This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

A Fateful Aberration

By

Les Jones

Published by Les Jones at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Les Jones

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase another copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Table of Contents

Chapter1 A Meeting of Minds

It was dark, very dark. The pools of pale light emitted by the flickering gas lamps barely making an impression on this sinister blackness. Noakes walked quickly, furtively, as if he was being followed, as indeed he was. He was a young man, early twenties, with broad muscular shoulders and a torso that tapered to a stomach hardened by years of toil. His spine was already beginning to show the tell tale curvature of many in his profession, the almost imperceptible curve being tightened constantly by day after back breaking day bent in the most astonishing contortions 1000 feet below the surface of the earth, hacking at the black gold that was both saviour and curse.

He gets nearer, his pale skin begins to acquire a strange luminosity against the darkness of the buildings all around. He stops beside a lamp, glancing around as if danger lurked around every corner, behind every door. The pale face is illuminated for a brief moment, the mouth still bears the fullness of youth, although even now the lines of dissipation are beginning to crease the still youthful skin. The cheeks which had once been full were showing the first sign of shallowness, the results of six o'clock starts at the pit head and the long walk and crawl to the face, not to mention the extreme physical labour of the shift itself. But it was the eyes that shocked. These were cold, cold as ice, as if the feeling had been extracted like one would extract a bad tooth. And it was this thought that reinforced the shock, that the feelings that had been extracted, the humanity, the empathy, were in some way a growth, a cancer, an abomination that was best rid of, that had no place in this man's world view.

He glanced at these dark buildings as he slid past them. These buildings which had been his companions in his short life, even his one time friends. He saw the outline if the Clayton Le Moors Industrial Cooperative Society, his heart melted for a moment as he remembered how his mother used to meet him outside this building years ago, as he was on his way home from school and she on her way home from the bakery shop where she worked part time. And the glow in his heart at her basket, wondering what treat she had brought for him. OK, it might have only be a currant sad cake, but it was for him, he was the top of her priorities. Then they would walk home, him jabbering to her, she pretending to be interested, although he realised now that she would be dog tired after cleaning out the bakery ovens, washing baking trays and suchlike. He remembered the delight in her eyes as he told her how well he had done that day. It brought so much joy to her he even began to tell her he'd done well when he had'nt. It hurt, but the joy in her face was compensation.

His eye moved on, and it was as if a cold needle of ice had penetrated his heart. Next to the Cooperative shop was the Cooperative Funeral Service. He tried to turn away, but the memories were burned into his soul. This was where he had witnessed the body of his mother, cold and alien in its' cheap pine box, dressed like a white ragamuffin. How he had raged at the world that day. Who were these people to dress her like that? They did'nt know, she never wore white, it did'nt suit her she always said, it made her look dumpy, or older, oh hell he could'nt remember. But these bastards, these faceless bastards had taken it upon themselves to dress her like that, his mother, HIS mother, they'd pay, he vowed that day, they'd all pay. And the payoff started earlier than even he expected.

He remembered sitting in the cheap open carriage following the sad box, the rage high within him as he looked across at is father and Florence, the big breasted fancy woman who had lured his dad away from his mother. Why was he sitting here with them, why, why, this question pounded in his brain as the carriage rumbled over the cobbles. He remembered looking out at the unfriendly streets. Here and there would be a small knot of people, some of the neighbours who had known him and his mother. One or two were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, he recalled that almost fondly. He well remembered some of his school mates, huddled near to their mother or father or both, some holding the hands of their parents tightly. He suddenly felt the ache in his heart that he felt then, the ache that had never really left him. He would never hold his mother's hand like that ever again. He looked across at his father, but his father only had eyes for Florence and her oh so obvious mammalian splendours. He could smell her scent now, just as he smelt it that day. A cheap, sickly smell, it still made him wretch to this very day. He saw her large fat hands, bejewelled with cheap trinkets, her face painted like some doll in a toy shop. He turned his eyes away, trying to focus through the tears on the pine box on the cart in front.

All of a sudden this wild cackle burst out, he heard it now as he heard it then. This painted caricature not only excluded him from any real intimacy with his father, she was now rolling with laughter, and inducing his dad to do the same. Her great fat chest rose and fell, like the great waves in the children's stories that his mother used to read to him. Her great fat mouth and rouge covered face quivered with amusement, her whole body seemed to him to be an insult to his mother, this, this whore had no place on the same street as her, not in the same town, not on the same earth. He remembered their exact words.

“It's the races next week”, his dad had said.

“Am I comin' too”, she cooed.

“Them two's surely comin'”, Noakes senior had replied, eyeing Florence and particularly her ample bosom, sexual hunger clear in his eyes.

They both shook with laughter at the insinuations.

It was all to much, he remembered the next bit vividly. He launched himself at that gross presence, at that fat scented tart, at that affront to human dignity. He managed a half smile as he remembered the feeling as his nails bit deep into her face. He remembered, with the utmost satisfaction her scream. It was a beautiful scream, it made him want more, his fingers tried to claw at her eyes as the blood poured from her wounds. His dad, shouting and screaming himself, trying to pull him off. The young Noakes being unable to comprehend this. He was doing his dad a good turn here, ridding him of this abomination.

Then the explosion in his head, the stars spinning and cartwheeling around his brain, as if his very brain itself had burst, and been splattered in a thousand pieces and sent into the sky.

