Quarry Lane

By Terence Dillon

Quarry Lane is the lane in which John meets his future girlfriend Vivienne. Their relationship, like the flowers of the lane, blossoms and they look forward to a future of promises. But they reckon without the implications of a mining disaster which leaves Johns father crippled; he is also distraught, as he believes he has been the cause of the accident. The family begins to experience financial difficulties, with the result that John has to leave school and find work before he can complete his sixth form education. This spoils his chances of gaining the place at university that he is so keen to achieve.
The repercussions are also significant for Johns relationship with Vivienne. Her mother, the wife of a bank manager, is strongly opposed to her daughter associating with a miners son. She is devastated by the news that her daughters boyfriend has had to take a job in the local mine and seemingly committed himself to a life in the red brick rows of a mining village. Determined to break up John and Viviennes relationship, she persuades her husband to send Vivienne abroad to a finishing school.
The story explores sensitively the tough life of a Yorkshire mining family in the 1950s and how John strives to fulfil his responsibilities to his family. At the same time he seeks to overcome the opposition of Viviennes mother to his relationship with her daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481785808

Terence Dillon

Terry Dillon was born in a mining village in Yorkshire of a mining family. He left the village to do his National Service when he was nineteen, returned for a short while and then left to marry. He continued to take pride in his roots, however, and promised himself that one day he would write a story that encapsulated the spirit of the mining village and the people who lived in it – a story of the loyalties, the hardships, and the rivalries that epitomise the lives of those in such small knit communities. His most recent book, ‘Quarry Lane’, is the outcome. Dillon’s career has been in education. He has been a teacher, a senior lecturer in higher education, one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors, and an educational consultant. He has worked with national governments in Eastern Europe, South Africa and the Caribbean as well as with the Independent Schools Inspection Service in England. In recent years he has worked closely with the Education Service of the Archdiocese of Birmingham. Dillon’s previous books have been Light Me a Candle, his recollections of a bicycle journey through France, and his first novel, The King’s Beacon, the story of the tension between a difficult pupil and a young teacher.

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© 2013 by Terence Dillon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/07/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8578-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8579-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8580-8 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 1

S uddenly, a piercing siren blasted through the morning air. It came from the direction of the pit.

John and Michael were at the bus stop listening to Mrs Waldron and Joe Hodgson comment on the weather. They were saying how the unusually hot sunshine had brought a sultry calmness to the often busy streets of the village and to the town to which they were heading.

The siren’s wail acted like a clarion call to those hidden within brick walls and wooden doors. Suddenly, the whole village sparked into life. Doors opened, people appeared, and chattering groups gathered.

John, as a young child, had heard the siren only once or twice, during the war. The siren warned the villagers of an impending raid by enemy aircraft. To his knowledge, the attacks had never materialised, and despite their rush to the sanctuary of the brick shelters, the villagers had been left in peace. He had never heard the siren since.

He noticed that Mrs Waldron and Joe had suddenly stopped talking. They were looking up at the pit with the unease that accompanies concern.

‘What’s that?’ said a startled Mrs Waldron.

‘It’s t’pit siren. I hope to God it’s not what it could be,’ replied Joe, his voice betraying alarm. ‘There might be a problem.’ It was as though he was trying to forecast, mentally, what was to follow.

‘Oh please, God, no,’ whispered Mrs Waldron. A look of consternation spread across her face.

John turned to Michael with a puzzled look. Michael raised his eyebrows, opened his eyes wide, pushed up his bottom lip, and stretched out his arms in such a way that he did not have to say, I’ve no idea what the problem is. Pearl and Simon, John’s younger sister and brother, continuing to play a game known only to them, showed little interest in the siren’s blast or the conversation in which their brother was involved.

‘What’s happening, Mrs Waldron? Why d’you think the siren has sounded?’ asked John, turning to Mrs Waldron, his growing concern becoming almost perceptible in the tone of his voice.

