White Water

by Pamela Oldfield

  He paused and swallowed. Their silence, after the first murmur, unnerved him. He cleared his throat and tried to remember the carefully chosen phrases he had prepared with which he meant to soften the blow, but they had all deserted him. ‘I’ve paid the wages as long as I dared but there’s no longer enough money to meet the bill. The mine is not producing enough tin. The tin we do produce fails to earn enough money. The little money we have no longer pays for oil, for your lamps, wood to shore the tunnels, tools to dig.’

  He paused again. Still that awful silence and those impassive stares. What were they thinking? he wondered uneasily. He let his gaze travel over them and one woman in the front now lowered her eyes and scuffed the ground with the toe of her worn shoe. She looked undernourished and her dark hair was scraped back in an unbecoming knot. He could not put a name to the face.

  ‘The situation is bad,’ he went on. ‘I won’t pretend ’tis otherwise. The men know that of the three veins we’re working one is run out, one is giving poor quality ore, and the third and most recent one is not yet fully proven. We have lost three of our best customers in one year — the two London pewterers and the Flemish company.’ At last there was a response — a low, shocked murmur. ‘They have gone elsewhere for their tin and we are helpless to stop them. We will never win them back. The Cornish mines are thriving while we in Devon — Oh aye, Heron is not alone in her plight — while we in Devon dwindle and fail. ’Twas not always so, but tin is fickle stuff and now it eludes us.’ They were suddenly fidgety and Hugo decided the time had come to tell them the worst, before their mood changed from grey to black.

  ‘Some of you will have to go,’ he said. The murmur grew and a few voices were raised above the rest. ‘Those that do will each have a week’s wages and the promise that when … ’

  ‘We can’t live on promises!’ shouted someone at the back of the crowd.

  ‘ … that as soon as ’tis possible — if ’tis possible — they can come back to us.’ The muttering grew louder and Barlowe shouted to them to listen to what was being said. They fell silent again and Hugo went on. ‘I’m going to get rid of a third of the men and half the women … ’ There was a fresh outcry and the shouts were definitely hostile now. ‘Be thankful ’tis not all of you!’ he shouted. ‘Next month or the month after it may well come to that.’

  The voices trailed into silence as the extent of the disaster was understood. ‘I’ve thought this out most carefully and I’ve tried not to lose more than one wage earner in each family. More than that I could not do. I shall read out the list presently, but before I do I’ve a word of hope and I trust you’ll hear me out. The Heron mine needs modernizing if ’tis ever to pay its way again. We need new methods and new machinery — Oh aye,’ he raised a hand to silence their protests, ‘I know you care little for change. Tis always so. But let me tell you this — without modernization this mine will be closed forever within a year. That’s no idle threat but stark reality. And if the Heron mine goes we all go!’

  Somewhere in the middle of the crowd a woman began to sob and the sound provoked a fresh protest, but one in which their previous hostility was touched with fear. A man stepped forward from the front row and shouted, ‘Read the list!’ but Hugo shook his head firmly.

  ‘The list is last,’ he told them. ‘I’ve more to say yet and I want all of you to hear me and understand the reasons for my plans. Many of you may recall my absence earlier in the year.’ There was a chorus of ‘ayes’. ‘I went abroad to take advice from a company that mines at a profit and most likely always will. The name of the company is of no significance, but I saw there the new methods of working that I spoke of and new machinery which we should be using.’

  ‘Where’s the money coming from?’ shouted one of the men. ‘If you’ve no money for our wages then you’ve none for fancy machinery!’ A great roar of approval greeted him and it was some time before Hugo could regain their attention.

  ‘I don’t know where the money will come from,’ he told them. ‘I’ll try and borrow it. If not we’ll have to make the machinery with wood from our own trees. To do that I need someone with more knowledge than I possess — and with more knowledge than any of you possess. Don’t misunderstand me. You are all skilled men and proud of it, and rightly so. But we need someone with new knowledge and new skills and I have found such a man. Hans Bucher is his name and he comes from Austria.’

  A fresh outburst greeted this remark and he let the buzz die down before continuing.

