The Boys from Brokenback

By Barry Flanagan

At the height of production at the Brokenback Mine over two hundred men were employed. This novel - a sequel to ‘Brokenback’ - is a collection of short stories about these men, their working environment and their private lives.

Roger Scott is a young growing boy itching to follow his father into the mines, but fate intervenes forcing him to take the role of the breadwinner in the family and look after his mother and sisters before going underground. There’s Danny McQueen as a ten-year-old, who, along with his older siblings, demonstrated against the given rights of a company to mine coal in their own back yard. Rimfire Jones was a crack-shot on his father’s farm keeping the kangaroos and foxes under control. The mining industry welcomed him and, later, so did the war. There are other stories of men working underground - like Cliffy and Charlie: Cliffy had a good luck charm – a seven pound hammer. There’s the belt hand who didn’t like locomotive drivers; and an outsider, a union man from a government mine whose employees were out on strike. He was at Brokenback addressing a generous mine crew - as he called them - eager to pass around the hat and top-up the strike fund for his union members. There are humorous stories of the bricklayers: Whisper and Kendall; of ex-army Sergeant Harry Truman – now a deputy at the mine – and the tale of Dick Mason and his loveable greyhound, Molluballoy. Crib room discussions are frequent; some that couldn’t be repeated anywhere else but the underground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Flanagan
• Release date: May 26, 2017

Barry Flanagan

Barry Flanagan was born in the coalmining town of Cessnock, located in the Hunter Valley of New South Wales, Australia. Having completed his schooling he worked in the industrial city of Newcastle before forging a career in the Defence Forces with the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF). After six years maintaining and servicing the French built, Mirage III supersonic aircraft - including two of those years in Singapore and Malaya - he opted for a new career in the underground coal mining industry. He worked at a number of mines, each one forced to close because of depleted resources. From there he worked as a training consultant for the mining industry in electrical and Occupational Health & Safety followed by a period with a successful engineering company before retiring. With his partner, Barbara, he now lives in the Macarthur region of New South Wales, an hour’s drive south-west of Sydney.

Book preview

THE BOYS FROM BROKENBACK

by

Barry Flanagan

© 2017

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Scotty

Chapter 2

Danny

Chapter 3

Rimfire Jones

Chapter 4

Nicotine Alley

Chapter 5

Ask And You Shall Receive (Sometimes)

Chapter 6

Cliffy And Charlie

Chapter 7

George And Clarrie

Chapter 8

The Stirrer

Chapter 9

Rainbow Robinson

Chapter 10

Whisper And Kendall

Chapter 11

Dick Mason

Chapter 12

Harry-san

Chapter 13

A Deputy’s Tale

Chapter 14

Jeremy Wilson

Chapter 15

Laurie Downy

Chapter 16

The Induction

Chapter 17

Rabbit Burrows

Chapter 18

The Unionist - The Press - The Politician

Chapter 19

When It Reins It Pours

Chapter 20

Industrialisation And The Underground Miner

Chapter 21

Michael Harden

Chapter 22

Tommy And Laura

Chapter 23

The Wedding

Epilogue

Appendices

1 – Main Transport Drift Surface-Pit Bottom (Cross Section)

2 – Underground Workings (Single Line Diagram)

3 – North-East Section May 1978

4 – North-East Section July 1979

5 - North-East Section August 1979

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Barry Flanagan was born in the coalmining town of Cessnock, located in the Hunter Valley of New South Wales, Australia. Having completed his schooling he worked in the industrial city of Newcastle before forging a career in the Defence Forces with the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF). After six years maintaining and servicing the French built, Mirage III supersonic aircraft - including two of those years in Singapore and Malaya - he opted for a new career in the underground coal mining industry. He worked at a number of mines each one forced to close because of depleted resources. From there he worked as a training consultant for the mining industry in electrical and Occupational Health & Safety followed by a period with a successful engineering company before retiring.

With his partner, Barbara, he now lives in the Macarthur region of New South Wales, an hour’s drive south-west of Sydney.

Also by Barry Flanagan

The Lithuanian Trilogy:

The Undeclared War

Across the Green Border

The Invisible Front

Brokenback

In Search of Freedom

www.BarryFlanaganBooks.com

ABOUT THE BOOK

At the height of production at the Brokenback Mine over two hundred men were employed. This novel - a sequel to Brokenback - is a collection of short stories about these men, their working environment and their private lives.

