Ken Follett: Fall of Giants

In their final year Billy and Tommy had been taught the principles of mining, while the girls learned to sew and cook. Billy had been surprised to discover that the ground beneath him consisted of layers of different kinds of earth, like a stack of sandwiches. A coal seam-a phrase he had heard all his life without really understanding it-was one such layer. He had also been told that coal was made of dead leaves and other vegetable matter, accumulated over thousands of years and compressed by the weight of earth above it. Tommy, whose father was an atheist, said this proved the Bible was not true; but Billy’s da said that was only one interpretation.

The school was empty at this hour, its playground deserted. Billy felt proud that he had left school behind, although part of him wished he could go back there instead of down the pit.

As they approached the pithead, the streets began to fill with miners, each with his tin snap and bottle of tea. They all dressed the same, in old suits that they would take off once they reached their workplace. Some mines were cold but Aberowen was a hot pit, and the men worked in underwear and boots, or in the coarse linen shorts they called bannickers. Everyone wore a padded cap, all the time, because tunnel roofs were low and it was easy to bang your head.

Over the houses Billy could see the winding gear, a tower topped by two great wheels rotating in opposite directions, drawing the cables that raised and lowered the cage. Similar pithead structures loomed over most towns in the South Wales valleys, the way church spires dominated farming villages.

Other buildings were scattered around the pithead as if dropped by accident: the lamp room, the colliery office, the smithy, the stores. Railway lines snaked between the buildings. On the waste ground were broken drams, old cracked timbers, feed sacks, and piles of rusty disused machinery, all covered with a layer of coal dust. Da always said there would be fewer accidents if miners kept things tidy.

Billy and Tommy went to the colliery office. In the front room was Arthur “Spotty” Llewellyn, a clerk not much older than they were. His white shirt had a dirty collar and cuffs. They were expected-their fathers had previously arranged for them to start work today. Spotty wrote their names in a ledger, then took them into the colliery manager’s office. “Young Tommy Griffiths and young Billy Williams, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

Maldwyn Morgan was a tall man in a black suit. There was no coal dust on his cuffs. His pink cheeks were free of stubble, which meant he must shave every day. His engineering diploma hung in a frame on the wall, and his bowler hat-the other badge of his status-was displayed on the coat stand by the door.

To Billy’s surprise, he was not alone. Next to him stood an even more formidable figure: Perceval Jones, chairman of Celtic Minerals, the company that owned and operated the Aberowen coal mine and several others. A small, aggressive man, he was called Napoleon by the miners. He wore morning dress, a black tailcoat and striped gray trousers, and he had not taken off his tall black top hat.

Jones looked at the boys with distaste. “Griffiths,” he said. “Your father’s a revolutionary socialist.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones,” said Tommy.

“And an atheist.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

He turned his gaze on Billy. “And your father’s an official of the South Wales Miners’ Federation.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

“I don’t like socialists. Atheists are doomed to eternal damnation. And trade unionists are the worst of the lot.”

He glared at them, but he had not asked a question, so Billy said nothing.

“I don’t want troublemakers,” Jones went on. “In the Rhondda Valley they’ve been on strike for forty-three weeks because of people like your fathers stirring them up.”

Billy knew that the strike in the Rhondda had not been caused by troublemakers, but by the owners of the Ely Pit at Penygraig, who had locked out their miners. But he kept his mouth shut.

“Are you troublemakers?” Jones pointed a bony finger at Billy, making Billy shake. “Did your father tell you to stand up for your rights when you’re working for me?”

Billy tried to think, though it was difficult when Jones looked so threatening. Da had not said much this morning, but last night he had given some advice. “Please, sir, he told me: ‘Don’t cheek the bosses, that’s my job.’”

Behind him, Spotty Llewellyn sniggered.

Perceval Jones was not amused. “Insolent savage,” he said. “But if I turn you away, I’ll have the whole of this valley on strike.”

Billy had not thought of that. Was he so important? No-but the miners might strike for the principle that the children of their officials must not suffer. He had been at work less than five minutes, and already the union was protecting him.

“Get them out of here,” said Jones.

Morgan nodded. “Take them outside, Llewellyn,” he said to Spotty. “Rhys Price can look after them.”

Billy groaned inwardly. Rhys Price was one of the more unpopular deputy managers. He had set his cap at Ethel, a year ago, and she had turned him down flat. She had done the same to half the single men in Aberowen, but Price had taken it hard.

Spotty jerked his head. “Out,” he said, and he followed them. “Wait outside for Mr. Price.”

Billy and Tommy left the building and leaned on the wall by the door. “I’d like to punch Napoleon’s fat belly,” said Tommy. “Talk about a capitalist bastard.”

“Yeah,” said Billy, though he had had no such thought.

Rhys Price showed up a minute later. Like all the deputies, he wore a low round-crowned hat called a billycock, more expensive than a miner’s cap but cheaper than a bowler. In the pockets of his waistcoat he had a notebook and a pencil, and he carried a yardstick. Price had dark stubble on his cheeks and a gap in his front teeth. Billy knew him to be clever but sly.

“Good morning, Mr. Price,” Billy said.

Price looked suspicious. “What business have you got saying good morning to me, Billy Twice?”

“Mr. Morgan said we are to go down the pit with you.”

“Did he, now?” Price had a way of darting looks to the left and right, and sometimes behind, as if he expected trouble from an unknown quarter. “We’ll see about that.” He looked up at the winding wheel, as if seeking an explanation there. “I haven’t got time to deal with boys.” He went into the office.

“I hope he gets someone else to take us down,” Billy said. “He hates my family because my sister wouldn’t walk out with him.”

“Your sister thinks she’s too good for the men of Aberowen,” said Tommy, obviously repeating something he had heard.

“She is too good for them,” Billy said stoutly.

Price came out. “All right, this way,” he said, and headed off at a rapid walk.

The boys followed him into the lamp room. The lampman handed Billy a shiny brass safety lamp, and he hooked it onto his belt as the men did.

He had learned about miners’ lamps in school. Among the dangers of coal mining was methane, the inflammable gas that seeped out of coal seams. The men called it firedamp, and it was the cause of all underground explosions. Welsh pits were notoriously gassy. The lamp was ingeniously designed so that its flame would not ignite firedamp. In fact the flame would change its shape, becoming longer, thereby giving a warning-for firedamp had no smell.

If the lamp went out, the miner could not relight it himself. Carrying matches was forbidden underground, and the lamp was locked to discourage the breaking of the rule. An extinguished lamp had to be taken to a lighting station, usually at the pit bottom near the shaft. This might be a walk of a mile or more, but it was worth it to avoid the risk of an underground explosion.