by Mary Easson
Miss Fraser, Miss Fraser! Elizabeth, is there anything wrong? People were there above me, looking down into the darkness where I lay. What’s the matter? Are you alright? Somebody fetch the doctor, they were saying.
I could see them speaking as waves of consciousness swept and swirled over my listless body which lay still and cold on the floor, in the blackness of despair. I had entered a dark place where there was nothing, no light, no warmth, no hope, nothing.
Chapter 4
John
When I left the house with Jim the morning after the accident, I’d expected Alex to be well down the road but there he was just up ahead, keeping to the shaded side between the Rows as usual. Before he’d reached the rutted track that led to the pits, he’d had a long fit of coughing. I saw him lean against a fence post for support, fighting for air and choking on phlegm, his body shaking violently with every hack. He spat, adding his mark where others before him had patterned the gravelled surface of the road. A few shallow breaths later and he straightened his back. I was close enough to see him wipe his tear-stained face with the back of a shaking hand but I knew better than to run to his aid.
Alex was glad to be going to work, even though he complained loudly about the conditions he worked in. Mining was in his blood. It was what got him up in the morning, and made him who he was. He marched towards the pit, his eye fixed on the sheds up ahead and the pithead gear that turned back and forth as men in cages were delivered to the underground roads, way below ground. He walked with hunched shoulders, adopting the stoop that was his trademark, as if hiding his face from the sun. To his mind, there was little point in enjoying the delight of a summer’s morning. In his experience it could only lead to a longing for something unattainable. He was inured to the day ahead: another long shift underground, in the feeble loom of the light on his leather cap.
Whilst the other men walked in groups, conversing about the weather and Saturday’s football results, Alex walked alone. Me and Jim followed behind at a distance, knowing none of our friends would join us in his company. It wasn’t that people disliked him, though that might have been true in the past. It was just that it was too early in the morning for one of his socialist harangues about justice for the working man. Everybody trooping down that road and lining up to wait their turn for the cage was resigned to their fate, more or less, and no amount of wishing otherwise could change things. It didn’t make facing the day any easier being reminded by Alex Birse that the eight-hour-day, fought over for so long and enshrined in law these six years past, didn’t actually start until the worker was at his place of work with tools in hand ready to strike the first blow. For the miners, and the younger lads like me who drew out the coal and filled the hutches, this meant they wouldn’t be paid for time spent at the pithead waiting for the cages that took them down below, or when hurled in the bogies to the underground roads, nor for the journey on foot, often bent double, to the coalface. When the coal masters bickered over wage rates and whined about the difficulties of implementing the eight-hour-day in the mines, they had their opinions reported by their chums, the newspaper barons. The facts of the matter, Alex would rage, were never fully reported.
In the early years after our family’s arrival in Stoneyrigg, Alex Birse had been viewed with suspicion. As a younger man he was known for his temper. He was quick with his fists. If someone crossed him their card was marked and, in time, Alex would have his revenge. And he liked the sound of his own voice. It grated on his workmates. All that anger and for what? His complaining had achieved nothing. At the end of the day, they had the same damp and overcrowded houses to live in, and the same poor pay that went up and down but never amounted to very much. Every worker in every community across the country was in the same boat. They might as well just get on with things and hope for the best. What could they do?
But after yet another mining accident, in Broadrigg No. 1 back in 1910, when three had died and others were injured, and the tale of Alex’s survival had gone round, the strength of the man was acknowledged and his kindness towards the bereft was much admired. His efforts to make things better for the community and the truth of his words had started to dawn. He’d been right about the injustice of putting profit before people, of coal masters living in luxury whilst workers brought up their children in hovels. He had been right about the justice of fair pay for the hard work they did in the coal industry. It was the engine of the economy and the empire, after all. He had been right about the need for investment, reducing the risks underground and preventing pit accidents. The death of Charlie Scobie was further proof of that. Didn’t they all risk their lives and their health every time they went underground? Alex had been at the heart of the dispute that had closed Stoneyrigg Pit for good, when everyone in the Rows had joined together, eventually, the men refusing to work for less than what had already been agreed. Then years of discontent across the country in all kinds of industry, not just in mining, had let the men see the bigger picture, the one that Alex Birse had been trying to paint. He was hard to listen to at times but the man had been right all along.