Roger Scott is a young growing boy itching to follow his father into the mines, but fate intervenes forcing him to take the role of the breadwinner in the family and look after his mother and sisters before going underground. There’s Danny McQueen as a ten-year-old, who, along with his older siblings, demonstrated against the given rights of a company to mine coal in their own back yard. Rimfire Jones was a crack-shot on his father’s farm keeping the kangaroos and foxes under control. The mining industry welcomed him and, later, so did the war. There are other stories of men working underground - like Cliffy and Charlie: Cliffy had a good luck charm – a seven pound hammer. There’s the belt hand who didn’t like locomotive drivers; and an outsider, a union man from a government mine whose employees were out on strike. He was at Brokenback addressing a generous mine crew - as he called them - eager to pass around the hat and top-up the strike fund for his union members. There are humorous stories of the bricklayers: Whisper and Kendall; of ex-army Sergeant Harry Truman – now a deputy at the mine – and the tale of Dick Mason and his loveable greyhound, Molluballoy. Crib room discussions are frequent; some that couldn’t be repeated anywhere else but the underground.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

ETEXT PRESS PUBLISHING

PO Box 3488, Joondalup,

Western Australia, 6097

Australia

[e-mail] www.etextpress.com

THE BOYS FROM BROKENBACK

ISBN: 978-0-6480692-3-2

Copyright © Barry Flanagan 2017

Barry Flanagan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and any and all other applicable international copyright laws to be identified as the sole author of this original work.

This book is a work of fiction and all characters in it are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This eBook (electronic book) is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade, transmission or otherwise, be redistributed, sold or hired, without the publisher’s prior written consent. Further, this eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by the applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Chapter 1

Scotty

Roger Frederick Scott was a small baby, one that came into the world in unusual circumstances and it all began on June 16, 1930.

At five-thirty in the morning, Peggy Scott woke from her warm bed and noticed traces of blood on her nightwear and on the sheets. Although surprised, she expected an early period and attended her problem with the usual home-made attire she kept in a draw beside the bed. With a sigh, she dressed then made her way to the kitchen. She felt a little nauseated, but thought nothing of it, as it was her usual feelings at this time of the month. Even the swelling around her abdomen wasn’t strange; the doctor told her two years ago it was a build-up of fluid before each period and was nothing to worry about.

She walked to the stove and pulled on the flue handle, still warm from the fuel in the firebox banked with coal the night before. She opened the small door at the front and stoked the sleeping embers to life with a poker, spilling ash through the vertical cast iron bars into the removable drop-pan beneath. A flame darted from the dormant coals and a whiff of smoke drifted upwards, drawn through the flue and up the chimney by a fresh draft of air. She jabbed the poker for a second time and another flame burst into life, licking the underside of the warm hotplate on top of the stove. She put aside the poker and moved a cast iron kettle, half-full of water, over the hotplate; it would be another ten minutes before the water would show any sign of warming. In the meantime, she would busy herself preparing breakfast for her husband as she did every morning before he went to work in the mine, sitting prominent from their back door no more than a mile away on the other side of a railway line.

It had been a little over a year now since she married Edward ‘Eddy’ Scott, and only ten days since they moved into their two-bedroom house less than a minute’s walk along the street from the general store and newsagent. It was a small village where they lived - maybe sixty houses in five short streets crisscrossing each other – not unlike other towns built around the development of coalmines in the Hunter Valley of New South Wales. The house had a high gabled roof and a small verandah at the front that tucked into a small alcove around the side. It was rented, owned by the mining company and they were thankful they were charged less than the going rate because Eddy was an employee.

Eddy worked at the mine before they met and, through his good friend Waddy Harrington, an undermanager, they were able to move into the house as soon as the previous occupants retired and moved away. It didn’t worry Peggy none, but Eddy thought he was being a bit adventurous, you know, living next door to the local policeman, especially when the lockup was right beside their fence. Eddy thought it was a garage at first until he saw the large bar and padlock on the front and the noises that came from it on Saturday nights.

For Peggy and Eddy, marriage in 1929 was an unceremonious affair and, a year later, like everyone else in the world they were still suffering from the depression, but thanking their lucky stars that Eddy was able to hold his job. Many coalmines had closed, but Eddy’s mine hung on, getting them through the difficult times.

