Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

She looked at Tony Woodhouse, holding her smile as if waiting for a response. None came. She looked back at Larkin. ‘Nice to have you here.’

  ‘Thank you. Nice to be here.’

  Tea in hand, Larkin watched the local TV news crew interview an immaculately suited and groomed man. He was answering questions in an earnest, self-important manner.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Dean Plessey,’ said Tony. ‘Our local MP. Electioneering.’

  Larkin thought. The name meant something to him. Dean Plessey. He shook his head, the context out of reach. ‘I know that name,’ he said. ‘Is he from round here?’

  ‘Yeah, local lad. Started off as a miner.’

  It clicked.

  ‘He was involved in the strike. Yeah, Dean Plessey. He was a right dick.’

  Tony smiled. ‘He still is. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.’

  Tony limped over to where the TV crew were concluding their interview.

  ‘Dean,’ Tony said when they had moved away. ‘Got someone I’d like you to meet. This is Stephen Larkin. He’s a journalist.’

  The politician stuck out his hand.

  ‘Dean Plessey. Pleasure to meet you.’

  He had the smile and look of an expert flesh-presser.

  ‘Don’t try too hard to impress him, Dean,’ said Tony, smiling. ‘He doesn’t live round here so he can’t vote for you.’

  Dean Plessey laughed as if it was the funniest joke he’d heard in ages.

  Larkin politely joined in, looked at him. The years had treated him well. Everything about Plessey was smooth: smooth skin, smooth hair, smooth suit, smooth manner. Only the eyes gave him away. Jagged, hard.

  ‘So you’re here with Tony, are you? Who are you reporting for?’

  ‘Actually, I’m playing. He’s roped me in.’

  ‘Very good at getting people involved, is Tony. Just look at all this. And he does wonders for Coldwell. For the community. Wonders. We support him to the hilt. And we need more like him.’

  Tony said nothing.

  ‘Well, good to meet you,’ said Plessey, turning to go.

  ‘Oh, Dean …’

  The politician stopped, looked at Larkin.

  ‘I’m writing a book on the miners’ strike. Using Coldwell as a study. You were involved in that, weren’t you?’

  Something passed over Dean Plessey’s eyes, like a breeze ruffling a peacock’s feathers.

  ‘I did my part.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember. I was here than as well.’

  Dean Plessey’s Blairite grin remained fixed while the rest of his face changed around it.

  ‘Different era.’

  ‘Not so different, I don’t think.’

  Dean Plessey waved his hand dismissively. ‘I disagree. It’s the future we have to look to.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘Well,’ Dean Plessey said, ‘pleasure to meet you. Again.’

  He shook hands. It had built up quite a sweat in a short space of time, Larkin noted.

  Larkin smiled. ‘I might come and have a word with you about the strike, some time.’

  ‘Whenever.’

  Plessey gave Larkin a brittle smile, Tony a nod and hurried off to vote-pester someone else. The two men watched him go.

  ‘Well, he’s changed.’

  ‘For better or worse?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Hard to say, really.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Come and meet your team-mates. See if we can get a bit of practice in.’

  The Coldwell CAT Centre Crew were in the dressing room changing, talking. Some were older, bearing ravaged faces and bodies, eyes like burned-out fires waiting to be relit, veins in their arms hard, dark and prominent, like lines on a tube map. Some were younger, lads seen in any pub in any city on any Saturday night. No stereotypical addicts.

  ‘This is Stephen Larkin,’ said Tony Woodhouse. ‘He’s that journalist I was telling you about. He’s all yours, lads. Be kind to him.’ With a grin he was gone.

  A few of the men looked up, nodded. Larkin nodded in return. The men all continued to get changed. Keyed up, tense. Serious. He joined them in changing.

  Tony entered with tops and positions – Larkin was fourteen, on the bench – then outside for practice and warm-up: bending and stretching, short runs, ball skills.

  Tony came alive: animated, encouraging, his leg ignored.

  Frailty slowly peeled from the CAT Centre Grew; steeliness, determination took its place. They worked with each other, read each other. They became a team.

