by Kit Habianic
At last, the shouting stopped. Scrapper turned off the thrashing guitars, chose something slower with a saxophone break.
‘You really want to get married, bach?’
Red blushed. ‘A girl likes to be asked, I s’pose.’
He grabbed her hand, perched next to her on both knees.
‘So— I’m asking,’ he felt a daft grin split his face. ‘Miss Helen Margaret Pritchard, would you do me the horror of being my loyal wedded wife?’
She swatted his shoulder. ‘Honour. Not horror, pillock.’
‘Honour, then. Would you?’
‘You don’t really want to, do you, Scrap?’
It was true and not true. But she was funny and lovely and no one ever needed him like she did. Captain Hook had made himself clear. She could never go home again. And he wanted to make a go of it. Why not? She had no one now, except him.
‘It’s sooner’n expected, Red. But it is what I want.’
‘Alright, then. Yes.’
He dived at her, planted a smacker on her lips. Rugby-tackled her onto the bed.
— 17 —
No one came to the door when Helen knocked. It felt wrong to knock and when no one answered, she used her key to let herself in. That felt wrong, too. Everything felt wrong. But she was worried about her mam, insisted on going back. Scrapper refused to let her go alone.
‘Mam,’ she called.
There was no answer. She tried the living room and kitchen, but there was no sign of her mam anywhere. She went up to her room. Everything was as she left it, bed unmade, drawers and cupboard spilling clothes. She stuffed her schoolbooks into her bag, chucked boots, gym shoes, undies, parka and sweaters on top. Then, she tidied everything away, pulled the bed covers straight and closed the door behind her.
Scrapper stood at the living room window. He pulled back, startled, when she walked in.
‘Let’s get out of here, Red.’
‘No. I got to see her.’
They sat and waited. The room was stifling hot. Sunlight flooded the window and the embers in the grate exhaled heat. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The noisy wallpaper crowded in on her, aquamarine stripes from floor level meeting sprigged navy florals from the ceiling, flowery dado strip forcing a stand-off between the two clashing prints. It was her dad’s pride and joy, that wallpaper. He hired decorators to put it up. No collier hired decorators. The longer she looked at it, the sicker and more dizzy she felt.
At last, the front door opened. Her mam walked in, stopped dead on seeing them, a hand flying to her chest.
‘You shouldn’t be here. You heard your dad.’
‘Did he take it out on you after?’
‘You stupid, stupid child,’ her mam whispered.
‘He hit me, Mam. For seeing my boyfriend. If Dad was reasonable, I wouldn’t have—’
‘Reasonable—.’ she broke off
Helen heard the garden gate screech open. Scrapper gripped her hand so hard that she stifled a yelp. Slow footsteps climbed up the garden path: in the hall, the grandfather clock ticked a mocking echo.
‘What are them two doing in my house?’ her dad demanded, accusing eyes turned on her mam.
Scrapper pushed her behind him. ‘Helen wanted to see her mam,’ he said. ‘Me and Helen, we – I’ve asked her to marry me. She said yes.’
Helen breathed in sharply. Her mam gripped the sideboard to steady herself.
‘I told you the little slut would get knocked up,’ her dad said quietly.
‘I’m not bloody knocked up,’ Helen said, outraged.
‘Why else do the likes of us get married?’ her mam’s voice was bitter.
‘We’re getting married because we’re in love, Mrs Pritchard,’ Scrapper said. ‘And we’d like Mr Pritchard to give us his blessing—’
‘My blessing? When you an’ your striker butties are hell-bent on killing my pit?’
Helen took Scrapper’s arm. ‘We better go.’
Her dad’s face had the colour and texture of coal. ‘Get married, don’t get married,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t give a toss.’
‘But she’s a child, Gwyn,’ her mam objected.
‘She’s a spoilt brat. Let them get married. I give it six months, tops. As for you—’ he turned to Scrapper. ‘Strike ends, or pit closes; either way, you’ll rue the day you crossed me.’
‘What’s this got to do with the strike?’ Helen said.
Her dad bared yellowed teeth at her. ‘This one reckons he’s some kind of working-class hero. But he’s wrong, and you’ll see you backed the wrong side, girl.’
‘Can you hear yourself, Dad—?’