Before Mrs Waldron could gather her thoughts to answer, Joe interjected, ‘It could be an accident at t’pit. It’s the way they let t’village know if there’s som’at wrong. I’ve not heard it for years. Let’s hope it’s being used for a different purpose.’ But the knowing look, the mien of a man who had worked underground, did not disappear from his face.

This being Saturday, John should have been with his friends at the pictures. He had passed the queue as he returned from a morning walk with his close friend Michael. Another of his friends, Ron, had called across to him, ‘John, are you coming to t’flicks? It’s a double feature—Buster Keaton and Lassie.’

‘I’d love to,’ John had shouted back, ‘but mi’ mum’s coming from Westfield with some shopping. I promised to help her off t’bus.’

‘What time will that be?’ had shouted Johnny Winters, who was queuing next to Ron.

‘Twelve, half-past—I’m not sure, but I need to be there.’

‘Fair enough,’ Ron had responded. Both Ron and Johnny, anxious not to lose their places in the pushing and shoving queue, had then turned to face the box office. The lads had enough experience of those Saturday morning queues to know they had to concentrate if they were to keep their places and get one of the prized seats inside the cinema.

John and Michael had continued on their way through the village back to the house. They were disappointed they could not join their friends. Saturday morning pictures were the weekend highlight for them and the rest of the children of the village. Other forms of entertainment were usually limited to the street games they played or a trip to the Westfield swimming baths.

As they had been walking alongside each other earlier that morning down Quarry Lane, their conversation had naturally wandered to the Saturday morning picture show.

‘I don’t suppose you know what’s on this morning?’ It was Michael who asked the question. A lad of fifteen, he’d been a friend of John’s for as long as he could remember. It was as though they were joined at the hip. They shared the same interests, laughed at the same things, and were never happier than when jaunting along with each other.

‘I love Saturday morning flicks. But there’s no chance of us being there today.’

‘Nope,’ John had answered. Like Michael, he was disappointed. ‘I’ve no idea what’s on.’

Since they were very young, John and Michael had joined other children in anticipation of seeing films especially shown for youngsters. To them, this was what cinemas were for. The Plaza stood for excitement, mystery, romance, and even fear. It was on Saturday mornings that they laughed at the likes of The Three Stooges and Laurel and Hardy, spurred on Gene Autry and Hopalong Cassidy as they dealt with bandits in the Wild West, and cringed into the backs of their seats as they watched Dracula at some pretty woman’s throat.

Long queues could be expected by ten o’clock on Saturday mornings, and, on occasions, there was angry pushing and shoving as youngsters rivalled one another for the best seats. It was on one such occasion that John had earned his spurs. He had challenged and successfully taken on Mick Downey, a boy a year older, because of his attempts to displace two younger picture-goers. John had ended up with a bloody nose and a sore lip, but he had successfully forced Downey to accept defeat and return to the back of the queue. He had been surprised at the speed with which the skin above Downey’s eyes had swollen and then split to reveal blood that seeped down his cheeks. Those queuing had gathered round to urge on John against the known bully. They cheered when Downey made off, wiping the blood away with the sleeve of his coat. Some turned to pat John on the back. Henceforth, John was a lad to be respected.

On this Saturday, John and Michael had a new responsibility. Their fathers were both at work, and so it had become the responsibility of the two fifteen-year-olds to help their mothers off the bus from Westfield.

As they had time, they had headed back to John’s house, which was fairly close to the bus stop. John’s brother and sister were just getting up when John led Michael through the back door. Pearl, who was eight, and four-year-old Simon were being looked after by Mrs Denning, the next-door neighbour.

‘Where’ve you been, John?’ asked Pearl.

‘I’ve been for a walk with Michael. We went down Quarry Lane and through Dunne’s Wood.’

‘Mum’s at Westfield, Mrs Denning says.’

‘Yep,’ said John unconcernedly as he poured some orange juice for Michael and himself. ‘She’s gone shopping to Westfield wi’ Michael’s mum.’ He took a good swallow of orange juice. ‘We’ve to go down to t’bus stop to help them wi’ t’shopping. We’ve just nipped in to see how you were, to have a drink, and to spend a bit of time before going to t’bus stop.’

