by Kit Habianic
‘We get my lads back now,’ Gwyn finished, ‘there’s every chance we can save the pit.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘My lads stay out, the pit becomes less and less productive and we’ll struggle to get new funds from the Coal Board. Blackthorn’s costs increase, we’re finished.’
‘But don’t you think, Mr Pritchard—’
‘Gwyn,’ he interrupted.
‘—don’t you think, Gwyn, that if the men win the strike, they can force the Coal Board to reconsider?’
‘The longer they stay out, the more positions harden. On both sides.’
‘And if the men go back quickly, there’s hope?’
‘My lads go back quickly, there’s every hope in the world.’
Gwyn fell silent, sipped his tea, pondered the matter. If anyone understood what hard work brought, it was the school teacher. The girl could learn a lot from this family.
Mr Probert seemed to pick up on his train of thought.
‘Helen does you proud,’ he said. ‘She’s one of my brightest students.’
Gwyn felt colour rise beneath his skin. ‘Aye, well. She’s not a bad kid. Reckon she’ll get good O-levels?’
‘No question. If we can just resolve the problem with her attendance. But then, we all understand. The children can be vicious. Nobody blames Helen for skipping the odd class these last few weeks. No problem for her to keep up. But it’s sad that she quit the hockey team. Best little sweeper we had, Mrs James said.’
Gwyn’s heart slammed his ribcage. The girl had told them she was playing that afternoon. Playing away again, she said, due back on the evening bus.
He’d give her playing away, all right.
‘Aye, well,’ he reached for his overcoat. ‘It’s a rough game for young ladies. Always bruised easy, my Helen.’
Mr Probert smiled. ‘In twenty years of teaching, I’ve found the girls a lot more combative than the boys,’ he said. ‘On and off the hockey field.’
Combative. Gwyn felt grudging respect for the girl when she stood her ground. But it was a whole other sorry business to tell lies and sneak around. And that boy was behind her deceit, no doubt.
‘You’ll think on what I told you, Mr Probert?’ he offered the schoolteacher his good hand.
‘It’s a lot to think about. The ramifications—’
Even so, the schoolteacher’s goodbye handshake had a hearty grip to it.
Gwyn set off to meet the evening bus. It was quiet, for a Saturday. The strike had been tough on the local shopkeepers. Takings down at the pub, the bracchi, the unisex fashion boutique, hairdressers, butchers, bookies and co-op. Belt-tightening all round.
The lights blazed in the ice cream parlour, but no customers were in. Angela Jones was busy mopping the floor. The bus stop was empty too. In his time, he’d queued for many a Saturday evening bus, gone off drinking and dancing and chasing skirt to the social club in Bryn Tawel or to the bright lights of Swansea or Cardiff. Many a night shared a taxi back to Ystrad or suffered a bleary ride home on the Sunday morning bus with all the others who got wasted or got robbed or got lucky. But there were no young folk off out on the town tonight.
Darkness gathered, damp seeping into his bones. He took cover in the pebble-dashed shelter. A wall of posters mocked him. Maggie Out. Victory To The Miners. Coal Not Dole. Illegal fly-posting, the length and width of the wall. Naked propaganda. He raised himself on tip-toes, grabbed a corner and pulled. The glue was still damp and the flyers overlapped. The wall of posters came away in his hand. He crumpled the papers between his hands and stamped on them. But then he saw what was hidden beneath. The girl’s name in spray paint. Next to it, a scrawled stick figure with mad red swirls of hair. The stick figure was performing a sex act. On a second stick figure wearing a miner’s helmet. His lungs failed him. He doubled over, clutched the wall, fighting for breath.
As he struggled, two figures walked up the road. A dark-haired lad sauntered up the bracchi steps. Scrapper Jones, carrying bucket and paintbrush, a roll of posters tucked under his arm. A knitted green sweater clung to his broad shoulders. The sweater looked familiar. Helen trotted along beside him, her arms filled with rolls of posters. She followed the boy into the bracchi and through the door that led to the flat above the shop.
— 11 —
Scrapper arrived at the picket to find Debbie sat in the moth-eaten armchair next to the brazier, sipping tea from a flask. She wore an outsized donkey jacket over her thin uniform, woollen leggings under it. She caught him looking at her legs, cocked an eyebrow at him. Those dark eyes of hers missed nothing, not when they were together and not now. Her fingers were white with cold. He remembered the touch of those fingers. Dai’s gaze drove into him like a sledgehammer. Scrapper went to join his butties, his whole body twitching unease.
