Killer Mine, page 9
He put both his hands up to his head and beat his skull with his clenched fists. ‘How can I make him see it?’ he asked, swinging suddenly round on me. ‘Listen, my boy — all my life I’ve worked for this. For nearly thirty years nothing else mattered. I worked in Wheal Garth when I was a boy. I saw that ore. I saw it with my own eyes. And no one else saw it. They all missed it. I became a shareholder. I got more shares. They closed the mine. I bought ‘em out. Wheal Garth belongs to me. All that tin! And now my son doesn’t understand. He’s going to let the sea into the Mermaid. And he’s got you here to do it. You’re the man who’s going to wreck my whole life.’
He suddenly took me by the shoulders. His face was so near to mine that his beard touched my chin. ‘You can’t do it. Do you understand? You mustn’t do it, I’ll - I’ll -‘ He took his hands quickly from my shoulders. He was trembling all over. He picked up the ore, and fondled it as though it were a child.
I felt sorry for him. I could understand his rage and frustration. Suppose I had struck lucky out there in the Coolgardie and then been unable to get capital to develop. But he could get capital surely. He could float a company. Anybody would back a mine that yielded tin like that. I suggested this, but he rounded on me. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘No, never. Wheal Garth belongs to me. I’ll develop it myself or I’ll leave it to rot down there under the sea.’
Perhaps he wasn’t sure of himself? ‘Are you sure it goes right down?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m not sure. How can any one be sure in mining? All I know is that I saw this lode when I was a boy down at the sixteen level. And only a week ago I found a similar lode at a hundred and twenty fathoms. That proves nothing. But here, look at this.’ He threw the lump of ore on to a chair and seized hold of a big diagram. ‘When they opened up the Botallack mine they found as many as ten floors of tin, each floor separated by floors of country little more than three foot thick. They were horizontal, beginning with the Bunny. Now, then, look at this. It’s a geological map.’ He spread the diagram out on the arm of my chair. ‘There’s Botallack. There’s Wheal Garth almost next door. And Come Lucky. See how the strata goes along the coast. It’s horizontal. But look at it out here under the sea. It suddenly folds up - from being horizontal it dips at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. When I first met that lode at the sixteen level I was in a gallery that ran a mile out under the sea. The Mermaid is only half a mile out. I can’t be sire - but it seems reasonable to suppose that the lode in the Mermaid is the upper end of the lode at the sixteen level.’
‘This diagram’s accurate, I suppose?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘It was the result of information pooled by the mine captains of Botallack, Wheal Garth and Come Lucky in 1910 — that’s when all three mines were working and making money.’ He sighed and rolled up the diagram. ‘I’m glad you understand. I’ve nobody to discuss it with here. If only you were my son.’ He fell to pacing the room, combing his beard with his fingers. ‘I must stop him letting the sea into the Mermaid. If he does that it will cost so much more to work that lode.’ He suddenly turned to me. ‘I suppose he has some sort of hold on you. He has on most men who come here. But you could leave this country, couldn’t you? How much would you take to leave the country? I’ll let you have fifty pounds more than he’s going to give you. How much will you take?’ His voice was eager. It was incredible how childish was his trust.
I said, ‘He would only get another miner.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s not so easy as that. He’s been wanting one for a year, but he couldn’t find anyone - er - suitable. And soon he’ll get bored with this business of running liquor. It’s excitement, not money he likes. Then he’ll go away and leave me in peace to develop the Mermaid. Look - I’ll give you fifty pounds more than he’s giving you and then, when I start work, you shall come back and I’ll make you bal captain. We’ll start in a small way at first, and we’ll gradually build up. The lode will pay for development as we go. We’ll start from nothing and build the greatest mine in Cornish history.’ His eyes had a faraway look. He was in a dream world of his own. This, I thought, was the real Cornish adventurer - the men my lather had talked about, who’d start from small beginnings and build and build and build. Almost he fired my imagination - I who had seen the great mines of the Rockies and Malaya.
