The Killer Mine

'I'm afraid that's what I'm going to do.' Manack spoke flatly as though it were all settled.

The old man strode across to the desk. His eyes were wild and he was quivering with anger. 'Do you realise that Wheal Garth belongs to me?'

'Yes, but I provide the money,' replied his son calmly. 'When I came back the mine was full of water right up to the adits. It's only because I've provided the money that you've got it clear of water to the hundred and twenty fathom level. And if there's going to be any more money I've got to let the sea into the Mermaid.'

'I tell you I won't allow it,' thundered the old man, crashing his fist down on the desk.

'You've no alternative,' was the reply. Manack turned to me. 'Leave us, will you?' he said. He had to repeat his request before I moved, so fascinated was I by the astonishing altercation.

As I left the room Manack senior was saying in a voice that quavered. 'For twenty years and more, Henry, I've lived and dreamed of nothing but this mine. I knew it was rich. I knew it. I thought it was only rich at depth. But I found the seam. I found it. I showed it to you the other day. My God, if you'd only gone into the mines as I wanted you to you'd understand what that seam is. There's a fortune in it.'

As I slowly closed the door I heard his son reply in a hard, almost sneering voice, 'Yes, but unfortunately not a tax-free one.'

I went back to the kitchen. The girl was serving food with a stocky little man at her elbow wisecracking in an accent that brought back memories of Kalgoorlie. He had a round cherubic face and the crown of his head was bald. He was like a diminutive monk with his pot belly and round, rosy cheeks. 'Blimey,' he said as he caught sight of me, 'the horiginal wild man from Borneo. Goin' for a swim, mate?' He grinned. It was the widest grin I'd seen in years. It seemed to split his chubby face open and it revealed two red lines of gums propped open by half a dozen decaying teeth. 'You stay in' or just passing through?' he asked.

'He's going to work here,' the girl said. She was half-laughing. 'He's a miner.'

'Thank Gawd!' he said. "Bout ruddy fed up I am o' never bein' sure when the roofs goin' ter come in on us.'

'My name's O'Donnel,' I told him. 'Jim O'Donnel.'

The devil it is. It's Oirish I am meself. Me name's O'Grady.' He held out his hand. 'It's grand tales we'll be afther telling each! other, man, of those happy days back in Oireland.' The girl I laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

'I thought you were Australian,' I said, 'by the way you were talking just now.'

'Australian! Gor' blimy, that's a good one, that is,' he said, falling back into his original accent. 'The nearest I ever got to Australia was coaling a P. and O. boat at Southampton. That was back in thirty-one when the only work I could get was stevedoring. Come on, mate,' he added, 'you'd better get some cloves on if you're goin' to 'ave grub wiv us. You can put 'em on in the men's dining hall.'

He picked up two dishes from the table. I got my clothes and allowed him. The girl watched us silently. I stole a quick glance at her as I left the kitchen. She was watching us, a hint of laughter in her eyes. But as she met my gaze the laughter was over-shadowed by something else, and she frowned as though she were still puzzled about something.

We went through the cold scullery and through some old sables. The floor was cobbled here, and there were stalls for horses and curved iron mangers, 'You been here long, O'Grady?'

I asked.

'Better call me Friar,' he said. 'Everybody does. O'Grady's sort of a nom de gare — same as your moniker is. You ain't no more Irish than wot I am. Yes, I bin 'ere aba't a year nah. Gettin' quite like 'ome.' He pushed open a door and led the way into a small, bare room with canvas chairs set round a plain, scrubbed table. It was lit by a single oil lamp. An anthracite stove in the corner looked dead and cold, but an oil stove speckled the ceiling with its round ventilation holes. The walls were thinner here and they shook under the full force of the wind. The rain beat against the single curtained window. In one of the canvas chairs a long, cadaverous-featured man sat playing with a knife. His hands were rough and grey as though ingrained with dust. He inspected me slowly out of dark eyes. 'New bloke,' said Friar by way of introduction. 'A miner. Says 'is name's Jim O'Donnel. This 'ere's Slim Matthews.'

