My first shift down pit, aged 13

Friday night. I am walking towards the token office in the pit yard. As I am not yet down the mine I do not have a token to hand in, but I do have to sign in to prove that I am alive and going home and not trapped somewhere. This is called working “on bank” (working above ground) as opposed to working “down bye” (meaning underground).

As I am signing the register, the keeker (top deputy) puts his hand on my shoulder. “Would you like an extra shift?” I am not yet fourteen. I am not allowed to work down the mine as fifteen is the age of underground working.
“Yes, please,” I gasp.

“Only one day, mind,” he says. “Come in tomorrow morning 4 o’clock and see deputy Cameron. You will only be inspecting the airways, not working. Don’t be late - alright.”

My wage was only two shillings and two pence, so the extra penny farthing would come in handy.

I reckoned that my father came in from the mine (not ours) at one o’clock in the morning, so he could waken me at three, which would allow me ample time to walk to the pit and sign in. But oh no? I would have to have a token as I am going “down bye”.

When I got home I gave my wages to my mother, informed her excitedly of the news, the extra a shift. She put the money in her purse and began to get ready to go out. She always went out about 6.30. Not a word about my extra shift. “Oh yes,” she did
say. “Leave a note for your father, he will call you.”

That night, not having a radio, I mucked about for a while, then at 9 o’clock I put the three kids to bed (oh yes, that was my job) took my pants off, then went to bed myself.

Saturday morning. Father woke me at 3 o’clock as I had asked on my note to him. In fact I had written two notes, one note was for him, and the other to my mother asking her for a cigarette. These two notes I had squeezed between the brass cover and mantelpiece, placing them well apart.

I was sitting on the long cracket (home-made seat). Father was in his old armchair (courtesy of a dead neighbour). The fire was well built up with miners’ coal (not free as so many think).

“I have poured a cup of tea,” Dad said.

I was removing my pit stocking from my right foot.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“It is on the wrong foot,” I replied. You see, both stockings had holes in them, and it was easier, and better, to double them under in the same pit boot as before, or so I believed.

“How long have you been smoking?” Dad asked out of the blue.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say five foot seven, but I declined. I was half-asleep anyway and he would not have seen the joke.

“I don’t smoke,” I replied.

As the back of my head left his hand like a coiled spring, I realised something was amiss. He growled, “I don’t like lies. How long have you smoked?”

“Not very long,” I said. I drank some tea, mainly to clear my head.

He gave me a note. It was my note that I wrote that I wrote to my mother. Now I glanced up at the brass facing. No notes there. I was almost ready to leave. “I have put you up a jam sandwich and a bottle of water,” he muttered. “Why the extra shift?”

After I explained he scared me for a while. “Keep close to the deputy,” he said. “Don’t lose sight of him for one second. Get lost, and they will never find you, alright?” As I was leaving, he asked, “Where is you mother?”

That’s it, I thought. He has flipped his lid, he has lost it. “She’s in bed,” I answered as I walked out of the door.

“Heyop,” he called (why could he never say my name?). “I only had one tab - so I halved it. It is in your pocket.”

Now I knew he had gone light. I set out on the walk to the pit, which would take me half an hour or more.

Reaching the yard was different. The token office, lamp cabin, and pit head were all lit up, unlike the day time.

Deputy Cameron was sitting there waiting. “Your token no is 551,” he said. “You’re with me.” I nodded. “Come on, I’ll get you a lamp.”

The battery hung on my hip like a block of lead as I slipped my belt through the loops, dragging my belt and pants down as I followed the deputy to the pit head. The onsetter rang for the cage which lifted the safety gates as it arrived out of the gloom. The onsetter opened the metal gate and we entered. The gate was shut. He rang the bell, then we were dropping like a stone. Suddenly the cage stopped with a jerk. We had arrived.

After getting out he said, “Sit here.” I sat. “Now,” he said. “We are going to inspect the airways from here to the Clara Vale colliery. Just stay with me and everything will be alright.” Clara Vale, I knew, was miles away from our mine.

We walked for quite a while with me following very close until he suddenly held up his hand. I stopped. There was an opening to my left. “This is what I’m looking for, follow me.” Follow you? I’m going to be more of a shadow to you than the one you’ve had all your life.

From that turning on, I was scared almost silly. Sometimes we were wriggling on our bellies. I could see the roof scraping his back as we wormed through, then we ere out and you could barely see the ceiling or “top” as he called it. Just as quickly we were slipping or sliding down a steep gradient or just as suddenly clutching and grasping, climbing up a steeper hill or “heavy” as he called it, on and on, scared out of my wits. Lose sight of the deputy? Get lost? I was almost riding pick-a-back with Andy, as he told me to call him. Without knee pads, my knees were sore and skinned, as were my hands. My back ached, my head was aching from bouncing off the “top” as Andy called it.

Just as quickly as it had begun, Andy muttered, “Two canvas doors ahead.” We carried on through them, lifting them up to pass. I saw railway lines. “This is Clara Vale pit,” he called. We were almost walking upright now. “Quarter of an hour to the shaft.” Luck was not on our side. The shaft was not working Saturdays. It was another long walk to the drift entrance.

Andy and me at last reached the drift entrance. We called in at the token cabin to report. Mr Cameron did it for both of us (being deputy). “Have to fill in a report of the airways and your conduct,” he said. I looked up sat him askance. “Tell your dad I’m proud of you.” He gave me a penny. “Take the bus. Clara Vale is much further to walk home.” I took it and thanked him. God, I was tired as I got on the bus.

Homecoming, Saturday. Tiredly, but proudly (I had been “down bye” six and a half miles) I trudged up the back lane. My knees, back, hands, feet, and head were absolutely sore. Turning into the doorway I heard a babble of voices. Our door? I looked up at the number. 58. Yes it was. Edward Street. Yes. Warily I climbed the back stairs, stopping just inside the scullery.

Although they had lived in the same street all of my life, Aunt Jenny, Aunt Annie, Aunt Etty and all the uncles and cousins had never, never, ever entered our house. We went to their places, except my mother, but them coming to ours? Never-ever. At first they all ignored me as if I wasn;t there, talking across each other, questions, half-answers, talking and sympathising with father, who sat in the dead neighbour’s old armchair.

Then, as if by a prearranged signal, everything was aimed at me. What time did I go to bed? Where was my mother? Did I put the bairns to bed? What time did she go?

“What are you talking about?” “I always put the kids to bed.” “Nine o’clock.” “What’s the matter?” I see even Uncle Charlie and Aunt Nora are here from Seaham Harbour. He’s pointing to the scullery. I return to it and wait (oh God, I am tired and sore).

Uncle Charlie follows. Uncle Charlie had always liked me, and me him. He was good fun.

“Listen Joe.” He never said heyop or heyoo. “I’m afraid that after you went to bed last night, your mother came back, packed her things, and left. Did you see her?”

I explained everything to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he uttered.

Father never spoke or asked me anything. Sorry? They were sorry? I had spent eight hours in the bowels of hell, scared out of my
wits, legs, arms, back skinned, absolutely sore, and more work in the future. I bring an extra penny farthing into the house, my mother and everything else goes out of the house, and they have the gall to tell me that they are sorry? Oh my dear God!