‘Well,’ he asked. ‘What do you say, boay?’ The Cornish accent had become more pronounced in his excitement.
I said, ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow, sir.’ I was thinking that this was my way out. With money in my pocket I could surely be out of the country before Manack could get the police on my track. I didn’t trust Captain Manack. I didn’t trust the set-up. The police were on the track of this racket. It would only be a question of time before they raided the place. ‘Could you give me cash?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘I have a little money put by. How much?’
‘He owes me a hundred and forty-five of my own which Mulligan stole from me. And for the work he offered me twenty quid a week and a fifty pound bonus when I’d completed the job. Call it two-fifty.’
‘Very well.’ He held out his hand. That’s kind of you, my boy. And I shall not forget. Let me know where you go finally When I start developing, then I’ll let you know, and if you want the job you can come over. That’s a promise.’
I left him then. He was standing by the fire, the lump of ore in his hands, and his fine bearded head bent in thought. It was as though all his existence were in that great lump of tin. I remembered the fierce light in his eyes as he told me how he had worked to gain control of the mine. He was a terrible and pathetic figure.
I went along the cold, damp corridor to the kitchen. The girl was there, sitting by the fire, her chin resting on her hands. Her bare arms were red with the glow of the fire. She looked up startled, as I entered. The old woman was making porridge. The girl stared at me for a second, her lips parted. Then she got ID her feet and hurried out into the scullery as though intent on some household task. I called out to her. She stopped, looking at me nervously as though held there by something about me feat fascinated her.
‘Will you show me to my room, please?’ I said.
‘No.’ Her voice sounded abrupt and harsh. Then, as though to cover her abruptness, she added, ‘I — I must see about the milk. It may turn sour in this storm.’ She turned to the old woman, who had stopped stirring the porridge. ‘Mrs Brynd, show Mr O’Donnel to the - attic-room.’ That slight hesitation - I don’t know why, but it worried me.
The old woman’s face wrinkled up in a leathery smile. ‘Do a yourself,’ she said. Then she glanced up at me and I saw a flicker of some expression in her eyes. I can’t describe it. All I know is that it was hostile.
The girl hesitated. I couldn’t see it, but I knew she was trembling - like a horse that is afraid to take a jump. ‘All right,’ she said, heavily. ‘I’ll show you.’ She picked up the lamp and led the way out into the corridor, leaving the old woman stirring her porridge.
She mounted the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. The lamplight threw her shadow grotesquely on the walls of the old staircase. The wind beat against the window at the top of the flairs. We went down a narrow landing with peeling walls and then up a narrow, uncarpeted staircase. There was a door at the top with a queer little hatch cut in it. She hesitated, half turned and looked down at me as though to say something. She raised the lamp slightly. It seemed to me that she raised it in order to see me better. Then she turned quickly and opened the door.
The room was bare and close under the roof. The rain beat on the stone tiles above our heads and the wind howled in the chimney. The dormer window was uncurtained. It was fitted with stout iron bars. She lit a candle on the wash-stand. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ she said. But halfway to the door, she stopped. Again I was aware that she was trembling. She seemed to be trying to say something. Her eyes looked frightened and unhappy in the hot light of the lamp. Suddenly it burst from her, startling and abrupt. ‘Your name’s Pryce - Jim Pryce. Isn’t it?’
The way she said it: I can’t describe how it jarred on me. It wasn’t only that her voice was brittle and harsh. It had fear and hatred and — oh, it was just horrible.
‘Your father’s name is Robert Pryce?’
I nodded.
‘Is he — alive?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said.
She seemed to shiver. Then she turned quickly and without shutting the door behind her ran down the steep staircase. I heard her footsteps hurrying away into the silent depths of the house as though she feared to look over her shoulder.
