The Coal Miner's Wife

by Jennie Felton

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Somerset, 1911. Miner's wife Lorna Harrison sometimes wonders what became of her marriage. Her husband Harry is surly and cold. But Lorna will always be grateful for the joy that their two daughters bring. When a devastating accident occurs at the pit and Harry is unable to work, Lorna worries about how she will make ends meet. While Lorna's friend Flossie is a tower of strength, other neighbours turn their backs, as rumours spread that Harry helped cause the mine collapse. At her lowest ebb, Lorna is befriended by Bradley Robinson, the colliery safety officer. But as shocking new secrets are revealed, Lorna wonders if Bradley is only using her to learn the truth about the pit. As she struggles to keep her daughters safe, Lorna must decide if she can trust the man she is falling in love with . . .

Release date: September 28, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

The day that was to change Lorna Harrison’s life began like any other. As always, she was up before dawn, cleaning the grate, laying and lighting the fire and setting the kettle on the hob so that she could make the strong sweet tea the way Harry, her husband, liked it. While she waited for it to boil, she unstoppered his stone bottle in readiness and fetched his snap from the cold slab in the larder. She wrapped it in a red and white striped neckerchief – two good thick slices of bread and a chunk of cheese, enough to sustain him through a long day underground hewing coal. At this time of year he never saw daylight during the working week. It was still dark when he left for the pit and dark by the time he emerged again.

As she worked, Nipper, their mongrel puppy, scampered around her heels and made vain attempts to reach the cheese snap.

‘No! Bad dog!’ Lorna reprimanded him. He wasn’t big enough yet to steal food from the table, but it wouldn’t be long before he was, and he might as well learn from the start that it wasn’t acceptable. It was going to be an uphill battle, though, and training him would be all down to her. Harry hadn’t wanted a dog – ‘He’ll just make extra work for you,’ he’d said – but Lorna had fallen in love the moment she’d seen the little scrap, one of a litter of five, tucked under his mother’s owner’s coat with just his little face poking out. ‘The children will love him, and it will be good for them too,’ she’d pleaded, and eventually she had got her way.

Now, however, as she heard Harry’s boots on the stairs, she caught Nipper by the collar and gave him a push in the direction of his basket behind the kitchen door. When he dug his heels in and tried to sit down, she reached for the bacon rind left from last night’s tea and tossed it into the basket. Just in time. The door to the stairs opened and Harry appeared, clad in the heavy-duty shirt and rushyduck trousers that all the miners wore for work.

He wasn’t a big man, but the muscles that came from almost twenty years of hard physical toil bulged beneath his shirt, and his veins stood out, ridges black with coal dust. Once Lorna had found it romantic, just as she had the weal around his waist caused by the guss and crook that he had worn in the days when he was a carting boy; now she worried about the unseen filth that was almost certainly clogging his lungs. Too many miners suffered from silicosis, which made them old before their time, and whenever she saw a man who had once been fit and strong sitting on a bench outside his cottage, coughing up thick black phlegm, barely able to breathe and unable to walk unassisted, she looked quickly away, trying to suppress the dread that one day in the not-too-distant future this could be Harry.

Nipper had made short work of the bacon rind, and almost as soon as Harry entered the kitchen he was out of his basket and rushing to greet his master, nearly tripping him up in his eager onslaught.

Harry swore. ‘Bloody dog! He hasn’t messed on the floor again, has he?’

‘No, and I’ll take him out to do his do’s just as soon as I’ve got a minute. Sit down and have a cup of tea.’

‘No time.’ Harry was already shrugging into his coat. ‘My snap ready, is it?’

‘It’s on the table, where it always is,’ Lorna said, her tone a trifle tart. She was tired – for some reason Harry had been restless during the night, and his tossing and turning had kept waking her – and his attitude to the dog wasn’t helping.

Harry wound a muffler round his neck, jammed on his cap and picked up the bag containing his snap and bottle of tea.

‘I’m off then.’ There was an edge to his voice, and for a moment Lorna wondered if he was worried about something. That might account for his edginess over the last few days and his restlessness during the night. Trouble at work, perhaps? She knew there was a lot of unrest brewing about pay and working conditions, and knowing Harry, he would be at the heart of it.

As he headed for the door, Nipper jumped up and Lorna grabbed his collar. She couldn’t risk him following Harry down the lane and onto the main road. ‘Not you, Nipper. I’ll take you out when your boss has gone.’