Then he was lying in the bottom of the carriage, feeling the blood trickle from his nose and mouth, feeling the pain as he struggled to bring his head up to ascertain who or what had done this to him.

He managed to raise his head, and he saw Florence, half lying half sitting, sobbing her heart out as she mopped the blood from her face. He noticed the blood had run into her painted rouge, so that it now formed grotesque streams down her face, making her look more monster than clown. Then he saw his father, standing over him, the fist that had felled him cocked and ready to deliver another vicious blow. His father was a bull like man, and his blows would have sent most other men off their feet. When delivered against a nine year old boy they were even more devastating. Then he looked past his father again, at the main reason for his anger. She had recovered slightly, was gingerly touching her face where his nails had ripped deep into the skin, he saw her start as she first touched the groove that his nails had made, saw the anguish in her face as she realised that she would bear the scars of this attack for many weeks, maybe for ever, saw her eyes turn to him with a look of hatred the likes of which he had never seen before. He had felt the laughter start to stir inside him, he tried to dismiss it, tried to turn his mind to other things, tried to control the evil beast that fought to get out. He lost the battle, or maybe joined the enemy. First it was a smile, then gradually uncontrolled laughter as he looked at Florence's ghastly countenance. That was the last thing he remembered as red pain ripped through his head, white stars inhabited his brain. In that wild ecstatic moment when he had seen the results of his endeavours he had forgotten his father's cocked fist, it certainly had'nt forgotten him.

He did'nt see his mother's coffin lowered into the ground, a situation which served to embitter him even more. No monument was erected on her grave, not even of the meekest kind, and therefore in his own tormented mind Noakes was never absolutely sure that this was her last resting place. He has never spoken to his father since that day, even though they both work at Morefield Pit, a situation that can lead to embarrassing situations, like the one when he and has father were assigned to the same team, and armed with shovels and picks anything could have happened. Only prompt action by Jack Ladd had prevented an ugly situation. In the intervening years since his mother's funeral Noakes had erected a modest memorial stone on her grave, but the bitterness far from diluting had actually grown greater by the year.

He stopped, eyes probing the darkness like a hunted fox. He'd seen something, just across the darkened street, by the canal bridge, a movement, a sound. He felt his chest tighten, the knot in his stomach strain to breaking point. He looked around for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon, if he was to go down he would take as many others with him as he could. He longed for his fingers to be closed around the shaft of his pick, he could wield this with the dexterity of a scalpel when the situation demanded it, and the situation certainly demanded it now. But there was no pick to hand, and very little else either. He would have to rely on his fists, he eyed them, pale in the dark. Even these can be enhanced as potent weapons, he surmised, and rooting in his pockets he drew out two or three penny coins, inserting them between his fingers. He had used this trick once before, at the travelling fair on Ellison's Tenement, and to devastating effect at that.

The blur by the canal bridge began to acquire form, it was one man. Strange, he thought, only one of them. Maybe they'd split up, trying to find him that way, the one spotting him alerting the others to his find. Well, if that was the bastard's game, he thought, they'd better be spot on with it, because if he could get to the individual first then shouting to his mates would be the last thing on his mind. He strained his eyes to see if he recognised the figure, which had stopped now, and was looking up the road towards Accrington. Then the figure stumbled, almost fell, letting out a stream of oaths as he did so. The figure sought support from the side door of the Cooperative Funeral Parlour, the sound of oaths was replaced by an attempted hearty rendering of 'Molly Mallone', Noakes relaxed, the pennies between his fingers found their way back into his pockets. He took a deep breath, the tensions seemed to slip away for one tantalising moment. This was a drunk from the Albion or the Old England or any of the other pubs dotted around the Clayton area. This bloke was a greater danger to himself than he was to Noakes.

As he eyed the drunk from across the street he reflected on his own evening in the Black Horse. The night had started good, too good maybe. He had arrived at the pub in a reasonable temper. Well, why would'nt he, he'd just got paid both by the pit and by Cross. He was a strange bastard that Cross, the miners called him the 'demon chargehand', and with plenty of justification. He worked you 'til you dropped did Cross, and if you dropped he had you picked up and worked you again. He was disliked immensely by the work teams, and here was where Noakes had spotted a weakness. Because of the loathing that the miners had for him, Cross was ostracised by all the work teams, which of course meant that he was not privy to any information of any kind that was current with the miners. Now of course it was true that no chargehand was on the inside when it came to miner's talk, that went with the job. But at least most of them maintained some sort of liaison with their teams, would be seen sometimes having a Saturday night drink with miners who they would be expected to direct at the face or in the tunnels. There was a degree of conviviality there, a degree of mutual respect that might be tested by the work situation but usually came through that test with flying colours.

But not Cross. He seemed to see it as a badge of honour that he was loathed by the miners in his team. It was as if the loathing proved to Cross that he was doing a good job, that the job of team leader involved driving men to the limit in the most odious way one could imagine. Because of this loathing only the minimum communication required past between Cross and his team, in fact between Cross and most other people at Morefield pit. Noakes listened carefully to what was said by the miners, he was of course one of them. Then he decided to mention to Cross one little tit bit of information, the Union was to discuss one of Cross's bright ideas, that food breaks were to be held where the miners worked so that no time would be wasted moving away from the face to get to a more convivial place to eat one's 'bait' and to chat to one's friends, to get that little bit of relief from the grinding toil of hacking coal in the stifling atmosphere of the face. It would save money, Cross had said to management, it would also conserve the miner's energy and concentrate minds on the job. It had taken time to get this discussed by the Union. The firebrands of the incipient Independent Labour Party, together with the radical social liberals, were all for going straight to opposing the bosses on this one, with a threat of strike action if the bosses did'nt cave in. The more considered, more conservative voices of the chapel liberals were up in

arms at the radicals and incipient socialists, seeing revolution around every corner. It all turned in to unseemly wrangling, which took a number of weeks before it was even on the table for discussion at a Union meeting.

