Robert Close (An ex-member now living in Australia)
A Living To Make.
John Lester stood on the sea line of the despoiled beach and stared out to sea. The sea was running high and the tide was coming in quickly. Over head the sky was filled with grey clouds that mirrored the sea and there was a chillingly cold drizzel starting. To John it felt like being underwater. It was November on the North East coast of England and a strong, cold easterly wind was driving the water up the beach. When the wind was in this direction there was little shelter for him, but John was prepared for this and was dressed in several layers of warm clothing. He was also wearing a balaclava that had only a narrow slit at eye level to allow him to see; but which would keep out the numbing wind.
A glance to each side of him confirmed to his relief that he wasn’t alone today. There were several others to his left and right strung along the several hundred yards of exposed beach and John knew them all. They were all there for the same purpose; to pick coal from the beach. Today the conditions were right for the coal to be thrown up into the water or onto the sand and so the rewards for their efforts would be good.
The coal was thought to come from an offshore seam but John was sceptical. People had flocked to the beach up to the 1920s, for day trips and the sand had been pristine. The area had been known as Blackden by the sea and posters had advertised its delights; but now it was a blackened wasteland, cold and inhospitable.
For John however the answer was clear; it was the mining activity to blame. From the 1920s coastal pits had been allowed to tip their waste onto the beach just on the seaside of the high water line. It was believed that the sea would claim the waste, but whatever went out was inevitably brought back in by the tides, and a layer of waste had built up that was five feet thick in places. Mixed in with this waste washed ashore was the coal that had been missed on the screens and it was this that John and his ragged and bedraggled comrades in arms were there to glean.
John’s wife Julie was always concerned at his insistence on doing this work, as he returned home dirty, cold, and almost dead on his feet. John however was adamant that he should go there as it was his way to contribute, to pay his way in the physical way he had known all his adult life. It was his way to make a living and feel useful; dignified.
As a young lad he had gone to work in the mines although his father had been appalled and had tried to stop him. In the end dad had given up the struggle and John began his training. At first it was a surface job but John was insistent on going underground and once he was old enough, and the underground training completed, that is what he did. His first time down in the cage was frightening but he had enjoyed the ritual of getting his token and lamp for the first time. The sights, sounds and smells at the bottom of the shaft were bewildering for the young man but he soon became accustomed to them. He also had to get used to the discipline; and the knowledge that everyone relied on each other for their safety underground. From that first day he had moved ever closer to the coal face, and closer to the danger that lurked there. The technology changed over the years but the danger never lessened.
He was often asked why he wanted to work underground when it was so awful to many people, but he would simply shrug and say, “It’s a living” He knew however that there was more to it than that. Over the years he had become so used to the smell of coal and the underworld, that he would feel uneasy if he was away from it for too long.
The coal however would bite back and there were times when he had scraped or cut himself and the healing scars had taken on a blue hue. Eventually his back became a gallery for him to exhibit his art works.
He also enjoyed the comradeship with his work mates and had often thought that the mine created strange bedfellows. He had no reason to believe that things would ever change and he felt at home down the mine, despite the increasing tightness in his chest and the laboured breathing. He would often reflect that;
“It is that darn dust starting to get to me as it did to my dad. Perhaps dad was right and I should have stayed on the surface.”
Then the rumours started that pits were in danger throughout the land; but he put such talk to the back of his mind and carried on as he had always done.
Despite the warnings when the end came, it came quickly and John recalled vividly handing in his lamp and his token for the last time and the feeling of emptiness that was palpable. He no longer felt that he could make a living and support himself and his family and he hated that feeling of uselessness. He did eventually get another job in a supermarket, but it never felt like proper work to him and uneasiness always accompanied pay day as he waited to be exposed as a fraud.
As he stood on the beach gazing out to sea all he old thoughts ran through his mind and he marvelled that it was now twenty years since he had last made a journey to the bowels of the earth in a rickety cage.
When John had finally finished his paid employment he realised that he missed his contact with king coal and it was during a walk along the beach that he had seen the men picking sea coal and marvelled not only at their stamina but also their dignity, it was the dignity of labour. They were ragged gentlemen and he resolved to join them and see if he could earn a living. He had done so for four years now and become aware of the hazards of the job.
