Rosemary Aitken (13 page)

He lay there on the makeshift stretcher and tried to shake his head. He still could not believe the suddenness of this. Two men injured and another dead. Not that he had been all that badly hurt, himself. He might have felt less guilty if he had. But the sight of Tommy Richards’ legs sticking out from under half a ton of rock – all that was visible of his oldest friend and mate – and the retrieval of the crushed corpse afterwards would live with Walter for ever, he knew. And even that was not the worst of it. Tommy’s son Jimmy, the youngest member of
the team, who was only just thirteen and only recently come down to underground, was badly hurt as well. Walter had managed to pull him back in time to save his life, but a piece of flying granite took him in the eye and it would be a wonder if he ever saw again.

What was Walter going to say to Mrs Richards now?

He had seen her just this morning, standing at her gate, laughing as she gave her son and husband their ‘crowst-bags’ for their lunch and waving as they all three walked down to the mine. Beautiful fine morning, with the sun bright on the sea – you could not have guessed that it would end this way. Poor woman, Jimmy was the only child she had: it would be a long time before she laughed again.

Yet it had begun like any other shift: changing into their flannels and fustians in the ‘dry’, where they had been left drying overnight: each man kneading a lump of clay into a candle-holder, and sticking a lit taper to his felt ‘tull’ hat, and hanging the remainder of the candles from a button of a working coat – waistcoat or jacket, as the case may be. Then joshing and joking with the other men as they walked over to the ‘ope’, and singing as they went down the half-mile of ladders to the level they were working at. Walter’s choice
of level – that was the tragic thing.

Like all the other pare-leaders at Penvarris Mine, he was a ‘tributer’ – meaning (as he’d said to Joe) that he had a contract with the mine for so much per ton of tin – so that his earnings (and the earnings of his team) depended on how much ore he won. He had the choice of where his pare would work: that was the skill of it – judging where the seams were and which way they would run – and Walter’s judgement had generally been among the best, though there had been some lean times, as there always were. Of course, he’d started like everybody did, being a part of someone else’s pare – still did if he was working doublers in place of someone sick – but he was proud to be the leader of his team. It made you feel a proper man, he often said – almost as if you were working for yourself, because you were the only one responsible.

It was that responsibility that hurt him most today – much worse than the smashed ankle and the bruising on his back. He had chosen to open up that stope – working from the bottom level first. It had looked promising when he prospected it. He had seen the green of copper shining in the stone, and where there was copper there was often tin below. And he had been right, as well – this last week or two the stone they’d sent up in the trolleys to be crushed had been assessed as being rich in ore. Jimmy and Tommy would be owed a day or two’s good pay – and they’d both paid into the Miners’ Friendly every week so there’d be something to help the widow for a little while.

The widow! Even now it was impossible to believe the truth of that. One minute there was Tommy, taking turns with him at hammering in the bore-bit while Jimmy held it in position in the hole, the next there was a shouted warning from the stope above, then a rumble from just above their heads. Walter had a recollection of a shout – ‘She’s going to run! Take cover!’ – as he seized the boy and thrust him bodily into the tunnel at their backs. It was a narrow tunnel and they had to bend as a report like gun-shot echoed through the mine. He looked around for Tommy but he could not see for sudden dust. The walls around them trembled and the very air appeared to shake, blowing out their candles to leave them in the dark, as with a roar like thunder the rock began to fall. Instinctively Walter had thrown himself full-length, covering his eyes and ears to shield the blast, but Jimmy did not have a miner’s instincts yet and he must have raised his head to shout out ‘Father!’. And the rest was history.

It had seemed a long, long time before the help arrived, and with it the candles that showed the dreadful truth: Tommy’s twisted bloodstained legs emerging from the pile and the dreadful gash where Jimmy’s eye had been. Even now, as he was carried on the stretcher to the winze, where they could winch him to the surface, Walter could see that nightmare picture in his mind.

‘You’ve been lucky, Walt Pengelly!’ Captain Maddern was at his elbow still. ‘I’m sure they’ll fix that broken ankle good as new. And that back will quickly heal – only surface cuts and bruises where bits of rock have hit. Only small stuff, but it makes a mess. Good thing you had the sense to shield your head – you’ve only got a little gash from flying stone – not like poor Jimmy who took it in the face. But it’s down to you that he’s alive at all. And if you hadn’t thrust that boy away and lain yourself across him, he very likely would be dead as well.’

