He glared at her. ‘That’s not my job.’
‘Well, it is now,’ Carol sparked back. ‘And I am going to London. I’ve been asked to speak. I thought you would’ve supported me.’
‘And who’s going to look after Laura while you’re away?’ he demanded.
Carol gave him a look of despair. ‘If you can’t look after your own bairn for two days then you’re not the father I took you for.’ She turned and stuffed Laura’s shorts roughly into the bag. ‘But if you can’t be bothered, she can go and stay with her nana.’
Carol marched out of the house before he could shout at her again, trembling from the argument. She was mad at Mick for his jealousy and lack of co-operation over her involvement with the support group; after all, she was doing it for him and the other men. Ever since the arrest Mick had sunk into despondency, withdrawing into some silent, bitter world of his own where she could not reach him. Why did he not busy himself with small tasks like some of the other men, mending prams and children’s toys or helping wash up at the hall? She was tired of coming home to unwashed breakfast dishes and cigarette ash on the carpet and Mick slumped asleep in front of a blaring television. Of course she was sorry for him after what he had been through, but her patience with him was running out.
Gripping Laura’s hand, Carol walked her daughter briskly to school and attempted to put him out of her mind. She imagined instead what she might say when she stood up in front of a hall of people in London to speak for the first time.
Mick sank back in a chair and buried his head in his hands. Why did he lash out at Carol all the time like that? he questioned himself harshly. He wanted her to understand how he felt and yet the words always tumbled out like an attack, aggressive and critical. He could see that she was working hard for their cause and yet he resented the time spent away from him, enjoying herself with the other women, keeping busy while his hands ached with inactivity and the boredom drove him near to despair.
Once she had made him go collecting with the other women, but he had been unable to banter with the crowd the way they did. He seemed to have lost all confidence in himself since the traumatic events at Orgreave two months ago and to leave the house at all now made him feel nervous and brought him out in a sweat.
Charged with riot offences, the men had all elected to take their cases to the Crown Court where they could have their day in court and set the record straight on what had happened. But that could take months and Mick had the threat of what might happen hanging over him like a black cloud. It kept him awake at night, so that he fell asleep during the day and felt constantly tired. Worse, the words of the interrogator would come back to him like snakes wriggling into his mind and poisoning his reason with doubts.
You’d all go back tomorrow if you knew how you were being led by the nose.
He went over to the fire and picked out the pit manager’s letter, reading it again. Carol would be disgusted with him if she could see him now, or know the temptation he felt at the thought of going back to work and earning again. He dreamt of the day he could begin to pay off their sea of debts. They owed the bank and the building society, the electricity board and a finance company who still owned the washing machine. They had not renewed the licence on the TV and he had borrowed from Eddy without Carol knowing. The car had gone back to the HP company two months ago.
And this month he had finally uncovered the old motorbike from its gloomy shroud in the yard and taken it for a last spin along the coast, relishing the power at his hands and the wind in his face. It had sold for well under its value, but it had cleared their gas bill, bought Laura’s summer clothes and shoes and paid for Linda and Dan’s wedding.
That had been another bone of contention between Carol and him, when Linda had dumbfounded them all by announcing her marriage to Dan.
‘Why does she have to have such a big reception?’ Carol had demanded. ‘We can’t afford it.’
‘We can with the bike money. And Mam and Dad can’t afford to give her anything. Besides, you can’t not invite half the family.’
‘You can if there’s a strike on,’ Carol answered.
‘We all need a bit of a party to cheer us up,’ Mick had said and hidden his own concern that the wedding plans were getting out of hand.
‘Why do Fay and Vic have to be invited?’ Carol demanded. ‘I mean, that really sticks in me throat.’
‘Do you think I’m happy about your sister and that smarmy git coming to a family wedding?’ Mick had shouted. ‘It’s Dan’s parents have insisted on having them, not mine. You know as well as I do that Vic’s a cousin of Dan’s.’
‘No one can ever say no to Linda, can they?’ Carol had sighed.
