Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Next to Larkin on the bench was another CAT Centre Crew player.

  The man kept staring at Larkin. Larkin ignored him, looked straight ahead.

  ‘I know you. Don’t I?’ the man said eventually.

  Larkin looked at him. Hair thinning and grey, face puffed and patchworked, red blotches, deep-purple broken veins. Thin body, skin gooseflesh-pallid.

  ‘Where do I know you from? You from round here?’

  ‘No,’ said Larkin. ‘Haven’t been here since the miners’ strike.’

  The man’s face darkened. He looked away.

  ‘You’re that journalist that Dougie Howden was workin’ with.’

  Larkin looked again. ‘Mick Hutton?’

  The man nodded.

  Seventeen years. Mick seemed to have aged double that. At least.

  ‘Sorry—’ I didn’t recognize you there. Larkin stopped himself saying it.

  Mick still seemed to hear it. ‘We’ve all changed.’

  Larkin nodded. He took a small camera from his bag, focused, waited for action to happen near him. He didn’t wait long.

  A crunching tackle on a copper. The copper loudly remonstrating. Tony’s player smiling, shrugging.

  Click.

  ‘This for that thing you’re writin’?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Larkin nodded.

  ‘What is it? Somethin’ about the strike?’

  ‘Yeah. Looking at the legacy, concentrating on the effects on one community. Then and now kind of thing.’

  Mick nodded as if confirming something to himself.

  ‘Good luck to you,’ he said.

  They watched the game. One of the ex-footballers lost the ball in a tackle with one of Tony’s players. Standing up, he petulantly tripped the other player. The ref saw it. Yellow card.

  Click.

  Larkin and Mick laughed.

  ‘Never liked him much anyway,’ said Mick.

  They kept watching.

  ‘I bet you notice the changes round here,’ said Mick after a while.

  ‘Aye.’

  Mick’s focus shifted. He was looking at something other than the game.

  Larkin didn’t press him.

  A sliding tackle on a younger copper caused the ball to bounce on to the bench.

  Click.

  Larkin moved to pick the ball up, but Tony Woodhouse was there before him. It was grabbed and thrown back in the time it took Larkin to straighten up.

  The game resumed.

  ‘So where’ve you been, then?’

  Larkin looked at Mick, surprised he had spoken.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Since … you know.’

  ‘Oh. I went to London.’

  Mick rolled some phlegm around in his throat. ‘Rather you than me.’

  Larkin nodded.

  ‘So …’

  ‘What am I here for? What’s me addiction?’

  Larkin felt his face redden. ‘Well …’

  Mick shrugged. ‘I can’t handle me drink. Long story.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mick nodded, eyes hidden. ‘So, you back up here for good, then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Tony’s players were moving forward. One touch, pass. One touch, pass. They played well. Poised and confident. Energetic and inventive.

  Larkin and Mick watched, drawn. The movement was magnetic, the opposition rendered ineffectual. The result inevitable.

  Goal.

  One–nil to the CAT Centre Crew.

  Larkin and Mick were on their feet cheering. Tony and Claire gave each other a spontaneous hug. Claire, hugging harder than Tony, held on a little more tightly.

  Larkin noticed. Tony didn’t.

  The two subs sat back down, smiling.

  ‘That’s Ged who scored,’ said Mick. ‘Good lad. Bit of a gobshite. Crack was his problem. Mind you—’ Mick pointed at Tony ‘—he’s a good bloke. Done a lot for this town. Helped me a lot. Might be dead without him. And Angie.’

  The opposition manager was on his feet, calling to his players, attempting to re-form them. He shook his head, sat down again.

  Tony Woodhouse, hands stabbing the air, mouth open, trying to get the players’ attention, hurling words like stones.

  Click.

  Larkin nodded, looked at Mick. ‘I bet you wish the pit was still here, then?’ he said.

