A STORY based on the historical records of the Levant mining tragedy has earned an author of Cornish descent £1,000 in a prestigious literary competition.

Set in West Cornwall, The Return Of The Baker Edwin Tregear by Vanessa Gebbie captured the imaginations of the judges of the Fish Short Story Prize, beating off more than 1,600 entries to take second place.

Vanessa, who has long been interested in the mining history of Cornwall, said she was delighted with the award but even more pleased to discover, through the course of her research, that she has a Cornish family.

"I was adopted at birth and I was brought up by a Welsh family," she said. "Recent family research has uncovered that my birth father's name was Tregaskis and that his family came from Cornwall. Although I think of myself as Welsh, I obviously have more than a little Cornish blood in my veins."

Having spent a number of holidays in Cornwall, Vanessa became interested in the mineral industry, visiting what remains of the 18th and 19th century powerhouses. It was on a visit to Geevor that she had the idea to set a short story at nearby Levant where, in October 1919, 31 men died when the man engine on which they were travelling collapsed.

"I am fascinated by both mines and their history and make time to visit Geevor and the Levant mines most years," she said. "Two summers ago, I was taken round by a charming and very informative guide called Ian Davey. He was brilliant. Ian is an ex-miner and he went to great pains to answer my questions about his work below ground and also gave me a very good idea of the atmosphere down the mine.

"At the Levant beam engine house, I read a file of old newspaper cuttings detailing the man-engine disaster of 1919. Among the information was the account of one man who was brought up in an ore bucket days after the collapse, bruised and dehydrated, but otherwise OK. He refused any transport and walked home to St Just. I thought that was an extraordinary thing.

"It also struck me that the date of the disaster, right on the heels of the First World War, was very poignant. My story is that of a young baker who returns from the war, finds he cannot go back to baking because of the atrocities of war, and instead goes to work at Levant. I called him Edwin Tregear – Edwin after a widower who died in the disaster, leaving three children, and Tregear after one of the older miners who also died.

"Although it is fiction, it leans very much on the place, the atmosphere and the timing.

"Geevor is such a beautifully preserved place, so atmospheric – the mine and the guide who took me round have been very instrumental in the birth of a this piece of work."

One of the largest annual competitions for literary short fiction, the Fish Prize is based at Bantry in Ireland and has been going since 1994. This year Fish received more than 1,600 entries from all over the English speaking world.

Vanessa, who is a full-time writer, editor and creative writing teacher, says she was overwhelmed when she heard her story had been chosen, especially as she only began writing fiction five years ago. She has also won a number of other competitions, including the Bridport, Fish, and Daily Telegraph. Her debut collection, Words From A Glass Bubble, was published by Salt Modern Fiction in 2008, and will be joined by a second volume this year.

The Return Of The Baker Edwin Tregear will be published by Fish in July. In the meantime, here is an extract:

The noise was deafening. Thudding and hissing, shouts. My ears rang with it all. I watched as the man in front grasped a handle on the rod, stepped forward, then disappeared, standing, down into the darkness. I stood on the wooden platform, feeling it give slightly under my weight. I reached for the metal handle as it rose back up, my boot found a ledge on the rod, the rod plunged, and my breakfast nearly reappeared. Twelve feet. Then the rod slowed and Jarvis shouted from above to step off… "Backwards!"

I stepped back and my foot met a platform on the side of the shaft. I forgot to let go. My arm was jerked upwards as the rod rose…

"Let go, man!" Jarvis shouted. I did, and just stood there, shaking. I peered between the boards; I could just see another platform below mine. The candle on the hat of the man below.

Half an hour this journey would take. Half an hour to the bottom, a hundred and fifty men at once, they said.

Then other sounds. First the hiss and thud of that beam engine up at ground level, getting fainter the deeper we sank. The scrape of hobnails on wood, as the column of men slid on and off their perches. Coughs. Then singing, the men's voices rising up the shaft for all the world as though angels had fallen into the dark. Slow pieces, chapel hymns, the words all lost as the music bounced round the walls and echoed down the adits.

Someone was singing loudly, out of tune. "He's a voice that'd crack granite…" shouted a voice from below. And another replied: "Perfect! Bring him along here… let the man sing… do my work for me nice."