RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
"SO this is a pothole," gasped Iris. She was sunken below sun-level in a vast cavern of rock, chill with damp and earthy odors. Only the dimmest light filtered through a small hole in the roof—from which trickled a shrunken waterfall. But although she was muddy, breathless and soaked to the skin, she felt the special thrill which accompanies achievement.
"Pothole?" repeated her companion scornfully. "What d'you mean? We're only in the daylight shaft. This is where the pothole begins. I'll show you."
The young engineer gripped her arm and they stumbled together across the slimed floor, following up the course of the streamlet from the fall, until it disappeared down a wide fissure in the rocks.
"At the bottom of that fall is an eternal pothole which is pitch dark," Courage explained. "It will lead you down to another, and so on, down and down, until the stream disappears down a crack too narrow to follow it—or until the ropes give out—or until any old thing happens."
"And you mean to tell me you go down horrible holes like that for pleasure?" asked Iris incredulously. "It seems to me a specially morbid and debased way of committing suicide."
Courage laughed.
"Potholing is a bug, like any other phobia," he said. "You have it—or you haven't."
He knew that it was hopeless to try to explain to her the magnetism in the sound of that chuckling water which was an elusive thread, leading down to hidden treasure. Here, in Pothole Land—the Cumberland dales—a vast region of subterranean wonderland had been already explored. Huge stalactite caverns, lakes, streams and more than two miles of connecting passages.
But there remained still the lure of finding some new entry down some insignificant hole which might drop down hundreds of feet in one sheer swoop. There was also the eternal hope of the pioneer—to be first to stumble on some new enchanted territory.
Even then, it might be lying under his feet—waiting for him to discover it. Voices called to him from the halls of darkness.
ALTHOUGH he was a keen Alpinist and rarely missed a holiday in
Switzerland, the joys of mountain-climbing lacked this thrill of
exploration. As he strained his eyes to look at Iris through the
gloom, he longed to share his secret passion with her. He had
known her for less than a fortnight, yet already she seemed so
vital to his happiness, that his mind shied at the prospect of a
future apart from her.
She had been tramping the Fells without a hat and her face was very brown, making a piquant contrast with her fair hair. Essentially a modern girl with a mechanical mind, she was employed at an aircraft factory and had the hard muscles and the unselfconscious camaraderie of one accustomed to work with men.
Lately Courage had wished that her blue eyes were not so friendly and impersonal.
"Don't you ever climb?" he asked.
"Definitely no," she replied. "I've no head for heights. Something goes funny inside me. I fly, of course, but that's different. My job is on the ground and I feel safer there... Let's get out of this tomb."
ALTHOUGH Courage remained below, to steady the rope ladder,
she found its ascent both a tricky and humiliating performance.
Whenever her shoe slipped on the narrow five-inch tread, she
upset the precarious balance, and either swayed under the fall,
or bruised herself against the rock.
It was a relief to get into the open air which was cooled by the spray from the Pharisee (Fairy) Fall. The great cascade foamed like a pillar of smoke down into the gorge, whose sides—emerald green with soaked ferns and vegetation—were hung with small trees, rowans, bird-cherries and birch. After plunging into a deep pool at its bottom, it rushed down into the valley in a small river.
In spite of its present volume, it had shrunk so far below its normal flow that it sealed no longer the mouth of the pothole. Courage explained the situation to Iris when he rejoined her.
"It's about eight years since it's been possible to get near the pothole," he said. "A chap called Riley discovered it, but he had to give up for lack of ropes."
The climb up the gorge was heavy going, which left no surplus breath for conversation, as they toiled out of the cool and shadowed radius of the spray. When they reached the path again, the sun beat down on them from a cloudless sky. The turf was scorched and the hills blurred by a thick blue soupy atmosphere, as though the heat had become visible.
"Today's going to be a real scorcher," panted Iris as she caught her heel in a crack in the baked earth. "Don't you wish it would rain?"
"I should say not." replied Courage. "I'm praying for this blessed drouth to last. It's the chance of a lifetime to explore the Pharisee Pot again. There's still rather too much overflow from the fall."
"Are you really going down that awful drop into the dark? You must be crazy."
