‘Be serious!’
‘About what? And why have you got that rag? I hope you wore a disguise to buy it.’
‘It’s Adi’s.’
‘Adi’s?’ he said, praying there was another Adi besides Adrienne Pritchard, radical solicitor and Women’s Rights Group activist.
‘She came round to talk to you, Peter. She reckons that people could get hurt by these articles and she wanted a reasonable police view.’
No, she didn’t. She wanted his destruction, for that would inevitably follow if Dalziel ever found out he’d been discussing police business with Ms Bitchard, as he called her. Suddenly simultaneous gouging and strangulation seemed well within the span of those vengeful hands.
He said, ‘Ellie, you’ll have to tell her, I disapprove of what Watmough’s doing, but I’m not about to become Ms Pritchard’s mole in the CID.’
‘You tell her,’ said Ellie.
‘What?’ He looked towards the lounge door with a condemned man’s eight o’clock eyes.
‘I asked her to stay for lunch. Wasn’t it lucky you managed to get away on time for once?’
In the event lunch turned out to be quite enjoyable, particularly when he found himself opening a second bottle of Rioja. Adi Pritchard was no great beauty but she was a good conversationalist, and though he kept a careful eye on her he never got any sense of being pumped for indiscreet confidences. Even when the doorbell rang half way through and Ellie said, ‘That’ll be Thelma,’ his suspicions were unroused. Thelma was Thelma Lacewing, dental hygienist, great beauty, and founder and driving force of the Women’s Rights Action Group.
He greeted her with open arms, literally. Good conversation was OK but those limpid brown eyes spoke more fluently to the sensual ear.
He opened another bottle of wine, spoke wisely and well of the kind of man Neville Watmough was, told interesting and amusing anecdotes of his life in the CID, and was rather taken aback when Thelma started yawning uninhibitedly to show the strangely sexy depths of a delicate pink mouth crescented with the kind of pearly teeth a dental hygienist ought to have. She compensated by squeezing his hand apologetically as she said to Ellie, ‘Must go. Have you got your great descent fixed yet?’
‘Next week,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m going down Burrthorpe Main.’
‘Burrthorpe? I know it. Good active women’s group determined not to be sat upon after the Strike ended.’
‘Always the problem with miners,’ chimed in Adi. ‘I defended a few of them and it was surprising how they followed a pattern. Shock troops of radicalism till it comes to their women, then they’re stuck in the Dark Ages.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Pascoe brightly, ‘if they sent all the women down the pit and made the men stay at home, they’d all soon arrive at a better understanding of sexual equality.’
This clanged like the last-orders bell and shortly afterwards the visitors left.
‘Well, that seemed to go OK,’ said Pascoe, flopping into an armchair.
‘You thought so?’
She sounded irritated but Pascoe, who was feeling vinously randy, pressed on in the naïve belief that the way to melt a woman’s heart was to be nice about her friends.
‘I was surprised how reasonably Adi was approaching this business. She seemed genuinely concerned about the reputation of the Force as well as the feelings of the public. I was quite touched.’
‘Yes, I noticed you were quite touched. And every time Thelma made a point, I noticed she was quite touched in return.’
‘For heaven’s sake! She’s a mere child.’
‘She’s thirty if she’s a day.’
‘Yes, of course I realize that. But you’ve got to admit there is a childlike quality about her. Those eyes, that complexion, so fresh, so smooth. And not a trace of make-up …’
Something in Ellie’s eyes warned Pascoe he was missing his way. He tried to get on the right path again by squeezing her hand and saying, ‘What I mean, I suppose, is my attitude to Thelma is sort of avuncular.’
‘Well, don’t imagine you’re going to work out your fantasies on me, Uncle,’ said Ellie, coldly pulling away.
Irritated himself now, Pascoe retorted, ‘At least I keep my fantasies above ground.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘What it says. You never told me you’d definitely fixed up this mine trip. And Burrthorpe. Why Burrthorpe? That’s a long way to go to get your face dirty.’
