I tried tae tell Rushforth, but he widna listen, so Ah’m tellin’ you, for there’s somethin’ no’ right doon there”

Daniel had taken to waiting with some of the older men who took the last cage up to the surface. They were the observant ones; the ones who knew the pit best. It was from them that Daniel could glean the information he needed. “I aye hear it – the sound o’ water – but I couldna hear it the day,” Blinks Murdoch said. “Aye.” Clugs Mathieson tapped his knee.

“My Lizzie’ll be right glad that ma claes are dry for a change. Nae dryin’ in this weather, she tells me.”

The talk ebbed and flowed as the cage came down and the men got in. Apart from the odd remark to him, Daniel wasn’t included.

The others admired him for having the courage to be their leader, but it took years for a man to be accepted into the brotherhood of miners.

Daniel studied them as they talked among themselves. Blinks Murdoch got his nickname from blinking rapidly all the time.

The Glenny blinks, Daniel had been told, was a legacy from working by the flickering light of the carbide lamp on his helmet.

Clugs Mathieson dragged one foot, his pit legacy from an accident with a loaded coal hutch at the coal face.

Sense of humour

Nicknames. A sense of humour all of their own. Daniel glanced at his companions. They were all grandfathers, had sons working side by side with them. Their lives had been mapped out for them since they were 14-years-old. So where did the humour and the camaraderie come from? Perhaps Pate’s explanation of it all was the best one, Daniel reflected.

“They’re juist makin’ the best o’ a bad job,” he’d told Daniel.

Daniel screwed up his eyes against the daylight as the cage came to the surface and the men spilled out.

“Danny.” Lofty Baxter, the only man in Langrigg who was smaller than Tricky Binnie, tugged at Daniel’s sleeve as if to detain him. He looked anxious.

“There’s somethin’ far wrang doon there.” He jerked his thumb back at the pithead.

“I did a nightshift doon there the ither week, and I was workin’ up ahead o’ the ithers when I heard it – the rumblin’. In at the back o’ the brick screen, y’ken where the auld workin’s bricked aff.”

Daniel stared at him, alarm etched on his face. “Have you heard it since, Lofty?”

The other shook his head. “No, but the workin’s have been a’ but dry since that, Danny. An’ the pit props up at that end are splintered in places, like there’s pressure on them.” Lofty took off his helmet and wearily rubbed his eyes.

“I tried tae tell Rushforth, but he widna listen, so Ah’m tellin’ you, for there’s somethin’ no’ right doon there. Next time you get a chance, go up an’ hae a look at the brick screenin’.”

A group of small boys led by Pud Maxton were dancing around the pit gates, shouting at the miners coming off their shift.

“Pit pieces!” Lofty was momentarily distracted. “Wid ye look at that? No’ a hungry wean among them an’ they’re still lookin’ for pit pieces.”

Some of the men were opening their piece boxes and handing out unwanted cheese and jam sandwiches to Abie Makin and his friends, when Lofty was further distracted by the sight of his grandson, Pud Maxton.

“Here, you, away hame. If you eat ony mair ye’ll blaw up.”

He shook his fist at Pud, who beat a hasty retreat with his grandfather in hot pursuit.

Daniel hesitated for a moment, then turned towards the pit office. Old Harry, the keeper of the office, would be there alone at this time of day. Harry was busy tidying up an already tidy office.

Drawings

“Did ye see Mr Rushforth on yer travels?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he added, “I dinna expect ye did. Naebody’s seen him for a day or twa. I dinna ken how he pits in his time.”

Daniel darted a look out at the pithead. “I’m looking for the drawings of the old workings that were closed about 15 years ago, Harry. Pate Walker told me about them.” Harry nodded.

“Oh, aye. Aboot the accident. Pate lost the power o’ his legs in that, an’ three guid men lost their lives. A bad business a’ thegither. Juist a meenit.”

He explored several shelves before finding the drawings tucked away at the back of one. Daniel spread them out and studied them, tracing paths with his fingers.

“What are you doing here, Morrison?” Rushforth was standing in the doorway, a strange half-smile on his face. As Daniel opened his mouth to answer, the manager spoke again. “Get out o’ here, Morrison. You’ve nae business here.”

Daniel knew that there would be no point in arguing, and as he left, he heard the manager unleash a tirade of abuse at Harry.

As he made his way to the pit gates, he met Miss Bunty. Dressed in boots, tweed plus fours with matching jacket and carrying a stout walking stick, she looked flushed and more than a little flustered.

“I’m trying to track down that elusive manager,” she said to Daniel, “for the second time this week, and I’m blowed if I’m going to trail all the way up to his house in search of him.”

She pushed an unruly tangle of curls back from her flushed face.

“You look upset. Is something wrong?” she asked Daniel.

Still stinging from Rushforth’s contemptuous dismissal and worried about what Lofty had told him, Daniel told Bunty about the old workings.

“I only had a chance to have a quick look,” he said, “but the flooding, the damaged pit props and the noises – all of them seem to be coming from those old workings. I think somebody should have a closer look at those drawings.”

Temper

Bunty bit her lip and seemed to be having trouble holding on to her temper.

“Rushforth’s work, I’d say. My brother’s due back shortly. I’ll have a word with him and I’m sure he’ll investigate it.”

“You still here, Morrison? I thought I told you to clear off.” The manager spoke from behind Daniel. Neither he nor Miss Bunty had heard Rushforth approach.

“Best get away, then.” Daniel took his leave without glancing at him. Bunty didn’t hesitate. She poked Rushforth in the chest with her stick.

“Get back into the office,” she said, face flaring with annoyance. “Explain to me where you have been for the last two days, because you certainly have not been here,” she thundered, driving a stunned Rushforth back into the office at the point of her stick.

Harry was still tidying up. Rushforth, knowing his love of gossip, had no wish to lose face.

“Ye’ve nae authority here,” he growled at Bunty. “Women ken nothin’ aboot coal minin’. I answer tae yer brother – naebody else.

More tomorrow.

This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

By Neilla Martin Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones