Ravenscliffe (37 page)

‘Oh, what a pity. She’d be fascinated by the progress we’ve made. A remarkable young woman, if I may say so. Would you like to follow me?’

He was heading for the door, so the question seemed rhetorical. Outside, Mr Garforth nodded at the weightlifters.

‘Fitness training,’ he said. ‘The first requirement of an efficient rescue squad.’

‘Indeed.’ The earl wondered whether any of them should be mining for coal at this very moment, but anyway he saluted them as they passed. ‘Working jolly hard,’ he said.

‘At any point they might be called upon to shovel many tons of rock, at speed, or to carry the dead weight of an unconscious miner on their backs. Strength and stamina, Lord Netherwood. Strength and stamina. Here we are.’

They had reached a long, low-roofed building by the colliery headgear. It was windowless and, when Mr Garforth ushered him inside, the earl saw a simulated underground roadway, faithful in every detail to the one at the bottom of the Long Martley mineshaft.

‘We can fill it with rubble, pump it full of smoke, throw in a flood for good measure. It’s remarkable, the terrors we can reproduce within these walls. Watch your head now, on the way out.’

He smiled, stepped out again and waited for the earl to follow.

‘Do you know what I believe causes fifty per cent of our underground explosions?’ he said.

Lord Netherwood wished he could answer, crisply and authoritatively. Instead, he shook his head.

‘Coal dust,’ said Mr Garforth.

‘Coal dust?’

‘Coal dust. Bit of a problem, hmm? But I promise you, Lord Netherwood, that if you eliminate excessive coal dust from your underground workings, your collieries will be considerably safer.’

‘Eliminate coal dust from a coal mine?’ the earl said. What madness was this?

‘Where possible, yes. Or dilute its power with stone dust or chippings. Pure coal dust, at certain temperatures and in certain conditions, will explode into a lethal fireball. Might well have been the case here last month, but it won’t say as much in the report. Is it out yet?’

‘Imminent,’ said the earl.

‘Coal dust,’ Mr Garforth said again. ‘Don’t underestimate it.’

He set off towards the manager’s office, and the earl followed in his wake. The leather soles of his Bond Street brogues had little purchase on the weathered stone-set pit yard and he walked gingerly, in fear of falling. Mr Garforth, of course, had boots with a grip like Michelin tyres. Why, thought the earl, did he always feel such a bally flyweight in the man’s company? Ahead, Mr Garforth was still talking.

‘Doesn’t need toxic gas to ignite it, you know. I’ve proved it time and again, back at my own colliery. But the only people who’ll listen to me on the subject are the continentals. German collieries are years ahead. Years ahead. Well, here we are.’

He stopped by the Daimler, which stood conspicuously yellow and incongruously clean among the coal wagons at the edge of the yard. The earl was pleased to see a little black Wolseley, however, tucked away in another corner: the fellow hadn’t ridden here, then, on a white charger.

‘Mr Garforth,’ he said, ‘it’s been instructive, as ever, and progress has been simply remarkable.’

‘Thanks to you, Lord Netherwood.’

‘Well, good of you to say but …’

‘Your resources, my vision and a loyal workforce. A winning combination, wouldn’t you say?’

The earl hauled the crankhandle and blessed the patron saint of motorists when the engine sparked into life at the first attempt. He opened the door and climbed inside. Leather, walnut, chrome; this was his world, and in it, he began to relax.

‘Until next time,’ he said. Luncheon: rare beef and a glass of claret. This thought cheered him further.

Mr Garforth, straight-backed and soldierly, saluted him by way of a farewell. The car moved away, jolting on the uneven surface of the yard, and an arm emerged from the driver’s side window, returning the gesture. Mr Garforth smiled. He liked the earl. A willingness to learn was a rare commodity among the landowning class, in his experience. Not to mention a willingness to spend money on people other than themselves. Lord Netherwood hadn’t even queried the last set of accounts, and he knew from Harry Booth that they were hefty. Guilt money, according to Booth, but this seemed ungenerous to William Garforth, who looked for the best in everyone he met and generally found something to admire. Respectfully, he waited until the Daimler had disappeared up the cinder track before he turned once again towards the manager’s office.