‘You go off with him, you don’t ask for money and you don’t ask for help. You go off with him, Helen, I wash my hands.’
His voice had the dry rasp of ashes. But for all his fire and brimstone, he looked small now, and old. He had forced her hand and knew he’d lost.
She slipped her hand into Scrapper’s hand. ‘Right, we’ll be off, then.’
SUMMER 1984
— 1 —
Scrapper groaned and pulled the coverlet over his head against the glare. The morning light sliced his eyeballs like a shard of glass. The stench of his own breath made him gag. He inched back out, squinted at the unfamiliar room. Dai had wrenched the curtains open and was grappling, one-handed, with the window catch. His free hand held two steaming mugs of tea, a plate of toast balanced on top. Sunshine and air flooded into the room. Scrapper was lying on a mustard velour sofa, his body wrapped in a pink satin quilt that had a faint whiff of Debbie’s perfume. The wallpaper was pink and green, outsized flowers dancing on a diagonal. He closed his eyes again, feeling sick.
‘Duw, butty, got a face on you rougher’n a badger’s arse.’
Pot and kettle, that. Dai looked none too clever himself.
‘Ta, butt,’ Scrapper groaned. ‘Why’m I here?’
Dai shoved the toast at him, took a slice himself, his face the colour of a stewed olive. ‘Your mam insisted. Said it were bad luck for you’n the girl to spend the night before your wedding under the same roof.’
‘Dai, love, fetch us a pint o’ milk and some porridge oats, will you?’ Debbie’s voice floated in from the hall.
‘Time’s it?’
‘Time we got a shift on,’ Dai yawned. ‘Need you spruced up and delivered to the register office within the hour.’
Spruced up? Register office? Scrapper squinted at the gilt wall clock and groaned. Helen would be dressed and waiting, bright-eyed and excited. He could barely see straight, never mind walk her down the aisle. He groaned and sank back against the cushions.
‘Down to Matt Cut-Price, this,’ Dai said. ‘Got your dad to open a bottle o’ that that nasty yellow brew your mam hides at the back o’ the stock cupboard.’
A sour taste flooded his gullet. ‘Oh, Christ. The limoncello. Mam fetches it out at Christmas. Not fit for cleaning tools.’
‘Didn’t stop us, Scrap. We finished the bottle. Then Matt fetched a bottle o’ Malibu from his mam’s drinks cabinet. Debbie weren’t pleased when we rolled in last night. Reckoned we stank like we’d been snogging Bertie Bassett. Made me gargle before turning in.’
Scrapper pulled his t-shirt over his nose and sniffed it. ‘And Matt?’
‘Went off by himself. Reckoned he were meeting some bird.’
Debbie stuck her head round the door. Her hair was wet, slicked behind her ears. ‘Dai, the milk. And you got to fetch the cake from Margaret Parry.’
Dai downed his tea, grabbed keys and wallet from the top of the television. ‘Get some tea an’ toast down this one, Debs. We need him sober and decent. Scrap, your suitcase is in the hall.’
As soon as Dai shut the front door, Debbie slid into the room. She wore a black Japanese-style dressing gown, knotted at the waist. She crossed the room and plonked herself on top of Scrapper, legs straddling pink quilt.
‘Oofff. That’s my stomach, woman.’
‘How about it then, Scrap? One last tan
go, for old time’s sake?’
The kimono gaped open.
‘Stop messing, Debs.’
‘Who’s messing? Bloody obvious you want to.’
The worst thing was, part of him did want to and he felt too weak and brain-fogged to resist. He gathered his strength to wriggle away from her. She slithered off the quilt, landed in a heap on the floor, looked up at him, black mockery sparkling in her eyes.
‘Why you going through wi’ this wedding, Scrap?’
‘Cos I want to?’
‘Why would you marry that little shrimp; that scab’s girl?’
‘Because I love her, Debs.’
‘Not the way you loved me.’
‘Note the past tense.’
‘Say that often enough, you’ll start believing it, Scrap,’ Debbie straightened her kimono. ‘Lucky for you, I got to go.’
He lay back, willed his pulse to slow. He could hear Debbie padding around upstairs. After a pause, he staggered off the couch and went to fetch his suitcase. Moving stirred up the contents of his stomach. He dashed across the hall, made it to the bathroom just in time.
