David had expected the question and had been thinking about how to answer. He wanted to talk about how slowly the time had passed, and maybe about how he had felt when his second candle had sputtered out, but he sensed that either would be a disappointment to his father.
“It be fine,” he said. “I fed a rat today, Dahd.”
“What?”
“I was eating the rest of my snap later this afternoon, after you left. Had my candle lit again by then. And I saw this big rat—”
“’Ow big?”
David held up his hands and measured off about eight inches. “That be with his tail, too.”
“Oh. That be nuthin’. Sum of me mates claim they’ve seen sum as large as a cat.”
David’s mouth fell open.
“Yah. They git real big sumtimes.”
“He came out as soon as I opened my snap to eat the pasty I saved. I threw a rock at him, but he came right back. Finally went up on his hind legs and begged, just like a squirrel.”
“Shure ’nuff. Seen ’em do that meself. Take yur ’ole lunch if ya let ’em. Seen one wrap ’is tail aroond the handle of a mate’s snap and drag it away. Never saw it agin.”
A trio of miners walked by them, empty durfeys and darkened Davy lamps swinging from their belts. “Ev’nin’, John. This be yur boy? ’Eard we ’ad a new trapper t’day.”
John waved back. “Yep. This be Davee. First day on the job.”
“Gud on ya, mate,” another one called.
David pulled his shoulders back. There was a special bond of brotherhood among the miners, and now he was part of that. And that reminded him of something else. “Dahd?”
“Eh?”
“When we were coming home Saturday, Mum told be about when she were a girl.”
“Yes?”
“When I asked her how you two met, all of a sudden she wouldn’t talk about it anymore.”
“Aw.”
“She acted like she were mad at me.”
“No, Son. Warn’t that. It’s joost that . . . sum things aboot ’er early life be kinda painful.” He was silent for what seemed like a full minute, then motioned to a spot off the road. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village and, if they continued, would be home in three or four minutes. He found a flat place and sat down, motioning for David to join him.
“’Ow mooch did she tell ya?”
So David told him all that he could remember.
“Well, the vicar an’ the skoo-ul, that be key ta un’erstandin’ the ’ole story,” John started. “B’cuz Lady Astle wanted a few servants who could read an’ write, she let yur mum attend the skoo-ul. Ta ev’ryone’s surprise, yur mum turned oot to be the brightest of the ’ole bunch. Ya don’t git ta see it mooch, Davee, but yur mum, she be real bright, quick as a buggy whip. The vicar, well, ’e saw that, an’ started takin’ a special interest in ’er. Ta ’er, readin’ an’ writin’ were like bangers an’ mash, or bubbles an’ squeak.h She could naw git e’nuff learnin’. Soon she was a’ead of awl the rest, even the Astle kids.”
His brows knitted, and his mouth pulled down. “Then it awl cum crashin’ doon.”
“What? What ’appened?”
“When she be ’bout thirteen or fourteen, a snooty cousin of the Astles cum ta stay at the manor house fur the summer. ’E was ’andsome an’ charmin’, a real dandy, Ah reckon. Fancied ’imself ta be quite the man wit the ladies. So one day, whilst the family were in London, this dandy snuck inta the bedroom whare yur mother were fixin’ the beds. ’E cum up be’ind her and put ’is arms roond ’er. Asked ’er fur a kiss. Started tryin’ to sweet-talk ’er an’ all that.”
David’s eyes were wide.
“My Annie, she tole ’im to git oot. When ’e wudn’t, she gave ’im such a bang on the side of the ’ead with a chamber pot, at first she thot she’d killed ’im.”
David clapped his hands in delight. “Did she really, Dahd?”
“She did.” He too was relishing the image. “’E ’ad such a black eye that ’e daren’t cum doon ta dinner fur two days. Passed it off by sayin’ ’e fell off a horse.”
“Gud fur Mum!”