  Larkin tried to join in. He ran, dribbled, moved. Felt booze sweat on his skin, wished he hadn’t drunk so much the previous night. His timing was out, he couldn’t read them. They were good-natured about it, let things go with him.

  Then back to the changing room.

  ‘Fine pair of legs,’ said Claire Duffy as Larkin walked past. She was laughing. ‘You hanging around after the game?’

  Larkin shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  She held the moment a beat longer than necessary, then went.

  Larkin, taken aback but happily so, went to join the others.

  ‘Well, it’s all about empowerment, really. Showing people that yes, they do have the choice. Yes, they can turn things around. This—’ he gestured to the football pitch ‘—is just one way of doing that.’

  He smiled. Gave them what they wanted to hear.

  The interviewer smiled also. Practised sincerity. Knowing collusion.

  ‘And the score?’

  Another smile. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Think you’ll win?’

  Tony smiled. Self-effacingly, the way the camera liked it. ‘I hope so.’

  The interviewer thanked him, the camera stopped taping.

  He was pleased with the interview, how he’d come across. Strong, committed, knowledgeable about the centre, pleasant and confident about his work. The only glitch had concerned his footballing career.

  ‘Do you miss it? Do you not wish it had gone on?’

  Every fucking day. ‘Not really. Some footballers are destined to be all-time greats. Some are destined to be remembered for one goal.’

  ‘It was a great goal.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. But it was a long time ago.’ The smile. The mask. ‘And I doubt it would be as rewarding as this job.’

  The hesitation had given him away. There to see for anybody who wanted to look.

  A man came towards him: mid-thirties, neat and trim, wearing jogging bottoms, sweatshirt and trainers, carrying a sports holdall. Tony smiled.

  ‘Hi, Dave.’

  They shook hands. Dave Wilkinson: the local drugs liaison officer for Northumbria police. So neatly dressed, thought Tony, that even put of uniform he still looks in uniform.

  They chatted. Small talk, work issues. They often worked closely together and, despite their differences, had a mutual respect for each other.

  ‘Your boys here?’

  ‘All here,’ said Tony. ‘Just waiting to thrash the life out of you.’

  Wilkinson smiled. ‘Got a couple of ex-pros in our line-up. Used to play for Newcastle and Sunderland. So that’ll make it interesting.’

  ‘But they’re not managed and coached by an ex-pro. The CAT Centre Crew are. And that makes all the difference.’

  ‘We’ll see. Tenner says you’re wrong.’

  ‘Just give it straight to the centre when you lose.’

  Dave Wilkinson smiled, shook hands, went inside.

  Tony smiled after him, then turned to the main gate where a car, expensive, fast, was pulling up.

  The celebrity auctioneer had arrived.

  Once people saw who the car belonged to, who was driving, it was engulfed. Word of mouth spread, and soon there was a waiting mass, whooping, cheering, wanting something, anything, signed. The actor stepped from the car. The crowd made surprised remarks to each other about how unexpectedly small he was. Smile in place, he affected not to hear anything d
isparaging and patiently signed autographs, chatted.

  Tony moved forward to greet him, his own smile in place.

  The actor wasn’t anyone special, thought Tony. Not really. Just a mask-wearer in extremis.

  Everyone wore masks every day. A celebrity’s mask was an image, carefully selected, controlled and filtered, then presented as real. A persona simultaneously public and private; one mat showed themselves but revealed nothing.

  Something Tony could empathize with.

  He separated the actor from the crowd. ‘Bit of a crush out there.’

  The actor shrugged. ‘You get used to it. Just part of the job. Better than being ignored, I suppose.’

  Tony nodded.

  He walked him in, settled him with Claire, then went to see his team in the changing room.

  ‘So let’s recap. Four four two, OK?’

  Tony talked tactics and formations. The men listened, enrapt. This was more important than football.

  Tony had gone round everyone, explaining what their role was, how their own individual qualities shaped that role, how important their contribution was to the team. It built them up all the more. Man management and therapeutic self-esteem building all in one.