Bloodshot eyes bleared back at him in the shaving mirror. He turned on the taps and splashed his face, flinching as the icy water hit his skin. The shock eased the pounding in his skull. He slipped off his trews and kecks, climbed into the bath, ran the cold tap over his head and neck. After a good brisk scrub with flannel and soap, he felt better. The doorbell rang and he heard Debbie patter downstairs to answer.
Angela’s voice floated in from the hall. ‘Husband not home, Debbie Power?’
Footsteps clicked along the corridor and a fist rapped on the bathroom door.
‘Is bad luck to keep your bride waiting, Simon. You want people to talk?’
People talk whatever, he thought sourly.
‘Five minutes, Mam.’
He wrestled the brass suitcase locks, shook the wrinkles out of Matt’s wedding suit – ‘You’re more’n welcome to it, butty. Did me no bloody favours’ – and opened the night-bag. Angela had packed his razor, shaving cream and toothbrush. His hands shook as he dragged the blade across his cheekbones. At the bottom of the case, he found Iwan’s kept-for-best Eau Sauvage. Something borrowed. He smiled. Typical of his mam to cover all bases. He splashed a palmful of cologne on his cheeks, breathed out and felt as right as rainbows.
Angela had unpicked the old suit, taken in the jacket and waistband and unpicked the arms and legs. The suit was baggy, even so, legs and sleeves a good inch too short. But the shirt bought from Betty’s unisex fit just right and was the exact shade of blue of his team. The problem was the tie. He tried and failed to wrestle it into something like a knot, but it defeated him. He found Iwan pacing the living room, scrubbed up tidy in his navy weddings and funerals suit, worn shiny at the knees and elbows.
‘Can’t be doing wi’ this bloody tie, Dad.’
‘You and me both, lad,’ Iwan grinned. ‘A badge of slavery, the tie.’
Even so, he knotted it, fixed Scrapper with ice-grey eyes. ‘You sure you’re ready for this, son?’
Scrapper remembered Debbie’s wet hair and slick brown skin and shook himself. ‘Course.’
Iwan gripped his shoulders. ‘You get to do this once in your life, lad.’
‘But Mam said—’
‘To hell with what your mam said. The girl’s young. You both are.’
If he had doubts, he beat them away. Yes, they were young but there was no question it was the right thing to do.
‘She needs us, Dad.’
— 2 —
Helen sat in the window squirming. Her wedding frock itched something vicious. Angela found it at the back of her wardrobe, a Seventies maxi dress: fitted bodice, flared A-line skirt, spotless nylon lace over satin lining.
‘But I can’t take it from you, Angie.’
‘Is terrible on me, white lace, bella. With these breasts, look like bloody milkmaid.’
It was old-fashioned, with a square neckline and puff sleeves, and three sizes too big for her. But Angela had a way with a sewing machine, tightened the sleeves and bodice, shortened the skirt to mid-thigh and fitted a satin cummerbund waistband. The result was a triumph, flirty and informal, the opposite of the show-off princess meringue her dad would have wanted. But as she waited for her bridal party to collect her, the seams bit into her skin. She ground her knuckles against her ribs, looked out at the High Street again. At last, Dewi Power pulled up in the lodge minibus, Angela next to him in the passenger seat, waving at her to come down.
Scrapper sat alone in the back seat, behind his dad and Dai Dumbells. His skin looked grey and papery. He patted the seat next to him.
‘God, Scrap. You look like something dug up from the grave.’
‘Matt made us drink a bottle of limoncello and half a bottle of Malibu.’
‘Where is Matt?’
‘Who knows,’ Angela said. ‘Is lucky this handsome gentleman offered to drive.’
Dewi’s ears flushed pink. He fired up the engine, and off they set. The lodge banner hung inside the rear windscreen. Fringed gold trim flapped in the breeze. National Union of Mineworkers, Blackthorn Lodge: nothing to lose but our chains. Helen grinned. How she would have loved to have Dewi drive past the house, to give her dad an eyeful of her wedding carriage; have him see it and spit embers. She wished her mam was with her, even so. She snuggled up to Scrapper and watched the hedgerows slip behind them like green streamers.
At last, they were there. She jumped out, dropped Scrapper a mock curtsey. ‘Well?’
‘You look stunning, bach.’
‘You look beautiful, and all.’
