Lizzie felt this was the last straw. She was filthy and exhausted and her mouth was full of coal dust, and now she was in danger of being blown up. She told herself to keep very calm. She had known, before she came here, that coal mining was a dangerous business, and she must just steel her nerve. Miners went underground every night: surely she had the courage to come here one time?
It would, however, be the last time: of that she had no doubt at all.
They watched the man for a few moments. He moved up the tunnel a few paces at a time, repeating his test. Lizzie was determined not to show her fear. Making her voice sound normal, she said: “And if he finds firedamp— what then? How do you get rid of it?”
“Set fire to it.”
Lizzie swallowed. This was getting worse.
“One of the miners is designated fireman,” Jay went on. “In this pit I believe it’s McAsh, the young troublemaker. The job is generally handed down from father to son. The fireman is the pit’s expert on gas. He knows what to do.”
Lizzie wanted to run back down the tunnel to the shaft and all the way up the ladder to the outside world. She would have done so but for the humiliation of having Jay see her panic. In order to get away from this insanely dangerous test, she pointed to a side tunnel and said: “What’s down there?”
Jay took her hand again. “Let’s go and see.”
There was a strange hush throughout the mine, Lizzie thought as they walked along. Nobody spoke much: a few of the men had boys helping them but most worked alone, and the bearers had not yet arrived. The clang of picks hitting the face and the rumble as the coal broke up were muffled by the walls and the thick dust underfoot. Every so often they passed through a door that was closed behind them by a small boy: the doors controlled the circulation of air in the tunnels, Jay explained.
They found themselves in a deserted section. Jay stopped. “This part seems to be worked out,” he said, swinging his lantern in an arc. The feeble light was reflected in the tiny eyes of rats at the limit of the circle. No doubt they lived on leavings from the miners’ dinner pails.
Lizzie noticed that Jay’s face was smeared black, like the miners’: the coal dust got everywhere. He looked funny, and she smiled.
“What is it?” he said.
“Your face is black!”
He grinned and touched her cheek with a fingertip. “And what do you think yours is like?”
She realized that she must look exactly the same. “Oh, no!” she said with a laugh.
“You’re still beautiful, though,” he said, and he kissed her.
She was surprised, but she did not flinch: she liked it. His lips were firm and dry, and she felt the slight roughness over his upper lip where he shaved. When he drew back she said the first thing that came into her head: “is that what you brought me down here for?”
“Are you offended?”
It was certainly against the rules of polite society for a young gentleman to kiss a lady not his fiancee. She ought to be offended, she knew; but she had enjoyed it. She began to feel embarrassed. “Perhaps we should retrace our steps.”
“May I keep holding your hand?”
“Yes.”
He seemed satisfied with that, and he led her back. After a while she saw the rock she had sat on earlier. They stopped to watch a miner work. Lizzie thought about the kiss and felt a little shiver of excitement in her loins.
The miner had undercut the coal across the width of the room and was hammering wedges into the face higher up. Like most of them he was half naked, and the massive muscles of his back bunched and rolled as he swung his hammer. The coal, having nothing below to support it, eventually crumbled under its own weight and crashed to the floor in lumps. The miner stepped back quickly as the freshly exposed coal face creaked and shifted, spitting tiny fragments as it adjusted to the altered stresses.
At this point the bearers began to arrive, carrying their candles and wooden shovels, and Lizzie suffered her most horrifying shock yet.
They were nearly all women and girls.
She had never asked what miners ‘ wives and daughters did with their time. It had not occurred to her that they spent their days, and half their nights, working underground.
The tunnels became noisy with their clatter, and the air rapidly warmed up, causing Lizzie to unfasten her coat. Because of the dark, most of the women did not notice the visitors, and their talk was uninhibited. Right in front of them an older man bumped into a woman who looked pregnant. “Out of the damn way, Sal,” he said roughly.
“Out of the damn way yourself, you blind pizzle,” she retorted.
Another woman said: “A pizzle’s not blind, it’s got one eye!” They all laughed coarsely.
Lizzie was startled. In her world women never said “damn,” and as for “pizzle,” she could only guess what it meant. She was also astonished that the women could laugh at anything at all, having got out of bed at two o’clock in the morning to work for fifteen hours underground.
She felt strange. Everything here was physical and sensory: the darkness, holding Jay’s hand, the half-naked miners hewing coal, Jay’s kiss, and the vulgar hilarity of the women—it was unnerving but at the same time stimulating. Her pulse beat faster, her skin was flushed and her heart was racing.
The chatter died down as the bearers got to work shoveling the coal into big baskets. “Why do women do this?” Lizzie asked Jay incredulously.
“A miner is paid by the weight of coal he delivers to the pithead,” he replied. “If he has to pay a bearer, the money goes out of the family. So he gets his wife and children to do it, and that way they keep it all.”
The big baskets were quickly filled. Lizzie watched as two women picked one up between them and heaved it onto the bent back of a third. She grunted as she took the weight. The basket was secured by a strap around her forehead, then she headed slowly down the tunnel, bent double. Lizzie wondered how she could possibly carry it up two hundred feet of steps. “Is the basket as heavy as it looks?” she said.
One of the miners overheard her. “We call it a corf,” he said to her. “It holds a hundred and fifty pounds of coal. Would you like to feel the weight, young sir?”
Jay answered before Lizzie could speak. “Certainly not,” he said protectively.
The man persisted. “Or perhaps a half-corf, such as this wee one is carrying.”
Approaching them was a girl of ten or eleven, wearing a shapeless wool dress and a head scarf. She was barefoot and carried on her back a corf half full of coal.
Lizzie saw Jay open his mouth to refuse, but she forestalled him. “Yes,” she said. “Let me feel the weight.”
The miner stopped the girl and one of his women lifted the corf. The child said nothing but seemed content to rest, breathing hard.
“Bend your back, master,” the miner said. Lizzie obeyed. The woman swung the corf onto Lizzie’s back.
Although she was braced for it, the weight was much more than she had anticipated, and she could not support it even for a second. Her legs buckled under her and she collapsed. The miner, seemingly expecting this, caught her, and she felt the weight lifted from her back as the woman removed the corf. They had known what would happen, Lizzie realized as she collapsed into the miner’s arms.
The watching women all shrieked with laughter at the discomfiture of what they thought was a young gentleman. The miner caught Lizzie falling forward and easily supported her on his strong forearm. A callused hand as hard as a horse’s hoof squashed her breast through the linen shirt. She heard the man grunt with surprise. The hand squeezed, as if double-checking; but her breasts were large—embarrassingly large, she often felt—and an instant later the hand slid away. The man lifted her upright. He held her by her shoulders, and astonished eyes stared at her out of his coal-blackened face.
“Miss Hallim!” he whispered.
She realized the miner was Malachi McAsh.
They looked at one another for a spellbound moment, while the women’s laughter filled their ears. Lizzie found the sudden intimacy deeply arousing, after all that had gone before, and she could tell he felt it too. For a
