In the Bleak Midwinter

by Stan Mason

  ‘What the Hell’s the matter with you?’ she reproached angrily, coming harshly back to reality.

  He stood up, walking to the bathroom to pick up a towel when he threw to her. ‘Dry yourself with that while I make you a hot drink,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got a lot of talking to do!’

  ‘You’re mad!’ she cried irately. ‘Crazy!’ She dabbed at her face with the towel, staring at the state of her saturated clothes as he went into the kitchen. ‘Oh, God! Look at me! I’m soaked!’ She went into the bedroom returning a short while later wearing a dressing-gown, alarmed at his wild, unreasonable behaviour. Shortly, he emerged from the kitchen with two cups of coffee on a tray which he placed on a table before settling comfortably in one of the armchairs.

  ‘Well... go on... drink it!’ he urged. ‘You’ll feel better afterwards.’ She obeyed him without speaking as he eyed her closely. ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ she responded. ‘Help me with what?’

  ‘With yourself... with James... who knows?’

  ‘Keep out of my private affairs!’ she warned him gruffly.

  ‘It’s no use. I won’t give up until you get it off your chest.’

  She put her cup down and stared at him glumly. It was all so unfair. She wanted to go to sleep but he wouldn’t let her. She shook her head slowly. ‘Please, Ivan. Let me sleep. I’ve had too much to drink.. Leave me alone!’

  ‘Tell me about your parents and the time you were young,’ he persisted, unwilling to be put off by her distress. He gripped her arms tightly as she tried to pull away, knocking her coffee cup over so the that contents spilled all over the carpet.

  ‘Look what you’ve done!’ she bleated. He retained his grip on her arms and shook her hard. ‘Don’t do that!’ she shouted tiredly. ‘It makes my head hurt!’ She forced him to release her and moved away, pulling some paper tissues from a carton and dabbing the carpet haphazardly to try to soak up the spilt liquid. ‘If you must know, my father died before I was born. My mother raised me when she felt like it. If you don’t like what you see you’d better complain to her about it because it’s not my fault. Only you’ll have to go to Hell to do it because she’s dead. Now I don’t know what you’re going to do but I’m going to bed!’

  ‘Why do you hate your mother so much?’

  She tossed the soggy paper tissues into a waste-paper basket. ‘I can’t remember and I don’t care. What difference does it make anyway?’

  ‘Tell me the truth and I’ll let you sleep for a week.’

  She looked at him with half-closed eyes. ‘All right! All right!’ she surrendered reluctantly. ‘I’m illegitimate! I’m a bastard! Does that satisfy you? I was brought up most of the time in a foster home and had a really miserable childhood.’ She paused and then began to cry.

  ‘There’s no need to overact. The world is full of illegitimate children. What difference does it make.’

  ‘It does to me. Inside it makes a difference.’

  ‘It’s made you frigid... like powdered ice on the outside... but underneath hides a boiling passion like a volcano ready to erupt. ‘ He hissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Come on... you’d better get some sleep.’

  She went into the bedroom closing the door behind her leaving Ivan sitting in the armchair yawning loudly. He established a comfortable position and, before any further thoughts could plague his mind, he fell asleep without so much as a sheet or blanket on him.

  On the following morning, the telephone rang to intrude harshly into his dreams. He lifted the receiver to hear the sound of James’s voice and handed it to Teddy who was emerging from the bedroom tying the cord of her bathrobe.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you.’ chided the mining engineer over the line. ‘Don’t you know it’s gone nine-thirty!’

  She screwed up her eyes to focus on the clock uttering a feeble apology before replacing the receiver. As she returned to her bed, Ivan followed her inside. ‘Oh, God!’ she moaned, placing her arm across her forehead, ‘I’m so tired!’ Suddenly she became aware of his presence in the room and moved her arm to look at him. ‘What are you doing in here?’ she demanded.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and placed the index finger of his right hand on her lips, moving it gently from side to side. ‘I want to make that volcano erupt,’ he said smoothly. He eased his hands under the bedclothes, feeling the warmth of her body. Before she realised what was happening, he kissed her softly on the neck, running his hands gently over her breasts, and began to remove the scanty night attire.