Once the door had closed after Harry, she went to the foot of the stairs and called to the children. ‘Are you awake, girls? It’s time to get up.’

‘Yes, I am. Daddy makes such a noise.’ Seven-year-old Marjorie, the elder of Lorna’s two daughters by just over a year, appeared at the head of the stairs, barefoot and holding her nightgown tightly around her against the morning chill. ‘Vera’s still asleep, though.’

‘Wake her up then, and get dressed both of you. You can wash your face and hands down here by the fire. I’m just going to take Nipper out, and then I’ll get your breakfast.’

Lorna pulled on her coat and went to the front door, Nipper bouncing excitedly at her heels. The back door opened onto a track that provided vehicle access along the full length of the rank of ten miners’ cottages – Northfield Terrace – with vegetable patches beyond the outhouses on the opposite side. But although the front garden extended to the lane that ran down to meet the main road, it was much better equipped to stop Nipper from straying, with flower borders and a small lawn surrounded by privet hedges. Lorna didn’t want him running off until she was sure he was old enough to find his way home safely.

As the puppy circled the lawn, sniffing and cocking his leg frequently as if to mark out his territory, Lorna found herself wondering sadly what had happened to the Harry she had married. What had happened to them? Time was when she wouldn’t have minded being disturbed by his tossing and turning, but enjoyed the warmth of his body next to hers. Time was when he’d have thanked her for getting his snap and bottle of tea ready for him and kissed her when he left for work. No more. True, even when they’d first met at a dance in the town hall, there had never been the breathless passion between them that she’d read about in the romantic novels she’d borrowed from the library in the days when she’d had time to read. But there had been familiarity, comfortable affection and trust. Now there was a distance, an all-too-ready tendency to become irritated with one another. She didn’t like the company he kept either – George Golledge, who lived further up the rank, for one. They were nothing but trouble. Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever really known Harry at all.

Nipper had finished his business in his favourite corner under the privet hedge and was enthusiastically scraping his hind legs on the lawn, so that little clods of earth and wet grass flew out behind him. Lorna pushed her thoughts aside, called to the dog – who for once obeyed her – and took him back into the house.

Both the girls were downstairs now, washing at the sink, but the moment she heard Nipper’s nails click-clacking on the linoleum that covered the floor, Vera dropped her flannel into the bowl, grabbed the towel and dashed over to hug him.

‘Vera! His paws are muddy. He’ll make your school smock dirty.’

Sometimes, dearly as she loved her, Lorna despaired of her irrepressible younger daughter. The two girls could scarcely have been more different. While Marjorie was sensible and almost too serious, Vera was a bouncy chatterbox, always looking for mischief. She went through clean clothes twice as fast as her sister – only last week she’d come in with her knickers in a disgusting state after Arthur, the young son of Lorna’s best friend and next-door neighbour, Flossie Price, had given her a ride up and down the rank in the trucks that he used for collecting horse manure. While Marjorie’s hair, which was almost straight and the same nut brown as Lorna’s, was tied into a thick plait so it was always tidy, Vera’s was an irrepressible tangle of red curls, a colour she’d inherited from her father. And it was Vera who was constantly in some sort of trouble at school – chattering in class, spilling ink on her exercise book, breaking her chalks and pens. But for all that, she was popular with adults and other children alike. ‘A little ray of sunshine,’ someone had once said. And small and dainty though she was, she was far more robust than Marjorie, who seemed to catch every cold that was doing the rounds and get complications with every childhood illness while Vera sailed through with barely a cough or a sniffle.

When she had wiped Nipper’s feet with an old towel, Lorna popped the pan of porridge she’d prepared last night onto the trivet over the fire to warm and set about making a fresh pot of tea. It was a routine she could have followed in her sleep, a never-ending round of the tasks of a housewife and mother. But she was determined to make the most of every precious moment of her girls’ childhood. All too soon they would grow up, living lives in which she would have little part. She tried not to think about that. Didn’t want to dwell on a future when it was just her and Harry. And mercifully, just now there was no time for such things.

By the time the mantel clock in the living room was striking ten, Lorna had taken the girls to school, walked home again, washed the dishes, made the beds and lit a fire under the copper to heat the water for a load of washing. Time for a cuppa, she decided. She had just settled herself with a hot drink and a slice of the slab cake she’d baked yesterday when, as if on cue, there was a knock at the back door and a voice called, ‘Coo-ee! It’s only me!’

