by Kit Habianic
She broke into a trot, the boys racing after her, sniggering.
‘Oi – Ricky Allison! What d’you think you’re doing?’ A battered blue car pulled up beside her. The two boys fell back.
‘Nothing,’ Ricky said, face puce.
‘Don’t look like nothing,’ Sue’s brown curls popped out of the driver’s window. ‘Reckon I should talk to Ricky’s dad, Red?’
‘We wasn’t doing nothin’, Auntie Susan.’
‘Apologise, or I’m calling your dad, Ricky.’
‘Sorry,’ Ricky mumbled.
Sue nodded. ‘Right. Scoot. Hop in, Red. I’ll give you a lift.’
Ricky and Seamus scuttled up the hill without looking back. Helen climbed into the passenger seat, wet clothes squelching dry plastic. The back seat of the Anglia was piled with boxes of printed pamphlets.
‘Cheeky little buggers,’ Sue said.
‘They’re a pain.’
‘Well, that pain’s my cousin’s lad. Don’t stand for any nonsense.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Here—’ Sue reached onto the back seat and handed her a towel. ‘We’ll stop off at mine, I’ll lend you a jacket.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘It’s no bother,’ Sue said. ‘Me an’ Gramps live across from the school.’
She fired up the engine and they set off up the hill. But as the car turned a corner, they hit traffic. The car rattled to a halt. Sue cursed under her breath. The streaking rain blurred the vehicles up ahead. Blue lights showed a police car blocking the road. A uniformed officer stood over the crushed wheels of a motorbike, held an umbrella over the body of a man in leathers.
‘Looks nasty,’ Sue said.
She flicked on the radio. Hi-NRG music faded into pips for the news. The announcer was breathless.
‘Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher has escaped unhurt after a massive blast ripped through Brighton’s Grand Hotel in the early hours of this morning—’
‘Bloody hell!’ Sue and Helen spoke together.
‘—At least two people are confirmed dead in a suspected bomb blast. Scores of others have been injured. Despite the attack, the prime minister is expected to address the Conservative Party Conference later this morning—’
Helen grabbed Sue’s arm. ‘You don’t think— it wasn’t us?’
‘Good God, no,’ Sue said. ‘It’s terrorism, this, bach.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Provos, maybe. Argies. Reckon they’ll know soon enough.’
‘What’s a Provo?’
Sue explained the Irish Question. They listened to the news. The traffic did not move. Finally, an ambulance bellowed past, pulled up next to the motorbike. Men in green scooped the motorcyclist onto a stretcher. The ambulance bore him away in a glare of lights and blare of sirens. At last, the traffic began to edge up the hill.
Sue drove a block past the school and turned into a terraced street. ‘Come on in.’
The hall was dark and scruffy and smelled of Germolene and burnt toast.
‘Susan? Su-u-uuuusaaaaaan!’
‘Coming, Gramps,’ Sue called.
She led Helen through the hall, past the front room and down a ramp, through a door that opened into a large kitchen. A bay window flooded watery light. One side of the room wrapped around stove, sink and kitchen units. The other stretched around a bay window and a wide hearth. Two scuffed velour sofas flopped next to the fireplace, around a vast coffee table piled with papers, pamphlets and magazines.
‘Sit yourself here and warm up,’ Sue tipped coal onto the grate.
Helen peeled off her blazer and sweater and draped them over the clothes horse next to the hearth, slid her shoes near the grate, jumped as the door burst open. A wheelchair bowled down the ramp at speed. In it sat a hunched old man. Sue grabbed hold of the chair, stopped it before it hit the stove. The man’s arms and shoulders were wiry, but he had stumps for legs, pyjama bottoms folded under his thighs.
Helen knew Johnny Griffiths by sight. He had lost his legs to the pit. A miracle that he survived his injuries, people said. Her dad reckoned it was pure cussedness pulled the old boy through.
‘Turn the radio on, girlie,’ the old man said. ‘You won’t believe what’s happened.’
Sue kissed his forehead. ‘We just heard,’ she said. ‘Gramps, this is Helen, Scrapper’s wife.’
The old man shot her a gummy smile. ‘Orright, love?’
