Hosts of Rebecca

rates.”
He rubbed his bristled chin, grinning.
“Monmouthshire rates for skilled labour,” I said. “Trams or basketing, ladders or winding – towing if you like.”
“Coal face hewing and he works to chalk,” said Morfydd.
The bedlam rose to a shout about us, the tempo surging at the sight of Foreman. The pigmies scurried, these the brothers; brother to the black-skinned slave of the cotton lands, the ear-nicked trash of the branding iron, whip-scarred, mutilated.
“There is a beauty,” said Job.
“Till you put a hand on her,” said Morfydd. “Then she’s a bitch.”
Didn’t stop grinning, to his credit.
“Bargaining, eh?” He turned to me. “Coal face, you – with Liam Muldooney on Number Two. He’s driving me to hell, let’s see what he’ll do for you. The woman goes towing, no skilled women.”
“Monmouthshire rates. Penny a basket,” said Morfydd.
“Trams, too – halfpenny a basket – twenty a day,” he replied.
“Ladders thrown in?” I asked, innocent.
He grunted.
“And what height is this pit?” asked Morfydd.
“A hundred feet – you can damned near jump it.”
“Then jump,” said she. “A penny a basket is Top Town rates and we weren’t born yesterday.”
“I can see that,” said he, looking her over. “Take it or leave it.”
“Come, Jethro,” said Morfydd. “Work to death by all means, but not starving too. Come.”
“Penny a basket,” said Job Gower. “But keep it to yourself.”
“Thank God for the Unions,” said Morfydd.
“Plenty of tongue for strangers,” said he. “We will see how you do. If not, you’re out, the two of you.”
Twenty shillings a week between us, six day week. Not bad, I thought, but I was afraid of the ladders for Morfydd.
A hundred feet down is a platform of light and the two ladders are snakes that reach to the bottom, baskets coming up one side, baskets going down the other.
“You first,” said Morfydd, and I saw the sweat suddenly bright on her face, for she had never done ladders before, and I wondered at her head for heights. Job Gower was behind us as I swung myself into space and gripped the rungs, and I saw the shadow of Morfydd’s leg come over above me as I went down hand over hand. Twenty feet down I stopped, for a woman was climbing against the platform of light, and her gasps were preceding her on the swaying rungs.
“Down with you,” roared Job from the top. “Don’t mind old Towey, plenty of room to pass.”
Down, down, hand over hand, with the ladder bucking and the coal dust flying up, sucked upwards by the draught. Looked up at the light above me and the morning clouds and saw Morfydd coming after me, her fingers peaked white on the rungs, skirts and petticoats billowing indecent, and I knew she was fearing the drop. Began to wonder how I could break her if she came, hang on and elbow her against the shaft, foot against the up-ladder, but I knew she’d take me if she came from a height. So I waited a bit till her feet were above me.
Down fifty feet and I met Mrs Towey. Swing over to the right as she comes labouring up, for her basket is lopsided and her body is swaying.
“Good morning, Mrs Towey,” I said to cheer her.
“O, Christ,” said she. “Do you give me a hand.”
Sixty if she’s a day, this one, eyes upturned, breathing in gasps; sweat-streamed, shuddering, clinging to the rungs, with the coal from her basket spilling down and dancing as gnats against the square of light. Thank God nobody was following her.
“O, God,” said Towey.
“Shift you over, woman,” I said. “I will come on your ladder,” and steadied her basket.
“O, man,” said she. “Let me keep my coal.”
“Easy with it, then,” and I jacked the thing up with my knee. “Rest,” I said, gripping her skirts. The two of us there with Morfydd above me, and I looked up past her to the sky and Gower’s face was peering down with clouds doing halos above his head.
“What the hell is happening down there, Towey?” he roared.
“Come down and see,” I roared back. “Little old Towey it is, and I am giving her a spell. Damned scandal, it is.”
“Aye? She’ll have you basketing for her before you are finished.”
“Strangers, is it?” asked Towey, eyes closed, forehead sweating against a rung.
“Aye,” I said. “Rest yourself, girl.”
“Kind, you are, boy. This old ladder will be the death of me, mind. Twenty times I have been up it since last night. Is it light up by Job, or darkness?”
“Morning,” I said. “The end of the shift.”
“Thank God for His mercies,” said she. “For there is fire in my chest and I couldn’t climb again” and she opened her eyes and looked at me with a wrinkled grandmother of a smile. “Eh, now, young you are, man. But a baby.”
“Nigh fourteen,” I replied. “Do not talk.”
So we rested, Towey and me, with Job shouting his head off at the top till Morfydd started some lip and he went off disgusted.
“Will you climb now, old woman?” I asked.
“Eh, aye! Got my breath back now. Mind, fit as a horse I am most times, see, but poorly lately, not up to standard. You Chapel?”
“For God’s sake,” I said, heaving back to my ladder.
“O, a curse on the first woman who ever climbed this ladder,” said she, “and rot her soul in everlasting Hell. Dying this, not living, and I have a husband to keep – you heard about Tom Towey?”
“For grief’s sake,” said Morfydd above us. “Are we serving up tea?”
“Go now, Towey,” I said. “It is only fifty feet.”
Up with her then, basket creaking and her coal spilling down, clouting on the head and naked shoulders of a woman coming after her. Irish by the sound of her, sending up Irish curses. Legs as sticks has Mrs Towey, the rags about them fluttering, and Morfydd gave her an elbow as she went up past her to Job hands on hips at the top.
Welsh and Irish waiting at the bottom; waiting for their turn with