  ‘Now, you know who you’re up against. And I know what a lot of you think of them. So if anyone’s got a point to prove, the best way to do that is by winning. So let’s see what you’ve got. Passion. Commitment. Heart. Let’s go out there and show them.’

  The men stood up, made for the door. Tony held up a hand, stopped them.

  ‘But remember, lads, it’s just a game. Enjoy yourselves, Now, come on.’

  The men filed out of the room and on to the pitch. Larkin and Mick took their seats on the bench.

  The opposition emerged, took their positions.

  The TV actor said a few words, the crowd applauded. He took the whistle from the ref, blew it, handed it back, and ran off the pitch. Game on.

  The procession marched through the town, Dougie leading, Mick next to him. Men got behind their banners, marched with pride. The loud-hailers were chanting, calls and responses with simplicity, directness and familiarity:

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

  Out, out, out.

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

  Out, out, out.

  What do we want?

  Coal, not dole.

  When do we want it?

  Now.

  No less powerful for their familiarity. No less heartfelt in their simplicity.

  People came to watch, opening their doors, standing in their gardens. They cheered, clapped and chanted. Children ran alongside them. Dougie noticed a few people turn away as they passed, muttering, but they were in the minority. The majority were with them.

  Dougie smiled. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Gonna be a good day, Mick. I can feel it.’

  Mick nodded but didn’t reply.

  They rounded the corner, began the final stretch that would take them to the colliery gates. There was a small picketing contingent outside the gates. Red-eyed, tired-looking, they had been there most of the night. Shift work continued above ground. Days and nights measured by stubbled faces and bloodshot eyes. They began to applaud when they saw the procession.

  The police were there too. A small contingent, uniformed, not body armoured. Watching.

  Observing.

  Dougie was surprised; he thought there would have been more.

  TV cameras turned, pointed at the men, recorded their approach. The men’s voices got louder, the chants stronger, the pace quicker.

  A TV reporter moved alongside Dougie, mic in hand, camera in her wake.

  ‘D’you mind if I ask you a few questions, Dougie?’ she asked.

  Dougie smiled. He recognized her from the local news.

  ‘No, pet. Fire away.’

  She turned to check that the camera was with her, took the thumbs up from the cameraman and said: ‘So what d’you hope to achieve here today, Dougie?’

  ‘Well, Wendy, we’re here today to make a point. This strike is all about the future. Remember, this strike started because they wanted to close Cortonwood down in Yorkshire, despite sayin’ they were goin’ to keep it open. The NCB said it was uneconomic. That didn’t mean there wasn’t coal in it, that didn’t mean it wasn’t making a profit. Just uneconomic. For who? Not for the miners.

  ‘See, we’re here today to show that there’s more to work than just a few bosses makin’ a profit. This is about whole families, whole communities gettin’ their work taken away from then just on the whim of the NCB or whoever’s in charge of where they work. We’ve got to make a stand. ’Cos you never know who’ll be next.’

  ‘And how would you respond to accusations of pickets intimidating people who want to work? Stopping them going to work with threats of violence or violence itself?’

  ‘Wendy, look around you. D’you see anyone here bein’ violent? No. And you won’t today. That’s a lie. A media myth. It’s what the government want people to believe. And I’m tellin’ you, it’s not true.’

  ‘Dougie Howden, thank you.’

  He thanked her, kept walking.

  They reached the gates, joined the men already waiting there. Greetings went round, introductions were made, old friendships reaffirmed. They talked and acted like soldiers, veterans bound together by adversity and experience.

  They waited. Dougie looked around, made a rough head count.

  ‘Reckon there’s about five hundred pickets here, Mick.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon.’

  ‘Hello, Dougie.’

  He looked in the direction of the voice. The journalist lad, Stephen Larkin. A blond lad with him, holding a camera.

  ‘Aye, aye, Stephen. Good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’ Larkin looked around. ‘Good turnout.’

  ‘Aye. Makes you proud. Gives you hope.’