The grey drizzle thickened and made the day seem colder and more miserable. Then the sound of lorries been driven onto the beach alerted them all to be on their guard as the professionals arrived. The professionals were employed by a sea coal company and saw the coal pickers as interlopers. They would try to intimidate them but John had successfully organised them into a team that would come to the aid of a colleague. It was that old underground fellowship and the union of labour coming to the fore. Up to now the strategy had worked but there was never any room for complacency.
John unloaded the tools of his trade, a broad sieve like shovel and a riddle and checked that his waders were secure before wading almost thigh deep into the cold North Sea. Soon he was wielding his shovel and hurling the dripping contents onto the sand behind him and a pile of black gold began to grow. It was back breaking work but he pressed on grimly and as he did so a rhythm was built up as he said over and over to himself.
“This is my work, I am making a living, I am making a living. This is my work, I am making a living.”
A cry for help was heard along the beach as the professional bullies moved in on a lone picker but the downing of tools and a collective move by the team saw the reluctant withdrawal of the lorry men. The professionals were not to be crossed alone but the massed ranks could see them off.
Once the tide turned the heavier coal was left on the sand and it could be picked up more easily. The work now changed to loading and John unpacked the small poke like sacks and began to fill them. This was the easy bit and he knew he would have to savour it because the next stage was to get from the beach to the cliff top level. John moved back to the base of the cliffs carrying the sacks to where he had left his rickety old bicycle hidden in the undergrowth. Once all the sacks were moved back he loaded them onto the bicycle and began the long push up the ascent from the beach to the cliff top, up a road known locally as dead mans bank.
The ascent was steep, winding and strength sapping and more than once John had to stop as the pain in his legs became too great and red hot needles of pain ran down his back. Why was he doing this he asked himself? “I am earning a living,” He answered repeatedly going over the phrase again and again, entering into an almost trance like state. After what seemed like an eternity he reached the top of the cliffs and headed over the fields to the main road. The path wasn’t as steep as the ascent from the shoreline but the gradient was constant and there could be no let up in effort.
At last he reached his old and battered pick up truck and loaded the coal and the bicycle onto the back. On reaching home several miles away he almost staggered from the truck, his strength all but gone. As he entered the house that night Janet looked at him in his dishevelled and dirty and broken state and her heart almost broke.
“John, John why do you persist in going down there?” she said with a break in her voice.
“They need me Janet. Without me they would stop being organised and the bullies would win. The little man is always losing out and it sickens me to my stomach. It has always been like that and I want to do my bit to help. I can’t tell you how important it is to me."
Janet knew this was true but it still troubled her deeply and she left it for now..
Later that night John stood in the shower and let the water run over his tired and aching body. The relief he felt was immense and as the pain subsided he turned his mind to how he could help the poor devils on the shores edge. Some people believed they were merely scroungers on benefit and that they were all frauds and cheats, but for many of the doubters, one days work on the shoreline would dispel any lingering doubts as to their work ethics. They simply needed help.
The following day John and Janet were talking over breakfast when Janet said.
“John you cannot go on like this, it is killing you. You must stop and we don’t need the money. You can’t change everything by yourself. There has to be another way.”
John listened quietly and he knew she was right. He had spent a restless night troubled by the aches and pains from the day before and so perhaps it was time to quit.
“What about the lads on the beach how will they stay strong without support?” He asked.
“You can still help them by going down to see them and rallying them to keep them strong; just please stop doing the work. I can’t bear to see you as you were last night”
Janet was right, they didn’t need the money; they were rich beyond what most people could ever know thanks to a windfall win ten years before. John had never come to terms with this wealth and felt guilty that he had so much while others had so little. He had always earned his living and somehow his continued hard work on the beach helped him to live with himself and his belief that he could still do it; and still be useful. The term the Protestant work ethic could have been coined for him. Now, however, the work was taking its toll.
“I will go to see the solicitor today to see if we can draw up some sort of funding to help them down there.” John said at last, resigned to giving up his shoreline job.
The first of many meetings with his solicitor ensued as they sought to find a way to help the pickers. John was adamant that no one should ever discover his secret. In this way and his new watching brief on the shore he felt he could still earn his living.”
