The thick, oozing slag still flowed, albeit slowly, through the school gates; a river of black mud moving down the road. We could see the roof of the school and about three feet of wall. Neither the tops of the windows nor doors were visible. As they reached us everybody fell silent, unable to move. I felt the tears rise in my eyes . . . Sion . . . Sian.
Suddenly the whole crowd, as one, threw themselves at that hill of black obscenity. We used our hands to pull at the mud, trying to shove it to one side, trying to get inside . . . to the children.
I was sure that in the lull before we attacked the mud the others had noticed what I had. The silence. There was not even a whimper from inside the building. Nothing.
After a few minutes of useless scrabbling at slag I was pushed aside and one of the miners took my place. Unable to help I stood and watched sickened by the hopelessness of what they were trying to do. There was hardly a person without a tear-stained face. This was all the more shocking in a community hardened to mine accidents and sudden death. People normally grieved in private.
In every situation I suppose someone rises to the occasion and this was no exception. It was surprising who it was – the vicar! Suddenly he was among us screaming at us to stop.
‘Get back, get back, all of you,’ he yelled in a stentorian voice. He took hold of men and women alike and pushed them to one side. Slowly they began to take notice, all except one or two, too distraught to heed the vicar and still clawing at the slag. With a furious gesture he pointed at Lewis Lewis, the acknowledged leader of our community.
‘You man, get to the mine. Tell them what’s happened and tell them we need all the men down here. Tell them we want shovels, axes, picks, buckets. The Devil take it, Lewis Lewis, you know better than I do what we need. Take Llewelyn and Thomas with you,’ he pointed at the two men. ‘Thomas, when you reach the mine, get to the shaft and tell them what’s happened. They’ll get the cages ready and spread the word. Llewelyn go to the time shack. Get them to sound the alarm. If they refuse . . .’ his voice trailed off. If they refused? It was unthinkable, but the rules were explicit. Nobody less than a foreman could sound the alarm, certainly not the timekeepers. And how long would it take to find a foreman? The alarm would bring the whole mine out and production would stop. What would the owners’ reaction be to that?
‘I’ll ring the alarm vicar, don’t you worry none.’ Llewelyn was over 6′6″tall and as wide across. The walking mountain he was often called (behind his back).
‘Away with you and quickly,’ said the vicar. ‘In the meantime you women run home and bring back all the shovels and buckets you have. You men . . . Away with you, you women.’ he screamed at them. They scurried as though the dogs of Hell were yapping at their heels. ‘You men concentrate on getting a passage into the doorway and then through to the classrooms. Davis Jones, Lloyd, Huw Jones, go and find planking. Tear down the wooden fence by the river, the one on this side. We need to hold back the rest of this Devil’s concoction from filling in where we dig.’
Six of the men formed into a squad using their hands to drag the mud to one side. It was soul-destroying work. As they pulled the black sludge away more oozed down to take its place. They were up to their waists in the filth, the one in front pushing the slag to the one behind. It looked ineffective but after a few minutes I thought I could see that they were making slow progress. They inched towards the door, over fifty yards away across the playground.
I had no idea what to do. I just stood there, the only non-grown up on the scene. All I could think of was Sion and Sian. They had to be alive, I told myself, they just had to be. The silence was because they were all sitting quietly, preserving their air, waiting for us to rescue them. It had to be that way. It had to be.
Some of the women returned carrying buckets and shovels. Some had brought blankets, to keep the survivors warm I heard. Mam was back with our coalscuttle and the grate shovel. I think it was the futility of this that suddenly came home to me the fact that the rescue attempt was pathetic, and it was the hope on the faces of the villagers that brought me to further tears. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see old Mr Price.
‘Have a good cry Dai, but don’t give up praying. There’s always,’ he stumbled over the words, ‘there’s always hope. If the windows on the other side didn’t break then most . . . at least a lot of the sludge will have been kept out.’ He said the words in a rush and somehow I got the feeling he did not believe them either.
‘Why isn’t there any calls from within then Mr. Price?’ The vicar yelled at the top of his voice and didn’t get any reply. I wiped my tears and nose on my sleeve.