  ‘It does. Oh, this is Dave. Dave Bolland.’

  The young blond man shook hands with both Dougie and Mick.

  ‘He’s a photographer. Here to capture the event.’

  ‘You’ve missed the procession.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. We saw it happening, so we got alongside. Got some good shots too,’ said Bolland.

  ‘Good.’

  They chatted a little more, then the whisper stream started. There was a bus on the way in. A local private charter.

  They listened. Heard it. They looked. Saw it. Gears crunching, diesel fumes belching. Revving up and down as if hesitant to approach.

  Word spread through the pickets. They steeled themselves, stood firmer. Loud-hailers were raised, they chanted louder.

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie –

  Coal, not dole –

  The bus came nearer.

  The watching police tensed themselves but didn’t move.

  Maggie, Maggie –

  Coal, not –

  Maggie –

  Dole –

  Out, out, out –

  Larkin and Bolland moved to the side of the road, observing, camera poised.

  The pickets stood their ground in front of the closed gates, four and five deep. Voices raised, fists clenched, held downwards.

  The bus approached, driving slowly.

  The pickets didn’t move.

  The bus pulled up in front of them, air brakes bringing it to an explosive halt.

  No one moved.

  Behind the wheel, the bus driver shrugged.

  Dougie looked around to see he wouldn’t be stopped, moved to the bus door, knocked on it. It opened with another air-hiss.

  ‘Right,’ said Dougie into the bus. ‘This is an official picket. This colliery is closed. We will not move out of the way of the gates, but if anyone wants to continue their journey on foot we won’t stop them.’

  ‘You hear that, lads?’ the bus driver shouted down the length of his coach. ‘I’m goin’ no further. The rest’s up to you.’

  Dougie looked down the coach. The scabs sat huddled, scarves, hood
s and balaclavas hiding their faces, obscuring their identities, failing to shelter the fear lodging in their eyes.

  No one moved. No one spoke. The bus driver looked at Dougie.

  ‘I think that’s your answer.’

  Dougie stepped back into the road.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The doors closed and the bus began to reverse up the street.

  A cheer went up from the pickets as the bus receded. Dougie looked at Mick. The young man was cheering along with the rest of them. Dougie had never seen him look so happy.

  ‘We won, we won …’

  Dougie had been right. So far, it was a good day.

  The opposition had been taken by surprise.

  They had come expecting a runabout, a jolly; some positive PR from allying themselves with a good cause and, by extension, some good grace in the day job. What they got was a game.

  A fight.

  The CAT Centre Crew started aggressively, taking the fight to the opposition, pushing the ball up front, passing, shooting to score. Intentions clear from the get go. They wanted to win.

  The visitors were on the backfoot, bending but still defending. They all looked fit, or relatively fit: years on the beer and curry diet, fast-food breaks snatched on patrol, propping the bar up after work, all had eaten into their muscle tone. Games like this were both an attempt to keep themselves in shape and a justification to keep the same eating and drinking habits. To buy off their gut guilt with sweat.

  The professional sportsmen were trying to keep some shape to the team, those who had harboured footballing aspirations were rediscovering them, the ones who were just there to sweat out beer were lost.

  The Crew were running hard, chasing something more than the ball. All shapes and sizes, all various stages of fitness, all giving it five–nil, running away from something, running towards something better.

  Tony Woodhouse watched from the bench. Sidelined yet still in motion. Eyes darting, lips moving; the match being mirrored, live on his face.

  He couldn’t sit for long.

  ‘Ged, get up there!’

  He made his way to the touchline and stood, arms wind-milling, one palm flat, one fist clenched. Mouthing words. Football sign language.

  ‘Mark ’im!’

  Larkin watched him. Tony Woodhouse was more alive than he had previously seen him. He was back there, playing his game through the team.

  Larkin looked along to the opposition. A neat man in a tracksuit sat blank-faced, arms folded, watching the game. Tony Woodhouse’s opposite number. He caught Larkin’s eye, nodded, went back to watching the game.