Killer Mine, page 8
‘Just a minute, Father,’ Manack said. This is Jim O’Donnel. He’s going to work here for a bit. He’s a miner.’
The old man’s eyebrows lifted and there was a glitter of something like excitement in his eyes. ‘A miner, is he?’ He smiled. It was a nice smile, the sort of smile that seemed to warm the room. ‘Well, my boy,’ he said to me, ‘it’s good to know there’ll be a miner working here at last. I’ve been trying to persuade my son to take on miners here ever since he came back. But there’ve always been - ah - difficulties,’ he added vaguely. He turned to Manack. His eyes were shining. ‘This is kind of you, Henry.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Pity you didn’t grow up to be a miner. You’d have understood the possibilities of Wheal Garth then. However, one’s a help - a very definite help. At least we can make a start now.’
‘O’Donnel is working for me.’ Manack’s voice was sharp. The old man’s eyebrows went up again. It was a trick he had. He was all tricks, but I didn’t know it then.
‘Working for you?’ he said. ‘And what, may I ask, can you be wanting a miner for? You know nothing about mining. He must work for me. If he’s a good miner, then I’ll prove to the world that the Cornish mining industry isn’t dead.’
‘Well, you may as well know about it now as later,’ Manack said. ‘I’m letting the sea into the Mermaid gallery.’
‘Letting the sea in!’ The old man’s beard shot up. ‘You’re mad. You can’t do it. I won’t allow it.’
‘I’m afraid that’s what I’m going to do.’ Manack spoke flatly as though it were all settled.
The old man strode across to the desk. His eyes were wild and he was quivering with anger. ‘Do you realise that Wheal Garth belongs to me?’
‘Yes, but I provide the money,’ replied his son calmly. ‘When I came back the mine was full of water right up to the adits. It’s only because I’ve provided the money that you’ve got it clear of water to the hundred and twenty fathom level. And if there’s going to be any more money I’ve got to let the sea into the Mermaid.’
‘I tell you I won’t allow it,’ thundered the old man, crashing his fist down on the desk.
‘You’ve no alternative,’ was the reply. Manack turned to me. ‘Leave us, will you?’ he said. He had to repeat his request before I moved, so fascinated was I by the astonishing altercation.
As I left the room Manack senior was saying in a voice that quavered. ‘For twenty years and more, Henry, I’ve lived and dreamed of nothing but this mine. I knew it was rich. I knew it. I thought it was only rich at depth. But I found the seam. I found it. I showed it to you the other day. My God, if you’d only gone into the mines as I wanted you to you’d understand what that seam is. There’s a fortune in it.’
As I slowly closed the door I heard his son reply in a hard, almost sneering voice, ‘Yes, but unfortunately not a tax-free one.’
I went back to the kitchen. The girl was serving food with a stocky little man at her elbow wisecracking in an accent that brought back memories of Kalgoorlie. He had a round cherubic face and the crown of his head was bald. He was like a diminutive monk with his pot belly and round, rosy cheeks. ‘Blimey,’ he said as he caught sight of me, ‘the horiginal wild man from Borneo. Goin’ for a swim, mate?’ He grinned. It was the widest grin I’d seen in years. It seemed to split his chubby face open and it revealed two red lines of gums propped open by half a dozen decaying teeth. ‘You stay in’ or just passing through?’ he asked.
‘He’s going to work here,’ the girl said. She was half-laughing. ‘He’s a miner.’
‘Thank Gawd!’ he said. “Bout ruddy fed up I am o’ never bein’ sure when the roofs goin’ ter come in on us.’
‘My name’s O’Donnel,’ I told him. ‘Jim O’Donnel.’
The devil it is. It’s Oirish I am meself. Me name’s O’Grady.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s grand tales we’ll be afther telling each ! other, man, of those happy days back in Oireland.’ The girl I laughed. It was a pleasant sound.
‘I thought you were Australian,’ I said, ‘by the way you were talking just now.’
‘Australian! Gor’ blimy, that’s a good one, that is,’ he said, ailing back into his original accent. ‘The nearest I ever got to Australia was coaling a P. and O. boat at Southampton. That was back in thirty-one when the only work I could get was stevedoring. Come on, mate,’ he added, ‘you’d better get some cloves on if you’re goin’ to ‘ave grub wiv us. You can put ‘em on in the men’s dining hall.’
He picked up two dishes from the table. I got my clothes and allowed him. The girl watched us silently. I stole a quick glance at her as I left the kitchen. She was watching us, a hint of laughter in her eyes. But as she met my gaze the laughter was over-shadowed by something else, and she frowned as though she were still puzzled about something.