  Mick’s throat rattled again. He rolled his mouth, grimacing, as if it were full of bitterness, then spat. ‘Naw. Hated the place.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You surprised?’ Mick gave a harsh laugh. ‘Livin’ in the dark under ground, breakin’ your back an’ coughin’ your guts up. It’s a shit job, minin’. Should have pulled the place down years before.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Aye. An’ all that bollocks about comrades an’ socialism …’ He pointed in front of him, gestured to the opposition. ‘An’ what those bastards did an’ all …’

  The ref blew his whistle.

  Half-time.

  The teams walked off the pitch: the opposition to a changing room post-mortern, the look on their coach’s face saying they weren’t in for an easy ride.

  The CAT Centre Crew to enjoy the quiet, contented glow of confidence, self-respect and pride.

  Larkin and Mick went to join them.

  The Miners’ Welfare Hall hadn’t seen anything like it for ages.

  Drink, donated by a local brewery and stored by the miners until they had something to celebrate, was cracked open. Food was supplied by twinned companies and charities and channelled through the miners’ wives and support groups. A group of local musicians, traditional instruments, Northumbrian pipes were playing. It seemed like the whole town – men, women, children, miners and non-miners – were there. All wanting to share, to be a part of, to write themselves into the history of the small victory. To be there on the day Coldwell won.

  The hall smelled of alcohol and cigarettes, reverberated with laughter and music, felt of abandonment and release.

  Mick stood by the bar, sipping his Coke, watching. Couples were flinging each other round to the music, time being kept by the clapping circle around them. Those in the middle, those in the circle, him not a part of it.

  That just about sums it up, he thought.

  Mick had never wanted to be there, had never felt part of the close-knit mining community, but had never had the courage to leave. Until recently. But that had all changed now.

  ‘You not joinin’ in? Howay, man.’

  It was Dougie.

  ‘No, I’m … a bit tired.’

  Dougie nodded, then noticed Mick’s glass.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Coke.’

  ‘Have a proper drink, man.’

  Dougie reached over the bar, found a can of lager, popped it open.

  ‘There you go. Get that down you.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I know, but it’s a party. One won’t hurt you.’

  Mick looked at Dougie: swaying, eyes red, smiling. He was drunk. Better just to do as he said. He put the can to his lips, took a mouthful. The fizz made him grimace, the taste made him gag.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Dougie. ‘Where’s Angie?’

  ‘At home. She’s feelin’ a bit tired.’

  Dougie nodded.

  Mick took another drink from the can. It didn’t taste as bad this time.

  ‘Look,’ said Mick. ‘Tomorrow. I dunno—’

  ‘Don’t worry, lad. It’s ganna be great. Some of the lads are stayin’ over so we’ll have their support again. Aye, we’ll do it all again, don’t you worry.’

  Mick nodded. That wasn’t what he had wanted to say. The moment was gone. He couldn’t say it now.

  He took another drink, found he didn’t mind the taste at all this time. He looked at his watch.

  ‘I’d better go. I told Angie I’d be back.’

  Dougie smiled. ‘Aye. You got any names for that baby yet?’

  ‘Aye. If it’s a boy, David. If it’
s a girl, Tanya.’

  ‘Smashin’. Go on then, son.’ Dougie shook his hand. ‘We’ve had a great day. Tomorrow’ll be better. The tide has turned. The tide has turned.’

  Mick nodded and left. But not before draining his can.

  Dougie swayed a little, then smiled to himself. He reached over the bar, found another can, opened it. He looked around the room, happy to see people happy. His family, his friends all in the one place. Dougie found strength in the whole thing. The music, the dancing, even the drinking and laughing. Decades old but still fun, still exciting. Enjoyable because it had always been done this way and it had always been done this way because it worked.

  He could see some of them, the younger ones mostly, Dean Plessey and his mates, sending the whole thing up, taking the piss. He didn’t mind, though. He had been like that at their age, before he had come to realize that the old ways were the best ways.

  He saw himself, quite unapologetically, as a traditionalist. He stood for things, believed in things, that he thought were important. Comradeship. Fairness. Family. Community. Decency. Respect. All the things he saw the strike being in favour of, all the things he saw the government being against. He would stand for them, and he would stay standing, until he drew his last breath.

