Текст книги "A Place Called Freedom"

Автор книги: Ken Follett

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

When they had ridden about three miles the gamekeepers saw a herd of twenty or thirty hinds half a mile farther on, above the tree line on a south-facing slope. The party halted and Jay took out his spyglass. The hinds were downwind of the hunters and, as they always grazed into the wind, they were facing away, showing the white flash of their rumps to Jay’s glass.

Hinds made perfectly good eating but it was more usual to shoot the big stags with their spectacular antlers. Jay examined the mountainside above the hinds. He saw what he had hoped for, and he pointed. “Look—two stags … no, three … uphill from the females.”

“I see them, just over the first ridge,” Lizzie said. “And another, you can just see the antlers of the fourth.”

Her face was flushed with excitement, making her even prettier. This was exactly the kind of thing she would like, of course: being out of doors, with horses and dogs and guns, doing something violently energetic and a little unsafe. He could not help smiling as he looked at her. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The sight of her was enough to heat a man’s blood.

He glanced at his brother. Robert looked ill at ease, out in the cold weather on a pony. He would rather be in a counting-house, Jay thought, calculating the quarterly interest on eighty-nine guineas at three and a half percent per annum. What a waste it would be for such a woman as Lizzie to marry Robert.

He turned away from them and tried to concentrate on the deer. He studied the mountainside with his spyglass, searching for a route by which the stags could be approached. The stalkers had to be downwind so that the beasts could not pick up the scent of humans. For preference they would come at the deer from higher up the hillside. As their target practice had confirmed, it was nearly impossible to shoot a deer from farther away than about a hundred yards, and fifty yards was ideal; so the whole skill of deer stalking lay in creeping up on them and getting close enough for a good shot.

Lizzie had already devised an approach. “There’s a corrie a quarter of a mile back up the glen,” she said animatedly. A corrie was the depression in the ground formed by a stream running down the mountainside, and it would hide the hunters as they climbed. “We can follow that to the high ridge then work our way along.”

Sir George agreed. He did not often let anyone tell him what to do, but when he did it was usually a pretty girl.

They returned to the corrie then left the ponies and went up the mountainside on foot. The slope was steep and the ground both rocky and boggy, so that their feet either sank into mud or stumbled over stones. Before long Henry and Robert were puffing and blowing, although the keepers and Lizzie, who were used to such terrain, showed no signs of strain. Sir George was red in the face and panting, but he was surprisingly resilient and did not slow his pace. Jay was quite fît, because of his daily life in the Guards, but all the same he found himself breathing hard.

They crossed the ridge. In its lee, hidden from the deer, they worked their way across the mountainside. The wind was bitterly cold and there were flurries of sleet and swirls of freezing fog. Without the warmth of a horse beneath him Jay began to feel the cold. His fine kid gloves were soaked through, and the wet penetrated his riding boots and his costly Shetland wool stockings.

The keepers took the lead, knowing the ground. When they thought they were coming close to the stags they edged downhill. Suddenly they dropped to their knees, and the others followed suit. Jay forgot how cold and wet he was and began to feel exhilaration: it was the thrill of the hunt and the prospect of a kill.

He decided to risk a look. Still crawling, he veered uphill and peered over an outcrop of rock. As his eyes adjusted to the distance he saw the stags, four brown smears on the green slopes, ranged across the mountainside in a straggling line. It was unusual to see four together: they must have found a lush piece of grass. He looked through his glass. The farthest had the best head: he could not see the antlers clearly but it was big enough to have twelve points. He heard the caw of a raven and, glancing up, saw a pair of them circling over the hunters. They seemed to know that there might soon be offal for them to feed on.

Up ahead someone yelped and cursed: it was Robert, slipping into a muddy puddle. “Damn fool,” Jay said under his breath. One of the dogs let out a low growl. A keeper held up a warning hand and they all froze, listening for the sound of fleeing hooves. But the deer did not run, and after a few moments the party crawled on.

Soon they had to sink to their bellies and wriggle. One of the keepers made the dogs lie down and covered their eyes with handkerchiefs, to keep them quiet. Sir George and the head keeper slid downhill to a ridge, raised their heads cautiously and peered over. When they came back to the main party, Sir George gave orders.

He spoke in a low voice. “There are four stags and five guns, so I shan’t shoot this time, unless one of you should miss,” he said. He could play the perfect host when he wanted to. “Henry, you take the beast on the right here. Robert, take the next one along—it’s the nearest, and the easiest shot. Jay, you take the next. Miss Hallim, yours is the farthest, but it has the best head—and you’re a pretty good shot. All set? Then let’s get in position. We’ll let Miss Hallim shoot first, shall we?”

