Dahn t' Pit

By Christopher Webster

Dahn t' Pit is the complete trilogy in one volume. It tells the story of a Yorkshire miner and his sweetheart in the years before the First World War. In Book 1, Bag Muck, young Tom Brocklesby starts work at the age of 12 as a trapper in Cadeby Colliery. He overcomes his terror of the pit and makes plans to get a better job by going to Night School. His self-improvement is noticed by Gertie Holdsworth, a Sunday School teacher, and soon they are walking out together – but their plans are set back by the Bag Muck strike and its appalling consequences. In Book 2, Big Smoke, Tom goes to London to train as an inspector of mines and his eyes are opened to a wider world. Gertie has troubles of her own when a friend of her employer tries to seduce her. In Book 3, Firedamp! Tom, a newly-qualified inspector of mines, is involved in the Cadeby Colliery disaster of 1912. Although the main characters in this trilogy are fictional, the events of the Bag Muck strike of 1902-3, and the Cadeby Colliery Disaster of 1912, which form the background to the story, are historical and are based on oral history passed down through the author's family, backed up by careful research.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EKP
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224871407

Christopher Webster

Christopher Webster was brought up in Conisbrough, which is famous for its well-preserved castle. The castle and its link with Hengest provided the inspiration for this book. Another inspiration was studying English at university, particularly the study of Anglo-Saxon. His first publication was Poetry Through Humour and Horror. This was followed by many more educational publications including the best selling 100 Literacy Hours and study notes on Christina Rossetti and Ezra Pound. His writing about Conisbrough includes The Castle Trilogy, Coal Dust Kisses, four books of short stories and and Conisbrough Tales, which he describes as ‘a Canterbury Tales’ for Conisbrough. He also writes in other genres, such as Poetry, Regency Romance and Science Fiction under a range of pen-names. He is currently living in Laken and teaching in a European School.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Among the group of men and boys assembled round the pit top of Cadeby Main Colliery that day in late June 1899, were Tom, a boy of twelve years old, and Dick, his elder brother. Dick was an old hand in the mine and was looking out for his younger brother who was about to make his first descent. Dick was only two years old than Tom, but he was indistinguishable from the men, except perhaps that he was a little shorter in stature and was still unable to grow the moustache that was the hall mark of a mature man. His overalls were worn and though recently washed, were grimy with ingrained coal dust, and he wore his cap at a jaunty angle, pulled low over his brow, perhaps to conceal his smooth, boyish, forehead.

Tom looked every inch the new boy. His overalls, though not new, were spotlessly clean, and hung on him awkwardly, which is not surprising, because it was the first time that he had worn long trousers of any kind. His cap was too big for him, and only served to emphasise his small head, which still had more of the child about it than the man. Though he was doing his best to be nonchalant, he wore that look of wonderment that can be seen in the eyes of newborn babies, when they look at this strange world for the first time. The difference was that it was mixed with fear.

Art tha scared, lad? said Dick, noticing his expression.

A bit, confessed Tom. He would have admitted it to nobody else, though the older men in the group looked at him sympathetically enough. They remembered all too well their own first days ‘dahn t’ pit’.

Aye, well, tha’ll be all reet. Once tha’s got t’ first day over, it ain’t so bad.

Dick had already taken Tom to sign on and get his check number, and they were now in a large group of miners heading across the yard towards the lamp house.

Cadeby Main was similar to any other large colliery. It was a large area between Cadeby Cliffs and the River Don, which had once been an area of great natural beauty, praised by the Yorkshire historian, Hunter. Now it was disfigured by a vast array of ugly, grimy buildings around which railway lines snaked in all directions. These were owned by the colliery and worked by two steam locomotives called Smoky Bill and Sooty Ben, which were powered by vertical cylinders and rods not unlike those of Stephenson’s Locomotion and had a similar top speed – 5 mph. Alongside the colliery sidings lay the Great Central Railway main line and Conisbrough Station, with its own array of sidings, goods sheds and engine sheds, adding to the blight on the landscape. The colliery buildings were dominated by an enormous chimney and two pitheads, lofty scaffoldings of iron beams, supporting huge, spoked wheels, one for the downcast shaft, and one for the upcast shaft. The downcast shaft is the one through which the air descends into the mine. It is driven by fans through the workings, and comes up through the upcast shaft. The movement of the air below ground is regulated by a series of doors – a subject on which Tom was soon to be an expert. Cynics might have compared this sprawling monstrosity to Moloch, the god to which the Canaanites gave their children in propitiatory sacrifice. Today’s sacrifices were Tom, and two schoolfriends, Adrian and Graham – or Adey and Gazza as they were popularly known.

