine and light. He does not realise why I could never condemn him to a life down here, where he would surely go without an education. Evan shook his head. That was the dream before America – Dai a doctor or solicitor. Now the dream included them all. America. Evan shuddered. It had taken little Sian’s death to convince them they should go. God, how often had he and Meg discussed it? Meg, my strength, my love. We’ll have that life we talked of so often, I promise you.

  He hacked at the coal with a pick, sweat pouring down his body, making rivulets of white which quickly covered over with dust to be washed away again. All around him men laboured silently, their breath needed for work, none to spare to talk. Besides, the shift overseer would have been on them like a ton of bricks if they slackened. The poor bastard was hated by them all, irrationally really, because he was given a quota by the engineers, and it was the overseer who had to ensure the men achieved it. Sometimes it was not difficult but at other times, like now, they had to work extra hard. The only respite came when the trucks were winched along the track, but even that was only for a few minutes because the next one was already empty and waiting to be brought down. Time was non-existent, life a limbo of sweat, aching muscles and continual thudding as the picks and shovels dug deep into the soft seam.

  A whistle blew and with a sigh the men threw down their tools and moved into the main shaft from the short, narrow holes where they were digging. They sat down, opened their sandwiches and with coal black hands picked out the white bread, eating the dust along with the food. Normally they would have brought bottles of cold tea or water but here there was a small run of water which soaked through the ground into a natural catchment area and then escaped through the tunnel. By the time it filtered through the overhead rock it was as clean as anyone could wish and, more importantly, cold.

  Evan ate just two sandwiches, knowing the danger of cramp if he took too many at one time. While he sat there, still half lost in his thoughts, he looked at the other miners. Between young Raymond, only fourteen years old, and old Clifford at fifty-eight, they spanned three generations. Three generations who had been treated like animals, worked like slaves with no hope of the system ever changing. The whistle blew; with an inward groan he started working again, lifting, swinging, dropping and levering his pick into the coal, gnawing at the small area assigned to him. His mind was in neutral or away with Meg, or off to America, or back again to Meg, or with the boys as they made good in college in America. It was funny, wasn’t it, how his dream had already changed from school in Pontypridd to college in America . . . and back to a warm, cosy evening with Meg, always Meg and their love. It sustained him as he dug into the never-ending seam of coal, the monotony going on for ever . . . until the next whistle, a life time away.

  And so it went on . . . and on. Evan worked double shifts six days of the week but Meg insisted he take Sundays off to regain his strength. Sometimes he did, but more often than not he would work a single shift, which let him have the evening at home.

  He had no time for the committee and could not care less what was going to happen now. He had laid the groundwork, and now it was left to his brother and friends to sort matters out. William was already a member, so all was going according to plan.

  Meg wanted to find a job even if it meant scrubbing floors. She would do anything rather than see Evan work so hard. Evan was adamant. She was not to take a job. The reason was not male pride but because he felt that Meg was better employed amassing information about the best way to get to America. What was the difference in cost if they went from, say, London or Liverpool? Where was it best to land? What part of the States would give them the best opportunities? Meg was kept busy between trips to the new public library in Pontypridd and borrowing books from her school teacher friends.

  The new school would be ready about the second week in February. It would be better than the old place, with no chance of a repetition of the accident which had killed the children. A commemorative plaque was to be placed over the main entrance, listing the names of those who had died. Evan was glad he was leaving the area. He could not bear the thought of seeing Sian’s name every time he walked into the school, and he hated the thought of Sion and Dai seeing it there every day. No, it was better for them all to get away, to leave the sad memories behind and take the happy ones with them.

  Christmas Eve was a Friday night and Evan had finished his double shift. He was not working Christmas day nor Boxing day, the latter at the insistence of Meg. He came out of the lift into
the cold night air, the sweat drying on him instantly, causing him to shiver. By the time he reached the gate it was snowing, the flakes wafting gently down with no wind driving them. As he trudged homewards they intensified, and soon the visibility was only a matter of yards. Near to home he passed a neighbour he could not recognise and exchanged a ‘Merry Christmas’ with him. The streets and houses were already covered in a white mantle, his feet crunching the snow as he walked. Evan found his spirits lightening as he opened the door. For the first time he was looking forward to the holiday, albeit with mixed feelings. This would be the first Christmas without Sian and his parents.