‘Because that’s where the next visit is happening,’ Ellie replied coldly.
‘Is that so? Oh, I thought they’d have stopped work throughout the entire Yorkshire region and laid on a special gala to celebrate this great conversion.’
‘Conversion?’
‘Yes, isn’t that what they do? Take the heathen bourgeoisie and bring them up blacker than black after total immersion in dust? Just think. One quick dip and you’ll have expiated all your sins of birth and background and education and marriage – you’ll have joined the working class at last! Welcome aboard.’
Ellie, who was rather sensitive that her origins were considerably less humble than Peter’s, went to the door where she paused.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘You can’t welcome me aboard. Not when you went over the side and swam away long ago, like all the other rats.’
She went out. Pascoe groaned and reached for a Rioja bottle. When he tipped it up, nothing came out. He peered inside with one eye and groaned again.
It was deep and dark and empty as despair.
Chapter 11
It was true what the Spaniards said about trouble. Once she fancied you, there was no shaking her off, so you might as well go looking for her as risk being surprised when she turned up at your wedding.
Colin Farr recalled this bit of wisdom, picked up in a Bilbao bar, during his shift on Tuesday afternoon. Monday had been great, the class had been really interesting with Ellie talking about the way the media distorted truth and often corrupted opinion rather than informing it. Afterwards she had been full of her visit to Burrthorpe Main on Wednesday. ‘Pity I’ll be on shift myself,’ he said, ‘else you could have come and had tea with my mam.’ He could see she didn’t know if he were joking and to tell the truth he didn’t know himself.
That night as he went into the Welfare, he glimpsed Boyle, the stout Challenger reporter, standing at the bar with a couple of men Farr had no cause to like. He’d amazed himself by turning on his heel, getting back on his bike and heading off to do his fairly moderate drinking in a pub at the far side of the village.
He’d rounded this trouble-free day off by getting home early, drinking a cup of cocoa with his mother and laughing with her at some early pictures in the family album.
Tuesday morning he’d tinkered with his bike which was running a bit rough, then, leaving it half stripped down, he’d strolled to work, vaguely surprised at how little of the usual pre-shift tension racked his nerves.
But half way through the shift trouble found him out again. It wasn’t surprising. A man can duck and weave through his free time, but work makes him a still target.
At first the trouble seemed merely operational.
They were advancing one of the gates or tunnels leading up to the coal-face. The roof here was notoriously weak and when they blasted the rip, instead of the looked-for twelve or fifteen feet, nearly thirty feet came down, leaving a great hole far beyond the reach of the metal support arches.
Colin Farr and Neil Wardle peered cautiously up.
‘It’s a bastard,’ said Wardle.
‘Aye,’ said Farr.
They knew that someone was going to have to clamber up there among those pendulous boulders and jags of rock to construct a protective lattice of wooden beams above the advancing rings. Up there a ripper was alone, trying to support with his mind God knows how many tons of exposed ground, listening to its cracks and groans, feeling trickles of earth and spatters of stone, ready to leap desperately aside when a louder crack or some sixth sense warned him that a huge boulder
was coming down to bounce like a rubber ball around the gate. It was a job no one could do and not be afraid.
Colin Farr felt the fear like everyone else. But fear of late had become a sort of barrier through which he could pass to a state in which no threat, not even of death, could touch him.
‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘But tell ’em to switch that chain off.’
A little later the conveyor carrying the hewn coal along the face whined to a halt. It was a wise precaution. Being dislodged by, or jumping down to avoid, a falling boulder was dangerous enough without having the moving chain waiting to mangle you below.
Carefully Farr climbed up on to the ring and began his work. He’d only been at it a few minutes when there was an interruption.
‘What the hell’s going on here? Why’s that bloody chain stopped?’ demanded an angry voice.
It was Gavin Mycroft.
‘Colin’s up there, timbering the hole,’ said Wardle as the deputy arrived.
‘I don’t give a toss what he’s doing. We can’t have the job held up like this. Get that fucking chain moving right away!’