“But—” John was suddenly grave. “A week later, a purse full of muney, which Lady Astle kept ’idden in ’er wardrobe, went missin’. Yur gran’mum, she were the only one besides Lady Astle allowed inta that room, so of course they called ’er in. She was ’orrified. Denied everythin’. Then this dandy—” he almost spat out the word—“cums forth an’ tells the fam’ly that ’e saw yur gran’mum cumin’ oot of the bedroom wit a purse in ’er ’and.”
“No!”
“Yes, Davee. Lord Astle went straight to yur gran’mum’s room an’ found the empty purse in a basket of laundry.” John had to stop. When Annie had first told him this, she had wept profusely. It still gave him pain to relive it in his own mind.
“What, Dahd? What ’appened? Was the cousin telling a lie?”
“Indeed,” his father said darkly. “An’ it be pretty clear why. Yur mum naw only gave ’im a black eye an’ a bloomin’ ’eadache, but ’is pride was ’urt more than either of those. So ’e got back at yur mum in this way. Evidently, it was ’im who stole the muney an’ ’id the purse. But bein’ ’e was fam’ly, and yur gran’mum was a servant, they believed ’im, of course.”
His sigh was deep and filled with anguish. “If that naw be bad e’nuff, it gits worse. Yur mum went to the vicar. She tole ’im what had ’appened, tole ’im ev’rythin’.”
“Did he believe her?”
“’E did. Ev’ry word.”
“So did the fam’ly believe him?”
“That’s joost it, Davee. ’E never tole ’em. Dinna dare. Said Lady Astle was awreddy un’appy that the vicar was showin’ too mooch favoritism ta yur mum.”
“’E never tole ’em?” David was shocked to the core.
“Said if’n ’e did, Lady Astle wud throw ’im oot too. Said ’e cudn’t interfere.”
“That’s terrible, Dahd.”
“Yes, it is.” His father stood up. “Cum. Yur mum will start worryin’ soon.”
“But what happened, Dahd?”
He sat down again. “Aw, Son, that be a real tragedy, joost lek in that Shakespear fella. B’fur the night were throo, yur gran’mum an’ gran’dah were oot on the street wit thare two girls. They never saw Astle Manor agin. The fine lady and gentleman—” this was said with bitter sarcasm—“also made sure that they cud never work as servants agin. And times in London then were real bad. They near starved b’fur they finally settled in the East End of London whare naw one knew ’em. Poor Gran’mum. It be like sumthin’ joost snapped in ’er mind, that’s ’ow yur muther describes it. She were never the same agin. Gran’dah Draper finally got a job sweepin’ out stables fur the army. Yur mum—my sweet Annie—’ad ta go ta work in a match fact’ry.”
David’s eyes were wide. “And that be how she got sick?”
There was a brief nod. “B’tween yur mum an’ yur gran’dah, the two of ’em earned barely e’nuff fur a tiny flat. They dinna ’ave e’nuff ta eat. Cudn’t afford coal ta ’eat the flat. Yur Aunt Jane, who be three years younger than yur mum, she stayed ’ome an’ cared fur yur gran’mum. But it dinna mek any difference. She died seven months after they left Astle Manor. By then, ’er mind was gone an’ she no longer recognized anyone.
“A few months after that, my Annie, one mornin’ whilst she be gittin’ ready fur work, noticed big gobs of ’air cumin’ oot of ’er ’ead.”
“From the fos—fosfur . . .” He was close to crying and gave up on finding the word.
“Phosphorus. Yes. That’s what the doctor said. But Gran’dah Draper, God rest ’is soul, the minute ’e saw that ’is Annie were showin’ the first symptoms of phossy-jaw, ’e up an’ quit ’is job, packed thare belongin’s inta an ole bag, an’ started walkin’ north.”
“So that’s how Mum came to Yorkshire,” David exclaimed, pleased that the few pieces he did know were finally starting to
fit together.
His father nodded. “That were eighteen forty-eight, an’ yur mum were naw yet sixteen years ole. By then, the laws said naw women cud work in the mines, so, b’cuz she cud read an’ write, she got a job as a clark at the cump’ny store ’ere in Cawthorne.”
