Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Stan said to the putter, ‘Off you go, lad. Talk to the deputy, he’ll find you a better face, eh? Ralph, you take back the putting cos we’ve time to make up. We’ll have more seams later in t’week if—’

  ‘That’s the two off to the left, and there’re more to the right?’

  Stan was wielding his pick. ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Oh …’ Ralph paused, then shovelled up some of Sid’s coal. ‘The planks were down on the left, and as I was here good and early I had time to take a peek.’

  Stan coughed as the coal came down, again in bits. It was better this way because when it came in a great bloody slab, they had to smash it. As Ralph shovelled, Stan said, ‘You mustn’t go down them seams, you know, before they’ve been checked, else we could be taking you back in the tub, in as many bits as this lot.’ They worked on, until the tub was filled. Stan looked at Ralph. ‘What are you waiting for? Off you go with it, it’s as near full as damn it. Fred’ll be passing with the pony and linkage and you’ll bliddy miss him. Oh, aye, and the deputy will be sending a message if you’re needed to bring props to the two seams being checked today. I should have told you earlier.’

  Ralph got his shoulder behind the tub and said, ‘What? Today? I thought they were checked on the night shift.’

  ‘Usually are but there’s a war on, lad. Coal is needed, all hands to the pump, as they say.’

  ‘But—’

  Stan was hacking at the face again. ‘Howay with you, man, what’s yer problem wi’ it? Tek the tub to the pony, then get on back, we’ve coal to shift, same as always.’ He was wiping the sweat from his eyes before he dug his pick into the face again, when they all felt the ground shudder, heard …? A charge? No, there was no charge work today, they’d have been warned. It’d be – holy Mother, a crash, a fall, and now the air had changed, was moving. All four had stopped dead still, listening, and knew it was coming from one of the turn-offs back along the line, one of the old—

  ‘God almighty.’

  They were running, grabbing lamps and picks, Stan elbowing Ralph to one side. ‘Out the way, for God’s sake, you heard the fall. It could be me da.’

  Sid was keeping up with Stan, yelling, ‘Get a bliddy move on, Norm.’

  Ralph followed as Stan shouted, his voice muffled against the rumbling of more coal falling and men shouting. ‘You too, Ralph.’

  Ralph’s groan was loud enough for them all to hear. ‘I thought the seams were checked at night. I thought—’

  They were too busy rushing along the narrowed seam, bending double, banging their backs, heading for the open roadway.

  ‘Hurry,’ Stan bellowed.

  ‘Steady, lad,’ yelled Sid. ‘It might not be yer da.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Joe Hall and Tom Bedley had started the fore shift by checking the Bell Seam – the first one on Albright’s list and the first on the left of the roadway. Joe hated slogging down closed seams and tearing spiderwebs draped thick as sheets. He hated how they clung to his hands, his head, even to his lamp, which he held high as he led the way. Every few feet he hawked out what seemed like inch-thick webs.

  ‘Good for healing,’ Tom muttered over his shoulder, hawking out some himself.

  Joe laughed. ‘Then we won’t have sore mouths, or lugs, or any damn thing.’

  Tom had stopped at a prop, and could tell just by looking at it and feeling it that it would stand firm. But he gave it a knock with his pick end anyway. It was firm. ‘Whoever worked this did a right grand job.’

  Joe laughed. ‘Mebbe us, lad.’

  ‘Oh aye, course it were.’

  They moved on, dragging aside the next of the web drapes, and as they did so an army of blacklocks cascaded down. The two of them forced themselves not to shudder, but instead just knocked them from their hair, for they’d stuffed their caps in their pockets. Joe grinned at the thought of Annie’s shudder at the tenacious webs, and then the force of her shoulder swinging his clothes against the back wall, dadding ’em good and proper to loosen the web’s grip. As they walked and talked, the two men were checking the planks, the props, chalking some, but the seam was a good few hundred yards long, so it would take them until bait time to finish this seam. Still, there were worse ways to fill the day.

  Joe called, ‘I were just thinkin’ there are worse ways to fill the day.’

  Tom grunted. ‘Well, you’re a ruddy maniac then. Give us one worse way, man.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me a minute, or buy me a pint and I’ll come up with one.’

  ‘Money on it, is there?’