‘Come in, Flossie,’ Lorna called back. Her next-door neighbour – and close friend – Flossie Price often popped in for a cup of tea and a chat around this time of the morning.

Flossie was a big woman, as motherly in appearance as she was by nature. Her cheeks were round and rosy, her apron strained over an ample bosom, and her ankles, clad in grey woollen stockings, bulged over her black button shoes. From the moment Lorna and Harry had moved into the cottage, Flossie had taken her under her wing as if she was just another of her brood of chicks. There had been six of them, though only the two younger boys, Jack and Arthur, were still living at home. The oldest boy, Gerald, had moved to South Wales, where he’d heard conditions in the mines were better than here in Somerset, and the girls were away in service. With her wealth of experience, Lorna knew she could rely on the older woman for a piece of sensible advice if she was worried about one of the girls, or a cup of sugar or flour if she ran out. Over the years, their friendship had blossomed, and Lorna had come to think of Flossie as a second mother. Her own had died of a brain haemorrhage when Lorna was just fifteen, and she really didn’t get on well with Harry’s mother, an unpleasant woman who never had a good word to say about anyone.

‘Thought I smelled a brew,’ Flossie said now by way of greeting.

‘Don’t you always?’ Lorna smiled. ‘Sit down then, and cut yourself a slice of cake if you fancy it.’

‘I’m not goin’ to say no. Your cakes are a real treat. I only ’ad a bit of toast fer me breakfast, an’ I’ve bin on the go ever since. Not that it’s bin any different fer you, I don’t s’pose. It’s high time you stopped runnin’ up and down to the school, if you ask me. Those girls are big enough to see themselves home at least.’

It wasn’t the first time she’d said as much, and perhaps she was right, Lorna thought. She wouldn’t like them to go on their own in the morning – she’d only worry as to whether they’d arrived safely – but if they could see themselves home at lunchtime and at the end of the school day, it would be a great help. Perhaps after the summer holidays she’d try it. The trouble was, she couldn’t be sure Vera wouldn’t play Marjorie up.

‘You’ll never guess who’s in the family way again,’ Flossie said, taking a bite of slab cake. She didn’t wait for Lorna to reply. ‘Dolly Parsons. She came to see me last night, asking me to put the date in my almanac.’

Dolly Parsons lived at the far end of the rank, and since Flossie acted as local midwife, as well as being called on to lay out the dead, she was always one of the first to know of any expected new arrivals.

‘Well.’ Lorna didn’t really know what else to say, but Flossie was far from finished.

‘I’ve had my suspicions for a bit,’ she went on. ‘She’s had that look about her. The end of the summer it’s due, she reckons, but I wouldn’t mind betting she’s doin’ a bit o’ jiggling with the dates and it’ll be a good while sooner.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Lorna asked.

Flossie nodded sagely. ‘Her Wally had to go off up to Yorkshire back in the autumn when his father took bad and died, remember? Well, Desmond Hill’s bike was propped up against her outhouse more than once while he was away. I saw it with me own eyes.’

‘Oh Flossie, surely not?’ Lorna didn’t like gossiping, even with Flossie. ‘I can’t believe she’d do something like that. She goes to chapel regular as clockwork on Sundays – twice sometimes.’

‘Well, folk like that can be the worst. Anyway, time will tell if I’m right or not. But don’t you say anything, mind. This is between you, me and the gatepost.’

‘Course it is.’ But Lorna couldn’t help smiling to herself. If there was anything in what Flossie said, it wouldn’t be long before the jungle drums were beating up and down the rank.

They finished their tea and cake, Flossie regaling Lorna with an account of Arthur’s latest mischief.

‘Sorry, Flossie, but I’m going to have to get on,’ Lorna said, stacking the used crockery and standing up. ‘I’ve got a load of washing to do.’

Flossie sighed. ‘Me too. Just wait till you’ve got six like I had – you’ll wish ’twas just your two little girls then.’ She hoisted herself to her feet and went to the back door. ‘See you later, p’raps.’

Lorna followed her out, crossing the track to the outhouse to see if the water in the copper was hot enough for her to start on the washing. A horse and cart was just rounding the corner of the rank and heading their way, and she recognised Donald Davey the coalman perched in the driver’s seat.

‘You expecting coal today?’ Flossie asked.

