‘You spend it on your holidays,’ Eddy told Laura as he pressed the coin into her small, eager hand.
Mick kissed Carol quickly, self-consciously, like a brother would do. With all the late-night washing, Mick had been fast asleep when Carol had got to bed and in the morning neither had referred to her attempts at intimacy. It confirmed her fear that he did not want her and the cold emptiness she felt inside deepened.
She watched him swing Laura into his arms and hug her goodbye. ‘I’ll miss you, pet,’ he told her with one of his rare smiles.
Carol felt tears of sadness prick her eyes that he had not said so to her. She turned away quickly, swallowing the affectionate words she had wanted to say to him.
Everyone else seemed infected by the children’s anticipation and the crowd around the bus chattered merrily in the morning sun. They had all worked so hard to enable the children to have this break and to send some of the older ones on a camping trip to Weardale. There was a feeling of optimism among the villagers that something positive had been achieved for their children after the months of having to deny them so much.
For a long time after the bus had moved off up the bank towards Quarryhill, Carol strained to catch a glimpse of Mick standing surrounded by his family, waving, while Laura pressed her face to the window and waved back. All the way down to Whitby, Carol could see Mick in her mind’s eye watching her go and wondered why the sight should make her feel so bereft. She told herself she should be happy that he was content to see her and Laura have this longed-for holiday and that his earlier depression seemed to have lifted a little. The cold anger that had erupted in bouts of shouting had been less frequent since her return from London. Yet in their physical relationship, things had never been so bad and Carol found it frightening how quickly their passion had withered. For the first time she contemplated what it might be like living apart from Mick, something she would never have dreamed of before. Of course she would never leave him - at least, not while the strike was on. But how long could she cope with the bad atmosphere and lack of love? If only Mick would talk to her about how he felt!
And how would he cope with the empty hours now they were gone? Carol worried. She hoped that Eddy would keep an eye on him and knew that Lotty would spoil him. Yet some doubt deep inside gnawed away like a termite, telling her she should not be leaving him, not now. Was she frightened for him or of the freedom that these two weeks offered her? Why had she not told Mick that Pete Fletcher would be covering part of the holiday for another radio feature? She hardly dared admit how pleased she was that the journalist would be there. He was so easy to talk to and it was sometimes a relief to confide in someone outside the family and close neighbours.
But Mick had complained of Pete hanging around her ‘like a bad smell’ and Carol had decided to avoid another row by not mentioning the reporter at all. She told herself to stop feeling so guilty; she had done her best for everyone these past months and needed a holiday. Lotty had said she should go; the older women could run things while the younger women were away. Still, Carol could not shift the feeling that she was somehow deserting them.
A bright and blustery North Sea burst into view as the bus trundled down from the North Yorkshire moors and the compact old fishing town of Whitby appeared before them. Kelly swung along the bus and nudged her with an elbow.
‘It’s a holiday, not a bloody funeral!’
Carol sighed and smiled. Shaking off the feeling of gloom that had gripped her on the journey, she turned to share Laura’s excitement at their arrival.
‘Look, Mam,’ the girl cried, wide-eyed. ‘Look at all them buckets and spades hanging up outside that shop. Can I buy one with Uncle Eddy’s money? Please, Mam!’
Carol did not have the heart to tell her that Eddy’s money would not be enough.
‘Course, you can,’ she smiled and hugged her tight. Today, she was not going to let money worries spoil the magic of this holiday for her special daughter. For two weeks she was not going to worry about anything at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first week of the holiday flew past, with frequent trips to the beach and walks along the cliffs. One day they went to Scarborough, on another they explored the moors and took a steam train ride. The days passed, exhausting but happy, and the women grew closer than ever as they revelled in the change of scene and the freedom from daily chores.
Every day, Carol made herself ring Mick for a few minutes to report on the day’s events, though she was aware they both found talking over the telephone awkward. At first he sounded cheerful enough and said he was keeping busy, but at the end of the week Carol had the impression something had happened that he did not want to talk about.
