by Kit Habianic
When the area manager finished, the room exhaled. Faint applause melted into restless silence. Tea served, Smith-Tudor worked the room, dished out smiles and nods to his disciples, come the length and breadth of the coalfield to hear his wisdom. Gwyn watched him navigate the room, a galleon in full sail. Approached each man in turn, addressed him by name. A smile, a handshake, a lofty pat on the shoulder and off he sailed to his next target. And here he was.
Gwyn felt the room closing in on him.
‘Richards,’ Smith-Tudor boomed. ‘You are just the man for this, eh. And trust me, you will be rewarded.’
His hand paused on Gwyn’s shoulder. He was dismissed. The good ship Smith-Tudor had sailed. Richards? Gwyn slammed his cup and saucer on the nearest table and made a break for it, from conference room to cracked marble lobby, as fast as his coal-raddled lungs allowed. Put all the distance he could between himself and his boss. He wouldn’t even notice, Smith-Tudor. Too busy dishing up his fake bonhomie. Gwyn shoved the tarnished copper door bar too hard. The revolving door creaked protest, hurled him out into the street.
He crossed the road to the promenade. The sea air lifted him a little. He filled his lungs, felt the strain of the day ebb a little. Why not profit from this miserable expedition; Albright didn’t expect him back today. He needed to put several blocks between himself and Smith-Tudor, even so. He followed the promenade to the town centre, felt the magnet pull of the arcades; the jangle and buzz of fruit machines. Paused at last near the fairground and gathered a wheeze of breath. That felt better already. He bought chips wrapped in newsprint and wandered down to the water’s edge. The waves crept towards him. Salt in the air. Salt on his lips. He found a quiet bench, necked his chips and watched the comings and goings of pretty girls. There was plenty to look at here, though he might as well be invisible. Just another middle-aged man with time on his hands. So many middle-aged men. So many pretty girls. He paused his gaze on one girl in particular. Skinny thighs in too-tight black leggings, red curls whipping the breeze. Helen. Hanging on to a boy with dark Italian skin. Flaunting themselves here, the pair of them, with the South Wales coalfield managers gathered two blocks away.
He hurled the chips at the seagulls and staggered away from the beach. His feet led him back to the bus station. It was time to go home. Time to put things straight. To put his own house in order.
— 14 —
The resort was loud and garish, fairground and arcades lit up to shame a Christmas tree. Helen was smitten. It was her second or third visit to the coast, but genteel Penarth was a world apart from this – brash, glamorous Barry Island, all light and speed and noise. She helped Scrapper to lug the crate of LPs off the bus. No chance she’d be spending the afternoon in some dusty, noisy record shop. She told him to find her on the seafront and skipped off towards the promenade.
She perched on the metal railings, watched the waves sidle up the pebbled beach. A curly-haired toddler ran towards the tide, a woman chasing after him. Old ladies walked small, yapping dogs. A scrum of lads strutted past, chests bare, sweaters knotted around their waists, fists clutching beer cans as they traded jokes in loud Brummie accents. Neon flashed and machinery whirred. The air smelled of fried onions and burnt sugar and sea salt. It smelled like holidays. No place was less like the grey misery of home.
At last, Scrapper appeared, his face pale and thin and tense. ‘Fella gave me half of what I’d hoped.’
‘Oh, Scrap.’
An impulse seized her. She grabbed his hand, dragged him down the promenade to the fairground kiosk and bought a fistful of tokens for the rides.
‘This is nuts, Red. Save your money.’
‘I’m taking you on the scariest, fastest ride there is, Scrapper Jones.’
He sighed, tried not to smile. ‘You’re nuts.’
She dragged him towards the waltzer. A fat bassline thudded from the speakers. Noise and lights pinned them to the concrete as the ride gathered speed. She watched the cars whirl round and round. The passengers gripped the safety bars, arms rigid, or clutched each other, laughing or screaming.
Scrapper watched them too, his face paper-white.
She laughed. ‘Scaredy-cat, are you?’
