Mining for Justice Page 5

  A freckled lad caught her eye behind Penhallow’s back. He didn’t dare make a lewd comment in the boss’s hearing, so he cupped one hand in front of his private parts with a jerking motion. Mary rolled her eyes and kept walking. Penhallow usually picked weaker girls for his unwanted attentions. The ones without a father or brother working underground. The ones who didn’t fill their daily quota but desperately needed to keep their jobs.

  He led her first to the washbasins by the dinner shed. “Scrub your hands and face.”

  She did her best to splash off the grit, but her wariness grew when he turned toward the counthouse. At the door he stepped back so she might enter first.

  She paused, fiercely holding his gaze: You will not touch me.

  “Be quick, you silly chit,” he hissed, pushing her through.

  The office was not empty. A woman with brown hair sat in Penhallow’s chair. No, Mary corrected herself, a lady. Her pretty purple-striped dress was clean. A bonnet with lace peeking from beneath the brim sat on the desk. Mary quickly pulled off her gook—the huge bonnet with shoulder flaps she wore for protection from flying chips of rock—but it was too late to remove the wool strips she’d wound around her legs for the same reason, or to slap dust from her rough wool dress. Her shoes were stained red with iron oxide.

  Penhallow gripped Mary’s arm and pushed her into the empty chair in front of the desk. “Mrs. Bunney wants to ask you some questions. Mind you answer fitty.”

  Mary couldn’t imagine what questions this lady could possibly have for her.

  “This here’s Mary Pascoe,” Penhallow announced. Then he stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. He was a stocky man with thick neck and shoulders. His close-cropped hair was gray, his hands and arms scarred from his own days below ground. He planted his feet as if settling in for a brawl.

  “Good afternoon,” Mary said politely.

  Mrs. Bunney ignored her. “That will be all for now, Mr. Penhallow,” she said coolly in formal English. Mary, used to her region’s Cornish dialect, had to concentrate to understand.

  Penhallow didn’t move.

  Mrs. Bunney raised her eyebrows. “I desire hot tea.”

  Penhallow’s jaw worked, but in the end, he walked out of his office.

  Ordered out by a woman! Mary marveled. How had Mrs. Bunney accomplished it? It had been more than her tone, her posture. Mrs. Bunney’s authority came from someplace inside. From a sense of knowing who she was—and of understanding, Mary thought, that she was not beholden to a greasy dobeck like Jake Penhallow, surface captain of Wheal Blackstone in Camborne, Cornwall.

  For the first time, Mary thought she might have glimpsed the “different life” her mother had wished for her.

  Mrs. Bunney turned to her. “Did Mr. Penhallow explain why I am here?”

  Mary licked lips suddenly gone dry and buried her scarred hands in her skirt. “No, ma’am.”

  “I am here on behalf of the Christian Welfare Society.” Mrs. Bunney laced long fingers on the desk. “We are concerned about the welfare of helpless children like yourself employed in the mines. How old were you when you began working here, Mary?”

  “Six, ma’am.”

  “Six!” Mrs. Bunney said sorrowfully. “Such a tender age.”

  Not so tender, Mary thought. Hungry, more like. Most girls were a bit older when they started, but ore falling from an overloaded bucket had broken Mary’s father’s arm, and the family needed the money.

  Still … her sister Elizabeth was six, sturdy like Mary was, and could become a bal maiden any time. Since their mother was dead and their father too tired and sad to take notice, it was Mary who’d decided that Elizabeth would stay home. “She can mind Loveday,” she’d told her father, even though a neighbor had offered to take Loveday, just three, in with her brood during the day. Truth was, Mary had vowed to herself that Elizabeth and Loveday would never come to the mine. She’d done all right, but Mama’s voice still whispered in her ear. Mary wanted better for her sisters too.

  Mrs. Bunney pulled a pencil and a small leather-bound journal from her basket and began making notes. “What are your duties?”

  “I’m a picker. We pick out the good stones of ore from the waste. I’ve filled in cobbing if need be too. Soon I’ll move over there for good.”

  Mrs. Bunney’s brow crinkled in confusion. Evidently this was the first mine she’d visited.

