Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  But would any of them hear? At least it would slow off the incline before it got to the face. ‘Ralph, Ralph, you all right?’ he yelled.

  The rumble grew louder, but at least it was a rumble, so the tub hadn’t jumped the rails, yet, perhaps pinning the lad down. Closer and closer it drew. The air was rushing. He pressed himself back hard. Aye, the bugger would pass soon, he thought. He breathed out, only then realising he’d been holding his breath. Had it gone over Ralph? They’d have to rush to get help and—

  The tub was closer, like a steam train. It was so damned near, but then there was nothing. Just a big silent space for a second as the tub flew in the air. He froze. Where was the beggar? The tub screeched as it landed, and the ground shuddered. Davey shut his eyes and prayed, but he felt the blow before he heard it as the tub hit the pit prop at his side, which cracked and buckled into him, throwing him across the rails. The tub spun and flew backwards. The wall blew out, jagged, cruel and heavy, taking his air away. ‘Fran,’ he groaned. Then nothing.

  Stan was at work, hacking at the face. He could neither hear nor see anything but the thud of the pick on the gleaming coal, the thud of Sid’s and Norm’s, the splinter of the bloody great slab, the crash as it came down, the flying dust and the flash of the pick, the sweat as it dropped on his hands as he heaved more of the coal down. Sid and Norm heaved too, dug and delved alongside him. The coal was piling up, so Davey had better get the pillock to get a move on. He rested his pick and only then felt the shudder through his feet and up the handle, into his hands, then heard the rumble, the crash.

  He stood stock-still, just as Sid and Norm were doing. Listening. Fearing. Their mouths souring because they knew it was a fall. Where? The air whooshed from the narrow roadway. Close, then.

  Davey? Stan moved, snatching up his lamp and dragging his pick, hurtling along with Sid and Norm behind him into the billowing coal dust. The shadows leapt as they battled through the dust, crunched over fine debris, bent low as the roof dictated, clambered closer, calling into the hush that had fallen in the pit. For when a fall resonated, men paused, listened and judged. Stan yelled as he ran, hunched over, heedless of the coal ripping his back. ‘Davey? Ralph?’

  ‘Davey, talk to me, lad,’ Sid yelled.

  ‘Davey. Howay, Davey?’ Norm called.

  He hadn’t called back. So they knew, and they weren’t having it. Not their Davey, not again.

  The dust was too thick. Stan coughed, but still he ran. ‘Davey, Ralph,’ he called, choking, struggling for breath. There was no answer and their lamps picked out the gleam of heaped coal through the dust. Heaped coal where there should be none. Coal that was still tumbling from the roof and slithering like a filthy stream onto the rails and along towards them. But not right across. Not across at least, so it hadn’t trapped them, but Davey …?

  Stan held up his hand. Sid and Norm pressed close, panting. ‘Can we get past? Is the whole bloody lot on its way down?’

  ‘Where the hell is Davey?’

  ‘Ralph?’

  They edged to one side, stepping through, their eyes and ears on the roof. They reached the other side to see Ralph stumbling down the slope, calling, ‘It got away, the damned thing got away. But only after I heard the roof come down.’ He was holding up his lamp and pointing to the empty tub, which had been thrown at an odd angle, where it appeared to have hit the heaped coal.

  Sid yelled, ‘Where’s Davey? Were he near you?’

  Ralph was shaking his head. ‘He was with you.’

  Stan was tearing at the coal now, screaming, ‘Davey.’

  Sid shouted into Ralph’s face, ‘You must have heard him call you. For he would have done, cos he were looking for you.’

  Norm grabbed Sid’s arm. ‘Help, for God’s sake. Just help.’

  They all began digging gently with their picks, and then threw those aside in frustration and used their hands. Where was their Davey? Stan worked as the dust stung his eyes and his hands were shredded, his back screaming as others came. Then there was Mr Bedley beside him, but still he tore at the coal, until a stronger hand was pulling him away, forcing him back. It was his da. ‘Stand back, lad. We’ve props and planks coming. Got to shore up the roof, the walls, make ’em safe.’

  Stan threw him off. ‘It’s our Davey under that lot. So we get him out, now.’

  His da shook him. ‘We shore the bastard up – look, they’re here. Stand back, and let us do our jobs.’