  ‘Hans Bucher is a mining expert — a consultant engineer with eleven years’ experience. I’ve offered him a job at Heron and he’ll start as soon as he arrives at the end of the month. In a month or so, I may be able to offer more work to some of you. I say maybe. ’Tis by no means certain. If all goes as planned another three months and more of you should be re-employed. But — I can make no promises. And now I am nearly done. Remember, all of you, that without Hans Bucher we are probably finished. He is our best chance of survival. His coming could make a difference to the lives of each one of you. We need him. Heron needs him and we need his experience. He has spent the last six years in the most modern mine in Austria. With his help we could be the most modern mine in the West Country. Bucher deserves your respect and your support. For all our sakes I welcome his coming.’

  Then he unrolled the list and immediately the shouting died away as the faces turned back to him and fear silenced all but the beating of their hearts.

  ‘The women first — Marion Shorne, Sylvia Haddon, Bess Lovell, Rita Carp — ’ As he read on, he was aware of the shocked faces and whispered prayers and it was all he could do to keep his voice steady. His wildest imaginings had not prepared him for the feeling that he had betrayed these loyal workers — men and women who not many years since had danced at his wedding, or named their children after him and Maria. He wanted to throw down the list, run away from those accusing faces and hide. Instead he read on steadily. ‘And now the men — Thomas Betts, John Green, Sam Tiddons, Alec Boord — ’ He glanced up. One by one the unfortunates bent their heads or covered their faces, hiding their shame and grief from their fellows. Somehow Hugo finished the list. ‘If these people will attend at the office they’ll receive their money,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry ’tis come to this. Much sorrier than you can guess at — ’

  ‘Not as sorry as us, though!’ cried a voice and Hugo could only bow his own head in mute reply. He stepped down and strode into the office. He supervised Barlowe’s distribution of the money and waited until the crowd dispersed, some to go home, others to go down for the afternoon shift.

  Then he too went home, the taste of defeat strong in his mouth. He stopped his horse as he reached the brow of the hill and looked out on the moor where people straggled homeward, some of them thanking God for their deliverance, others cursing the devil for their loss. ‘They are my people,’ he whispered, ‘and I must help them. Hans Bucher is our only hope.’

  And he turned his face homeward and rode on with a heavy heart.

  *

  Alec Boord went home with murder in his heart. He was a small swarthy man in his fifties and already his lungs were diseased and this breathing was stertorous. He could no longer sleep in a horizontal position but sat up all night, propped against the wall and dozed fitfully. His wife Annie was a tall gaunt woman with large bones and a sour disposition. They had had five children. The first had died at birth, the second lived three years and was run down by a turf wagon. The third and fourth, twin boys, lived a few months before succumbing to an attack of dysentery and the fifth, a girl, was now eighteen and had run away from her loveless home and married a tinker. The Boords had never seen her again and had no wish to. Their life was a succession of days and nights. They quarrelled often and both drank to excess whenever they could afford to. Now they could not afford to. Alec Boord had lost his job. Annie, crippled with rheumatism, had not worked for the past seven years. They were bitter, lonely people and Alec’s dismissal was the last of a series of d
isasters from which, it seemed, they would never escape.

  ‘A week’s money?’ echoed Annie as her husband slammed down the handful of coins. ‘Just that?’

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ said her husband. He sat down heavily on a stool and stared at the small fire over which a black kettle hung.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kendal, the bastard! I’ll kill him. I swear I will. A week’s money and a lot of sweet talking and barely a thank you.’

  He kicked the log further into the blaze and it sent up a flurry of sparks which disappeared into the roof. ‘Forty-one years I’ve sweated for him and this is what I get!’ He spat derisively and his wife watched him, letting him rant on, her thoughts busy with the immediate problems of food and warmth. Thank God summer was on its way!