‘Course not.’
The music stopped. A group of girls hobbled off the waltzer, giggling fit to burst. Three lads followed them, smoothing their hair, patting their pockets to check their change, acting like no one had heard them squeal. She dragged Scrapper to the nearest car and waited for the fairground lad to collect the tokens. He was a skinny kid, hair cut in a wedge, had the mod look down pat; too-short trews, stripy top with collar and short sleeves. He sloped over, fag dangling from lips, took the tokens, winked at her and moved on.
The music started up, a falsetto voice above a high-energy beat. The car pitched from side to side. It twirled, hurling them left and right, the force pinning them to their seats. Faster and faster now. She clutched the bar, clutched Scrapper, lost to everything except the lights and the music and the force of the ride. She threw back her head and screamed. For the first time in months, she was free. In that moment, nothing mattered; not her dad, or her mam, or the strike and the way it had poisoned the village. She let all of it go, screamed for the joy of screaming.
Then it was over. The ride stopped. Scrapper staggered off into the crowd, teeth gritted, face tinged green. She lurched after him, drunk on sound and light and speed.
‘Bloody hell. That was the best thing ever. Ever!’ she planted a wet kiss on his cheek.
‘Can’t feel my legs, Red,’ he said faintly.
‘Again, again.’
‘We’re bloody well sitting down for a minute.’
‘We can sit on the ghost train.’
He sighed. The carriage trundled them into darkness. They wrapped their arms around each other as the train jerked through creaking swing doors into narrow tunnels. Nylon cobwebs brushed their faces. Plastic ghouls dropped from trapdoors, lunged from dark corners. She squealed, buried her head in Scrapper’s chest. The train jolted back into daylight.
‘Was that it?’ Scrapper said. ‘See scarier stuff most days down the pit.’
He helped her off the ride with a touch of his old swagger. They walked hand in hand past the penny arcades, into the little town beyond the seafront. The sun had edged west, taking the heat of the day with it. A breeze picked up, bringing a sting of salt but the lights burned bright and the crowds kept coming. She bought herself a candyfloss and a toffee apple for Scrapper and they watched the crowds come and go from a bench on the promenade.
‘Pub?’ he said.
‘Why not.’
She sat in the beer garden, watched him order their drinks at the bar. He looked more himself at last. Coming here had lifted him. Lifted both of them. If every day was like this – if they lived somewhere like this – did they not have a stab at being happy?
***
Scrapper downed his second packet of smoky bacon, drained his pint of Brains, gave a loud, contented yawn.
‘Might as well get one last round in. Before we head back.’
‘I wish we could stay here, Scrap.’
‘You worried about your exams, bach?’
‘An’ the rest.’
‘You decided what you want to do yet?’
She shrugged. Her mam and dad wanted her to stay at school, take A-levels, try for a degree.
‘Why not go to college,’ Scrapper said. ‘You’re bright enough.’
‘Not for people like us, college, is it?’
He had no answer to that. She sipped her drink, gazed out across the sweep of beach, at the streaked red and gold of the sky.
‘We could live here, Scrap,’ she burst out. ‘Imagine it; the two of us renting a little cottage, away from the slagheaps and the strife.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s no escaping the darkness, bach. It’s here, too. You’re just too dazzled to see it.’
Down on the shingle, a couple stood barefoot, shoes in hand at the
edge of the water. The man carried a toddler on his shoulders. They stood apart, shoulders barely touching. A normal young couple, watching the sun dip below the headland. Two people who belonged to each other. Certainty bedded down like sediment: she didn’t want to be That Scab’s Girl any more. She wanted to be part of something. To belong.
She turned back to Scrapper, noticed for the first time the single grey hair in his fringe. The dying sun dripped embers on him. He was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him. She knew, then, what her future should be.
‘Marry me, Scrapper.’
He paused, pint half way to his lips. ‘What?’
Heat and light flooded through her, as though she was back on the waltzer, free and fearless, or soaring and swooping like a seagull above the beach.