He did, too, for all his bleary eyes and pallid skin. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. ‘We gonna do this, aren’t we, Red?’
‘Abso-bloody-lutely.’
Angela paused on the register office steps, hands on hips. She wore a shoulder-padded, gold buttoned, gold-belted scarlet suit, a tiny Welsh guard in scarlet pillbox hat and veil.
‘Simon, where in hell is your father?’
Iwan appeared from behind the minibus looking shifty.
‘Iwan Simon Peter Jones – were you smoking?’ Angela shooed him inside.
‘But we can’t go in Mam,’ Scrapper said. ‘We got to wait for Matt.’
‘Is too late, Simon.’
‘But he’s got the ring.’
Angela rolled her eyes, shoved Scrapper through the door.
***
The lobby had beige carpet tiles and stark white walls. A tall man with sunken cheekbones opened the door to a dark, heavy room. The bay window was swamped with heavy drapes that puddled on the parquet floor. Mr Throgmorton, the registrar, took a pen from his lapel pocket, reached for his glasses. He moved like an actor trying out a scene before stepping out on stage.
Scrapper was fidgeting now. ‘Mam, the wedding ring.’
‘Lascia stare,’ Angela hissed. She grabbed her left index finger. After a brief struggle, she wrestled the gold band off her finger, thrust it at Scrapper.
‘Aw, Mam—’
‘Is good enough for now.’
Red blotches showed on her cheeks. Helen squeezed Scrapper’s hand in warning.
They made their vows, kissed and signed the register on Throgmorton’s desk. Angela’s ring slipped off Helen’s finger as she bent to write her name. Dewi and Dai signed as witnesses. Then it was over. Helen followed the others outside, stood blinking in the sunshine.
Angela handed her a tulle-wrapped package. ‘I made confetti. Take one.’
She passed the package on to Scrapper, then to the men, paused, frowning. ‘Is bad luck, having one left over.’ She vanished back inside.
Helen looked at the sugared almond nestling in her palm, nudged Scrapper.
He sighed. ‘Mam and her traditions.’
She popped the almond into her mouth, bit down hard. The sugar coating exploded into fragments. Shards of almond and sugar lodged in her throat.
She squeezed
Scrapper’s hand, tried not to choke. ‘My husband?’
‘Aye, bach. For better and for worse.’
‘So now what?’
‘We’ve organised a reception down the Stute,’ Dai said.
‘Down the Stute?’
She had never set foot in the Miners’ Institute. Enemy territory, her dad called it.
‘You’re a union wife now, eh, love,’ Dewi said.
Angela came barrelling out of the register office and heard him. ‘Don’t you listen to this one, bella. A naughty tease, Dewi Power. You are a Jones. Union wife is optional.’
***
The road from Bryn Tawel to Ystrad wound through woodland. As they emerged above the village, sunlight struck the minibus like lightning. Scrapper groaned.
‘That’ll teach you to get caned,’ Helen said.
‘I’ll never drink again. Not ever.’
‘Until Matt Price shows up with the next bottle.’
‘I could throttle him. Gets all of us pissed as newts, misses the bloody wedding.’
‘It’s alright—’
‘It’s not bloody alright. We pawned Dad’s pocket watch to buy that ring.’
‘Oh, Scrap. No,’ she gripped his hand.
Dewi screeched to a halt outside the bracchi.
‘Gonna carry the missus over the threshold, then?’ Dai grinned.
‘There’s no—’ Helen began.
But Scrapper grabbed her, hoiked her over his shoulder, hefted her into the shop, up the stairs and flung her on the bed. They were both giggling and breathless as he kicked shut the door and unzipped her itchy, beautiful dress.
— 3 —
Scrapper walked into the Stute to loud cheers, Red clinging to his arm. All the boys from his shift were there, a couple of dozen fellows from the lodge, the married men had brought their wives and kids. All gathered to see him and Red walk out as man and wife. Someone had dusted off the lodge’s Christmas streamers, slung them from wall to wall. Gold and silver tinsel shivered from the beams. The toffee-apple scent of home-brew scrumpy filled the air. A trestle table ran the length of the room, piled with sandwiches, sausage rolls and crisps, in the middle, a two-tier iced cake. Loaves and fishes and water into wine; his butties had pulled off a miracle.