The hunters spread out, slithering across the sloping mountainside, each looking for a lie from which to take aim. Jay followed Lizzie. She wore a short riding jacket and a loose skirt with no hoop, and he grinned as he watched her pert bottom wriggling in front of him. Not many girls would crawl around like that in front of a man—but Lizzie was not like other girls.

He worked his way uphill to a point where a stunted bush broke the skyline, giving him extra cover. Raising his head he looked down the mountain. He could see his stag, a youngish one with a small spread of antlers, about seventy yards away; and the other three ranged along the slope. He could also see the other hunters: Lizzie to his left, still crawling along; Henry to his far right; Sir George and the keepers with the dogs—and Robert, below and to Jay’s right, twenty-five yards away, an easy target.

His heartbeat seemed to falter as he was struck, yet again, by the thought of killing his brother. The story of Cain and Abel came into his mind. Cain had said My punishment is greater than I can bear. But I feel like that already, Jay thought. I can’t bear to be the superfluous second son, always overlooked, drifting through life with no portion, the poor son of a rich man, a nobody—I just can’t bear it.

He tried to push the evil thought out of his mind. He primed his gun, pouring a little powder into the flash-pan next to the touchhole, then closed the cover of the pan. Finally he cocked the firing mechanism. When he pulled the trigger, the lid of the flashpan would lift automatically at the same time as the flint struck sparks. The powder in the pan would light, and the flame would flash through the touchhole to ignite the larger quantity of powder behind the ball.

He rolled over and looked across the slope. The deer grazed in peaceful ignorance. All the hunters were in position except Lizzie, who was still moving. Jay sighted on his stag. Then he slowly swung the barrel around until it pointed at Robert’s back.

He could say that his elbow slipped on a patch of ice at the crucial moment, causing him to drop his aim to one side and, with tragic ill fortune, shoot his brother in the back. His father might suspect the truth—but he would never be sure, and with only one son left, would he not bury his suspicions and give Jay everything he had previously reserved for Robert?

Lizzie’s shot would be the signal for everyone to fire. Deer were surprisingly slow to react, Jay recalled. After the first gunshot they would all look up from their grazing and freeze, often for four or five heartbeats; then one of them would move and a moment later they would turn as one, like a flock of birds or a school of fish, and run away, their dainty hooves drumming on the hard turf, leaving the dead on the ground and the wounded limping behind.

Slowly Jay swung the rifle back until it was pointing at his stag again. Of course he would not kill his brother. It would be unthinkably wicked. He might be haunted all his life by guilty memories.

But if he refrained, might he not always regret it? Next time Father humiliated him by showing preference for Robert, would he not grind his teeth and wish with all his heart that he had solved the problem when he could and wiped his loathsome sibling off the face of the earth?

He swung the rifle back to Robert.

Father respected strength, decisiveness and ruthlessness. Even if he guessed that the fatal shot was deliberate, he would be forced to realize that Jay was a man, one who could not be ignored or overlooked without dreadful consequences.

That thought strengthened his resolve. In his heart Father would approve, Jay told himself. Sir George would never let himself be mistreated: his response to wrongdoing was brutal and savage. As a magistrate in London he had sent dozens of men, women and children to the Old Bailey. If a child could be hanged for stealing bread, what was wrong with killing Robert for stealing Jay’s patrimony?

Lizzie was taking her time. Jay tried to breathe evenly but his heart was racing and his breath came in gasps. He was tempted to glance over at Lizzie, to see what the devil was holding her up, but he was afraid she would choose that instant to fire, and then he would miss his chance; so he kept his eyes and his gun barrel locked on Robert’s back. His whole body was as taut as a harp string, and his muscles began to hurt with the tension, but he did not dare move.

No, he thought, this can’t be happening. I’m not going to kill my brother. By God, I will, though, I swear it.

Hurry, Lizzie, please.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move near him. Before he could look up he heard the crack of Lizzie’s gun. The stags froze. Holding his aim on Robert’s spine, just between the shoulder blades, Jay squeezed his trigger gently. A bulky form loomed over him and he heard his father shout. There were two more bangs as Robert and Henry fired. Just as Jay’s gun went off, a booted foot kicked the barrel. It jerked upward, and the ball went harmlessly up into the air. Fear and guilt possessed Jay’s heart and he looked up into the enraged face of Sir George.

“You murdering little bastard,” his father said.