  ‘Hans Bucher!’ he told her. ‘’Tis him we’ve to thank for this. Hans Bucher, a so-called expert. A so-called engineer. He’s being brought over, no doubt at great expense, to take the work from men like me. What does a so-called expert know about mining? Damned foreigner! I’ll warrant he’s never sweated a seven hour shift, gasping for breath, shivering with cold — ’

  ‘You and who else?’ snapped his wife. ‘Who else is sacked?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty to keep me company. Tiddons has gone, and Tom Betts, Green, Simmons, old John Jenkins — and him with seven mouths to feed. He’s a poor worker, granted, but he’s older than most and he’s never missed a day’s work in his life, poor sod!’

  ‘No more have you.’

  ‘Aye. No more have I but it comes to the same thing. God’s mercy, I could kill him with my bare hands.’

  ‘Don’t talk so wild, Alec Boord.’

  ‘You’ll talk wild when that’s spent!’

  ‘We won’t starve,’ she said. ‘We never have.’

  ‘I’ve never lost my job before,’ he cried.

  ‘You’ll manage. Catch fish or a rabbit. There’s ways.’

  ‘Or a pheasant or a lamb! Want me to hang, do you?’

  ‘Don’t talk so soft.’ Her fear sharpened her tongue. ‘If you’ve lost your job you must find another. Not sit there on your arse, moaning. If there’s any other work to be found it’ll go to the first that asks.’

  He gathered up the coins and flung them suddenly across the room. ‘Hans bloody Bucher! I’ll kill him, too! He’ll wish he’d stayed in Austria. I’d wring his neck till his eyes start out of his head!’

  She got up slowly, moving with difficulty, and began to collect up the money. ‘Have you talked to the others? What’ve they to say to it? I’ll wager Simmons’ll not take it lying down, nor Betts neither.’

  ‘I talked to no one but I will. Aye, we’ll put our heads together.’

  ‘Well don’t come up with any crack-brained notions, Alec Boord. If you hang, what happens to me? They’ll not give me a bunch of flowers and shake my hand, that’s for certain. What about the Tuckers’ mine — Maudesley or whatever they call it? There’s maybe work there.’

  ‘Maudesley? God woman, the Maudesley mine is miles away! Twice the distance to Heron. By the time I’d walked home ’twould be time to go back.’

  She straightened up with an effort and put the money into her apron pocket.

  ‘On the table with it,’ snapped Alec. ‘That money comes back to me and no arguments. I’m in no mood for it.’

  ‘It stays where ’tis,’ she said defiantly. ‘If this is all we’ve got I’ll not have you drink it away.’

  He leapt to his feet and struck her across the side of the face. She fell backwards off the stool and he stood over her as she fumbled for the coins. When she held them out, he struck her hand from underneath so that the coins flew again. He leaned over her, threatening her with his clenched fists, muttering a string of obscenities, then strode to the door. He slammed it and stood outside, amazed that the moor was so beautiful while life was so hideous.

  ‘Hans Bucher is it?’ he muttered. ‘Bloody foreigners!’ Having found a scapegoat, he felt a little better, a little more in control. This was not the end. It couldn’t be. There had to be a way. Scowling, he whistled and a small terrier appeared, its head well down, its tail between its legs. Boord hesitated and then set off towards Simmons place, the dog trotting warily a short distance behind him.

  *

  Lorna wanted to cough, but she dared not for fear of disturbing the fish which, at any moment, would snap at Nat’s line. Instead she swallowed hard several times. She stood quietly behind Nat who sat under a willow, his gaze fixed on the cork which floated a few yards from the water’s edge. Beside him was a stone jar full of water in which several minnows swam. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘What will you catch?’

  ‘A perch,’ he answered.

  ‘How do you know ’twill be a perch? It might be a pike.’

  ‘’Twill be a perch.’

  She looked around. ‘Where’s Brin?’ she asked.

  ‘Off about his own business, little monkey, but no doubt will be back when his belly rumbles.’ He glanced up at her, squinting into the sunlight. ‘And where’s that animal of yours?’

  She scowled. ‘Gone otter hunting with the others. They said I was too young.’

  ‘So you came to plague me, is that it?’

  ‘Do I plague you, Nat?’

  He smiled. ‘Reckon I can bear it,’ he said, ‘as long as you don’t frighten the fish.’

  Lorna sighed. ‘I wish I had a rod,’ she said.