"Call it 'potty.' Yes, it's all fixed. Riley—the chap who did it before, young Collier and myself."
"Young Collier? That precious youth? I don't believe it."
"Oh, he's got guts all right, In spite of his pretty face. I suppose as you're a native, you've a down on him because his old man is living in your Squire's ancestral hall."
"I'm not that sort of moldy snob. No, my grouch is this: When Granny rented her cottage from his father, the conveyance covered adequate water rights. Now we're dry as a bone, while he's built a swimming pool. It doesn't make sense. I believe he's poaching our spring."
"That's a dangerous charge," Courage reminded her. "Can you prove it?"
"How can I? Gran is helpless. If she tried to pump any of Collier's men, or approached the local surveyor, he'd get to hear of it and then he wouldn't renew her lease. It would break her up to leave her beloved hovel."
"Well, don't be hasty. Water is a very tricky thing. This drouth may have caused your spring to break out somewhere else. I'm an engineer, so I know something about it."
"And all I know is this. I've got to go to old Collier, cap in hand, to beg for some water. Gosh, what a prospect for any girl of spirit."
THEY parted at a hurdle-gate at the union of two tracks. One
led up to the Hall—a fine Elizabethan mansion, now the
property of Sir Henry Collier, late of the Baltic Pool. For the
past fortnight, Courage had been a guest at this house, so
naturally was prejudiced in favor of a genial and hospitable
host.
The other path wound down to a whitewashed cottage, rented by Iris' grandmother—an active, independent lady of 62. It was only an accident to her leg which caused her to accept the services of her grandchild, who had given up her own holiday to look after her.
The sacrifice had proved to be not altogether loss, for she had met Courage, but the continuance of the drouth was gradually getting her down. It had lasted now for weeks. First, the flowers had to be sacrificed—a hopeful collection of buds. Then the daily bath was replaced by a piecemeal wash in a basin. After that, vegetables had to take their chance, when most of them lost out. Now it had become a problem how to ration the drinking water to include the fowls and dog.
With the end of her holiday in sight, Iris was worried about the future. It was only the thought of her grandmother's disability which forced her to turn out in the afternoon heat and eat humble-pie.
After the glare of the unprotected Fells, it was a relief to walk under the shade of the lime avenue which led up to the Hall. She noticed enviously the vivid green of the lawn in front of the house and the beautiful flower beds. On her way, she also passed the new swimming pool which was lined with turquoise tiles.
She told herself that it held sufficient water to preserve the cottage garden for the duration of the drouth. Her young lips were stern as she glanced contemptuously at two slim forms in bathing slips, stretched out on the grass. One was young Collier—a youth with a handsome slack face; the other was an exotic girl from London, whose skin was painted to get the same effect as the sunburnt Iris. There was no sign of Courage—a fact which disconcerted her, since she had counted on his moral support. Sir Henry Collier, however, was lounging on a deck-chair on the terrace.
He was a pleasant-faced, well-preserved man in the fifties, with wavy silver hair and a double chin. In his early struggling days he had been a thin acid young man, full of snap and drive, and although prosperity had mellowed him, there was still a glint in his eye which hinted of the original wire structure under his genial overweight.
He welcomed Iris with the cordiality of a host to an honored guest. Feeling slightly awkward, as though he had placed her in a false position, she refused his offers of varied refreshment.
"Really not, thank you," she persisted. "I only came to tell you that we've practically no water."
"No drinking water?" asked Sir Henry.
"Yes, we have that, but—"
"Then you must consider yourself lucky, when you think of the drouth."
"I know... But I have to walk a quarter of a mile to the village to get water for domestic purposes. Our garden is dying on us. Please, could you spare us a little of your surplus?"
"I don't know what you mean, If I had any surplus my tennis courts would not be ruined."
"But that swimming pool—"
"Oh, my dear young lady, don't look at me with such accusing eyes. I built that pool as a storage-tank, in case of fire. Indirectly, it benefits you, for we could run a pipe down to the cottage."
He stopped, as though waiting for the gratitude she could not force. She felt beaten down and incapable of making a further stand, as he went on talking.