Seth was free. When Eve and Daniel had left the party – one night away in a Sheffield hotel and Seth didn’t want to dwell on the matter – he had seized the moment and walked straight to New Mill Colliery still clad in tailcoat and pinstripes, afraid that he if he turned up for the afternoon shift in work clothes
he’d end up losing his nerve and be condemned to the screens for all eternity. Of course, the second he walked into the pit yard he regretted the strategy, but anyway he ran the gauntlet of hooting, taunting and attempts on his dignity, and made it unscathed to the offices, where he stood for a moment, adjusted his waistcoat, then knocked at the door. It was opened at once by Sidney Cutts, who wasn’t actually answering the knock, but merely exiting the colliery manager’s office. He stopped though, when he saw Seth, and took a step back, the better to enjoy the spectacle.

‘Don,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy to see thi.’

Don Manvers looked across at Seth.

‘Bugger me,’ he said. Sidney and Seth switched places; the boy came in, the man left for the stores and Seth could see him shaking his head as he went, as if he’d never seen the like. Mr Manvers took a noisy slurp from a mug on his desk; tea, the colour of dark terracotta, furred the inside of his mouth. Unsmiling, unnerving, he said: ‘Well?’

‘Sorry, Mr Manvers,’ Seth said. ‘I came straight from my mam’s wedding.’

‘Is that right? Well, tha looks a right barmcake and no mistake. That’s no get-up for a working lad.’

‘I’m givin’ notice, Mr Manvers. ‘I’m not cut out for t’job.’

The pit manager sucked the tea off his teeth and stared at Seth. The lad had taken off the top hat, at least; he held it like a begging bowl, clutching the rim with his two hands.

‘I could ’ave told thi that when tha came to ask for a place,’ he said, slowly and after an uncomfortable pause. ‘In fact, I think I did tell thi that. Or words to that effect.’

‘Yes, Mr Manvers.’

‘Back to school, is it?’

‘If they’ll ’ave me.

‘Go on then. Get gone. An’ if them lads outside ’ave thi guts for garters, there’s nob’dy to blame but thisen.’

The boy walked backwards from the manager’s desk like a royal flunky. Don Manvers, hiding a smile, picked up a stack of timesheets and placed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose.

‘Thank you, Mr Manvers,’ said Seth at the door. It was done. He felt lighter, actually lighter; he felt like he’d just deposited a sack of coal on the office floor.

Mr Manvers regarded him over the top of his lenses and said: ‘Does thi mam know?’

‘No, Mr Manvers. I’ll tell ’er when she’s back.’

‘Did tha buy ’er a wedding present?’

Seth coloured. ‘No, Mr Manvers.’

‘Well, tha won’t ’ave to now,’ he said, then he took up a pen and resumed his paperwork, and Seth closed the door then turned and ran pell-mell through the pit yard before anyone could get their hands on him.

T
he earl, enjoying the drive home, had taken a spontaneous detour, running the motor up and around the narrow, twisting lane to the top of Harley Hill, where he got out and leaned on the bonnet, feeling the warmth of the engine through his coat. The scrubby green sward of the common rolled out beside him to his right and before him lay Netherwood, in a hundred shades of grey. At the centre of the town the groundwork for the miners’ memorial had begun. The plan had changed since its conception; it was to be bronze now, not granite, and not an obelisk but the figure of a miner carrying a lamp. Henry’s idea, like so much else. A stone monument was impersonal, she had said, and not a fitting tribute to the men who had died in the earl’s service. There was to be a granite plinth, however, and a great granite tablet bearing the names of the men claimed by the Netherwood mines. The mason had asked – politely, with no edge – should he leave space for other names, perhaps? No, the earl had said, we must assume the best, and in the event of the worst, then … tailing off, the earl had left the yard in the grip of a bleak reverie. The mason had reached P and already there were well over two hundred men and boys remembered there, in the stone.
They weighed on the earl’s conscience, these souls. Sometimes he saw them in his sleep.

In the distance the town hall clock struck half-past twelve and the earl stirred himself for the homeward leg. Once again, he hoiked the engine back into action, then slapped the wheel arch in an encouraging, friendly way – a horseman’s habit that he had brought to motoring.

