Home Thoughts from the Coalface

It’s the same every morning in winter; no-one’s keen to rouse themselves. Out on the bare pit road, as the moonlight gives way to day, all we see are the fences that funnel us towards the clocking on room. It’s a relentless procession with heads down, identical kit bags over our shoulders. Everything seems to point in the same direction: the coal train that pulls in, the rows of telegraph poles, the wires. Even the birds fly this way. Our Johnny and me, we trudge along together, hardly a word between us.

We clock on, taking our tokens. I’m on yoking up the ponies first thing, but Johnny’s a young ‘un and was taken on as a hewer, muscles like a weightlifter. Time drags all morning, but, as soon as we get to our break, the whole day seems to turn around on its head, leaning towards the end of the shift rather than the beginning. My bait tin has bread and dripping in it today; I usually chuck the crusts away as they are filthy by the time I get to them. There’s a bit of crack about last Saturday at the club, but I think about the missus making her speciality mutton stew. My mouth waters through the rest of the shift. They’ve got me on onsetting this afternoon, loading and unloading at the pit bottom. At least I am near the pithead for hometime, first out hopefully.

Up the lift, it’s a race down the path to the gate. Johnny still manages to overtake me, with a skip in his step because he’s got a date and wants to get to the sink first. I’ve no intention of leaving the house again tonight, so stand by the fire until he’s finished. A canny good splash of soap and water on my face and hands does me today. The rest can wait for the tin bath tomorrow.

“Your dinner’s on’t table,” she says, cutting a crust to soak up the stew.

“That’s real tasty,” I mutter, through a mouthful of mutton, “It’s grand to be home, lass.”