He was not unhappy in the pit. He was admired by the men, and well enough
liked. It was only he himself who felt the difference between himself and the
others. He seemed to hide his own stigma. But he was never sure that the others
did not really despise him for a ninny, as being less a man than they were.
Only he pretended to be more manly, and was surprised by the ease with which
they were deceived. And, being naturally cheerful, he was happy at his work. He
was sure of himself there. Naked to the waist, hot and grimy with labour, they
squatted on their heels for a few minutes and talked, seeing each other dimly
by the light of the safety lamps, while the black coal rose jutting round them,
and the props of wood stood like little pillars in the low, black, very dark
temple. Then the pony came and the gang-lad with a message from Number 7, or
with a bottle of water from the horse-trough or some news of the world above.
The day passed pleasantly enough. There was an ease, a go-as-you-please about
the day underground, a delightful camaraderie of men shut off alone from the
rest of the world, in a dangerous place, and a variety of labour, holing,
loading, timbering, and a glamour of mystery and adventure in the atmosphere,
that made the pit not unattractive to him when he had again got over his
anguish of desire for the open air and the sea.
This day there was much to do and Durant was not in humour to talk. He went on
working in silence through the afternoon.
“Loose-all” came, and they tramped to the bottom. The whitewashed
underground office shone brightly. Men were putting out their lamps. They sat
in dozens round the bottom of the shaft, down which black, heavy drops of water
fell continuously into the sump. The electric lights shone away down the main
underground road.
“Is it raining?” asked Durant.
“Snowing,” said an old man, and the younger was pleased. He liked
to go up when it was snowing.
“It’ll just come right for Christmas,” said the old man.
“Ay,” replied Durant.
“A green Christmas, a fat churchyard,” said the other
sententiously.
Durant laughed, showing his small, rather pointed teeth.
The cage came down, a dozen men lined on. Durant noticed tufts of snow on the
perforated, arched roof of the chain, and he was pleased.
He wondered how it liked its excursion underground. But already it was getting
soppy with black water.
He liked things about him. There was a little smile on his face. But underlying
it was the curious consciousness he felt in himself.
The upper world came almost with a flash, because of the glimmer of snow.
Hurrying along the bank, giving up his lamp at the office, he smiled to feel
the open about him again, all glimmering round him with snow. The hills on
either side were pale blue in the dusk, and the hedges looked savage and dark.
The snow was trampled between the railway lines. But far ahead, beyond the
black figures of miners moving home, it became smooth again, spreading right up
to the dark wall of the coppice.
To the west there was a pinkness, and a big star hovered half revealed. Below,
the lights of the pit came out crisp and yellow among the darkness of the
buildings, and the lights of Old Aldecross twinkled in rows down the bluish
twilight.
Durant walked glad with life among the miners, who were all talking animatedly
because of the snow. He liked their company, he liked the white dusky world. It
gave him a little thrill to stop at the garden gate and see the light of home
down below, shining on the silent blue snow.
