The Nipper, page 10
‘Where do they go?’
‘Where do they go, lad.’ The horse-keeper screwed his eye up at Sandy as if he was trying to see him through the dim light from the lantern, and then he said softly, ‘Well, there’s only one place for worn-out pit ponies to go to, lad, and that’s the knacker’s yard.’
The knacker’s yard. The words churned up Sandy’s stomach and made him feel sick, but he couldn’t stop himself repeating them: The knacker’s yard. The knacker’s yard. He looked over the line of partitions at the bobbing heads. He had been down the pit only three weeks but he had come to know every one of them, and although he didn’t feel towards the others as he did towards The Nipper he still felt for them deeply.
‘Ah, don’t look like that, lad,’ said Nick Stock sympathetically; ‘it’s got to happen, they’ve had their time.’
‘They…they don’t leave them up top just for a few days or so?’
‘Oh aye, sometimes, it all depends. They never send them off until they’ve got a new lot in, for it isn’t every pony that can be broken in to this kind of work. I’ve known some of them be up there a month. Nine weeks once; there was a nine weeks’ strike in this pit about five years since. Aye, it’s a bit of luck for them if they’re up top when a strike’s on.’ And now his voice sank. ‘But it’s hard lines for everybody else, lad, tightened belts, and wind in the stomach takes a bit of gettin’ used to.’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s a sad state of affairs when you come to think on’t that as long as the ponies are down here me wife and me can eat. But I’m on next to nothin’ when they’re up top.’ He turned and patted Mary Ann’s rump, adding, ‘Life’s a queer thing. But there, lad’—he came to Sandy—‘I’d get away home if I was you; you can do nothing about it, none of us can. There’ll be a strike an’ that’s that. The only thing I can say I’m glad about is that they’re comin’ out under Tom Fitzsimmons and not Big Mullen. Tom’s in the open but you never know what Big Mullen’s up to.’ And now he lowered his voice. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, him and his crew are brewing a strong brew this time; I pick up bits here and there, an’ I piece them together…they talk in front of me as if I was of no account.’ Here he laughed bitterly, coughed, then added, ‘But they’re not dead yet, their turn will come.’ And at this he walked down the line of boxes, hitting each standing post with his fist.
Sandy hurriedly finished The Nipper, then, putting his arm round the pony’s neck, he said, ‘Goodnight, lad; see you the morrow.’ And The Nipper tossed his head and tried to strain away from his halter, and at this Sandy made a quick exit.
As he went down the road towards the cage he passed the men and boys starting the night shift. He had the cage to himself as he ascended, and as always when he stepped out onto the gantry he took in one long draught of air and swelled his lungs with it to bursting point.
He now went to the lamp house and left his lantern and his tally, and it was after he had passed the main gate and was rounding the slag heap that he heard a voice saying ‘Pst! Pst! Sandy,’ and he looked round to see Stan Mullen beckoning to him.
‘What is it?’
‘Over this way,’ said Stan; ‘I want to talk to you. Keep off the road.’
‘But why? What’s up?’
‘Come on, an’ I’ll tell you.’ Stan hurried forward and Sandy kept up the pace for a while until suddenly he caught Stan by the arm and said, ‘Hold on a minute. Look, I don’t feel like a race, I’m tired, man. What is it?’
Stan stopped now, wet his lips, then jerked his head before he said, ‘Peter Armstrong an’ Mike Casey are waitin’ for you along the road.’
‘For me?’ Sandy thumbed his chest. ‘But why, what have I done?’
Stan was walking on again but more slowly now. ‘You’ve been seeing Mad Mark, haven’t you?’
They were looking at each other now intently, and after a moment Sandy said, ‘Aye. What about it? And how did you know anyway?’
‘The lads saw you, an’ followed you along the road, an’ later through the bracken.’
Sandy turned his head away and bit hard on his lip. Three times during the last fortnight he had visited Old Mark, each time taking him bread and tea, and once a can of broth. But he had talked to him only twice for on his third visit the cave was empty and he had left the bread and tea near the dead fire, and the dead embers told him that the old man hadn’t been there for some days.
He turned to Stan now, his face hard and his voice angry as he said, ‘Well then, your da and his lot have found what they were lookin’ for, haven’t they, so what do they want with me?’