‘Let’s get married.’
Something like fear flickered across his face. ‘You’re not—?’
Her wings buckled and folded in on themselves. ‘Course not,’ she said quietly.
On the beach, the couple turned back from the shallows, gathered up the toddler’s beach things. The waves rushed in faster, now, dragging seaweed and bone-bleached driftwood onto the beach.
— 15 —
They sat on the bus home, not speaking. Helen gazed listlessly out of the window, watching the landscape darken, becoming bleaker and more dismal by the mile. Slag heaps loomed out of the dusk. In every mining village they passed, the shops were shut, many boarded up for sale. At last, Ystrad loomed ahead, half shrouded in a sulk of clouds. It looked smaller now, terrace hunched over terrace as though braced for attack.
The bus wheezed up the High Street, halted outside the bracchi. She climbed out and waited for Scrapper to say something. She knew that his answer would hurt her, wanted him to say it even so.
He sighed. ‘I’m not saying no, Red. I’m saying wait.’
‘Wait for what? It’ll never be the right time. Not for us.’
‘That’s not—’
Her dad burst out of the bus shelter, came barrelling towards them. His fist caught Scrapper across the jaw. Scrapper staggered backwards, caught off guard. She winced as her dad grabbed her by the hair. He dragged her past the bracchi up the hill towards the house. She fought to break his grip, but he drove her on, his stump of a hand shoving the small of her back.
***
She staggered across the living room as he hurled her through the door, hit the mantelpiece with a crash.
Her mam dropped her knitting in shock. ‘What the hell—?’
‘Did you know about this, woman?’
‘Know what, Gwyn? What’s happened?’
‘What’s happened is I caught ’em together. This little slut an’ that boy. Out together, bold as brass. Did you know about this?’
He grabbed Helen’s wrist and cuffed her across the ear.
‘No, Gwyn. I—’
‘He slapped Scrapper, Mam,’ Helen sobbed. ‘For getting off the bus with me. He made a spectacle on the High Street.’
She realised her mistake at once. Her mam had been about to defend her. But to admit going against her dad – she had left her mam no choice but to take his side as always. Love, honour and obey. Her mam took that third vow especially seriously. All the same, she willed her to stand up to him just once. To look him in the eye and tell him he was wrong, that a girl had every right to choose who to love, just as she had defied her own dad all those years back. Defied him to make exactly that choice.
Instead, her mam covered her mouth with a shaking hand.
‘Made a spectacle,’ her dad said. ‘I’ll give you made a spectacle.’
The belt was off his waist and in his hand. She heard the leather whistle through the air. Pain rippled up her leg. Her dad raised the belt a second time, hit her again and again. His face was calm now, focused. She was invisible to him. She understood, then. This wasn’t about her, not really, but about everything else that had riled her dad these last few months.
Her mam watched, eyes glittering, flinched as the belt fell.
‘Make him stop, Mam.’
‘You hold your tongue, woman,’ her dad said. ‘Else you’ll feel the business end of this belt.’
The strap rose and fell, ripped Helen’s leggings, tore her skin. She whimpered and stumbled backwards. As her dad raised his belt again, she heard voices in the street. She gathered all her strength and screamed.
Her dad paused, hand raised to strike again, as the front door burst open. Scrapper rushed in, Iwan behind him, and grabbed the belt. Helen broke free, ran into his arms, sobbing. He grabbed her, shoved her behind him.
‘Disgraceful, this, even by your standards, Gwyn Pritchard,’ Iwan said.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘When you hit my son, you made it my business.’
‘Get out o’ my house this instant.’
‘Right-oh,’ Iwan said. ‘You coming, Helen?’
‘I’m not bloody staying.’
‘You guard your tongue,’ her dad said.
‘She’s sixteen,’ Iwan said. ‘Old enough to curse. Old enough to have you charged with assault.’
‘Assault,’ her dad echoed. ‘Helen Margaret Pritchard, get to your room.’