  ‘I love the way you talk, the way you look,’ he whispered, at the same time rubbing his fingers smoothly over the nipples on her breast. She moaned with pleasure in the cosy environment and began to yield, her knees moving apart slowly as he progressed. ‘You’re sensuous, exciting,... you make ever fibre in my body vibrate,’ he went on.

  The rhythm of their love play began to increase and he became delighted at her co-operation. Passion made her softer and him harder as they worked their way to the thrill of a climax. When they were at the point of no return, she heaved upward strongly without warning, pushing him away from her body forcefully.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, as the pangs of frigidity overcame desire. ‘Get away from me! Get out of this room!’

  ‘Damn!’ he yelled as she shifted from beneath him. ‘I don’t believe this is happening!’

  She pulled a sheet around her body and leapt our of the bed to go to the bathroom.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he shouted, striking the mattress angrily with the flat of his hand. ‘What’s the bloody problem now?’

  He was furious at failing to seduce her successfully. He felt that if he could overcome the invisible sexual barrier in her mind she would feel a complete woman. It had been his intention to open up an avenue in her life which had been inhibited by some unfortunate experience in the past... but she had turned the tables on him yet again. It had become quite clear that there was little point in reaching a state of passion or anger where Teddy was concerned. She was made of ice!

  Chapter Twelve

  On a dull grey morning, when thick black clouds obscured the natural blue sky and the early mist was tossed from east to west, Sadler and Morris travelled together to the mine. They collected the key, drove past the main gate and left the car a short distance away. Then they walked down the slop leading to the mine and up the hill at the end of it in the dull morning light. The fat man puffed and snorted with the effort like an overweight pig while the banker pulled his coat tighter around him as the wind began to howl. Sadler wondered whether his participation in this opened ritual was a foolhardy venture. When they arrived at one of the engine houses, Morris leaned against the wall to catch his breath. As soon as he had recovered, he produced a bottle of champagne from an inside pocket of his fur coat like a magician with an article beneath his cloak. The banker stared at him with surprise. A bottle of champagne for a mine that was yet to be purchased! The fat man secured a piece of string to a nail driven into the lintel of the door outside the engine house before tying the other end to the neck of the bottle. He stepped back a few paces to do the honours. ‘May we strike it lucky and earn ourselves a large fortune,’ he proclaimed wistfully. ‘And God bless all those who work in her.’ He released the bottle which injudiciously struck the door with a dull thud and bounced back without even a fracture.

  The banker raised his eyebrows wearily and burst into laughter as he espied the amazed expression on the other man’s face. It was so bizarre! They were pretending to launch the mind as a ship with just the two of them there, suffering the ignominy of an uncompromising bottle of champagne.

  ‘And God bless all those who work in her,’ repeated Morris not to be defeated by the inanimate object as he stepped forward to swing the fragile container at the door with greater force. This time he was rewarded handsomely as the bottle
shattered into a hundred pieces instantly while the contents, which became chemically excited by the rough treatment, saw fit to shower his tatty fur coat. ‘Bloody Hell!’ he swore vehemently as he became drenched.

  Sadler saw the amusing side of the situation and he laughed loudly, much to the chagrin of the disconcerted trader. ‘I wish I had a camera with me,’ he snorted. ‘If only you could have seen the expression on your face.’

  Morris gave him an austere glance before opening the door of the engine house. ‘Let’s look around and take stock,’ he uttered in a low tone. He entered and pressed the light switch which failed to activate, so he produced a torch from his pocket which he shone around the room. The he moved back quickly and closed the door before the banker could enter. ‘Full of cobwebs and old rusty equipment,’ he informed him. ‘Yuk... I hate spiders. I should have hired someone cognisant with the mine to show us around.

