MORNING SERIAL
“LET’S get Gwyn over by here.” Eric crawled back to the mound. “Me and you, Rees, take his head and shoulders – and Tom, take his legs.”
Very slowly they lifted the unconscious Gwyn and started to edge their way towards the rough-made couch.
“Careful now – careful!” gasped Rees. Gwyn was heavy.
The sharp stones dug into their knees and scraped their shins. Another yard and they had Gwyn on the stone couch.
“Bugger that for a game of soldiers!” puffed Tom.
Eric put the tips of his fingers against Gwyn’s throat. “His pulse is there – but he’s as cold as ice. Let’s get back and huddle up to keep our heat.” They lifted Gwyn back up onto their laps and pressed close to each other. “Wonder what made Gwyn late again tonight – MC at the Workingmen’s, I expect,” grinned Eric.
“More than likely!” said Tom. “As long as he’s around the ladies, he’s right. It got him a few good thumpings in his younger days. Didn’t it, Rees?”
“Aye – reached his pain-free zone now, I expect,” grinned Rees. “At his age – it’s divorcees and widows, appreciation instead of thumpings.”
“Sh! Sh! ... Quiet!” Eric lifted his hand and looked at the others for confirmation.
There was no need to ask, they could all hear it. It was unmistakable – faint, but unmistakable: the sound of men working.
They slapped each other on the back, hugged each other, shook hands, the awful torment of being trapped, the numbing cold for a moment forgotten. “We’re on our way! Give ’em a knock, Eric!” Tom shouted.
Eric didn’t need asking twice. He lifted Gwyn’s legs off his lap, grabbed the sledgehammer and struck the rail. The steel rail rang like a bell. He stopped, they listened.
No answer, but still the sound of men working.
“Try again, Eric – but this time try the one the kids use. Tomtiddly-har-rah-brown-bread!” said Rees.
Eric hammered out the age-old schoolboy’s signal: it rang clear, vibrating along the steel rail. Once, twice, three times.