It was at this time that Noakes decided to strike, cornering the unsuspecting Cross with the excuse that he was'nt feeling too well that day and may be forced to leave the face at some point. Of course this met with the frosty response that Noakes expected, with a retort like 'if 'ee could'nt 'old the job down there were plenty as would'. Noakes then just happened to mention the new tea break proposal was about to be discussed by the next Union meeting, and Noakes enquiries seemed to suggest that the radicals were in the ascendency, that there could be trouble for the mine owners if they got their way. Cross, who had ostracised himself from the Union as well as from its members, put on a brave face, but Noakes could tell that under all that bravado there was concern. Noakes, in a subservience foreign to his usual nature, metaphorically doffed his cap to the powerful team leader, just dropping the suggestion that if Cross were to want any more information he only had to ask.

It was'nt long after that Cross did ask, and of course Noakes, all subservience and sycophancy, gave the appropriate responses, even to the degree of suggesting a way to diffuse the situation. Noakes' suggestion, ingenious in its simplicity, was to compromise on the grounds of safety. The miners would withdraw from the face for their 'bait', but only by a small margin, thus minimising the dangers of man movement in the narrow passageways, but also giving the men just some break from the centre of their labours. All this was perceived as thoughtful and prudent by the mine owners, and also served to rob the radicals of the main thrust of their argument. Noakes had struck, and it had been a telling blow.

The next time they met it was Cross who had sought him out, and although on the surface this was the same belligerent, self assured Cross, Noakes noted a subtle change in his manner, maybe Noakes was not seen as an equal, but he was at least seen as an ally, an ally of value, one who had to be nurtured, and here Noakes made all the right noises and gestures that suggested that money was the last thing on his mind, but that he lived with an Aunt who had fostered him since he was nine, who had lived a life of great hardship, and to whom a little extra would make a great difference. Of course he never intended to give any money to the Aunt at all. They occupied the same house but lived largely separate lives. after the incidents at his mother's funeral his father had deigned to give Noakes' Aunt, the father's sister, a tiny allowance to keep the recalcitrant child out of his hair. It was not enough, it was given grudgingly, and as soon as Noakes started earning when he went half time at the pit, the allowance stopped. He remembered that time well. As with most new starters he was put on opening and closing the ventilation doors as the miners passed through, either in their teams or with various pieces of machinery. He hated it, sat in the pitch darkness with only the rats for company. But, as bad as that, in some ways worse, was that his father was a frequent user of his services. The only little bit of human contact he might have in that black hell and it had to be his dad! In all that time they never exchanged a word, all the communication being done by another member of his father's team. All this seemed to isolate him even further from his peers. He sat in the Black Horse mulling over these ideas as they spun around his head, each time he took a swig the ideas took on even more grotesque shape.

Anyway, they'd got to talking, young men in a pub putting an old man's world to rights, it was ever thus. The galling point was that he, Noakes, was on the periphery of the discussion, some of the time being almost ignored. Normally he would'nt have minded, in fact normally he may well have welcomed such exclusion. He looked around at them, his 'mates'. If they only knew what he was thinking, if they only knew how repellent he found them and their limited vision. Oh he was clever most of the time, his well practised sycophancy worked well with them as well as with Cross. But their came a time, and that time was fast approaching as his belly began to fill with ale, that his feelings of superiority to all of these people began to test the tight reign that he usually kept on such feelings. He was better than any of these. His vision was not limited by the pit and the pub, with a quick fondle with one of the mill lasses thrown in if you were lucky. He was cleverer than any of these, as had been recognised both at school and at the worker's evening classes that he attended when the time allowed. His interests were wide, literature, philosophy, science, he read them all, and enjoyed them. But he was no slinking bookworm, sitting in a corner while the others played men's games. He could fight and beat any one of them in a one to one scrap, as one or two of them had cause to remember. Such was his confidence and such was his arrogance.

With each mouthful of beer his mask began to slip. The upper half of the wall which separated the darts and dominoes room where Noakes and his mates were seated had been taken down so that this room was now joined, in a fashion, with the concert room. The first act of the night had just got up and was starting to wail her first song -

“If I were the only girl in the world”, she warbled

“And you were the only boy”

“ Christ”, Noakes had shouted to the others, '”if she were th'only girl in't world then I'd donate my weddin' tackle to charity”.

He was proud of his wit, and knew that he'd scored well with that one. There was a ripple of laughter from some of those assembled in the darts room, and some from his mates, one or two even digging each other at the innuendo. But by and large it was grudging, as if wrung out of them by someone threatening to stand on their toes in workboots when they were barefoot. It was'nt spontaneous, it was'nt fulsome. Maybe if he'd just have reflected for a few moments he could have come up with a rational explanation. It was only a matter of a week or so ago that he'd smashed Mitchell, the owner of Mitchell's Pie Shop, to the floor in a disagreement about the quality of his pies, all done in a drink fuelled rage. Now Mitchell was an ex miner, well respected by his peers and by their families, always ready to waive the odd bill if a family were in obvious financial trouble. Noakes had fractured his jaw that night, and although he had apologised in the cold light of a beer free morning it was clear that the incident had burnt itself into the minds of some sat in the darts room that night.