‘You must remember this is pretty thick stuff and we’re quite a way from the school yet, look you. It’s impossible for sound to get through that lot so don’t give up hope yet boy . . . not yet.’
I saw him wipe his eyes with his fingers and then he blew his nose in a handkerchief. His words comforted me a little.
Mam came over just then, her hair blowing across her face, slag streaks across her brow, her hands and arms black to the elbows. I noticed the white rivulets down her cheeks where she had been crying but her eyes were dry now – dry, and harder than I had ever seen them before.
‘Dai, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mam,’ a shiver ran through me, belying my words.
‘You’d better go home and go to bed,’ she said softly. ‘You’re wet through. I don’t want you catching pneumonia not . . .’ her voice broke and then recovered harshly, ‘not now. Go on Dai.’
‘I can’t, Mam. Please don’t try and make me. Please Mam.’ Perhaps she understood that no matter what she said, I would stay.
At that moment we heard the intermittent hooting of the mine alarm. Immediately it seemed to put new life into the villagers. We knew that within minutes the men would be there, the gangs would form up and dig into that Hell hill of blackness. Those who were already trying to get to the door attacked the slag with renewed vigour, passing the buckets down the lines. Helped by the women, the heavy ooze was tipped on the other side of the road.
I saw a few of the men coming round the corner dragging the riverside fencing and I ran to help, relieved to have something to do.
The sea of blackness stretched down the road out of sight. It was dangerously slippery with people continually falling over. It was hard to tell who was who. The piece of fencing was taken from us and the vicar ordered us to bring more. A crowd of us ran sliding and falling down the road towards the riverbank to fetch it. The few villagers in front of me suddenly stopped and seconds later I saw why. Hurrying down the hill towards us, spurred on by the sound of the alarm came a beautiful sight . . . a disorganised crocodile of children. We gaped at them, those behind jostling past me to see why we had stopped. The children, seeing us black and wet slowed, a little afraid. Then we were running towards them, Ma Grimes the schoolteacher hurrying towards us and the children following. I saw Sion and the same time he recognised me and he came running. I looked for Sian, never far from him as a rule but did not see her. My heart sank and fresh tears stung my eyes. I did not see the other reunions going on around me, I saw only my brother.
I hugged him. ‘Where’s Sian?’ I asked, expecting her to jump on me any second. His words brought bile to my mouth I felt so sickened.
‘She’s in school Dai. Why? What’s happening? Why are you all here and look at you – all of you so dirty. We heard the alarm and came quickly. What’s happened? Is it the mine? Is Da . . . ?’
‘It’s not the mine. It’s the school.’ I turned, unable to go on, trying to fight back my grief. At first sight of the children I had hoped. I had seen Sion and known some were safe. Now . . . now Sian, my lovely sister . . . I choked on my thoughts.
Some of us went to get the fencing though a few of the women stayed where they were, their arms protectively around their children.
‘Sion, Mam’s at the school. Hurry and find her and let her know about Sian. Why isn’t she with you anyway?’
‘We all came out for a nature ramble. Ma Grimes thought we needed fresh air and so we went to look at some trees or something. I didn’t take much notice. Sian . . . Sian was sniffling. Teacher thought she might be going down with a cold see. So . . . so she stayed behind to . . . to sew or something.’
I said nothing. All I managed was to nod for him to follow the others. A cold. My cold. All mine. I was blinded by tears as I stumbled to the side of the road and sat down, sobbing. I suppose the whole event, the original fear, the joy at knowing they were all right and the unspeakable sickness of discovering that Sian was still in there, was too much emotion for me to handle. I only stopped when Mr Price came and sat besides me.
‘I saw Sion,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought . . . I thought Sian was there too. When I found she wasn’t I felt like you.’ He put his arm around my shoulders. ‘But I can’t cry, not properly. I guess I’ve seen too much suffering in my time. Been through too much myself. You’re shivering. Come on, let’s go and see how they’re getting on. The men from the mine have arrived. Come on.’ He pulled me to my feet and I stumbled along behind him.
