A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [27]
The tunnel was not level, but rose and fell—with the seam of coal, Lizzie presumed. Now it began to go up more steeply. Jay stopped and pointed ahead to where a miner was doing something with a candle. “He’s testing for firedamp,” Jay said.
Lizzie let go of his hand and sat on a rock, to relieve her back from stooping.
“Are you all right?” Jay said.
“Fine. What’s firedamp?”
“An inflammable gas.”
“Inflammable?”
“Yes—it’s what causes most explosions in coal mines.”
This sounded mad. “If it’s explosive, why is he using that candle?”
“It’s the only way to detect the gas—you can’t see it or smell it.”
The miner was raising the candle slowly toward the roof, and seemed to be staring hard at the flame.
“The gas is lighter than air, so it concentrates at roof level,” Jay went on. “A small amount will give a blue tinge to the candle flame.”
“And what will a large amount do?”
“Blow us all to kingdom come.”
Lizzie felt this was the last straw. She was filthy and exhausted and her mouth was full of coal dust, and now she was in danger of being blown up. She told herself to keep very calm. She had known, before she came here, that coal mining was a dangerous business, and she must just steel her nerve. Miners went underground every night: surely she had the courage to come here one time?
It would, however, be the last time: of that she had no doubt at all.
They watched the man for a few moments. He moved up the tunnel a few paces at a time, repeating his test. Lizzie was determined not to show her fear. Making her voice sound normal, she said: “And if he finds firedamp—what then? How do you get rid of it?”
“Set fire to it.”
Lizzie swallowed. This was getting worse.
“One of the miners is designated fireman,” Jay went on. “In this pit I believe it’s McAsh, the young troublemaker. The job is generally handed down from father to son. The fireman is the pit’s expert on gas. He knows what to do.”
Lizzie wanted to run back down the tunnel to the shaft and all the way up the ladder to the outside world. She would have done so but for the humiliation of having Jay see her panic. In order to get away from this insanely dangerous test, she pointed to a side tunnel and said: “What’s down there?”
Jay took her hand again. “Let’s go and see.”
There was a strange hush throughout the mine, Lizzie thought as they walked along. Nobody spoke much: a few of the men had boys helping them but most worked alone, and the bearers had not yet arrived. The clang of picks hitting the face and the rumble as the coal broke up were muffled by the walls and the thick dust underfoot. Every so often they passed through a door that was closed behind them by a small boy: the doors controlled the circulation of air in the tunnels, Jay explained.
They found themselves in a deserted section. Jay stopped. “This part seems to be worked out,” he said, swinging his lantern in an arc. The feeble light was reflected in the tiny eyes of rats at the limit of the circle. No doubt they lived on leavings from the miners’ dinner pails.
Lizzie noticed that Jay’s face was smeared black, like the miners’: the coal dust got everywhere. He looked funny, and she smiled.
“What is it?” he said.
“Your face is black!”
He grinned and touched her cheek with a fingertip. “And what do you think yours is like?”
She realized that she must look exactly the same. “Oh, no!” she said with a laugh.
“You’re still beautiful, though,” he said, and he kissed her.
She was surprised, but she did not flinch: she liked it. His lips were firm and dry, and she felt the slight roughness over his upper lip where he shaved. When he drew back she said the first thing that came into her