We went through the cold scullery and through some old sables. The floor was cobbled here, and there were stalls for horses and curved iron mangers, ‘You been here long, O’Grady?’
I asked.
‘Better call me Friar,’ he said. ‘Everybody does. O’Grady’s sort of a nom de gare — same as your moniker is. You ain’t no more Irish than wot I am. Yes, I bin ‘ere aba’t a year nah. Gettin’ quite like ‘ome.’ He pushed open a door and led the way into a small, bare room with canvas chairs set round a plain, scrubbed table. It was lit by a single oil lamp. An anthracite stove in the corner looked dead and cold, but an oil stove speckled the ceiling with its round ventilation holes. The walls were thinner here and they shook under the full force of the wind. The rain beat against the single curtained window. In one of the canvas chairs a long, cadaverous-featured man sat playing with a knife. His hands were rough and grey as though ingrained with dust. He inspected me slowly out of dark eyes. ‘New bloke,’ said Friar by way of introduction. ‘A miner. Says ‘is name’s Jim O’Donnel. This ‘ere’s Slim Matthews.’
Slim Matthews nodded. ‘What’s the grub?’ he asked Friar. He had a bitter, discontented voice.
‘Stoo and two veg.’ Friar dumped the dishes on the table. ‘There y’are, mate.’
I got close to the stove and slipped into my clothes. The two of them began to feed silently. ‘Who’s the girl in the kitchen?’ I asked.
Friar looked up, his mouth full of food. ‘Kitty Trevorn,’ he said. ‘She’s the daughter of old man Manack’s second wife by her first marriage.’
‘He means she’s the old man’s stepdaughter,’ Slim explained.
‘That’s wot I bin tellin’ ‘im, ain’t it?’ Friar answered heatedly. ‘Just because yer bin to a Public School. That’s a larf nan, ain’t it? Slim was at ‘Arrer. An’ wot’s ‘e do? Finishes up a ruddy stone mason. If that’s all eddication can do for a man, reck’n I’m just as well orf without it.’
Slim Matthews said nothing. He just sat slumped in his chair concentrating on his food and looking down his long nose. He reminded me of some unhappy cur kicked around in the dust of an Arab village street. Then you’re the quarry man?’ I said to Friar to change the subject.
‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘An’ there ain’t many blokes can swing a biddle like I can. But I’m aba’t bra’ned off wiv working da’n there under the sea. It ain’t nat’ral, that’s wot I say. It ain’t the way a man’s supposed to work. Fair gives a bloke the creeps. An’ wet as a latrine. The Capting says there’s thirty feet of rock between us and the sea. But it don’t feel like that, I tell yer. The water streams da’n the walls an’ most of the time we works wiv the water swurling ra’nd our ankles. Still -‘ He sighed and scooped up another mouthful of stew in his spoon. ‘Mustn’t grumble, I s’pose. The pay’s good an’ nobody don’t ask no questions. An’ the grub’s all right too. They got their own farm.’
That stew seemed about the best food I’d ever tasted. I helped myself to more and asked what the idea was in letting the sea into the Mermaid gallery. He looked at me narrowly out of his small, bright eyes. ‘Well, if the Capting ain’t told yer, mate, mebbe I’d better keep me ma’f shut. But you mark my words, it’s a ruddy good idea he’s got. But then ‘e’s clever as a monkey. Kitty slid you come from Italy. Was that where you met the Capting?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘A friend of mine sent me to him.’
‘Oh.’ He removed a bit of meat from a back tooth with his nail. ‘Wonder yer didn’t hear of ‘im a’t there though. Seems ‘e was quite a lad. Mulligan - do you know Mulligan?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I come over with him in the Arisaig.’ ‘Well, Mulligan told me ‘e was one of the most reckless officers in the ‘ole of the Eighth Army.’
‘How the hell would Mulligan know?’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders, ‘I dunno. Mulligan ain’t been anywhere near any fightin’. I know that. Razor slashing, that’s tie nearest ‘e ever bin to any fighting. I ‘sped ‘e was talkin’ of wot ‘e ‘card. The Capting was up in the mountains most of the time organising the partisans. Seems ‘e was always getting behind Jerry’s lines. Looting, I wouldn’t wonder. Mulligan says ‘e’s got a mint of money locked up in Italy.’
‘Then why didn’t he stay out there?’ I suggested.