I went slowly to bed, wondering how she knew my name. For a time the peculiar behaviour of the girl excluded every other thought from my mind. But then I began to notice the room. I don’t know what there was about the room. I know now of course. But I didn’t then. It was such a bare, miserable little place. And there were the iron bars across the window and that strange little natch in the door. It was somehow the way I imagine a prison cell looks I lay in bed and, tired though I was, it was some time before I put the candle out. Even then I could not sleep. I lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds of the storm and thinking over the strange events of the day. Sometimes the wind would be no more than a whimper in the eaves. Then it would come roaring against the house, beating at the walls till they shook to their foundations. It would come like a wall of water flung at the tiny barred window. It would ramp and whine and the rain would beat at the glass like a shower of gravel. Then it would die away to a whimper again so that I could hear the solid sound of the breakers thundering against the granite cliffs. And every now and then a flicker of distant lightning would show me the room, and in the sudden darkness that followed, I’d hear the grumble of the thunder away towards the Scillies.
I must have gone to sleep at last. Perhaps I had only just dozed off. Perhaps I had been asleep for hours. I don’t know. All I know is that I was suddenly wide awake and instantly conscious of the room. God, how that room wanted to talk to me! I was trembling and sweating. Then in a flicker of lightning I saw the door opening. It was the click of the latch that had awakened me. My body tensed, expecting God knows what. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked. My voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
‘It’s me,’ a voice whispered back.
A match flared in the dark and was instantly extinguished as a gust of wind crashed against the window. Another match was struck and a candle flame wavered uncertainly.
It was Kitty. She stood there for an instant, the candle trembling in her hand. She had a dark dressing-gown over her nightie and her feet were bare. Her eyes had a wild look and she clutched an envelope to her breast. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there looking down at me. It was as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.
I sat up leaning on one elbow. ‘Why have you come?’ I asked She found her voice then, but it was strange and husky. ‘Because I promised,’ was what she said.
‘Because you promised? Promised who?’ I asked.
‘Your mother.’ Her voice sounded small and sad in that strange room. ‘I didn’t want to,’ she added quickly. ‘But — I’d promised.’ She moved forward. It was a timid movement. There,’ she said. Take it.’ She thrust the envelope into my hand. Then with sudden relief in her voice: ‘I’ve done what I said I would. I’ll go now.’ She turned towards the door.
But I caught her dressing-gown. ‘Don’t go,’ I said. ‘What was my mother doing here? You knew her. What happened?’
‘No.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Don’t ask me anything. Let me go - please. You have the letter now. That’s all I promised to do. Let me go, I tell you.’ Her voice was frightened now. She struggled, but I had her by the wrist. ‘Sit down,’ I said. I was determined not to let her go. There were so many questions I needed answered. ‘How did you know who I was?’
‘It - it was the way you held your head when you asked a question. That and your eyes. You’ve got her eyes.’
‘You knew her then?’
She nodded. ‘Now let me go.’ Her voice trembled again.
‘No,’ I said. ‘What was my mother doing here?’ She suddenly fought to free her wrist from my grasp.
‘What was my mother doing here?’ I repeated, and she cried out at the pressure of my hand on her wrist. For a moment she fought to free herself then suddenly she relaxed and sat limply down on the edge of the bed. I felt her trembling all over. She was all wrought up. The candle was spilling hot grease on to her fingers. She reached out and set it down on the table by the bed.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘will you please tell me what my mother was doing here?’
She gave a sob. I looked up at her. She was staring at the little hatch cut in the door. She wasn’t crying - she was fighting for breath. I waited. At last she said in a strangled voice, ‘She was — she was Mr Manack’s housekeeper.’
The housekeeper. In a flash Friar’s words came back to me - and the words of the landlord up at the inn at Botallack. And the name of the licensee above the door at Cripples’ Ease. I looked down at the envelope in my hand. It was addressed to ‘Robert Pryce, or his son, Jim Pryce.’ The ink was faded and the writing shaky as though it had been written by someone very old - or someone labouring under great emotion. ‘When did she give you this?’ I asked.
‘A long time ago.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Before the war. Nine years ago it must be. It was just before -‘ She hesitated. ‘Just before her death,’ she whispered.