‘What you doing here, love?’ Iwan said.
‘Don’t you start,’ Debbie said sourly. ‘Had enough grief already from this one. I’m on strike an’ all, aren’t I? Got as much right to picket Blackthorn as you fellas.’
‘It’s not about—’ Dai began.
‘You got every right,’ Dewi said. ‘But we’re expecting trouble, Debbie. Word is, Albright’s called in a maintenance crew this morning.’
‘That’s why I’m here. Reinforcements.’
‘It could get hairy,’ Iwan said.
‘So?’ Debbie crossed her arms.
‘So now you know.’ Iwan stirred the brazier, tipped in more coal.
Dewi had dispatched some of the boys to fill a car boot with waste coal from the tip above the village. It was a happier picket with the brazier stoked good and high, still a nip in the air most mornings, even with Easter come and gone. Debbie huddled closer to the brazier as the men lined up to block the gates. She wore a wedding band now, and a second ring with a flashy blue stone. Scrapper found it strange to think of Debbie married, when not long ago they were sweethearts. She turned, caught him looking at her a second time.
‘Seen something you fancy, Scrapper Jones?’
Matt snorted a laugh, dug an elbow into Scrapper’s ribs.
‘What’s to see?’ Scrapper scowled.
He knew better than to rise to Debbie’s taunts. She was messing with him to needle Dai, the poor sod. Best to change the subject. He fetched a packet of digestives from the supplies box, passed the biscuits down the line.
Matt necked three digestives, one after the other. ‘Women got no damn business picketing,’ he spluttered. ‘That one needs reminding who wears the trousers.’
Scrapper bit into his biscuit, avoided answering his butty. If anyone wore the trousers in his house, it was neither him nor his dad. His stomach grumbled. He waved at Sion Jenkins to pass the pack back down the line. He was hungry all the time, lately, his mam having cut the family food budget.
They waited and waited, the biscuits long gone and no sign of the maintenance crew. Albright drove through at his usual time, Captain Hook in the passenger seat, nose in the air, eyes fixed to the winding tower, as the guard opened the gate to let them through. Scrapper was relieved to see them gone. It was the same performance from the overman every morning, whether the pickets gave it hwyl, or not. Today, they were silent. Other days, they yelled and banged the car bonnet. Either way, Albright drove through and Captain Hook didn’t blink.
Mid-morning, Matt raised the alert.
‘Aye, aye,’ he pointed towards the railway bridge.
A small figure was striding out from the tunnel, dressed in a leather jacket, a long black sweater, ripped black leggings and stompy lace-up boots. It was Sue. As she hugged Debbie, Scrapper saw that the lapels of the leather jacket were studded with button badges. Stamp Out Racism. Victory to the NUM. A Woman’s Right to Choose.
Matt’s eyes hardened; a cat sighting prey. ‘Looks like we got crumpet for elevenses. Quick chorus of ‘Get Yer Tits Out’, eh, lads?’
Scrapper nudged his butty to shut up but Debbie had heard him. Outrage fired her from the armchair.
‘How about you show Sue some fucking respect?’
‘Some kind of feminist, is it?’ Matt said.
Debbie marched up to her uncle. ‘D’you reckon Matt got a right to talk like that?’
Dewi blushed. ‘Matthew Price, these ladies are our comrades. High time you treated them as such.’
Matt was outgunned and he knew it. Scrapper filled the tin kettle for a brew, joined Debbie and Sue next to the brazier.
‘Some days, my butty’s got charcoal for brains,’ he said. ‘You pay no mind to him. Underneath that swagger, he’s good as gold.’
Debbie snorted. ‘For a bloke reckons he’s a ladies’ man, he don’t like women at all.’
‘Bloke’s a tosser,’ Sue said. ‘Brew us a cuppa, Scrap, and change the subject.’
He was about to pour their tea when he heard the engine. A van was rattling towards the pit. The men behind him drew together, formed a solid line at the gates. For one terrifying moment, Scrapper thought the van would slice right through them, but the driver slammed his brakes just in time.
