Free Gracie's Sin by Freda Lightfoot Page A

bluntly informed them as she climbed up front beside the driver in her long brown coat and hat; a remark greeted with subdued groans all round.
    The mine was many miles from camp and, as they climbed down from the lorries, Gracie noticed that Matron had remained in the cab. She went over and tapped on the window, thinking perhaps the old dear had nodded off and hadn’t realised they’d arrived.
    ‘We’re here.’
    The window was wound down and Matron’s fierce face pushed through the gap. ‘Then jump to it, Freeman. You don’t need me to hold your hand.’
    ‘Aren’t you coming down with us?’ Gracie politely enquired.
    ‘Of course she is,’ came the Super’s voice from behind. ‘Aren’t you Elsie? Nothing you’d like better than an underground tour, as we all would. Anything you girls do, we can do.’
    But as the Super marched off, calling to the other girls to get in line and be sharp about it, Gracie looked back at Matron, now forever Elsie in her mind, and was quick enough to see the colour drain from her face.
    ‘Don’t you fancy it?’ she asked, quite kindly. ‘Some people have a dread of confined spaces. Claustrophobia. Is that a problem you suffer from, Matron?’
    The woman looked as if she would dearly love to deny it. Her face was contorted into tight folds, the mouth pursed into a sunray of wrinkles. She made what looked like an attempt to get out of the truck but then seemed to lose control of her muscles, as if she were paralysed and simply couldn’t bring herself to climb down. She began to shake. There was no doubt now in Gracie’s mind. She had indeed found Matron’s Achilles heel. The poor woman was terrified of going down that mine.
    ‘Stay there. I’ll tell Super you’re not feeling well, shall I?’ Gracie suddenly realised that this was perfectly true. ‘Actually you don’t look too good. I think you should get out of the truck. Here, let me help you.’
    Gracie led her into the mine office and found her a cup of tea which Elsie accepted with gratitude but poor Gracie was now on pins to get back to the others before the Super missed her. ‘I’d best go.’
    ‘It was my son,’ Matron gasped.
    ‘What?’
    ‘My eldest, Donald. He was sent down a mine though he wasn’t a miner. He wanted to be a soldier but they sent him to dig coal instead. One of Bevin’s boys. There was a fall and... trapped ...’
    Gracie listened, horrified, then put her arms about the huge woman, now a quivering wreck and held her while tears rolled down the fat cheeks. ‘You don’t have to say another word. I understand.’
    After a moment she pulled out a hanky, struggling for control, her eyes seemed suddenly bleak and empty, and her voice seemed to come from a long way away. ‘And my other son, David, was killed at Dunkirk.’
    ‘Oh God, no!’ Gracie was struck dumb. It sounded as if this poor woman had lost her entire family. She didn’t dare ask if there was anyone left. No wonder she was always in a foul mood with a bitter twist to her mouth. To say she was sorry would sound trite and inadequate, even so Gracie said it, for want of anything else. ‘Can I do anything more for you?’
    One plump hand patted the back of her hair, checking it was tidy. ‘No. I shall be all right in a minute. Thank you for the tea. I appreciate it. Now you’d best go, Freeman, or you’ll be in trouble.'
    ‘You’ll be OK?’
    ‘I’ll be fine. Pay no heed to me.’ Gracie could almost see the drawbridge coming up again, the armour which she’d erected around herself to discourage pity, or worse self -pity. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d forget everything I’ve just told you. Make no mention of it.’
    Gracie squeezed the woman’s plump hand and hurried away.
     
    First they were shown the stack of pitprops at the surface. Many had already been peeled of their bark but some hadn’t and the girls were all given a lesson in how to do this task which helped the seasoning process. Each prop was placed on