She shook his hand and thanked him.
Dravid asked his aide to send in his secretary on his way out. ‘Tell him I have two telegrams to send to Kolar Gold Fields.’
45
Jack arrived at the engine room half an hour before he was due on his shift that would see him working through the night until around two in the morning. He’d had to leave the house; he couldn’t bear to see the look of disapproval but mostly disappointment in his wife’s eyes.
He knew he’d let her down by being alone with Iris. He had nothing to answer for, yet he felt so empty. He’d let Ned down again but his real sorrow was for the loss of his father.
At least he hadn’t drunk too much today. No doubt his wife imagined he’d gone into the toddy house, but he’d found himself at the Andersonpet Beer House, sitting in the shade alone, no one aware of the problems churning in his mind. He had drunk beer but it had been slow enough and watery enough that most of it had passed through already.
Yes, he felt a bit ‘furry around the edge’ but he was fine. He needed to set aside the news from Cornwall for now. He had a nine-hour shift to get through. Jack caught himself yawning as he pulled on his overalls, and so did one of his team.
‘You all right, Jack?’
‘Big day,’ he replied, making light of it. ‘My wife’s pregnant. We’ve had people around celebrating.’
‘Hope you didn’t celebrate too hard?’ It sounded like an admonishment.
Jack’s irritation flared. This fellow was around the same age but Jack was his boss. ‘You worry about your work, Robert, and I’ll take care of mine.’ He slammed his locker shut. ‘And don’t ever question my ability to do my job again.’
Withering beneath Jack’s grim stare, the man nodded nervously, and turned away. So did Jack, to hide his desire to yawn again. He took a long drink of water to refresh himself and then sat at the small desk to briefly work out which men would be assigned which tasks for the shift.
Ten minutes later, stretching to clear the cobwebs in his mind, Jack walked across to the platform where he would take charge of winding. He could work alone raising and lowering the men before changing over the cages to the bigger ones that would carry the quartz trolleys up, filled with ore. These were routine tasks he knew backwards. It’s not that it didn’t require him to think, but much of what this particular job involved was intuitive. His hands, his mind knew what to do; his eyes and ears took their own cues, without him having to worry about checking and double-checking. Jack knew he could rely on himself to perform his duties instinctively.
‘Hello, Don,’ he said to the man just wrapping up his shift. ‘Everything calm tonight?’
‘Smooth as silk, Jack. The banksman is changing over now. You’ve got Marty on tonight.’
Jack yawned, covered it with another stretch. ‘Good. Marty’s reliable,’ Jack said, referring to the man who would keep an eye on all of the cages going up and down, whether they carried men or ore. He would signal to Jack when to lower, when to raise, using a system of bells.
Jack stepped up onto the platform and instinctively his gaze moved to the two enormous black dials in front of him that told him the depth of the cages.
‘Right, Jack. I’m off.’
‘See you, Don.’ He lifted his hand in a wave and turned back to his dials. He’d love to have caught forty winks but the team was already dribbling in. Damn them all for being so prompt this evening, he thought, uncharitably. Jack took one last walk around before he knew the bell would signal. He stretched once again, feeling a satisfying click in his spine, then splashed his face with the cool water nearby and felt immediately better for it.
As he walked past an open window Jack could smell cut grass; everyone wanted their lawns manicured during the festive season. In the distance he could hear men’s voices. The next shift of workers was gathering, mainly Indians on this night, but he imagined their conversations were the same as any group of blokes; debts, wages, family.
He yawned as he relieved himself in the ablutions block. Burrell, one of the older men, noticed, but clearly knew better than to shoot his mouth off.
‘Jack,’ he acknowledged.
Jack washed his hands. ‘How are you, Stan?’
‘Fine, fine. Have you seen they’ve put the mine’s Christmas tree up?’
‘Have they?’
‘The lights were supposed to light up all over the town.’
They walked out of the block together, the noise of the ore trolleys rattling up the tracks drowning out other sounds.