7

THE DAY IN THE OPEN AIR MADE LIZZIE SLEEPY, AND soon after supper she announced that she was going to bed. Robert happened to be out of the room, and Jay politely sprang up to light her way upstairs with a candle. As they mounted the stone staircase he said quietly, “I’ll take you down the mine, if you like.”

Lizzie’s sleepiness vanished. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He grinned. “Do you dare to go?”

She was thrilled. “Yes!” she said. Here was a man after her own heart! “When can we go?” she said eagerly.

“Tonight. The hewers start work at midnight, the bearers an hour or two later.”

“Really?” Lizzie was mystified. “Why do they work at night?”

“They work all day too. The bearers finish at the end of the afternoon.”

“But they hardly have time to sleep!”

“It keeps them out of mischief.”

She felt foolish. “I’ve spent most of my life in the next glen and I had no idea they worked such long hours.” She wondered if McAsh would be proved right and the visit to the pit would turn her view of coal miners upside-down.

“Be ready at midnight,” Jay said. “You’ll have to dress as a man again—do you still have those clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Go out by the kitchen door—I’ll make sure it’s open—and meet me in the stable yard. I’ll saddle a couple of horses.”

“This is so exciting!” she said.

He handed her the candle. “Until midnight,” he whispered.

She went into her bedroom. Jay was happy again, she noted. Earlier today he had had another row of some kind with his father, up on the mountain. No one had seen exactly what happened—they had all been concentrating on the deer—but Jay missed his stag and Sir George had been white with rage. The quarrel, whatever it was, had been easily smoothed over in the excitement of the moment. Lizzie had killed her stag cleanly. Both Robert and Henry had wounded theirs. Robert’s ran a few yards, then fell, and he finished it off with another shot; but Henry’s got away, and the dogs went after it and brought it down after a chase. However, everyone knew something had happened, and Jay had been quiet for the rest of the day—until now, when he became animated and charming again.

She took off her dress, her petticoats and her shoes, then she wrapped herself in a blanket and sat in front of the blazing fire. Jay was such fun, she thought. He seemed to seek adventure, as she did. He was good-looking, too: tall, well dressed, and athletic, with a lot of wavy fair hair. She could hardly wait for midnight.

There was a tap at the door and her mother came in. Lizzie suffered a guilty pang. I hope Mother doesn’t want a long chat, she thought anxiously. But it was not yet eleven: there was plenty of time.

Mother was wearing a cloak, as they all did to go from one room to another through the cold passages of Jamisson Castle. She took it off. Underneath she had on a wrap over her nightclothes. She unpinned Lizzie’s hair and began to brush it.

Lizzie closed her eyes and relaxed. This always took her back to her childhood. “You must promise me not to dress as a man again,” Mother said. Lizzie was star tied. It was almost as if Mother had overheard her talking to Jay. She would have to be careful: Mother had a remarkable way of guessing when Lizzie was up to no good. “You’re much too old for such games now,” she added.

“Sir George was highly amused!” Lizzie protested.

“Perhaps, but it’s no way to get a husband.”

“Robert seems to want me.”

“Yes—but you must give him a chance to pay court! Going to church yesterday you rode off with Jay and left Robert behind. Then again, tonight you chose to retire when Robert was out of the room, so that he lost the chance of escorting you upstairs.”

Lizzie studied her mother in the looking-glass. The familiar lines of her face showed determination. Lizzie loved her mother and would have liked to please her. But she could not be the daughter her mother wanted: it was against her nature. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “I just don’t think of these things.”

“Do you … like Robert?”

“I’d take him if I were desperate.”

Lady Hallim put down the hairbrush and sat opposite Lizzie. “My dear, we are desperate.”

“But we’ve always been short of money, for as long as I can remember.”

“That’s true. I’ve managed by borrowing, and mortgaging our land, and living most of the time up here where we can eat our own venison and wear our clothes until they have holes in them.”

Once again Lizzie felt a pang of guilt. When Mother spent money it was almost always on Lizzie, not on herself. “Then let’s just go on the same way. I don’t mind having the cook serve at table, and sharing a maid with you. I like living here—I’d rather spend my days walking in High Glen than shopping in Bond Street.”

“There’s a limit to how much one can borrow, you know. They won’t let us have any more.”

“Then we’ll live on the rents we get from the crofters. We must give up our trips to London. We won’t even go to balls in Edinburgh. Nobody will come to dinner with us but the pastor. We’ll live like nuns, and not see company from one year’s end to the next.”

“I’m afraid we can’t even do that. They’re threatening to take away Hallim House and the estate.”

