Overheard In a Graveyard by Susan Price

Author:Susan Price [Price, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Susan Price
Published: 2022-12-27T07:00:00+00:00

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ACROSS THE FIELDS

A BRAZIER HELD THE fire in the centre of the hut. Its iron bars were crumbling with rust, but the coals were red-hot inside, sending out waves of heat to meet the long thin draughts of cold wind that came in through the gaps in the planking walls. The men, their bodies blackened with a coating of sweat, water and coal-dust, crowded close to the fire, shivering and trying to wipe themselves dry with old rags, shirts or sheets of newspaper.

“Never mind— Christmas tomorrow!” one of them shouted, and the others laughed. Christmas Day was the only day in the whole year the mine didn’t work.

When they were more or less dry, though still filthy with coal-dust, the men pulled on trousers, shirts and jackets. In 1924, there were no pit-head baths. They crowded round the fire, shoulders jostling, trying to get warm before the long, dark walk home. From hand to hand passed the jug of beer the mine-owner left in the hut for every shift of men coming up the shaft. As they drank, or waited for their turn to drink, they listened to the wind blowing around the hut and shrieking in the gaps.

“Our Grace’ll be walking tonight,” one of the men said, and there was more laughter.

There was a rap on the door of the hut, which only the nearest man heard. He opened it a crack, and then pulled it wide to allow someone to come in.

“Jon!” he called. “Tha little sister here, come to walk home with thee, so thee don’t get scared!”

That made all the men laugh again, and several of them began coughing badly. The girl recognised her brother’s cough among them, sharp and loud. Jon almost always coughed when other people laughed.

The men crowded together to let the girl come to the fire and stand beside her brother. She was about thirteen, tall for her age, and thin, wearing a long, limp skirt that almost hid her boots. On her head was a man’s old cap, with a thick tartan shawl folded over it and wrapped tightly about her body. Between the cap’s peak and the shawl her eyes glistened brightly, and her nose glowed a bright red from the cold outside.

She looked quickly and shyly at all the men’s faces. Even though she was standing beside him, she wasn’t quite sure that she recognised her brother. All the faces were black and shining as if they’d been polished with the black lead that her mother used on the cooking-range at home: and in the tawny, golden-red light from the fire, their faces shone gilded, as the range shone by the light of the fire. But their eyes glittered white, and every glance and swivel of their eyeballs seemed exaggerated and comic and horrible all at once. And their lips, washed by the beer were bright red.

With a final cough the man beside her said, “What’s up, Emily?” Then she knew it was Jon.

“Hast been paid?” she asked, and jumped as all the men around her laughed aloud.

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