  ‘But you haven’t, so sit by me and tell me softly what news of Heron. I haven’t seen you for more than a month — Ah!’ He pulled on the rod and a small fish came into view. Lorna giggled but Nat lowered it gently into the water again.

  ‘Was that a perch? ’Twas very small,’ she said innocently.

  He grinned. ‘That was the bait, as well you know! The perch will see the minnow and snap it up and then I shall snap him up.’

  ‘Is a perch much bigger than a minnow?’

  ‘Much bigger. You’ll see.’

  She settled herself on the grass beside him and stared earnestly at the cork which moved slowly over the surface of the water. ‘And what if it doesn’t snap at the minnow?’ she asked.

  ‘Then I shall try another bait. A brandling worm or maybe a small frog. Or even a small girl!’

  She gave a little scream and glanced at him anxiously. ‘A fish won’t snap at a girl,’ she said. ‘Will it?’

  He laughed. ‘The perch is a very bold biter,’ he told her. ‘I knew a man once dabbled his toes in the water to see how cold it was and snap! The perch had him by the toe and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail had tumbled him into the river and pulled him away so fast that he was never seen again.’

  Lorna thought about it and then shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  He shrugged by way of answer and continued to study his cork. ‘How’s that brother of yours — young Piers?’ he asked. ‘Gone away to school yet?’

  ‘Not yet. He goes in September and a good riddance. He teases me and Mama scolds him.’

  ‘You’ll miss him when he goes — Ah! Another bite. Now stay still … ’ Deftly, he began to play his fish, guiding it into the shallows. ‘The net!’ he told her. ‘Take up the net and put it into the water — Oh! he’s gone again. Slipped away, and look, he’s taken the minnow! I told you he was a bold biter. And strong too. That was a big fish. But this time we’ll try a frog.’

  He pulled a grimy cloth from his pocket and carefully unwrapped a small green frog.

  Lorna watched fascinated as he slipped the hook through the loose skin of the frog’s leg. ‘’Tis still alive!’ she screamed, seeing the frog wriggle.

  ‘Aye. He must be, then he’ll swim up and down in the water and the perch will say “minnow for dinner, frog for dessert”.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Aye, he will. You’ll hear him if you listen hard.’

  When the frog was fastened to his satisfaction he swung it into the water with hardly a splash and the two of the
m settled down again to watch and wait.

  ‘And what of the baby that’s due at Ladyford?’ asked Nat. ‘Is that born yet?’

  The little girl shook her head. ‘’Tis soon though and Nina is so fat! I shall have a baby when I grow up.’

  ‘You’ll need a husband first.’

  ‘I shall wed Martin.’

  Nat laughed. ‘He’s your half brother. You can’t wed him!’

  ‘Oliver, then. He has gone back to sea but when he comes home again.’

  ‘He has a wife already!’

  Her face fell then brightened suddenly. ‘Then you, Nat! You haven’t got a wife.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Nor like to. Nought but a trial, women. I’d sooner stay single.’

  ‘Then I’ll wed Hans Bucher,’ said the little girl. ‘He’s a good man and Papa says he is sharp as a needle. Papa says he has a brilliant mind. He is only thirty-one and I shall ask him to wait for me. He has a small beard that tickles and he smells of lavender water.’

  ‘Does he indeed!’

  ‘Aye. He and Papa are going to build a big machine. They will have to build it down the mine for ’twill be too big to go down the shaft. And they will have a pony to turn the wheel.’

  ‘A pony?’ Nat turned to stare at her. ‘A pony down a mine?’

  ‘Aye. He will live down there and have a comfortable bed of straw and they will take his dinner down.’

  ‘A pony down a mine! And this is Master Bucher’s idea?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And what do — Ssh! Keep very still and quiet!’ he whispered. ‘Here’s another. He liked the frog! And this — time — I’ll have him!’ With a swift smooth movement he landed the fish and it lay floundering on the grass behind them. It was over a foot in length and its deep body was covered in thick, dry scales. Two large fins stood up from its back and Sharp teeth were visible inside the large mouth. Quickly he extracted the hook and slipped the fish into the net.