He should have been treading lightly tonight, trying to win their respect by a considerate and contrite attitude. If he had been stone cold sober his quick mind would have discerned all of this. However he was'nt stone cold sober, the alcohol was seeping into his brain, robbing him of that cunning that he so relied upon to further his own agenda.

He knew what should have happened after his quick wit, they should have turned to him, ready for more. And he had more, more jokes, more quick anecdotes that would have them rolling in their seats. Instead they turned away from him, back to their clumsy talk of mundane matters, of wives, of girlfriends, and of course of the pit, always the fucking pit he thought bitterly. Why can't these bastards raise their sights, to discussing the rights and wrongs of John Stuart Mill, or the philosophy of Rousseau.

“How do Jack”, Bill Jackson suddenly boomed out.

There were murmurs of recognition from the other miners. It did'nt need eloquence of words to see that Jack Ladd was highly thought of, the gestures were eloquent enough. Noakes felt a sudden rush of hate towards the new entrant. Why could'nt they see that he Noakes was at least equally worthy of such a greeting. Nevertheless Noakes was glad to see Ladd. He had always tried to be fair to the awkwardness of Noakes ever since their eyes had met on that sad sad day of his mother's funeral, it had been just before the fateful incident with his father. There had been empathy there, and that empathy seemed to have developed between them over the years.

'Pint Jack?', this was Bill Jackson, who Noakes thought little of. His pinched face and narrow eyes always reminded Noakes of a frightened rabbit, although maybe this was being unkind to the rabbit. Jackson was a hothead who was always spouting at Union meetings. Noakes had listened to him at these meetings and come to the conclusion that he was'nt to be trusted. All revolution at such meetings was Jackson, all for marching onto the streets and erecting the barricades. His actions however belied his words. He was never at the forefront when confronting the employers, preferring to snipe on the sidelines, always justifying his actions with the argument that he would become contaminated if involved in such discussions, become a class collaborator.

“Thanks Bill”, Jack was his usual amiable self.

Jackson got up, carefully avoiding Noakes' stare as he did so.

“You OK Steven?”.

Noakes was so startled at hearing his first name it did'nt register for a split second.

“Aye, fine Jack, just fine”.

The incident with Mitchell had'nt put Jack Ladd off being pleasant to him, Noakes observed gratefully. He felt emboldened “You playin' this afternoon?”.

“Aye, I were too, bloody 'ard game an all, bloody 'ard. Dirty team that Scaitcliffe lot”.

“Too true”, Naokes was feeling better, becoming animated as he became a valued participant in the conversation, “course they've on'y one tin bath, it must'nt be t'teams turn”.

Jack laughed, a genuine laugh which warmed Noakes' heart. The others sniggered. True, it was'nt one of his best, he'd let them off.

'' 'Ere we are Jack”, Jackson was back with a tray full of pints, “get that down thi, an' I've got you lads one an' all'”.

There was no pint for Noakes. Strangely he did'nt feel too bothered. He'd been included by Jack Ladd, and for that he was grateful.

'''ow did y'go on then?”, Fred Hamer was sitting next to Noakes and his bellow near blew Noakes ear drum out.

“Bloody lost, where were you Fred, we could 'ave done with a bit o'meat”.

“Aye, well, me missus 'ad t'go out tha sis”, Fred's broad accent accentuated his concern for the football team that he usually turned out for.

“She got a fancy bloke then eh”, the disagreeable Jackson piped up.

Hamer slowly turned his gaze on the disagreeable one. Noakes looked on, it seemed he may not be the only one to be ostracised tonight.

“On'y jokin' Fred, c'mon ......... c'mon ........”, Jackson spluttered. And he'd good reason to. Hamer was one of the few young miners that Noakes himself would consider stepping aside for. Built even more like a stone privy than Noakes himself, Hamer had not an ounce of excess fat on him, and could wield his pick like a flailing machine. They had saved the leg of a fellow miner once, who had been crushed by the coal cart near the head of the shaft. They had both exerted their considerable strength to lift the coal cart a few precious inches so that colleagues could extricate the stricken miner's leg. Noakes had seen at first hand the prodigious strength of Hamer, and while he would not admit that anyone could better him, Hamer was one who he'd rather not put that to the test with.

“It's not funny”, was all the mighty but slow witted Hamer could manage.

“Oh I don't know”, Noakes butted in, “When you looked at 'im Fred I thought somebody 'ad pulled the plug on 'is blood supply, 'is face went so white”.

For one horrible moment Noakes thought the joke had misfired as he saw Hamer's tortured face wrestle with the complexities if the joke, then Ladd laughed,and they all laughed, even Jackson, although Noakes saw the simmering hatred in his eyes.

They returned to putting the world to rights. It did indeed seem inevitable that those who had been dealt such a raw hand by fate should conjecture as to whether the world could be ordered in a different way, one which seemed to spread the riches around more equally.

Jackson, as usual, was talking up revolution “What 'appened in the Paris Commune, hell, that'll 'appen all over, you 'ear, all over”.

“I'd like my kids to grow up in a better world an' that's for sure”, Hamer interjected.