  The banker nodded pulling his coat tighter about himself in the dampness. He didn’t relish examining the mine in its present state in this inclement weather., Apart from all the obvious problems, there was a risk that they might accidentally fall down one of the shafts in the mine. The only person who would know of their disappearance would be Della Lancaster who had given them the key. However even that hope could be discounted because Morris had told her that they had bought the mine and were going to keep the key. The thought that they may be incarcerated within the mine indefinitely was not to his liking. His prayers were soon answered for, as they climbed to another point, a loud voice hailed them from a distance. Sadler peered through the distance to identify two figures, heaving a sigh of relief as he recognised Baker accompanied by an old man.

  ‘Ahoy!’ shouted the banker at the top of his voice as he waved his arms. ‘Over here!’ He turned to Morris taking the torch from his hand and waved the light forwards and backwards. They all met up within a few minutes and the old man stared at the string holding the neck of the champagne bottle and the glass outside the door of the engine house.

  ‘Vandals!’ he growled. ‘They get everywhere. Ought to be locked up, that’s what I think!’

  ‘This is Baker, my assistant in this venture,’ announced Sadler to the trader. He stopped to look at the old man.

  ‘Horace Trevelyan.’ explained Baker. ‘He worked this mine as man and boy.’

  Trevelyan took a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Worked the mine as boy and man,’ he confirmed. I know every nook and cranny.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Morris bluntly.

  ‘He knows everything there is to know about this mine,’ stated Baker. ‘I want to employ him as a part-time consultant.’

  The fat man stiffened at the comment and even his fur coat seemed to bristle. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, fella!’ he snarled. ‘If anyone hires or fires anyone around here, I’m the one to do it. Savvy! We don’t take on senile old fools who try to get on the gravy train spinning stories about the work fifty years ago.’

  ‘But I did work here,’ insisted the old man. ‘I be over eighty now. I know this place like the back o’ me ‘and..’

  ‘Give the old boy a chance,’ submitted Sadler. ‘What can we lose? None of us know anything about mining. He could be an angel in disguise.’

  Morris looked at the banker contemptuously. ‘All I can say is that they’re working some very old angels these days.’ He paused to eye the old man up and down and reluctantly recognised the wisdom of the banker’s words. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But just for today. If we have to used him on another occasion it’ll be a different story.’ He turned to press home his point. ‘Okay, Gramps... give us the Cook’s Tour!’

  The octogenarian started a dialogue which surprised them all. ‘Over there is the whim ‘ouse... the ‘eart of the system. That’s where the wire rope be run for the cages and the tin. There be a big drum with a wire rope an’ ‘e turns at sixteen feet every second. The cage for the men an’ e’ is in two parts... eight feet above an’ eight feet below for two groups to be taken down. ‘E drops at two-’undred-an’- sixty fathoms in three minutes. That be over one thousand-five ‘undred feet. There be a second shaft for ‘oisting dirt an’ fer emergency if an accident ‘appens. The mine be run from the whim ‘ouse!’

  ‘Let’s have a look at this whim house!’ suggested Sadler sagely.

  As they walked to their destination, the old man ran over the system of operation for working the mine. ‘In the beginning,’ he began, as though relating the Holy Bible from the Book of Genesis, ‘there be an adit exposing a lode worth sinking on. The ‘e can sink a shaft but only if the lode continues rich, an’ a small engine’s put up on ‘e for pumping. The whim be used for windin’ ore but them used it to lift and lower the cage to take men down. In my time we walked down ladders to get to the levels, wherever they were... sometime fifteen ‘undred feet to get to the right place. There be plenty of water the lower ‘e gets.’ He stopped in his tracks as though to rest his weary body and they all followed suit. For a few moments he scanned the horizon as though lost in thought and location, then his mind seemed to recover and he stared at Morris. ‘Name’s ‘Orace Trevelyan. I be over eighty years old. Worked the mine as man an’ boy.’

  The fat man cast his eyes towards the heavens tiredly. ‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered ‘Someone lead this old codger off and put him to rest! He’ll drive us all senile before the day’s out!’