‘Cor luv ol’ iron, you’re as full of ruddy questions as a sieve is ‘oles,’ he answered, grinning. “Ow should I know? If it comes to that, why did you leave Italy? Reck’n it got too ‘ot to ‘old ye. Same wiv the Capting. Or mebbe ‘e thort Wheal Garth an sxcitin’ toy to play wiv. Always after excitement, that’s the Capting. Lives on ‘is nerves and liquor. If ‘e wasn’t doin’ something wrong, ‘e’d die of boredom. It’s ‘is sort wot war was made for, not the likes of you and me. A soldier of fortune -blimey, if ‘e’d lived in the ol’ days ‘e’d bin a ruddy general.’
‘What about the old man?’ I asked. ‘How does he react to havin’ his mine opened up for liquor running? He got pretty mad at his son this evening when he told him he was going to let the sea into the Mermaid gallery.’
‘Oh, you don’t want ter take no notice of the old man,’ Friar answered. ‘He’s ab’t as daft as a coot. Only ‘e doesn’t look daft. Reck’n ‘e oughter be shut up in the loony-bin. Spends all ‘is time da’n in the mine, jabberin’ away to ‘isself. An’ yet ‘e’s a fine-looking ol’ cove. Bet ‘e played ‘avoc wiv the ladies when ‘e was a young man. ‘E’s bin married twice, yer know. The Capting’s ‘is son by ‘is first wife.’
‘An’ the girl’s his daughter by the second?’
‘No. She ain’t nuffmk to do wiv ‘im, as yer might say. She’s ‘is stepdaughter. I told yer that afore. ‘Is second wife was ‘er muvver. Then there was some sort of ‘ousekeeper ‘e ‘ad ‘ere. She went and walked over Botallack ‘ead. There’s some wot say as ‘ow she did it because ‘e didn’t love ‘er any more. An’ there’s others wot say she was driven to it by her conscience - there’s a story that she killed ‘is second wife - that’s Kitty’s muvver - on account of ‘er ‘aving stolen the ol’ man’s haffections. I dunno wot truth there is in it. Usually there ain’t no smoke wivout there ‘aving bin a bit o’ fire. But don’t go talking to Kitty aba’t it. The poor kid’s muvver was fa’nd at the bottom o’ one of the shafts up the ‘ead. Anyway, ‘e certainly knocked ‘em da’n the ol’ Kent Road. But now e’s reckoned to be a bit daft. Yer see ‘e ain’t interested in nothing but the one thing — Wheal Garth. ‘E’s got a bee in ‘is bonnet that this is the mine wot’ll put the Cornish mining industry on its feet again. Terrible ra’s ‘im an’ the Capting ‘as. They were at it only last night. You wouldn’t fink by the way they carry on that they was father and son.’
‘What’s it about?’ I asked.
‘The mine. Always the ruddy mine.’ Friar had finished his stew and sat picking his teeth with a matchstick. ‘Wen I come ‘ere first - it was all on account o’ my being the Capting’s batman when ‘e was in England. Cor, the larks ‘e used to get up to! I remember when ‘e started an illicit still. ‘E was making gin in one o’ the baths in the officers’ mess with yeast and juniper berries an’ I don’t know wot else. The Colonel was a teetotal - that didn’t hexactly ‘elp when ‘e got to know aba’t it. Reck’n that’s wot got the Capting sent overseas so quick. Not that ‘e cared. Anyway, when I comes ‘ere first, the mine was all flooded up to the sea level, ol’ man Manack was broke an’ the ‘ouse was a shambles. Well, the Capting gets in touch wiv me and we start blasting a’t the main adit till it’s wide enuff ter take our barge, and then ‘e starts runnin’ cargoes. An’ as soon as there’s some brass comin’ in, there’s the ol’ man wantin’ the Capting to open up the mine. “Not bloody likely,” ‘e says. I ‘card ‘im say it meself. Couldn’t ‘elp it seein’ ‘as ‘ow ‘e shouted it at the top of ‘is voice da’n in the adit there. Ain’t no respecter of persons, the Capting - not even ‘is own father.’
