“*Jowl Jowl and listen lads, ye’ll hear the coal face warkin, there’s many a Marra missin’ lads, because he waddn’t listen lads.”

Rowanne swung her pick again, using the beat of the tune in her head to time her swings. One wrong move down here and you were likely to return to the surface in a box, if at all. Her **glenny lay beside her unlit; after all, fuel was expensive, and “they” were drawn to it. Far better to work in the dark. Listening for the creak of the props could save your life after all.

She held her breath for a moment after each swing, and paused a moment for the dust to settle. They may not be after coal, but it was still down here, and breathing it too much carried the risk of getting the afterdamp. Still work was work. Small blessing from the war effort that it had made parliament forget the moral outrage at women wearing trousers long enough to undo the law confining their work to the pit brow.

Mercifully in doing so they had not undone the law banning young bairns from working underground. Some things should never happen, war or not.

So she kept her ears open, tapping with the haft at each swing, just to make sure that the surface she was hewing was solid enough to handle her excavations. A thin layer of cloth from her scarf keeping the worst of the dust from getting in there and another strip she kept with her shielding her nose and mouth just a little bit.

The familiar trundling sound of the tubs passing on their way to the surface, and the sounds of others working nearby was a comfort here. Even if some of the jokes making the rounds were off colour to say the least.

Sometimes you could even hear the tapping of the Bwyca if you were really lucky. Their guidance could lead you to a real score; or warn of a danger. Nobody knew the seams better than them. They didn’t knock on for just anything though, still a fresh seam wasn’t to be sniffed at so they were worth listening for.

Today was not her lucky day. Out in the main seam she could see traces of the light turning blue. The air turning was thick around them. That was never a good sign. Men scrambled to extinguish the flames in their glennies as quickly as possible. Reaching for the only weapons most of them had, not that picks were any real defense, but it was better than nothing.

A hushed voice reached her down the seam. It sounded like Old George. “Alreet bonny lass, get doon yon seam as far as ye can, they canna follow ya doon there, divvent mek a sound if ye want ta live.” She didn’t need any further prompting as she scrambled deeper into the cracks in the stone, cramming herself as far back as she could.

She wedged her pick across the opening behind her, feeling it burying itself deep into the damp stone. Not like it would be possible to swing it hard enough to fight back here anyway. Rowanne tried to keep her breathing as shallow as she could.

DUMDUMDUMDUM.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as the sounds of fighting echoed out through the workings. She just tried to stay quiet, choking back sobs as the fighting quickly turned to screams. Soon though all was quiet again, far too quiet save for the mild creaking of the props.

She listened carefully, trying her level best to hold it together in the dark. She was alone for a long time.