‘Glad you’re back, John. I’ll leave Pearl and Simon with you. I need to get back home because I’m expecting our Jane this morning.’ Mrs Denning pushed herself off the settee with the aid of her walking stick and limped her way towards the back door.

As if on a signal, as the door behind Mrs Denning closed, Simon had appeared through the door at the bottom of the staircase at the other end of the sitting room, half-dressed and with eyes still carrying the torpor of sleep.

‘Where’s Mum and where’s mi’ breakfast?’ he had asked as he had walked across the living room in the direction of the sitting room table.

‘Look. Have some cornflakes. There’s milk in t’pantry. Mum’ll be home soon. Pearl’ll sort you out.’

John was used to Simon’s first morning request and knew what he would be looking for. He was a chubby little fellow with fair hair that curled around his ears rather like that of a Hans Christian Andersen protagonist. The youngest of the three children, he had been overindulged by his parents; he expected everything to be ready for him.

‘Mum’s gone to Westfield shopping. When she gets back I’m sure she’ll have something for our dinner. Then you can do your usual and eat as much as you want.’

John had left him to it and called out, ‘Will you be okay, Pearl? We’re going to bring Mum.’

‘Hang on a minute and we’ll come with you.’

She had then turned to sort out breakfast for herself and Simon. John had been far from delighted with the suggestion; he knew what a pain Simon could be, and he had in mind a quick visit to the co-operative for a bar of chocolate for himself and Michael. Instead, while Pearl had organised some breakfast for herself and Simon on the living room table, John had taken Michael into the kitchen. There was just enough time to play a quick game of blow football. He had quickly spread the green cloth, marked out as a football pitch, across the kitchen table and given Michael one of the two tubes through which the players blew to control the ball. In line with the rules of the game, they took it in turns to blow. In this way each could steer the plastic ball towards the other’s goal. In a game between such good friends, however, the desire to win overcame patience and rules. John and Michael took to blowing as often as they could. On occasions, the ball was stuck between the two tubes, both tubes pressing hard against it. This resulted from both the boys trying to get as close as possible to the ball. They had still been seeking their first goal when Simon, with the remains of his toast and flakes around his mouth, had walked into the kitchen.

‘Can I play?’

‘We’re in the middle of a game,’ John had hurriedly blurted out between the bursts of air he was driving through the tube.

‘Orr… go on, let’s play,’ Simon had persisted.

‘In a minute.’ And then, in frustration, John had moaned, ‘Just look what you’ve done.’ He had taken his eyes off the ball, distracted by Simon’s persistence, and Michael had taken the opportunity to blast the plastic ball into his goal.

‘I win,’ Michael had shouted as though he had just won the World Cup.

‘Typical, Simon. Anyway, it’s time for us to go.’

As John had thrown down his blow tube, Simon had snatched it up and begun blowing the ball in all directions. He had no plan like the two elder boys. Simon had simply blasted the ball in any direction. When it fell onto the floor, he had to scramble after it like a kitten after a ball of wool and then place it back onto the table to begin again.

Pearl had joined her brother, and, with Simon being pulled along, the four of them had headed to the bus stop. It was at the bottom of a bank that ran down from the pit club. The bank was used by the lads and girls of the village for sledging during winter. It was dangerous, and they knew it. It ran straight onto the main road. The right foot had to be used expertly to turn the direction of the sledge in time. Otherwise, the risk of ending up in the middle of the road was real. John had seen this happen, but fortunately, in those cases, there had been no traffic and so no harm was done. Even so, there were stories of boys and girls in earlier times having had less fortunate finales to their rides. Those stories hardly raised a worry among the children, as, during the winter months, they took advantage of what snow and ice had to offer.

Once they had reached the bus stop, John had taken up a position leaning against the post that announced the stop. Michael had seated himself on the grassy bank nearby whilst Pearl and Simon entertained themselves close by him. This was where the children were when the siren sounded. Mrs Waldron and Joe Hodgson were close by John.

