"Eyup, Harry, who's that tha's got wi thee?"

Peering into the gloom of the old boiler house, I could just make out the slight figure.

"It's only our Mick, Squidge, he wanted to come and see you."

"Well, bring thesen in lad, I've got a brew on, As tha brought thee mug?"

"I have that, Uncle Squidge", I shouted, leaving my father's side and waving my mug in front of me. It was down two steps and duck your head, to get into Squidge's "office".

"Tha'll get Uncle Squidge, you young bugger," this with a chuckle as I entered the warm dark boiler house. "Mind I suppose Uncle Horace sounds even stranger".

My eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, rested on the slight frame of my great uncle, chuckling again as he reached for the teapot, which kept warm next to the furthest of two doors that gave access to the boilers fireboxes. His hand gnarled and speckled with age, was, as usual gripping an oily rag, which never seemed to leave him. I'd asked him about it once.

He'd told me that it was just habit to carry it, for many years as "Engineman" at the pit, he'd wiped all the valves and handles in his care, and all "Enginemen" looked after their "ENJINES", never leaving so much as a fingerprint on the polished surfaces.

It was a matter of pride. And old habits died hard, though at seventy he had been retired from the mines for many years, even in this gloomy and sooty boiler-room, not a speck of dirt would be tolerated.

I marvelled at this old man, as fit as the twelve year old boy who now held out his mug for his ration of tea. He was a small man, only five feet tall, scrawny but with well defined muscles, despite his advancing years, mind, you'd never call him "old" in his presence, that really was asking for trouble. I had heard that in his youth not many would cross "Squidge" and fewer still ever got the better of him.

The tea filled my mug. "C'mon then lad, sit thesell down," nodding to the sacking covered stool that stood in the corner. The usual two tablespoons of sugar and a generous glug of milk were swirled into my mug. "Well, don't let it get cowd," his regular comment, as he poured a fresh drink for himself.

COLD, ... the tea was scalding, much to hot for a young lad. He turned, peering over his reading glasses, "Can't stand cowd tea!" this as he raised his own mug and emptied it in a couple of swallows, the boiling liquid seemingly having no effect on this little man.

I loved sitting here with Squidge, in the warmth, smelling the mixture of oil, soot, and ash, and hearing the fire roaring behind the heavy cast-iron doors, and listening to Squidge's seemingly endless supply of stories.

Stories, which spanned almost a hundred years, from horses to jet planes. Squidge had seen them all, and when he told you of ages past, you really felt that you'd witnessed the events with your own eyes. What a storyteller that man was.

"What's thee father doin' up stairs," he asked, nodding back towards the factory, where my dad's office was on the first floor. "Never seem to see him down here no more. Too busy for us owd uns I suppose," winking at me.

I knew that dad had got him this job after he retired because he was getting bored. "And I'm ony sixty-five tha knows!" I think dad's idea was just a little part-time job, to keep the old chap happy, but that was not Horace's way!

After seeing off two teenagers, who had come to HELP him, he was now firmly ensconced in HIS boiler house, and woe betides anyone who even hinted at retirement!

"See, it'll soon be time for you to go back to school waint it?"

I nodded. September was just around the corner and the summer holidays were rapidly evaporating.

"Ar be thee birthday soon." He picked up the bar that he used to open the fire doors, and flicking the locking bar up he opened it. I looked across at him, his face lit by the flames within, his eyes staring into the flames within, the blast of heat made me turn away, but not him.

He sat looking into the fire, for what seemed an age. Lost in thought, immobile like a red-faced statue hewn of stone... Finally with a sniff he roused from his reverie, pushed back the door and turned towards me, a wistful smile on his face.

"How come you always remember my birthday," for I always received a card.

"Ey, lad," shaking his head, "One birthday I'll never forget is thine. If I live to a undred, I'll remember thee birthday!" He sat back on his stool, reaching for his pipe and "baccy", stuffing the bowl of his pipe with his sinewy fingers. Looking at me he said, "I'll tell thee, Lad."

He pushed a match against the hot firebox door; it flared and with powerful sucks the pipe smoked into life.
"September 25th, Sunday it were, I remember, your mam had gone into Ashgate to have thee, but thar were a bit loathe at entering world. Anyroad, thee dad was going up the wall, pacing up and down an all, I said, Harry, little bugger'll not come any quicker, but you being his first like, he dint take no notice of me. Anyroad seeing as we knew you were on way, and seeing as I would be at work all week, I was down pit then, at Creswell, before I was an Enjin-man."

He paused, puffing at his pipe. The smell of that tobacco is still so fresh in my mind, and I can see his face, wreathed in swirls of white smoke, and the fire in the boxes roaring with the draft, in a quiet sort of way.

He smiled as he remembered, "Well, your dad had come to our house for his dinner."

At this time Horace, who never married, lived with his two sisters and his brother-in law.

"After dinner, I sez, let's go and have a drink, as I'd be at work from the following day and not be able to wet baby's head! Well took some persuading but eventually we all set out. Me, your dad and Vic, for The Anchor.

Well.... One led to another and another and another, You'll understand when you get older! Anyroad, I finished up drunk. No not just drunk REALLY DRUNK."

I laughed, but then realised that Squidge wasn't laughing, just the opposite in fact. I think perhaps that I became a little uncomfortable, but still wanted to know the outcome.

"Well, somewhere along the line I must have lost the others, course first thing I remember was waking up at home, in the dark. I felt really bad, it was Monday morning, early like, but I was in no state to go to work. Well, I must have woken Vic, because he comes downstairs, takes one look at me an sez...You're in no state for work. Get thesen back to bed!"

"Cant I said, got to go. I'll be alrate by time comes to go," I looked at the clock, Quarter to four, had to go at five.

"Look, says Vic, Tell you what, I'm on Afters this afternoon, I'll do your day shift, if you'll go in an do mine, Shant sleep again now anyroad!"
And that's what we did!"

"IF only I'd known."
"That were day of Creswell Disaster, lad. And Vic didn't come home again, a lot of lads never come home after that day!"

I remembered his rheumy eyes filled with tears as he remembered. He coughed, as if in apology, his pipe at some point in his tale had died, and he gently laid it to one side.

"Tell the what lad," false brightness in his voice, "Tek kettle an go an fill her an we'll have another brew."

I took the pot and stepped out into the daylight, blinking in the bright August sun. Did the disaster happen twelve years ago, or was it twelve minutes ago, everything seemed so real, and yet unreal. It was puzzling to the twelve year old. I fetched the water.

"Here's the water." I looked around. The dim room was back to it's usual appearance. Squidge, his pipe hanging lit once again, busied himself with brewing the tea. I returned to my sack cloth covered perch. He handed me a fresh mug of tea and sat looking at me.

"Well, lad, That's why I'll never fergit your birthday.

You know, they allus say that one life begins when someone goes and makes way for them. Well, if tha'll tek some advice from an old man,
Allus do thee best, Mek family proud of owt tha does...

Cos there were some bloody good men, made way for thee!

DEAR SQUIDGE I HOPE I HAVE.

Mick Whitehead, Derbyshire, 2002