‘It’s costing to ring every day,’ Mick said testily. ‘Spend the money on Laura.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Carol asked.
‘Nowt’s wrong,’ he answered with irritation.
‘I can tell something’s bothering you,’ Carol persisted. ‘Is it one of the family? Has something happened?’
‘No! Nowt’s happened. Just enjoy your time off while you’ve got it.’
‘Mick, I’d rather you told me now what’s going on.’
‘I’ll see you in a week’s time, Carol,’ he cut her off sharply. ‘Don’t keep ringing. Give Laura a kiss from me.’
And then he rang off, before her money had run out. Annoyed, Carol almost rang straight back, but knew she would get no more out of him at this distance. Mick had never been easy conversing over the telephone and always left her to answer its insistent call, rather than pick it up himself. She sighed with frustration, resenting that the holiday had now been tainted with worry about what might be happening at home.
Carol wished that the holiday was not passing so quickly. She had felt the strain of overwork and the emotional roller-coaster of the past months ebbing out of her tense muscles this past week. She had not laughed as much for ages as she had done with the other women and they all looked forward to that peaceful time in the evening when the kids were in bed and they could share a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes on the steps of the hostel in the fading light. They had all been more patient with the children than at home where the children had whinged with boredom and got under their feet. It delighted Carol to see Laura and her friends thriving and lively in the daytime and sleeping soundly at night. But another week and they would be gone from this haven; it would all be over.
As she came out of the booth in the hostel hallway she heard a voice speak her name. Turning, she found Pete Fletcher standing right behind her, his pleasant face smiling. He stepped forward and brushed her cheek with a kiss.
‘Good to see you, Carol. You’re looking great.’
So he had come! She felt guilty at how pleased she was to see him, still smarting from Mick’s surliness.
‘Hello, Pete,’ she answered breathlessly, blushing at his kiss. He looked lean and tanned in his casual clothes, his chin unshaven and eyes sensual behind his glasses. ‘I thought perhaps you weren’t coming.’
‘I find it difficult to stay away,’ he said, his voice full of dangerous meaning. Then he laughed. ‘I’ve got to finish the radio piece, remember?’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Everything all right at home?’
Carol looked away, embarrassed that he might have overheard her being cut off.
‘Aye,’ she said briskly and stepped away from him, aware of her pulse racing. ‘If you’re looking for the kids, you better come and join us for tea. It’s Laura’s turn to serve out the fish fingers.’
‘That I can’t miss,’ Pete joked and followed her in.
Carol noticed how at ease he was moving around the tables, chatting to the children and adults alike. Laura was especially pleased to see him and boasted that he had been a visitor at her house and slept on the settee. When Pete said she could be on radio, Laura nearly burst with importance. After tea, he promised her and a group of her friends an ice cream.
‘Stop spoiling her,’ Carol compla
ined half-heartedly.
‘You can come too,’ Pete teased, ‘but only if you agree to eat ice cream with me.’
Carol told herself she was only going to keep an eye on the children.
They walked along the top of the cliffs, past the grander hotels, and looked down on the harbour bustling with tourists. Smells of the sea and fish suppers wafted up on the evening breeze. The children scampered ahead, running along benches and jumping off with shrieks of delight.
‘Where’ve you been for the past week?’ Carol asked.
He smiled his sensual smile. ‘Don’t suppose that means you’ve missed me, does it?’
‘No,’ Carol lied. ‘I was just being polite.’ She pulled a face at him and he laughed softly.
‘I’ve being doing some follow-up interviews at Greenham Common,’ Pete explained.
‘Got a thing about women’s groups, have you?’ Carol laughed.
‘Maybe,’ Pete smiled, ‘or maybe just some women.’
She shot him a look and saw he was teasing. Nevertheless, she felt uncomfortable, surprised and annoyed to find that the remark excited her. She changed the subject quickly.
‘Do you know if anything’s happened at home since we came away? I haven’t heard any news for days. It’s been a bit of a relief not knowing, really.’