  12

  Christmas had been and gone and the new year had followed quickly. The snow, once a pleasing background to the festivities, had now become a dangerous nuisance. Trudging through the drifts meant leaving home earlier to get to work on time, arriving wet and cold, and returning home even more tired, if that was possible, after sliding and cursing up the slippery road. The Taff had also flooded, but down near Pontypridd, causing damage to low-lying houses and shops. The snow turned to sleet, the sleet to rain and melted into ugly lumps of blackened slush and ice. Paths were worn and walking became easier. Only the children regretted the change in the weather.

  It was a Sunday evening in February and they were gathered together to discuss the move to America in some detail.

  ‘There are three places to sail from,’ Megan began, ‘Southampton, Tilbury and Cardiff. Not Liverpool as I originally thought. Though the fare is slightly cheaper from Southampton by the time we get there and stay in a hotel and so on it’ll be more expensive than going from Cardiff. So I think Cardiff is the cheapest by about ten pounds.’

  ‘Ten pounds,’ Sion whistled, an impressed expression on his face, though he had no real understanding of the value of money yet. Even so, he expressed what Evan thought.

  ‘This is a new route and the ships don’t sail as often as they do from the other two places. In fact, there’s only one sailing a month. The one in March is due on the fifteenth. There was still room yesterday, according to the booking agent.’

  ‘Where will we land?’ asked Evan.

  ‘It stops at Boston and then New York. After that it comes back to Cardiff. The journey takes eighteen days in one of the new type of steam ships. This one is very new apparently, and very luxurious.’

  ‘How much will it cost altogether, Meg?’

  She grimaced. ‘Let me put it this way. We’ll arrive with about two hundred pounds left.’

  ‘Hmmm, not too bad, I suppose,’ said Evan. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, look you,’ in her excitement Meg’s Welsh accent strengthened. ‘We can take a train from New York all the way to Kansas City if we wish,’ her finger traced a line across the atlas. ‘Apparently there’s still a lot of land there nobody has claimed. It’s real cowboy country where people travel on horseback and carry guns and things.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Dai, ‘cowboys. Are there Indians too, Mam?’

  ‘Some but . . .’

  ‘Wild ones?’ interrupted Sion gleefully.

  ‘No, not wild ones. At least, not very wild, just a little bit,’ she added seeing the disappointment on Sion’s face.

  ‘The point is, how far do we wish to go?’ Evan asked.

  Meg sighed. ‘I just don’t know, I really don’t. Of one thing there’s no doubt, you’re not going mining, right?’ The question was rhetorical, but Evan nodded. ‘We still haven’t decided exactly what we’re going to do, have we? I mean, we’ve talked about being there and having a nice life and so on, but what are we going to do? Farming? A small shop of some sort? What?’

  Evan shrugged and the two children copied him.

  Meg smiled. ‘We plan in great depth how we’re going to get there, we have money to ensure a better start than many other immigrants yet we can’t . . .’ she trailed off. ‘You’re hopeless, all three of you.’

  Evan nodded. ‘True, but that’s why we have you.’

  ‘True,’ echoed the boys solemnly.

  Meg suppressed her urge to laugh. ‘All right. Well, while we think about it, you two get ready for bed.’

  With many groans they left.

  ‘What are you going to do, Evan?’

  He grimaced. ‘I’m not sure Meg, and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at farming or something. After all, I like working in the allotment. On the other hand I don’t think I know enough about it to be able to cope with a farm. But then what do I know about? Nothing,’ his voice grew bitter, ‘except mining and I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘We’ll find something, you’ll see. A shop wouldn’t be a bad idea. We could stop off at David and Maud’s and talk to them. I know they haven’t had the shop for long but there must be something they can tell us that’ll be of help.’