  They both laughed and clumped on, the dust getting in their throats, and they seemed to be taking turns to cough. A blacklock had gone down Joe’s neck, and he could feel it working its way down his back. He scrubbed it dead against the wall, or so he hoped. Every so often they stopped and listened to the creaking, the squeezing of the coal. One prop was falling forward, but it had just been squeezed a bit too hard. ‘Best to get rid,’ Tom said, chalking it.

  They moved on, checking, listening and coughing. ‘Ah,’ Tom muttered, ‘it’s a grand life, if yer don’t weaken. All the sun and fresh air, and a beer at every prop.’

  They were laughing as they walked on, looking, looking, holding up their lamps, double-checking when needed. Tom called, ‘This ’un’s fallen out something cruel. Seems recent, look, there’s summat here, at t’base, behind the bugger. Come and hold yer lamp, lad. Let me get a better look.’ It was dislodged coal. Joe chalked it. On they went, feeling the cool draught. ‘Vents are working, anyway.’

  ‘Aye, Albright said they were checked a week ago. Too bloody right, or we’d not be here now, lad. Need a bit of air, we do. Here’s another fallen out. Summat behind this an’ all. Hang on.’

  Joe stepped forward, just as hot air smacked into him, lifting and flinging him against the wall, his lamp flying past Tom. It all happened so slowly, so silently. He felt more heat, and then came the noise. A blast, but not a large one. That’s what he saw; that’s what he thought. ‘Tom?’ he called. But it was a soundless call as the planks splintered above him, as he was spun and flung, crash, smack down onto the rails. Tom? Where was the lad? The rail dug hard into his thigh. Was it doing the same to Tom?

  His mind wasn’t working, right. He wasn’t seeing Tom, right, for his lamp was upright not two yards from him? How? It should be in his hand. But now he was seeing the coal swelling instead, hearing it groan, and he knew that … Yes, now he could see and hear the props bursting free, pushed forward by the coal. He couldn’t move. Only watch as the coal crushed Tom’s lamp, and then his. It was dark and heavy, and the dust was chronic. He felt the prop fall hard on him, and the coal hard on top of that. It was a big wedge, one that was driving the prop into his hip. This wasn’t the first time, though. It was the way of the pit. And now the pain, like a black, bloody punch. Always the pain was last.

  Tom called, his voice strange, weary, full of pain. ‘It’s got me good, our Joe.’

  It was quiet now. Good and quiet. Joe could breathe, but the dust were so thick. The wedge was taking most of the weight, but the prop was deep into both hips now. The wedge was just above him, close, so close he could feel his own breath bouncing back from it. He lifted his head a fraction. Yes, it was there, not that he could see it, but he banged his forehead on it, and it was just a tidy inch away.

  Tom’s voice was muffled. ‘But you’re right, lad. There’s a worse day, when you think o’ Tubby. Poor bugger.’

  Joe thought Tom’s voice sounded a bit queer, but it might be his own lugs. It had been noisy enough to bring a rescue. His boy was down the roadway. He’d come.

  The coal continued to rumble, falling and tumbling, but not on them, not yet. Had the charge been laid long since? For it was a charge, a small one, a fused charge – he knew the sound. Bloody careless for the buggers to leave it. Well, at least Tom and he had found it, not some wet-behind-the-ears youngster who’d panic and not know to stay still and wait.
They’d not know their marrers’d come; they always came and lifted the great weight and hauled them out, and quickly – maybe. The pain was leaping and bounding now, but there was none when it first hit you. Strange, how it did that. ‘Hey, Tom, lad, you got the wedge an’ all?’

  ‘Aye, if they’re quick they’ll get us out, but there’s more to come on top, I reckon, lad.’

  Joe felt tired, really tired. Tom muttered, ‘Glad our girls have one another, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ Joe said, feeling better again, and the pain leaving. ‘Aye, and glad we gave ’em the lamb. They needed food. Made me feel like a da again, proud I’d looked after me own.’

  Tom coughed, then groaned. Joe wanted to reach out, but he couldn’t because the coal was too heavy, of course it was, and the pain were back and he asked, ‘You hurting, our Tom?’

  ‘Not a lot. They’ll come soon. And aye, they liked the lamb, our lasses did. And our Davey’s out of it, and there’s him and Fran who’ll stride out together and toss that Ralph’s silly buggering about.’