Mrs Waldron was a smartish woman who was a bit older than John’s mother. She lived with her husband in a house three rows below theirs. They had no children and were known to live a quiet life in a village where everybody seemed to know everyone else’s business—or if they didn’t, they certainly tried to find out by talking about it. This warm morning, she wore a light dress and cardigan. She was wearing sandals, which revealed toenails painted in red varnish. John’s eyes had been drawn to them as he reached the bus stop, and he wondered, whimsically, how women managed to reach down far enough to colour their nails. Then he thought of his own toenails, particularly the black and jagged one on his big toe that was the result of playing football without proper footwear.

The other person, Joe Hodgson, John knew to be a plumber. He was obviously on his way to a job. He was in blue, stained overalls and the typical flat cap of the worker. If he had been out for pleasure, he would more likely have been sporting the smarter trilby. By his side he had placed his bag of tools. The nozzle of a blow torch, along with the handle of what could have been a chisel, was sticking out of a hole at the side of the well-worn bag.

At the sound of the siren, all except Pearl and Simon, who had now found a stick with which they were irritating a worm, looked up in the direction of the pit. John had the feeling that almost everyone in the now-roused village was looking in the same direction.

Women in pinafores with scarves hurriedly tied around their necks and heads were drifting into small groups, some with arms folded more in unease than for comfort, anxiety spread across their faces. They were conversing in what John identified, from a distance, as little more than whispers. Men, too, were gathering, probably more aware of what may be happening than their wives. Almost all had managed to snatch their caps, in habit rather than to protect themselves from the sun. All worked in the mine, and all were acquainted with its dangers.

John was disturbed by the changed mood prompted by the siren. As he raised his eyes up and beyond the grassy bank on which Michael was sitting, he saw, not for the first time, how the mine overshadowed the whole village. He could see the huge wheels of the gantry stretching towards the sky. Around them wound the steel wires that he knew bore the cage in which the men, like internees heading to some mysterious destination, were transported down the pit shaft. Throughout the three shifts a day, whilst the men worked underground, the wheels continued to turn, blindly conveying to the surface coal, stone, and all else that had been extracted from the various seams underground. The reliance placed on those thin-looking wires amazed those who knew little of the miner’s life. But John, like everyone in the village, normally gave them no special thought. He trusted them.

John could also distinguish the tunnel of corrugated iron that bore what had been extracted from the cage to its next destination. Here, the men on the pit top, usually former miners who had spent their best days underground but now hobbled or coughed their way from one work station to the next, had the job of separating the useful from the useless. The good coal was washed and sent by truck or rail to its various destinations. What remained was either converted into coke, the smell and dust of the process foully contaminating the air of the village, or sent as slag to the ever-growing pit tip. Inevitably, the mines excreted much more than the eagerly sought ‘black gold’.

Beyond the wheels, John could see the huge stacks that signified a coal mine and the mounds of gases and fire covered with cooled ash and dirt that disfigured the once-beautiful countryside. They gave the appearance of solidity, and solid they were, until some unfortunate found that patch of thin crust not strong enough to bear a human. Then there was tragedy. John had heard stories, whether true or not, of people slipping through the exterior ash into the ‘fire’ below. He had been warned often by his father of the dangers of going up onto the tips, though he knew of other lads who were undaunted by the stories. John sometimes marvelled at how much he had learned, as a youngster, from the stories passed on by the villagers. Things may have been written in books by learned men, but oral communication within the village was the truth that mattered, even though it sometimes had to be tested.

The tips, as they were fittingly called by the locals, rose behind the buildings designed to support the miners in their work: one room held long rows of keyed lockers containing the miners’ coarse, dust-filled clothes and hardened helmets; another provided the essential lamps, oil, and batteries used by the miners to light up the dark, forbidding underground tunnels; and a third contained what were called the pit baths but which in fact were no more than lines of open showers to enable the men to wash away the black stains of their work.