By the time me and Jim arrived at the winding shed, Alex was approaching the banksman in charge of the cage doors. They exchanged a few words above the tumult then watched the cage disappear down into the shaft, wheels whirring, chains clashing. The tumblers were going good style, wagons were rising up from below, feeding the shakers with coal from the previous shift. Beyond a metal screen, a small army were already working at the picking tables, removing the waste rock and sorting the coal. Old grey men, scrawny boys with staring eyes and women, mainly widows and unmarried girls not long out of school, stooped over mounds of rock at the start of a twelve hour shift.
Alex produced a roll of paper from his haversack, motioned to the banksman who nodded his approval. He pinned it to the noticeboard by the entrance then stood in line for the arrival of the cage.
Miners Federation of Great Britain. Union Meeting. Public hall, Monday, 9th June 1914 at 7pm prompt.
To discuss action proposed by the union in response to the Scottish Association of Coal Masters’ proposal for a further cut in daily rates.
All members welcome.
S. Simpson, Union Official.
First one man then another left the line to read the notice. Back and forth the message was called out above the racket. Nodding indicated their understanding and shaking heads spoke of disappointment. It was inevitable given the difficulties of recent times.
My stomach churned when the throb in my hand reminded me of my narrow escape the previous week. I had to fight hard to quell the panic rising in my throat as the metal cage rose out of the ground, settling into place with a clunk. A dozen men shuffled in and took up position like convicts in a cell, staring out into the bright light of the morning beyond the shadows of the winding shed. They stood motionless, waiting for the banksman to secure the chain that would hold them in. A shrill whistle cried out above the clamour and wheels turned to start the descent. Ropes and chains creaked as they took the strain and the cage was delivered downwards to the darkness beneath.
Later, the mineworkers of all five local pits crowded into Blackrigg public hall, eager for news about the national negotiations taking place on our behalf. Five union stalwarts sat at the front of the hall watching the men flood in. They were pleased to see a good turn-out. It meant there wasn’t enough room for everybody but the large numbers spilling out onto the street and milling around open windows, trying to listen in to proceedings, served to show the masters that union membership was at an all-time high and the Blackrigg men meant business.
Steeny Simpson, union official and member of the parish council, took the chair. He was flanked by Alex and Davy with Joe McNab and John Doyle at either end of the table. The representatives watched as their caps were passed round the audience. Men fumbled in their pockets and gave something, a shilling here, a florin there, half a crown if they felt they could afford
it though it might be all they had till pay day. Soon, the caps were returned full of coins to the altar of the union men. It was an offering from a compassionate congregation, mindful of sacrifice, given out of respect, to appease the Fates and ward off evil. It was a whip-round for Charlie Scobie’s widow who had a man to bury and three weans to bring up on her own. In a ritual of shared understanding, eyes focused on the collection, a powerful symbol of their common purpose.
Joe brought the meeting to order, got ready to take the minutes. There was serious business to discuss and no time to be wasted. Steeny leaned forward.
‘As you are aware, back in March, the coal owners approached the Scottish Coal Trade Conciliation Board for a reduction in wages from 7/6d to 6/6d, a one shilling reduction on oor daily rate, their argument bein’ that the price o’ coal had come doon while their ain costs had gone up. They succeeded in pairt’, were granted a reduction of threepence on the daily rate by the Board. No content wi’ this decision, hooever, they’ve approached the Board again, pressin’ for a reduction o’ yet anither threepence, tae bring the rate doon tae seven shillings.’
A murmur travelled around the hall. Steeny waited for silence to fall, sweeping a hand through a raft of thick, black hair and studying his notes before proceeding.
‘In response, the Federation’s Scottish Executive has met an’ debated the matter. Gien the coal maisters’ intransigence an’ refusal tae negotiate, strike action has been threatened.’