  “See, the ore can’t be smelted until it’s broken down. Spallers break large stones into smaller ones. Cobbers chip the waste stone away from lumps of ore. Like this.” Mary held out one fist to demonstrate the desired size. “Buckers smash those stones.”

  Penhallow returned from the kitchen, carrying a tin coffeepot with a dirty rag wrapped around the handle and a rusty tin cup. Mrs. Bunney reached back into her basket and removed a teacup and saucer made of blue and white china. Suddenly Mary could hardly breathe. That china was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen. For a glorious moment she thought a second teacup would follow, and she would be invited to share tea with Mrs. Bunney.

  Mrs. Bunney pulled out a single small china plate and a cloth napkin. A yellow saffron bun wrapped in greased paper followed. Mary had only tasted saffron a few times when the price fell in the shops because smugglers had brought it. Mary thought saffron tasted exquisite. Like the sunrise, if sunrise could be tasted.

  “Shall I pour?” Penhallow asked, like he was some fine toff.

  Mrs. Bunney gestured, and he carefully filled her cup with steaming, fragrant tea. Mary realized that there was naught but one cup, one bun.

  “That’s all, Mr. Penhallow,” Mrs. Bunney said and made a little shooing gesture with one hand. He retreated with obvious reluctance. Mrs. Bunney nibbled her saffron bun and sipped her tea before turning back to Mary. “Do you like being a picker?”

  Mary struggled to tear her gaze from that delicate teacup. How her mother would have loved such a pretty thing! How Elizabeth’s and Loveday’s eyes would shine if Mary brought something so lovely home! If I had such a teacup, Mary thought, I wouldn’t carry it in a basket to be bumped and chipped. Such a cup belonged on the mantel, to be used only on special days.

  “Mary?”

  Remembering the question, Mary shrugged. “I like it well enough.” She was strong and did well. She got paid.

  Scribble, scribble. “Do you work indoors or out?”

  “Out. Sometimes under a roof, sometimes not.”

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “It’s raw in winter,” Mary admitted. “It takes a lot of water to wash the ore, so my feet are usually wet.”

  Mrs. Bunney shook her head. “How far do you have to walk to get here? What time do you start in the morning?”

  “I live a bit over two miles away, ma’am. I leave home at five thirty.”

  Mrs. Bunney made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Dreadful.”

  Mary shifted in her chair. Unless the weather was horrid, the morning walks were the best part of her day. She liked the peace of it, liked seeing bits of light converge as mine workers carrying lanterns met on the path, liked singing Methodist hymns with the others as they walked. In summer, when days were long, she liked seeing the distant high tors watching over the moor. She liked passing gravestones left from ancient times, huge slabs of weathered granite. She liked smelling primroses when they bloomed in the hedges.

  But Mary didn’t try to explain. She was starting to figure out that Mrs. Bunney had brought decided opinions about the mine workers with her.

  “What do you eat?”

  Mary wondered what would happen if she said she didn’t want to answer any more questions. Nothing good, surely, as Penhallow was no doubt listening from the next room. “I bring a pasty with meat for dinner most days,” she said with a touch of pride, although honesty compelled her to add, “or a hoggan. At home we have barley bread and milk
for breakfast, usually. And boiled potatoes for supper.”

  “That hardly seems enough for a ten-hour shift,” Mrs. Bunney said. “You must feel weak and sickly all the time.”

  “No, ma’am.” Mary held her gaze. “I do just fine.”

  By the time Mary had answered all of Mrs. Bunney’s questions, the marvelous teacup was empty and the plate littered with crumbs. Mrs. Bunney closed her notebook, laced her fingers together again, and leaned over the desk. “Mary, on behalf of the Christian Welfare Society, I am worried about you.”

  You just met me, Mary thought.

  “It’s not only the danger inherent in mining work that troubles me. I’m worried about your soul. You are surrounded daily by rough men who use foul language. Young ladies like yourself should be cultivating modesty and grace. How can you do that here?”

  Mary had no idea where she was supposed to cultivate modesty and grace.

  “And you left your mother’s side at such a young age.” Mrs. Bunney shook her head mournfully. “You’ve had no education.”

  Mary didn’t answer. Girls the likes of her didn’t have much chance for schooling.