Looking at him made Helen feel shy. Johnny Griffiths had been a strapping collier in his day. Now his body was a dried-out shell. She had seen him out and about with Debbie Power, Debbie in her uniform, wheeling the old boy around the shops. It unsettled her. Debbie, tall and strong and vital, chattering like a parakeet to a broken husk of a man. But Johnny didn’t look broken, up close. The thin light revealed a lively, sinewy face, brown eyes glittering with curiosity.
‘They’ve made a right bloody hash of it, the Provos, eh, girls?’
Sue tutted at him and went to fix the tea.
‘They’ll be busy with their enquiries, the police,’ Johnny continued. ‘Fifty million of us wanted shot of the old coot.’ He wheeled his chair closer to the fireplace. ‘You a fan o’ Mrs T, girlie?’
‘Course not,’ Helen said.
‘Atta girl,’ he grinned. ‘Not like your old dad, then.’
Sue set the teapot down. ‘Don’t let him wind you up, Red.’
Johnny held Helen’s gaze. ‘He changed, your dad,’ he said. ‘Changed after he carried your granddad out of the pit. Eats away at a man, a thing like that. Forces him to make tough choices. Sometimes, a man chooses wrong. You follow, girlie?’
Helen nodded.
‘See death, everything’s different,’ Johnny said. ‘I lay trapped there for hours, the only man to make it out of that seam alive. I lay there in the dark, your granddad dead beside me, swore if ever I made it out, I’d fight to make life better for our boys. When your dad got to us, he knelt in the dark, cursed the pit and the village and the coal business. Swore nothing would matter from then on. Nothing but himself and his own.’
She felt a lump in her throat that hot tea wouldn’t shift. She saw it. Her dad’s terror and fury. Darkness with its leeching grip.
She wiped her eyes angrily. ‘There’s people will never forgive my dad.’
Johnny grabbed her hand. His grip was strong, despite the clubbed nails and liver spots. Hands like shovels.
‘You’re not to blame for the sins of your father, girlie. He made his choice. You’ll make yours.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I knows it, bach.’
— 5 —
Low sunlight filled the surgery windows, lighting up the hairs that framed Dr O’Connell’s pate and sprouted from his ear lobes and nostrils. The little doctor peered at Gwyn over his spectacles, tucked away his stethoscope and scribbled into his notepad.
‘And you say you’ve never collapsed before?’
‘Collapsed? Well, no—’
‘Any dizzy spells?’
Gwyn hesitated, struggled to a sitting position, started to button up his shirt. It had scared him silly, the blackout. One minute, giving Alun Wet-Ears a dressing-down about his shoddy attempt to sweep out the wheelhouse, the next sparked out cold on the floor. Woke to find his workmates gathered round. At his feet, Alun Wet-Ears, pale and twitching like a rabbit. Albright on the wheelhouse phone, calling an ambulance.
At his side, Matthew Cut-Price, bucket of water in his hand, a nasty gleam in his eye. ‘He’d have woke a damn sight quicker if you’d let me splash him, Mister Albright.’
An ambulance ride to the hospital in Bryn Tawel, came over woozy in the waiting room. A rainbow of coloured uniforms. Men in green. Men in white. Girls in pink and yellow and pastel blue. Small hands touching him. Perfume masking the jagged smell of antiseptic.
‘Brought ’im up from Blackthorn,’ the paramedic said.
‘Another miner?’
‘Mus’ be. Jus’ lo
ok at that hand.’
‘That’s six this week.’
‘A disgrace, coppers beating a working man for defending ’is livelihood.’
Gwyn raised his head. ‘Not police – not on strike – working miner – proud of it.’
The nurses busied themselves with other patients, left him to sleep it off. Later, Carol sat by his bedside. Then came more white coats and questions and tests and chest x-rays. He ended up sedated, kept in overnight. For observation, the consultant said. He found out next morning that Carol had made a pest of herself, ringing the duty desk all night. They sent him home after lunch, under strict orders to rest.
‘Dizzy spells,’ Dr O’Connell repeated. ‘Have you had any? It’s important, Gwyn.’
‘One or two.’
‘And you’ve had that bronchial cough a couple of years now.’
Gwyn shrugged.
‘Gwyn, you remember what we discussed about your smoking?’
Got him riled, that. A man deserved a few small pleasures. A smoke or two couldn’t hurt. Not with his lungs already shot to pieces.