‘Now, hold on,’ said Wardle reasonably. ‘You can’t expect a man to …’
‘I expect men to do what they’re paid to do,’ interrupted Mycroft. ‘Every minute that lock’s on is costing money. Aye, and it’s costing all you lads money too, you know that.’
He raised his voice so all could hear. It was a telling argument for some. Bonus payments depended on the amount of coal moved per shift and as long as the chain stood still, there was a decreasing chance of reaching bonus levels.
‘I thought you were supposed to be looking after safety,’ said Wardle.
‘What if I am? There’s nowt unsafe about having the chain moving, is there? Not unless you’re saying that the only safe pit’s a pit where there’s fuck-all happening!’
‘There’s a lot of truth in that,’ retorted Wardle.
Colin Farr swung lightly down from the ring and said, ‘I’ll tell you what, Gav. If it’s so fucking safe up there with the chain on, you get up and do it.’
The two men faced each other, each face brushed into visibility by the light of the other’s lamp, Farr’s dark with a patina of dust through which his eyes gleamed huge as a starving child’s in their pale hollows, while Mycroft’s much cleaner features worked in an uncontrollable fury whose roots went deep beyond the present situation.
‘I gave an order,’ said Mycroft. ‘Get that lock off. Now!’
Neither man moved till the conveyor clattered back to life. Mycroft turned, eager to get away before anything could be said to spoil his triumph, but Farr’s voice came after him.
‘Hey, Gav,’ he said gently. ‘I’m not going back up there with the chain on.’
If Mycroft had kept on walking he might have got away with not much lost. At worst it would have given the men time to sort something out among themselves. But the deputy had paused at the sound of the voice and now there was no way for him to start walking again.
Slowly he turned.
‘You’re not?’ he said. ‘Right, then, Farr, if you can’t do your work, you’d better fuck off out of the pit, then.’
Now there was no noise except for the moving chain.
Tommy Dickinson looked angrily at Wardle, who shook his head and sighed. They could do without this.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Gav, let’s not be hasty about this …’
‘What’s hasty?’ demanded the deputy. ‘He won’t work and I’ve told him his shift’s finished. It’ll all go down nice and official if that’s what’s bothering you, Mr Branch Secretary.’
‘Gav,’ said Wardle, ‘let’s not risk a dispute, not over something that’s half personal …’
He realized it was a stupid thing to say as soon as he said it.
‘Personal? What do you mean, personal?’ demanded Mycroft on a rising note.
‘Aye, what do you mean, personal, Neil?’ asked Colin Farr mildly. ‘There’s nowt personal between me and Gav, is there, Gav? He’s just doing his job. So let’s get it straight. You’re telling me to go?’
‘Aye. Go or not, your shift’s stopped as from now.’
‘In that case, Gav, pointless to stay, isn’t it?’
In his hands Colin Farr held a ringer, the long crowbar used by rippers to pluck down loose rock. Now he raised it. Mycroft took an involuntary step back. Farr laughed and let the bar fall with an echoing clang to the ground between them.
‘Remember, Gav, it were you that told me to go.’
He still spoke gently but to Neil Wardle the fury and the threat behind the words were unmistakable.
‘Neil, what about the Union?’ demanded Dickinson excitedly. ‘We should all bloody go!’
‘Fuck the Union,’ Farr called back over his shoulder. ‘Just be nice to Gav there, and he’ll give you permission to go, no bother! See you, lads.’
Ducking low, he glided away down the gate.
‘Gav,’ said Wardle, ‘you must be barmy. Right, lads. Let’s get some work done, shall we?’
When Farr reached pit bottom, he saw the Cage was almost ready to ascend. There was only one man in it. He didn’t realize it was Harold Satterthwaite till he entered the Cage, but it wouldn’t have made any difference.
‘What’s up with you?’ demanded Satterthwaite as the ascent began. ‘All that booze too much for you?’
‘I’ve been sent off the job,’ said Farr.
