by A. J. Cronin
‘Good,’ he said as I concluded. He took up another specimen – it was an aneurysm of the ascending aorta – and began in a companionable manner to interrogate me. His questions, from being simple, gradually became wider and more searching in their scope, until finally they came to bear upon a recent specific treatment by the induction of malaria. But, opening out under his sympathetic manner, I answered well.
Finally, as he put down the glass jar, Dawson remarked:
‘Can you tell me anything of the history of aneurysm?’
‘Ambroise Pare,’ I answered, and my examiner had already begun his approving nod, ‘is presumed to have first discovered the condition.’
Lord Dawson’s face showed surprise.
‘Why “presume”? Pare did discover aneurysm.’
I reddened, then turned pale as I plunged on:
‘Well, sir, that’s what the textbooks say. You’ll find it in every book – I myself took the trouble to verify that it was in six.’ A quick breath. ‘But I happened to be reading Celsus, brushing up my Latin – which needed brushing up, sir – when I definitely came across the word aneurismus. Celsus knew aneurysm. He described it in full. And that was a matter of thirteen centuries before Pare!’
There was a silence. I raised my eyes, prepared for kindly satire from His Majesty’s physician. Decidedly, he was looking at me with a queer expression, and for a long time he was silent.
‘Doctor,’ he exclaimed at last, ‘ you are the first candidate in this examination hall who has ever told me something original, something true, and something which I did not know. I congratulate you.’
I turned scarlet again.
‘Just tell me one thing more – as a matter of personal curiosity,’ he concluded. ‘What do you regard as the main principle – the, shall I say, the basic idea which you keep before you when you are exercising the practice of your profession?’
There was a pause while I reflected desperately. At length, feeling I was spoiling all the good effect I had created, I blurted out:
‘I suppose – I suppose I keep telling myself never to take anything for granted.’
‘Thank you, Doctor … Thank you very much.’
A few minutes later I went downstairs with the other candidates. At the foot of the stairs beside his leather-hooded cave a liveried porter stood with a little pile of envelopes before him. As the candidates went past he handed an envelope to each of them. Beaumont, walking out next to me, tore his open quickly. His expression altered; he said quietly, with impeccable good form:
‘It would appear I’m not wanted tomorrow.’ Then, forcing a smile, ‘How about you?’
My fingers were shaking. I could barely read. Dazedly I heard Beaumont congratulate me. My chances were still alive. I walked down to the A.B.C. and treated myself to a double malted milk. I thought tensely, ‘ If I don’t get through now, after all this, I’ll – I’ll walk in front of a bus.’
The next day passed grindingly. Barely half the original candidates remained, and it was rumoured that out of these another half would go. I had no idea whether I was doing well or badly: I knew only that my head ached abominably, that my feet were icy, my inside void.
At last it was over. At four o’clock in the afternoon I came out of the cloakroom, spent and melancholy, pulling on my coat. Then I became aware of Dawson of Penn standing before the big open fire in the hall. I made to pass. But Dawson, for some reason, was holding out his hand, smiling, speaking to me, telling me – telling me that I was now a Member of the Royal College of Physicians.
Dear God, I had done it! I had done it! I was alive again, gloriously alive, my headache gone, all my weariness forgotten. As I dashed down to the nearest post office my heart sang wildly, madly. I was through, I had done it, not from the West End of London, but from an outlandish mining town. My whole being was a surging exultation. It hadn’t been for nothing after all: those long nights, those mad dashes down to Cardiff, those racking hours of study. On I sped, bumping and cannoning through the crowds, missing the wheels of taxis and omnibuses, my eyes shining, racing, racing to telephone news of the miracle back home. But no, some latent dramatic instinct made me hold things a little longer in suspense. Instead of the full, effusive message I had planned, I sent simply a brief wire asking my wife, to come at once to London … no more than that curt command. She obeyed, fearing the worst, expecting to find me sick in hospital, perhaps on the verge of suicide. I met her at Paddington Station, tense and pale, with a dreadful glitter in my eye. Then I smiled and hugged her. Gave her thus, holding her tight, the incredible news, blatantly assured her that we were already on our way to Harley Street.