‘Aye, well. That was before the strike. It’s been a tough few months.’
A muscle flickered in Dr O’Connell’s cheek. His Adam’s apple bobbed and ducked. Working up to bad news, the doctor.
‘Spit it out, doc.’
‘Progressive massive fibrosis. The x-rays show a dark mass across your upper lung. Shortness of breath and a chronic cough is just the start of it.’
The words washed over Gwyn. ‘It’s black lung?’
‘The tests indicate an increase in blood pressure in the pulmonary circuit. That explains the dizziness, fainting spells, breathlessness. Your lungs are seizing up, Gwyn. Heavy physical labour and stress will only make things worse.’
‘But you’ll fix it. Give me pills or something.’
Dr O’Connell took off his spectacles, rubbed them on his lapel. ‘Nothing can fix PMF,’ he said at last. ‘The best we can do is ease the symptoms. That means no more physical labour, no more exposure to stress. We’ll sign you off work for starters.’
Gwyn staggered to his feet. ‘No you bloody won’t.’
Obvious what the tests would find, of course. Every miner knew the signs. First, the fighting for breath, the cough that would not shift. Skin tinged blue beneath the fingernails, colour spreading to lips then the whites of the eyes. After that – silently, invisibly – your innards swelled and failed.
The coal dust, come to claim him.
‘How long do I have?’
‘There’s no point guessing. We must focus on easing your symptoms. You need to rest.’
‘Is it months?’ Gwyn persisted. ‘Weeks?’
Dr O’Connell straightened his notes, cleared his throat. The low autumn sunlight melted into a bank of cloud.
— 6 —
Come December, Helen sensed something amiss, couldn’t remember having had a period. She and Scrapper had decided not to try for a baby straight away. Not that she didn’t want to start a family, but they were young, their lives crammed to bursting with what-ifs, and what point rushing into things? They had plenty of time, they agreed.
Angela was less than impressed when they told her.
‘Listen, Mam, we’re not having a babby so the family can claim seven quid a week extra off the social,’ Scrapper snapped.
Angela stopped talking about grandchildren after that. She marched Helen down to the surgery, had Dr O’Connell talk to her about contraception. The village doctor refused Helen the pill. Not with the Pritchard family history of high blood pressure and heart disease, he said. Not with her being so young. It was news to Helen that she had a family medical history. She’d assumed it was the pit, mostly, that did for Pritchards. But he was adamant, Dr O’Connell. Offered her a choice: condoms or the cap.
Angela, tight-lipped, said there was no more money for condoms.
Dr O’Connell peered, mole-like, over his spectacles. ‘Ah, yes. And since the strike, we’ve run out of free supplies.’
The discussion was closed. Helen left the surgery with a little rubber bowl in a little plastic case and a large tube of spermicide. Hellish fiddly, all that faffing around with case and cream. Six months married, half the time they forgot to bother with it all. And now her breasts were sore and tender. She said nothing to Scrapper, dithered and hoped and prayed for blood.
Finally, she dropped by the surgery after school.
‘You’ll be keeping it, of course.’ Dr O’Connell busied himself with pen and notepad.
Of course? There was no of course, with the men out eight long months and with the bracchi on its knees. She left the surgery on shaky legs, sank down on the bench outside. Fallen leaves swirled around her feet. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes. Lucky for her, the village was empty. After a while, she gathered strength enough to stand. She zipped her parka, trudged up the High Street, paused outside the bracchi. She was tempted for a moment to keep walking up the hill, to pocket her pride and run to her mam and beg her to tell her what to do. Instead, she went up to the flat, pondering how to break the news to her in-laws. She found them in the kitchen, Angela, Iwan and Scrapper, wearing extra sweaters against the cold, hands clamped around their mugs of tea.
‘Where you been, Red?’ Scrapper sounded tetchy.
‘I—’
‘Never mind,’ Angela said. ‘She’s here now. All of us are here.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Is family meeting.’
When Angela called a family summit, it meant Iwan or Scrapper had displeased her. Now was not the time to speak up. Helen sat next to Scrapper, waited for Angela to begin.
Spots of colour mottled her mam-in-law’s cheeks. ‘I’m closing the business.’
Iwan’s hands tightened around his mug. ‘Don’t be daft, Angie.’