Pete looked serious. ‘There’s a big push on to get the men back to work. It was bound to happen. Summer will be over soon. Coal stocks are probably lower than the NCB are letting on. But they know some people are cracking.’
‘So what’s new?’ Carol was dismissive. ‘They try and bribe the men back to work every month.’
He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Carol, this time it’s serious. It’s only a matter of time before someone at Brassbank goes back.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Carol turned on him angrily and shook off his hold. ‘The strike’s solid where we are. We’ve all worked so hard to keep it that way.’
Pete nodded. ‘I know you have and it’s impressed me no end. But it’s like trying to turn back the sea. You’re up against the might of the state and all it can throw at you. Haven’t you seen the adverts in the papers wooing the men back with lumps of cash? And the TV - every night showing a map with the numbers going back to each pit.’
‘But they just invent the numbers!’ Carol protested.
‘Maybe they do,’ Pete said calmly, ‘but that’s part of the propaganda game. It’s not the truth that counts, it’s results. It’s winning.’
‘God, you’re so cynical,’ Carol exclaimed.
Pete took hold of her arm more forcefully and pulled her round. ‘And you’re so naive, Carol. You speak out about justice and fairness but that’s not how you’ll win this battle. You’ve got to play them at the same dirty game. Win at all costs. People like Charlie Todd know that. It’s going to get a lot rougher once the trickle back to work gets going. Anything you’ve seen so far will be a kid’s picnic in comparison. That’s when we’ll see who’s really got the fight in them.’
Carol thought of Mick and shuddered. Being arrested and charged once had nearly finished him; she doubted he could take another mental beating. She was aware of Pete’s hands on her arms. The feel of them burned into her skin, making her shake.
‘So you think what I’ve been doing is a waste of time?’ she challenged him.
‘Not at all,’ he answered, his face now very close to hers. ‘But you can’t influence enough people by speaking to the converted in provincial halls. You need to get your message out to a wider audience - TV, radio, press. Make your own propaganda, make people sympathise.’
‘But the press hate us,’ Carol said bitterly. ‘They call our men criminals and bully boys.’
‘We don’t all hate you,’ he said, his voice low and intense. ‘That’s why it’s important to do features from the women’s point of view, and the children’s. That’s where I can help with this radio programme.’
Carol looked into his earnest, intense face. ‘You do want to help, don’t you?’
He gripped her tighter. ‘You know I do,’ he said in his soft, persuasive voice.
Carol felt her legs go weak. Then Laura came bounding up to them.
‘Come on,’ she cried with impatience. ‘You said you’d buy us ice creams.’
Pete relaxed his hold on Carol and smiled. ‘Ice creams coming up.’ But as Carol turned from him, he murmured, ‘And perhaps a drink for the grown-ups later? To discuss propaganda, of course.’
She caught his quizzical smile and felt her insides lurch in a way she knew they should not.
Mick tore up the latest letter to arrive from Ben Shannon, urging him to return to work, and escaped up to the allotment where he found his father sitting in a faded deck chair, a book unread in his lap. It made Mick furious to think that they were all being hounded to get back to work, as if they could be bought off. But rumours had been spreading all week that some were ready to cross the picket line in Brassbank and had been in secret negotiation with management. Now every time Mick saw a small huddle of men in the corner of a pub or in the park he wondered if they were plotting betrayal. Would they be capable of such a thing? Which of those around him would be the first to crack? Eddy? Sid? Dan? John Taylor? Marty Dillon? Himself?
