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  Probyn ballooned his cheeks and offered a grudging, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ replied Mick, and was about to return to his pony when an oath pierced the gloom and Judson came striding towards him.

  ‘You little shit, you pinched my frigging corves!’

  Mick stared into his assailant’s face – a mindless, ill-bred hooligan, obviously possessing not one scruple – and saw that to reason was useless. There was little to be gained except the small satisfaction of having offered defiance. ‘Em, I didn’t see your name on them.’

  ‘You cheeky—!’ Judson repaid the other’s audacity with a blow, sending the younger boy tumbling to the floor, his lip split open. He was about to swing a kick when Probyn launched himself forth and pushed him off balance, giving the dazed Mick a chance to totter to his feet and make his escape into the nearest stall. Judson swore and, telling Probyn he would have him next, dashed after Mick.

  Crouching beside the two colliers whose stall it was, Mick threw a pleading glance for assistance, but loath to lose money, they ignored his swollen bloody face and continued to hack at the seam with their picks.

  Probyn scrambled in after Judson who voiced obscenity and threatened violence. One of the colliers did intervene then, but only to tell all three youths to, ‘Sling your hook! If tha wants to fight do it somewheer else!’

  Judson glared threateningly for a while with his ice-blue eyes, before backing out slowly with an arrogant look on his face that told the other two this was not surrender.

  Thoroughly irritated that Melody had got him into two scrapes with Judson today, Probyn gritted his teeth and moved out to confront the bully. Mick lingered anxiously, holding his throbbing, bloody mouth and waiting to see what would happen to Kilmaster.

  Then suddenly there came a groaning sound, props began to crack and splinter like matchsticks. The whites of their eyes portraying terror, the colliers scrambled for all they were worth towards the exit, urging Mick ahead of them with frantic shoves at his back as the roof began to cave in: ‘Get out get out get out!’ First into the main roadway, sprawling headlong under their violent shoves, Mick saw the look of horror on Probyn Kilmaster’s face, on Judson’s too, could tell that something awful had occurred behind him but did not stop and turn until the thunderous noise had ceased and the roof no longer moved.

  Through the choking cloud of dust came an agonized moan. One of the colliers had escaped, the other’s leg was imprisoned by a heap of stone and timber.

  Whilst Judson stood there indecisively, Probyn delivered a thump to Mick’s arm, ‘Go fetch help!’ Coughing, he himself fell to his knees and began to aid the uninjured man in freeing his partner, the latter beginning to scream.

  ‘Oh, Christ, get me out!’

  ‘Your leg’s stuck, John!’ cried his friend, grubbling amongst the debris, frantically trying to release him, blood mingling with the coal dust.

  Another tormented shriek. ‘Chop it off! For God’s sake I can’t stand it!’

  Hypnotized, Mick had not moved from the spot. Probyn yelled at him again to fetch help and he at last sprang to action, but had no need to run far. Hearing the telltale rumble men came dashing to the site with shovels, began to seize boulders and pit props, hurling them aside, others shoring up the roof to avert another fall.

  Finally the mutilated collier was dragged out. Hearts still thumping with shock, Probyn and Mick watched him being borne away to the surgeon’s house.

  Without delay came the furious inquiry. ‘Cutting corners again!’ panted the deputy, making a random guess. ‘You’re that concerned trying to make a few extra bob for Christmas you risk everybody else’s lives!’

  The hewer whose partner had been injured took great offence. ‘Eh! It were nowt to do wi’ me! It were that little bugger who wrought it!’

  Mick was aghast to find the finger pointed at him but before he could offer any defence Wilson began to lay about his shoulders with his yardstick.

  Hating injustice, Probyn came to his aid for the third time that day. ‘He didn’t do owt, Mr Wilson! He only ran in there to get away from yon fella.’ Even as he indicated Judson he knew it was madness.

  Wilson ceased beating Mick and turned his ire on Judson. ‘Right! Manager’s office sharp. Everybody else back to work. And I’ll be having words with your father!’ Probyn was dismayed to find the latter threat addressed to him, and was even more disturbed by Judson’s parting caveat – ‘Make the most o’ your Christmas, Ginger,’ – for it held not genuine goodwill but the promise of retribution after the holiday.