Mick had silently agreed, but the wedding had gone ahead anyway with a heavily pregnant Linda squeezed into one of Val’s hire dresses at a civil ceremony. Afterwards there was a disco at the Comrades Club.
‘Grand to see the pair of them happy together at last,’ Val had commented. ‘Dan seems a lot closer to the family since all that bother at Orgreave.’
Mick had heard Carol agree and say it was thanks to him sticking by him that had given Dan his change of heart. Mick was not sure what had made Dan come round, but he did seem to be making an effort to do the right thing by Linda and the unborn baby. Perhaps the marriage would stand a chance, as long as Dan’s sour-faced parents didn’t make trouble, he had thought, watching the open disapproval of the Hardmans. They had kept among their own friends, talking to Vic Proud and denigrating the strike in voices that all could hear, yet they were happy to take the hospitality that the Todds had struggled to provide. Carol had made excuses to leave early and Mick had been happy to go too, no longer sure that he could control his temper.
He looked down at the crumpled letter in his hands with Shannon’s signature on it and felt a swell of self-disgust rise up inside him. How could he even think of breaking the strike? he thought miserably. Shannons might be scabs but Todds would never be!
Violently he tore up the letter again and again until it was like confetti scattered about the carpet. ‘Oh Carol!’ he cried out loud. ‘I need you!’
Then he crumpled to his knees and cried silently for the first time since he was twelve years old and Nana Bowman had died. He was gripped with a pain that would not go away.
Before Carol left on the bus for London she went to see Eddy who had moved back in with Lotty and Charlie after Linda’s wedding.
‘I’m worried about Mick,’ she told him. ‘He’s changed so much since the arrest. I can’t talk to him any more without him biting my head off. Everything I do just seems to annoy him. Can you do anything for him, Eddy?’ she pleaded.
Eddy looked thoughtful. ‘It’s hard for him, Carol. With the curfew and that. They’ve put conditions on us that make us feel like prisoners in our own homes, and we’ve been convicted of nowt yet.’
Carol nodded. ‘I know. It’s hard lines on all of you. But that’s no reason to take it out on me.’
Eddy took her hand and squeezed it. ‘He’s not angry with you, flower. He’s angry at the people that have done this to us - angry at himself for being so useless now.’
‘But he’s not useless; there are still things he could do, only if I suggest them he thinks I’m getting at him. Please help him, Eddy. I don’t know what to do. Will you keep an eye on him while I’m away?’
Eddy nodded and smiled. ‘Don’t worry about him. You gan off and preach the word to the southerners. Raise some money to send the bairns on holiday.’
Carol smiled and kissed his cheek in gratitude. ‘Ta, Eddy. I will.’
‘Ta-ra, pet.’ He gave her a wistful smile and Carol was aware of him watching her go until she was out of sight down the lane.
Lotty brought Laura to the bus station to see her off with Joanne and June and Lesley and Denise, who had surprised them all by volunteering to go. It was the first time Carol had been away from Laura for more than a night and she found it strange and a little upsetting, pangs of gu
ilt mixed with worry about how she would cope without her. Laura had made a big fuss at first until Lotty had promised they could make biscuits together and go for a picnic in the park.
‘I don’t want you to go, Mammy!’ Laura cried and clung on to her at the last minute. ‘Why can’t I come?’
Carol swung her up in a tight hug and kissed her. ‘I’ll bring you something back from London,’ she promised. ‘And we’ll go there together when you’re a big girl.’
Laura started to cry.
Lotty took her and said, ‘She’ll stop as soon as the bus is out of sight.’
Carol knew she was right, but somehow that made her feel even worse. Perhaps Mick had a point and she shouldn’t be going away quite as much; she was needed more at home.
‘Haway, Carol,’ June shouted behind her. ‘There’ll be no seats left at the back of the bus if you don’t hurry up.’
‘Go on,’ Lotty urged, ‘you’ve important work to do.’ Then she smiled, ‘Enjoy yourself. We can manage here, so stop feeling guilty.’