Jack had to shout. ‘What’s the hold-up? You have to tie Ned Sinclair’s hands normally to stop him throwing the switch beforehand.’
Burrell shrugged. ‘There’s some commotion going on at the electrical department. I saw a crowd of people outside the Walker household.’
Jack frowned. ‘What?’
‘I thought I saw your mate’s wife being helped inside.’
‘Helped?’
‘Oh, well, you know. It was dark but I thought it was her. Anyway, come on, the siren’s about to go.’
Jack nodded, disturbed, his anxiety for Iris, for Ned and his own grief reawakened.
As Jack was stepping back onto his platform, awaiting the siren that would signal the changeover and the bell for him to begin winding, Iris was being given a sedative.
‘Two cachets of Veronal should do it,’ her father explained as he tipped the white crystallised powder into the mug of milk that her mother had warmed. He stirred it briskly. ‘Now, get it all down her.’
‘Do we have to drug her? What about the baby?’ Flora asked, wiping at the silent, helpless tears streaming down her face.
‘Flora, she’s near hysterical. She must be still. I’m thinking of that baby and trying to keep our grandchild safe. This will bring Iris some rest quickly.’
After collecting herself, Flora entered her daughter’s bedroom where Rupert and Geraldine struggled to calm the sobs of their younger sister.
‘Please, darling,’ Rupert was soothing Iris. ‘I’ll hold you, I promise. I won’t let you go.’
The last time Flora had seen Iris she’d been screaming, so these chest-heaving sobs were a marked improvement. But it wasn’t just Iris; they were all in shock. Fortunately, she had been with her daughter when the news had come through. She thought about that terrible hour or two now as though she were watching it play again, as though it were happening right before her.
That silent, brooding woman who’d married Jack Bryant had sent the chokra to fetch Flora. Flora had been confused enough by Mrs Bryant – of all people – being at her daughter’s house, but to be summoned by her because her daughter needed looking after was even more mystifying. But right enough, Iris had seemed agitated, mumbling about Ned seeing her with Jack. Oh, Flora couldn’t make head nor tail of it.
There had to be some misunderstanding but she couldn’t make sense of Iris’s frantic ramblings. Then, just as she’d settled Iris into a shower, there had been a knock at the door.
When Flora opened the door she had been confronted by two grim-looking men she recognised from her son-in-law’s workplace.
‘Hello, Bernie, Ron,’ she’d said, frowning. ‘Ned’s at work.’
The men looked at each other and she sensed the tension immediately.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her hand instantly to her chest, peering around to see if Iris was out yet. She could still hear the water flowing. ‘Has something happened?’
Bernie looked down. ‘Flora, can we come in?’
She opened the door wider. ‘Tell me, before my pregnant daughter comes out. She’s upset enough today.’
Bernie shook his head. ‘We should tell her to her face —’
‘Don’t you dare, Bernie Molloy! I went to school with your father! Show some respect for your elders. Now, my daughter’s had enough upset for today. What do you think I’m doing here? Sucking eggs?’ It was an old Anglo-Indian saying. Both men had heard their own mothers say it many t
imes. And Flora Walker was not one to trifle with. They shook their heads in unison. ‘Don’t upset Iris,’ she warned.
It was Ron who found the courage after a deep breath. ‘I don’t think we can avoid that, Mrs Walker.’
Flora felt the colour drain from her face and was suddenly feeling backwards for a chair. They helped her, sitting her down in the small front room.
Steeled by his companion, Bernie continued. ‘There’s been an accident, Mrs Walker. It’s … it’s Ned.’
She stared at them blankly. How bad was it? She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know; she was frightened for Iris and what this would do to her.
Into that terrible silence came a small voice. ‘Mum? Ron, what are you doing here? I … I’m sorry. I was …’
Bernie cleared his throat and Flora forced herself to be resolute; her daughter needed her. Ned was obviously going to need care, and all the family would help. She rallied her courage, crossed the floor and took her daughter’s hand.
‘Iris, my love, you have to be brave, darling. There’s been an accident.’