Lizzie was shocked. “They can’t!”

“They can—that’s what a mortgage means.”

“Who are they?”

Mother looked vague. “Well, your father’s lawyer is the one who arranged the loans for me, but I don’t exactly know who has put up the money. But that doesn’t matter. The point is that the lender wants his money back—or he will foreclose.”

“Mother … are you really saying we’re going to lose our home?”

“No, dear—not if you marry Robert.”

“I see,” Lizzie said solemnly.

The stable yard clock struck eleven. Mother stood up and kissed her. “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Mother.”

Lizzie looked thoughtfully into the fire. She had known for years that it was her destiny to rescue their fortunes by marrying a wealthy man, and Robert had seemed as good as any other. She had not thought about it seriously until now: she did not think about things in advance, generally—she preferred to leave everything until the last moment, a habit that drove her mother crazy. But suddenly the prospect of marrying him appalled her. She felt a kind of physical disgust, as if she had swallowed something putrid.

But what could she do? She could not let her mother’s creditors throw them out of their home! What would they do? Where would they go? How could they make a living? She felt a chill of fear as she pictured the two of them in cold rented rooms in an Edinburgh tenement, writing begging letters to distant relations and doing sewing for pennies. Better to marry dull Robert. Could she bring herself to, though? Whenever she vowed to do something unpleasant but necessary, like shooting a sick old hound or going to shop for petticoat material, she would eventually change her mind and wriggle out of it.

She pinned up her unruly hair, then dressed in the disguise she had worn yesterday: breeches, riding boots, a linen shirt and a topcoat, and a man’s three-cornered hat which she secured with a hatpin. She darkened her cheeks with a dusting of soot from the chimney, but she decided against the curly wig this time. For warmth she added fur gloves, which also concealed her dainty hands, and a plaid blanket that made her shoulders seem broader.

When she heard midnight strike she took a candle and went downstairs.

She wondered nervously whether Jay would keep his word. Something might have happened to prevent him, or he could even have fallen asleep waiting. How disappointing that would be! But she found the kitchen door unlocked, as he had promised; and when she emerged into the stable yard he was waiting there, holding two ponies, murmuring softly to them to keep them quiet. She felt a glow of pleasure when he smiled at her in the moonlight. Without speaking, he handed her the reins of the smaller horse, then led the way out of the yard by the back path, avoiding the front drive which was overlooked by the principal bedrooms.

When they reached the road Jay unshrouded a lantern. They mounted their ponies and trotted away. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” Jay said.

“I was afraid you might fall asleep waiting,” she replied, and they both laughed.

They rode up the glen toward the coal pits. “Did you have another row with your father this afternoon?” Lizzie asked him directly.

“Yes.”

He did not offer details, but Lizzie’s curiosity did not require encouragement. “What about?” she said.

She could not see his face but she sensed that he disliked her questioning. However, he answered mildly enough. “The same old thing, I’m afraid—my brother, Robert.”

“I think you’ve been very badly treated, if that’s any consolation.”

“It is—thank you.” He seemed to relax a bit.

As they approached the pits Lizzie’s eagerness and curiosity heightened, and she began to speculate about what the mine would be like and why McAsh had implied it was some kind of hellhole. Would it be dreadfully hot or freezing cold? Did the men snarl at one another and fight, like caged wildcats? Would the pit be evil smelling, or infested with mice, or silent and ghostly? She began to feel apprehensive. But whatever happens, she thought, I’ll know what it’s like—and McAsh will no longer be able to taunt me with my ignorance.

After half an hour or so they passed a small mountain of coal for sale. “Who’s there?” a voice barked, and a keeper with a deerhound straining at a leash entered the circle of Jay’s lantern. The keepers traditionally looked after the deer and tried to catch poachers, but nowadays many of them enforced discipline at the pits and guarded against theft of coal.

Jay lifted his lantern to show his face.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jamisson, sir,” the keeper said.

They rode on. The pithead itself was marked only by a horse trotting in a circle, turning a drum. As they got closer Lizzie saw that the drum wound a rope that pulled buckets of water out of the pit. “There’s always water in a mine,” Jay explained. “It seeps from the earth.” The old wooden buckets leaked, making the ground around the pithead a treacherous mixture of mud and ice.

They tied up their horses and went to the edge of the pit. It was a shaft about six feet square with a steep wooden staircase descending its sides in a zigzag. Lizzie could not see the bottom.

There was no handrail.

Lizzie suffered a moment of panic. “How deep is it?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“If I remember rightly, this pit is two hundred and ten feet,” Jay said.