  Whilst everyone moved back to their various positions in the workings, Mick found his limbs were still trembling. Cautiously dabbing the back of his hand against his gashed lip, he winced, then donated a sigh of gratitude to the sandy-haired youth. ‘I’m much obliged to ye.’

  Probyn had been momentarily distracted by the sight of the injured miner’s clothes, still hanging neatly outside the stall where they had been put a few hours ago, his snap tin complete with uneaten sandwiches. How terrifying that a mere thirty seconds could wreak such havoc. He tore his eyes away, stooped angrily to retrieve his fallen cap, bashed it on his thigh and rammed it back on his head. ‘Aye well, don’t think it makes us lifelong friends, I’d do it for anybody.’ And he strode off.

  On reflection he took issue with himself for being so harsh. He was not unkind by nature, it was just the thought of what Judson would mete out to him that had caused the bad-tempered utterance; not to mention his father’s reaction. However, he decided not to apologize as he might have done had it been anyone else. Melody might get the wrong impression, and Probyn had no wish to encourage fraternization with a Catholic.

  * * *

  Hours later, the exhausting toil finally came to an end. Awaiting the signal to pass between the banksman and the winding-engine man, Probyn Kilmaster gave an inwards hallelujah at the jerk that signified his resurrection, as the cageful of weary pitmen moved heavenward. Never was he so glad.

  At last the merciful earth released them for another day. Spilling forth amongst his comrades – more talkative now at the thought of the Christmas holiday – he enjoyed only momentary banter then handed in his numbered disc, collected his pay and set off home. It had been dark when he had gone down the pit this morning, and it was dark now although it was barely four hours past noon. Only by reason of the festive sojourn would he see daylight tomorrow.

  But Probyn was not thinking about Christmas. Life was no different in the Kilmaster household even at this time of year, other than a good spread. No, he was keeping his eyes peeled for Judson. They would inevitably meet at some point, but he would try to delay that collision until the pit re-opened.

  A call made him jump. Upon turning quickly he spotted the Irish youth trotting after him. With an inward lament, he continued his brisk march. Against the gunmetal sky rose the outline of railway wagons, stacks of timber props, slag heaps, locomotive sheds, winding gear, chimneys and brickyards. A steady flow of miners wended their tired passage from the colliery. He moved to overtake them all, bent on escape.

  ‘Hang on, Probe!’

  Probe! Anyone’d think he’d known me years, thought the other crossly, marvelling that Melody appeared undeterred by the earlier rebuff. God preserve us from the thick-skinned.

  Mick’s snap tin rattled noisily as he caught up with the Kilmaster boy and fell in beside him, his sparkling blue eyes illuminating the sooty face. ‘Tanks again for fighting my corner!’

  Tanks! Probyn enjoyed an inward laugh at the Irish accent. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, but forced himself to remain grim-faced. However, this did not appear to discourage Melody.

  ‘I haven’t that many friends,’ explained Mick.

  Probyn’s heart sank. Please Lord, don’t lumber me with this teague.

  Mick checked himself with a self-conscious laugh. ‘Not underground I mean. All me muckers are up top.’ He hurried to keep pace with the other, hopping across a railway line as
if performing a jig, thought Probyn.

  ‘Been working on the surface for two years cleaning tubs. Would’ve stayed there too but me father said it was time I earned more money. Me mammy didn’t really want me to go down ye see.’

  Unaware that the barrage of chatter was a disguise for shyness, Probyn saw only an empty vessel, and tried to discourage it by remaining silent.

  But Mick seemed oblivious that his informative prattle was not wholly welcomed, perhaps because the folk in this village were not given to facial animation. He had known them to display both anguish and pleasure with a similar detached mien. One never quite knew what they were thinking. ‘Not dat she’s bothered for my safety y’understand, she wanted me to join the Christian Brothers. Well, ideally she wanted me to be a priest but the church is not for me. Truth be told I don’t really know what I want out o’ life.’ He took off his cap to enjoy a vigorous scratching of head. ‘How about yourself?’

  Probyn’s blue-grey eyes shot an irritated glance.

  Blackened digits raked through their owner’s curls. ‘Do you like working down the pit?’