‘Ned?’ Iris asked, searching the men’s faces for information.
They both nodded.
‘How bad?’ she croaked.
Ron looked up, his eyes helplessly watering. ‘Iris, I’m sorry, he’s dead.’
Flora heard the final word but it seemed to take an age to register. It hung between the four of them like a disease; sinister, unwelcome, final. None of them wanted to claim it. She certainly needed to run the word over and over in her mind to make sense of it in connection with the young, vital Edward Sinclair, the father of her unborn grandchild.
‘Dead?’ she heard Iris groan. ‘Are you sure?’
It was a mad question. They’d hardly be here otherwise.
But Iris was not yet ready to accept it. ‘How?’ Flora saw her daughter shake her head as though what she’d been told was impossible. ‘I mean, he left here a few hours ago, perfectly healthy. What do you mean dead?’ Suddenly Iris was running across the floor and beating Ron’s chest with her fists. ‘What do you mean dead?’ she screamed again.
Flora reached for her daughter but she wouldn’t be consoled, couldn’t be quietened. Over the noise and beyond the shock, she found her wits. ‘Bernie, go fetch my husband from the hospital now. Be quick! We have to think of the baby.’
And then she had wrapped her small arms stoutly around her child and held her so firmly that all Iris could do was weep, screaming intermittently that the news was wrong. But her mother refused to let go. Three generations of her family sat on the sofa in that lonely, frigid house and she was going to make sure all of them came through this safely.
And now she ignored her daughter’s cries and protests again, gently but firmly getting the warmed milk down her throat. It was soothing on its own but her fatigue from all the anxiety combined with the fast working barbiturate had her sleeping sooner than Flora had imagined.
Rupert sighed in relief, his face pinched and weary.
Geraldine was crying and excused herself.
It was only now that Flora allowed herself to cry. She turned into her husband’s arms. ‘Harold, what are we going to do?’
He stroked her neck. ‘We’re going to stay strong as a family and we’re going to help Iris come through this.’
‘Have you found out any more?’ she said, stepping back a little from his embrace, digging in her sleeve for her hanky.
‘An accident, not far out of Bowringpet.’ He gave a rueful sigh. ‘Ned was trying to fix a dangerous site.’
She stifled a sob at the horrible irony.
‘He’d been warned to leave it. I don’t know what was in his head; he was such a cautious young man. It was obviously a terrible tragedy, no one’s fault.’
‘Who knows?’ Rupert asked. ‘Has anyone told Jack Bryant?’
His father shook his head. ‘No one knows. And I’ve asked it kept that way for now until Iris wakes up at least. ’
‘And Christmas is just days away,’ Flora bleated.
Harold hugged his wife. ‘Our only concern now is Iris and the safe delivery of her baby. She’ll be stronger then, and with a child to look after she’ll have every reason to look forward, even if it won’t seem like that to her just now.’
‘We might as well move her stuff back home. They won’t let her stay here,’ Rupert said and shrugged at his mother’s glare at his insensitivity. ‘She can’t hear me, Mum, and it needs to be said. Let’s save her the trauma and start packing things up now. I can handle that – I’m no good for much else.’
‘Don’t say that, son,’ his mother said.
‘You’re right, Rupert. She’ll have to leave,’ Harold followed up. ‘I’ll leave that with you, then. She’s best at home with us anyway.’
They heard the sirens from the various mines signalling the next shift and it seemed to break the spell in the room. Harold and Rupert left Flora, who was settling herself into a chair so she could sit and watch her daughter sleep and be there for when she woke to the realisation that it had not been a nightmare; Edward Sinclair was dead.
The siren sounded above the loud groan of the engines. Their noise was so constant that the engineering team had learned to live around its endless accompaniment and talked, unconcerned, above it. But Jack worked alone, gloves on, deep in his thoughts, checking dials, levers, preparing for the process that would raise the cages of fatigued, dust-encrusted men from the afternoon shift, and replace them with clean men, lowering them for their long haul through the night in the belly of the earth.
