Read Online Easterleigh Hall by Margaret Graham - Free Book Online

grunted and then whistled as he always did, and didn’t alter his pace one iota. The men were shifting their weight from foot to foot. ‘Eric, man, get a bloody move on.’ It was Sam this time.
    The barrier went back.
    â€˜About ruddy time,’ Ben muttered, elbowing past Eric. They started their trudge to the coalface, but as they did Jack heard Eric call out, ‘All right for some, going over to Deputy. There’s a word for that.’ Jack stopped. His da called him on. ‘Leave it.’
    Ben walked into him, pushing him forward. ‘Howay with you lad, leave it to Sam.’
    Jack heard Sam, one of the last from the cage, say, ‘Sorry about that, Eric, did I kick you? Must have been something I heard. It would do you more good to keep your gob shut and your mind open.’
    Jack snatched a look at Martin, who muttered, ‘Well, who’s Eric to pass judgement, daft bugger. We need a deputy on our side, that’s what we think, so forget anyone else.’ He lifted his head and shouted, ‘You hear that, Eric?’
    Yes, they were all in this together, and Jack smiled, really smiled for the first time since he’d opened his eyes this morning. They all pressed themselves against the sides as the full coal wagons passed, driven back to the cages by the putter boys who called out to their Galloway ponies to hoof it. It was the end of one shift, the start of another. Soon Timmie would be with the Galloways, but first he’d be a trapper on the doors, controlling the flow of air, and now Jack’s smile faded. Trappers could fall asleep in the darkness which was lit only by the weak pool of light thrown by their lamps. If he slept he’d likely be crushed as a runaway wagon or a putter’s cart tore into the closed gate. Jack had to talk to Timmie again, make him aware he had to get the gates opened in time.
    Their lamps cast light only over the immediate area. Rats scurried, dust rose, the roof sighed, men shouted to one another above the clatter of the wagons, the neighing of the ponies, the noise which never stopped. Jack nodded to his father as they approached Fred Scrivens’ old desk in his kist, or work station, a mile and half from the face. ‘Howay with you then, Da.’
    His father was carrying an axe and saw to cut new props or salvage others. It was the most dangerous job in the mine, and it was this that had taken off Fred’s legs when he’d clawed out a prop for reuse and the roof had crashed in. He’d been lugged in a tub back to a wagon courtesy of a putter, a bairn who had vomited all the way. Jack grimaced; the sooner the lad got used to the bloody battlefield down here the better.
    Fred was taking a long time to die in the infirmary, but while he lived his family had a house so he’d cling on no matter the pain. ‘Has Scrivens’ missus moved in with relatives yet?’ Jack called to no one in particular. Sam replied above the shuffling, ‘Last I heard her brother over Gosforn way was taking her in, and the bairns.’
    Fred Scrivens would die now.
    His da had not diverted to the kist but was still trudging. ‘Have you lost your sense of direction, Bob?’ Ben called from the back as they continued past the turn-off.
    â€˜No, I’m coming with you, Ben. From now on no one goes to their placement without me checking it out. How can I write a report if I haven’t seen it?’ He nodded back to his kist where he would produce his reports in between checking the props, checking for gas and airflow, keeping an eye on the water and pumps, checking that the trappers were awake as they sat in the dark opening and shutting the doors quickly, so as not to interrupt the airflow more than necessary.
    Jack gripped his da’s arm. ‘Just make sure you check the roof if you’re drawing out roof props. Don’t die for the bugger’s cutbacks. There should be no need to take out the real old