Carol gave her a quick kiss, fondled Laura’s head and climbed on the bus. She watched them out of the window until the bus pulled up the bank towards Quarryhill and Brassbank was hidden in the dip. But she was prevented from crying by Joanne who thrust a cup of tea in her hand, poured from her flask, and June who led them in a rendering of their new song, sung to the tune of ‘Blaydon Races’.
Oh, me lasses! You should have seen us ganin’,
Passing the folks at road blocks, just as they were standin’.
We gan on to the picket lines and serve the lads with dinners,
We’re the Brassbank Women’s Support Group - And we’re going to be the winners!
They were met off the bus by Carol’s Auntie Jean who put them all up in her cramped flat. They stayed up long into the night, talking and reminiscing and telling Jean all the news from home. Then Lesley told them they must all get some sleep and they bedded down on makeshift beds on the floor and sofas.
The next three days were an exhausting round of meetings and fundraising events organised by local labour groups and union members. When Carol first got up to speak she was terrified, her heart hammering and mouth going dry, so that she thought her words would never come out. But somehow, faced with a sympathetic audience of ordinary women who had just the same concerns as she did, she found herself meeting the challenge and relishing it. But on the first occasion, her mind went frighteningly blank.
‘We’re glad to be here today - with you all. I just want to say . . . We’ve come today - to - to ask . . .’ Carol swallowed and licked her dry lips, trying to remember what it was she had planned to say. She glanced at her friends on the stage beside her and saw June point to the ‘Save our pits’ badge she was wearing. June winked in encouragement. There was a restless murmur in the hall and children ran up and down the aisle, chasing each other.
Carol cleared her throat and began again. ‘We need your help, not just to save our pits - your pits, the nation’s pits - but our communities and way of life. Some of you might be asking, why do we want to save jobs that are dirty and dangerous? How can we want to pass them on to our sons? Yes, it’s true, miners’ work can be difficult and dangerous. But they are proud of the work they do. It gives them a purpose to get up at all hours of the night, or go underground when the sun’s shining and everyone else is out of doors. No other work gives a man such comradeship, such reliance on each other. Grafting hard down the pit gives a man dignity.’
Carol looked around at the faces in the hall. They were listening now, attentive; the children had been hushed. Somehow, in the few minutes given her, she must make them understand what it was like to live in Brassbank and other such villages, to show them how much was at stake.
‘But it’s not just for the men that we’re fighting, it’s for all of us. The pit gives our village its lifeblood; it’s the reason Brassbank exists. Our families have been together for generations, living and working beside each other, helping each other out in difficult times. We might fall out from time to time, like any big family, but we rally round when we’re needed. Mining families have always looked after their old and sick, their widows, their bairns, long before the welfare state. And it’s the women who are the backbone of our communities. We’re the ones who have to manage when things are tight, when disaster strikes. Our mothers and grandmothers did it before us - held the village together.’
Carol looked directly into the faces watching her, urging them to understand.
‘And we’re the ones coping now, making meals for hundreds of men every day, sending out food parcels, helping young families survive, getting baby food to new mothers. We even have time to do a bit of picketing and marching at rallies. Because women can turn their hand to anything if needs be!’
There were cheers of agreement to this and a few claps. Encouraged, Carol continued.
‘But we can’t do it alone. We need the help of our friends in other unions, other women’s groups, in the Labour Party. We’ve been bowled over by how generous ordinary people have been, paying a bit extra out of their wages to help our funds. It all gets put to good use. It might be that little bit extra to feed a family though the week that keeps the man from giving in and going back to work. There’s big pressure on now to force the men back with promises of extra pay and bonuses, to break their will. Some families are at the end of their tethers after five months without wages. But the women are keeping them going, keeping them strong. We don’t want our men to give in, because this might be our only chance to fight for our way of life.