Across the concrete yard, dirty from coal dust and the muddied wheels of the many trucks that passed that way, were the offices that housed what were called the mine’s staff. Here, the administrators and their secretaries, the surveyors, the electricians, various other officials, and the mine manager centred their endeavours.

It struck John, as he looked upwards, that almost everything around him existed because of that dominating feature. The main road and the main-line railway passed this way because the mine needed access to transport; the families were here because the mine had to have workers; and the houses were here because the workers needed homes. Whatever else was in the village—shops, public houses, the athletics field, and the Plaza—was there to ensure that the mine workers would have the wherewithal they needed, but only to an extent that would not distract them from their daily task in the mine. Everything had a utility. If the siren was threatening what Mrs Waldron feared and Joe Hodgson suspected, John could not help but wonder why the mine could be so cruel to those who served it.

At the moment that the second siren sounded, the doors of the bus from Westfield slid open. John’s mother, with two big bags full of her shopping, began to struggle down the bus steps. John moved forward quickly and took one of the bags from her, allowing her to steady herself on the metal bar in the doorway. She then half-turned to place her right leg on the causeway before bringing down her left leg, securing her footing, and releasing the bar. She turned to John and offered him the other bag but then suddenly stood up straight, stiffened, and, like everybody else, looked up towards the pit. Her face shared the anxiety that was spreading through the village. Like a wave that unexpectedly crashes over a sea wall enveloping all those sheltering on the other side, the siren’s second call had enveloped everyone in the village.

‘Come on, John, we’ve to get home quickly,’ urged his mother. ‘Your dad’s on special shift today. Cheerio, Shirley,’ she called to Michael’s mother as Michael went to repeat the process just carried out by John.

It was clear that John’s mother needed the sanctuary of her own home and the security of the familiar to help her prepare for the anxieties coursing through her mind. To her, as to the other women who had men on special shift this Saturday morning, the siren signalled fear.

Helen was a caring mother and loving wife. She had a softness of manner that manifested itself in the way she treated her children and related to all those who knew her. Within her, however, was a strand of steel rather like the inner lining of a scabbard, which emerged at times of trouble. It enabled her to overcome anxieties and respond with a calmness admired by others. She was the one who had organised soup for the striking miners, preventing them caving in before the intransigence of the owners in the post-war strike, and the one who had supported Matthew so well at the time of the coronation celebrations. Today, despite the hurry, she displayed the same steadfastness.

‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ asked John as they hurried home. ‘Why are we in a rush? The siren’s not that serious is it?’ John had still not persuaded his mind to believe that the wailing siren signalled disaster.

Helen had no such doubts. ‘The siren’s there to warn us that there’s been an accident, son. Something’s happened. That’s why it makes that horrible sound. We have to get home. We need time to prepare for whatever’s happened.’

What Helen said expressed something of her inner fears. She had to quickly drill her mind into a state to be able to cope with any unforeseen eventuality. She did not try to explain it to John but simply added, ‘We’ll have to wait. Time will tell us what’s happened.’

The rush continued until they reached home. Helen put her bags inside, took off her coat, put on her pinafore, tied her headscarf tightly around her chin, and joined her neighbours, Mrs Denning, Mrs Hardcastle, and Mrs Foster, by the step. John observed them in earnest discussion, conversing with a seriousness somewhat different to the banal chats in which they were mostly engaged. His antenna picked up odd words and phrases such as ‘accident’, ‘how serious?’ ‘who else is in the pit?’ and ‘why two siren blasts?’. It was clear that nobody had any answers, but everybody had plenty of questions.

John himself began to be anxious as the women’s unease infiltrated his own thinking and induced deeper awareness. His concern for his father’s well-being began to mount.

Pearl and Simon now joined him on the step. They had taken a more leisurely walk home. As soon as they arrived, they began to ask the questions to which there were, as yet, no answers. As was the case throughout the village, the gaze of these young children was drawn towards the pit and, in particular, the wheels of the deep shaft.

