Read Online Easterleigh Hall by Margaret Graham - Free Book Online Page A

ones, he knows that. It’s never safe. The props were put there for a reason, course they bloody were.’ He ended on a cough. Bloody dust. ‘Don’t kick up, Mart, for God’s sake, man.’
    â€˜Hush your noise, Jacko,’ Martin grunted.
    â€˜Don’t take on about props, lad. It just “is”, isn’t it,’ his da said. The lamps cast deep shadows on sepia faces.
    On they trudged, another mile to go out under the sea. His da would make a good deputy, though it still stuck in his throat along with the bloody dust. Mart must have read his mind. ‘So, Bob, have you joined the Brampton Lodge yet?’
    He listened as his father grunted into the silence that fell amongst the men, ‘I’ll have to, but why not? I’ll hear what’s going on and what plans are being cooked by management.’
    The others nodded and continued their talk of pigeons or quoits, whippets or painting while he and Martin discussed the negotiations for the eight-hour shifts that were due to start in January 1910.
    Jack murmured, ‘You just wait, Brampton’ll cut the piece rate on top of cutting the hours. He’s just waiting for any change that lets him slip it in. I don’t know why they do all this squealing about the Liberals and their taxes, because they just pass their shortfall down to us. It’d be a different bloody tale if the taxes were raising money for them instead of pensions and medicine for us. That’s if they get this National Insurance Act passed, it’ll likely be hoyed out instead. Or should I say “thrown” in a posh voice?’
    â€˜Let’s worry about one thing at a time, man. It’s the shifts that come first right now,’ Martin grumbled. ‘The government means to help the workers, of course they do with the hours cut, but we need the twelve hours’ money. Grand your da’s on the inside. We’ll maybe hear something useful to take to Jeb.’
    Jack nodded. ‘And then Jeb can feed it to the union agents. They’re the ones doing the negotiating.’
    â€˜Aye, but they’ll come back to us before they agree, won’t they, man?’
    Jack shrugged. ‘God knows. If they don’t, will we strike on a matter of principle? If we did, would we win? Would we hell.’
    They paused as Bob led Thomas and George to their placement and hunkered down, waiting. Jack set his lamp down and touched his nose. The dust was on his swollen eyes, but not in them.
    Martin muttered, ‘You don’t reckon Bastard Brampton’ll take over the allocation of placements?’ He leaned back on the wall of coal. He sat, rather than hunkered, as a prop had crashed on to his leg a couple of years ago, leaving it stiff, and he needed to ease it when he could. Bob returned and they groaned their way upright and trudged on, Jack taking his place alongside Martin, gripping his arm, his marra’s words still resonating. It was something he’d never thought of. ‘Take over the cavil? No owner ever has and none ever would. It’s democracy in action, that allocation process is, bonny lad. We draw for our work stations and no bloody great lump is going to change that. You’d really be talking strike then.’
    Jack stared ahead. The cavil was mining tradition, it was set in stone. Every quarter they all met in the Reading Room and held the cavil – each marra pair drawing lots for their work placements in the mine, with not an owner in sight. Just them, and Lady Luck. If you lucked out on a good seam on that cavil, then you’d maybe pick up on a better one next go-round. He said, ‘It’s sacrosanct.’
    Martin spat into the dark as a huge rat was caught fleetingly in his lamplight, scampering past. ‘Got one of the beggars.’ Behind him some of the others who hadn’t yet peeled off to their placements laughed. Jack nudged him, calling over his shoulder at the others,