What lies beneath
Dorcas lived alone in a tiny stone cottage by Polbreen Mine. Her husband was long gone, lungs gave out after years working down the cold, damp, dusty mine. Son was long gone, buried in a rockfall in the cold, damp, dusty mine. Dorcas struggled on, too old to break rocks with the bal maids, took in a bit of washing now and then but times were hard and the workhouse loomed. The last black storm clouds of winter rolled in off the sea over the mines, over the village and into Dorcas's heart. She had had enough. She threw herself down the mine, off to join her husband, off to join her son in the cold, damp, dusty mine.
Miners found her broken body the next morning. Carried her up to the light, but the vicar wouldn’t bury her, no cosy grave and angel headstone for a woman who took her own life, no matter how hard it was. Dorcas’s body’s final resting place was by the roadside, but there was no rest for her spirit.
She wandered the mine, looking for her son, looking for her husband, looking for peace. Miners sometimes caught a glimpse of her pale ghost in the tunnels, miners sometimes felt her bony hands grab their backs, miners were terrified of Dorcas. If a miner had a bad month, not much ore to show for weeks of hard rock work, his mates would crow : ‘Off chasing Dorcas were 'ee, not chasing tin.’
Jack and Martin were working down the mine, heard a weedy voice crying between the ringing of hammer on rock.
'Jacky, Jacky.’
Jack ignored it, carried on working.
‘Jacky, Jacky…’ the voice cried again, louder, more insistent.
Jack ignored it, carried on working.
‘Jacky..’
‘Goodness sake! Go and see who is calling, it’s getting on my nerves,’ shouted Martin.
Jack threw down his hammer, left Martin holding the borer, moved off towards the voice, and there was a rumble and crash as tons of rock fell from the roof of the tunnel, fell on the place where Jack had been working. Martin was saved by an overhanging rock, Jack was saved by Dorcas calling, and Dorcas was saved by her good deed. In rescuing Jack she found peace, her ghost no longer roamed the cold damp dusty mine, only her name remained.
Who needs a gravestone when a lode bears your name, Dorcas’ Lode?
Who needs a gravestone when your story lives on?
Polbreen Mine is long gone, its beam engine silent, shaft covered by a pub car park, houses built where bal maids worked. St Agnes mining district produced some of the best tin in the world, now it’s famed for wetsuits, but Dorcas is still remembered.