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from their own fund won’t amount to enough for those families to live on beyond a few months. The lad upstairs will be off for weeks — is it his fault he won’t be able to work?’
    â€˜It’s not ours either. This was an accident, pure and simple — as the enquiry will show. We’re not culpable for something so completely unpreventable. As that lad’s father would have known: he was one of our most valuable workers; where’s our compensation for losing him? This is not a charity. You can’t act on your emotions here.’
    â€˜I’ve never acted any other way, John,’ Father laughs, then cuts it off. ‘I’m going to make them a reasonable offer and be done with it.’
    â€˜Why?’ There’s genuine bewilderment from Mr Drummond now. ‘This is madness. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in ten years and now …?’
    â€˜And now I am. Look, John …’ and it goes to mumbles now. Mr Drummond says, ‘Oh,’ a soft blow. Father laughs again, more mumbles. Mr Drummond says: ‘All right, but make certain it’s unofficial — just between you and them, and don’t involve Lewis. Keep the union out of it. I still think you’re mad, though.’ He no longer sounds angry, just resigned.
    â€˜Done,’ Father says cheerfully. ‘And I’m going to build a lavatory as well, if it’s the last thing I do!’
    â€˜They won’t thank you for it,’ Mr Drummond adds, ‘if that’s why you’re doing it. Believe me.’
    â€˜Oh no, it’s far more indulgent than that.’ Father’s moving towards the door. ‘Stay for dinner?’
    I scurry to the stairs and bound nearly to the top before they come out.
    â€˜I think I’ve had enough excitement for today,’ Mr Drummond says; he’s so terribly dour; Catholic like us, but from Yorkshire. He adds: ‘And so have you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And he’s gone.
    Well. That all says a lot and a little. Father’s had some kind of epiphany by the sounds of it and appointed himself philanthropist, which is at once as baffling as it seems fabulously noble, but that soft ‘Oh’ echoes. I shall make a big deal of his kindness at dinner tonight, since it is evidently so important to him, whatever the reason. I frown; can’t put two and two together with this lot.
    I look across the landing into the open doorway of the spare room and another whisper slips through me. I can see through to the window, and see myself sitting on a rock futilely trying to capture the sun on the hills with a piece of charcoal. That’s where I’d be right now. While this man in the bed … I can’t begin to think. I don’t even know his name.

 
    DANIEL
    I’ve gone in again, and I can see the face ahead of me, black and shiny, even though it’s a fair few yards away yet. I’m telling Dad it was lucky the prop didn’t break my neck yesterday and he laughs; he says: ‘Pity it didn’t hit you on the head.’ Then my lamp goes out but I’m not bothered because I can still see his. But then Dad’s goes out too. I’m still not worried, though, because I can feel his shoulder rubbing against mine and we just keep walking. Then I feel the roof scrape the top of my head and I think I know where I am. I sing out to Dad but he doesn’t answer; I grope around for a bit but I can’t find him. Then the roof starts pressing down on my head. But I’ve stopped walking now, so how can that be? It keeps coming down, slowly, and I try to crouch but I can’t bend my knee. It’s grinding against my skull now. Coal fills my mouth. And I am thirsty like you wouldn’t believe.
    Then I realise I’m dreaming and pull myself out of it. But the roof is still laying into the back of my head. I know I’m going to chuck. I can taste the stale grog in