  ‘Aye, there is the two of them, and Stan for your lass. They’ll tek care of Ben, but maybe they won’t need to, we’ve the wedge to give us time for the blokes to get here.’ The dust was in Joe’s throat, the dark was as dark as the pit. He laughed to himself. Dark as the pit, eh? Daft … But no matter for he felt like he was flying.

  Tom said, his voice fading, ‘I reckon I’m going, our lad. But not like … Tubby, and I’m … pleased about that. I’m right pleased about … a lot of things.’

  ‘We got our … canaries,’ Joe said, his mouth not saying his words proper, the coal dust filling him. ‘Simon will …’

  ‘Aye, Joe … he will.’

  The wedge was shifting, Joe could hear it; grating and wheezing, pressing down on them. It would only take one more fall of coal, but it wasn’t all bad. He’d be with the bairn. He’d told wee Betty, as he held her, so white and still, ‘I’ll come and find you.’ He’d said, ‘I’ll come when the time is right, don’t you fret, our lass.’

  He laughed out loud now, his pain, his aches, his cough fading. He wouldn’t be white like her, he’d be as black as the pitman he was but she’d know who he was. He tried to call to Tom but it didn’t matter. The lad would be waiting, and they’d go on together. The houses were safe, for the boss let the houses stay with the families.

  He was drifting and saw his Fran. He knew she was good and strong, and she’d give Ralph a bit of rope, because he was the boss’s son, but know when to cut it, clean and sharp. Soon he was drifting higher, but then things were clear again and he called out long and strong, ‘Tom, Tom, our lasses were right. They’re earning good money, so Annie and Maud are set up grand. Our lasses were right all along because they’ll keep themselves safe, and everyone else. And our Stan too, he’s a good bairn.’ He couldn’t hear his words. He could in his head, but his lips hadn’t moved, his mouth was too full of dust, which was seeping on down, choking him. He was just too tired to cough.

  Stan ran on, crouching where he had to, edging beneath the low roof and cursing the jagged coal of the Mary Lou as they headed for main seam. He could hear the others, but it was his dust they were cursing as well. He slowed, but Sid yelled, ‘Don’t slow, man.’

  Stan screamed, ‘I don’t know which seams me da were checking, Sid. I don’t bliddy know if it’s him.’

  Sid pushed him on. ‘We’ll see the dust billow, so get a grip and shove on, you daft idiot.’

  But Stan didn’t want to because he didn’t want to see if it was his da. It mustn’t be, not him. Not his da. Nor Tom, for where Joe was, Tom was too. But if it were … He pumped his legs, faster and faster, and no longer felt the knock and cut of the coal. He went until they reached the main seam roadway and headed in the direction of the noise they had heard, and finally saw the dust thrusting from Bell Seam.

  They picked up speed and tore on down it, the breath snatching in their throats and chests, coughing. They only slowed as a figure emerged from the dust, heading towards them. It was Fred Saunders and Stan grabbed him. ‘Are we needed? Anyone down here? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Aye, we reckon someone’s down there, as we found a lamp on the edge of the fall. I’m on me way to Albright to check the number. He’ll know who were checking which side seam and to get the rescue team to help. T’others are busy at it. It’s a bloody mess, man, the whole roof came down. A bloody prop must have failed an’ all.’

  Ralph asked, panting from the run, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Fred called over his shoulder as he set off again.

  ‘Why did it come down?’ Ralph shouted after him as Stan grabbed his arm, pulling him along.

  ‘That’s for later, for God’s sake. Get a bliddy move on.’

  ‘We investigate later, if we can clear it at all,’ called Fred.

  Stan called after him, backing down the seam, ‘Course we’ll bloody clear it, we leave no one under the bliddy stuff.’

  Stan and the others ran, their pickaxes in one hand, their lamps in the other, carefully carefully. Pit props could be like dominoes – one crashed down, and another would find a way to do the same. This time, the figure emerging from the dust was Theodore Phynes. He was walking, not running, and when he saw Stan he shook his head. ‘Sorry, lad, it were Tom’s lamp. I know his number, but Fred’ll bring back help.’

  Stan ran on, his marrers close behind. They all slowed when they saw the huge fall, the gleaming coal, the wedges of the bloody stuff, and Stan found himself panting, sweating, trembling. Eddie Corbitt was there, and turned. He held up his lamp, shaking his head.

  Ralph was about to speak when Albright came running along the seam, his lamp held up, calling to Stan, ‘It’ll be your da with Tom. Rescue’s on its way.’