‘No. Are you?’

Flossie shook her head.

They both stepped back into the doorway to let the cart pass, but as it drew closer it looked to Lorna as if it was empty, and her heart came into her mouth with a jolt. If a miner was involved in an accident and was hurt badly enough, a coal cart waiting for its load at the pithead was commandeered to serve as an ambulance. If that was what had happened today, then it must be a man from Northfield Terrace lying injured in the well of the cart. One of their neighbours? Or – please God no! – her Harry?

The cart was moving at such a slow pace it might almost be coming to a stop, and Flossie bustled towards it.

‘Who you got there, Mr Davey?’ she called, her hoarse voice betraying her anxiety.

‘’Tis all right, missus. Not your Albie.’

Flossie crossed herself. She was a lapsed Catholic, but in times of crisis, old habits died hard.

‘’Tis George Golledge. Could you go up and warn ’is missus we’m on the way?’

Now that she knew it was not her husband in the coal cart, Flossie quickly returned to her usual capable self. ‘Course I will.’ She hurried off along the rank.

As the cart jolted over a cobble, the injured man groaned in agony, and Lorna drew back into the doorway. She was shaking – her hands, her stomach, her legs – as much from relief as from the few moments of gut-wrenching fear. George Golledge. Not Harry. Oh, thank God! Not Harry! Not this time.

It was a fear she had learned to live with, but a constant worry nonetheless, that one day it would be him being brought home in who knew what state. And seeing the coal cart making its way along the rank had brought it home to her all too vividly.

The water heating for her washing forgotten, she went back into the kitchen, where she poured herself a fresh cup of tea from the pot that was keeping warm on the hob and sat down at the table to drink it.

What exactly had happened to Mr Golledge? she wondered. She hoped it wasn’t too serious. She didn’t much like the man: he was uncouth, couldn’t complete a single sentence without swearing, and his wife, Lil, was a thoroughly unpleasant woman. But all the same, she wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Harry always stood up for him, saying his bark was worse than his bite, but then they were pals. They both belonged to the Buffs – the poor man’s equivalent of the Rotary Club – and they drank together with a few of their militant pals in the Miners’ Arms.

By the time she’d finished her tea, her heartbeat had steadied and she told herself she really must get down to the washing. The water was surely hot by now. But as she opened the back door, she was surprised to find Flossie on the doorstep, her hand raised to knock. Her neighbour looked shaken – unusual for Flossie, who was used to dealing with crises as the one everybody turned to in medical emergencies.

‘Is it bad?’ Lorna asked, fearing the worst.

‘Let’s go inside.’ There was something ominous in Flossie’s tone, and a shiver that felt like drips from a fast-melting icicle coursed through Lorna’s veins.

‘Why? What is it?’

‘Not out here,’ Flossie said firmly, and a frightened and bewildered Lorna allowed herself to be ushered into the kitchen. ‘Now, you’d better sit down,’ her neighbour instructed.

Lorna spun round, trembling from head to foot. ‘No! Tell me! It’s Harry, isn’t it? Is he . . .’ She broke off, unable to bring herself to finish the sentence.

Flossie spoke gently. ‘There’s been a roof fall. That’s how George Golledge got hurt. He was lucky, though. He escaped the worst of it. Just got hit by a gurt lump of stone. But Harry . . . well, they haven’t been able to get to him yet.’

‘You mean he’s on the other side of it.’ Lorna was desperately grasping at straws.

‘No, my love. He’s underneath it. Him, Ted Yarlett and a carting boy.’

‘Oh dear God!’ Lorna’s knees went weak and she gripped the table for support.

A roof fall. It had always been one of her worst fears. Here in Somerset the seams were shallow and faulted. From time to time a section of the roof or the coal face would give way and come crashing down in a shower of rock and debris, sometimes without warning and in spite of the regular inspections that were carried out. The thought of Harry lying beneath it badly injured – or worse – was enough to spur her into action. She straightened, swallowing down the panic that had overcome her.

‘I’ve got to get down to the pit.’ She grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door, scrabbling her arms into the sleeves.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘There’s no need. Mrs Golledge will want your help.’

‘And she’ll have to whistle,’ Flossie said harshly. ‘I’m coming with you whether you like it or not. An’ somebody will have to get the children from school if we’m still there waiting by dinner time. Just give me a minute to get me coat.’