David nearly jumped up and down. “And that’s how you met Mum?”
“It is,” John chuckled. “But that be a story fur anuther day.” He slapped David on the back. “Run on, noow. Yur muther, she be anxious ta ’ear aboot yur first day at work.”
“David?”
His head raised. She was barefoot and he hadn’t heard her come. “Yes, Mum?”
“You’re not asleep?”
“Not yet.”
She sat on the edge of his straw mattress. “You should be. You must be very tired.”
“I am, but I’m not sleepy.”
She nudged him to move over, then lay down beside him. Behind the curtain where his parents slept, David could hear the deep breathing of his father.
“Do you mind if we talk for a little bit?”
“Ah wud—I would like that.”
“You talked at supper some about your first day at work, but I’d like to ask some questions.”
“Of course, Mum.”
She reached out and found his hand. “Were you frightened, David?”
“Naw,” he said quickly.
When she gave him a dubious look, he relented. “Well, maybe just a little. When we were crawling through the first tunnel, it got real dark. I was a little scared then, but just for a minute.”
“You crawled through the tunnels? Why on earth would you do that?”
Now he was the expert explaining to the novice. He told her about monkey heads—tunnels too low to stand up in—which connected the main chambers. He explained about hurriers and thrusters and how they used the tunnels to draw smaller coal tubs to the main chutes or the gangway. “Hurriers get their names from havin’ to keep the coal hurrying along, and thrusters—”
She squeezed his hand. “I know what they do, David. Your father told me that you were very brave and didn’t burn your candles out right away. Is that true?” When he nodded, she said, “What did you like the least about being down there?”
She felt him shrug beside her. “Dunno. The dark, I guess. But you get used to it after a while. And the rats, but they don’t bother you.”
She suppressed a shudder. “They honestly didn’t frighten you?”
He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but, knowing how she felt about mice in the house, he decided it was better to let it pass. “Oh, that’s the other thing,” he said. “Time goes really slow. Sometimes it’s half an hour or more between the carts.” And then he told her in soft whispers what he had done to help the time pass, adding one thing that he had not shared with his father. “When no one was coming, I practiced speaking properly.”
“You did?” she exclaimed, clearly pleased.
“Yes. Dahd told me you wouldn’t let me keep working there if I stopped talking properly.”
“Really? He said that?” She felt her eyes start to burn. Dear, sweet John. “He’s right,” she went on gruffly. “And there’s another thing. Do you know what miners say are the first three things they learned when they were boys in the mines?”
“What?”
“Swearing, smoking, and chewing. Know what’s going to happen to you if those are the first three things you learn?”
“I’ll get my lugholes boxed?”
She laughed. “Every single night, do you hear me?”
“I won’t, Mum,” he said.
“Actually, I want to talk to you about how you spend your time down there.” A quick breath. “David, you know that your father and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“Yes.”
“But I have a secret that will be just between you and me. All right?”
“Okay.” She took his hand and pressed something into it. He turned his head. “A candle?”
“Another candle. Your father says you can have only two candles per shift because they cost too much. But that’s not enough for the whole time, is it?”
“No. They only burn three or four hours.”
“I know. So I want you to take another one.” And then he felt something bigger, this time placed on his chest. He reached up with his other hand. “A book?”
She leaned close. “In Barnsley there is a town library, a circulating library, it’s called.”
“Circu- what?”
“Circulating. Several years ago, Parliament passed a law that gave money to larger towns and cities so they could have libraries for the people—all the people—where you can take books out for a time, then bring them back. That’s what circulating means.”
“You went to Barnsley?”
“Yes. Don’t tell your father. He worries about me so, but it was a nice day, and walking does me good.” She went on quickly. “I want you to take this with you tomorrow. And the candle. And when there are no carts, you read.”
“But Mum—”
“There will be a lot of words you don’t know. Just sound them out and then we’ll talk about them each night. No, listen to me, David,” when he tried to interrupt again. “Now that you are working, I can’t teach you in the day anymore. You can’t lose what you’ve learned.”