Are they turning? The question was on everyone’s mind as all looked for some hope.

CHAPTER 2

U nbeknown to John and the rest of those above ground, a good deal of activity was taking place below. The overman, Max Williams, who had been checking the state of the tub rails a distance from the face, had been suddenly startled by a huge noise that reverberated down the confined tunnel. It was followed by a rushing roar of air contaminated by dust that coated him as he squeezed himself against the hard wall. It could have blown him off his feet. Once it had passed, he had run and stumbled along the tunnel until he had met the wall of rock. Aghast by what had confronted him, he had cupped his hands around his mouth, expanded his lungs, and screamed out, ‘Matthew’ once, twice, three times. There was no response.

What the hell’s happened? Why don’t they answer? Christ, I’ve got to get some help. Shaken by what he had found, he had turned and had made his way from the coal face and down the main gallery to the pit bottom as fast as he could. From here, he had telephoned the pit manager and, in a tone that betrayed both anxiety and controlled foreboding, had reported, ‘Stan, there’s a major problem. The lads on the face have had a huge roof fall. I can’t get to ‘em. When I heard the blast I got down t’gallery as fast as I could but was held back by dust. It filled the whole tunnel. I just had to wait. Christ, when I managed to get down there, it wa’ blocked by solid rock. I shouted but got no response. We need some rescue support as quick as possible.’

Max knew that the men on special shift had been preparing the face for Monday. Their job, a dangerous one, was to loosen the coal and rock on the main face in order to ease the work of the colliers. To do this they had to use explosives. John’s father, Matthew, was deputy and had responsibility for this section of the pit. It was his job to make sure that the Monday morning shift could get on with hewing the coal as quickly as possible. As they were on piecework and were only paid for the number of tubs they filled, they would not thank him if everything was not ready for them.

Trained in blasting in preparation for becoming a deputy, Matthew had done as he always did: he had a hole drilled, filled it with explosive powder, cleared the men from the area of the expected explosion, hooked up the cable, and pressed the lever. As anticipated, there was a flash and the sound of loosened rock and coal, but then without warning the whole area resounded with frightening vibrations. The miners stood as if transfixed. The splintering of the pit props issued a further warning, but before anyone could move, the roof of the face collapsed. It buried Matthew and Bill Walker, who was still holding the drill, in rock and dust. It cut them and their work mates off from the main tunnel as well as the secondary tunnel. With both routes blocked, there was no escape.

Everybody who worked in a mine knew the dangers of blasting. No matter what care was taken, there was always risk. Gas infiltrated through the tiniest of clefts in rock or coal. The leakage could be so slight as to be undetectable. Smell, a Davy lamp, or even a canary, rarely used anymore in the fifties, would fail to expose its presence. On this occasion, without the knowledge of any of the men who were now trapped, a small pocket of methane had escaped from a narrow crack in the roof. It had lodged itself between the rock and an angled roof support. Once Matthew pressed the lever, it had responded as methane does to a flashing flame. The ensuing deafening blast had been the result of the crashing roof. It was this that had led to Max’s mad dash down the tunnel to the face. What he discovered led to his call to the pit top. In its turn, this had signalled the siren into its baleful warning and engulfed the village with anxiety.

The pit manager, Stan Holmes, was in touch with his rescue teams immediately. He knew, however, that it would take time for them to organise. It was not only his experience that told him. He had, like all mine managers, attended training on how to respond in the event of such a cataclysm. Along with others, he had assembled at headquarters in Westfield and gone through the procedures: who to phone, how to prepare for the arrival of the rescue teams, and what to do in the period before their arrival.

The training had, Stan thought, been useful; he also found it enjoyable. Despite its seriousness, there had been the inevitable joking and chitchat among the attendees. Rarely did they get such opportunities to exchange views or reel out stories to amuse their colleagues. Inadvertently, the training almost became secondary. Nevertheless, the lectures, discussion groups, and practical activities were not wasted. Holmes knew he had to alert local rescue teams and let the area coal board know; he also knew that he had to get in touch with the