A Living To Make.
John Lester stood on the sea line of the despoiled beach and stared out to sea. The sea was running high and the tide was coming in quickly. Over head the sky was filled with grey clouds that mirrored the sea and there was a chillingly cold drizzel starting. To John it felt like being underwater. It was November on the North East coast of England and a strong, cold easterly wind was driving the water up the beach. When the wind was in this direction there was little shelter for him, but John was prepared for this and was dressed in several layers of warm clothing. He was also wearing a balaclava that had only a narrow slit at eye level to allow him to see; but which would keep out the numbing wind.
A glance to each side of him confirmed to his relief that he wasn’t alone today. There were several others to his left and right strung along the several hundred yards of exposed beach and John knew them all. They were all there for the same purpose; to pick coal from the beach. Today the conditions were right for the coal to be thrown up into the water or onto the sand and so the rewards for their efforts would be good.
The coal was thought to come from an offshore seam but John was sceptical. People had flocked to the beach up to the 1920s, for day trips and the sand had been pristine. The area had been known as Blackden by the sea and posters had advertised its delights; but now it was a blackened wasteland, cold and inhospitable.
For John however the answer was clear; it was the mining activity to blame. From the 1920s coastal pits had been allowed to tip their waste onto the beach just on the seaside of the high water line. It was believed that the sea would claim the waste, but whatever went out was inevitably brought back in by the tides, and a layer of waste had built up that was five feet thick in places. Mixed in with this waste washed ashore was the coal that had been missed on the screens and it was this that John and his ragged and bedraggled comrades in arms were there to glean.
John’s wife Julie was always concerned at his insistence on doing this work, as he returned home dirty, cold, and almost dead on his feet. John however was adamant that he should go there as it was his way to contribute, to pay his way in the physical way he had known all his adult life. It was his way to make a living and feel useful; dignified.
As a young lad he had gone to work in the mines although his father had been appalled and had tried to stop him. In the end dad had given up the struggle and John began his training. At first it was a surface job but John was insistent on going underground and once he was old enough, and the underground training completed, that is what he did. His first time down in the cage was frightening but he had enjoyed the ritual of getting his token and lamp for the first time. The sights, sounds and smells at the bottom of the shaft were bewildering for the young man but he soon became accustomed to them. He also had to get used to the discipline; and the knowledge that everyone relied on each other for their safety underground. From that first day he had moved ever closer to the coal face, and closer to the danger that lurked there. The technology changed over the years but the danger never lessened.
He was often asked why he wanted to work underground when it was so awful to many people, but he would simply shrug and say, “It’s a living” He knew however that there was more to it than that. Over the years he had become so used to the smell of coal and the underworld, that he would feel uneasy if he was away from it for too long.
The coal however would bite back and there were times when he had scraped or cut himself and the healing scars had taken on a blue hue. Eventually his back became a gallery for him to exhibit his art works.
He also enjoyed the comradeship with his work mates and had often thought that the mine created strange bedfellows. He had no reason to believe that things would ever change and he felt at home down the mine, despite the increasing tightness in his chest and the laboured breathing. He would often reflect that;
“It is that darn dust starting to get to me as it did to my dad. Perhaps dad was right and I should have stayed on the surface.”
Then the rumours started that pits were in danger throughout the land; but he put such talk to the back of his mind and carried on as he had always done.
Despite the warnings when the end came, it came quickly and John recalled vividly handing in his lamp and his token for the last time and the feeling of emptiness that was palpable. He no longer felt that he could make a living and support himself and his family and he hated that feeling of uselessness. He did eventually get another job in a supermarket, but it never felt like proper work to him and uneasiness always accompanied pay day as he waited to be exposed as a fraud.
As he stood on the beach gazing out to sea all he old thoughts ran through his mind and he marvelled that it was now twenty years since he had last made a journey to the bowels of the earth in a rickety cage.
When John had finally finished his paid employment he realised that he missed his contact with king coal and it was during a walk along the beach that he had seen the men picking sea coal and marvelled not only at their stamina but also their dignity, it was the dignity of labour. They were ragged gentlemen and he resolved to join them and see if he could earn a living. He had done so for four years now and become aware of the hazards of the job.
