by Kit Habianic
She was clueless, his wife. If she knew what Smith-Tudor had told him. Profitable, productive pits would live. Pits with falling yields would die. Hundreds of jobs would go. Under-performing collieries would shut. It was every man for himself now. He’d sworn him to secrecy, the coalfield boss. Pits that performed – overmen that performed – only they had a fighting chance.
He made a promise, Smith-Tudor. ‘Keep the coal flowing, keep your nose clean, I’ll take good care of you, Pritchard. Got a desk job with your name on it.’
A desk job. As dreams went, that wasn’t much to ask.
‘Are you sure it’s the lodge that’s the problem,’ Carol said.
It took all his strength to hold back. He took in the drawn face, the beaky nose and jowly cheeks, the permed hair thinning at the roots. Three wrinkles split her forehead like rings on a tree. One for each of her decades. A shotgun wedding, they had, Carol several weeks gone. And he’d done right by her, even so.
‘Sixteen years I been married to you,’ he told her. ‘Put food on your table, kept a roof over your head. Are you even one bit grateful?’
She slunk back to her chair, picked up her knitting. He raised his newspaper, flicked through the pages, the columns of newsprint a blur. After a while, the needles stopped clicking.
‘I’ll visit Margaret in the morning,’ she tried to sound casual. ‘Pay our respects. Find out what she needs.’
‘What?’
‘It’s the least I can do. Remember after your accident? She minded Helen while I visited the hospital. Baked casseroles—’
He hurled his newspaper at the television screen. ‘You are not visiting Margaret Parry. Whose bloody side you on?’
‘Gwyn, you can’t be—’
‘Enough, woman.’
Carol rummaged in the sideboard drawers, turned back, holding a yellow crocheted square, the wool faded and bobbled from years of washing. ‘You remember this?’
He shrugged. ‘That old thing? Used to lay it over the girl’s pram.’
‘And?’
He looked at the yellow wool again. A ragged old thing, it was. They used to call it Helen’s cwtch. When the girl was a toddler, she dragged it everywhere. Loved it half to death, though it snagged and gathered stains from mud and dust and all sorts. A dirty, disgusting thing, Helen’s cwtch. He hadn’t seen the thing in years.
‘Remember the day you took it off her?’
He shook his head.
‘She cried her eyes out,’ Carol nestled the grubby wool against her cheek. ‘Bawled her head off ’til we gave it back to her. Wouldn’t sleep without it. Scared silly of the bwci-bo under the bed without her cwtch.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Point is, Gwyn, Margaret Parry crocheted that cwtch. Made it for Helen’s christening. Been saving it to pass on to our first grandchild. A piece of our history, that cwtch. A piece of Helen’s history. And Margaret’s a part of it.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman.’
‘When you knocked me up, Margaret Parry was the only respectable married woman in this village who’d give me time of day. The rest turned their backs and talked behind their hands.’
She put the cwtch back in the sideboard. Her shoulders were shaking. She turned away, grabbed the blister pack of sleeping pills from the drawer.
‘I’m turning in,’ she said, her voice muffled.
‘Carol—’
But she was gone. He switched to the later news, watched Mrs Thatcher stride down the assembly line, smiling her shark smile at the workers. Smith-Tudor said not to worry about Mrs Thatcher. A straight fight, the area manager told him; on one side, pits with good, profitable coal and a willing workforce; on the other, troublemakers fighting a losing battle to save pits whose time had come.
His lost fingers stung like nettles. When he got stressed, the pain got worse. He hadn’t used the belt, at least. He’d made a promise to himself and to his wife the first time he held his baby daughter. Held her close and swore never to hurt his little girl.
The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. The fire died down to cinders. Warmth ebbed from the room. He turned off the television and creaked up the staircase. Paused outside Helen’s room, heard the muffled sound of sobbing. He put his hand on the doorknob. But how could he make things right with the girl; nothing he could say or do would fix things between them. Not if what he suspected was true. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if his head didn’t hurt, if his hand didn’t ache, he could squeeze the right words from his rotten lungs, get the girl to see sense, get his wife to back him, for once. He sighed and padded down the corridor to his room.