  ‘I agree. We’ll stay over night the day before we leave,’ said Evan.

  At last, it was Evan’s final day in the mine. In four days time they would be on their way. They would have one night in Cardiff with David and Maud and then join the ship in time to depart at eight o’clock.

  He trudged along the mineshaft, his mind turning to the family. Now he was in the mine, he could no longer believe it was his last double shift; he could only think he had to get through the day in the same way as he always did; Dream . . . Plan . . . Revenge? No, he did not want to think of that.

  He lifted, swung, dropped and levered in his mechanical, never ending rhythm. The trucks clanged up and down, moving away even as the last lump of coal was thrown into them. The men sweated silently, the whistle blew, they ate their coal dust and sandwiches, the whistle blew, they drank the cold water thankfully. They dug, the whistle blew again . . . and they drank and sweated. To Evan it was the longest shift he could remember. The accident happened two hours before he was due to finish.

  He heard the trucks returning, their noise an unnoticed background to the hell of the mine. The noise surfaced to his conscious level a few moments before the shouts. He looked up to see the trucks moving far too quickly, rolling unchecked along the rails. The brakeman was ineffectively hauling back on his lever but to no avail. It was fifty feet away and going to come off the rails at a tremendous force exactly where Evan was standing. The brakeman jumped, hit his head on the roof and collapsed unconscious. The trucks were thirty feet away and swaying from side to side.

  Evan stood at the bottom of a narrow tunnel, barely wide enough to allow him to face the coal seam and swing a pick. The last truck rocked too far, tottered and fell, taking the other trucks with it. The leading truck came off the rails only feet before it reached the tunnel in which Evan stood. The truck then slewed slightly; still moving quickly it caught the side of the wall and spun round. The back of the truck hit the other side of the tunnel and dug into the soft coal. The noise was horrendous, sparks flew as metal screeched on metal and the truck dug deeper into the coal. Evan pushed so hard against the coal face that the irregular wall bruised his back. The trucks stopped inches from his legs.

  The noise subsided and the men rushed to see if he was all right. Evan found himself trembling. He had never been so close to serious injury or death before. The miners shouted for joy when they discovered he was safe.

  Someone remembered the brakeman and they went to find him. Evan clambered over the trucks, picked up his shirt and coat, and started up the tunnel. He edged silently past the men clustered around the inert body of the brakeman and without a backward glance continued to the lift. Ten minutes later he was outside the gates walking quickly to hide the tremors that still coursed through his body.

  It was a beautiful, early spring night. The three quarters full moon was just coming over the edge of the valley. It was a splendid sight, the white light bathing the scene. Evan looked back at the mine then up at the sky and said: ‘Almost, but not quite. You’ll never find me down there again. I promise you.’

  Meg was surprised but pleased to see him home early. When he told her what had happen
ed she was moved to tears. Their love making that night was extra special.

  Monday dawned bright and early. They had packed eight wooden crates, put together by Evan, William and Uncle James. Two men could lift one crate with a little difficulty. They had hired Dai Coffin’s horse and cart – not the hearse – but the one he used in his capacity as local furniture remover. The packed cart was outside the door, the children sitting on it while Meg and Evan took one last look around.

  ‘I’ll miss our lovely little house,’ Meg said, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Aye, me too, love,’ replied Evan softly. ‘We had some good times here, didn’t we?’ He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged.

  ‘Will we be as happy in America?’

  Evan laughed. ‘Much, much happier, I promise you. You’ll see. Come on, the horse and cart will wait all day but the train won’t.’

  The farewell to the family was tearful, especially Sion’s as he paid his last visit to Uncle James. When the horse and cart were about to move Uncle James slipped Sion a small, neat package.

  ‘See you don’t open it until you’re on the ship,’ he whispered. ‘It’s for all of you. Goodbye and God bless.’ He turned away quickly, determined no one should see his tears.

  ‘Uncle James, Uncle James.’ Sion jumped down and ran back, throwing his arms around the old man’s waist. ‘I love you, Uncle James.’