‘If the strike is broken, then the men are broken, and the Coal Board and Government can do anything they wish in future. If they close our pit, they’ll kill off our local businesses and the jobs they bring, the value of our houses will fall and our children will have a life of unemployment or be forced to leave. Who will look after our old people then? Our large family will be broken up. Brassbank and villages like ours will become ghost towns.’
Carol glanced again at June and saw she had tears in her eyes.
‘But we’re not going to let that happen!’ she said with resolve. ‘We’re going to fight for our livelihoods for as long as it takes. We’ve been called criminals and worse than muck by the media. Thatcher’s now calling us the “enemy within” as if we were trying to wreck the country that we love. That really makes me blood boil! Well, we’re not the enemy! We’re not the ones trying to butcher our mining industry and bring in foreign coal. British industry was built on the back of the coal British miners have dug out for generations. Countless lives have been lost in the process, but we’ve borne that cost, that suffering, without complaint.’
She looked at her friends. ‘We’re decent, honest, hard-grafting people who want to work for a living and do the best for our families. We’re not asking for fat salaries, or the high life, or to live in mansions. We’re asking to stay as we are, in the communities where we were born and brought up. We’re not the enemy, we’re the real Britain! The ordinary people with decent values that our parents’ generation fought for in the last war. Please help us today to carry on fighting for what’s right, for justice - for our children!’
As Carol stood back, the audience came to its feet clapping their approval. She felt Joanne’s hand squeeze her arm and as she turned to the others, her vision blurred as the tears sprung to her eyes. June was crying too.
‘You bugger!’ she said. ‘You’ll cost me a fortune in tissues if you speak like that every time.’
Lesley soon had them organised into taking buckets round for a collection and the money began to pour in. Carol was touched once again by the generosity of complete strangers and it gave her renewed hope. One middle-aged woman caught her attention.
‘I’m glad I heard you speak. They never tell you on the telly what it’s like for the families. My husband Harry says the miners have been making a fuss over nothing, says they just like to fight. But now I can tell him different.’
&n
bsp; Carol smiled and touched her arm. ‘Thanks. Tell as many people as you can.’
She noticed that Denise was talking to everyone as she moved along the rows and she declared with pride at the end that she had the fullest bucket of change.
‘You’re scaring them with all your black clothes,’ June joked. ‘They’re handing over all their money ‘cos they think you’ve just come from a funeral.’
‘If you’re jealous of my success, I’ll lend you something black to wear,’ Denise answered with a rare grin. The idea of the vast June squeezing into Denise’s skinny black T-shirts or leggings made the rest of them fall about laughing. June gave the girl a playful swipe and then hugged her.
At the end of the three days Carol was exhausted and her voice almost gone.
‘By, we’ll get some peace on the journey home,’ June teased.
‘You mean you’ll be able to natter all the way without being interrupted,’ Carol croaked back.
They said their farewells to Jean at the bus station.
‘Ta for everything,’ Carol kissed her aunt. ‘It’s been like old times, kipping in your flat and staying up late with a bottle of wine.’
‘Doesn’t that seem like a lifetime ago?’ Jean mused. ‘You’ve certainly changed. Seven years ago you would yawn at the very word politics. Now you’re making speeches like a hardened campaigner. Perhaps we’ll see you elected for Brassbank one day.’
Carol laughed and climbed on the bus. She had never considered such a thing. It had not even occurred to her that what she was doing was political. The thought intrigued her. Her father had always accused her of having no ambition in life, of idling through it aimlessly, relying on others to support her. Now, perhaps for the first time, she was doing something positive, responding to the challenge set before her without thinking of it as work.
She had got involved because Lotty had asked her to and because she needed to fill the emptiness left by Val laying her off at the dress shop. But it had grown into more than just a supporting hand for the men. She had found a new confidence and a sense of purpose that she had never had before. She enjoyed the company of the others in the group and they were having fun as well as helping the cause. Being away from Brassbank, she could stand back and see herself differently. During the last few days she had reaffirmed her love for her village, for her family. They meant the whole world to her. Yet she had tasted a new independence that gave her strength and a cautious belief in her own ability.
Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone Page 25