He was only trying to be comforting, as Walter was aware – but somehow, as he was jogged along the tunnel, by the flickering flames of candles stuck on projecting rocks, he found that he was clinging to the reassuring words. They emerged into the larger space beside the winze, and the cool clean air descending from the shaft – after the heat and dust of further in – worked on Walter like a draught of medicinal wine.

He took great gulps of it, and for the first time since the accident he found his voice. It sounded very hoarse and faraway, even to his own ears, and his lips were dry with dust but he did manage to say, ‘Someone tell my daughter and let Joe Martin know.’

But then they put the stretcher in the cage to winch it up and the pain of his leg and ankle came wafting over him. He tried to raise his head, but found it hurt too much. He must have been more injured than he thought. The world went black and he did not speak again. He must have been unconscious – or something close to it – for several hours, for he knew nothing further until he found himself propped up in an unfamiliar bed with Effie at his side and the mine doctor bending over him.

Effie was in the empty breakfast room with a pile of sheets and towels and pillowslips spread out in front of her. The room was chilly, since it was rarely used (Mrs Thatchell always had her breakfast sent up on a tray); no fire was ever lit and it smelt shut-up and musty, and even with the shutters back the light was very poor. Effie hated being in there, but she had to check the laundry marks on everything to go to the Sanitary Steam Laundry before the boy with the cart arrived to pick them up.

It was a job she cordially detested, too. Some of Mrs Thatchell’s linen had once been poorly marked in a patent ink that had not proved to be ‘indelible’ at all, so that the initials ‘J.K.T.’ in the corner of the hem had half-washed out with time. Effie’s task was to ‘refresh’ the stamp, by covering the letters exactly as they were with proper Indian ink: a fiddly business, made more difficult because the steel nib that Mrs Thatchell provided for the job was old and scratchy and easy to get crossed. (Rather like the owner of the sheets herself, Effie thought wickedly, but it was no joking matter.) Besides, the wretched pen inclined to smudge.

She was just struggling with a lace-edged bolster case when she was aware of a sudden commotion at the door downstairs, followed by Mrs Lane’s voice muttering to a man.

Dear Heaven, surely the laundry cart had not already come? If so this re-marking would have to wait until next time – it was only to be hoped the items came back home all right. Effie jammed the lid back on the ink bottle and hastily cleaned the offending nib on the pen-wiper. She would have to bundle up the laundry as it was, and she hadn’t yet double-checked to make sure that all the items were written on the list. She began to do so, hastily: bed sheets (linen) 2; pillowslips (embroidered) 2: calico single bed sheets . . . She would never get it done.

She was interrupted by the breathless arrival of Cook.

‘Effie! You are wanted. There’s a man here from the mine.’ Mrs Lane came hurrying across and did the strangest thing – she put her arms round Effie.

It was as well that Effie had put the ink-pot down, or she would certainly have dropped it with the shock. ‘What’s happened?’ It was clearly something terrible.

‘There’s been some sort of accident and your father’s hurt. Still alive, mind – though it seems there’s others dead.’

Effie heard her own voice saying, ‘Badly hurt?’ though she had no consciousness of framing any sound.

‘Couldn’t rightly say, my handsome. Bad enough, I think,’ Mrs Lane said, in a gentle tone. ‘Seems as how he passed out with the pain and they had to have the mine doctor to have a look at him. Best you get down there and see him for yourself.’

‘A doctor!’ Effie caught her breath. It must be really bad. You didn’t call the doctor if it wasn’t serious. Of course they’d had one come when Ma had been so sick, but it had done no good, and afterwards Pa had had to pawn his watch to pay the man his fee. And now he was the one they’d called the doctor for! She pulled off her working apron and was halfway to the door, when a thought hit her. ‘But Mrs Thatchell . . .’