The grey drizzle thickened and made the day seem colder and more miserable. Then the sound of lorries been driven onto the beach alerted them all to be on their guard as the professionals arrived. The professionals were employed by a sea coal company and saw the coal pickers as interlopers. They would try to intimidate them but John had successfully organised them into a team that would come to the aid of a colleague. It was that old underground fellowship and the union of labour coming to the fore. Up to now the strategy had worked but there was never any room for complacency.
John unloaded the tools of his trade, a broad sieve like shovel and a riddle and checked that his waders were secure before wading almost thigh deep into the cold North Sea. Soon he was wielding his shovel and hurling the dripping contents onto the sand behind him and a pile of black gold began to grow. It was back breaking work but he pressed on grimly and as he did so a rhythm was built up as he said over and over to himself.
“This is my work, I am making a living, I am making a living. This is my work, I am making a living.”
A cry for help was heard along the beach as the professional bullies moved in on a lone picker but the downing of tools and a collective move by the team saw the reluctant withdrawal of the lorry men. The professionals were not to be crossed alone but the massed ranks could see them off.
Once the tide turned the heavier coal was left on the sand and it could be picked up more easily. The work now changed to loading and John unpacked the small poke like sacks and began to fill them. This was the easy bit and he knew he would have to savour it because the next stage was to get from the beach to the cliff top level. John moved back to the base of the cliffs carrying the sacks to where he had left his rickety old bicycle hidden in the undergrowth. Once all the sacks were moved back he loaded them onto the bicycle and began the long push up the ascent from the beach to the cliff top, up a road known locally as dead mans bank.
The ascent was steep, winding and strength sapping and more than once John had to stop as the pain in his legs became too great and red hot needles of pain ran down his back. Why was he doing this he asked himself? “I am earning a living,” He answered repeatedly going over the phrase again and again, entering into an almost trance like state. After what seemed like an eternity he reached the top of the cliffs and headed over the fields to the main road. The path wasn’t as steep as the ascent from the shoreline but the gradient was constant and there could be no let up in effort.
At last he reached his old and battered pick up truck and loaded the coal and the bicycle onto the back. On reaching home several miles away he almost staggered from the truck, his strength all but gone. As he entered the house that night Janet looked at him in his dishevelled and dirty and broken state and her heart almost broke.
“John, John why do you persist in going down there?” she said with a break in her voice.
“They need me Janet. Without me they would stop being organised and the bullies would win. The little man is always losing out and it sickens me to my stomach. It has always been like that and I want to do my bit to help. I can’t tell you how important it is to me."
Janet knew this was true but it still troubled her deeply and she left it for now..
Later that night John stood in the shower and let the water run over his tired and aching body. The relief he felt was immense and as the pain subsided he turned his mind to how he could help the poor devils on the shores edge. Some people believed they were merely scroungers on benefit and that they were all frauds and cheats, but for many of the doubters, one days work on the shoreline would dispel any lingering doubts as to their work ethics. They simply needed help.
The following day John and Janet were talking over breakfast when Janet said.
“John you cannot go on like this, it is killing you. You must stop and we don’t need the money. You can’t change everything by yourself. There has to be another way.”
John listened quietly and he knew she was right. He had spent a restless night troubled by the aches and pains from the day before and so perhaps it was time to quit.
“What about the lads on the beach how will they stay strong without support?” He asked.
“You can still help them by going down to see them and rallying them to keep them strong; just please stop doing the work. I can’t bear to see you as you were last night”
Janet was right, they didn’t need the money; they were rich beyond what most people could ever know thanks to a windfall win ten years before. John had never come to terms with this wealth and felt guilty that he had so much while others had so little. He had always earned his living and somehow his continued hard work on the beach helped him to live with himself and his belief that he could still do it; and still be useful. The term the Protestant work ethic could have been coined for him. Now, however, the work was taking its toll.
“I will go to see the solicitor today to see if we can draw up some sort of funding to help them down there.” John said at last, resigned to giving up his shoreline job.
The first of many meetings with his solicitor ensued as they sought to find a way to help the pickers. John was adamant that no one should ever discover his secret. In this way and his new watching brief on the shore he felt he could still earn his living.”