‘Why?’
‘For not being stupid as the bugger who sent me.’
‘Who stopped your shift?’
‘Mycroft.’
‘Are you saying Gav Mycroft’s stupid?’
Farr smiled at him slyly.
‘He’s down there for another two hours and I’ll soon be fancy free in Burrthorpe,’ he said. ‘Who does that make stupid in your eyes, Mr Satterthwaite, sir?’
‘You really think you can get away with anything, don’t you, Farr?’ said Satterthwaite, provoked to anger. ‘You think you know it all. Well, I can tell you, you know nowt!’
‘Why don’t you tell me then, Mr Satterthwaite, sir?’ said Farr.
‘No. I’ll let you find out through experience. It’ll be more fun that way.’
They were at the bank. Satterthwaite didn’t speak again but made towards the offices while Farr showered, dressed, and set off down the hill to the village.
The day was bright and sunny and Gratterley Wood hung over the road like a golden halo but Farr was not tempted to make a diversion. Straight down the road he went with the steady pace and unrelenting expression of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Entering the village, he passed through the grid of dark terraces which held his own home, keeping to the level High Street till the road began to rise again and dirty grey stone and pock-marked damson brick gave way to pastel-coloured walls with pebble-dash fascias beneath rib-tiled roofs, all bedecked with telephone wires and crowned with television aerials. Up the paved path through the neatly lawned front garden of one of these houses he strode, his finger outstretched to press the bell and lean on it till either the electricity failed or the wall fell in. But before he made contact, the door opened and he passed inside without a pause. Behind him the door slammed shut and a voice, equally violent, demanded, ‘Col, for God’s sake! What the hell are you doing here?’
He turned and looked at her. Stella Mycroft, who had been Stella Gibson, known to him since childhood, and known to him in the biblical sense for the first time one velvet summer night in Gratterley Wood seven years ago.
‘You look as if you were expecting me,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, her face tense with indignation.
‘Flinging the door open, dragging me in,’ he grinned. ‘Real welcoming!’
‘I didn’t drag you in,’ she retorted. ‘I was lucky enough to spot you out of the window, I just hoped I could get you in before every nosey bugger in the street saw you. Some hope.’
‘You could have pretended you
were out.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t have rung the bell till it fell off the post, then kicked the door in? I know you, Colin Farr, and I saw the look on your face.’
‘Oh aye. Then you’ll know what I’ve come for.’
He went into the lounge. It was a bright and sunny room with lemon emulsioned walls and floral curtains to match the loose covers on the suite. An open fireplace had a fire laid in it, ready for lighting when the warmth of this autumn day gave way to the chill of night.
‘You amaze me, you know that?’ she said, following him. ‘They only say things like that at the pictures. This is South Yorkshire, not South bloody California!’
He moved swiftly towards her and pulled her to him in a violent embrace that stopped her words before his mouth completed the job.
‘You’re bloody crazy,’ she gasped when he finally drew his lips away. She tried to pull back, but he held her to him without any effort and kissed her again, running hands up and down her body from neck to buttocks.
With their lips parted again, her head moved this way and that as she darted glances round the room. Colin Farr smiled. She wasn’t seeking an escape route. She was checking possible viewpoints.
He released her and began to strip off his clothes.
‘What if someone comes?’ she said.
‘It’ll likely be me,’ he replied sardonically.
‘No, you silly bugger, you know what I mean.’
‘Pull the curtains, don’t answer the door.’
‘That’d be like advertising on telly round here,’ she objected. But she was already beginning to unbutton her blouse.
Naked, they stood and looked at each other.
‘Shall I light the fire?’ she said slyly. ‘It’s a bit chilly like this.’
‘We’ll not need a fire,’ he said, stepping towards her.
Their coupling was violent and swift, more like a battle than an act of love. Spent, he collapsed across her, a dead weight, his face buried in her hair.
‘You needed that,’ she observed. ‘You’d think you’d just got off that boat of yours.’
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