A Story from the Heart

Written for the 2004 Storycircle Writers' Conference in Austin

A story from the heart

Once upon a time was a beautiful girl whose family were so kind and her life was so good and so happy she would look up at the blue sky and twirl until, dizzy and breathless, one of the people who loved her would catch her up in their arms and tell her how precious she was.

1972 saw a miners strike and power shortages across Britain. We borrowed a bag of coal from big happy Mrs. Green next door and my father unblocked the fireplace and the back-oven, and made magic flames from the unlikely black rocks. It made the house feel cozy. Sometimes we would throw on bits of paper and watch them crinkle into Spanish ladies’ dresses, until the heat made us drowsy. At bedtime we had a night-light in a saucer to see us up the draughty stairs, I would watch mine burn right down, loving the tiny flickering light which sent the shadows across the cold room. In the winter the windows were often double-thickness with frozen condensation; we could see our breathing and a trip to the bathroom seemed like miles across the icy linoleum.

Sometimes first thing my mother would run out of milk or cigarettes and I would race down the bank to Top Shop, which opened at five. The winding gear and coal trucks from the Chatterley Whitfield Colliery were always clattering in the background, no matter how early I got up; several times I sneaked out at dawn but the mine was always awake and busy before me. I would imagine the miners as moles with silky black faces tunneling beneath my feet, and savor the smell of new cold air. Rubbing my hands into the dewy grass, I searched for fairies in the lace spider webs, enjoying the sensation of being alone in the world above ground.

Walking back smells of grilling toast or bacon wafted, and the sounds of households preparing for their day: flushing water, clattering on wooden stairs, babies crying and the radio. When I could hear the Pitshill bus coming along Oxford Road it was time to race back with the shopping. I’d eat toast with butter and overcooked damson jam, then walk to school or on Saturdays visit Nan. She smelled of coal dust and Oil of Ulay and always wanted us to wash the front steps.

Sunday morning was church then in the afternoon, Sunday School with the Misses’ Beech. The calendar rolled around with regular events: Christmas, with the house all polished and nuts, oranges and foil-wrapped Quality Street chocolates in bowls; seaside day trips to Southport or Llandudno; and the annual Sunday School Anniversary, when the children were press-ganged to sing alongside the choir on a rickety stage, and all the adults came to listen.

Our days marked the steady rhythm of a time-locked community evolved from the Chapel and the mine. Then everything changed when the colliery closed in 1977 as across Britain the ancient industrial heartbeat fell silent forever.

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Copyright Tracy Pace 2004