A hundred animated discussions started up. Steeny held up a hand and Joe called for quiet.
‘Noo, it micht no come tae pass. Let’s hope it’ll no.’ Steeny could see how much the men dreaded a stoppage. He wanted to allay their fears, for the time being at least.
‘But the union is askin’ for yer support at this time, tae mak the maisters see sense an’ change their tack. If we staun the gither, we’ve a chance o’ success.’ He watched until heads started to nod in agreement.
‘Onie questions?’
‘When will the union meet again? Hoo lang will they gie for the maisters tae see sense?’
‘Aye, when will we ken whether we’re gaun oan strike or no?’
Steeny replied, ‘We’ll ken in anither week. But mind, the maisters ken hoo strong the union is. We’ve a strike fund built up so they ken we could haud oot for a while.’
‘Aye, but it would pey oot less than oor weekly wage. We dinnae want a strike if we can help it,’ called a voice from the back of the hall.
‘Of coorse we dinnae want a strike,’ interjected Alex who couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘But is this oor fault? Naw, it’s no,’ answering his own question. ‘Nane o’ this is oor makin’! We didnae gang lookin’ for a fecht, did we?’
‘Yer richt there, Alex!’ agreed two men in the front row. They sat with their arms crossed.
‘The coal maisters are sae busy competin’ wi’ each ither for markets, haudin’ supplies back tae put up the prices, floodin’ the market at ither times when it suits them. They mak the prices gang up an doon theirsels,’ explained Alex. ‘An’ syne if the price is doon jist noo, it’ll be up afore we ken it, quick as a wink. Then whaur will we be? Will they gie us an eik tae oor wages as soon as?’
‘Naw, they’ll no!’ Everybody agreed.
The mineworkers knew only too well how the mechanism by which their wage rates were decided worked against them. Although a minimum rate was guaranteed by law, actual wages were decided by a sliding scale linked to prices in the individual coalfields.
Steeny eyed up the audience. Things were becoming heated but he would let the discussion run for a bit.
‘An’ as for their costs gaun up,’ continued Alex. ‘Whit are they spendin’ their money oan? Better hooses for you an’ me? Naw! Are they makin’ the pits safer tae work in? Nae chance!’
‘It’s a’ aboot profit as faur as they’re concerned,’ interjected Davy. ‘Mair profit for theirsels an’ their investors.’
Everybody in the hall voiced their anger at the mining companies. Everybody was talking but nobody was listening.
‘Thievin’ bastards!’ shouted a voice that spoke for everybody present.
Steeny Simpson stepped in, deciding that the Birses had fulfilled a purpose but that order had to be restored. ‘We have oor opinion aboot the motives o’ the owners, I’m sure. We’ll be back here Monday week. Let’s pray that good sense and fairness prevail in the meantime.’
The five union men remained in their seats and watched the assembly disperse. Some of the workers had their dander up, were ready for confrontation but others were subdued, worry etched on their faces. Whilst every one of them might agree that they had right on their side, not everyone agreed about how they should fight their cause. They had a roof to keep over their heads and mouths to feed. Responsibility weighed heavily on their shoulders. With knitted brows and many questions, wives would be waiting behind the door when they got home.
How were they expected to live on strike pay, twelve bob, if they were lucky? Did men no realise that the price of meal had gone up, and coal for the fire was gey dear, no matter what the pit owners said about prices being low? Did they no ken that the bairns needed boots for their feet and claes for their backs, forby? And hoo lang would it tak to recoup the money they’d lose because of the dispute? Wouldn’t they lose more than they gained, at the end of the day?
Memories of the long stoppage of 1912 would be fresh in their minds, adding fuel to the fire of their invective. Two long months of conflict it had been, pitting man against man, family against family, depending on whether they supported the union cause or not. Even the bairns had fought about it in the playground, picking on the ones whose fathers were breaking the strike by continuing to work. Until, finally, they’d all downed tools and the wheels at the pithead had stopped turning.