  He smiled again, took a mouthful of beer. He was happier than he had been for a long while. Happy to be at an event that celebrated the community.

  He went to rejoin the party.

  Home for Mick was a new housing development on the out-skirts of the town centre. Built the previous year for young, professional couples with their eye on commuting down the coast road to Newcastle, it was at least three-quarters occupied. Mick and Angela had moved into a starter home on the estate the previous autumn, believing themselves and the estate to complement each other’s aspirations. Now Mick found it a confusing warren of cul-de-sacs and dead ends, a conformist orange- and red-brick maze.

  Mick walked. He had to. He had sold the car to pay off his strike debts. To go on living.

  He stuck his key in the front door and entered. It slammed shut behind him like the seal on an airless tomb.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said.

  He heard the TV being turned off, variety show laughter being silenced.

  He entered the front room. It was sparsely furnished, the decorating money ended when the strike started. Mick kissed Angela, who was uncomfortably contorted into an armchair, then sat on the sofa. The house was small, but there seemed acres of space between them.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good.’ Mick sat forward, hands together, elbows on knees. ‘Good. Did you see the news?’

  ‘Yes. You were on.’

  Mick nodded.

  ‘But they said some cruel things. Really hurtful.’

  Mick said nothing.

  ‘They want people to hate you, you know.’

  Mick nodded again. ‘I know.’

  Angela sighed, redistributed her weight from one buttock to the other. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.’

  Mick looked at her. Her face was red, her eyes sore-looking. He said nothing.

  ‘Did you talk to Dougie? Did you tell him about tomorrow?’

  Mick sighed. ‘I tried to. I started to, but …’

  ‘But you didn’t. So he’s expecting you tomorrow morning.’

  Mick gave a small nod.

  Angela let out a long breath. Pure exasperation. ‘Why can’t you do one simple thing? Ay? Mick, he’s using you. He knows that some of the others won’t get involved unless you’re there. He knows that. And you let him get away with it.’

  Mick said nothing. He knew she was right. Mick wasn’t political; he didn’t even vote. When the strike started, Dougie had asked him to get involved, knowing he was more representative of the majority of miners. Sold him it as a question of right and wrong. Mick had agreed despite Angela’s loudly expressed misgivings.

  Another exasperated sigh from Angela.

  ‘I wish you’d left when you’d had the chance. Then we wouldn’t be going through all this.’

  Again he said nothing. He didn’t need to. It was a familiar argument. They had had it so often they knew which words filled which spaces.

  Mick, with Angela’s pushing, had been planning on going to college. Evening classes in business studies, accountancy, computers. That was the way things were going, she said. The pit couldn’t go on for ever, she said. It’ll be gone sooner or later. Get out before it goes. Besides, he wasn’t suited for it. It was too physical. He was better off in an office job, she said. Think of the future. We’re a family now, she said.

  Mick had listened and agreed with her. Angela was right. And he had planned on going to college, saved for it. Reserved a place.

  But then the strike started. And the money he’d saved became money to live on. And the car had to go, to pay the mortgage. And bit by bit, their lives became sparser, smaller.

  Until September. Now. The month Mick should have been starting college.

  Mick sighed again. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll go with Dougie tomorrow. Then that’ll be it. I promise.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Mick, please. I don’t like you doing it.’

  Angela’s eyes were becoming redder, wetter.

  ‘I hate turning on the telly and seeing the miners. Hearing the things you’re being called. Opening a paper and reading hate. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.’

  She took two shuddering breaths.

  ‘And what have you got to show for it?’

  She made a helpless shrugging gesture, held emptiness in her hands.

  Mick said nothing.

  ‘Please, Mick, don’t go. Tell them I’m sick. Tell them you can’t go. Tell them anything. Please, Mick.’

  Mick sighed, face contorted. ‘I’m sorry, Angela, I promised …’

  Angela pulled herself awkwardly from her chair, made it to the door before the tears started.