‘Suppose you stop talking for a moment and get O’Donnel a drink,’ Slim Matthews suggested. ‘If ye’re gettin’ firsty why don’t yer git it yourself?’ ‘Oh, all right.’ Slim uncoiled his long body from his chair and went out. Friar got up and switched on the radio in the corner. ‘See wot was I talkin’ aba’t?’ he said, sitting down beside me again. ‘Oh, I remember - the Capting an’ the ol’ man. Well, a’ter a few runs, the Capting ‘as ‘is bright idea, see. So ‘e gets a pump installed an’ starts de-watering the mine da’n aba’t fifty foot below sea level.’ The radio came on with an announcer reading the news. ‘The ol’ man’s all for goin’ deeper. But the Capting ‘as ‘is own ideas. That’s when the ra’s begin. Well, one day las’ week the ol’ man, whose bin ferreting ara’nd da’n in the Mermaid, ‘e comes rushin’ along the gallery all wide-eyed an’ shoutin’ blue murder fer the Capting. An’ there’s ‘ell ter pay. The ol’ gent’s yellin’ an screamin’ an’ the Capting sharp and cool like. I thought the ol’ man was goin’ right off his -‘ He suddenly stopped. The announcer’s voice had mentioned a name that brought me up with a jolt. The Isle of Mull. ‘— out all day searching for the missing ship. The police are also making inquiries about David Jones, captain and owner of the Isle of Mull. So far no report has been received of any ship having sighted the Isle of Mull after the time at which it is believed the revenue cutter may have intercepted her. Penzance police and Customs officials have reason to believe that the Isle of Mull was engaged in running cargoes of wines and spirits into the country. The revenue cutter was sent out on Wednesday to intercept the Isle of Mull. Since then no trace of the crew of four has been found, though the cutter itself was discovered abandoned on a lonely stretch of beach not far from Penzance this morning. Scotland Yard admitted, in an interview, that considerable quantities of liquor were being smuggled into this country and they have reason to believe that it may be coming in through Cornwall and other areas of the south-west.’ ‘Cor, chase me up a gum tree!’ muttered Friar.
‘Is the Isle of Mull one of Captain Manack’s ships?’ I asked, more to see what he’d say than anything else.
He glanced at me sharply. His face, drained of all blood, looked grey and his fat little cheeks seemed to have fallen. He no longer looked genial. There was a mean look in his eyes as though he were scared.
He didn’t say anything and when Slim came back with a bottle of cognac, he sat drinking in silence. ‘What’s upset our chum?’ Slim asked me. When I told him about the Isle of Mull he smiled sardonically. But he didn’t say anything. He seemed withdrawn into his own thoughts. Shortly afterwards Friar and Slim went out. They took the bottle with them.
Left to myself I realised I was very tired. I got up and went through into the kitchen. An old women was sitting by the fire. I asked her to show me my room. She led the way out into the corridor. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and stood aside. ‘The master,’ she whispered. The old man was coming down the stairs, a lamp in his hand. It shone on his beard and his eyes glittered in his ruddy face.
‘Ah, O’Donnel,’ he said. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. Come into my study a minute, will you?’
I hesitated. He went straight on along the corridor, oblivious of my hesitation. I followed him. He was waiting for me at a door at the end of the passage. With a strangely old-world courtesy, he stood aside to let me go in. I found myself in a small and incredibly untidy room, furnished largely in mahogany. There were microscopes and scales and other laboratory equipment all mixed up with a litter of books, papers and drawings.
He sat down in a worn leather-covered horse-hair chair by the fire. ‘I’ve something I want to show you,’ he said. He had a mysterious air and the gleam of his eyes was even more noticeable, so that I thought he had been drinking. He went over to a cupboard and brought out a chunk of dull-grey rock. ‘My son tells me you’re an experienced tinner, my boy,’ he said, coming towards me with the lump of rock in his hand. ‘Tell me what you think of this.’ He placed the rock in my hand.
It was about the size of a man’s head and incredibly heavy. I saw at once that it wasn’t rock at all. It was ore. Practically solid ore. ‘Well?’ he asked, and there was excitement and impatience in his voice.
‘It’s tin,’ I said. ‘From a mother lode. By the look of it.’
He nodded and smiled a secretive little smile that crinkled the comers of his mouth where his beard was grey. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mother tin. And what would you say if I told you there was a seam of it in Wheal Garth extending from the hundred and twenty level straight down to the sixteen hundred level?’
‘I’d say you were a very rich man,’ I said.
‘Yes.’ He nodded his head several times murmuring, ‘Yes’ each time. ‘I’m a rich man. I’m a very rich man.’ He took the lump of ore and held it in his hands as though it was his very heart be held beating there against his roughened palms. ‘I’m fabulously rich. I’ve hit a scovan lode, a mother lode - about the richest in the history of Cornish mining.’ Then he suddenly jerked his body erect and flung the lump of ore crashing to the floorboards. ‘And my son - damn his eyes - my son doesn’t see it; he can’t understand.’