Peggy, at twenty-one, stood five-feet-three with short black hair and a slender figure, a figure that received admiring glances wherever she went. She lived most of her younger life in Newcastle, around the new steel industry with the Broken Hill Proprietary Company Limited, the BHP, being the main contributor. She’d not had anything to do with coalmining at all until she met Eddy and was apprehensive at first about a life on the coalfields – it was cold in the winter and hot in the summer – and there was the financial side of things as well, but now she felt happier with Eddy secure in his job.

She looked around her small kitchen with its wooden table, four chairs and a cupboard against the outside wall. There was an icebox in one corner with fresh milk, eggs and bacon on the shelf ready for Eddy’s liking. There was also a bread box on top with a half-loaf to be sliced and toasted in front of the stove with a three-pronged fork that Eddy had fashioned from some fencing wire he brought home from the pit. She preferred to describe her kitchen as quaint rather than small and loved the warmth it held on those cold winter nights.

She checked the coalscuttle; it was half-full and would last till mid-morning. She opened the oven door with its name, ‘Simplex’, plastered across the front in cream and green lettering and reached for the frying pan stowed inside. It was warm to the touch and she placed it on top of the stove near the kettle. Now to wake her husband and, if she timed it right, he would be ready to sit at the table as soon as the bacon and eggs were taken from the pan.

Twenty minutes later, Eddy, a handsome twenty-three-year-old with short brown hair and – according to Peggy – a permanent twinkle in his bright blue eyes, finished his hearty breakfast, took a last sip of tea and folded his work clothes into a sugar bag. The bag had a small piece of coal stuffed into one corner at the bottom with one end of a half-inch hemp rope wound and tied to hem the coal tightly into the corner so the rope wouldn’t slip. He tied the other end of the rope around the neck of the bag then swung it over his shoulder, picked up his crib can and water bottle then kissed his wife goodbye.

‘Bye love,’ he said, and walked out the door. ‘See you this arvo.’

It was six-thirty and only a brisk fifteen minutes’ walk across the frosty grass to the back lane and down a bush track to the mine on the other side of the railway line. It was a shortcut for Eddy and so much closer to work than where they used to live.

Peggy waved him goodbye, closed the back door and returned to the warmth of the kitchen, but stopped as a sharp pain stabbed at her lower abdomen. She tensed and placed a hand on her belly while the other reached up to the shelf above the stove to steady herself. The pain lasted only a few seconds then subsided.

‘Damn it!’ she cried as her body relaxed. ‘These periods seem to be getting worse; maybe I should see the doctor again.’

She walked to the laundry where clothes had already been sorted and, using a galvanised bucket, she filled the copper with water from a tap in the washtub on the adjacent wall. She shivered in the frigid air and struck a match to some paper and kindling she had set under the copper; the flames rose quickly and spread across its rounded and smoke-scarred bottom.

Traditionally, Monday was washday in town and she pictured her crisp white sheets on the line flapping in tune with her neighbours in the radiant sunlight she knew would present itself in an hour or two as the frost melted away. While the water was heating, she returned to the kitchen and prepared herself a hot cup of tea.

Sitting in front of the stove with the cup to her lips, Peggy heard a noise, a noise she hadn’t heard before; a shrilling noise, coming from outside. She turned in her chair and looked at the clock – it was two minutes past seven. She shrugged and sipped more of her tea. The noise repeated itself and she thought it must be the whistle from the pit. She stood to her feet, placed the cup onto the table and opened the door. Another whistle penetrated the weatherboard cottage, but not before a blast of frosty air stabbed at her face. She looked towards the mine with its pallid brick chimney standing tall and proud against the undulating hills behind it; a thin cloud of steam rose high above the boiler room. A moment later the sound of the whistle reverberated against her eardrums again.

How many whistles had she heard? Was it a single shrill, repeated every few seconds, or was it three or four consecutive sounds with a long pause in between? She was concerned and confused. Maybe it was the emergency whistle that Eddy had told her about. Someone may have been hurt in a fall, or even killed; it could have been Eddy.

She began to shake and rushed down the steps and into the back shed where her bicycle leaned against a wall. She dragged it out into the open and, without checking the tyres for air, mounted the seat and pedalled across the yard to the back lane; the wheels leaving tracks in the frost covered grass.

Ignoring the cold biting at her thin woollen jumper, she pushed along the lane and out onto the road leading to the mine; her breath a small cloud condensing repeatedly in the air in front of her face. She crossed the railway line and swerved to miss a lump of coal that had fallen from a wagon, but the front tyre was soft and the wheel slipped from under her and she came crashing to the ground skin tearing from the side of her arm and her leg. She moaned in agony, but regained her feet. The bike was damaged, its front wheel buckled. She picked it up and threw it into the gutter then turned to the mine a hundred yards away where men were milling around, lots of them. She ran as fast as she could towards them.