  Sid grabbed Stan, and Norm gestured to Ralph, who was standing uncertainly in the quiet of the pit, for it was quiet, as though waiting. Stan stared at Sid and said, ‘But it’s our lad, our Davey.’

  He was panting, as though he’d run a mile, but his marrer was under that lot. His marrer, his best marrer, his Davey. And what about Fran? Oh God. His da and Mr Bedley were heaving in the props as close to the fall as they could make it, and banging in the roof planks. Never had he seen men work so hard, so fast and so silently, as they were joined by the deputy manager and two others from the rescue team. Together they worked, but his Davey was under that jagged heap.

  His da turned to him, mallet in hand. ‘Now, you get in there and dig for his life, lads.’

  Norm was already scrabbling at the coal, and now Stan, Sid and Ralph were there with the rest of the pitmen and the rescuers. They pulled away the small stuff, getting their picks at the large slabs that had sheared off from the walls.

  Stan was calling through the dust, ‘Come on, Davey, lad. Come on, let’s get you out. Yes, we’ll get you out. Your lass will want you out. We want you out.’

  Tom Bedley was tearing at the coal too. ‘Da’s here, bonny lad. Don’t yer fret, Da’s here.’ Tom Bedley repeated it the whole time they worked, and Stan began sobbing like a bairn, the tears running down into his mouth, until he crunched salt and coal. Sid cursed Auld Hilda and Norm cursed God, the war, Ralph, everything and everyone.

  It was then that Stan stopped and looked for Ralph. There he was, still working as hard as the rest, as he should. But why had he taken so long with the tub, so Davey had to go looking? And why was the tub at that crazy angle if it had hit the heap? It would have tipped, of course it would … But like that? Nothing made sense, for why had the wall and roof fallen? It’d all been checked overnight, it always was, and it weren’t creaking when they came on shift. Had something hit it? But Ralph had only let the tub go when he heard the fall …

  Davey was under there. Davey, laughing; Davey, singing; Davey who should have fought him for the scholarship, but who was happy to be with Fran and build his crosswords. ‘So come on, bonny lad. Come on, Davey, lots of crosswords to set. Come on, lad. Fran’s waiting. She’s always waiting for yer because you’re the air she breathes.’

  He heard his own da then, shouting, ‘Come on, lad, us’ll get you out of there, you keep going till we get to you. I told yer I’d tan yer backside for yer, but instead I’ll buy you a pint, and then the canaries need more chickweed, so how about it, lad? You feed ’em the chickweed, eh?’

  And Mr Bedley worked like he’d never worked before. He probably didn’t know that his coal-dust-clad face was scored with tear tracks, and his whole body was wracked with silent sobs.

  Davey couldn’t breathe. Not properly, just a bit, and the pain washed over him like the beck in full flood. He heard his da and Mr Hall, so everything would be all right. They were there, and so was Stan. He could hear Stan, and Mr Hall, and Sid and Norm. Everyone was there, but Fran. He felt tired, so tired, and he hurt. All he wanted was to sleep. He wished they’d just stop shouting. Just so he could sleep, but then he heard Stan again: ‘… crosswords. Come on, Davey. You must be setting one in your head, cos you always are. Come on, keep thinking.’

  Stan’s voice was strange, sort of choked, but he was right. What was that word he’d had in his head? Ah, that’s right, preferable, or preferably. But what was the clue? How far had he got? The key? He was looking for the key. Then it all went, and he just rested, rested, and perhaps he slept. Bu
t then the word nagged again. The coded clue. That was it. A letter that repeated; turned into a number that repeated. He needed a phrase, a key to the code … 6, something about a 6. He drifted again, the pain … The dust was in his mouth, and the coal too, wet coal. But was it his blood that made it wet? Blood and coal.

  His da was calling, faintly, and he could hear the clatter as they grappled and tossed coal. They’d be clearing a path to him, like he’d done many a time before now. They were working hard, like they’d worked on Stan and him when their legs were busted. Like he and Stan had worked when Norm got caught. But that was mining. No one promised a rose garden. It was cuts, aches, pints, canaries, ponies, and love …

  What had Ralph been doing to let go of the tub? Why hadn’t he answered when he’d called? Why didn’t he shout when the tub ran free like Da was shouting now? ‘We’re nearer, bonny lad. Getting to yer. Call if’n you can, eh? Keep on breathing, that’s me bairn.’

