The second week into the dispute was one of watching and waiting to see how the ballot of Nottinghamshire miners would go. If they came out on strike then the Board would be forced to withdraw the pit closure programme and the whole thing would be over. Carol hoped fervently that it would, for things had already gone quiet at work and orders for summer wedding dresses were being put on hold until the future became clearer.
They watched the evening news tensely at Septimus Street when the results were announced.
‘Three to one against striking! The bastards!’ Charlie fumed. For a moment Carol wondered if her father-in-law was going to cry, he was so puce in the face. It was as if the working miners had delivered a personal slap in the face.
Lotty put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s not the end of the world, Charlie man. We just carry on picketing them out until they see sense. They’ll come round in the end when they see it’s to safeguard their jobs too.’
But Mick’s face was downcast. ‘They’ve said no pits will close in Notts - they’ve set out to divide us from the start.’
Carol exchanged looks with Lotty. They were not going to let their men become despondent. They had to help boost morale and keep each other going now that the strike looked set to harden.
‘Then it’s our job to unite us all,’ Carol said. ‘Most miners are supporting the action and the transport unions have rallied round, just like old times - the Triple Alliance.’
Charlie gave her a look of surprise. ‘By, you’ve been learning your working-class history.’
‘I’ve been drinking a lot of tea with Grandda lately,’ Carol smiled.
Before they left, Lotty took her aside and asked her, ‘Would you fancy helping out at a social we’re organising - raise a bit of money for the strike fund?’
‘Course I would,’ Carol agreed at once.
‘The thing is, I feel we should try and get more of the wives involved in helping out - take a bit of the burden off the lodge. They’ve got their hands full organising the picketing and that. We could start something at the Welfare - soup and sandwiches for the men at dinnertime, maybes. There’s some of .the young lads have nothing to live on at all, now their pay’s stopped. We could make sure they get something in their stomachs once a day.’
‘I’d like to help out,’ Carol assured her, ‘and maybes Val would let me come down in me dinnertime - we’re quiet enough, I’m afraid.’
‘That would be grand. But what I really need is for you to get the young wives interested. We don’t want to frighten them off with talk of meetings and committees, but we’re going to need all the help we can get to keep the village together.’
Carol thought about it on the way home. The next day she spotted Lotty’s moped outside Dimarco’s and caught her corning out.
‘That canny Paul has said we can have two crates of pop and a box of biscuits for the social, and he’s donating a big box of chocolates for the raffle an’ all,’ Lotty beamed as she buckled on her helmet. Her old beehive hairstyle had been sacrificed for a short cut that gave her an impish, youthful look and allowed the wearing of her crash helmet.
‘I’ve been thinking about getting the wives together,’ Carol told her. ‘Why don’t we have them round for coffee one evening, say it’s to give advice about claiming benefits, how to budget, that sort of thing? Then see who’s interested in doing more.’
‘Champion,’ Lotty agreed. ‘We can have it at our house.’
Carol smiled. Her mother-in-law was a born organiser, but Carol didn’t want her taking on too much. ‘You’ll have enough to do with this social. Let me have the meeting round at mine.’
Lotty smiled beneath her visor. ‘If you think you can manage.’
‘Aye,’ Carol said. Just let me show you, she added silently.
She could not put off seeing her family any longer and accepted the invitation to lunch one Sunday at the beginning of April. Mick was reluctant, but Laura’s anticipation at seeing her cousins and playing in Grandpa’s large garden persuaded him to go.
At first Carol thought they were all going to get through lunch without a mention of the strike. There was a bizarre unreality about Vic’s false heartiness and Fay’s incessant talk about her health club and wholefood shops and her mother’s brandishing of holiday brochures and her father’s attempts to entice Mick outside to look at the daffodils. Carol knew he wanted to talk about the strike but dared not, whereas the others were avoiding it like the plague. She felt as if someone in the family had died, but no one wanted to talk about them.
Laura was itching to run outside, despite the squalls of rain, but her cousins Ngaio and Jasmine elected to sit in front of the new video and watch cartoons. Mick saw his escape and took Laura out to play, bundled up in wellies and waterproofs.
‘I could do with some fresh air too,’ Ben grunted and followed them out.
As soon as they were gone, Nancy asked, ‘Are you managing all right? You can take what’s left of the joint for your tea and help yourself to what’s in the freezer.’
‘You don’t have to, Mam,’ Carol smiled tightly. ‘We’re doing fine.’ She was not going to tell them that last week they’d had to use their savings to pay the mortgage and the quarterly electricity bill and that they had an appointment to see the bank manager about how they were going to pay for things this coming month. Carol could not believe how quickly they were dipping into debt without Mick’s wages; her modest pay from Bowman’s bought the groceries for the week but little else. She could not imagine how they would manage if she were to lose her job.
Fay was all concern. ‘I’ve brought a bag of the girls’ clothes for Laura - things for the summer.’
Carol felt uncomfortable. ‘Thanks, Fay.’ She turned to Kate, attempting to change the subject. ‘I haven’t seen Simon for weeks. How’s the decorating coming along?’ She knew that her brother and sister-in-law were busily doing up the solid semi they had bought on the outskirts of Quarryhill. It was a former colliery doctor’s house with high ceilings and marble fireplaces and a large, overgrown, walled garden.
‘Oh, it’s come to a standstill,’ Kate complained, ‘with Simon being away.’
‘Away?’ Carol queried, having assumed her brother’s absence meant he was on duty.
Kate’s fair face flushed pink and she shot Fay a nervous look. ‘Yes, I hardly see him at the moment.
‘Working all this overtime. Still, the extra pay’s handy and it’ll mean we can renovate the kitchen as well as the bathroom this summer.’
‘Coffee in the lounge?’ Nancy asked, her voice nervously high.
‘You mean he’s away on picket line duty?’ Carol asked.
Kate nodded. ‘It’s a worry, of course, the violence . . .’
Carol had a sudden image of the easygoing Simon, brandishing a baton at the pickets. It came as a shock. He would see it as his duty, she realised, and yet he was being set against the miners - against men like Mick - other people’s husbands, sons and brothers. Was this what Charlie had meant when he’d said the muscle of the establishment would be used against them? Peaceable, unquestioning, apolitical young men like Simon who had mortgages to pay and houses to improve? The trickery of it suddenly incensed her. The police should be there to protect the miners and their families too, but they were being used as strike breakers for the Coal Board.
Fay was agreeing with Kate. ‘It must be terrible for Simon, with all those hooligans you see on telly chucking bricks and causing as much trouble as they can.’
Carol sparked. ‘You mean the miners who are standing there in jeans and T-shirts and trainers against police protected with helmets and weapons?’
Fay pouted disapprovingly. ‘I don’t know why you’re trying to defend them - not the troublemakers who act like thugs towards the police.’
‘Yes,’ Kate joined in, ‘and it’s not just the police they hate, but their own kind. Simon says they treat the other miners like dirt - swear and spit at them and beat them up, given half a chance.’
‘The miners who are working and trying to cross the picket line, you mean?’ Carol asked. ‘Well, of course the pickets are angry with them for not striking. And the police are making it ten times worse by forcing them through the picket instead of allowing the union members to reason with the working pitmen. That’s what’s causing the violence.’
‘Reason?’ Fay scoffed. ‘They’re animals. How can you stick up for them against your own brother?’
Carol winced at the insult to the pickets. Her own husband was one of them, but Fay was too insensitive to realise the hurt she inflicted. ‘They’re fighting for their jobs, for God’s sake!’ Carol fumed. ‘We all are.’
‘I hope you’re not going to go picketing, Carol?’ her mother asked in alarm.
‘If it comes to it, I will,’ Carol said at once. The thought had never occurred to her, but why shouldn’t she begin to get more active?
‘Don’t worry,’ Vic laughed, ‘the miners are too protective of their women to allow them out on dangerous missions, Nancy.’