"You can't blame me for the drouth. It was an act of God. It has dried up one of my best wells, but I am only too thankful for what is left. You must keep your chin up. I've always been on pleasant terms with your grandmother and I should be sorry to lose her for a more sporting tenant who would take the rough with the smooth. And don't forget it was I who put in the bathroom for her—not the old Squire."
"Yes, that was kind. There is no water in the pipes, but it looks very nice."
"And so do you—very fit and charming from all your extra exercise. I walked ten miles a day, to and from work, when I was young. Are you sure you won't have tea?"
"No, thank you." Her voice was bitter. "I only want water."
He took the request seriously and rang for a glass of iced water... Iris decided that it was impossible to impress such a man.
THAT evening, Courage met her as she was toiling up the path
from the village. She wore breeches and looked both hot and limp,
as she carried two slopping pails of water.
"Where were you this afternoon?" she asked reproachfully, as he took the buckets from her.
"Out on a private prowl," he told her. "How did you get on with Collier?"
"I didn't. I got out. All he did was to hint I couldn't take it. Well, I'm not sporting and I must have a smutty mind. For I still believe he has pinched our spring."
Courage frowned thoughtfully.
"Even if he has," he said, "litigation over water rights is the very mischief. If you prove your claim—and experts usually differ—Collier could hardly take it for a friendly gesture. Directly your grandmother's lease was up, she'd be outside on her ear. So how's it going to help you?"
"I know, but I'm bothered about the future. This will happen every drouth, and Gran can't carry water.
"Oh, buck up. Collier may have a change of heart. Any old way, this heat is bound to crack soon with thunder... That's why we are having a shot at the Pharisee Pot tomorrow."
"Tell me all about it. Do you go much deeper than that horrible black drop?"
"Deeper?" Courage laughed Jubilantly. "That's only the entrance hall, with 'Welcome' on the mat. When we're down that, we come to a filthy crawl over the bed of a stream—which should be dry if it knows what's expected of it—along a passage which is nothing but a drain out to a main chamber. Then comes the clinking long drop which Riley couldn't tackle. I hope to be able to report its exact length and what's at the bottom of it tomorrow, Modom."
"Any—any danger?"
"Practically none. We're all experienced climbers. You've got to be very fit for pot-holing—and you've got to be slim or you'd stick. If you think of joining us, don't wear your crinoline. Of course, we've got to check up on ropes, food, lights, and so on. If they are O.K., we shall be O.K., too, except for—"
"Go on," she told him.
"Well, if a storm broke up in the hills, we might get our feet wet."
Iris said nothing. Her eyes were wide with terror as she pictured the sudden rush of floodwater down the valley, as she had seen it once before. She saw it thunder over the Pharisee Fall, rushing down the holes and cracks at its base—flooding underground passages—filling every chamber.
"What's the matter?" asked Courage.
"I'm afraid." Her voice was low and husky. "Don't go. For my sake."
He shook his head.
"You're putting me on the spot," he said. "I don't want you to be worried over me. I would rather make you happy. But honestly, you don't know what this chance is to a pot-holer. Besides, there is no risk. We shall phone up to the hills, to yet the weather report before we start."
"All right." Iris forced herself to speak in the voice familiar to all in the aircraft factory, where she claimed equality with men. "Good luck, mate—and get on with it."
IRIS was not the only person to sleep badly that night, for
the heat was oppressive. She kept getting out of bed to watch
from her window, in the hope of seeing a flicker of lightning, as
herald of a thunderstorm.
Her prayers were not granted, for after a short sleep she awoke to another cloudless sky, from which all color was drained.
"Do you smell rain?" she asked, when she carried the morning tea in to her grandmother.
The small alert lady who was already knitting in bed, so as to waste no time, looked at her over steel-rimmed spectacles.
"You insolent child, I'm not a witch doctor," she protested. "Besides, any fool must know this heat will break in a storm. Probably tomorrow. I'm afraid it will skin the face off the garden, but it will get right down to the roots, thank God."
"Good. We want another dry day. Some boys are going down the Pharisee Pot-hole."
"That's fine news. Good lads."