His brother led him across the grimy yard to the lamp room, where each miner received a lighted Marsaut Safety Lamp, referred to as ‘Eccles’ lamps’ by the miners, because of the large manufacturer’s label above the glass. The principle of this lamp is that flame will not pass through a close wire gauze. The flame is surrounded with this gauze, and the gauze prevents the flame from exploding the gas-charged air outside. The lamp also serves as a warning, since when gas is present, the flame will flare up to twice its size. The gas in question is methane, though miners call it ‘firedamp’, and it was a particular hazard at Cadeby due to the gaseous nature of the Barnsley seam. It was for this reason that, though coal-cutting machinery was available in 1900, coal from Cadeby Main, and the nearby Denaby Main, was ‘hand got’ with a pick axe, or to give it its proper name, a ‘mattock’, a mattock having shorter blades than a pick axe and thus being more suitable for hewing coal in confined spaces.

It was now time to descend into the pit. Dick led Tom into the cage with about a dozen other men. Now, a cage is not a lift – not that Tom had ever been in a lift – the banksman raises the cage slightly off its checks, and then removes the brake, effectively dropping the cage down the shaft. The only hindrance to its fall being the drag of the cable and the occasional touches against the guide rails on the side of the shaft. As a result, miners are practically weightless as they drop to the pit bottom. They say you never quite get used to it, and for a new boy it is the first terrifying experience of many. When the cage nears the bottom the banksman applies the brake gradually, which puts enormous strain on the cable, and though it had not yet happened at Cadeby, there were horror stories of cables snapping at other pits.

Hold tight to the rails, Tom, said Dick.

An’ dunna shit theesen!

This sneering remark came from a youth, not much older than Tom, called Jimmy Hardcastle, or Hardy for short. He had left school the year before Tom, and everyone, teachers and pupils alike, had been glad to see the back of him. You only had to look at his twisted, snarling features to see what he was like. The thought of what was about to face was bad enough for Tom, and Hardy’s taunts made it worse. However, he was comforted when he saw the tense, white faces of his two school friends, and knew that they were feeling the same way.

Then Tom heard a screech, and he began to feel heavy. The banksman was applying the brakes, and soon after, they reach the pit bottom. It was brightly lit, with the new electric light, and a few yards from the shaft was a small office where Sam Webster, the deputy, was organizing his shift. Dick took Tom to the office, and said to Sam, What’s tha got for our young ’un?

He’s wanted as a trapper. Tek him to No. 16 gate.

‘Trapper’ – to Tom, it sounded romantic. It reminded him of the stories he had read in The Boy’s Own Paper of Canadian trappers wearing fox-tail hats hunting for beavers in the Canadian Rockies. But it turned out to be the very opposite; one of the most boring jobs imaginable – a bob a day for duin’ nowt! the deputy had called it. Nevertheless, Tom was envious of Adey, who had been sent to work with the ponies. Gazza was set on task of the clearing up, which meant shoveling up the coal that had dropped from the tubs.

Dick led the way down the tunnel, or road as it was called. It was not long before the bright lights at the pit bottom were a distant memory and they only had the light of their Eccles’ lamps, and they were far from bright. All that gauze, and the small area of glass meant that they gave out a poor light at the best of times. The light was not dim enough, however, to conceal the dirt and danger. They walked along a railway track stepping from one slippery sleeper to the next. Pools of water lay between them and often covered them, and blocks of coal of all sizes, which had shaken from the tubs, lay in the road.

See them manholes, said Dick.

Tom looked down. To him, a manhole was a round hole in the street with a metal cover, down which a man could go to clean the drains.

No. At t’ side, said Dick, nodding to the side of the tunnel.

Tom looked, saw that every few yards a recess had been hollowed out.

Listen for t’ tubs, an’ when tha hears ’em, dive in one o’ them manholes, or tha’ll get flattened!

They passed through several gates, each with a number stenciled on it. At last they came to No. 16.