‘That’s it,’ said Stan softly; ‘they haven’t. When they went into the cave there was nobody there. They’ve been at different times, tryin’ to nab him, but they’ve had no luck, an’ they think you know where he’s to be found. They think he’ll come for you ’cos you’ve been feedin’ him.’
‘Well, they’re betting on the wrong horse,’ said Sandy, ‘’cos I don’t know where he is.’
‘Me da doesn’t believe that.’
‘He wouldn’t.’
Stan made no retort to this; then after a moment he asked, ‘Does he talk to you?’
‘Yes, he talks to me.’
Stan’s step was slow now and his head drooped as he asked, ‘Has he told you about…about the passage?’
Sandy made himself look at Stan as he asked, ‘What passage?’
‘Oh, there’s a yarn that there’s a way leads out of the old mine into a passage and it comes up under Hursthill Manor.’
‘Well, what if there is? Why would they want to get under the Manor?’ asked Sandy now, his eyes narrowing.
‘I…I don’t quite know. I only know they mean no good. It’s all because of the strike an’ bringing the Irish over. Me da…well he says they want a pistol, something to hold at the owner’s head, so to speak, and findin’ the passage to the house seems to be it. I…I don’t know the rights of it. He…he won’t tell me, he talks to Joe more than me.’ He turned his head to the side. ‘He doesn’t trust me, an’ I don’t blame him.’
‘I’m…I’m sorry, Stan.’
‘Oh, you needn’t be sorry. It’s in me own hands; I’m big enough to go off, an’ I was thinkin’ of it.’ He turned his eyes on Sandy. ‘I want to work in the open…I dream of the sea, seeing the sky never ending.’
‘They tell me it’s no easy life, a sailor’s. Why don’t you think of goin’ on the land?’
‘Goin’ on the land!’ said Stan scornfully. ‘Ask yourself, would half of us be down the pit if there was decent land jobs?’ And Sandy jerked his chin as he said, ‘You’re right there. But what I was meanin’ was, if you’re goin’ away, you must try for the land in some place else.’
‘I’ve thought of that. I’ve talked to this one and that but the further you get away from the North the worse the land conditions are. Down in the South they say they’re treated no better than the cattle they look after.’
‘Aye, I’ve heard that an’ all.’
They were now skirting the base of a hill and Stan pulled Sandy to a stop, then whispered, ‘Climb up after me but keep your head down an’ I’ll show you them.’ And when Sandy peered over the crest he saw in the distance the road, bordered on the right side at this point by a group of boulders behind which, crouched waiting, were the figures of two men.
‘They’re going to have a long wait the night,’ said Stan with a grin.
‘They are that,’ replied Sandy. ‘Thanks to you. But won’t they have a go at me the morrow night?’
‘Aye, I suppose so. But you can alter your route; you can get home by half a dozen ways.’ They slithered down the hill, and when they reached the bottom, Stan said, ‘One thing. We mustn’t be seen together ’cos me da would twig. An’ you’d better not come along to the drift any more at dinner time.’
‘Aw, but man, I want to see the ponies.’
‘You an’ your ponies!’ Stan screwed up his face, then said flatly, ‘Well, if you do come, don’t sit along o’ me, an’ don’t speak to me. If I want you I’ll find you. Right?’
As Stan went to move off Sandy put out his hand and said, ‘If…if your da and them should get hold of Old Mark how will they go about gettin’ the information out of him? I mean, he’s an old man, will they knock him about?’
‘Oh, there’ll be no need for that, they’ll just fill him up. He likes the hard stuff, but he’s no head for it, it sets him clean barmy. It was the drink more than anything that knocked him barmy. His…his wife died when he had a bout on him, she fell in the fire. They couldn’t prove that he had done it but it happened about six months after he had been trapped in the mine. And he was caught in the gin trap when he was drunk. They say he’s only been drunk twice since, but practically the whole county knew of it for he ranged the hills and bellowed like a stag in the rut.’
‘Poor old fellow,’ said Sandy softly; and Stan repeated, ‘Aye, poor old fellow.’ Then added, ‘An’ it’ll be poor old fellow if me da and the others get him, ’cos that’s what they’ll do, they’ll stuff him with it, and he’ll talk. He’ll talk about anythin’ and everythin’ when he’s full.’