No lack of sporting spirit there—but Iris failed to feel responsive to the local passion. Although every domestic task—complicated by lack of water—seemed drudgery, she tried to forget her apprehension in a drive of furious energy.
DIRECTLY after lunch, she changed into shorts, in order to
fetch their daily ration of water. Just as she was about to
start, she saw Sir Henry Collier sauntering down the hillside. He
looked so aggressively cool and freshly-tubbed in his suit of
tropical silk, that she felt she could not endure to walk to the
village in his company.
She was loitering by the gate when be called out to her.
"The climbing party went off in fine spirits. They showed sense in not waiting. It's looking rather heavy up the pass. But no one can say our young men are deficient in grit."
Although his remark was not intended to be personal, Iris was stung to reprisal.
"You showed me your beautiful garden yesterday," she said sweetly. "Would you like to see what is left of ours? We have enough seeded nasturtiums to keep us in pickles all the winter."
As he was not the man to ignore a challenge, he followed her to the back of the cottage. They passed under a pergola, covered with withered roses and then Iris, who was leading, gave a cry.
"Do you see what I see? Water?"
Overflowing from a tank at the end of the garden, where the spring was piped, a great pool was spreading out over the baked earth which could not absorb it.
"You've left the tap on," said Sir Henry reproachfully.
"But the tank takes a whole day to fill. The water dribbles in, drop by drop... No. Something's happened to the spring."
At the implication of her words his face turned suddenly gray.
"Come and see," he said hoarsely.
He spoke to the air, for she had already rushed through the gate and was running up the hillside.
He followed her, bursting through clumps of burnt heather, whose tough roots noosed his feet and held him back, until he reached the spot where she stood.
At first, she was too breathless to speak, as she pointed to a streamlet which was half concealed by fronds of bracken.
"It's the normal flow," she panted. "There must be rain in the hills." The terror in her eyes leaped to his.
"Those lads," he gasped. "Ill ring up the Rescue club... But it will be too late."
"TOO late."
The words rang in Iris ears as she rushed madly up the pass, like one bereft of her senses.
The boulders on either side of the track blocked her view of the valley, but as she reached the gorge she became aware that she should have heard the roar of the little swollen river, dashing over its stony bed. Stopping for a moment to strain her ears, she caught—something—so faint that it was a vibration, rather than actual sound—as though a telephone were ringing in the last house of a long row.
It was thunder up in the hills.
Mercifully, it was very far away... Rushing round the bend, she was able, at last, to see the Pharisees Fall through its screen of trees. To her amazement, it was still pouring down in a steady white column, with no visible increase in volume.
She stood, scarcely able to credit the evidence to her eyes, while a wild hope flared up in her heart. Some miracle of Nature had intervened—a landslip or fall of boulders higher up—which had either dammed the flood, or diverted its course.
There was no time to lose in speculation. Reckless of danger, she plunged down the steep side of the gorge, snatching at such frail holds as ferns and wild strawberry runners, as she glissaded down muddy slopes and mossy rocks. Often she only saved herself from pitching headlong to the bottom of the gulf, by catching at the branches of a wild cherry or birch.
Her luck held, for her last jump was blind, so that she landed with a crash, amid the boulders of the stream. As she got up again, her first thought was for the torch which she had snatched from the hall table, in her rush through the cottage.
To her great relief, it was unbroken, to match her bones. Slipping it inside the neck of her pullover for safety, she scrambled over the exposed rocks until she reached the entrance to the pothole.
Without giving herself time to think, she gripped the rope ladder and began to lower herself with frantic haste—only to meet with disaster. In skipping rungs—to descend more quickly—she lost her footing and hung suspended by her hands. As she swayed to and fro the motion accelerated and she spun giddily round, like a fly dangling at the end of a spider's thread.
She realized that she was missing the ballast provided by Courage, on her previous descent, when he had stood below to steady the ladder. Now, in her struggle to regain her footing, she kicked wildly against the rock, only to crash back under the fall. Fortunately, her palms were hard, to match her muscles, and she managed to lower herself until her toes scraped the insecure rungs again.