This is thy pog, said Dick. All tha has ter do is sit in that manhole and pull this cord whenever tha hears a train of tubs coming along. The cord goes over that pulley and opens t’ gate. When it’s gone through, it’s thy business to see that it has shut, for if the ventilation gus wrong then we’re all dead – thee included!"

Tom always liked to know exactly how things worked, if people would take the trouble to explain, and in answer to his question, Dick explained that the air that came down the downcast shaft was blown through the mine by a Schiele fan, 21 feet in diameter, and these doors, or traps, ensured that the air went the right way, until eventually it found its way to the upcast shaft. If the air was not properly directed, the men would be starved of fresh air, and there could be a dangerous build-up of firedamp.

So mek sure tha stays awake!

What if ah fall asleep?

Tha’ll get waked wi’ a cuff rahnd thy ear!

Ah’ll stay awake, then.

Tha’d better.

Dick knew that it was time for him to get on to the coal face, so he said, a little more gently, Dunna worry. Tha’ll be all reet. See yer.

Tom’s eyes followed the circle of dim light that surrounded his brother, until it faded to nothing, and he was left alone in bowels of the earth with only his own Eccles lamp for company. He felt lonelier than he had ever felt in his life. He felt far away from the light and life of the world above, and his home on Crow Lane, where his mother would be getting Harry ready for school while granddad kept an eye on his baby sister, Frances. He even felt far away from his fellow miners. Dick had gone, and only an immense silence reigned – no, not silence, there was a low rumbling. What was that? Colliers at the coal face? Movement of the ancient rocks? The rumbling grew louder, and another sound accompanied it; the sound of horse’s shoves clopping on the sleepers. He had just realized that he was listening to a train of tubs when he heard a voice shout: Gate! and automatically pulled the cord.

The gate opened and a young miner, known as a ‘trammer’, came through, leading a pony pulling two tubs. He was taking the tubs to a central point called ‘The Flats’ where they would be made up into a longer train and pulled by larger horses to the pit eye. Driving the longer trains was a man’s job, but the job of trammer was given to older lads as the next step after being a trapper. Tom recognized Jack, one of the boys he had known at Morley Place School, and a friend of the family.

’Ey up, Tom, said Jack.

’Ey up, Jack, said Tom, trying to sound cheerful. In fact, he really did feel a lot better for the sight of his old schoolmate.

First day, eh?

Aye.

Not ter worry, there’s plenty wus jobs than thine. Did Dick bring thee?

Aye.

How’s your Doris?

All reet. She’ll be startin’ as a maid at Crookhill Hall soon.

Oh aye? Well, that’s not so far. Ah shall see ’er around then.

And with that, he geed up his horses and was gone.

Tom, having no interest in girls himself, failed to notice Jack’s interest in his sister. He was too pleased at having seen an old friend, and the thought that he could exchange a few words with every passing trammer cheered him up considerably. Not that they passed very often. A trammer has to help to put the coal in the tubs at the face and help to couple up the tubs into a longer train at the Flats. Nevertheless, it would be enough to prevent him feeling lonely, though there was one trammer he did not look forward to – Hardcastle was a trammer and he made sure of making himself unpleasant.

Gate! he shouted in a harsh voice.

Tom pulled the cord and the gate opened, but Hardcastle shouted, Too slow! Why, I’ve a good mind to give yer a clip round the ear ’ole!

Unlike the others, he didn’t pause for a quick chat, and was through the gate, and gone in a moment, leaving Tom to drift off into the semi-trancelike state in which he spent most of the day.

It was hard to tell, sometimes, whether he was asleep or awake, and it didn’t matter, because the telltale rumbling always awoke in time to pull the cord and – unless it was Hardcastle – exchange a few friendly words.

He dreamed or daydreamed about his childhood; about his first day at school – that first of first days (well, he couldn’t remember being born). His mum took him to the classroom and after hugging him and saying goodbye, asked him if I wanted an apple. He said no. The moment she had gone, he wanted the apple – well, it was mum he wanted really – just like today. But today was his first day of being a man, though he didn’t feel like one. Time to stop wanting his mum every time he felt hurt!

His mind drifted back to that first day at school. The teacher showed him where to sit down and then the lesson began. This consisted of singing the alphabet to a tune he didn’t know. He knew the alphabet because his mum had taught him to read before starting school, but he couldn’t see the point of singing it. The tune resounded in his head, and he couldn’t get rid of it until another cheery shout snapped him out of his reverie.