Iwan turned to her. ‘Grab what you need. We’ll not leave without you.’
She fled to her bedroom, yanked open the wardrobe, hurled clothing into a duffel bag. Scrapper bundled her down the hall and through the front door. Her dad tried to follow, but Iwan filled the living-room door, blocking him.
‘If the girl leaves now, she’s dead to me,’ her dad said. ‘If she walks out now, she’s not coming back.’
She staggered down the garden, dizzy and breathless, turned to see her mam framed against the porch.
‘Mam,’ she stretched out her hand.
Her mam shook her head faintly. ‘You got no right to make me choose between you, girl. I got no choice. No choice at all.’
She went inside and closed the front door behind her.
— 16 —
Scrapper braced himself as Iwan told Angela what had happened, Helen clutching his hand so hard he lost the feeling in his fingers. But the explosion never came. Angela traced a fingertip along the swirls and flourishes of the lace doily that covered the arm of her chair. At last, she looked up, face blank with defeat.
‘Is decided, then; the girl is to live with us?’
‘No way we’d leave her with that vicious bastard, love,’ Iwan said.
‘Live with us on what?’
‘I’ll start looking for work at once, and sign on as soon I can,’ Red said. ‘I’ll help you in the shop, round the house.’
Even he could hear how lame that sounded. The bracchi had few customers these days. Who in Ystrad had money for ice cream or coffee. He and Iwan scraped together a few quid every week from the lodge to cover picketing expenses but getting saddled with another mouth to feed was the last thing his parents needed.
Angela’s gaze was fixed on Iwan.
‘Is OK for the girl to stay if Simon makes an honest woman of her.’
Scrapper’s guts bounced like a ping-pong ball, hit ribs, hit kidneys. It was the last thing he expected her to say.
Iwan burst out laughing. ‘Come off it, cariad. You’ve got no truck with all that Catholic claptrap.’
‘Is not negotiable.’ A hard edge crept into her voice.
Iwan stopped laughing then. Heat flooded Scrapper’s cheeks. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Did he love Red? Yes. Did he want to marry her? At some point, why not? But not yet. And for Angela to push them into it – it was baffling.
There was a long awkward silence. It fell to him to break the deadlock.
‘Right, well. I suppose we’d best get married, eh, Red?’
Angela leapt to her feet. ‘Is what the hell, “I suppose we get married”?’
‘Well, we were talking about it today and—’
‘Is a peasant I raised you to be? You bloody well propose to the girl proper
. Like a gentleman. As for you,’ Angela wrapped her arms around Red’s shoulders, ‘welcome to the family, bella.’
Scrapper took Red to his room, cleared space for her to stow her things, fetched Germolene and plasters for the cuts on her legs. He dabbed the thick, pink ointment on her skin, the room filling with the hospital smell of carbolic.
‘Rest a while,’ he said.
Later, as he stood on a step-ladder, stashing his books in the attic, he overheard Iwan and Angela talking quietly in the kitchen.
‘What was that about, Angie?’
‘What is what?’
‘You know damn well what; make an honest woman of the girl. They’re still kids, for God’s sake.’
‘Is important the girl is accepted. If they marry, the DHSS’ll give Simon £9.20 a week. More, if a baby comes.’
‘What the hell’s the DHSS or anyone else got to do with it?’
‘You seen the pile of bills in the drawer. Got your heads in the clouds, you and the boy. Is gonna ruin this family, the strike.’
‘Joneses take no handouts.’
‘Well, is high time for Joneses to start. You got a right to married man’s allowance. You want to stay married, you go down the social and you claim it.’
Later, he sat on the bedroom floor with Red, listening to music, stereo cranked up to muffle the raised voices in the living room. Some welcome to the family, this. Poor Red; she’d heard enough yelling today to last a lifetime.
‘You don’t think he’d hit my mam, do you?’ The question came from nowhere.
‘Captain Hook? Why— has he hit her before?’
‘I don’t know. But Scrap, I never seen him that angry. It’s like he wanted to kill me.’