Now the scene was different. The mine foremen had taken charge. Six teams were steadily digging their way across the playground, not far short of the school walls. As they went they put up side timbers, brought with them, holding back the black ooze like Moses’ passage across the Red Sea. The women had been moved to one side and now they stood with the children, a silent crowd watching the men.
I did not recognise Da for some time, the men looking so alike, wet and filthy covered with sludge. Then I saw him briefly in front of the gang going for the door. Hurry Da, I told him silently, hurry. Go straight to the last classroom Da, the last one. That’s where she is – in the last one.
The one storey building was of grey stone, thick and solid. Inside the main door was the cloakroom where we hung our raincoats. Through swing doors was the corridor. Three classrooms on the furthest side had taken the brunt of the collapsed slagheap, and Sian was in the end one. On this side were the assembly hall, another classroom and the headmaster’s study. Two classes had gone on the nature ramble. My class had gone with the younger children because our teacher was home ill.
I imagined Sian sitting at her desk, alone, when the darkness enveloped her. Sewing. My cold. I bit my lip, trying not to think, concentrating on the men’s progress. Da’s gang reached the door. I heard them shouting but did not understand what was said. Then the door was pulled open. The darkness inside, the overcast gloom of the day and the surrounding slag made it impossible to see whether the way in was clear or not. Everyone was breathless, watching. If the men walked in then there was a chance. All other work stopped. Da began digging. Moans and sighs escaped the men and women and we knew what we all thought but had been afraid to admit even to ourselves.
Another shiver ran through me, and Mr Price took off his jacket and put it over my shoulders. It hung to my knees, filthy from the slag but not too wet. His arm was around my shoulders and when I shivered again he pressed me close to him. I knew I should go home to bed, he knew it too. But he never even suggested it, for which I was grateful.
There were further shouts as two of the gangs reached the walls and started breaking windows. The setting sun broke through the clouds and lighted up the scene for a brief second. I thought I could see the slag, as high inside the building as it was out. Hope dropped to a mere flicker, though it was not completely extinguished. Human nature, I learned that day, never gave up until the bitter end.
In those days we went to school at the age of six and stayed until eleven. Even though the school was used by three villages and there were only four classes, thankfully they were not big classes. There were twenty-four children in mine, about the same in the others. Two classes were safe. Forty-eight children plus Sian could be in there, I thought. Why did it happen? How could it have happened? Forty-eight little children dead, just like that. No, not dead, not yet, I persuaded myself. We don’t know they’re dead. There’s always hope. The corridor was full but that did not mean the classrooms were affected too. I latched on to the idea, excited by the thought. Why not? If it was only the corridor it would explain why we had heard no noise. The slag in the corridor would prevent the children getting out and stop any noise they made. Possibly they were keeping silent to preserve their air – except Sian of course. She had plenty, being alone. She would be frightened; very, very frightened. Don’t worry I told her, Da will be through soon Sian, very soon.
Da and his team were through the doors. More of the men attached themselves to his gang as they worked through the filth. Those at the windows were digging into the nearer classroom and the furthest team had reached the headmaster’s study. Word was passed back. The study was filled with slag.
At what point did hope die? It’s impossible to say but I think for me it was about then. I knew she was dead, along with all the others. I prayed I was wrong. There was still a tiny part of me that refused to acknowledge in the weirdest way imaginable, the reality of the sludge, the evidence of the men digging through every filthy, stinking, heart breaking inch.
I was surprised to realise it was nearly dark. The men were lighting their helmet lamps, the flames flickering yellow in the gloom and against the black background of the slag. Mr Price and I sat in a corner, his arm around me while I shivered from time to time.
Two of the bosses from the mine appeared with offer of help. Luckily for them they caught our mood and left before the scene became too ugly. They were the focal point of the people’s hate, anger and frustration. They were blamed for what had happened. After all, it was their slag; they ordered it to be dumped there. If they had not the men would not be crawling through that filth, trying to rescue their children.
In the days that were to follow they would argue they were not responsible for the rain which caused the accident and that the slag had been dumped there for years without danger, or even a hint of danger. Even so our dislike of the mine owners turned to hatred that was to persist for a long time and lead to further deaths.