Drifting off again, he remembered a little notebook in which he kept names of dinosaurs. He had become quite an expert on dinosaurs and the epoch in which they lived – Triassic, Jurassic. Well, here he was, so far away from everything that he might as well have been in the Carboniferous era when the coal was laid down. That train of thought led him on to another memory.

There was a brickyard near Clifton Hill, and on Sunday afternoons, when work had stopped, he used to like to play down there with his friend, Adey. That also, was like going back into the Carboniferous Age, but as it was millions of years ago, above ground and in the light – not like this fossilized blackness. Down the brickyard they were surrounded by primitive plants such as ferns and reeds, and they spent their time hunting amphibians such as frogs and newts. He remembered how they had developed a special technique for swamp-walking, which was to use the clumps of reeds like stepping-stones. Unfortunately, reeds are not as firm as stones, and they usually ended up thigh deep in slime. This was his mother’s greatest complaint about him going to the brickyard – getting mudded up – which of course, meant more washing. The real danger was the instability of the brickyard walls, which were forever crumbling, resulting in dangerous avalanches.

The thought of avalanches, along with a rumbling sound, jerked him awake – another train was coming! He pulled the door open just in time. It was Hardcastle again, and he was in a bad mood.

Been asleep, I bet! Well, this’ll wake yer up!

He threw a chunk of coal at Tom, who was able to avoid physical hurt by ducking, but couldn’t avoid the emotional hurt. Here he was, all alone in the bowels of the earth, and he had to put up with a bully on top of everything else.

Fortunately, the next trammer was his old friend, Jack.

It’s lunchtime, he said, Time to ate thy snap – if tha’s got any.

I ’ave, said Tom, holding up his snap tin with a friendly grin.

His mother had packed his snap tin with bread and dripping and an apple. The apple brought a tear to his eye as he remembered that apple she had given him on his first day at school. She had also given him a Tizer bottle full of cold tea.

Tom felt a lot better after his snap and decided to keep his spirits up by thinking of something other than nostalgic memories. He had seen a harmonium in a junk shop on West Street and the man had said he would let him have it for 5/-. When he asked his dad about it, he had replied, Does tha think ah’ve got five bob to waste on junk! Tha’ll mess about wi’ it for a week, an’ then tha’ll gi’ it up, and it’ll be good for nowt but firewood!

He began to think about ways of changing his mind. By payday he would have the princely sum of 2/6 – that was half the price! By next payday, he could afford it! That’s if his mum agreed to let him keep the money. Well, why not? She didn’t need it. His father and brother were both working down the pit, and Doris had just started work as a maid. It was worth a try. That cheered him up so much, that when Dick came along to collect him at the end of the shift, he was quite surprised to see a smile on his brother’s face.

Well, ah’m glad to see tha’s enjoyed theesen, he said.

Oh, it was all reet. It’s like yer said. Nowt to it really, once yer’ve got used ter sittin’ in t’ dark.

CHAPTER 2

As soon as Tom got home, he broached his idea to his mum. All she wanted to hear about was news of his first day dahn’t pit, and all he wanted to talk about was the harmonium.

She tried to fob him off a number of times, but when she saw that his mind was set on it, she said, Well, Tom, let’s make a bargain. You can keep the money – of course, that’s if yer dad can be talked round – as long as you stay in t’ choir.

Tom’s face fell. That was a hard condition. There was no shame in being a choirboy as long as you were a boy, but the day you started work, you were deemed to be too old – whether your voice had broken or not. Tom knew that if he remained a choirboy, he would be the victim of sneers and jeers – and worse, bullying from the likes of Hardcastle. But he really wanted that harmonium, and – sneers and jeers aside – he quite liked being in the choir. He liked to hear Mr Stables play the organ, and he liked to learn music. He had already learned how to read from the Treble Clef, though he knew that he would have to learn the Bass Clef when he finally got that harmonium. So it was agreed. His dad didn’t object as long the harmonium was kept in the shed in the backyard and he didn’t have to listen to it.