  He tried to call, but he had no breath, or maybe there was just a whisper of a breath, which hurt. The coal was jagged and heavy, pressing on him like it pressed the roof planks and made them creak. He just wanted to sleep, but Stan was yelling and it was tiring to hear them. He wanted them to hush, just hush, but then Stan said, ‘Fran’ll be the one giving you a leathering, lad, if you’re not back and talking to her when she’s off shift. Got to get to the bus shelter. It has to be you.’

  Ralph called then: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll fetch her to you.’

  Davey breathed a little bit deeper then. Fran and he were one, so they were. That Ralph wasn’t going to fetch her anywhere. She didn’t want it. He was coming out from under this lot, of course he was. He had to fetch her. Not Ralph.

  He drifted, but then the pain caught, cutting into his mind, and there was a sudden question. What was the key? He needed the key. The reader must be able to find the first repeater letter in the gobbledygook of letters. A vowel, eh? A repeater like Ralph, always there when something went wrong.

  The coal was heavier, and it was getting harder to fight. He just wanted to rest. Just rest. But if he did then Ralph would be going for his Fran, and she was his, like he was hers. And no bloody Ralph was coming between them. Yes, the key was Ralph. There with the football, there with Fran at the bus, there with the lamp that went dark up the seam, and letting go the tub. Yes, he was the key, because it was him—

  Stan yelled, ‘You got that crossword finished yet? The magazine will be waiting, so stop being so bloody idle. Shout – tell me. Come on, call. You’ve got to call. Got to know you’re putting up a fight.’

  But the coal and blood were in his mouth and if he shouted, the blood and coal would go down his throat and he’d drown. Could you drown in the pit? You could in the beck, but that was cool and fresh and he went to the beck with his Fran. He felt the water, the coolness, and then he was calm. He knew Stan and his da were right. He must breathe, he must set the crossword and sort his magazine if he was to keep the lass comfortable. He wanted her life to be easier than his mam’s. So he lay there as the coal dust showered down, and into his mouth, more and more of it into his mouth, but not his nose, not yet because his head was tilted, just a bit, but enough, but if it built up, layer on layer he’d die and he mustn’t because he needed to meet Fran. He thought of ‘preferable’ and if the clue was in code then it would need a key. Come on, a phrase. ‘Choose the best’? But the ‘e’ could be the repeater. The ‘e’ was a 6. But was the clue good enough?

  Crash, noise and a crushing weight, heavier and heavier, which whooshed away the crossword as his da yelled, ‘The bugger’s coming down again.’

  It’d be the roof, of course it was, and it was pressing him worse. It was jagged and cutting as it squeezed and pinched. The coal was on his face, his head, his everything. He thought of Ralph. How he was always in the way, always causing trouble. The shredded ball. Fran and the bus shelter. The tub whacking into the pit prop – just like a key, repeating. Just like his mind, repeating, bliddy repeating. There was a code there somewhere, a code in what Ralph was up to … Ralph destroying things, like a bliddy war zone. He moaned. The coal and blood slipped from his mouth to his throat.

  But he couldn’t think, nor breathe, any more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fran, Sarah and the rest of their group were really beginning to feel better, for here in the clean room there was good air, the soothing sound of the sewing machines and the scissors cutting through layers of blue cotton. And here they could actually bring in their bottles of water to flush out the chemicals throughout the shift, and nip to the lavatory, which was attached so you didn’t need a guard. Did flushing their bodies with water work? Who knew, but it made them feel as though they were doing something for themselves.

  As their break was called, they filed into the canteen and saw there were still jugs of water on the table. Perhaps there always would be. Good for you, Mam, Fran thought. ‘By, you could lead a revolution.’

  She must have spoken aloud, for Beth, who had returned today, the very day Bob left said, ‘Aye, she could that.’

  They queued for food, taking both mains and pudding, and headed for their table, gobbling it all down with little said now their appetites were back. As the pudding bowls were being scraped clean of sugarless rice, and the spoons licked back and front, Fran saw Miss Ellington heading towards their table. She was waving sheets of music at Fran, who shouted above the din, ‘Howay, ladies, heads up. Remember I said something about the Workers’ Playtime competition? Well, looks like we’re about to hear more.’