Actually, he was thrilled to think that he could have another three hours of light, aside from the opportunity to read. “What book is it?”
“Oh, no. I’m not going to ruin it for you. It will be a little challenging for you to start.”
He turned on his side and put his arm around her. “Thank you, Mum.”
“You are most welcome.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Go to sleep, David.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Do you believe in God?”
She reared back. “Whoa, mule! Where did that come from?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said aboot the Holyrood Church. If we don’t have a church, do we have a God?”
“Of course. That’s very different, David. You don’t have to go to church to believe in God.”
“Oh.” To her surprise, he sounded more disappointed than pleased. She waited, wondering what was going on in his mind.
“My friend Peter says God watches everything we do, and if we’re bad He punishes us. But if we’re really good, and pray really hard, then God will bless us and make us happy.”
“That’s nonsense,” she snapped. Then, instantly regretting her tone, more softly she added, “I think that God is out there, but I don’t think He sits around in heaven, looking down on us, trying to decide what we need. He has more important things to do than that.”
“Hmm,” he said. He put his hands beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling.
She watched him for a moment, then very tenderly asked, “What is it, my darling? Tell me what is going on in that quick little mind of yours.”
“Nothing.” He yawned. “I’m just getting tired.”
“And that’s all you have to say about what I just said?”
“Yes.”
She turned fully to face him again. “Why did you ask about God, David?”
“I . . . I guess I was thinking about Him today.”
There was a long pause. “Were you thinking about praying to Him today?” Sensing his hesitation, she continued, “I see. David, all I was trying to say is that He doesn’t answer prayers for me. And I don’t believe that if something bad happens to us, it is God’s punishment. If God is really like that, then I don’t want to let Him decide how I live.”
“Yes, Mum.” He sounded very subdued.
“Ask your father about these things. It’s important that you hear what he has to say too.”
“Why? Does he believe God hears our prayers?”
She sighed. “I’ll let him answer that, Son. But you should know something. Your father has never been to school. He doesn’t know how to read or wr
ite, but that doesn’t mean he is not smart.” When he didn’t respond, she went on more earnestly. “Listen to me, David. Your father is very intelligent. He always thinks things through very carefully. Did you know, for example, that the other men often come to him when they have a problem that needs solving?”
He turned his head so he could look at her. “Really?”
“Yes. He’s very clever. And very wise. So it’s important that you ask him your questions too. He does believe that God watches out for us and that He answers prayers.”
“Yes, Mum.”
She gave his hand one last squeeze, then sat up. “You go to sleep now, David.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“There was one time . . .” He drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “My last candle had gone out and I knew it would be a long time before Dahd came for me.”
She waited for more, but he fell silent again. “So did you pray?” she asked.
“No. But . . .” He sat up and pulled his knees up beneath his chin. “But I wanted to.”
“Did you cry?”
His head dropped. One part of him was ashamed, because he had felt so much like a little boy again today, but he wanted her to know. She understood him in a way that his father didn’t. “Once,” he finally whispered.
When she spoke it was soft and gentle. “Thank you for telling me that, Son. I understand, and you don’t have to be ashamed.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “Once, when I was much younger, I cried for three days. And I prayed too. But . . .” She shook her head. “I’ve said enough. You talk to your father, hear what he has to say.”
“But I want to know what you think, Mum.”
She took a long time before she spoke, and when she did it was like she was far away from him. “All right. I think that when we cry, God does not hear us. I think that when we pray, God does not answer us. And . . .” She shook her head. “And if that is true, then we have to conclude that God does not care.”
Saturday, June 28, 1862
In Cawthorne Village, the second and fourth Saturdays of each month were considered almost the same as holidays. The workday ended a couple of hours earlier. People put on their finest and gathered as families, then spent the rest of the night mingling in a near-carnival atmosphere. The second and fourth Saturdays were paydays at the Cawthorne Mine.
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