The thought of that harmonium kept Tom going for the next week without too much difficulty. Indeed, he almost liked the job. He could sit there for hours, daydreaming, and exchanging the occasional friendly word with the trammers. The only fly in the ointment was Hardcastle. You can be sure he had heard that Tom had been seen in the choir on Thursday, which was choir practice night, and he wasn’t slow to make the most of it. As Tom was waiting for the cage on Monday, he heard a voice behind shout, Hello choirboy! Are tha sure tha’s man enough for this job?

And whenever he passed with his train of tubs, he was sure to shout an insult in which the word ‘choirboy’ figured.

But the following Saturday afternoon, Tom got his harmonium. His mum, always keen to encourage him, had talked his dad round. He paid the 5/- and with the help of his brother, Dick, brought it home on a borrowed handcart. They installed it in the shed at the bottom of the yard, as dad had said there was no room for it in the house. It was a large shed with stone walls, part of a house that had long since tumbled down. The roof was made of corrugated iron, and there was a single square window with four panes of glass, one of which was cracked. But the main thing was that it was dry. His father used it as a workshop. In one corner was a foot-operated lathe that he had made himself, and under the window was his workbench. At the other side of the shed was a heap of coal, and next to it a pile of odds and ends of wood, which was used variously for starting the fire, or for one of Mr Brocklesby’s woodworking projects. The harmonium fitted in nicely between the workbench and the wood pile.

Look at that. I’ve got another bench! said Mr Brocklesby, jokingly.

Dad! complained Tom.

Don’t worry lad, I won’t spoil it, but it’s bound to get a bit ’o sawdust on it.

That’s all reet, dad.

Well, one day, if I find the time, I’ll do it up for thee – rub it down, gi’ it a new coat o’ varnish.

Thanks dad.

An if tha gives up, I’ll convert it into a sideboard. That’s a nice bit o’ mahogany under the dirt and scratches.

To Tom’s delight, he found in the stool a copy of a book entitled, Henry Farmer’s Tutor for the Harmonium and American Organ. He would make good use of that later. The first thing was to try it out. He pulled out a stop labeled ‘Melodia’, pumped the bellows and tried to pick out a simple hymn tune, Oft in Danger, Oft in Woe. After a few tries, he got it. Then he pulled out all the stops and played it in octaves. The harmonium had been neglected for years, and mice had got at the bellows, so playing with all the stops out was like running a marathon on the treadles as he tried to deliver enough wind. But it sounded wonderful – a bit wheezy, perhaps, in the treble register where dust had choked the tiny reeds, but good enough to start on.

Come and get yer tea, Tom, shouted his mother.

Just a minute, mam! Tom shouted back, unable to tear himself away from his new-found world of music.

In the end, she had to come and get him, and as she approached the shed, she recognized the well-known hymn tune.

Well, I’ll go to t’ foot of our stairs! she said as she opened the door. You can play it already!

Tom laughed. I wish ah could, mam! It’s easy to pick out a tune. Ah’ve got to learn to read music and play properly, in four parts.

Well, said his mother. You’ve got the gift for it, and no mistake – but don’t you forget your part of the bargain!

Far from forgetting it, he embraced it as never before – despite the jeers of some of the pit boys.

Mr Stables was late for Thursday’s choir practice, so while the other boys were playing marbles in the aisle, Tom wandered to the back of the church to look at the harmonium that was kept there. It had long been disused, as there was a fine pipe organ in the chancel and a grand piano in the vestry. However, free reeds keep their tuning indefinitely, and the simple action is more resistant to damp than the complex action of a piano. He pushed back the lid and tried a few notes, quietly at first, and then he played the hymn he had been practicing with all the stops out. The natural reverb of the church made it sound much better than his harmonium in the shed at home.

There was a sudden clatter, and the church door swung open. It was Mr Stables at last, in a bad mood because he was late.

Who gave you permission to play that instrument, Brocklesby? he snapped.

Tom stopped playing immediately, and put the lid down, but before he could reply, Mr Stables’ wrath had switched to a more deserving target.

How dare you play marbles in the House of the Lord! Get into that vestry at once and get your hymn books out!

In the centre of the vestry was the grand piano and ranged all around it were wooden music stands and chairs. This was where the boys practiced and received some training in the rudiments of music. After half an hour in the vestry, going over their parts, they would join the men in the chancel, and go over the music again with the organ and the other three parts, alto, tenor, and bass, sung by the men.