  “Have you even learned any domestic arts? Are you prepared to become a decent wife and mother? Of course not! How can a girl who has known nothing but manual labor and rough company accomplish anything in polite society? If you do marry, your husband will surely find no comfort by his own hearth. And that, my girl, means he will search for it at the pub.”

  Mary’s cheeks burned. Something hot formed inside, too, and built like steam in a boiler. She gripped the edges of her chair until her fingers ached.

  “Child, I beseech you to take my words to heart. Pray over them. And I will pray that you see the error of your ways. A mine is no place for children, especially girls. Don’t be tempted by earnings. Don’t be distracted by the fine clothes and fripperies you girls dream of. You simply have no hope of becoming a respectable woman unless you give up mining.”

  A whistle blew. Mary unclenched her fingers by sheer will and stood. She was leaving the office. Otherwise all that steam inside her chest would blow too.

  Penhallow hurried into the room. His jaw was tight, and he didn’t seem quite so eager to fawn all over Mrs. Bunney of the Christian Welfare Society. “Mary’s shift is over, and she must be on her way.”

  “I have what I need from Mary,” Mrs. Bunney told him. “You may bring the next girl in.”

  “But … all of the girls are finished now,” he protested.

  “Surely a few extra minutes won’t matter. Bring three more girls, at the least. I haven’t come all this way to interview just one bal maiden.”

  Mary left them to it. Outside, the other girls were already drifting away. Hurry, Mary wanted to say. Escape while you can.

  She wanted to get away too—not because of Mrs. Bunney, but because Elizabeth and Loveday had been home alone all day. Loveday had always been a weakly child. Mary had learned to bundle her worries aside while she worked, but when the whistle blew and she could turn toward home, the fear came flooding back. What if Loveday had taken a sudden fever? Or fallen? Elizabeth had a good head on her shoulders, but would she know what to do? Usually Mary hurried home, kissed Loveday and Elizabeth, and hung a kettle over the hearth fire so dinner would be ready by the time her father and two brothers got home.

  But not today. Today was the first day that her younger brother Jory, who’d been doing surface work for several years, had gone underground.

  That morning Jory had donned flannel trousers and a new hat that was rubbed with resin, with a dish-shaped crown where he could fix a candle with a lump of clay. At the mine she’d watched her father tie a rope around his own waist, then tie the other end around Jory’s. Father had gone into the shaft first, pockets bulging with candles, his feet in their hobnailed boots descending slowly down the ladder, rung by rung. Jory followed, trying to pretend he wasn’t scared. Then Andrew, a year older than she was, had disappeared into the earth.

  Now she wanted to welcome Jory when he emerged from his shift underground. She watched as men climbed from the shaft, one by one.

  “So, how was it?” someone leered just behind her. It was the freckled young man who’d watched Penhallow take her into the counthouse.

  “Giss on,” Mary said. Don’t speak rubbish. Any stronger reaction only encouraged men like this.

  Young ladies like yourself should be cultivating modesty and grace. How can you do that here?

  And what do you know about it, anyway? Mary thought angrily. Fie on Mrs. Bunney, with her lace-edged bonnet and fancy airs and fragile teacup. One day, she thought, when I do better, I shall buy a whole china set so I can serve other people.

  The stream of tired miners reaching the surface slowed, then stopped. Mary began to pace, too irritated and anxious to stand still.

  Finally a small hand curled around the top rung of the ladder. Then Jory’s head appeared. His face was filthy and he looked inexpressibly weary, but he managed a grin as he climbed from the shaft. Father followed him, with Andrew again bringing up the rear.

  Jory made a big show of sprawling on the ground … but Mary had seen how he’d struggled to manage the last few rungs. “I was starting to worry,” she whispered to Andrew.

  “Father knew he’d be slow, so we waited till last.”

  “He’s all right?” Mary cocked her head toward Jory.

  “Just trembly. We’ve been climbing for almost an hour, I figure. First climb, after his first shift below … ” Andrew smiled. “Jory did well.”

  Father stood nearby, bent over with hands on knees. “He did do well,” he agreed, straightening. “I’m proud of—” Suddenly his voice broke, and he staggered a few steps.

  “Father!” Andrew jumped to his side and grasped his arm.

  “I’m all right.” Father gently shook his son free. “Just dizzy for a moment.” He extended a hand to Jory. “On your feet, son. You need to get home before your muscles seize up.”