How good life seemed at that moment! How wonderful to share this joy with one so deeply loved! At first neither of us could speak; then we both started to talk at once. I crowded her into a taxi, whirled off to the Savoy. We celebrated recklessly, my dyspepsia forgotten, on a seven-course spread; went on to a George Edwardes musical comedy; then to a champagne supper at the Café Royal, from which we emerged in a state of such sublime elation that the very pavements danced and swayed beneath our feet. We were both exhausted when, late the next evening, we reached the clear cold air of our mountain village and once again saw, under the high vault of heaven, the calm and reassuring stars.
Chapter Nineteen
Some eight weeks later, on a crisp December morning, I came out, before breakfast, to the front porch of ‘The Glen’. The little town lay tranquilly before me, and as I gazed at its familiar outlines, the thought of our impending departure gave me a pang of regret. For three years now we had lived in Tredegar. Here we had really taken up the yoke of married life, here our first child had been born. The work which I had done might not rank high in the social or professional scale. I didn’t wear a frock coat and a stiff collar, but more often than not leggings and hobnail boots. I usually walked straight into my patients’houses without knocking. I had no bedside manner to speak of, and could discourage a malingerer with the rudest adjectives. Yet I had made many friends among the miners and officials of the surrounding collieries. They never directly paid me fees – as I have explained, my quarterly cheque came from the society – but always at Christmas I received evidence of their regard in a host of homely presents. There would be a couple of ducks or chickens from one, a print of fresh butter from another, a hand-tufted rug from a third … nor should I neglect to mention old Mrs. Griffiths, whom I had almost (but, to be honest, not quite) cured of her rheumatism, and who hobbled across the bridge on New Year’s Eve to offer us her blessings and a fine fat goose.
There was a quality in this gratitude which moved me profoundly – something which went deep down to the very roots of life. Then why should I be leaving? Most of my classmates at the University had already settled down permanently in steady provincial practices. Alas, in me the urge to move forward was not to be denied. The previous month I had handed in my resignation – in another ten days we should be gone.
Suddenly, as I stood there, regretful, yet feeling my heart lift up at the prospect of new adventure, I heard a faint and distant concussion, less an actual detonation than a vibration of the air, as though a great harp string had been plucked by a giant hand, behind me. It came from the neighbouring valley, lasted only for a moment, then vanished, so slight, so swift to come and go, it seemed of little consequence. Yet to one acquainted with this district, surrounded by so many mines, it had an ominous significance, and I listened intently, anxiously, for a confirmation of my fear. Nothing happened, however, and a few minutes later I went in to breakfast. But I had barely begun my first cup of coffee when I heard a hooter sound the alarm, six long blasts – and almost at once the telephone rang. It was George Conway, secretary of the Medical Aid Society. Briefly he told me that a disaster had occurred in the Ystrad Colliery at Pengelly across the mountain, they had sent out a routine call for aid. Would I go over at once?
Hastily, I swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, finished my coffee, and set off ac
ross the ridge on my motor-bike. It was no more than two miles by mountain track to Pengelly, and I reached the village in less than five minutes. Yet already the news of the calamity was travelling through the narrow streets. Doors in the terraces were open, man and women rushing downhill towards the colliery. As they ran, more ran with them. They ran as if they could not help themselves, as if the pit had suddenly become a magnet drawing them irresistibly towards it.
When I arrived, five hundred men and women had gathered on the outskirts of the pit yard, and there were more outside. They stood in silence, the women mostly in shawls, the men without overcoats. It had been snowing here and their figures were very black against the white snow. They stood like some vast chorus, massed in silence under the clear sky. They were not the actors in the drama, but they were of it none the less.