  The women looked up while Valerie licked her finger, which she’d wiped around her bowl, and the tannoy played music quietly. They waited as Miss Ellington wound her way through the tables, carrying sheet music beneath her arm. Mrs Oborne leaned forward. ‘What the devil are you talking about, Franny Hall?’

  Maisie groaned. ‘She were in the next shop, remember, and missed t’news. Then I forgot to tell her later, Fran.’

  Miss Ellington distributed a copy of ‘All or Nothing at All’ to each of them, typed up on the back of a list of last year’s food lists. She raised her voice to be heard above the tannoy’s music and the chatter of the other workers while they ate. Mrs Oborne, Valerie and the others read the lyrics, chatting and laughing, ignoring Miss Ellington. Fran wondered if they simply hadn’t heard?

  In exasperation, Miss Ellington, standing beside Fran, reached over, snatched up Sarah’s pudding spoon and banged it like a gavel on the Formica-topped table, yelling for silence. Remnants of Sarah’s rice pudding flicked through the air, landing on Mrs Oborne’s bust. She brushed it off and it lay to rest in her smeared pudding bowl. The whole table called, ‘Goal.’

  The security officer banged the spoon again and everyone ducked, but then sat up, grinning. They were ready to listen, but Miss Ellington still had to raise her voice against the tinny music and chatter from all around. ‘One sheet for each of you. All the others, whatever shift they’re on, will have, or have had, the same song given to them too. The carbon paper is quite done in, I have to tell you. I also have to let you know that in a couple of weeks we’ll be holding a sort of song play-off over a series of lunchtimes, with the winners decided by the majority of workers’ votes.’

  ‘So, is the wireless coming, Miss Ellington?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Ah well, as you know, Workers’ Playtime is announced as coming from a factory somewhere in Britain.’ Miss Ellington held up her finger, paused, then said, ‘Well, that somewhere might be here, or will even probably be here.’

  Mrs Oborne stood up, the smear from the rice still visible. ‘Does probably mean actually, pet?’

  Fran grinned at Beth and Sarah. Miss Ellington tapped her nose. ‘If it becomes actually, that’s for me to know, and you to be told.’

  The table of women groaned, and Sarah muttered, ‘You’re power-mad, Miss Ellington, so you are.’

  ‘You make sure you believe that, Sarah Bedley.’ Miss Ellington wagged her finger, grinning. />
  Valerie called, ‘So what you’re taking so long to tell us is that the winning group will sing on the wireless for Workers’ Playtime, and will Arthur Askey be with them? If so, me mam will sign up to work here just so she can sing with ’im, and she’s got a voice like a bleedin’ foghorn.’

  ‘Like mam, like daughter,’ Mrs Oborne shouted.

  The whole table laughed until Miss Ellington, with a look at the clock, conducted them, one-handed as always, to a halt. ‘But Valerie, of course your mam won’t know where we are, will she? You must remember that, for there must be no one outside wanting anyone’s autograph. Say no more than the winner will be on the wireless. You may tell them what time the programme is, but not who else will be on. So button your mouths shut – don’t let them run away with you.’ She paused, stood straight, and sniggered a bit before saying, ‘But you will need to make sure your mouths open and shut while you practise.’

  The table groaned and someone called, ‘Howay, that just isn’t funny.’

  Again, Miss Ellington smiled. ‘Open and shut them on the bus, or in the hall you have your dances in, or the privacy of the netty, but only concerning the song, and a competition. I repeat, if you win you may tell them what time on the wireless. That’s all. Is that quite clear? I don’t want to come and visit you in prison, and if I do, I assure you I won’t be bringing you a hacksaw.’ The women groaned again.

  Miss Ellington shook her head. ‘I know it’s boring, but it’s essential. Sabotage is an increasing worry …’ She trailed off, as though thinking of something in particular, but then perked up. ‘Look, let me tell you that what I’ve just said is quite true, sabotage is an increasing worry, so you really must be careful about what you say and, as always, keep alert to anything that isn’t quite normal. But back to business. Learn your words, and the music, because I want the girls under my umbrella to do well, and so does Mrs Brown in sewing, and so do Mrs Raydon and Mr Swinton, and all the other Security Officers and foremen, is that quite clear?’