Almost out of breath she reached the outer ring of mineworkers and, through the crowd, she could see someone on the ground on a stretcher. She pushed through the startled men.

‘Eddy, Eddy, is that you?’ she cried. ‘Eddy, is that you?’

The men stood aside and stared at her as Peggy burst into the centre of the ring. The man on the stretcher jumped to his feet at the sight of a woman’s skirt. She stopped, relieved, it wasn’t Eddy. Bewildered, not knowing what to do next she looked around the sea of faces, all wide eyed and staring at her, then a voice bellowed from the crowd.

‘Peggy, here I am. What are you doing here?’

She turned as Eddy came through the throng. She felt faint, her knees buckled. He rushed to her as she collapsed into his arms with blood running down her wrist and ankle as well as a trickle down the inside of her thigh that no one could see.

Peggy opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, or what she thought was a ceiling, but it was the underside of a roof twenty or thirty feet above her, with thick wooden rafters going this way and that and, seemingly to Peggy, bobbing from side to side. Her shoulders and body felt the same - moving to and fro. She could smell smoke from a fire and a banging noise like a hammer on steel. The ceiling looked nothing like her house and she began to wonder where she was, but a sharp pain stabbed at her lower abdomen again taking away her thoughts. This time the pain was long and agonizing; she held her belly with both hands and screamed out loud.

‘Jesus!’ said Ned Spellings, a coal handler on the surface of the mine.

Ned held firmly to the handles at the rear of the stretcher and looked down into Peggy’s face. Ned was short and stout and took twice as many steps as the tall man clutching the handles at the front, leading the way.

‘We’ll go through the blacksmiths shop, Ned,’ the tall man, Fraser Middleton, said.

Fraser was a winder operator of twenty years’ experience and drove the twin cages – one up and one down the shaft at the same time - into the thick coal seam nine hundred feet below.

‘She sounds like she’s going to die,’ Ned said.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Eddy said. ‘She’s not going to die.’

Eddy walked alongside the stretcher fully dressed in long pants, a shirt, and an old suit coat – his work clothes, ready to go down the mine. His brown cotton cap, that matched the colour of his hair, had fell off when Peggy collapsed into his arms, so he’d stuffed it into his back pocket.

‘For your sake, I hope not,’ said Ned.

‘What about her sake,’ Eddy said.

Ned felt embarrassed. ‘Well, you know what I -’

Ned stumbled over a length of steel lying on the floor of the blacksmith’s shop and dropped to one knee, jolting the hessian stretcher. Another scream came from Peggy’s mouth as the stretcher split open down one side and her shoulder and her unscathed arm flopped almost to the ground beneath her.

‘Christ,’ said Ned, ‘I told you it wouldn’t make it.’

Eddy reached through the tear and retrieved Peggy’s arm and shoulder. He held her as they approached a door at the end of the shop.

‘It won’t be long, Peg,’ he called to his wife, ‘we’ll have you in the ambulance room in a jiffy.’

Another scream split the air and Ned began to sweat. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘She sounds like my missus when she had a kid.’

‘Look,’ said Eddy. ‘I told you, don’t be so bloody stupid.’

‘I’m not being stupid,’ said Ned. ‘That’s how far apart the constructions were before she dropped it.’

‘Contractions, you clown. Anyway, I’ll drop you in a minute if you keep talking like that. You said she was going to die a minute ago, now you say she’s going to have a baby.’

‘Yeah, well, I may have been wrong the first time, but I’m only telling you what happened to my missus when -’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Eddy and looked in front of them. ‘Can you reach the door Fraser?’

Fraser didn’t have to. There was a rush of footsteps and a young fair-headed boy stepped in front of him.

‘I’ll get it for you, Mr. Middleton.’

‘Thanks Randy,’ Fraser said.

Randy Murdoch had worked in the mine as a gofer and message boy as long as Peggy and Eddy had been in their new house.

Fraser stepped through the doorway of the ambulance room. ‘That’s it boys, gently now, place her on the bed.’