Sandy looked hard at Stan for a moment before he said, ‘Well, we’ll just have to do our best to see that your da doesn’t meet up with him, won’t we?’ And at this Stan sighed and said, ‘Aye, but it’s going to take us all our time. An’ there’s another thing you’ll have to watch.’ His chin drooped onto his chest and he muttered, ‘I don’t know whether you’ve twigged it or not, but me da’s after your ma.’ His head slowly rising now, he asked, ‘There’s no chance, is there?’
Chance! Big Mullen and his ma? Sandy’s jaw moved aggressively at the very thought of such an alliance and he said, ‘None in the wide world.’ And Stan gave a mirthless laugh and, half turning away, he said, ‘If he had been different it could have worked out, couldn’t it?’ He looked over his shoulder and Sandy, his face softening now, answered ‘Aye, Stan; if he had been different it could have worked out.’
He stood for a moment watching Stan walking away, his shoulders hunched up round his neck as if in protection from a blow, and he, too, turned away and went on his road, a sadness weighing heavy on him, not for himself, or because of The Nipper at this moment, but because of Big Mullen’s eldest son, whom he liked, while at the same time he hated his father.
The feeling in the mine for the next four days was one of bitterness, tenseness, and suppressed excitement. After each shift there were gatherings at the pithead, some groups being addressed by Big Mullen, others by Tom Fitzsimmons.
It was on the Thursday night that the manager, Mr Swinburn, stood on the steps leading up to the cage platform and, holding up his hand, demanded the men’s attention. But he seemed to be addressing only two of them, Tom Fitzsimmons and Big Mullen, when he said, ‘You’re mad. You know what this will lead to, the loss of your jobs and your homes. If you can’t think of your wives and families then…’ At this he was interrupted by a voice shouting from the crowd, ‘That’s who we are thinkin’ of.’ ‘We want fair do’s.’ ‘It’s a clean sweep we want: change the butty and the keeker; daylight robbers they are, both of them.’
‘They are only doing their job,’ Mr Swinburn shouted back.
‘Lining their own pockets, and yours an’ all, an’ the boss’s. There’s not a man among us hasn’t lost three bob to them in the last fortnight. Reckon that up when you’re sittin’ down to your six-course meal, Mr Swinburn…Sir.’
The manager became silent for a moment, staring from one face to the other in the crowd; then, bringing his eyes to Tom Fitzsimmons, he said, ‘There’ll be bloodshed. You know that’s what it will lead to?’
‘There’ll be no bloodshed if we can talk.’ Tom’s voice was loud, yet calm. ‘Let’s come face to face with the owner and put it to him. All we want is fair play: no more fines for things not connected with the mine, such as keeping pigs, and trespassing, no dockin’ of full corves for one piece of slate or stone, and safety regulations seen to, a new shaft dug for ventilation’—and now his voice took on a bitter note—‘an age limit for bairns before they can go down.’
‘You’re not asking much,’ sneered Mr Swinburn, and Tom, his voice angry now, cried, ‘No, we’re not, when it’s compared with what you and the owners get out of us…They say he’s home, then arrange it so he can meet a deputation of us…’
‘Lot of damn good that’ll do.’ This was the well-known deep, bellowing voice of Big Mullen. ‘Remember, lads, what happened when Bill Stacey tried to see the big fellow a few years back?…Sir William Combe Stockwell had his lackeys throw him down the steps. Do you mind that time? Huh!’ He turned his head and spat against the wall. ‘Talk! Talk with him, he says.’ He thumbed towards Tom Fitzsimmons. ‘When he can get through the cordon of militia they’ll bring in!’
There was loud and angry assent from most of the group now and Sandy saw Tom Fitzsimmons lower his head as if he was weighed down by the truth of Big Mullen’s statement. For the moment he seemed to have no defence against it.
Mr Swinburn was speaking again, threateningly now, and when he finished he came down the steps and stamped across the yard, the men sullenly making a pathway for him.
It was as Sandy was pushing his way to where Tom Fitzsimmons was standing in the centre of a group of men that he felt his arm gripped. Turning round, he looked into the narrowed hard stare of Big Mullen.
‘You’re very fond of the Galloways, aren’t you, lad?’ The words were growled low.