  He brushed past Stan, who just watched Eddie, who was holding up his lamp, looking at the roof, listening, and then he shouted, flinging out his arm to stop Albright, backing away, then turning and running, shouting warnings to the other three about to slide their picks under a wedge. They fled, too, back towards Stan, just as the rest of the roof came crashing down, and the walls, so the air was full of dust, and shrapnel, and noise, and nothing stood firm as they hunched down, buffeted, arms over their heads, the ground heaving. They lurched and stumbled towards the roadway. Stan, too, but it was his da, he was leaving his da. He stopped, and in the thick dust he stood quite still, screaming, ‘It’s me da.’

  Sid and Norm dragged him on. ‘We know, bonny lad. We know.’

  In Massingham, the accident hooter was sounding and the women ran to the pit gates. The co-op women, and those who didn’t have to be on duty at the Factory left their frames, their work, and dragged on their coats as they ran, heedless of the sleet and the snow piled up against the sides of the cobbled back lanes. They ran and ran and when they finally reached the gates, they waited outside as the rescue team went down. Some of the shift would help; the rest of the shift would work on, of course they would, there was coal to produce.

  The women waited, even as the sleet turned back to snow, small bairns wrapped in shawls in their arms, but its cold didn’t touch them. They waited as the snow clouds seemed to suck the light from the sky, and many a pot boiled dry on the range. They waited as one shift came towards the gate, and just shrugged their shoulders, saying nothing, for they knew nothing, though of course they stood and waited too, those that weren’t needed down below to help. They waited because someone was hurt, otherwise the hooter wouldn’t have blown, not in Mr Massingham’s pits. They waited for the hours it would take, and as the darkness fell, the cage brought up some pitmen. There was Stan, Sid and Norm, and even Ralph, and in front was Mr Albright.

  From the slump of their shoulders, Annie and Maud knew. They felt for one another’s hands as Mr Albright saw them amongst the women.

  The co-op women went forward with them, because Annie and Maud were theirs. Madge held Annie’s arm, while Audrey Smith’s arm was round Maud. The others were close enough for them all to hear
one another’s breathing. Mr Albright led them to the security man’s office, knowing better than to separate the co-op women. Here they were out of the wind and the snow, and it was quiet, so very quiet, thought Annie.

  Mr Albright cleared his throat, but Stan stepped forward and took his mam’s hand, and Maud’s. ‘They died together. It were a fall. They didn’t die slowly of black lung, like Tubby.’ He looked at Mrs Smith. ‘Sorry to say that, Mrs Smith, but—’

  Audrey shook her head. ‘Nay, lad, you’re all right. Being a pitman makes one or t’other likely. They’d know that, just as we know it, and they knew which they’d prefer.’

  Annie listened, and Audrey was right, her Joe had died with his Tom, and they’d have talked of the canaries, and the girls, and all their other bairns, Ben, and little Betty, and their lads, Stan and Davey. It’d have been all right. It was war, after all, and it was their pit. They wouldn’t have suffered for long. So, it was all right, but still she wept deep inside, for such aching sorrow was a dark and painful thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Fran and their sector were on overtime that same day. It was three o’clock when they were given a tea break, and would now work to five, when the work’s bus would take them home. The shift that should have taken over from them at two was working in another sector, Lord knew where. All she knew was that she and her friends were still in the stemming room, and instead of the aloof coldness of the last couple of weeks, there was friendship as usual amongst them all.

  She didn’t mind the chemicals so much; perhaps the lamb had boosted them, for Sarah, Beth and the others from Massingham also seemed brighter-eyed. She stopped all thoughts of the lamb. It still made her furious that her da and Tom would do such a thing, even for their bairns.

  Mrs Oborne filled the huge rubber container, holding it beneath the machine shoot, hauling on the handle so the powder gushed down, and puffed up into the air. She pushed it along the belt to Fran, who tipped the powder from the container into the funnel, with which she filled a couple of smaller containers, which they still called rubber thingummybobs. She thought of Davey, because they’d been cut off, which often happened. Perhaps there had been an air raid, or perhaps someone had damaged the phone lines. They’d all been warned about sabotage, but the trouble was they didn’t know who the saboteurs were. They’d hardly walk around with signs round their necks, but he’d sounded tired, and fraught, and had shouted but the line was crackling, so she couldn’t hear.