had been brought to the surface.
The fall had been a bad one, but amazingly only four men had lost their lives, although several more had been injured. Most of the shift working in the affected area were ‘walking wounded’, however, and the management would expect them to turn up as normal the next day, even though a pocket of men had been unconscious through lack of oxygen when they were found. And of course Matthew Heath had to be among the lucky ones who’d walked away unscathed.
Vincent pulled the collar of his coat more closely round his neck, his eyes narrowing against the bitter cold.
But it was Hannah appearing from the crowd waiting at the pit gates for news and throwing herself on Heath when he’d emerged which had turned his stomach and made him feel as weak as a kitten for a moment. Of course it hadn’t been Hannah; after the first paralysing impact he’d realised it was Hannah’s daughter, but his guts were still churning from the incident an hour since.
How long had it been since he’d last caught sight of the girl? he asked himself now. A long time, possibly a good five or six years, thinking about it. The thought of Stephen Shelton’s seed living on had been a thorn in his flesh at one time, but once Heath had begun work at the colliery and he had been able to hit him where it hurt – in his pocket – he had felt easier. He saw to it that Heath’s tubs of coal were downgraded or rejected whenever he could, and the subsequent fines and reduced pay-packet carried through to the letter. Once or twice he’d cut his wages by half and there wasn’t a thing Heath – or any of the other miners he penalised – could do about it. Since he’d taken the job as weighman he carried a cosh in his pocket and kept his eyes skinned once he was clear of the village and on his way to and from the cottage. Weighmen seemed to be prone to ‘accidents’ of the fatal kind. His predecessor had been found on a dark night with his head bashed in.
‘That’s the last one up now.’ Collins, the under-manager, joined him, tucking his muffler into the collar of his expensive coat as he spoke. ‘Damn nuisance, this. It’ll affect end-of-month profit, as if we haven’t got enough trouble with the unions bleating about pay and conditions. Look out for troublemakers, McKenzie, and see to it they’re discouraged from becoming too vocal.You understand me?’
Vincent nodded. He understood all right. Any known agitators would find their tubs discarded over and over again until they came to heel. And if they had the temerity to complain about this treatment they’d face the sack, which meant they were thrown out of their tied cottage. During the Durham strike the year before, he’d provided the owners with a list naming the most militant miners in the colliery, and subsequently received orders to get rid of two of them as an example to the rest of the herd. The feeling of power as he’d watched the families he’d chosen to go, being evicted from their homes, had been heady.
Collins walked off without a goodbye but Vincent didn’t expect one. The under-manager had recommended him for the position of weighman eight years ago but that didn’t mean he liked him, nor he Collins. Vincent knew he’d got the job because he had always made it plain he knew which side his bread was buttered; furthermore he had no allegiance to any of the men under him and no family connections. He’d always been disliked by his fellow man, now he was hated, but that didn’t worry him. He had made their hate work for him. He was sitting pretty in a comfortable home with good food and clothes, and he wanted for nothing. And if Collins and the owners looked down on him, he didn’t mind that either, as long as he was paid the hefty commission he earned for every tub of coal he rejected for the owners. He had a tidy bit put away for a rainy day already.
Vincent followed the thin, stringy figure of the under-manager out of the pit gates.
The fall had been a bad one, but amazingly only four men had lost their lives, although several more had been injured. Most of the shift working in the affected area were ‘walking wounded’, however, and the management would expect them to turn up as normal the next day, even though a pocket of men had been unconscious through lack of oxygen when they were found. And of course Matthew Heath had to be among the lucky ones who’d walked away unscathed.
Vincent pulled the collar of his coat more closely round his neck, his eyes narrowing against the bitter cold.
But it was Hannah appearing from the crowd waiting at the pit gates for news and throwing herself on Heath when he’d emerged which had turned his stomach and made him feel as weak as a kitten for a moment. Of course it hadn’t been Hannah; after the first paralysing impact he’d realised it was Hannah’s daughter, but his guts were still churning from the incident an hour since.
How long had it been since he’d last caught sight of the girl? he asked himself now. A long time, possibly a good five or six years, thinking about it. The thought of Stephen Shelton’s seed living on had been a thorn in his flesh at one time, but once Heath had begun work at the colliery and he had been able to hit him where it hurt – in his pocket – he had felt easier. He saw to it that Heath’s tubs of coal were downgraded or rejected whenever he could, and the subsequent fines and reduced pay-packet carried through to the letter. Once or twice he’d cut his wages by half and there wasn’t a thing Heath – or any of the other miners he penalised – could do about it. Since he’d taken the job as weighman he carried a cosh in his pocket and kept his eyes skinned once he was clear of the village and on his way to and from the cottage. Weighmen seemed to be prone to ‘accidents’ of the fatal kind. His predecessor had been found on a dark night with his head bashed in.
‘That’s the last one up now.’ Collins, the under-manager, joined him, tucking his muffler into the collar of his expensive coat as he spoke. ‘Damn nuisance, this. It’ll affect end-of-month profit, as if we haven’t got enough trouble with the unions bleating about pay and conditions. Look out for troublemakers, McKenzie, and see to it they’re discouraged from becoming too vocal.You understand me?’
Vincent nodded. He understood all right. Any known agitators would find their tubs discarded over and over again until they came to heel. And if they had the temerity to complain about this treatment they’d face the sack, which meant they were thrown out of their tied cottage. During the Durham strike the year before, he’d provided the owners with a list naming the most militant miners in the colliery, and subsequently received orders to get rid of two of them as an example to the rest of the herd. The feeling of power as he’d watched the families he’d chosen to go, being evicted from their homes, had been heady.
Collins walked off without a goodbye but Vincent didn’t expect one. The under-manager had recommended him for the position of weighman eight years ago but that didn’t mean he liked him, nor he Collins. Vincent knew he’d got the job because he had always made it plain he knew which side his bread was buttered; furthermore he had no allegiance to any of the men under him and no family connections. He’d always been disliked by his fellow man, now he was hated, but that didn’t worry him. He had made their hate work for him. He was sitting pretty in a comfortable home with good food and clothes, and he wanted for nothing. And if Collins and the owners looked down on him, he didn’t mind that either, as long as he was paid the hefty commission he earned for every tub of coal he rejected for the owners. He had a tidy bit put away for a rainy day already.
Vincent followed the thin, stringy figure of the under-manager out of the pit gates.
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