  ‘Are you soft?’ Probyn tore his eyes off the other’s conspicuous widow’s peak and marched on, weaving around another bunch of weary silhouettes and embarking upon the lane that led to the village of Ralph Royd. To either side of the hedge now lay soggy winter fields.

  Mick replaced his scruffy cap. ‘Ah well, you’re obviously keen to get home. Jesus, ye walk awful fast for a little bloke!’

  Sensitive about his lack of height. Probyn gritted his teeth.

  Unaware that he had caused offence, Mick clutched his side and maintained both his pace and his chatter, apparently unhindered by the swollen mouth. ‘I’m the only one left at home now. The eldest, Joe, he’s away working down south somewhere. The other one, John, he’s married, works on the railways, can afford to eat chocolate for breakfast if he wants to. Imagine dat!’ Mick’s voice held deep admiration. ‘Me mother says she doesn’t know where she went wrong with me.’ He discounted this with a happy shrug.

  Probyn formed a tight smile, hoping this would not encourage further confidences. His late mother had possessed a deep aversion to the Irish, so out of respect for her he chose not to mix with them; though in truth, her placid, thoughtful son had never been able to see what religion had to do with someone’s character and Melody seemed a decent enough sort – for a Catholic.

  Apart from this not insubstantial drawback, Probyn had noted from a sideways glance that Mick seemed to have every advantage over himself. Skinny, maybe, but taller and more attractive even under the layer of coal dust. Not classically beautiful but good-looking in an impudent sort of way. The sort of way that counted, came the resentful thought. That was, with females. And to a seventeen-year-old youth desperate for sexual knowledge this was all that mattered. He, who had never had much luck attracting girls for anything other than friendship, and had been rejected in favour of a similar thatch of luxuriant brown hair, could only marvel at how easily females could be taken in. ‘Ooh, hasn’t he got lovely wavy hair’ they’d say, squirming round the chosen one like maggots; as if a mop of curls had some sort of bearing on his integrity. Irritated that Melody was still at his shoulder, he increased his gait.

  But Mick clung like a limpet, glad to have made a new friend. He liked what he saw in that good strong face with its well-defined features. ‘How many brothers and sisters have ye got?’

  ‘No brothers, five sisters,’ came the reluctant murmur. Thank goodness his home was now close by. ‘I had six but one died.’

  ‘Jesus, a veritable army! Dere’s only four of us. Did I mention I’ve a sister too?’

  ‘Your mam must have lost lots of babbies then.’ It just slipped out.

  The curly-headed youth frowned. ‘Not dat I know of. Why d’ye say dat?’

  Unthinkingly, Probyn repeated his mother’s opinion. ‘Well, Catholics usually have loads o’ bairns.’

  The other became suddenly aloof, his reaction mocking. ‘Do dey now? Den I shall have to tell me mother and father to buck der ideas up, dey’re letting the side down. Christ almighty! Dat’s a fine observation from somebody with a family of seven. What has everybody got against the Catholic Church dat’s what I’d like to know?’

  Probyn disapproved of the blasphemous exclamation and it showed in his tone of voice. ‘Maybe they’re scared your lot’re going to take over. That’s what me mam always said. You have lots of kids so you can populate the world.’

  Mick was starting to be really offended. ‘Your mother talks rot.’

  Probyn wheeled to a sudden halt and became a different character. His eyes glittered with intensity and he knocked Melody’s cap off his head. ‘Take that back!’

  In danger of losing this valuable ally, Mick immediately backed down. ‘I’m sure she’s a very nice woman but—’

  ‘She’s dead,’ snapped Probyn.

  ‘Ah.’ Mick’s sharp gaze was softened by a look of contrition. ‘Well den, I take it all back.’ In a trice, though, his widow’s peak descended in a frown. ‘But I’ve seen your father with—’

  ‘That’s my stepmother!’ cut in Probyn, then turned and strode on, leaving the other to pick up his cap.

  Without hesitation Mick tripped after him, his tone appeasing. ‘I’d no wish to cause offence! But see, ’tis wrong for folk to say tings like that when dey don’t even know us. I don’t want to rule the world. God knows, I’d just like to get through a day’s work without getting me head kicked in. Jesus, I tink dat bastard’s knocked one o’me teeth loose.’ He wiggled the molar gingerly.