He was treating it as a joke and his flippancy riled Carol more than Fay’s prejudice.
‘The women will do what’s necessary, whether the men want them to or not,’ she snapped.
Vic gave her a patronising smile. ‘I’m sure they will. But it’ll all be over before long. Scargill will have to settle and accept that some pits are going to close. If I was Mick I’d be happy that Brassbank’s not on the closure programme and isn’t likely to be.’
‘Yes,’ Fay agreed. ‘I don’t see why they’re striking here at all. Actually, I think they’re being selfish putting their families through all this worry over money. You would think Mick would put you and Laura first.’
Carol jumped up, furious. ‘That’s exactly what he is doing! If the union doesn’t make a stand now over all these other closures, then no pit and no job is safe, Mick’s included. I’m just glad he’s outside and doesn’t have to hear what you really think about him!’ She pushed back her chair and stormed towards the door, but Fay was determined to have the last word.
‘Irresponsible as ever, aren’t you, Carol?’ she accused. ‘I certainly wouldn’t risk the roof over my daughter’s head for the precious union. You should be hanging on to what you’ve got and doing the best for Laura, not throwing it all away. I hope Daddy’s out there now telling that to Mick, because someone ought to.’
Carol spun round, almost choking with anger and frustration. Her sister would never understand that the strike was about justice and decency for ordinary working people who wanted the best for their families and communities. How could she make Fay see that they were prepared to make sacrifices now so that they and their children would have a future? The injustice was that they had to strike for such things at all, but there was no other way. Living with the Todds she understood that now, but Fay might as well have been living on the moon for all she grasped of the crisis.
Vic tried to temper his wife’s attack. ‘It’s not that we think you’d ever let Laura suffer, but we think you’re mistaken - this whole strike’s a mistake. Scargill just wants to take on MacGregor and Thatcher. He’s using you all to bring down a Conservative government, because to him this whole thing is political.’
Carol gave him a look of contempt. ‘You’ve been reading too many right-wing tabloids,’ she mocked. ‘One man can’t start a strike. It’s the thousands of miners all over the country who have decided enough is enough. They’re the men who risk their lives to make this country prosperous - keep little businesses like yours going, Vic, with the money they spend. And they want to go on working and risking their lives for us, that’s all they’re asking. If this strike fails, we’ll all be losers.’ She looked at them, willing them to understand, but their faces were stony, disbelieving. All except her mother’s. Nancy had an odd, tearful expression and Carol was not sure if she was upset with her or touched by what she had said. But she said nothing in support.
Vic shook his bearded face. ‘Mick will pay for his loyalty, I’m afraid.’
‘Carol and Laura will, you mean.’ Fay was scathing.
Carol caught a sudden glimpse of Laura dashing past the French windows, her long wavy hair lifting in the wind, mouth open in excited laughter. Seconds later, Mick appeared round the corner, chasing her, his fair hair wet and curling down the back of his neck. Then they were gone.
Carol spoke with quiet conviction. ‘We’re nothing without loyalty,’ she told them. ‘Loyalty and respect for each other - and love. That’s what this dispute is all about. And if you can’t see that, then I feel sorry for you all, because they’re the things no one can take away from us.’ With that, she turned away from them and their arguing and hurried from the house.
She found Mick and Laura sheltering in the old summerhouse, while her father continued his solitary gardening in the larger of the two greenhouses. She wondered if they had argued too. She looked at Mick and did not have to explain anything; the pain must have shown in her eyes. He leant forward and kissed her mouth tenderly.
‘Let’s gan home then,’ he said.
Chapter Fourteen
The following week, Val began to drop hints to Carol that her business was in trouble. Once the Nottinghamshire miners had voted to stay at work, there had been a flood of cancellations for wedding dresses. ‘No one can afford a big white wedding this summer,’ Val had moaned, her usual sunny disposition dampened. ‘Stan Savage’s daughter was the last on the books, and they’ve asked to pay the balance in instalments.’