‘We need the men tae stick thegither,’ Steeny said as the last man disappeared through the door. ‘United we stand.’
‘Divided we fa’,’ added Davy. At twenty-three years of age he was the youngest of the group at the top table.
‘There’s weys o’ getting’ folk tae staun thegither,’ announced Alex, a hint of menace in his voice.
‘Noo, haud oan,’ interjected John Doyle, a thirty-something faceworker with a wife and five children to support. ‘Yer gettin’ aheid o’ yersel. We’re no lookin’ fur bother, no if it can be helped.’
‘Aye, it micht no come tae a stoppage,’ added Joe McNab. At fifty years he was the eldest of the group and a union man through and through. ‘The Executive’ll meet wi’ the maisters an’ mak them see sense. The union’s never been stronger.’
‘But they maisters are a wily bunch,’ said Alex. ‘They’re used tae getting’ their wey. An’ they work thegither whilst the workin’ man has a hunder opinions aboot a’thing an hoo tae gang aboot it!’
‘If the union says “strike”, a’body should strike, every last yin o’ them,’ stated Davy prodding his finger into the table to emphasise his point. ‘Or else.’
‘Mind whau yer dealin’ wi, lad,’ warned Steeny. ‘The men have their faimilies tae think aboot. It’s no jist as simple as yer makin’ oot. No tae mention the non-union men ready tae come in an’ pick up the work.’
‘Oftimes, ye’ve got tae staun up an’ be coontit. Else nuthin gets done, nuthin gets onie better. Ye have tae say enough is enough.’
‘Aye, ye have, Davy lad, an’ is thon no whit we’re daein’?’ Steeny was calm. ‘But there’s weys o’ daein’ things. Reason aye prevails ower anger, in the long run.’
Davy snarled, ‘But we’re no dealin’ wi’ reasonable folk, are we? The coal maisters winnae see reason, an’ whit’s richt. We ay have tae get in line an’ wait, cap in haun while THEY decide whit’s reasonable. Some o’ us is gettin’ gey fed up waitin’ fur the next wee bit crust tae come oor wey. We’re gey hungert waitin’ for reason.’ He grabbed his bunne
t and emptied the coins for the dead man’s widow onto the table with a clatter.
‘Easy does it, Davy,’ cautioned Steeny. ‘Keep the heid, eh? For yer ain sake.’
Davy stomped across the hall towards the exit.
‘Keep the heid, son, eh? For a’ oor sakes,’ murmured Steeny after my brother had gone.
Me and Jim had been the first of our pals to arrive at the village hall for the union meeting. After a long day down the pit, union business was the last thing we needed when there were rabbits to snare and roads to walk in the fresh air. But our elders had stressed the importance of the meeting, so we’d felt compelled to attend, to show face. Deep in conversation about the political implications of a possible strike in the Scottish coalfield, Alex and Davy had stepped out manfully ahead of us. On arrival at the door of the hall, Alex had motioned with a toss of his head that we were not to come in but should find a suitable spot outside instead. At the age of sixteen we had to leave the limited space in the hall for our betters, the skilled hewers and the journeymen who’d earned their place after long years of hard work. We’d settled ourselves on the ground by the back door, reckoning that the discussion to come would be audible if we listened hard. Our friends and workmates would find us when they arrived.
It was a fine summer’s evening and the warmth of the sun, still high in the sky, felt fine on our pale faces. We pulled up our shirt sleeves. As we often did, we compared our muscles and sinews which were identical, us being twins, and hadn’t change since the last time we’d looked. I was glad no mention was made of my missing finger or the accident that had robbed me of it. Instead, Jim admired the long scar on my arm so I held it aloft, a badge of honour won in a battle against a runaway hutch full of coal. The wound had healed into a dark blue line because of the coal dust trapped in my skin. Alex said that the colour would fade a little but I would carry the scar with me to the grave. Mining was like that, he said, the scars never went away. They were always with you, no matter what. Every time I saw that scar, I remembered those words and believed he was right. Mining got under your skin till it was part of you.