Marty gave the signal, the bell shook, jangling above Jack’s head. Not needing to look at the lever, his eye on the big dial, Jack heard the engine sigh, and the hauling began.
He heard the whine of the engine as it responded to his controls and he watched the great wheel rotating. The generators groaned a bit louder than usual as he coaxed the engine and the black cables, strung taut, wound effortlessly and the first cage-load of men arrived back at the surface.
‘Are they double loading or something?’ Burrell commented as he walked behind Jack.
‘What?’
‘She’s complaining tonight,’ he said, referring to the engine.
‘That’s her way, Stan. They wouldn’t dare add a single person more to the cage than instructed, not without asking first. No, we’re all good here.’
Burrell walked away as another groan sounded. Robert heard it too.
‘Ominous,’ he remarked, as he passed.
Burrell shrugged. ‘Bryant knows what he’s doing and he knows that engine better than any of us.’
Robert gave the older man an arch look that defied Burrell’s sentiment.
‘Go about your business, Robert,’ Burrell suggested. He strolled back to Jack. ‘Need any help?’
Jack glanced around. ‘What is this, the third degree? First bloody Robert Powell and now you? ’
‘You look a bit tired, Jack, and your eyes are bloodshot.’
‘Stan, I’m going to let that pass but I’m resenting all this scrutiny from my own people.’ He lowered the lever and the winder responded, reversing its direction. ‘Powell’s always looking to undermine me when he can. He’s never got over my promotion and you know it.’
‘I know. I think the accident at William’s Shaft has made us all a bit nervous.’
‘That was a rock burst, Stan. Nothing to do with engineering.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.’
‘Me too. I’m probably a bit touchy tonight. Best left to myself.’
‘All right, Jack. I’m going out to check the pumps.’
‘Good. Don’t forget we also need to check the ore chutes are clear. Or we’ll get blamed again. And Stan?’
He turned.
‘Get Powell out of my sight, will you? He can check the leats are clear on the levels.’
‘Will do.’
As Burrell left, Jack stifled another yawn and shook his head to try to clear the blurriness in
his mind. Somewhere he registered that he must be in shock over his father’s death, because right now all he felt was numb. He couldn’t think about it, not yet. He sensed his brain blanking and shying away from the fact of his father’s death … Work! That was the thing. His work was something he knew how to do.
He waited for the hand signal from the man below. The cage emptied and a new complement of Indian workers trooped in. The cage itself was approximately twenty feet tall and carried its human cargo in two layers, up to thirteen men in each layer.
Jack checked the dial. All steady. It would take roughly three minutes to lower the men. He waited for Marty to make his notation of how many the next cage contained. All was ready.
The banksman gave the signal and the bell above him told Jack it was time to lower. He was already thinking about the bigger cages that would be changed over shortly to begin the all-night hauling of the quartz to the surface. There’d been some repairs to the ore cages and he was looking forward to a problem-free shift.
Jack checked the dial. The men were already at three thousand feet. That seemed to have happened faster than his instincts told him. He shook his head, moved his jaw from side to side in an effort to rouse himself. The coffee wasn’t working its expected magic. He needed to stay alert. He called to a tiny Indian man nearby. Babu was never far away, instantly recognisable in his baggy black trousers and deep charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled back to his elbows.
Babu grinned, his thick moustache widening, always pleased to be called upon. ‘Yes, sir, Master Bryant?’
‘Get me a water, will you? I’m very thirsty.’
He nodded and hurried away. Jack wished all his men could be as enthusiastic as little Babu, who seemed to consider it the height of privilege to be the engineer’s sidekick.
He was back in a blink. ‘Here, sir.’
Jack took the enamel mug and drained it loudly. ‘I needed that,’ he said with a sigh, his gaze on the dial.
Was it his imagination or was the cage descending faster? The men were at seven thousand feet. Jack refocused his attention on the dial. Perhaps he should slow it. He eased back on the lever, felt the response immediately, heard it too.
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