“Things should get better, I mean, the ’64 Reform Act gave us all t’vote, that’s t’way t’change things, an’ they are changin’, bloody slow, but they’re changin’”, this was Jack Ladd, forever the optimist.

“But it's still a capitalist system Jack”, the revolutionary cautioned.

'”So, we can change it can't we?”

“For fuck's sake Jack, look at the Union, most o'them bastards are in with t'churches, y'know who I mean”.

“Aye”, Jack ruminated, “fact is most of 'ems elders in't churches, leadin' lights as y'might say”.

“Aye, we can't rely on them. I'll tell ya, I've been listenin' t'this fella Keir 'Ardy ...”

“Labour fella .......”

“That's 'im, that's 'im. Seems t'me we've t'get away from t'unions, right away. They piss into t'same pot as t'bosses that's what they does”.

Noakes was a spectator in all of this. Because of his position as an outsider, a bit of a loner, and a bit if a savage loner at that he was'nt consulted, was'nt asked for his views. It certainly was'nt because they did'nt think him equal to such a discussion. They all knew that he had a powerful intellect, knew it from his schooldays, and even more from his attendance at the classes that were held regularly at the local Institute. Noakes read voraciously, and had impressed the tutors who came to do the evening lectures to such an extent that they had recommended him for extra mural studies at the University. Clearly he could not follow this path at the moment, his finances would'nt allow it, but maybe, just maybe, some time in the future. Anyway, his exclusion from this discussion did'nt do his temper any good as he took swig after swig from his glass. He knew the system was unfair, corrupt in many ways, in fact he knew it more than most. He took the view that a revolution of the sort that Jackson was constantly carping on about was out, he knew that the system for working people had gradually improved, and that was the way it would continue. Anyway, that was the way he ordered his life. Take the opportunities that this rotten system threw up, as he had with Cross. All this talk of a new dawn, a workers paradise, was just that, talk, and when spouted by characters like Jackson it was plain shit. The urge to say so grew in him as he finished one pint and started on the next.

“You've gotta use this rotten system, it's th'only one we've got”, he finally piped up, all his normal restraints nearly washed away by the alcohol.

“An 'ow the fuck are you goin' t'do that”, the obnoxious sound of Jackson's voice inflamed him, he lost the final restraints.

“I'll fuckin' tell ya 'ow, y'gets a bit of knowledge see, a bit o knowledge them bastards want, and you sells it to 'em, an' if you does a good job, an' if you promises 'em more of the same, the bastards comes back an' pays you for it”.

The others stared at him, a sudden ice cold douche splashed over his head as he stared at the others, unsure as to how to take his sudden outburst.

It was Jackson who broke the silence, “What the fuck you talkin’ about, that’s a load of shit Noakes, a load of shit”, he was emboldened by the beer and by the presence of so many of his mates.

Noakes had given him a hard stare, the coldness in his eyes causing even the alcohol soaked mind of Jackson some alarm. He should have kept his mouth shut, or given Jackson some subtle verbal riposte, or even alarmed him by jumping up in a gesture of immanent violence. But the beer was in him, caution was caste to the winds.

“I’ll tell you you bastard”, he remembered shouting, “I’ll tell you ‘ow to use this rotten system so it works for you. You take one of them bastards who sides wit’ bosses, an’ you looks for a weakness, an’ you’ll find one if you looks ‘ard enough, then you sort of drop an odd remark, lay some bait so t’speak, an’ believe you me, they take it, they fuckin’ well takes it’”.

“This is all shit, you tellin’ me you’ve done that are you, is that what you’re tellin’ me?”.

“That’s what I’m tellin’ you Jackson, aye”.

“Any silly pillock can say that Noakes”, and here Jackson gave Noakes a dismissive shake of the head, it was like a red rag to a bull.

“OK then”, the beer filled mind spoke using Noakes’ lips,”‘ow d’you account for this then. When Cross were plannin’ to ‘ave us eatin’ our bait at t’face, an’ we talked it over at t’Union meetin’ …….”.

“Aye’”, there was a degree of curiosity now, “‘aye, so ………”.

“So who the fuck d’you think warned Cross off enactin’ that procedure, eh, eh, d’you not think it strange ‘ee seemed t’know when t’withdraw that procedure just enough t’avoid trouble wit’ Union, eh ……… eh ………….. an’ t’bastard paid, Christ I made ‘im pay an’ no mistake”.

It was only then that Noakes took the time to look around at the crowded table, packed tight with young miners. They were all staring at him to a man, as if he were a piece of rotten meat that was emitting the worst stink one could ever imagine.

“That’s what you’ve gotta do”, Noakes heard the sound of his own voice, it frightened him, it sounded desperate, he tried to hold it together but the looks of hate bored into his head, almost physical in their intensity.

Then Hamer rose from his chair, “You bastard, you absolute bastard’”. Noakes could see that his fists were clenched into a menacing club. The others around him began to rise, some keeping hold of their heavy beer glasses, which Noakes knew could make a deadly weapon when deployed in a fight. He considered taking them all on, but only for one mad beer soaked moment. These men were drunk, and he had just given them a focus for drunken anger that could leave him a cripple. For a broad shouldered man Noakes was pretty agile, and he needed that agility now as he leapt up, sending his stool spinning onto the floor. The pub was packed, which was fortunate for Noakes for he blasted through he crowd, shoulder first, and as he disappeared into the mass they formed a shield against the young miners who had been taken by surprise at his sudden flight. He was out of that pub in two shakes of a cat's tail, but instead of sprinting up the road as his pursuers might have imagined, he doubled back, finishing up by the dingy back alley a couple of blocks away. He could see them milling around the entrance to the pub, their drunken shouts seemed to him like the howls of hungry wolves. It was'nt food these men were after, it was a far more hateful aim, it was revenge.

