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A Miner Character

Task: a story involving a minor character

‘Do you think our family has a low sex drive?’


Tom, horrified to hear this, looked away from his father and concentrated hard on tying his laces.


The whole of the locker room had gone quiet and although he wasn’t looking up, he knew his father would be grinning and that everybody else were watching, waiting for his reaction. Tom felt hot. His hands were shaking as he fumbled the looping. All those years of tying up his shoes and now - why couldn’t he complete the task now?


Someone sniggered, breaking the tension, so he stood up and tried to pretend his father didn’t exist, standing as tall as he could and pushing him aside as one would a low branch.


‘Because, as I was saying to Fred in the pub last night, we have a history of having copious amounts of sex, yet we only ever have one child in our family. Wasn’t I, Fred?’


‘Oh, aye,’ coughed Fred, by the door.


‘So, I wondering what you thought, son...’


Tom froze and spoke in a tone that he last used when he stood in dog shit. ‘Dad!’


The whole room seemed to shake with the sheer force of the laughter. It was a never ending flow as they filed out, with the ruffling of Tom’s hair, the thumping of his arm and slaps on the back. Finally, they were left alone.


‘You alright?’ his father asked, putting on his hardhat.


‘Why did you say that?’


‘Trying to break the tension. Sorry. You look nervous.’


Tom grabbed his own hat and left the room, whispering with venom, ‘I am not nervous.’


He walked, knowing that his father’s oh-so-familiar grin was still following him.


‘It’s alright to be scared, you know.’


‘Uhh,’ was all Tom could think of replying, as they joined the back of the queue.


A bell rang out and the Foreman appeared out of his office. He frowned at the hubbub and walked to the front of the queue, weaving around some of the rowdier men like a tug through ragged rocks. It was a journey that he had done so many times, knowing to the second how long he had from the sound of the bell, because at the exact moment he got to the front, the lift appeared from up the shaft. Metal scraped and whistled as the whole contraption jolted to a stop. He pushed the locking lever free and the outer gate screamed open. The inner gate then noisily complained about opening and they all filed out: dozens of men made up like minstrels, eyes and teeth gleaming white against the darkness of their skin, their bright boiler suits now soiled black by the dust. A few recognised some friends waiting in line for their shift and nodded. All the while, the foreman repeated ‘Tokens!’ and handed them out, checking the same number of men passing him tallied with the number of tokens in his hand.


Once done, he turned to the wall and make a mark on a sheet hanging there on a clipboard. He studied it for a while, stroking his grey beard, as though something important needed a final decision, when in reality all he had to do next was the whole procedure in reverse.


He turned his shiny eyes on Tom’s shift, looking at the straggly line with a contempt that either meant he genuinely disapproved of what he saw or someone had just farted in his mother’s face. Whatever the reason, his gruffness shone through. ‘Right, you ‘orrible lot. Down you go!’


Then one by one, the queue shortened as men handed him their tokens and entered the lift as he counted aloud. ‘One. Two, thankyou. Three. Four, less of your cheek, you. Five.’


That’s when it dawned on Tom as they shuffled forward. He didn’t have a token. At no point had anyone mentioned he needed one.


‘Six.’


‘Dad!’


There was no response. ‘Seven.’


‘Dad!!’


The foreman glanced in their direction. ‘Eight.’


‘I haven’t got a token.’


‘Nine - be quiet back there - I’m counting. Ten.’


Even though he knew he did not have a token, that didn’t stop Tom searching every pocket he could find in and on his overalls. He even looked inside his hat. He retraced his steps from accepting the job, in the Foreman’s office last week, up to this moment, wondering if anyone at any point had given him a token.


His eyes began to water. Unsure whether it was caused by the sweat dripping from every pore or tears of fear and frustration, he stopped.


‘Thomas!’


The Foreman’s call brought his mind back into focus. Everyone was now in the lift, waiting for him. He physically stuttered.


He heard his own voice, distant and small. ‘Erm.’


‘You looking for this?’ The Foreman held out a token, holding it as a priest holds a crucifix to a demon.


Tom nodded and staggered forwards. As he took it in his shaking hand, the occupants of the lift cheered.


The Foreman leaned forward and, whispering through whisky-breath, said, ‘Ignore those bastards. It’s your first day, lad. They’ll spend all day trying to find ways to wind you up. Once this shift is over, they’ll move on to some other new kid. You’ll be fine.’ He stood up straight and stared deep into Tom’s eyes. His face grimaced in readiness for an insult but, just as he inhaled to shout at Tom, he winked, before bellowing, ‘Now give me that token and get your arse in that lift!’


A space was created for Tom.


There was a surge of hands on his shoulders and pats on the head and whooping. Those that had room, applauded.


‘You’ll be reet,’ cough Fred over the noise of the inner door screaming to a close.


Tom looked at his father and was shocked to see him with tears in his eyes.


‘Sorry, son. It was all in good humour. I’ve got your back from now on.’ And, although it was a struggle to get his arm up, his father managed to put his arm around Tom’s shoulders and gave him a hug, not letting go.


The outer door clapped shut and, with his last view of a saluting Foreman rising up heavenwards, everything went dark. His first day at work had begun.

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