Lizzie swallowed hard. If she called the whole thing off, Sir George and Robert might get to hear of it, then they would say: “I told you it was no place for a lady.” She could not bear that—she would rather go down a two-hundred-foot staircase without a handrail.

Gritting her teeth, she said: “What are we waiting for?”

If Jay sensed her fear he made no comment. He went ahead, lighting the steps for her, and she followed with her heart in her mouth. However, after a few steps he said: “Why don’t you put your hands on my shoulders, to steady yourself.” She did so gratefully.

As they descended, the wooden buckets of water waltzed up the well in the middle of the shaft, banging against the empty ones going down, frequently splashing icy water on Lizzie. She had a scary vision of herself slipping off the stairs and tumbling crazily down the shaft, crashing into the buckets, overturning dozens of them before she hit the bottom of the shaft and died.

After a while Jay stopped to let her rest for a few moments. Although she thought of herself as fit and active, her legs ached and she was breathing hard. Wanting to give him the impression she was not tired, she made conversation. “You seem to know a lot about the mines—where the water comes from and how deep the pit is and so on.”

“Coal is a constant topic of conversation in our family—it’s where most of our money comes from. But I spent one summer with Harry Ratchett, the viewer, about six years ago. Mother had decided she wanted me to learn all about the business, in the hope that one day Father would want me to run it. Foolish aspiration.”

Lizzie felt sorry for him.

They went on. A few minutes later the stairs ended in a deck that gave access to two tunnels. Below the level of the tunnels, the shaft was full of water. The pool was emptied by the buckets but constantly replenished by ditches that drained the tunnels. Lizzie stared into the darkness of the tunnels, her heart filled with mingled curiosity and fear.

Jay stepped off the deck into a tunnel, turned, and gave his hand to Lizzie. His grasp was firm and dry. As she entered the tunnel he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. She was pleased by this little piece of gallantry.

As he turned to lead her on he kept hold of her hand. She was not sure what to make of this but she had no time to think about it. She had to concentrate on keeping her feet. She plowed through thick coal dust and she could taste it in the air. The roof was low in places and she had to stoop much of the time. She realized that she had a very unpleasant night ahead of her.

She tried to ignore her discomfort. On either side candlelight flickered in the gaps between broad columns, and she was reminded of a midnight service in a great cathedral. Jay said: “Each miner works a twelve-foot section of the coal face, called a ‘room.’ Between one room and another they leave a pillar of coal, sixteen feet square, to support the roof.”

Lizzie suddenly realized that above her head there was two hundred and ten feet of earth and rock that could collapse on her if the miners had not done their work carefully; and she had to fight to suppress a feeling of panic. Involuntarily she gave Jay’s hand a squeeze, and he squeezed back. From then on she was very conscious that they were holding hands. She found that she liked it.

The first rooms they passed were empty, presumably worked out, but after a while Jay stopped beside a room where a man was digging. To Lizzie’s surprise the miner was not standing up: he lay on his side, attacking the coal face at floor level. A candle in a wooden holder near his head threw its inconstant light on his work. Despite his awkward position he swung his pick powerfully. With each swing he dug the point into the coal and prized out lumps. He was making an indentation two or three feet deep across the width of his room. Lizzie was shocked to realize that he was lying in running water, which seeped out of the coal face, flowed across the floor of his room, and drained into the ditch that ran along the tunnel. Lizzie dipped her fingers into the ditch. The water was freezing cold. She shivered. Yet the miner had taken off his coat and shirt and was working in his breeches and bare feet; and she could see the gleam of perspiration on his blackened shoulders.

The tunnel was not level, but rose and fell—with the seam of coal, Lizzie presumed. Now it began to go up more steeply. Jay stopped and pointed ahead to where a miner was doing something with a candle. “He’s testing for firedamp,” Jay said.

Lizzie let go of his hand and sat on a rock, to relieve her back from stooping.

“Are you all right?” Jay said.

“Fine. What’s firedamp?”

“An inflammable gas.”

“Inflammable?”

“Yes—it’s what causes most explosions in coal mines.”

This sounded mad. “If it’s explosive, why is he using that candle?”

“It’s the only way to detect the gas—you can’t see it or smell it.”

The miner was raising the candle slowly toward the roof, and seemed to be staring hard at the flame.

“The gas is lighter than air, so it concentrates at roof level,” Jay went on. “A small amount will give a blue tinge to the candle flame.”

“And what will a large amount do?”

“Blow us all to kingdom come.”

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 fiancée. 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.