They moved Peggy onto a makeshift, straw-packed leather bed. There were holes in either side with clumps of straw desperately trying to fight their way out. There was blood on the torn stretcher and on Peggy’s skirt and she screamed again, jerking her knees to her chest. In the confines of the small, corrugated iron room, the scream was deafening and the sixteen-year-old Randy Murdoch jumped in fright.

‘Jesus, Mr. Middleton. Is she going to die?’

‘Don’t you start, Randy,’ said Eddy.

‘No, she’s not going to die, son,’ said Fraser, but he kept his fingers crossed.

Eddy took hold of Peggy’s hand. ‘Peg, are you all right?’

He began to worry, maybe Ned and the boy were right; maybe she is going to die.

Peggy looked at him through widening eyes; she was beginning to sweat. ‘Eddie! Eddie! Hold me please.’

‘Yes, Peggy, I’m here.’ He turned to the only ambulance man in the pit. ‘Fraser, can you do anything for her?’

‘It’d be good if I knew what was wrong with her, but I’m not a doctor. I haven’t got the faintest idea.’

‘I told you,’ said Ned. ‘She’s going to have a kid.’

‘Will you shut up,’ said Eddy. ‘Go and ring the doctor for Christ’s sake.’

‘We haven’t got any phones around here. We’ll have to go to the manager’s office.’

‘Okay, and take the bloody stretcher with you too. Show him the tear; he might come to his senses now.’

‘Eddy, it’s moving.’

‘What?’

Eddy looked down at his wife on the bed. ‘It’s moving,’ Peggy repeated.

‘What’s moving?’

‘Eddy, its making me bare down, I can’t help it. Eddy, hold me.’

‘What’s wrong Peg? What’s wrong?’

‘Something is happening to me. Hold me Eddy.’

Her face screwed up in pain and she started to strain and call out loud.

‘Help me, Eddy! Help me, Eddy!’

‘Shit,’ Ned said. ‘It’s on the way, just like my missus.’

‘Christ, Ned,’ said Fraser, ‘I think you’re bloody right.’

Fraser Middleton pointed to the corner of the room where a large enamel bowl sat on a stool.

‘Ned, grab that bowl and fill it with water. Take it out and put it on the blacksmiths forge; we need hot water straight away. Fraser turned and looked at young Randy backing away and shivering in the corner; there was fear in his eyes.

‘Randy, open that cupboard over there and get some clean sheets. I think they’re in the third draw. Then go and get Mrs. Harrington. She’s in the first pit cottage across the yard. Tell her we have a maternity case on our hands.’

‘Yes…yes, Mr. Middleton,’ said Randy, as he fumbled in the draw.

Fraser turned back to the bed against the wall and began to roll up his sleeves. Eddy stood wide-eyed, unable to comprehend what was happening.

‘Get out of the way, Eddy,’ Fraser shouted. ‘Here I come.’

Nine minutes later, amid the smell of disinfectant and drifting forge smoke Roger Frederick Scott came into the world. Fraser swiftly cut and tied the umbilical cord with astute professionalism, while young Roger began to tell everyone in the room what he thought of his first few seconds of life. He was washed in warm water and wrapped in a woollen blanket, then the door opened and Randy rushed into the room.

‘Mrs. Harrington’s coming, Mr. Middleton,’ the young boy said excitedly and stood wide eyed looking at Roger. ‘M…M…Mrs. Harrington’s coming.’

‘Good lad,’ said Fraser.

A woman in her early forties burst into the room; she had been running and was almost breathless.

‘Who’s the miner having the baby,’ she panted. ‘I’d certainly like to see that.’

She wore a winter jacket and her well-groomed hair seemed to bounce as she moved. She looked at the bed and her eyebrows shot up as she saw Peggy, breathing deeply and fluttering her eyelids at the ceiling seemingly in a state of shock. Even in the cold frosty room Peggy was sweating freely and there were nasty gravel rashes down an arm and a leg. Eddy was sitting on a stool beside her, holding her hand, a bewildered look on his face.

Sandra Harrington, wife of the undermanager, looked at Fraser in the centre of the room holding the small infant. ‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yep,’ Fraser said and handed baby Roger to the outstretched arms of his mother.

Sandra Harrington looked at Peggy and the mess on the bed. ‘Leave this to me,’ she said to Fraser. ‘I’ll look after this.’

Fraser looked at Eddy sitting with his eyes glued to his son and his mouth still agape. ‘Thanks, Mrs Harrington, this bloke’s bloody useless.’