He scooped up a handful of NUM leaflets and went over, chest thudding, forced himself to speak more calmly than he felt.
‘Cutting it fine there, fella.’
The driver wound down his window. He was an egg of a man, stomach packed against the steering wheel, his forehead hairless and sweaty.
‘Tell that lot to shift.’
Scrapper turned back to the others. There was a set speech for would-be strike breakers and generally a member of the lodge committee – Dewi, or Iwan, or old Sion Jenkins – delivered it, but the others were nodding at him to go ahead.
‘This is an official NUM picket,’ he began. ‘This leaflet explains why—’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what or why,’ the driver said. ‘Let us past.’
Four men in blue overalls sat in the back of the van, two others up front. Scrapper sensed his butties watching, willing him to do his best. He thrust his leaflets at the men in the back.
‘This explains why we’re out, why we’re staying out and why we’re asking you to respect this pick—’
‘Respect,’ the driver said. ‘I’ll give you respect, you little—’
Then Sue was at his side. ‘A dangerous job, mine maintenance,’ she said.
‘You the brains o’ this rabble,’ the driver said.
‘I know about dangerous,’ Sue said. ‘My granddad lost two legs to this pit.’
The driver opened his mouth to speak but Sue kept going.
‘You’re here because a man died below ground two months back. The bosses want you to patch up the damage, press these lads to go back.’
‘So?’
‘So how’d you feel if you saw a man die? Would you hurry back, risk your life to make it that little bit easier for the bosses to throw working men like you on the scrapheap?’
The men in the back seat shifted uneasily. ‘Girl’s got a point,’ said one.
‘You hired me to fetch you here an’ I done my bit,’ the driver said. ‘Do we go in or turn back?’
‘Put yourselves in these lads’ shoes,’ Sue’s voice was almost a whisper.
‘We’re turning back.’ The man who spoke had thinning red hair and a flat nose. He sat beside the driver and seemed to be in charge.
‘You’re a gentleman, sir,’ Scrapper said.
The van reversed sharply, with a squeal of tyres, shot back towards the tunnel up to Ystrad.
Scrapper turned to Sue. ‘Where d’you learn that?’
‘What?’
He slung an arm over her shoulders, squeezed them. ‘Blackthorn owes you a cuppa, I reckon.’
The lads cheered as he and Sue walked back to the brazier. For the rest of the morning, he had a grin across his face that wouldn’t shift. He knew then that Blackthorn couldn’t lose. He just wished Red had been there to see it.
— 12 —
Helen stopped writing and put down her biro with a sigh. She looked out through the open window. Morning sunshine bleached the cow parsley in the fields that stretched below the school yard. The scent of lilac rose from the tree near the gates hung heavy in the air. It made her want to gag. The heat inside the assembly hall threatened to crush her. Rows of single desks stretched in front of her. Her classmates hunched over their exam papers, most still scribbling away with hope.
Ricky Allison turned, one eye meeting her gaze. ‘Scab,’ he mouthed. ‘We gunna get you after.’
At last, the bell rang for break. The end of the exam. The end of her O-levels. She grabbed her bag and raced down the hill towards home, before Ricky and his pathetic little mates could jump her. She couldn’t care less, now, in any case. Her future, whatever it held, was out of her hands.
The house was empty, no sign of her dad pacing the hall, for once. But the back door was open. She peered out. Her mam had fetched a deckchair from the shed and was sunning herself in the garden, as though she too felt a shadow had lifted. Her eyes snapped open as she heard Helen approach, a hand raised against the midday glare.
‘Your dad’s away at a meeting,’ she said. ‘Smith-Tudor wanted him. So if you fancied heading out for a while—’
Not like her mam to encourage defiance.
‘You mean it?’
Her mam fished in the pocket of her button-through skirt, handed over a twenty. ‘You deserve a break, love,’ she said. ‘How about you take yourself shopping. Have some fun.’
Helen planted a kiss on her mam’s sticky forehead, ran up the stairs to change.
***
Iwan Jones sat in the window of the ice cream parlour, reading a tall pink newspaper. He lowered it as Helen burst in. No customers buying ice cream at the bracchi, despite the clammy heat. No sign of Angela. As Iwan folded his newspaper, Helen spotted a bandage around his wrist.
‘Orright, bach,’ he said.