She hurried out and Lorna followed, pulling the door closed behind her but not locking it. No one in the rank ever did.

Grateful as she was to her neighbour, Lorna had no intention of waiting for her. Flossie would know where to find her, and the only thing that mattered was getting to the pit as quickly as she could. Finding out for herself exactly what the situation was. Being there when they eventually got Harry to the surface . . .

Thoughts racing, emotions churning, Lorna started out along the track and down to the main road that led to Milverton Colliery.



‘Well, this is a tidy how-dee-do,’ Shorty Dallimore said, with understatement that was typical of the miners, and Ticker Greedy and Moses Whittock grunted their agreement.

All three were pals and workmates of Harry Harrison and George Golledge, and they were among a small crowd that had gathered in the yard that fronted Milverton Colliery. Groups of other miners who had been brought to the surface squatted against the wall of the building that housed the manager’s office and the Davy lamp store, smoking and discussing what had happened in low, shocked tones, while a few passers-by, attracted by the unusual activity, chatted amongst themselves, airing theories as to what was going on. A woman laden with shopping bags approached one of the miners, a man she knew, to ask why he and the others weren’t at work underground at this time of the morning, and within minutes the awful news had spread like wildfire.

The loud honk of a motor horn interrupted the shocked discussions, and the little crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. A gleaming red Daimler chuntered into the yard and drew up in front of the manager’s office. No one was in any doubt as to who it belonged to, and indeed, there was the man himself sitting in state behind his chauffeur.

Sir Montague Fairley. The owner of Milverton pit and half a dozen other collieries besides.

The reaction of the miners squatting outside the buildings was instantaneous and unanimous. To a man they despised Sir Montague, who was known as a tyrant who cared only for the profits that swelled his coffers and not for the men who spent their lives toiling in the dark tunnels that ran beneath his land. One spat contemptuously; others muttered darkly. If anyone was to blame for what had happened today it was Sir Montague. ‘If this don’t make ’im change ’is ways, I don’t know what will,’ one man opined, but others were more sceptical.

‘Some hopes. After Shepton Fields ’twas better for a bit, but look where we’m at again now,’ another pointed out, and the rest nodded sagely.

It was sixteen years now since the terrible tragedy at Shepton Fields Colliery when the winding rope had been severed and the hudge had gone crashing down, claiming the lives of all the men and boys who had been riding it. The tragedy was not something that could easily be forgotten. The hudge should have been replaced years before with a proper cage lowered on a steel rope rather than one made of hemp, but Sir Montague had delayed and delayed, not wanting to spend a penny before he was forced to. Even if he wasn’t the one who had hacked through the rope, the tragedy would never have happened if it were not for his meanness, and the general feeling was that it would take something similarly disastrous to shock him into improving their working conditions.

‘Bloody bastard.’ Shorty turned to Saul Russell, who was standing nearby. Saul’s uncle Archie had been one of the men to die in the Shepton Fields tragedy. Shorty didn’t bother to lower his voice, and not one of the miners moved, though it was clear Sir Montague’s chauffeur was doing his best to park the Daimler as close to the manager’s office as possible. ‘We bain’t shiftin’ to suit ’im,’ their defiant refusal to vacate the spot seemed to say, and though the mine owner glared at them and gesticulated with his ivory-topped cane, they studiously ignored him.

Their scowls turned to smirks, though, as Sir Montague climbed out of the motor and headed for the manager’s office.

‘’E bain’t there, sir,’ Moses called, then shrugged as the mine owner seemed not to have heard him.

A moment later Sir Montague emerged, an angry flush exacerbating his habitual whisky-fuelled high colour, and stood looking around him in obvious annoyance.

‘Told ’ee so,’ Moses said, under his breath this time. He didn’t want to be the one to bear the brunt of his employer’s fury.

A small, wizened man in miner’s clothing emerged from one of the two cottages whose front doors opened almost directly onto the pit yard. On seeing the Daimler, he hesitated and seemed to be contemplating beating a hasty retreat, but too late. Sir Montague had seen him.

‘Penny!’ he bellowed. The man stood still, a rabbit caught in the headlights, and Sir Montague turned to his chauffeur. ‘Fetch him, Waters.’