He looked this way and that, for it was certain some of them would wend their way towards him pretty soon, and he had no way out except to hide. Then he heard the rumble of a carriage along the cobbled road, he peered into the darkness, trying to see what it was. It did'nt sound like one of the big haulage wagons that carried bulk goods for the mines and the mills and the engineering works, nor should it be at this time time on a Saturday night. It came into sight, illuminated by a nearby gas lamp. Although he did'nt get a full and complete view he recognised it instantly, this was one of the carriages of the James family, one of the owners of Morefield Colliery. Many a time he and his fellow miners had looked on sullenly as one of the James family had visited their mine, talking to the managers and chargehands about the progress of their investment, about margins and profits, certainly not about sweat, blood and terrible injuries. Well, it had come at the right time for him now he thought, and bosses or no bosses, they were going to shield him from the wrath of his fellow miners.

He waited for the coach to be almost on a level with him. It was travelling slower than usual due to the state of the cobbled roads, so he had the time. He looked towards the Black Horse, the coach would almost obscure him from the sight of his tormentors for a brief second as it passed. The moment arrived, he leapt out, bent almost double he ran to the side of the coach, trying to hide from its occupants as much as from the miners. He was successful in the latter, but not the former. As he glanced up at the coach windows a white face looked out, he knew instantly who it was. Fiona James was startled for a moment as she stared at the burly young miner walking in a half bent posture at the side of her father's coach. If she was afraid she did'nt show it. Their eyes met. He'd seen Miss James before, but never so close, and as the coach had lights burning inside it he got a good look. One could'nt have called her beautiful, he thought, but attractive she certainly was with a full mouth, large eyes and dark hair framing a full face.

He put his finger to is lips in a 'keep quiet' gesture. For a split second she looked troubled, then nodded her agreement. They were now passing the Black Horse and he saw her look across, presumably at the crowd of miners outside the pub. He did'nt look. Presumably she would have put two and two together and tied his embarrassing situation with the angry mob, any way she certainly did'nt betray any feelings, either to him or to the other occupants of the coach.

Suddenly he had a thought, a stomach churning thought if it was carried to a conclusion. OK, the miners could'nt see his body which was well hidden by the coach, but they could see his legs. If one of them had to look under the coach, which was'nt beyond the bounds of possibility as they urgently scanned the area around them, then he would be rumbled, and crushing boots and crushed bones would surely follow.

He glanced anxiously up at the coach window as he walked in a crouch beside it. Clearly something of a similar thought had occurred to Fiona James, for she suddenly gestured to the young miner to get on to the running board of the carriage. He needed no second invitation, the coach was still moving very slowly as it manoeuvred it's way over the ill fitting cobbles, and he had no difficulty positioning himself on the running board, crouching even more now to avoid being seen by any other of the coach occupants.

He need'nt have bothered. Fiona James' face appeared again at the carriage window, like a guardian angel, and she gestured for him to peer inside the coach, which he duly did. He saw her uncle Richard, sprawled across the seat, away to the world, snoring so loudly, or so it seemed to Noakes, that he'd have them as had gone to bed early to get up for the earliest communion in the morning complaining that he was a potential hazard to their obligations to the almighty.

He looked at her, and saw the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. Suddenly he felt the carriage picking up speed, they were past the danger area, the wild miners were being left far behind. He looked into her eyes again, mouthed a silent 'thank you', then dropped from the accelerating coach. He caught a view of her head as it appeared for a brief second at the carriage window, probably just checking that he had landed OK, then the head was gone, and so was the carriage, and he was left in the deserted road, wondering whether the whole surreal episode had actually happened or if it were merely a figment of his fertile imagination.

Chapter 2 Come Out to Play

This was a different world from the crowded two up two down terraces that surrounded Morefield Colliery, although it was only four or five miles away. Here there were no tin baths hanging by the back door in the communal back yards. Here there was no communal long drop privy set like some stone monument in the long back yard. In fact the privy seemed even more like a monument early in the morning when the mill workers and the miners were battling to relieve themselves before the start of their long day, queueing before it as they would a diety . Of course it could be worth money to relieve oneself at home before going to work as some of the firms timed their employees as they went to the lavatory and deducted from their wages accordingly.

Not here the savage sound of the factory hooter as its harsh call dragged weary workers from their beds, to struggle downstairs to a fire grate still warm from the previous night, but unfortunately the large black kettle stone cold, so that the early morning swill was cold and sharp. The working clothes would be hung from the back door or maybe under the stairs, a stark reminder of the blackness of the pit, the flailing of shuttles in the mill or the shrill scrape of metal on metal if one was employed in one of the engineering works which were dotted around the district. The daily routine of putting bread and cheese into ones 'bait' box, and trying to fill ones 'billy' can with the best drink available to sustain one during the long day.

Here the broad Lancashire fields shone a magnificent green in the morning sunlight. In one or two of the fields sheep were grazing, content in the knowledge that the grass was green and the sun was warm. Other fields contained black and white Frezian cattle, quietly chewing the cud as they waited patiently for the call that would empty their unwieldy udders.