— 6 —
Scrapper took a slug of coffee. Left to cool, it had a bitter aftertaste to it. He reached for the sugar bowl, loaded a dessertspoon, forced the drink down in a gulp. His butty Matthew Price, cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s, was holding court across the kitchen table, dredging over what happened when the roof caved in.
‘—Then Scrapper shoved me out o’ the way an’ saved my life, Missus Jones.’
‘Aw, come off it, Matt, I never—’
‘My son, the big hero,’ Angela swatted him with her teacloth. ‘Take a biscotto, Matthew.’
Scrapper cocked an eyebrow, dared his butty to say no. He never said no. Not to anything. Sure enough, Matt helped himself again. He was happy to park his backside any place there was food and drink and an audience, Matt. He was well dug in, chair tilted on its back legs, three cups of tea and a dozen biscotti down his gullet, all set to make an evening of it.
‘If you insist, Missus J,’ Matt grabbed a couple more biscuits. ‘Spoil me rotten, you do.’
‘Steady on, Mam. He needs to watch his waistline, this one. Medic said he’s getting a beer gut.’
Matt sucked in his stomach. ‘I am not,’ he said. ‘Prime specimen of Welsh manhood, me, aren’t I, Missus J? At the peak of my prowess.’
Iwan lowered his newspaper. ‘They say a fella peaks at eighteen. Which puts our lad a year past his prime and you a decade past your sell-by date.’
‘Nonsense,’ Angela said. ‘Is still a catch, our Matthew. Needs the right girl to snap him up.’
Matt twisted the gold stud in his ear. ‘I’m only a year back on the market; Missus J. Got some wild oats to sow before I settle.’
Scrapper sighed. If his butty started bragging about his love life, they were in for a long night. ‘Anything from Albright?’ he said.
Friday afternoon, there was still no news from management, production halted, the boys from all three shifts backing the lodge. It hung in the balance whether he and his dad would lose or keep their jobs. Some of the boys had a sweepstake going, money changing hands over who would crack first; the lodge, or Mr Albright.
A whole week sitting idle. Who wouldn’t be worried? If the pit boss sacked him, every day would be like this, for him and for his dad. The thought of doing nothing, being nothing – it scared him witless. Scared him more, even, than the thought of getting back in the cage, swooping down through the darkness to the seam where Gabe Parry breathed his last.
The bell sounded downstairs in the bracchi. His mam pulled on her pinafore. Iwan gathered the ice cream scoops from the draining board and followed her downstairs. Scrapper stayed in the kitchen, wondered how to get shot of his butty in time to get up to the barn to meet Red. He carried the cups and dishes to the sink, ran the tap over them.
‘You’ll make some fella a lovely wife,’ Matt said.
‘Beats doing nothing, butty.’
‘If I was seeing that little redhead, I’d find ways to pass the time.’
Scrapper steeled himself not to react; there’d be no end of ribbing if he rose to his butty’s taunts. Matt reckoned himself quite the ladies’ man; conquests from Monmouth to Milford Haven, so he claimed. Came strutting in on Monday mornings, full of tall tales, as smug as a panther on catnip.
‘I’m only messing,’ Matt said. ‘Anyhow, got to see a man about a horse.’
Scra
pper was glad and sorry to see his butty go. He needed to get ready, and fast. But silence brought back the warning creak of the rocks, the eerie silence that filled the chamber before the roof caved in, the memory of rubble biting his skin as he scrabbled to free himself and Matt. He couldn’t sleep without the radio, found no escape in his books. Instead, he shut himself in his room, stereo a screech of guitars, his dad yelling at him to turn down that bloody racket. His dad, head full of lodge business, spent the week buried neck-deep in newspapers, scouring the business pages for portents.
Scrapper had no truck with portents. He wanted to see Red.
***
Time passed like the Sahara seeping through an hourglass. Joy Division, The Clash, Elvis Costello. Nothing took him out of himself. As he climbed into the bathtub, he heard footsteps thudding up the stairs.
‘Iwan, you there?’ Dewi Power called. ‘Got good news.’
‘Oh aye,’ Iwan answered. ‘Won the pools, have we?’
‘Had a chat wi’ Albright.’
‘You what?’
‘He stopped by ours,’ Dewi said. ‘Wanted to talk away from the pit—’
‘You had that little English weasel round your house?’