‘Daft?’ Angela echoed. ‘Two paying customers last week. Two. No one buying ice cream. No one drinking coffee. Is no money for gas, for electric. Got suppliers banging on the door with their bills. And now Christmas coming.’
‘Must be something we can do,’ Scrapper said. ‘Something short of closing.’
‘Is costing money to stay open. Money we do not have.’
‘But how much do we owe?’ Helen asked.
‘Well,’ Iwan counted on his fingers. ‘We’re three months behind with the rates and the electric, two months behind payments for the chest freezer on the never-never. Got the phone bill outstanding for the quarter. We’re looking at seven hundred quid.’
‘Is like we are criminals,’ Angela said. ‘Never owed debt to no one.’
A shocked silence followed.
‘There’s no point giving up yet,’ Iwan said at last. ‘By all means close for winter. We’ll give it another go, come the spring.’
‘Come the spring?’ Angela said. ‘Short of a fucking miracle, Iwan Simon Peter Jones, is what will be different, come the spring?’
Iwan and Scrapper flinched. Helen felt in her pocket, squeezed the lump of anthracite for reassurance. No one knew what to say.
A knock on the door broke the deadlock. A voice called up a greeting, then heavy footsteps tramped up the stairs. At last, Dewi Power appeared on the landing, breathing heavily.
Angela folded her lips into a man-stopping smile. ‘And now this handsome face to complete our evening. Cuppa tea, Dewi Power?’
The little union boss doffed his cap, flustered. ‘Don’t you go to no bother, Angie,’ he said. ‘Something came up. Need to talk it over with Iwan.’
‘Nonsense,’ Angela fired up the kettle. ‘Sit.’
Iwan hefted a sigh. ‘Whatever it is, spit it out. There’s no bloody secrets in this house.’
Helen’s stomach knotted, unknotted. But no one noticed her discomfort. They were waiting to hear what Dewi had to say.
‘Sheffield just called,’ he said. ‘Coal Board’s offering a bonus. A lump sum to every man who goes back before Christmas.’
‘How much?’ Angela said
.
‘Couple o’ hundred apiece, the convenor reckoned.’
‘Bastards,’ Iwan breathed.
Angela leaned against the work-top, gaze fixed on Dewi’s face. The kettle boiled, but she ignored it. Helen turned off the heat and fixed Dewi a mug of tea, added milk, found barely a teaspoon of sugar in the caddy. She swallowed a sigh, tipped the last of the week’s ration into the mug.
‘A lot of lads could use that kind of money,’ Scrapper said.
Dewi took for his tea, nodded his thanks. ‘Question is, how many will crack?’
‘I reckon the boys are solid,’ Scrapper said.
‘We thought Matt and Alun were rock solid six months ago,’ Iwan said.
Dewi hunched in his seat as though he carried the weight of the coalfield on his shoulders.
‘Dewi reckons someone’ll crack,’ Helen said quietly.
He looked at her, surprised. Held up his hands. ‘It’s our Debbie’s lad.’
‘Dai? Be serious,’ Scrapper said.
Dewi shook his head. ‘I would’ve said the same, an’ all. But our Debbie’s up the duff.’
Scrapper let out a long, low whistle.
‘Congratulations, Dewi,’ Angela said.
Iwan clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Your first great niece or nephew, eh?’
But to Helen’s ears, the good wishes sounded forced.
‘They told us last week,’ Dewi said. ‘Dai stayed back, wanted a quiet word. Said they’re badly behind wi’ the rent.’
‘All the same,’ Iwan said. ‘He’s sound as a pound, Dai Dumbells. Body of a bull, heart of a lion—’
‘Head of a mule. Like the rest of you,’ Angela snapped.
Dewi burst out laughing. Slapped the table. Stopped when he realised no one was laughing with him. ‘Angie?’
She waved a dismissive hand.
‘She’s joking. Aren’t you, Mam?’ Scrapper said tightly.
Iwan’s eyes hardened. Angela had pushed him too far now, Helen could tell. He wanted Dewi out of the way, and fast.
‘Let’s call the lads down the Stute,’ Iwan said. ‘It’s best they hear it from the lodge. That way, we see their reaction. See who might be tempted.’
Dewi bolted his tea. ‘I’ll go spread the word.’