With mother and son wrapped warmly in blankets and the infant at last feeling contented, Eddy spoke for the first time. ‘Are you…are you okay, Peg?’

Peggy Scott had calmed somewhat; the pain had eased. ‘Yes, yes, I’m okay; just as surprised as you are, but I’m okay.’

Eddy looked up at Sandra Harrington fussing with the blankets at the bottom of the bed. ‘There was never any sign of the baby,’ Eddy said to her. ‘How come?’

‘It’s not the first time. I’ve seen it before, when I was nursing. It’s unusual, but some baby’s grow in the womb with a minimum of fuss. Obviously yours did.’ She looked at Peggy. ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’

‘Much more comfortable, thank you.’

‘Don’t roll over, will you, or you’ll fall off this blasted bed.’ The undermanager’s wife pushed some straw back into the hole. ‘What happened to your arm and leg?’

Peggy relayed the story of the whistle and the frantic ride on the bike and how she came to grief on the road. ‘I thought it might have been Eddy who was injured,’ she said. ‘I was frightened.’

‘But Peg, we hadn’t even gone down the pit,’ Eddy said. ‘That was the strike whistle. The manager blew it, he’s locked us out.’

‘What for?’

‘Over the stretchers.’

‘What stretchers?’

‘The one we carried you in here on and others like it. They’re old and rotten and ready for the scrap heap, but the manager wouldn’t listen. Now we’ve got proof, you fell through the damn thing.’

‘My, God,’ said Sandra Harrington. ‘You’ve certainly had an incredible morning. I’ll arrange for someone to take you home in the cart when you’re feeling up to it. For the moment, just lay still and rest.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Harrington, you’ve been most kind.’

The undermanager’s wife turned to Fraser washing his hands in a bowl. ‘Don’t thank me; this is the man you need to thank.’

‘Yes, Mr. Fraser,’ said Peggy. ‘Thank you very much.’

Fraser smiled. Ned and Randy crowded the room beside him, grins on their faces.

‘That’s okay, Mrs Scott,’ Fraser said. ‘That’s the third I’ve delivered. But, unlike you, the mothers were showing signs.’

He looked around the room. The sun was peeping through a hole in the corrugated iron wall spearing a shaft of light directly onto the newborn in his blanket. More straw squeezed from the hole in the bed and tumbled to the floor; it was becoming more like a stable than an ambulance room. A man and a boy looked down at the infant, both with beaming smiles. A father sat and stared, still bewildered by the whole ordeal.

‘But you and I made history today, Mrs Scott,’ Fraser added. ‘Your baby was the first I’ve ever known to be born on a mine site. Maybe he’ll return and work here one day.’

Peggy smiled. ‘Thank you again, Mr. Fraser.’

Fraser dried his hands. ‘Fraser is my middle name, Mrs. Scott. Just drop the mister.’

‘Christ,’ said Eddy. ‘I’ve always known you as Fraser. What’s your first name?’

‘Roger, but I’ve always liked Fraser better.’

Eddy looked at his wife with widened eyes. ‘But we don’t, do we Peg?’

Peggy glanced at her husband then smiled, catching his drift. She looked at Fraser. ‘No, we certainly don’t.’ She looked down at her son, then back to Fraser. ‘Do you mind? It will remind us of you and today and the mine.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And yes, Eddy’s father Frederick as well.’

‘By all means,’ said Fraser. ‘I’d be honoured.’

Peggy smiled at her sleeping son, almost lost in the woollen blanket. ‘Then Roger Frederick Scott it is,’ she said.

That was fourteen years ago and now Roger has two sisters, both having announced their arrivals in the usual way. However, all was not well in the Scott camp, as they had not seen their husband and father for almost three years, all because of the war far, far away. Peggy had heard something about an invasion, but the news was scarce and vague. Then word did come and the world of the Scott family came crashing down: Corporal Eddy Scott was killed in action, on the beach in Normandy, France.

Six months went by and, with very little money coming in, they survived like so many other families did: with the help of soup kitchens and handouts. Roger considered himself head of the household now and that meant responsibilities both to his siblings and his mother.

‘I’ll have to leave school mum,’ he told Peggy one day. ‘That’s all there is to it.

I’ll go and work at the pit.’

‘You’re not old enough yet,’ said Peggy. ‘You’ve got to be sixteen.’

‘I’ll go and see Mr. Harrington, he’ll let me in.’

Peggy shook her head. ‘It’s mining rules, you’re too young.’

But