Before the sun had risen over northern England, a man left his red-brick house just outside Newcastle and set out along the long dirt road that cut through the rows of terraced houses. The dawn air was gelid, and the mist tinged with pinkish dew. This man was a miner. He lit the butt of a cigarette that still had two or three drags left in it. He coughed, his lungs full of coal. He made sure his ‘snap’, two slices of bread and butter, was safe and warm in his satchel. He arrived at the Dry House, the hanging room, where he pulled down his dusty overalls. He set his helmet on his head and checked the lamp, before pulling on his boots and his canvas gloves. He hooked a flask of cold coffee to his belt and gathered a bucket and his pickaxe, its tips worn round by the rock. The pick was for separating lumps of rock from around the coal seam; once the bucket was filled the rocks would be dumped into the mine carts that ran through the tunnels. He handed over the token with his badge number on it to the light store, and was handed a lamp. This system made sure that management knew exactly who was working on any given day. He was ready, and stepped into the cage with three other miners. They nodded to one another. The cage screeched as it plunged into the belly of the earth. Hell was near; the heat rose up. The man could already feel the droplets of sweat pearling on his forehead. His hands moistened in their gloves. He began to hum a song by Al Martino. What were the words again? “Here in my heart I'm alone, I'm so lonely...”
A hundred metres below the surface he hammered at the rock. He was a hewer, and his job was to break the rock so the coal could be extracted. He cleared out the bigger stones and threw them to the sides; after a few hours of this his body was spent. He tugged off the canvas gloves, his hands red and his fingers swollen. Sweat stung as it crept into the bigger scratches, and he spat on the most painful blisters. The wet air of the underground was suffocating; his body trembled and his muscles were stiff. Suddenly, he sneezed, causing a puff of dust to billow from the ground. “God bless us, I suppose,” he murmured. He’d been at it since the morning, and needed a rest. He set down his pick and his bucket, and finally sat down. He drank a draught of cold coffee and took his barm from his bag, setting about it with ferocious appetite. Every bite was a window to the world above; he thought of his wife and his boy eating their breakfast, perhaps a bowl of warm porridge or hard-boiled eggs. The bread melted in his mouth, and he felt he’d never tasted butter so pure. It was white and warm, just like he liked it. He took his time; every bite was precious. Once it was over, he’d be back against the rock. He heard the voices of other men chattering during their break. He preferred to stay on his own. Maybe this afternoon he’d join them for a pint in one of the pubs. A drink would help him forget the aching fatigue. He’d been feeling it for months now; his wife told him to go and see the doctor, but how could he do that? He wasn’t about to lose half a day’s work to go and see a doctor.
The man crawled over the rocky floor as the voices of the other miners died down, and headed into the tunnel with his pick in his hand. He’d taken off his gloves and his helmet; it was too hot for them. At this time of day he feared nothing, not dust nor firedamp. If it cost him his life, so be it; he was too tired to care. He crept further along, arriving at a point where the rock looked perfect. Here he could hew at his leisure, and there’d be bucketfuls of rock to bring to the mine cart. He’d need to ask for some help. He ran his hand over the humid rock. Just a little more light and he set to hammering the rock, though the position meant he couldn’t go as hard as he wanted, and the coal dust blinded him. Suddenly he heard the echo of a voice: “Anyone there? Anyone in there?” He answered as loud as he could, but the miner at the other end of the tunnel didn’t hear. “Anyone in there?” the other miner called. “Aye, someone’s working down here!” the man yelled. It was probably time to head up, but his day wasn’t over. He’d have to bring the clumps of rock back to the mine cart to clear a path out.
“Come and have a pint with us,” one of the miners told the man.
“I have to get back to me wife. The boy’ll be waiting for me,” the man said.
“Come on!” the other miner insisted. “Just an hour, it’s been a hard day. Time to sit back and forget about it.”
Slowly the men emerged from the mine; the sound of the rails, axes hammering against rock, the echo of voices would ring in their heads until the next morning. Their eyes welled at the sight of daylight. It was the beginning of the afternoon, and the end of their labours. Just outside the city, smoke rose from the hundreds of miner’s cottages, where their women would be preparing supper.
Alan Alfredo Geday