The interest of the squatting miners was captured now. Dick Penny had begun work in the coal mines as a carting boy and worked his way up until he was considered responsible enough to take charge of the shot-firing – the blasting that loosened the coal. The general consensus of opinion, however, was that he was getting too old for the job. If he had still been a collier he would have been forced into retirement long before now, but he loved his work, and since he had lost his wife, Flo, a few years back, the pit had become his whole life.

Now he approached Sir Montague warily, twisting his cap between his hands, and his first words were evidence that he was afraid he was likely to be blamed for the explosion.

‘’Twasn’t nothin’ to do wi’ me, sir.’

Sir Montague harrumphed. ‘If you say so. Where is Mr Cameron? And Mr Robinson? Are they underground?’

Penny’s worried expression lightened a little. ‘Mr Robinson is, I think. But Mr Cameron’s held up at Oldlands. Summat’s gone wrong wi’ the screens, I think.’

Sir Montague gave an impatient shake of his head. There was always some problem at Oldlands. Some three miles southwest of Milverton, it was one of the oldest of Sir Montague’s collieries and he was in the process of winding it down in preparation for closure. And the sooner the better, in his opinion. The place was falling apart and it wouldn’t have surprised him if the accident had occurred there rather than here at Milverton.

‘Well, get Mr Robinson then,’ he snapped.

‘Like I said, sir, he’s underground.’

‘So? The cage here is still operational, I take it?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Is it or isn’t it?’

‘’Tis, sir.’

‘Then have a message delivered to Mr Robinson to tell him that I am here and wish to see him. Come on, man – move! I haven’t got all day.’

‘Yessir.’ Dick Penny moved away in the direction of the pithead with an alacrity that surprised even him, so relieved was he to escape the autocratic mine owner.

Bradley Robinson was less than pleased to be summoned to a meeting with the coal owner. As the newly appointed safety officer for all Fairley collieries, he believed his place was here, underground, lending some muscle when it was needed and overseeing the rescue operation. He’d been in the post only two short months, appointed reluctantly by the tight-fisted Sir Montague to fulfil the requirements of the new mines safety legislation that was passing through Parliament, and the team he’d recruited to deal with just such an emergency as this was as yet untried and tested. But he supposed it was not beyond reason that Sir Montague would want to be kept abreast of the serious situation. Duncan Cameron, the district manager, was still dealing with the problems at Oldlands and might not yet even be aware of the seriousness of the roof fall here at Milverton.

Bradley emerged into the cold grey morning, a tall, muscular figure in his early thirties, his hair matted with coal and stone dust and his face streaked black from wiping away beads of sweat with filthy hands. He wore overalls to cover his workaday clothes, but they had done nothing to protect the front of his collarless white shirt, and he doubted he would ever get it clean.

That was not his priority at the moment, though. First and foremost he was concerned with getting to the boy and two men who were still unaccounted for, and he would tell Sir Montague so in no uncertain terms if the man kept him too long with a barrage of as yet unanswerable questions.

Sir Montague was waiting for him outside the office, and as Bradley approached, he indicated that the safety officer should join him inside.

‘Close the door,’ he ordered by way of greeting, and pulled himself up to his full height, his cane planted firmly in front of him. Trying to emphasise his superiority, Bradley guessed, though he himself stood a full two inches taller.

‘Sir Montague,’ he said.

The coal owner huffed impatiently. ‘What the devil is going on here, Robinson?’

Bradley held his gaze steadily. He was not intimidated by Sir Montague as so many of his employees were. His previous life as a cavalry officer had taught him to meet any challenge head-on.

‘There’s been a roof fall, sir, and at least one man has been badly injured. Others are trapped, but thanks to your authorising it, we have the very latest equipment and are working hard to free them.’

‘I should darned well hope so!’ Sir Montague snapped. ‘It’s cost me a pretty penny to get things ready to fall in line with the latest legislation.’

‘But it is fortunate that a trained team were able to be on the scene so quickly, don’t you agree? This is exactly the sort of incident the Act has been designed for.’

Sir Montague’s bad temper was only worsened by what he regarded as a lack of respect from an employee at least thirty years his junior.

‘What’s caused this damned roof fall anyway?’

‘I’m afraid it’s too early to say, sir. Just now the most important thing is getting to the men who are trapped.’

Sir Montague huffed impatiently. ‘That’s as may be. But blame for what’s happened must lie somewhere. Something must have been missed, and I want to know what. I can’t afford for this sort of thing to become a regular occurrence.’

Bradley felt his own temper rising, and struggled to control it. The coal