Lower and lower she dropped. The light drew dimmer—damp dungeon odors arose from the vault below—and she found herself on the rocky floor of the daylight chamber. Shuddering in anticipation of what was to come, she flashed on her torch and guided herself, by the trickle of water, across the dark shaft.
All she could see was a ghastly drop—like the shaft of a lift, enclosed by walls of dripping rock—and an insecure-looking rope-ladder dangling into the blackness.
At first, she lingered to shout, in the faint hope that the climbing party might be on its way up, but she only awoke a mutilated echo which was plainly out of practice. Time was racing on, while up in the hills the flood was piling itself up against its barrier, lapping higher every minute. Sooner or later, water must find its level.
She gripped the rope ladder with one hand and dropped backwards into the shaft. The strain on her arm was terrific, but it was momentary. The next instant she stuffed her precious torch into her pullover—releasing both hands for use.
At first, she felt the demoralizing swaying movement, growing gradually stronger with every lurch, like the swing of the pendulum. One moment, she banged against rock and the next, she hung under the spray of the fall. Then her feet found a hold on the ladder and the immediate crisis was past.
Afraid to hurry, lest she upset her balance, she crabbed downwards, rung by rung. As she did so, she began to lose her grip on reality. The darkness was so dense and muffling that it fulfilled the function of a drug, deadening her to the threat of vertigo. When, presently, her foot landed on rock again, she was only vaguely surprised that the decent had been accomplished so quickly.
She was about to step off the ladder when a warning signal was flashed from her brain. Still gripping the rope with one hand, she fumbled for her torch... Its light revealed a narrow shelf of cliff, on which she was perched while below was the darkness of the shaft.
Her heart leaped at the thought of the fate she had just escaped. Both palms and forehead were clammy as she continued her descent.
THE incident had shaken her nerve severely, but she had to go
on. Down—down. Deeper—deeper. One, two... ten...
twenty, until she lost count.
Once again she felt her foot bumping on a rough surface. This time, she had reached the bottom of the shaft in reality and was standing in a cave. Only a section was visible in the light of her torch, but she received a dim impression of stalactites, like bunches of candles or carrots. Then she followed the course of the stream which oozed down the slope and disappeared into the underground passage of which Courage had spoken.
"'The filthy crawl'," she quoted in a high unfamiliar voice. "Then comes the clinking long drop. Nobody knows how far down it. goes or what's at the bottom. That's the fun. At the end, we all break our necks, to make it a real success... But we've found another pot. Cheers—and mind your head."
She was able to crawl on her hands and knees along the bed of the underground stream for only a few yards. Very soon she was forced by the lowness of the roof to lie full length and drag herself along over the slimy trickle. She was scratched and bruised by grit, while the strain of her posture grew intolerable, but far worse than pain or exhaustion was the knowledge that she had to return the same way that she had come.
"Every terrible thing has to be done again." she thought. "I'm not even halfway. There's still the unfathomed drop to come."
In a way, her fear of the next ordeal was merciful, for it prevented her from accepting a suggestion so horrible that her mind instinctively rejected it, whenever it tried to drift into her brain.
It was the thought that even a slight fall of rock could seal her inside a living tomb.
She was gasping for breath and aching in every muscle when she crawled out of the passage. Her knees shook violently when she got up and her head began to swim. Flashing her light around, she got a confused impression of dripping disrupted cliff and riven rock, murmurous with echoes and the chuckles of imprisoned waters.
The streamlet led her inexorably to the lip of a cracked precipice, down which dangled a jaunty rope ladder.
As she looked at it, she felt another wave of faintness surge over her and knew that Nature had beaten her. If she attempted to climb down that ladder, her fingers would surely lose their grip and she would drop down into the gulf. To persevere was merely to commit suicide.
"I must make them hear," she thought desperately.
She put all her strength into her screams. Again and again... Then from the depths arose an answering shout.
"Oy! Oy!" It was Courage's voice. "What's up?"
"Flood!" she yelled. "Rain in the hills!"
She heard him shouting to the others, awakening a confusion of crosscurrent echoes. Then he called to her directly:
"Go back at once!"
In spite of the command, the knew that she must rest, to gain strength for the crawl along the drain. She was still crouched on the rocky floor when Courage came up the ladder, like a steeple-jack.