Sandy made no reply, he just stared back into the mean face; and Big Mullen went on, ‘Especially the one called The Nipper. Well, things can happen to Galloways as well as to men, you know that, don’t you? They can have their fetlocks slit, and other places that aren’t pleasant.’
With a jerk Sandy tore his arm from the man’s grasp, and through clenched teeth he replied, ‘You dare! Just you dare touch him an’ I promise you I’ll…I’ll have you. Mind, I’m tellin’ you. If I’ve got to wait years I’ll have you. An’…and listen to this.’ He now thrust his face into Big Mullen’s. ‘Whatever you do to The Nipper. I’ll do to you.’
‘What is it?’ It was Tom Fitzsimmons’s voice behind him, and Sandy, gulping on his spittle, turned and said, ‘Nowt. Nowt.’ He was so angry that he had lost all fear of Big Mullen for the moment.
Tom Fitzsimmons and Big Mullen stood looking at each other; then in a deep weighted tone, Tom said, ‘Lay off him, Mullen. If you know what’s good for you, lay off the lad.’ And on this he turned away, and drew Sandy with him and out of the yard.
They had gone some way along the road in silence before Tom asked quietly, ‘What is it? What are you afraid of, lad?’
Sandy remained quiet. The anger was still deep within him, but his mind was working rapidly, and his reasoning was telling him to confide in this man, tell him everything. He turned and looked at Tom for a long moment before he said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you, but…but I’d rather you keep it to yourself…’
It was almost ten minutes later when Sandy finished giving Tom the details of his journey through the underground passageways to the Manor. They were standing on the open fell looking at each other, and Tom Fitzsimmons was biting hard down on his lip while his head was moving slowly from side to side. Then, nodding at Sandy, he said, ‘You know, lad, I’ve heard tell of that passage since I was a nipper meself, but I’ve never laid much stock by it, ’cos there’s so many tales flying around these parts you learn to take them with a pinch of salt. But one thing is sure; there were these priest holes in the big houses, and Hursthill Manor was always held by a Catholic family until recent years.’ He was shaking his head again, and he said, ‘And you say there are two peepholes in the dining room?’
‘Aye; they’re the nostrils of the boar’s head, Mark says. And to open the secret panel from the room side you’ve got to put your fingers up them and press hard, and this releases the lever on the inside. Old Mark went in once, in the dead of night, when the family were away and the servants were sleeping off their drink. They’d been havin’ a kaaley.’
‘And Big Mullen’s breakin’ his neck to find out about the passages, an’ for no good I’ll warrant. Oh aye, for no good. And his hurry is connected with the strike. You can see that, can’t you?’
Sandy nodded, then said, ‘I’ve thought about it from all angles. But if he was to get into the house the servants would nab him afore he could face Mr Stockwell.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’ll be in Big Mullen’s mind to face Sir William Stockwell, Sandy.’ They were walking on again. ‘No, he’s not a man that likes to come face to face with authority.’
‘I…I thought he might go in and smash up the place. But then there’d be such a noise that they’d be on to him in a minute. There’s another thing though I thought he might be up to.’
‘Aye, what is it, lad?’
‘Well, they have a daughter, haven’t they? Twelve or so they say she is. I’ve thought perhaps he had kidnappin’ in his mind.’
‘Oh no!’ Tom’s reply was quick now, and he accompanied it with a wagging of his head. ‘No, he’s not such a fool as to do that, that would be certain death for him and the lot of them, kidnappin’. No, whatever it is he’s up to, it’s somethin’ that isn’t going to hurt his own skin. I know Big Mullen, I’ve known him all me life, the biggest part about him is his voice.’
When they reached the crossroads and the parting of their ways, Tom said, ‘When are you likely to see the old man again?’
‘When I go to the cave,’ said Sandy; ‘but I’m not sure to find him there, not now.’
Tom rubbed his coal-smeared hand around his black face, then said thoughtfully, ‘There’s one thing evident. The old man’s keeping out of their way for nobody knows better than himself that his secret won’t remain a secret very long if he has a skinful in him.’ He shook his head. ‘A sad life that. And they tell me he was a first-class hewer in his day, none better. Well, lad, I must get off home, I have another two miles afore me. But later on the night, if I’m along this way, I’ll…I’ll look in on you.’ He inclined his head towards Sandy, and Sandy nodded and said, ‘Aye, I’ll be seeing you then.’