Carol could not reassure her. Even the boutique side of the business was dead. People came in to browse and chat and see what had been discounted, but no one was buying. Carol’s shell jewellery lay gathering dust in the window and eventually she took it away and gave it to Lotty to raffle at the social.
By the middle of April, Val reduced Carol’s hours to three mornings a week.
‘I’m really sorry, Carol, but at this rate I can’t see me keeping the shop open at all. I’m buying in no new stock and I’ve no dressmaking work for you, just the odd repairs.’
‘I know, Val,’ Carol tried to be cheerful, ‘don’t worry about it.’
‘Well, I do worry about you, you’ve Laura to take care of,’ Val said, her face creased in concern. ‘But at least you’ve got parents and family who can help you out financially, not like some of them round here.’
Carol nodded and turned away. She had told no one except Mick about the row with her family and she was not going to add to Val’s anxiety by telling her that she could not turn to them for help. After Mick had confided that her father had tried to bully him out of strike action too, Carol had neither spoken to her parents or sister, nor taken Laura to see them. She doubted that Mick would ever step willingly inside their house again.
She had been deeply hurt by their criticism of Mick and their lack of concern for the plight of the other miners and their families. The shaky relationship that had been re-established with her parents since Laura’s birth was once again in tatters. The differences between them that had been ignored for a while now yawned like a chasm, deep and unbridgeable.
But Carol buried her hurt and decided not to worry about money, instead spending her spare hours helping Lotty at the Welfare.
‘Where do we start?’ Carol asked, looking dubiously at the ancient gas cooker in the Welfare Hall kitchen, which was to produce food for dozens of men.
‘You start by going round the shops and asking for food - anything for free,’ Lotty directed. ‘I’ll be responsible for turning it into a gourmet meal,’ she said with a wink.
So Carol trawled round the local shops asking for contributions for the social raffle and also for donations of food to get their soup kitchen going. At first she felt awkward about asking for charity, then reminded herself that it was not for her, but to ease the burden of those who were struggling on benefits as meagre as six and seven pounds a week and whatever they could sell. A month on strike and people were already having to canc
el their summer holidays, return their rented video machines and sell their cars.
Carol was astounded by the response of the local traders. From two of the butchers they received mince and cheap cuts of meat for pie fillings, from the fish and chip shop came a sack of potatoes and from Marshall’s Carol got tins of soup and beans. One of the bakers donated the previous day’s bread and Dimarco’s gave enough tea bags and coffee to last a fortnight.
‘That’s very generous,’ Carol thanked Paul Dimarco.
He smiled disarmingly, looking much younger than forty. ‘My grandfather did the same for the pitmen in twenty-six. He had a lot of respect for the miners of Whitton Grange and they stood by him, too, when things were tough,’ Paul reminisced. ‘Aye, we Dimarcos have survived strikes before, and a world war. We’ll get through this one, an’ all.’
That week, Carol got Kelly to photocopy a leaflet on Vic’s copier inviting miners’ wives to an evening at her house.
‘Can you do me forty?’ Carol asked.
‘You’ll have me shot,’ Kelly complained.
‘Not unless Vic finds out,’ Carol pressed her.
Kelly did the job with reluctance and brought them round to Carol’s.
‘Great,’ Carol thanked her. ‘Would you like to help me stick them through doors this evening?’
Kelly pulled a face. ‘I’m not that desperate for summat to do. Mind you, it’d make a change from arguing with Sid about what we watch on telly. It’s driving me crackers having him around every night. The sooner he gets back to night shift the better.’
Carol studied her friend. She had a strong suspicion that Kelly was up to something, perhaps seeing someone on the quiet. She’d been uneasy about her since Mick’s birthday party last November. And she knew the signs when Kelly was keen on a bloke: the frequent hair cuts, faddy diets, a flood of new clothes, despite the shortage of money, and that smug cat-got-the-cream look in her eyes.
‘Cramping your social life, is he?’ she asked quietly.
Kelly flushed beneath her short red hair. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone Page 16