The colliers, as they liked to be called, dug coal all year long in the mines of Merseyside. Without them, the fine people of London would have to dwell in cold homes during the winter. It was hard and dangerous work, and the pay was a pittance. A hundred feet below the earth, men hammered at the rock and loaded wagons with coal. When the first carts began to roll, a shrill and piercing sound rang out. The men trudged over the loose earth, picks in hand, often lit dimly by a single lamp. The voices died away, and they could see nothing. They struck a match to light their candles, and used the flame to burn half-cigarettes, savouring a few drags of pleasure. Their breathing was laboured. There was no time to eat down here, just a couple of slices of bread and butter. Sometimes they hummed songs to keep their spirits up. Here in this tunnel two men softly sang “Here in my heart I'm alone, I'm so lonely” by Al Martino. They thought of their wives.
A second team was getting ready to descend into the bowels of the earth. A mechanical lift would carry them down into the darkness. The colliers worked in shifts, night and day, to extract coal from the mines of Merseyside. The day before, one of the miners had breathed his last. The poor lad had suffocated before an uncontrolled fire could be put out. The colliers wanted to pay homage to their fallen brother. Far down below, the hewers, the coal cutters, the cart pushers, the carpenters, the rock movers, the shot firers, the winch operators and the receivers would all gather in the dark of the mine. They’d be joined by engineers and lamplighters up above to salute their brother. They would gather and ask God to spare them from an early death. It was time to get back to work. What else could they do but work the mines? Railway workers? Postmen? Builders? Between miners there was solidarity; they belonged to the brotherhood of the colliery. The mines were built on friendship, and the sacred bond of the ‘black faces’.
The man crawled over the rocky floor as the voices of the other miners died away, 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 wondered if he should have brought along some help. He ran his hand over the humid rock. Just a little more light, and he set to hammering the rock. The position meant he couldn’t go as hard as he wanted, and the coal dust soon 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.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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