Slim Matthews nodded. 'What's the grub?' he asked Friar. He had a bitter, discontented voice.

'Stoo and two veg.' Friar dumped the dishes on the table. 'There y'are, mate.'

I got close to the stove and slipped into my clothes. The two of them began to feed silently. 'Who's the girl in the kitchen?' I asked.

Friar looked up, his mouth full of food. 'Kitty Trevorn,' he said. 'She's the daughter of old man Manack's second wife by her first marriage.'

'He means she's the old man's stepdaughter,' Slim explained.

'That's wot I bin tellin' 'im, ain't it?' Friar answered heatedly. 'Just because yer bin to a Public School. That's a larf nan, ain't it? Slim was at 'Arrer. An' wot's 'e do? Finishes up a ruddy stone mason. If that's all eddication can do for a man, reck'n I'm just as well orf without it.'

Slim Matthews said nothing. He just sat slumped in his chair concentrating on his food and looking down his long nose. He reminded me of some unhappy cur kicked around in the dust of an Arab village street. Then you're the quarry man?' I said to Friar to change the subject.

'That's right,' he replied. 'An' there ain't many blokes can swing a biddle like I can. But I'm aba't bra'ned off wiv working da'n there under the sea. It ain't nat'ral, that's wot I say. It ain't the way a man's supposed to work. Fair gives a bloke the creeps. An' wet as a latrine. The Capting says there's thirty feet of rock between us and the sea. But it don't feel like that, I tell yer. The water streams da'n the walls an' most of the time we works wiv the water swurling ra'nd our ankles. Still — " He sighed and scooped up another mouthful of stew in his spoon. 'Mustn't grumble, I s'pose. The pay's good an' nobody don't ask no questions. An' the grub's all right too. They got their own farm.'

That stew seemed about the best food I'd ever tasted. I helped myself to more and asked what the idea was in letting the sea into the Mermaid gallery. He looked at me narrowly out of his small, bright eyes. 'Well, if the Capting ain't told yer, mate, mebbe I'd better keep me ma'f shut. But you mark my words, it's a ruddy good idea he's got. But then 'e's clever as a monkey. Kitty slid you come from Italy. Was that where you met the Capting?'

'No,' I said. 'A friend of mine sent me to him.'

'Oh.' He removed a bit of meat from a back tooth with his nail. 'Wonder yer didn't hear of 'im a't there though. Seems 'e was quite a lad. Mulligan — do you know Mulligan?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I come over with him in the Arisaig.' 'Well, Mulligan told me 'e was one of the most reckless officers in the 'ole of the Eighth Army.'

'How the hell would Mulligan know?' I said.

He shrugged his shoulders, 'I dunno. Mulligan ain't been anywhere near any fightin'. I know that. Razor slashing, that's the nearest 'e ever bin to any fighting. I 'sped 'e was talkin' of wot 'e 'card. The Capting was up in the mountains most of the time organising the partisans. Seems 'e was always getting behind Jerry's lines. Looting, I wouldn't wonder. Mulligan says 'e's got a mint of money locked up in Italy.'

'Then why didn't he stay out there?' I suggested.

'Cor luv ol' iron, you're as full of ruddy questions as a sieve is 'oles,' he answered, grinning. "Ow should I know? If it comes to that, why did you leave Italy? Reck'n it got too 'ot to 'old ye. Same wiv the Capting. Or mebbe 'e thort Wheal Garth an sxcitin' toy to play wiv. Always after excitement, that's the Capting. Lives on 'is nerves and liquor. If 'e wasn't doin' something wrong, 'e'd die of boredom. It's 'is sort wot war was made for, not the likes of you and me. A soldier of fortune — blimey, if 'e'd lived in the ol' days 'e'd bin a ruddy general.'