Mick tortured himself with speculation, knowing that that was exactly what the forces against them wanted the miners to do. They were trying to divide them with suspicions and doubts, tempt them with money and promises of no reprisals. It made him sick to the core. And then Carol had rung, full of happy talk of their holiday, and Mick had felt resentful and excluded and bereft without her and Laura. They might as well have been on the other side of the world, so far away did they seem from the tensions at home. So he had been short with her and cut her off. He had immediately regretted it and wished she had phoned back so that he could make it up to her. Why was he incapable of ever telling her how he really felt? If he could just explain how difficult it was not working, filling the endless hours, and how much the fear of the court case weighed upon him. If only she could understand how helpless he felt watching her grow in confidence and purpose as she coped with the strike far better than he did. It made him feel angry and useless, until he had no confidence in himself any more - not even in bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make love to her, rather that he was frightened that he couldn’t.
He yearned to hear her voice again, but after twenty minutes of staring angrily at the mute telephone, he made his way up to the breezy allotment, perched above the village on the cliffs. It was easier being with his father who understood better what he was going through, what all the men were going through. With Charlie he did not have to explain.
‘Who can it be?’ his father brooded. ‘Or, worse, who can they be?’
Mick knew he was sifting through his mind to find the potential scabs. His father would take the betrayal personally, blaming himself for any crack in the solidarity at their pit. They were his men, members of his lodge, marras below ground. If just one of them turned scab, Mick knew that Charlie would be torn apart by the act, whatever the reason. His feelings ran too deep. His loyalties were as rock solid as the seams of coal beneath them; his memories stretched back into early childhood and the betrayal of his father in 1926. To scab would be incomprehensible to him and Mick knew his father would show no mercy to a weaker man.
Mick squatted down on his haunches. ‘We’ll soon know if it’s true.’
‘It is true.’
They both swung round at the sound of another man’s voice behind them. Mick flushed at the sight of Ben Shannon leaning over the fence, watching them from the lane. He was dressed in casual clothes - fawn trousers, a polo shirt and Pringle jumper. Charlie eyed him without getting up from his chair.
‘Delphiniums looking grand, Charlie,’ Ben spoke with ease, ‘not as many as last year though. Mine have come up better.’
‘We’re having to grow more food this year,’ Charlie replied with a snort. ‘Not a problem that’s ever both
ered you.’
‘No,’ Ben agreed. ‘Can I come in?’
To Mick’s annoyance, Charlie nodded and it suddenly struck him that Carol’s father must have been up here before. Charlie seemed unperturbed by the manager’s appearance; perhaps he had visited for years. There was no stiffness to their conversation; they were more like old boyhood rivals still vying with each other. Mick listened in astonishment.
‘So, are you going to tell me whose arms you’ve twisted to gan back to work?’ Charlie asked.
‘No twisting,’ Ben replied, picking off a raspberry from the nearby bush and tasting it. ‘This strike’s gone on long enough. You’ve gained nothing by it, Toddy, and we’ve lost millions. My job is to get things cracking at the pit as soon as possible and safeguard all our jobs.’
‘Bollocks, man!’ Charlie cried. ‘You’re not on local telly now, so stop sounding like a Tory minister.’
To Mick’s surprise, Ben Shannon laughed. He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his raspberry-stained fingers. Then his jowly face grew serious.
‘Listen, Toddy, we go back a long way, you and I. We’ve seen the pit through many disputes in the past, but this one’s different.’
‘Aye, our future’s on the line with this one.’ Charlie was bullish.
‘It doesn’t have to be. Brassbank isn’t on any closure list. We’ll see out our days here, and young Mick after us. But only if we can get back to work and put this damaging dispute behind us. You’ve all been conned by Scargill. It’s not your fight.’
Mick was at once reminded of the insistent arguments of the detective who had interrogated him months ago. It made him furious.
Ben turned to him with a smile of understanding. ‘And you, Mick. This strike has landed you in trouble when you’ve always been hard-working and peaceable. I can help you out of this mess, help Carol and Laura too. If you agreed to come back to work, we could overlook the fact that you’re facing charges for riot offences, no matter what happens when it comes to court. Imagine what a relief it would be to have the shadow of court and prison lifted from your shoulders. Imagine Carol’s relief. You shouldn’t have to be suffering like this. My daughter shouldn’t have to be suffering either, it’s not what she was brought up to expect.’
Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone Page 27