Eight o’clock had just struck when I pushed my way into the pit yard and entered the wooden colliery office, where a number of the surface crew, all in their working clothes, were collected. The mine manager, Dai Jenkins, whom I knew well, was there with his deputy, Tom Lewis, looking at the crowd. As I entered the deputy was saying:
‘Will I have the yard gates shut?’
‘No,’ answered the other. ‘Have a fire lighted in the yard, a large fire. It’s cold for them standing there, and God knows they may stand long enough.’
In the pause which followed I asked what had happened. At first Jenkins did not seem to hear, then, turning upon me his strained and harassed gaze, he told me that water had broken into the pit from the old workings. Both main shafts were flooded and both morning shifts, sixty-one men in all, were entombed. They were waiting for the first rescue party to bring heavy pumping equipment from the emergency centre at Gilfach. They could not tell how things were underground, having lost all contact with the trapped men. They could only wait for the moment, until the rescue party arrived. As he spoke, more people came crowding into the Office – two of the under viewers, a young, inspector of mines, another colliery manager from further down the valley, and a party of volunteers from the neighbouring colliery. There was no confusion, no babble of voices, but an attitude of such deep gravity it filled me with foreboding.
Suddenly, in the midst of this tense expectancy, the mine telephone whirred – not the public-service instrument upon the manager’s desk, but the wall attachment of the colliery system which communicated only with the underground workings. Instantly, there was a mortal silence, then, in three strides, Jenkins was at the phone. He spun the little handle violently, lifted the receiver.
‘Hello, hello!’ Then his face paled, he half-turned to the other: ‘My God … it’s Roberts.’
At first I did not understand. Then I realised, with a contraction of my heart, that a voice, the voice of a man not yet dead, was rising out of the dark tomb of the flooded mine, fleeing in despairing hope over waterlogged wires to us, on the surface, two miles away.
‘Hello, hello.’ Jenkins was listening now, he listened for three minutes with strained intentness, then rapidly, in a hard clear voice, he began to speak. ‘Listen to me, Roberts, bach. You must make for the old Penygroes shaft. You can’t come out this way – both shafts are water-sealed, and it may be days before we clear them. You must travel the old workings. Go right up the slant. Break through the frame dam at the top east side. That takes you into the upper level of the old workings. Don’t be afraid of water, that’s all in the bottom levels. Go along the road, it’s all main road, don’t take the trenches nor the right dip, keep bearing due east for fifteen hundred yards until you strike the old Penygroes shaft.’
A thick, roaring noise came over the wire, audible in the room, and Jenkins’s voice rose feverishly to a shout.
‘Do you hear me? The rescue party will meet you there. Do you hear me?’ But his words were lost as a water blast tore out the wires and left the instrument dead in his hand. He let it fall it – it swung dangling, while he stood there, bowed, motionless. At last, wiping his brow, he revealed to us what Roberts had told him.
The first shift underground had been working their heading in the usual way, drilling and shot-firing to bring down the coal. But Roberts, the under-manager, after the last two shots, found a thin trickle of water coming from the middle of the coal face. There appeared to be no pressure behind it, but it had a bad smell of black-damp, he knew it was not virgin cool water, and he did not like the look of it.
Immediately the men began to ‘ tub’ the water – to try to get rid of it by letting it through the pack walls on the low side of the drawing road. Meanwhile, Roberts felt it his duty to warn the second shift of twenty-three men working further underground, two hundred yards up the branch. He started off and had almost reached the other face when he heard a terrific bang. He knew it was an inrush. He had expected trouble but nothing so sudden or terrible as this. Instinctively, he turned back, but after going ten yards he saw the water rushing down the main haulage, roof high, in a great swell of sound. The gas thrown back by the rushing water extinguished his lamp but as he stood, petrified, for ten seconds in the sounding darkness, he knew that the men of his first shift, all of them, were drowning, or already drowned, in that frightful flood. The speed of the water was ferocious, its volume that of a tidal wave. Oh and out it swept, reached the pit shaft, spouted and cascaded, swirling the bodies of the first shift in a backlash, at pit bottom, drowning the ponies in their stalls there. As fast as one might think, the water had risen in the two main shafts, sealing the pit absolutely and preventing all access to the workings from the surface.
