whites of his eyes gleamed in the sooty blackness. He continued with the feverish pace. Chips flew wildly and he felt one hit his cheek, then the wetness of blood. He took perverse enjoyment in the physical pain. It alleviated his mental anguish, however temporarily. Another slither of coal bit into his skin. He winced. It was probably less dangerous at the Front than it was down here, he thought. He would go soon. When he got the courage to tell his Mam, he’d go. He continued with the back-breaking toil: lift the pick, slash at the coal face, pull, twist, until the jet black mass fell, repeat, again and again and again!
Darkie and the men near him stopped hacking at the first yell. They were frozen for a moment, listening. Then the rumbling turned into a thunderous roar. Darkie heard Paddy cry his name. Men threw down their picks and began to run down the tunnel towards them. They were all running now, heads bent. The roaring increased, drowning out the screams. Rocks bombarded them like missiles. A chunk hit Darkie – he didn’t feel a thing, only the wetness. He kept going. Men pushed at his back, maddened. Only with great effort did he manage to stay upright.
Just as suddenly the roaring stopped. The silence following was even more ominous. It was punctuated by a high-pitched scream. An agonizing scream! Darkie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. They waited for the dust to subside, still listening to the sound. Then some of the men went back along the tunnel. The screaming came from a man trapped from the waist down by a huge boulder. Paddy? He looked around and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw him standing a few feet away. The victim was one of the new Irish immigrants who were pouring into Harwood. Mike Flannigan had only just arrived from Dublin with his wife and eight children. Darkie bent down and looked into Mike’s agonized eyes.
‘ It’ll be all right, Mike, just hang on, hang on.’ He liked Mike. His eyes filled with tears. Why did this always have to be the way? He brushed a hand over his eyes. He pushed and shoved with the others to dislodge the boulder. Mike’s screams had subsided to a weak moan. A great gush of blood, like an obscene tongue, suddenly leapt from Mike’s mouth. Darkie jumped back as Mike gave a last shuddering breath. The men looked silently at one another. What could be said? Mike was dead. It had happened before, it would happen again. They walked back down to the cage in silence and got in.
Paddy was crammed next to him. He could feel him shaking. He had a large gash on his forehead from which blood ran steadily down the side of his face. Darkie pulled out a large piece of cloth from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Paddy. His own hand trembled. ‘Thanks,’ Paddy whispered.
‘Bit bloody close, that one, eh.’
Paddy nodded, dabbing at the wound. ‘Too bloody close.’
Darkie was still trembling when the cage reached the top. The back of his head hurt. He’d been scared stiff, bloody scared stiff. That was definitely it! He’d had enough of the pit and he’d either get another job or join up. Anything was preferable to that hellhole.
He drew another shaky breath. His mother hadn’t wanted him to work in the pit but no, he’d had to have his own way. It had been the pay, but the pay was no good if you were six feet under, was it? He shuddered as he thought of how close they’d all come to being trapped down there. Entombed alive which was worse than what had happened to poor Mike. I’d rather die with a bullet in me, he thought!
***********
Emma sat in the old chair in front of the window. A large portion of the stuffing protruded from a hole in the side. She stared out onto the cobbled yard, eyes bleak. An Indian summer had descended on Harwood and the sun shone down onto the bare back yard, glistening blindingly off the slates on the shed roof at the bottom.
A black cat stood on them with its back arched, staring with
Darkie and the men near him stopped hacking at the first yell. They were frozen for a moment, listening. Then the rumbling turned into a thunderous roar. Darkie heard Paddy cry his name. Men threw down their picks and began to run down the tunnel towards them. They were all running now, heads bent. The roaring increased, drowning out the screams. Rocks bombarded them like missiles. A chunk hit Darkie – he didn’t feel a thing, only the wetness. He kept going. Men pushed at his back, maddened. Only with great effort did he manage to stay upright.
Just as suddenly the roaring stopped. The silence following was even more ominous. It was punctuated by a high-pitched scream. An agonizing scream! Darkie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. They waited for the dust to subside, still listening to the sound. Then some of the men went back along the tunnel. The screaming came from a man trapped from the waist down by a huge boulder. Paddy? He looked around and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw him standing a few feet away. The victim was one of the new Irish immigrants who were pouring into Harwood. Mike Flannigan had only just arrived from Dublin with his wife and eight children. Darkie bent down and looked into Mike’s agonized eyes.
‘ It’ll be all right, Mike, just hang on, hang on.’ He liked Mike. His eyes filled with tears. Why did this always have to be the way? He brushed a hand over his eyes. He pushed and shoved with the others to dislodge the boulder. Mike’s screams had subsided to a weak moan. A great gush of blood, like an obscene tongue, suddenly leapt from Mike’s mouth. Darkie jumped back as Mike gave a last shuddering breath. The men looked silently at one another. What could be said? Mike was dead. It had happened before, it would happen again. They walked back down to the cage in silence and got in.
Paddy was crammed next to him. He could feel him shaking. He had a large gash on his forehead from which blood ran steadily down the side of his face. Darkie pulled out a large piece of cloth from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Paddy. His own hand trembled. ‘Thanks,’ Paddy whispered.
‘Bit bloody close, that one, eh.’
Paddy nodded, dabbing at the wound. ‘Too bloody close.’
Darkie was still trembling when the cage reached the top. The back of his head hurt. He’d been scared stiff, bloody scared stiff. That was definitely it! He’d had enough of the pit and he’d either get another job or join up. Anything was preferable to that hellhole.
He drew another shaky breath. His mother hadn’t wanted him to work in the pit but no, he’d had to have his own way. It had been the pay, but the pay was no good if you were six feet under, was it? He shuddered as he thought of how close they’d all come to being trapped down there. Entombed alive which was worse than what had happened to poor Mike. I’d rather die with a bullet in me, he thought!
***********
Emma sat in the old chair in front of the window. A large portion of the stuffing protruded from a hole in the side. She stared out onto the cobbled yard, eyes bleak. An Indian summer had descended on Harwood and the sun shone down onto the bare back yard, glistening blindingly off the slates on the shed roof at the bottom.
A black cat stood on them with its back arched, staring with
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