The sleepy Hodder meandered in the valley, wending its way towards its confluence with the Ribble, its great curves giving rise to sandbanks which formed perfect fishing areas for the elegant Heron, which now and then would bob its head to the water and come up with a struggling stickleback or other small fish which had had the misfortune to be too near the surface at the wrong time and place.

All the ruthlessness of the other place was far removed from here, for although there were the rural poor they were only represented here by those who came to work then went away, the maid, the gardener, the cook and the coachman. For those resident here the blackness of the pit, the terror of the youngster left for the first time in his life to manage the ventilation doors, the toil of the miner stripped to the waste at the coalface , all these were things one read about in books, if one even bothered to read about them at all.

And yet, and yet, in many respects most of those fine houses overlooking that tranquil river valley on the outskirts of Accrington at its boundary with the Ribble Valley, were intimately connected with the blackened faces and calloused hands of the miners as they emerged from that dark hole in the ground. For it was on the muck and the dust, the danger and the sweat of the engineering workers, the mill workers and the miners that the wealth that sustained this rural idyll was founded and continued to sustain.

Through the bright colours of the leaded windows in one of the finest of these fine houses Fiona James looked out, and mused on the juxtaposition of the tranquil scene that met her eyes and the shadows of a more savage world that she had glimpsed the previous evening. It had been her uncle's idea to go to the theatre in Manchester, supported by her father who she conceded probably needed a night out after many long hours wrestling with the problems of Morefield pit. As one of the leading shareholders in the company that owned that pit amongst others, it fell to him to look to the more immediate financial situation and its all important profit and loss account.

She had rejected again and again her uncle's entreaties to join them, until she had become aware that one of Ibsen's plays, it was 'The Doll's House', was showing at the Theatre Royal. Her father's enthusiasm for the theatre trip suddenly and dramatically waned. He had been concerned about his youngest child's views and developing principles for some time. 'Silly adolescent stuff' was one of his more considered ways of describing it. 'Bloody grotesque filth' was when he got into a bit of a lather about it, after that some of the words he used ( not to Fiona ) would make the miners blush.

Anyway, there had been the usual clash between father and daughter, ones that she usually won as she was still the apple of his eye, a bright and attractive reminder to John James of his wife, Fiona's mother, who had died some years before.

Her father had even recruited his son, Fiona's only sibling, in his quest to deter her from going to this play by a madman who threatened the divine order of things, or at least these were the dramatic ways in which he put it to his son, and through his son to his daughter. Simon, Fiona's brother, was non too pleased that he'd been summoned on a suicide mission such as this, for he knew his sister only too well, knew her tenacity and her intellect. He also knew that at her boarding school she had written one of the best essays ever produced ( the master's words ) at the school on the very subject of Ibsen's plays. This essay had been viewed by Oxford scholars in support of inducing certain colleges to accept female undergraduates to certain colleges, a prospect which Fiona viewed with alacricity, but one which her father would not countenance.

“If girls had been made to lead men”, he'd said in his own inimitable style to Uncle Richard, “ they'd 'ave been given balls”.

“Aye”, Fiona had replied to her uncle when she'd heard this, “ and if men had been made to wear top hats they'd have been given one long tit right on the top of their heads”.

Of course this banter got back to her father and although incensed at his daughter's attitude and use of language this was tempered by a glow of pride that this bright independent minded individual was his progeny, a part of him was in this unquenchable human being.

Simon tried to help his sister understand her father's point of view, but with little success. In fact his attempts were so half hearted that Fiona even thought of helping him at one stage, giving him arguments to put forward then demolishing them in quick time. He must have let this episode slip to his wife of 12 months Gwen, who with the finesse and sensitivity of a claw hammer tried to explain to Fiona the error of her ways. These two women were different as cheese and chalk, Gwen neither seeking nor desiring a place in this man's world of great decisions, cigar smoke and dominion over all they surveyed.

“ This man, this Ibsen”, Gwen had said, “well, he's nothing but a trouble maker, why, why”, and here she gathered herself for the killer stroke, “he's, he's a ......... charlatan “, and now she could relax, her bosom heaved at the thought that she'd delivered the coup de grace. To her surprise and indignation Fiona began to giggle.

“One thing you can't accuse Ibsen of is being a fake”.

“A fake, a fake, no, no, Fiona, he's much more a rogue than that, he's a charlatan”. She delivered that word again as if its very deliverance was enough to condemn this man to perpetual damnation.

“But Gwen”, Fiona began, thinking of outlining some basic points about the national lexicon. Then she looked into the wide eyes and reddening cheeks of the excitable Gwen, and gave it up as a bad job.

“Well, maybe you're right Gwen. But then again ..............”

“So I've made you think a bit about seein' this play then?”.

“ Well, I'm certainly thinking about it. I do have a problem though.”.

“Oh?”, the irrepressible Gwen was always ready to help.

“ Well, yes. Y'see, I wonder how you can make a decision about some thing if you have'nt seen it, y'know what I mean?”.

Gwen was puzzled, but only for a moment. “ Oh but we know what it's like Fiona, Mr James has condemned it”.

“And dad's always right is he?”.

“ Well, well ......... he's got experience of these sorts of thing, has'nt he”, the last bit was only partly retorical. “ You can't 'ave people threatening how things are now can you?”.