  Mick put his hand out.

  ‘Angela …’

  She batted it away.

  ‘Leave me alone …’

  He heard her go upstairs, heard the bedroom door slam, then nothing but the faint sound of muffled tears.

  Mick sat silently on the sofa, thinking nothing, looking at nothing. Then he stood up, went into the kitchen, opened the fridge. There stood four cans of Guinness. Bought to keep Angela’s iron levels up, but she hadn’t liked the taste so they had left them there. He took one out, popped the ring pull, drank.

  It tasted cold and bitter.

  Good.

  He carried the can back to the front room, flicked the TV back on, sat back on the sofa.

  A toupeed, dicky-bowed comedian was turning easy targets into vapid jokes. The unemployed. Arthur Scargill. The miners.

  Canned laughter answered his punchlines, distorted and cruel.

  Mick watched.

  And drank.

  While Mick drank alone, Angela cried and Dougie and the rest of the town drank together, the police arrived.

  Erecting barricades, checkpoints, deploying barriers and cones. Implementing a well-drawn, well-practised operation. Working through the night, remaking Coldwell, reordering it in a new image, to a new plan.

  Their plan.

  Leave cancelled, overtime doubled. Reinforcements called in on mutual aid. Stocking up on helmets, body armour, shields and batons. Given roles to play. Strategies to act out. Horses groomed and ready.

  A silent, night-time invasion. Ready for the morning.

  Their briefing:

  ‘They’ll be expecting confrontation. Make sure we’re ready for war.’

  Tea and oranges: Tony was treating half-time seriously.

  ‘Come on, tracksuits on.’ Tony clapped his hands twice. ‘Keep those muscles warm.’

  Larkin, who hadn’t yet taken his tracksuit off, helped himself to a cup of tea.

  The mood was happy, buoyant: the men reliving their first-half heroism, building t
heir contributions up to legendary status, honing and perfecting experiences into future treasurable anecdotes. Larkin smiled too. Although not really a part of the group, the enthusiasm of their achievement was infectious.

  Tony came over to Larkin.

  ‘Good first half,’ Larkin said.

  Tony nodded. ‘Could have been better from a professional point of view, but the lads did a great job. Turning ordinary men into heroes. Even on their own heads. That’s what it’s about.’ Tony smiled. ‘There’s a quote for you.’

  Larkin nodded, looked at the team. The inner fire that they had seemed to be lacking before the game was well and truly lit. They were kindled by something no external ravages could touch.

  ‘Your opposite number didn’t look too pleased.’

  ‘Dave Wilkinson? Tries to pretend it’s no big deal, but he takes it very seriously. Very competitive bloke.’ Tony leaned in closer, his voice low. ‘And I know that him and his lot’ll hate the fact that they’re one–nil down to a bunch of ex-addicts. Hate it.’ He gave a conspirational smile. Pride in his eyes.

  Larkin smiled back.

  ‘Right.’ Tony turned to the team. ‘Listen up, lads. You did a smashing job out there. Pace, commitment, the lot. I was very proud of you all. Now, a couple of things …’

  Tony gave notes. Detailed, descriptive ones assessing each player’s performance in turn, praising their strengths, addressing their shortcomings. He didn’t sugar-coat the pill; he spoke to them like professionals and they responded in kind. He gave them respect. They returned it.

  ‘Right.’

  He told them he had to pop out but would be back before the second half and left the room.

  Larkin looked at the men. They were talking, bonded, happy. They didn’t need him there. He put his plastic cup down. The tea had gone straight through him.

  He wanted to look for the toilet and made his way into the corridor. Dave Wilkinson’s voice was audible through the closed door of his team’s changing room, all along the hall. He was giving less a half-time talk, more of a team character assassination.

  Larkin glanced both ways, looking for a sign. As he looked left, he saw Tony standing at the end of the corridor, talking. The man he was talking to was in his mid-thirties with cropped hair and a well-tailored suit which showed highly defined muscles. He stood with authority.