Scrapper picked up his watch. Red was bunking off hockey to see him. He wrapped a towel around his waist, went to see what was afoot.
The lodge secretary wore a grin as wide as the Severn. ‘Albright’s reinstating the pair o’ you from Monday.’
‘What’s the catch?’
If an argument kicked off now, there was no way he’d get away in time. ‘Steady on, Dad. Dewi said we’re reinstated.’
Iwan snorted. ‘Cut a deal with Albright, did you, Dewi? Offered to drop Margaret Parry’s compensation claim? Agreed a no-strike deal?’
‘Look at it through Albright’s eyes,’ Dewi said. ‘He needs local trouble like an extra hole between his eyes.’
‘I hope you’re putting it to the men,’ Iwan said.
‘That’s why I’ve come,’ Dewi said. ‘We’re getting together down the Stute.’
Iwan grabbed his jacket. ‘Right. Get dressed and get yourself down there, son.’
Scrapper waited for the back door to close, then darted into his parents’ room for a spritz of his dad’s Eau Sauvage. It was a Christmas gift from his mam, the cologne; kept on her dressing table for best. He dressed, grabbed his jacket and skidded to a halt on the landing. Angela was climbing the stairs, sniffing the air.
‘You heard the news, Mam? We been reinstated.’
‘Is about time. A brave man, Mr Albright.’
‘Brave how?’
‘Is a brave man to talk to Dewi Power in his home. She’s a tough lady, Mary Power. Tough and clever. Just like her nonna, Iron Lizzie.’
A local legend, Iron Lizzie. Famous from the lock-out of 1926, for going up to the drifts and digging coal to heat the miners’ houses with her bare hands. Shifted twice the load of any man.
‘Look, Mam; I got to—’
‘Is always the same, son. Men talk. Women do.’
He stooped to kiss her forehead, dashed down the stairs.
‘Give my love to Helen,’ Angela grinned down at him through the banisters. ‘Is very nice you smell.’
***
He raced up the track. Mist uncurled across the hills. Raindrops spattered as he ran past the allotments, dodged pot-holes, cleared the stile in a leap. He cursed as he landed ankle-deep in a squelch of mud. Drizzle turned to heavy rain. When he reached the barn, he was soaked and panting. He checked he was alone, then squeezed through the gap in the corrugated iron walls.
‘Red?’ he pulled out his pocket torch, rested the beam on hay and rusting farm machinery, clambered over sacks of feed and fertiliser. Pushed aside the wooden pallet at the back of the barn that hid their den.
The beam of light glinted on something caught on a splinter. It was a long, copper-coloured hair. A sign. Red had been and gone. He swallowed a curse, sank down on the tarpaulin laid over the straw, drew the hair across his lips. The shadows danced around him, mocking. He breathed in dried grass and cobwebs and engine oil, remembering the red curls that fell onto his face as he pulled her down on top of him.
The wind whistled through the metal sheets. He picked himself up, slid the pallet back into place.
***
Groups of miners were drifting out of the Stute towards The Red Lion. He trailed the boys from the afternoon shift, followed them from the lounge to the bar. Iwan, Dewi and the morning boys were gathered round their usual table.
Iwan waved him over. ‘Where were you, son?’
‘Sitting with that lot.’
‘Reinstated,’ Iwan grumped. ‘There’ll be a catch; you’ll see.’
Scrapper’s head itched. He raised a hand, pulled a cobweb from his fringe. His donkey jacket was flecked with dust and hay.
‘I’ll give Matt a hand with the drinks,’ he said.
He nipped into the Gents, dusted himself down. At the bar, Matt was calling in a round. Next to him Dai Dumbells, bulk propped on a stool, hunched silently over a pint of Brains. Scrapper nodded to his butty to get one in.
‘Don’t bother talking to this one,’ Matt said. ‘He’s sulking about going back.’
‘I’m not bloody sulking,’ Dai snapped.
‘Congratulations, butty,’ Matt handed Scrapper his pint. ‘Get old misery guts to raise a smile, bring him over to join us.’
He raised his tray of drinks, carried it across the room to join his mates. Dai downed his pint, motioned to Steve Red Lion to pour another.
Scrapper climbed the stool next to him. ‘Caning it tonight, butty?’