"Here, drink this," he said in a strangely stern voice.
She swallowed the brandy and then struggled to her feet. "I can start now," she said. As she followed him down the passage a thought passed through her mind.
"At this moment, I am here in this ghastly place. Where shall I be in an hour's time? And—how?"
AN hour later, she was curled up in a big chair in the cottage
drawing-room, while her grandmother lay upon the couch. She felt
tired but pleasantly relaxed after the rare luxury of a hot bath,
even although the water which gushed from the tap was colored
coffee-brown. A teapot was on the table and she smoked a
cigarette as she watched the grand spectacle of a thunderstorm
sweeping the Fells.
The clock ticked, her grandmother knitted, the ginger cat washed her face. In that scene of domestic comfort it was difficult to believe in her recent experience. It seemed incredible that she could have sustained such an ordeal and emerged with only cuts and bruises.
Already its memory was growing blurred, owing to her acute mental tension at the time—and parts of it were altogether forgotten. Looking back on her return journey, it seemed concentrated into a test of overstrained endurance and forced effort, when will, nerve and muscle were teamed in one frantic drive to cheat the enemy—Time.
They were racing the flood, so they could not stop to relax or rest. Once when they jammed in the terrible confinement of the underground passage, Courage cursed them impartially, but it was the very fury of his abuse which galvanized their limp muscles into new life.
They got out of the pothole only just in time. They could hear the distant roar of rushing water as they were climbing out of the daylight-shaft, and they had to scramble for their lives to reach the sides of the gorge.
As she was dragging herself up by the trees. Iris turned just in time to see the white pillar of the Pharisee Fall spread out suddenly in a broad brown fan as the flooded river foamed over its lip.
Afterwards there had been the comedy of their meeting with the Rescue Club, when she had been overwhelmed with congratulations. At the time she thought it was recognition of her feat, but learned later that it was only local jubilation over the discovery of a new pot.
"You can't satisfy some folks," said her grandmother, breaking the current of her thoughts. "Looks as if someone hadn't got wet enough for his liking."
Looking up as a fork of lightning veined the sky, Iris saw Courage coming through sheets of torrential rain. He looked excited and happy as he waved his hand. A minute later he burst into the room in front of the little maid who was trying to admit him.
"I've brought the doings," he said, crossing to the old lady's couch. "A new lease of the cottage for your lifetime, with adequate water provision and a special emergency clause, in case of drouth. It's rough, but it covers everything and it's signed and witnessed. It comes from Sir Henry Collier as a mark of appreciation for your granddaughter's heroism in saving his son's life."
Old Mrs. Holtby looked at the young man.
"I'll thank you later," she said. "First I want to hear the real story."
"Very well," he agreed. "The truth is this. I did a little private surveying yesterday afternoon, after which I engaged a young man to dig at a certain spot which seemed indicated. Result—I found that Collier had done the dirty on you. A stirrup-pipe had been inserted, which reduced the flow from your spring by one-half. The drouth did the rest of the mischief."
"I knew it," cried Iris.
"At the time I couldn't decide what to do," went on Courage. "As I explained to you, I couldn't see you would be better off if you fought a claim. So I told the young man to cover everything up and say nothing for the present. He was very hot over the business, so it is evident he decided to take the law into his own hands and remove the stirrup-pipe. That was the explanation of the increased flow from your spring."
"Does Sir Henry know everything?" asked Iris.
"Yes. I came out into the open. I also explained fully the providential nature of the incident... You see, we rang up that place in the hills and from what they have told us, the storm did not really break until Iris was well underground... If there had not been this false warning, nothing and no one could have saved us from being drowned."
He stopped and looked wistfully at Iris.
"Here's your prize," he said, giving her the lease.
Her face grew radiant.
"It's wonderful," she said. "Gran will love you for this."
Suddenly Courage saw his chance to propose in the presence of a friendly third party.
"I want her to love me—as a grandson," he said boldly.
Mrs. Holtby's eyes twinkled as she went on with her knitting.
"Iris," she said, "I'm doing very well. I've just had an offer. If you will cooperate with me, I am inclined to accept it."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.