‘No doubt she will grumble, but she’ll let you go, once she hears what’s happened, I am sure. She was good to me a year or two ago when my brother Fred was ill. Tell you what, you go and get your coat on and I’ll go to see her first – put in a word for you – then she’ll be prepared and won’t snap your head off before she’s heard you out.’

Effie swallowed and did as she was told. Afterwards she could not properly recall how she climbed the staircase and changed her working clothes, but she must have done it because a little later on she found herself standing outside the parlour in her cloak and bonnet, and her outdoor boots.

‘Come in, Effie!’ Mrs Thatchell’s voice, almost before she’d had the time to knock.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Thatchell. It’s my father, see . . .’

Her employer waved an impatient hand at her. ‘Don’t bother with all that. Mrs Lane has told me what the problem is. I understand you want time off for the remainder of the day. Indeed I see that you have dressed accordingly. Well, in the circumstances, I do not object, though of course I shall expect you to make up the time. Fortunately that is easy to arrange: you can simply work one Thursday afternoon in lieu. Next week, perhaps, when your father is a little more himself. I hope that’s satisfactory?’

It was more than Effie had been hoping for, in fact: she had expected at least to lose her wages for a day. It would mean no Alex on that afternoon – but perhaps that didn’t matter, after what she’d heard. Maybe she ought to get a note to him. But she’d think about that later. Seeing Pa today was the important thing. She managed to stammer, with genuine relief, ‘Thank you, madam. You are very good.’

Mrs Thatchell gave a thin-lipped little smile. ‘I know my Christian duty, I should hope. Now don’t just stand there. I have given my permission and you are free to go. I understand there’s someone waiting in the street with a cart to take you to your father straight away.’

It was the first that Effie had heard about a cart, but the information came as a relief. She had been fretting about how long it would take to get to Pa on foot. There was no horse-bus to Penvarris at this time of day (there would not be another one for hours) and, though it was only a matter of five miles and in this fine weather it was obviously possible to walk, with all the worry about the accident it would have seemed to take for ever, she could see. Thank heavens the fellow from the mine had brought a cart – though she could not imagine whose cart it would be. Most probably a friend of Uncle Joe’s who had lent it to him for the trip, she thought, as she hurried down the kitchen steps and out into the yard.

But it was not Uncle Joe who was awaiting her. This was someone taller and much stockier, but for a foolish moment she did not recognize the man who was standing on the pavement, dressed in filthy working clothes. He must have come directly, not even stopping to rinse off at the dry, because he was still covered from head to foot in red dust from the mine, with only the moistness of his eyes and mouth making a living contrast with the dusty mask. When he saw her his wet lips opened in a smile and he grabbed off his grubby cap and began to twist it between his grimy hands.

When he took off the cap Effie saw ginger in the hair and realized for the first time who the caller was. ‘Peter!’ she cried, astonished.

He nodded, his face quite solemn suddenly. ‘Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but I thought you ought to ’ear as soon as possible. Came to fetch you the minute I was free – your cousin Peg told me where you were working to – and I went t’see Crowdie from the farm, and he obliged by offering to drive me into Penzance hisself. Said he ’ad an errand in the town in any case – but I don’t believe it, ’cause he’s not been gone five minutes and here he is again.’ He gestured to the farm-cart that was lumbering up the street. ‘You know Crowdie, don’t you?’

Effie found that she was nodding, rather tearfully – partly from gratitude and partly from relief. Everyone knew Crowdie, and if he was on the cart there could be no awkwardness with Peter as she had briefly feared. She said, with a gush of genuine gratitude, ‘Hello Crowdie. Thanks for driving in. You have both been angels. But about my Pa . . .’

‘They’ve taken him by stretcher to your Uncle Joe’s – he couldn’t have managed in his lodgings on his own,’ Crowdie was saying as he bent down to help her into the cart.

She scrambled up beside him. He smelt of straw and cows, which she somehow found extremely comforting. ‘I hear they fetched the doctor. Is he badly hurt?’

Peter Kellow was climbing up onto the seat and sitting close to her, though he placed a piece of sack between them, not to soil her clothes. It was rather touching, the way he thought of that and when she felt the pressure of his arm against her own she did not flinch and shuffle further off. Not that there was anything romantic in the contact, she assured herself; it was simply comfort, that was all.