  ‘Let him be!’ cautioned Baker sharply. ‘This man has a wealth of knowledge and experience behind him. He can’t help being old. None of us can help that when the time comes.’ He nudged the old man with his arm. ‘What are all those buildings over there, Horace?’ he asked politely.

  Trevelyan stared across the rugged terrain and started walking forwards again, pointing to different areas as he enhanced his dialogue. ‘The engine houses and the boiler houses are the most important ones,’ he told them. ‘Then there’s the count house where all the financial business of the mind goes on, like an office. The smith’s shop for metal working an’ sharpenin’ the minin’ steels. Store buildings over there were used for rope, candles and other mining needs. Storage of coal and timber supplies were kept in the yard. The powder ‘ouse., over that way, were used fer gunpowder supplies. Notice ‘e be a safe distance away. An’ over there be the ‘dry’ where miners use to ‘ang their underground working’ clothes.’

  ‘I presume all these areas are reasonably fit for use,’ interrupted Sadler feeling more cheerful as he assessed the administrative side of the operation with optimism.

  ‘The machinery be gone,’ returned the old man curtly. ‘Anyway tweren’t no use to ‘e. They don’t use coal any more. All electric, gas or oil. I remember when ‘e was worked by a lot of miners.’ His eyes glazed as his mind took a brief journey into the past. ‘ The deads were trammed away to be tipped on a burrow.’

  ‘Deads?’ cut in Baker.’

  ‘Waste rock. The ore were for cobbin’... to the pickin’... sheds... where bal-maidens hammered the pieces into smaller sizes an’ cast away the useless rock. Black tin ‘as to be ‘dressed’. ‘E as to be pure before goin’ to the smelters an’ stamped to release fine-grained considerate. In granite, which be on all levels of this mine, great steam-driven stamps were used to crush the rock. When ‘e were concentrated, ‘e went through a number of buddling, framing an’ other processes, an’ then were roasted in calciners to drive or arsenic impurities left behind. That’s what minin’ be all about!’

  The banker nodded impressed by the extent of the old man’s knowledge. ‘Thank you for that brief run-down,’ he said gratefully. ‘Very useful to know. Tell me, how many men do you think will be needed to work this mine successfully?’

  ‘In the old day, we never used electric, gas or oil,’ replied Trevelyan searching through his mind. ‘E worked the pumps, the whims, an’ the cages.’ He suddenly lapsed into s
ilence and the other three men wondered whether he was working out a solution to the problem or had simply gone off into a senile trance. ‘Miners must work in twos,’ he uttered eventually. ‘One man on each level for support but they must know first-aid in case of an accident. ‘E needs miners making the cuts to blast an’ mockers to clear the rock. ‘Ow many levels will ‘e be workin’? ‘Ow many men on each level? An’ ‘ow many parts of the sett? I don’t know ‘ow much tin ‘e wants to mine.’

  ‘He’s right,’ interjected Morris. ‘How can he possibly know what we intend to do? I put an advert in the paper last week looking for people with mining experience. The people in the Government I spoke to last week said that a condition of any contract would be that we’d have to employ the Russians who came over here seeking asylum to work in the mine. They gave me a list of their names Let’s hope that some of them speak English.’ He glanced at Trevelyan and then looked back to Sadler. ‘You’ll recall I told you that I employed an established mining consultant to survey the mine for us. He can identify exactly what we need in terms of plant and machinery. This old codger’s still in the world of steam engines and coal. He’s never worked in a modern mine! That’s the real difference.’

  ‘An’ there be a big difference in the explosives too,’ added the old man without being prompted. ‘One of the big dangers for Cornish miners in the old days were premature explosions. They used iron bars to ram home the gunpowder and tamping when making a hole ready for blasting. Iron strikes sparks from rocks an’ were enough to ignite the gunpowder. There be some bad accidents, I can tell ‘e.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to go into all that now,’ snapped the fat man irritably. ‘Present -day explosives are quite safe.’

  ‘How many men with start work on the mine?’ asked Trevelyan.

  ‘About ten I should think,’ replied Sadler.