  But Mary’s heart seized as Jory slowly climbed to his feet. Andrew looked stricken too. The air in deep mines was bad, often thick with dust from the blasting. She’d seen Father cough up black stuff, which was a sign of miner’s disease. Dizziness was another sign of miner’s disease. Miners said that once the dizziness came on a man, his days were numbered.

  Suddenly she wanted to sprawl on the ground too.

  But there was no room for that. “Let’s get on home. I’ll cook supper and make tea.” It wouldn’t be served in fine china with lovely saffron buns, but barley bread and tea would hearten them all.

  It took longer than usual to walk home because Jory was that wobbly kneed. Finally they crested the last rise. Their little thatch-roofed stone cottage, last in a row of three, came into view.

  “Something’s wrong,” Mary hissed. “There’s no smoke.” Elizabeth always had a fire going by the time she got home—and they were late today.

  She began to run. Andrew was on her heels.

  The neighbor woman was waiting by the garden, red-eyed and sniffling. Mary felt as if someone had dropped her heart down a mineshaft. “Loveday?” she gasped.

  “Loveday’s fine. She’s inside with my girls. But—oh, Mary.” The older woman began to sob. “It’s Elizabeth.”

  Five

  “Officer McKenna?” Chief Naborski stood in his office doorway. “A word?”

  “Sure.” Roel­ke put aside the report he was working on and followed his boss. He couldn’t think of anything he’d screwed up lately, but this kind of summons always made him feel like a truant kid getting called into the principal’s office.

  “Shut the door.”

  Roel­ke did, then sat in the chair facing the chief’s desk. The older man didn’t look pissed. Always an encouraging sign.

  Chief Naborski tipped his chair back on two legs. He was a good chief who knew
the Village of Eagle well. Residents respected him. The cops who worked for him respected him too. He had a craggy face and had evidently worn his gray hair buzzed in a flat-top since serving in the Korean War. His job had more to do with community politics and supervision than action now, but Roel­ke knew the man could hold his own and then some in a bar brawl. Naborski’s calm demeanor hid a core of iron.

  Chief twiddled a pencil in his fingers. “Have you had a chance to follow up on that Hackberry Lane problem?”

  Roel­ke had recently taken a call from a concerned citizen who reported lots of people coming and going at the house across the street. “I think they’re selling drugs over there,” she’d concluded indignantly. “I won’t have that going on anywhere near my kids.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on the place,” Roel­ke reported now. “It could take a little while to establish any kind of pattern.”

  “Keep me posted,” Chief Naborski said. “Now. On the topic of drug activity, I just got a call from Dorothy Blevins.” Dorothy Blevins was the Village Board member who chaired the Police Committee. “They’re granting my request for funds to send one officer to a Criminal Drug Interdiction training program for patrol officers.”

  “Great!” Roel­ke said eagerly. He’d asked several times for more training. In his first job with the Milwaukee Police Department, he’d spent most of his time walking a beat. After transferring to Eagle, he’d found himself spending most of his time in a patrol car. His second day on the job he’d pulled a woman over for speeding and sent her on her merry way with ticket in hand, feeling rather pleased with himself. The next day he learned that a cop in Jefferson County, after pulling over the same vehicle, had found bundles of cash and a whole lot of drugs in the trunk. “I’m chalking it up to lack of experience, but you screwed up,” Chief had said to Roel­ke. “The Jefferson guy spotted something you missed.”

  Roel­ke didn’t want to kick his skills up a notch just to make up for his mistake. He wanted to be proactive in protecting the community he was sworn to serve. Comedian John Belushi’s death the year before from a speedball—cocaine and heroin—had brought awareness to the problem, but cocaine traffic was spreading, and Eric Clapton’s ode still got plenty of airtime. Cocaine use wasn’t confined to Hollywood, or even big cities like Milwaukee and Chicago, much as some people in small towns like Eagle wanted to believe. So much cocaine was flooding the market that prices had dropped. Instead of being discouraged, dealers started converting the powder to crack. Small quantities of the solid, smokeable stuff could be sold to more people. For dealers, crack was easy to produce and very profitable. For users, crack was cheap and horribly addictive. Roel­ke was particularly worried about bored teens who were curious, susceptible to peer pressure, and convinced they were invincible.