A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham

down into endless space, felt that he would never reach the end, never stop climbing. His hands were blistered now from gripping the rungs. He chewed the inside of his mouth and shut his eyes. It made him feel safer somehow. He clutched on to Sam’s words turning them into letters in his mind. White letters against black pages. Words into sentences. Eight hundred and fifty.
    Maybe if Sam still deducted for the materials he would have been able to go shooting, but he could not tell Father, that would be a betrayal of Sam; even though, in his opinion, he and Aunt Eliza were wrong. And what business did his aunt have to interfere anyway? Women knew nothing of business, and profit was all-important.
    Nine hundred and forty. The blister stretched across the whole of his hand now, he was sure of it. Hannah had no right to make such a stupid remark about Mother’s money and in public too. What was Mother’s was Father’s; she should know that by now. Women could not possibly manage their own affairs, there would be all sorts of mess. He let his left hand take more of his weight. The noise of drilling was reaching them now, so they were almost there, thank God.
    At the base of the ladder they caught their breath, relieved to be in the dull glow of the lamps, seeing shapes for the first time for what seemed like hours. Men and machinery, rock walls, cut and carved, the well-propped lode. Their candles lit their way only dimly as they left the foot of the shaft and entered the dense darkness of the seams. The square-pitched pine props were set every three feet and groaned from the weight but he was not frightened. He was at home at last. They passed yawning black holes and heard in their depths the noise of miners as they shovelled and drilled. These mechanical drills had water fed through the centre, Harry saw, as one miner, working in a bulge in the main seam, levered a drill and cut out some of the ore. He pointed and Sam nodded.
    ‘Lays the dust, improves the cutting.’ Harry could not hear but in the light from the candles he could read Sam’s mouth.
    Fumes grew stronger with each step they took. Blasting had been going on this morning, he thought. The accumulated dust was making his eyes smart. His hand throbbed.
    ‘I still think we should do our own smelting,’ he shouted at his uncle, but Sam was talking to a miner. Harry waited until he had finished and then repeated his remark. Sam took a suck on his pipe, holding his hand over the bowl. How could he smoke when there was already so much dust and so many smells, Harry wondered and shook his head.
    Sam took his arm. They stood to one side of the main seam watching the activity which flowed and ebbed before them. ‘No, Harry. It’s too much capital outlay and Malaysia is taking over smelting as well as mining. There’s no future in English tin any more.’ His mouth was against Harry’s ear and he could just make out the words.
    Harry reached out and ran his hands down the prop. Bloody hell. Why did tin have to be so common? Their usual customers were finding supplies nearer home now but it was in his blood, he knew that, and every time he came down here it was the same. He ground his boot in the dust. He knew his hair and the pores of his skin would be full of dirt and he would smell of the mine for days, but to him it was a good smell, an honest one. They leant back as a trolley was pushed past. He watched as the miner leant into the load, shoving the trolley with the whole of his body weight. He was small, a boy. A miner walked past him, a piece of wood in the corner of his mouth, he was chewing then spitting as he moved on down. Harry stayed where he was, resting against a blackened prop while Sam moved amongst the men, talking to the team leaders, checking with the supervisors, until eventually he turned back towards Harry and beckoned, nodding towards the shaft.
    Harry pushed himself upright, reluctant to leave the scene so soon but knowing that it was time. He