  Probyn chose not to respond. They were at the top of the lane. Here now was the main street, the glimmer of lantern and the whitewashed inn that neighboured his own cottage. In moments he would be able to shake this wretch off. But just as he was about to do this, something else took his attention. The door of the Robin Hood’s Well opened. Emerging on a waft of beery fumes stepped a military figure, who paused under a lamp to adjust his pillbox hat. The buttons on his scarlet tunic glittered alluringly. Probyn’s eyes lit up too. Ignoring Melody, he slowed his pace right down, in order to imbibe the wonderful sight.

  Mick’s face took on similar interest, but for a different reason. Grateful to have this opportunity to catch his breath and also to change the subject, he expanded his narrow chest and remarked upon the uniform. ‘Well now, wouldn’t I look great in dat! ’Twould get me out o’Judson’s clutches, and no bloody coal dust to wash off every night.’

  Of a nobler mind, Probyn tried to forget the other was there, concentrating on the recruiting sergeant who had spotted the blackened young pitmen and now strode smartly towards them.

  ‘I tink I’ll join,’ declared Mick capriciously.

  Probyn could not help displaying shock at such impulse. ‘What’ll your parents say?’

  The response was light-hearted. ‘Sure, as long as I send money home won’t dey be glad to get rid o’ me.’

  Gripped by silent fury, Probyn could not speak. That this ignoramus with his dis and dat and tink and tings could achieve in seconds what had been his own lifetime’s ambition! Without a care for the morality of the situation – glad to get rid of him, he’d said, as if the army were some kind of midden tip! What sort of parents were they? How shallow was Melody whose only interest in the handsome military garb was that it would spare him from washing on a night!

  In truth, Probyn admired the scarlet tunic too, but it went much, much deeper than that, entailed dreams of honour and chivalry and valour … all impossible to fulfil. His fantasy petered out on a note of utter despair. It wasn’t simply that his father had always referred to the army as being composed of riff-raff and forbade his son to enlist, but that Probyn’s mother, whom he had always revered and missed dreadfully, had held the same view. He could not go against her memory.

  ‘Join with me!’ urged Mick.

  Probyn deliberately ignored him. Watching the sergeant’s majestic approach, he was consumed by fur
y that he would never wear that magnificent uniform, that this … this Catholic could achieve it on a mere whim.

  ‘Good evening to you, lads!’ The grandly-attired personage halted before them, imposingly erect, his chest adorned with medal ribbons. ‘Sergeant Brown at your service. Could I interest either of you in the honour of accepting Her Majesty’s shilling?’

  ‘You can, sir,’ announced Mick.

  A note of surprised pleasure. ‘Good lad! But it’s not sir, it’s Sergeant.’ The eyes above the moustache instantly narrowed at the sight of Mick’s blood-encrusted lip. ‘I hope you haven’t been a-fighting?’

  ‘Indeed not, Sergeant! I don’t yet have my pit eyesight and I walked into a prop.’

  ‘Good, ’cause the army likes its men to reserve their fighting inclinations for the enemy. And how old are you?’

  ‘Oh, em, sixteen.’ Mick would not be sixteen until the spring but it sounded better.

  However, the sergeant affected to clear his throat, its staccato rattle obliterating Mick’s answer. ‘I beg your pardon, that was eighteen you said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Ah, so it was, Sergeant!’

  ‘Good lad! That’s what I like to see, a quick learner. You’re just what the York and Lancasters are looking for, and might I say you are similarly fortunate, for a finer infantry regiment you could not hope to serve. Well now, I’ll just take a few more particulars then we’ll see you again, clean and smartly dressed, at Pontefract Barracks after you’ve enjoyed your Christmas holiday.’

  Despite his loathing of the situation, Probyn was riveted to the spot by envy as the sergeant gave Mick a date and time to present himself, entering his details in a notebook. The uniformed hero then turned to him and enquired if he was of the same mind. He had just opened his mouth to issue reluctant negation when a rude voice pre-empted him.

  ‘’Ee can cross this one’s name off thy list right now!’ Monty Kilmaster was outwardly composed, though the restoration of his native Somerset burr conveyed to his son that he was livid. It was always more pronounced when he was angry.