Free The Miner’s Girl by Maggie Hope Page A

ladder had almost rusted away since the last time he had climbed it.
    Reaching the top, he leaned over the wall, resting most of his weight on that. The gent was right, the sun had penetrated into the shaft and there was a sparkle of water at the bottom. By, it must be hundreds of feet down. There were staging posts at intervals up the sides too, black iron with rusty bits.
    ‘Hey!’ The ladder beneath him began to shake alarmingly – the daft fella was coming up behind him! ‘It’s not strong enough! Get back go—’
    His shout was cut off as Miles reached his feet. In a split second Ben saw the man’s intentions and pulled his foot out of the way, overbalanced and fell from the ladder which was now leaning away from the stone chimney. He banged his head against a stone as heconnected with the ground and was knocked out, sinking into oblivion.
    Miles bent over the lad and felt his temple for a pulse; it was there though beating fast and erratically. So Ben was alive. Miles felt a rush of relief. Oh God, what had he been thinking of? He had almost murdered his own son. And all for Bertha Porritt, that ugly – no, not for Bertha Porritt. For the mines that came with her. He looked down at the boy. Ben was very pale, the only colour in his face the blue veins in his eyelids and the nasty bruise that was developing on his temple.
    He might not live. What would he do then? He looked up at the chimney of the ventilating shaft. He would never get the lad up there to throw him in. What was he thinking of? He was so mixed up, thinking one way and then another. Rising to his feet he caught hold of Marcus’s reins and brought him round by the boy. He lifted Ben and put him over the front of the saddle then mounted himself. He would have to take him somewhere, he couldn’t leave him lying on the ground for anyone to find. Anyone who might know him – Miles.
    Turning the horse he went along the path to where it branched off for Shildon, pausing at the entrance of an old drift mine that was boarded up and overgrown with bushes.

Eight
    Merry walked down the field path and climbed over the stile. She could see the roofs of Old Pit village along to the left but there was no familiar plume of smoke rising from the furthest end house. She frowned and changed her heavy basket from one hand to the other. She was so tired, the day had been especially busy with new admissions to the ward and one man dying. She had had to help Staff Nurse lay the man out ready for the undertaker. They had washed him and combed his hair, dressed him in the plain paper shroud that was provided by the Board of Guardians.
    ‘We must show respect,’ Staff Nurse had said. ‘Treat the body properly.’ She was busy tying up the man’s chin with a thin cotton bandage. There were pennies on his eyes to keep the lids closed until rigor mortis set in properly.
    Merry had gazed at him. Mr Watson’s skin was waxen now, the two spots of high colour on his cheeks faded. His chest was still, no longer labouring for breath. He had had little respect shown to him when alive, she thought. And the way Staff Nurse had stuffed cotton waste into his orifices didn’t seem very respectful either.
    ‘Yes, Staff Nurse,’ she had said. After all, Mr Watson was at peace now so it didn’t matter much to him.
    Merry walked down the uneven surface of the track between the two rows of houses towards the end house. The goat was bleating at her, complaining loudly as she stretched her chain to its fullest extent from the patch of ground at the end where she was tethered. She looked and behaved as though she hadn’t been milked today. Cold foreboding struck Merry’s heart as she pushed open the door and went into the kitchen. There was no welcoming fire in the grate, no vegetables washed and ready to be prepared on the scrubbed table.
    ‘Ben?’ she called. ‘Where are you, Ben?’
    The only answer was the bleating of the goat. Merry put her basket on the table and went