‘Home, James,’ he said to himself, then climbed in and pointed the Daimler down the hill, releasing the throttle and letting the car pick up a bit of speed, just for the joy of it. He felt the rush of cold air in his face and allowed himself a short, conservative whoop of exhilaration, the thought crossing his mind that there was more of Tobias in him than he sometimes cared to acknowledge. He took one hand from the wheel and yanked at the earflaps of his leather hat, tugging them lower. Hawthorn whipped the sides of the car as he sped downhill. At each bend, he gave a blast on the horn, to announce his imminent appearance to anyone in his path, though he didn’t actually expect to encounter anyone. A startled rabbit, perhaps, or a fat pheasant, running idiotically into his path instead of taking to the air; he’d certainly flattened a few of those in his motoring career. Damned waste it was too, when they’d been lovingly reared for the shoot.

‘What’s the difference,’ Isabella had asked him once, ‘killing them with the car or with a gun? Either way they end up dead.’ He had laughed.

‘Dear child,’ he had said. ‘The difference is this; method one is an unfortunate accident: method two, a sporting assault, and a planned one.’

‘Not entirely sporting. The birds can’t shoot back,’ she had said. Isabella had her mother’s pretty pout and the same coquettish, endearing, irresistible way of conducting an argument. Henrietta, however – ah, she might learn a thing or two about womanly wiles from her mother and sister. She had
stalked out of the morning room this morning with a face like a stormy sky, just as she had done since childhood. Henry’s rages had always clouded her face and made her plain. The earl smiled at the recollection of her parting shot. Mrs Pankhurst indeed! Clever old Henry; she had always known the precise weapons to use against her mother. He would find her the moment he returned and …

His mind emptied of all thoughts but that a pony, a grey mare, stood directly in his path and he was driving at speed towards her.

She stood as if rooted, her stocky little mass filling the space between the hedgerows, her head turned so that her eyes were fixed on the approaching vehicle. Lord Netherwood, anxious for the pony’s welfare, careless of his own, swung the steering wheel violently to the left, though a small, rational part of him knew there was no escape from impact. The Daimler’s front wing rammed into the pony’s right flank, slicing into her solid flesh and inducing an instant reaction of wild-eyed panic. She reared to escape the pain and crashed down with her front hooves on the bodywork of the motorcar, producing a thunderous sound that the pony couldn’t understand, driving her wilder still. He couldn’t see what held her there, in the lane, though evidently she was unable to break free. If he had been able to stand, the earl might have calmed her; there were tricks of the hands and the voice that those who understood the language of horses could use to ease a frenzied beast. But, trapped in his seat, the earl felt stupid and helpless, pinned in by the heaving bulk of the pony, his arms wrapped above his head for scant protection. The motorcar’s left front wheel was in a ditch and the vehicle listed hopelessly so that remaining upright in his seat, without his hands for support, was an appalling effort. The pony seemed intent on the destruction of either him or the Daimler, thrashing and tossing her head in an agony of pain and panic. Why couldn’t
she run? If he’d had a rifle, he would have shot her in an instant, for both their sakes; the mad whites of her eyes were close enough to put a bullet clean between them. But he had no gun so he dropped his arms from their defensive position and attempted awkwardly to shift across to the passenger seat, away from the violent range of the pony’s hooves. Again and again the creature reared, whinnying maniacally, baring long yellow teeth, smashing down with all her considerable might onto her tormentor.

For a split second they looked directly at each other, the earl and the pony, each eyeing their tormentor. Instinctively he shook his head as if to say, you have the wrong man; but he knew this was a kind of madness of his own. He tried to lunge sideways, his plan being to haul himself out of the motorcar and into the embrace of the hawthorn hedge on his left. The pony, foaming now, sodden with sweat, near exhausted from her own pointless exertions, hauled herself upright once again, rising on her hind legs and screaming with a kind of desperate, unearthly triumphalism. The earl, his legs twisted and trapped by the steering wheel, was nevertheless almost clear of her reach, but then she plummeted back down, and with entirely accidental accuracy she struck him a devastating blow to the head.