“ People thought the world was flat at one time”, Fiona could see that this thought brought a frown to the otherwise certain face, and decided to change to a more amenable topic, “ Did you see the latest Lewis' catalogue this week?”.

The change in Gwen's face vindicated her change in conversation., and put them on a much more amenable path.

The conversation with her father had been a little more involved.

“Fiona, come on, come on, the man's a troublemaker, no, no more than that, he's an immoralist, a reprobate .............”.

“ So he's two things then dad?”.

“This is'nt something to make fun of girl”, she could tell when he was angry, he began to call her girl, “this man is trying to undermine the fabric of our society, Christ girl, what would your mother say if she knew you were supporting such a man?”.

“ I'm not supporting him dad”.

“ You're making a bloody good job of pretending you are then”.

“ Well I'm not, not really anyway”.

“ And what's that supposed to mean eh?”.

“ It means”, she slowed down here to think as she spoke, “ it means I want to hear what he's got to say”.

“ I'll tell you what he's got to say, here's a man undermining the family, undermining the very fabric of our society”, he was angry now, she'd have to watch her step.

“But dad, you don't know that until you've listened ....”.

“Listened, listened to that ........ that ...........”.

“ Dad, dad, please”.

He realised his temper was getting the better of him, and took a few deep breaths, it gave her the time to step in.

“Maybe, just maybe dad, the position of women in our society wants, well, looking at ...........”.

“ To what purpose, to what purpose girl ?”.

“Well, there's the vote .........”.

“ The vote”, he exploded, “you can't be serious. Look Fiona, women, well, they're wonderful creatures, your dear mother, I'd have given my life for your dear mother, but things like the vote, they need logic,detachment, a clear world view, that is'nt in the nature on womankind ......”.

She was almost exploding now, and it must have shown in her face.

“ Now Fi”, another signal he was worried about her present frame of mind, “ Fi, don't take it the wrong way, but, well, examine the facts ............”.

“ The facts”, she managed to keep the explosion to a minimum, “ dad, dad, the facts tell us that a woman's intellect is the same as a man's, no greater but no less”.

“It's not just intellect, it's it's,”, she could see the trouble he was having thinking of exactly what it was, “ it's character, men have the character. Look Fi, women are sweet creatures, they should'nt be corrupted by the rudeness of the real world they should be kept ...........”.

Fiona could keep quiet no longer, “Kept, yes dad kept, like an animal in a cage, for the entertainment and distraction of its master. Dad, dad, these are human beings we are speaking of here, what you've just started to introduce is a justification for the mastery of one part of the human race ............”.

“Enough “, Mr James roared. “Fiona, Fiona, men like Milton have said that women are born for softness, for sweetness ..........”.

“And is he God, is he dad”, and here her voice rose to match his, “ is he God dad ... is he .. is he .........”.

“ Shut up girl, don't scream at me in my own house, don't ever ........”, and for one mad moment it seemed as if he would, for the first time in both their lives,strike her.

“ Hey”, it was the the timely entry of uncle Richard, “ John, John, I've never known you be so, so irascible”.

“And you”, her father turned his fire on the unfortunate uncle, “you are to blame with your outings to the bloody theatre, to hell with the both of you, to hell with you”, and off he stormed, breathing hell fire. The uncle and the niece, looked at each other. They had both seen him angry before, but this was on a different scale. Needless to say her father did not go to the theatre with them, and relations between them had been somewhat strained since that argument.

“ Do you still want to go to that play?”, uncle Richard said quietly.

“ I do too”, there was no equivocation.

“ You take after your dad in that way then”.

“ In what way?”.

“In keeping to your own mind”.

“But, oh hell, I'm right. How could me not going to this play help?”, and the red in her cheeks showed her anger, “ OK, it would placate him for a bit, but there would be other plays, other situations ........”.

“ OK, OK, I'm on your side remember “.

“ Well”.

“Course I am, I want t'see this play just like you do”.

“ Do you, do you really?”.

“ Well,”, and here the uncle gave a wry smile, “ I suppose I'd much rather have gone to see a bit of comedy like I originally intended ........”.

“ You old lie teller”, the interplay between the two of them was clear evidence of their empathy, and of their affection.

“ Well, you know me, always ready for a laugh”.

“ Well, yea, I know. But you can appreciate why this play's important”.

“ Course I can girl”, the paraphrasing of her dad brought a smile to her face, “but, yes Fiona, I can see that this play is, well, one of maybe seminal importance not just as a drama event but as an event in the affairs of man”, then as a quick afterthought, “and women too, yes, don't forget the women”.

Fiona laughed, a genuine laugh right from her heart.

“ What's so funny?”,the uncle's mock offence made her giggle even more.

“Well, you, you old hypocrite”.

“Don't be silly, I'm genuinely concerned with both me and women, do you hear.”

She was all seriousness for a moment, “I'm sure”, then the fit of giggles started again. He looked at her quizzically, and with not a little disdain.

“ It's just .........”.

“Go on, go on.”.

“ Well, I was just thinking, if women achieved full emancipation, what that might mean for your regular evening visits to Clayton?”.

“ What, waaa .........”, and his head shook in that funny way he had when he was lost for words, and lost full stop if truth be told, but he gathered himself, “ don't be silly girl, our business is in Clayton remember”.

“ Yes, I'll bet it is”, she added, a mischievous smile played about her lips.

Continue reading this ebook at Smashwords.
Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-27 show above.)