‘How did she die?’ I asked.
I felt her body stiffen. She did not answer.
I gripped her wrist angrily. ‘How did she die?’ I repeated.
‘She — she went over the cliffs.’ Her voice was flat. She spoke like a person in a trance.
I felt suddenly as though all the breath had been knocked out of me. And yet this wasn’t half the horror of it. ‘Why?’ I asked.
She looked down at me then. Her eyes were wide and staring. So might Macbeth have looked on Banquo’s ghost. All sorts of terrible thoughts ran through my mind.
‘Why?’ I cried out. ‘Why did she do it?’
‘Read the letter,’ she said. She was panting for breath. ‘Read the letter. Then let me go. I came to give you the letter. That was all. That was what I had to do. Don’t you understand? I don’t want to answer your questions. I don’t want to think about it.’
‘How long before her death did she give you this letter?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. An hour - maybe two or three. I don’t remember.’
‘My God!’ I breathed. Then it was suicide?’
She nodded slowly.
I ripped open the envelope then. Inside was a single sheet of the same spidery writing. It trembled in my hand as I leaned forward to read it in the dim flicker of the candle. It was headed: ‘In my room - 29th October, 1939.’ In my room! Not Cripples’ Ease, Botallack, Cornwall. Just ‘in my room.’ As though that were all her world.
Kitty leaned forward and picked up the candle, holding it over die letter for me. It guttered in the draught from the window and the grease spilled across her fingers and dripped on to the bedclothes. I had let go of her wrist and it was only afterwards that I realised that she could have left the room then. Why she didn’t, I don’t quite know. Curiosity perhaps. The letter had been in her possession all those years. But I’d rather say it was her sympathy - her sense of my need of her company as I read the last thoughts of a woman going out to kill herself on the rocks of Botallack Head, a woman who had once gone through the labour of bringing me into the world.
I have the letter on the desk beside me as I write. That, and the old, faded photograph and a brooch she gave to Kitty they’re all I possess of my mother. I’ll not attempt to describe my feelings as I read that letter. Here it is — read it and judge for yourself how I felt:
MY DARLING BOB,
Yes, you are still that. All these years the memory of you has been like a light shining in the darkness of my life. Pray God you found happiness. I found none. The thought of you and Jim and all the kindness and the love I left - it has been very bitter. They say I am not responsible for my actions now. But please believe me, Bob - at this moment my mind is very clear. I love you, and I have never loved anyone else.
They have shut me away in this room. The windows are barred. It is more than a year I think since I walked on the headland. I cannot even see my little garden from here. But today - today he has forgotten to lock the door. My mind is made up. I am going up to the headland for the last time. I shall give this letter to Kitty, together with the little brooch you bought me in Penzance that day we went over to the Mount by boat. It is all that I have left of you. Poor child. I grew very fond of her. But she is afraid of me now since her mother died.
Tell Jim I love him. He will not remember his mother, but tell him she never forgot him. Oh, Bob, I have paid dearly for my folly. Please, please do not think too hardly of me. I am going now. If this letter ever reaches you, do not fret at my passing. All I ask of you is that you will remember only that I love you both.
Your unhappy,
Ruth.
I sat for a long time staring down at the faded writing whilst the candle guttered in Kitty’s hand. So much was hinted at. So much was left unanswered. I felt dazed and there was a lump in my throat. At last I looked up and in a flicker of lightning saw the bars of the window etched black against the storm. ‘This was my mother’s room, wasn’t it?’
She nodded.
I looked down at the letter again. I must have sat staring at it for quite a time. I came out of my daze to find the girl tugging to pull her wrist free of my hand. She was shivering violently. The palm of my hand was moist on her flesh, and my body was bathed in a cold sweat. ‘I must go,’ she whispered frantically.
‘No,’ I said. And then I added quickly, ‘I can’t sleep here. Not in my mother’s room.’
‘You must,’ she said. ‘It’d look queer if you didn’t.’