Dai looked past him. Scrapper followed his gaze. The morning boys were huddled around Dewi Power, talking quietly. But at the next table, Matt Price held court over a group of lads from the haulage company, a tall tale in full flow. A pause, a pay-off, peals of blue laughter, Matt tilting his chair back, knitting his fingers behind his bleach-blond head.
‘Don’t give a damn, do they,’ Dai said.
‘What d’you mean.’
‘We lay Gabe to rest tomorrow. But no one bloody cares.’
‘That’s not f—’
‘Not fair? Not fair is a man crushed to death. A disgrace, going back wi’ my butty barely cold.’ Dai made short work of his pint, slammed down the glass. ‘Two o’ the same, Steve. And whatever this one’s drinking.’
‘But Dai—’
Dai stood, raised his glass. ‘Fellas, here’s to Gabe.’
Gabe’s name echoed around the pub. The men raised their glasses, turned back to their groups, voices tuned down to a hum.
‘Just cos a fella don’t talk about stuff, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care,’ Scrapper said.
Dai clenched his hand around his glass, downed the third pint in one.
‘Seriously, butt,’ Scrapper said. ‘A tough call, going back on Monday, to find your butty’s not there. How about you ease up?’
Dai grunted. He grabbed his jacket, headed off without saying his goodbyes. Scrapper slumped at the bar, in no mood to join the others. He finished his pint, set to work on the second. He heard another burst of laughter from the hauliers’ table. Matt was waving him over. Scrapper shook his head, ordered a whisky chaser.
‘You staying or going?’ Iwan walked by, coat hooked over his arm.
‘I’ll be along in a tick.’
The bar emptied. Few men were up for getting wazzed tonight. Scrapper took his pint and his whisky to the table near the juke box, fed fifty pee into the machine, sat back as Rod Stewart belted out Baby Jane in a voice that gargled razor blades, wondered how many chasers it would take to still the thoughts churning round in his skull.
He jumped as Matt piled on top of him, planted a wet, beery kiss on his cheek. ‘Fuck me, butty. I’m pissed as a newt.’
‘Geroffff,’ Scrapper protested.
Matt pulled away. ‘It’s St David’s Day soon,’ he said. ‘I’m off to find myself a nice young lady. Gonna
drag her up the allotments, show her my leek.’
‘Half the women seen it, butt. Seen it, and run off screaming.’
Steve Red Lion paused at their table, beer glasses stacked the length of both arms. ‘Screaming wi’ laughter,’ he said.
‘At least I’ll have a bloody date,’ Matt grinned. ‘This lad’s piece is kept in after Young Doctors.’
He pulled on his denim jacket and City scarf. Raised his fist in a power salute and slipped out into the night.
SPRING 1984
— 1 —
‘Just do your job, eh, Pritchard. Make sure your boys do the same. That’s all I’m asking.’
Gwyn clutched the telephone receiver, breath ragged, ribs closing round his lungs like a vice. Smith-Tudor had lost none of his huff and bluster, even now that the news was out. It was bad, of course – the whole country was braced for bad – but the Coal Board’s announcement went way beyond even the lodge’s darkest warnings. Small wonder the area manager had called him at home, at the weekend. A bloodbath was what it boiled down to.
‘Five pits confirmed for accelerated closure,’ Smith-Tudor said. ‘A dozen under review. But don’t you worry, eh, Pritchard. Nothing to do with Blackthorn, any of this. So just you keep that bunch of hotheads in line for me, eh.’
The area manager made it sound easy. But the darkness hung heavy as Gwyn trudged towards the pit, pondering Smith-Tudor’s parting shot: ‘There’s no love for Scargill in my coalfield. Not since that business with Lewis Merthyr, eh. We play it cool, our men have no reason to trouble themselves.’
Two hours before sunrise, a sad murk of a morning. Mist slapped his face like a cold, wet towel. By the time he reached the High Street, his chest was tight, breath coming and going with the scrape of a rusty hinge. Smith-Tudor thought the pit closures would be a walkover. Madness, with the Communists well dug in at Blackthorn. Dug in as deep as maggots in a wound. He forced down a lungful of clammy air. On the road below, dark figures dipped in and out of the fog like spectres. He jumped, heart lunging for his rib-cage, as something – someone – loomed out at him as he passed Schiappa’s Ice Cream Parlour.