Mr Stables sat down at the keyboard, then changed his mind about the hymn books. We’ve no time for that now, he said. Batty, hand out the anthem.

He hammered out the soprano, and then the alto, and then the boys tried to sing in two parts, but two of the new boys just couldn’t get it right. Mr Stables went over it again, but still the boys broke down in a few places.

Hopeless! he shouted.

Then he turned to Tom.

Brocklesby, I didn’t know you played. Can you take the new boys through their parts?

Tom’s heart leapt at this opportunity, though he knew it was far too soon for him to play the parts at sight. It would be months, perhaps years, before he could do that.

No, sir. Ah’ve only just started playing – but ah can sing it through with ’em.

Then I’d be grateful if you would. You can take them through the hymns, too. The rest of you can go into the chancel – and don’t run!

So while the rest of the boys practiced with the men, Tom stayed in the vestry to take the new boys through their parts. He taught them a phrase at a time, and did not try to push them too quickly, as Mr Stables always did when the adults began to arrive. They result was that they were, if not note-perfect, at least good enough by the end of the hour.

As Tom was leaving, Mr Stables said, That was a great help Tom, thank you. I suppose you’ll be leaving us now that you’ve started work, but if you want to stay on, you can help me with the new boys. Your voice will be breaking soon, so you’ll be no good in the choir until it settles down into a tenor or bass – so keep working at that music. Have you got an instrument at home?

Tom told him about the old harmonium.

Good. Have you got a teacher?

Tom shook his head.

Well, I could teach you. My fee is 2/6 per hour – and cheap at the price, I can tell you!

Tom looked at his feet.

Ah, yes. I understand. It’s a lot for a miner’s son.

Tom said nothing, but he couldn’t help reflecting that 2/6 was the sum total of his weekly wage – not that a trapper’s wage was much by any standards.

Mr Stables pondered the problem for a moment. I’ll tell you what, Brocklesby. You help me out with the new boys, and I’ll give you a bit of help every now and then – not full one-hour lessons, you understand – but a bit of advice.

Tom looked up, his face beaming. Thank you, sir!

Now, have you got a tutor book?

Tom told him about the book he had found in the organ seat.

Well, bring it along on Sunday and I’ll have a look.

NEXT DAY, IN HIS TRAPPER’S manhole, he daydreamed about playing the harmonium. He thought that it might be possible to do some practice in his head, and as he sat in the semi-darkness, he imagined the notes on the treble clef, and then imagined himself pressing the correct key. He became so deeply absorbed in this that he didn’t hear the next train approaching. Suddenly, it was in front of him, and the sneering voice of Hardcastle broke into his reverie:

Ha, ha ha! Just look at the choirboy! He’s waving his arms around like a madman, instead of doing his job!

Then he leaned towards him and smacked him hard around the head.

That’ll teach yer! he laughed, as he geeed up the horse.

Tom’s head was spinning, and he was boiling with anger.

I’ll tell on yer! I’ll tell t’ deputy! he shouted.

Gu on then, retorted Jimmy, an’ ah’ll tell him tha was asleep on t’ job!

Tom fumed at the injustice of it, but there was nothing he could do.

His consolation was, when he sat down at the harmonium that evening, he found that his silent practice had really worked, and was delighted to think that he could make good use of those long hours doing nothing.

He showed Henry Farmer’s tutor to Mr Stables after Matins, and Mr Stables, though unenthusiastic, said it would do. He questioned Tom about what he had studied so far, then set him some exercises. You must begin learning the bass clef straight away, otherwise your right hand will get too far ahead of the left.

So on Monday, in his manhole, he went over the exercises again and again in his head, holding his hands out and playing keys in the air – and why not, there was nobody to see him, though he stopped doing it as soon as he heard an approaching rumble.

ON THURSDAY, AFTER choir practice, Mr Stables said, Let’s see how you’ve been getting on, and he put one of the large hymn books, with four-part harmony, on the music stand of the piano.

Now try to sight read that bass line, he said.

Tom began hesitantly, and immediately started to go wrong. The problem was not his sight reading, but the unaccustomed touch of piano. You actually had to hit the keys, rather than just press them, to make a sound.

Try again, said Mr Stables, with more patience than he usually showed with choirboys.

This time Tom managed to make a decent fist of it.

Mr Stables nodded his approval. "Not bad, to