The suddenness of the calamity was unbelievable and deadly, but Roberts and his mates on the second shift were still alive. They were at the top of the slant and the inrush went away from them. They were altogether twenty-two men and a boy of fourteen, standing together without speech – they knew enough to make them silent. But Roberts had recovered himself – long familiar with the mine, he remembered a return airway through which he might lead the party to a higher level. Starting off, he found the airway, began to crawl along it, on his stomach, followed by the others. But before he had gone thirty yards, he felt himself turning sick and sleepy, and hurriedly he ordered his men back. The airway was full of black-damp, carbon monoxide driven from the old waste workings by the water, and Roberts knew then that every escape road was blocked. Trapped in the high dead end of the branch, the water and black-damp rising steadily about them, they had perhaps half an hour to live. It was then, in this last extremity, that Roberts had remembered the telephone.
When Jenkins finished speaking – and his account, terse and technical, was briefer by far than the explanation I have given here – for a full minute no one said anything. Then, in an even voice, Mr Deakin, the mines inspector, broke out:
‘If they get through to the old workings there’s just a chance.’
Jenkins nodded, turned to his deputy.
‘Take ten men and go to old Penygroes shaft. Make an inspection – as quick and complete as you can. Find out the condition of the shaft. Then hurry back to me.’
Meantime three trucks had rolled into the yard bringing the pumping gear, and the manager left the office to start off its erection. It would take hours to complete this heavy task, and I sensed that Jenkins had little faith in it. All his hopes were centred in these old workings which honeycombed the deep, surrounding strata. If only they could be penetrated we might reach the trapped men.
Alone in the office, I now telephoned George Conway in Tredegar, giving him the facts of the disaster, asking if I should stay on duty at the pit. The secretary endorsed my desire to remain, indeed he insisted I hold myself, from now on, at Jenkins’s disposal – Dr Davies would take over my practice until further notice.
As I rejoined the group outside, the deputy came back from the old Penygroes shaft. There was rubbish and black-damp in the shaft, he told Jenkins, a man lowered on a crab rope had come out pretty sick, but he believed the shaft could be cleared of gas and stowing in twenty-four hours.
Immediately, then, the necessary gear was assembled, and leaving the pump erection at the main headstocks to proceed, a party of picked men led by the manager and his deputy went out across the troubled ground towards the old shaft. Following the instructions I had been given, I went with them. It had turned colder and a few thin snowflakes began to fall, trembling gently out of the unseen sky.
The disused shaft lay in a wretched place of wasteland known as the Common, all hummocks and subsidence’s from the network of tunnels underneath, now covered with snow and swept by a bitter wind. Small wonder they called it ‘ troubled land’. Here they began to fit headgear, winding engine, and a fan.
In spite of the fire in the pit yard nearby, everybody had left the yard and stood gathered at the Common. They stood well back from the riggers who were raising the headstocks, working fast and hard.
Within three hours they had fitted headgear, steam winding engine, and fan; then they began to free the shaft of black-damp. When the gas was finally cleared out, a fresh relay, standing ready, went in and started to remove the stowing which blocked the road into the waste. These men worked fast, so fast that they were clearing the stowing from the main road at the rate of six feet an hour. There was more stowing than they, had thought. But the relays launched themselves in waves, they battered into the obstruction, there was something frantic and abandoned in their assault. It was more than human progress; as one relay slipped in another staggered out.
‘This road runs due west,’ said Jenkins to the inspector. ‘It ought to take us pretty near the mark.’
‘Yes,’ the other answered, ‘and we ought to be near the end of that damned stowing.’
All day long this work went on, and by midnight the relays had cleared one hundred and forty feet of the old main road. Two hours later they broke through into clear road, into an open section of the old waste. A loud cheer rang out, a cheer which ascended the shaft and thrilled into the ears of those who still waited on the surface.