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘Depends who you ask. Caught it on a copper, maybe. Must’ve done. Copper swore blind he never touched me.’
‘Port Talbot again?’
Iwan nodded. ‘Go straight up,’ he said. ‘The lad’s in his room.’
That was some kind of progress. Iwan was usually stiff and formal with her. She found Scrapper alone, curtains drawn against the sun, stacks of dusty LPs piled on the floor, a tower of paperbacks teetering on the bedside table. He’d cranked up his crackly turntable, Joy Division blaring from the speakers and didn’t hear her come in. He jerked, startled, when she kissed him.
‘What you doing, Scrap?’
He waved at the tallest stack of vinyl. ‘Selling these. Know a fella down in Barry Island might gimme a fair price.’
‘But that’s half your records.’
‘I need the money, Red. I’ll still have my books.’
‘You won’t change your mind?’
He shook his head.
‘Let’s go, then. Now. Together.’
‘How? I’m broke. Got to wait ’til Friday, when the lodge gives us some cash.’
She handed him the banknote. ‘We got this.’
‘No we don’t. Scab money, that is.’
The horror on his face. And to hell with it. She wasn’t having the strike get between them yet again. Not after being holed up for weeks. If money wasn’t happiness, the strike had taught her that money meant freedom, at least.
‘It’s not scab money,’ she lied. ‘I earned it babysitting at Christmas. Forgot all about it. Found it in my winter jacket just now when I went through the pockets.’
‘I’m not taking your money.’
‘For God’s sake, Scrap,’ she threw her arms around him. ‘I’ll hang on to the money. Now get your bloody boots on.’
— 13 —
They faced a whole heap of trouble, the Coal Board and the government. There was every risk they’d snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. That was the message Smith-Tudor delivered as he addressed his chosen few. He summoned them, a man from each of the twenty-eight South Wale
s pits, to a grubby Victorian hotel fallen on lean times. Each man was a key player, handpicked to attend, Smith-Tudor told Gwyn when he called to summon him. Gwyn reckoned the area manager could have spared him the flannel; he had been happy to go. The Coal Board had been as transparent as a barrel of pitch. Nothing helpful from London since the start of the strike. No point waiting for London to take the lead. It fell to coalfield men to resolve matters.
Laughter from the bar next door forced Smith-Tudor to raise his voice.
‘Men from this coalfield have picketed every steelworks in the country,’ he said. ‘They’re disrupting supplies of coal and coke, causing violence and criminal damage. We are hovering on the edge of anarchy. These people will stop at nothing to get their way, eh, gentlemen? They will destroy the coal industry and sabotage Britain’s manufacturing base. And why, eh? To prove a point, is why. Their leaders are dangerous agitators whose agenda has nothing to do with coal. We must block Scargill and his followers at every turn. By whatever means.’
In the front row, a mustard-keen youngster raised a hand. ‘I say we stand firm, let that rabble blink first.’
Smith-Tudor fixed the man with a cold eye. ‘You need to grasp the scale of the problem, sonny. The strike is solid, across the coalfield and everywhere else bar Notts, and there’s a real danger the trouble will spread. Suppose the steelworkers down tools and join the miners, eh? What about the transport unions? The port and rail unions won’t handle imported coal and have their own pay claim pending. Bolshies love nothing more than a bandwagon.’
The room fell silent. Gwyn heard the man beside him breathing, the rumble of someone’s stomach at the back. Smith-Tudor’s little speech took some digesting, true enough. They might win yet, the hotheads. Despite the stockpiles of coal. Despite the Coal Board’s contingency plans. Despite a government hell-bent on breaking the NUM. Blackthorn had been the whole of his landscape, the dispute a struggle against Dewi’s lodge. Now, the walls fell away. This dispute was bigger than all of them; the men of Blackthorn Colliery as significant as ants.
The area manager stood before them, fleshy cheeks wobbling, pale eyes glassy. He seemed to gaze right through the assembled men. Seagulls screamed on the promenade outside. After a long, statesmanlike pause, Smith-Tudor served up the rest of his speech, outlined his expectations. All manner of guff about standing up to the union. About the urgent need to defend individual miners’ right to work, drafting in police and troops to support them. He gave one hell of a performance. Winston bloody Churchill, fighting the miners on the beaches, selling retreat from Dunkirk as deliverance.