by Kit Habianic
Peter Plod paused, radio in hand. He was itching to book all three of them. Sleet pelted Scrapper’s face as he handed over Iwan’s pails, yanked the last two pails from Dai’s clenched fists.
Peter Plod picked up a bucket, eyes still fixed on Dai, tipped the coal over the fence into the brambles.
All the pails emptied, he stacked them, tucked them under his arm. ‘I’ll keep hold of these, thanks, lads.’
He strode off down the track. Johnny Boots staggered after him.
Dai’s fists balled rage. ‘Why the fuck d’you back down?’
‘Gwyn Pritchard’s hauled me up in front of the beak.’
Scrapper explained what had happened at Christmas. Dai’s jaw worked as he listened, as though he was chewing over the information.
‘You’re looking at time in jail?’
‘Anything to line up three square meals a day, butt.’ His attempt at a joke rang sour.
Dai’s face darkened. ‘Bastards. Bleeding all of us dry.’
‘We still got Sion’s buckets,’ Iwan tried to lighten the mood.
Scrapper felt his exhaustion turn to glee. One of them would have a toasty warm house tonight, at least. He would see to it personally. Screw the pigs.
‘I’ll come back for them when night falls,’ he said.
***
Scrapper peered through the curtain. The High Street slumbered. Across the valley, the evening star lit a sky the colour of anthracite. He pulled on boots, scarf, gloves and jacket. Red looked up from the telly, her breath rising like steam. She was wrapped in more layers than an onion. He tucked the blanket tighter over her shoulders. She was far too pale and thin, arms and legs like matchsticks. But under her clothes, she had a little belly. A chill blessing, the cold; so far no one had guessed.
The wind howled, vicious, as he shut the back door and picked up the pails Steve Red Lion had lent him. Iwan trotted behind him, lugging an armful of hessian sacking. There’d be no freezing in their beds tonight. Scrapper turned into the track, checked there were no policemen. He was sure they would be safe, now. The plods had gone home to their toasty living rooms, cooked dinners heating their bellies, central heating on full whack. He shook himself. A miner’s life was too short for bitterness.
Up ahead, he heard rustling in the undergrowth. Foxes, perhaps. He picked up pace, toes numb in his steel-capped boots, frozen sleet crunching underfoot like biscotti. He found Sion’s pails where he’d left them. Iwan walked on towards the tip. Scrapper grabbed the pails and set off back to the village. It was a battle to climb the terraces, wind gusting knots, his boots sliding on the ice, forcing him to double his steps. By the time he reached Sion’s terrace, he was breathless. It would surely be the death of the old boy, that climb.
He turned into number twenty-one and stopped. The house was dark, upstairs and down. A carrier bag – the day’s food parcel – was parked on the doorstep, uncollected. Where could Sion and his missus be on such a curse of a night? He rattled the letterbox but no one came.
The latch clicked open when he pushed.
‘Sion?’ His voice echoed in the empty hallway.
He set the buckets on the tiled floor, dragged the carrier bag inside. Nothing stirred. He headed for the kitchen, pushed the door open. Dying embers glowed in the grate but gave off no heat. He pushed the light switch but the room remained stubbornly dark.
‘Who’s there?’ The voice came from a low sofa near the fireplace. Two figures were huddled together under a quilt.
‘That you, Sion?’
The figure shifted. Scrapper moved closer, saw Sion and his wife Mavis, their eyes hollow, faces grey with cold. Mavis was shaking, her breath coming shallow and slow.
‘What happened to the electric?’
‘Meter ran out,’ Sion’s voice was barely a croak.
The coal was so damp, it hissed when Scrapper tipped it into the grate. He fished in his pocket, found a fifty-pence piece. It was all he had left from the week’s picketing expenses. He opened the cupboard under the stairs, fed the coin into the meter. As it clattered into the slot, the hall lights blazed. He turned them off, went back to the old people. The fire was taking time to catch. He jabbed the coals with the poker until sparks shot up the chimney.
‘Thanks, lad,’ Sion’s face was pale, his breathing as fast as Mavis’ breath came slow.
‘How long you two been like this?’
‘Couple of days.’
‘You called Dr O’Connell?’
‘Seeing him next week.’
‘Christ,’ Scrapper grabbed his shoulder. ‘You’ll see him tonight. Where’s your phone?’
‘Cut off,’ Sion’s voice was ragged.
Scrapper filled the kettle and went through the carrier bag. He found tins and dried goods, a sliced loaf, frozen almost solid, and a slab of cheddar. He fed the bread into the toaster, sliced the cheese and handed the old people tea and a plate of sandwiches.
‘Eat,’ he said. ‘I’m off to fetch the doctor.’
***
Hypothermia, Dr O’Connell said. It was late by the time the ambulance took the Jenkinses off to hospital. Scrapper slipped and slid down the hill to the coal tip to fetch the sacks that Iwan had filled and left for him to collect. As he trudged through the sleet towards home, doubt hardened into certainty. There was no way back from this, now, all of them cold and sick and hungry. They were trapped, left facing a bleak choice: cave in now, admit all was lost, or fight on in the slim hope the pit had some kind of future. But what kind of future would that be?
Red was sound asleep when he climbed into bed, still wearing socks, vest and underwear. He snuggled closer, sinking into her warmth, heating his chill hands on her belly.
‘We got no right,’ he murmured. ‘It’s no world for a child, this, bach.’
— 2 —
Helen climbed off the chair, looked up at her handiwork. Sheets of pasta hung from kitchen maid and curtain pole. Pasta ribbons trailed over the backs of the chairs. The kitchen looked like an Egyptian mummy’s dressing room, bandaged with pasta and powdered with flour. It was her mam-in-law’s new business venture; she’d cut a deal with Bethan Edwards’ dad to supply his restaurant in Cardiff. Angela reckoned she’d undercut his regular supplier by a third. She had Iwan pawn his brothers’ davy lamps, took delivery of two sacks of plain and semolina flour and a dozen trays of eggs. Helen had helped to make the trial batch. If it all went well, Mr Edwards had promised them two orders a week.
She jotted notes as her mam-in-law mixed the dough and helped her to pass it through the rollers and to hang the sheets to dry. Two orders a week would keep their little family ticking over until late spring, Angela reckoned.
Late spring. Helen touched her belly. She’d nearly be due by then.
They had tidied the kitchen by the time the men staggered in from the picket.
‘How’d you get on?’ Iwan’s voice was hoarse.
Angela waved at the ceiling. ‘Is not bad. The girl’s first try, after all.’
‘Fantastic. Done well, haven’t they, Simon?’
Scrapper grunted, vanished into the bathroom. Judging by the yelps and gasps, Helen guessed the water was freezing.
‘He’s been like a bear with toothache all day,’ Iwan said. ‘You two had words, bach?’
‘No,’ Helen lied.
Scrapper said they couldn’t keep the baby. He said they should see Dr O’Connell, said they were running out of time. But her mam walking out made Helen all the more certain. She and Scrapper were nothing like her mam and dad. They and the baby would do just fine.
But when she told Scrapper her decision, he froze.
‘We’ll manage,’ she persisted.
‘No, Red. Fact is, we won’t,’ he said coldly. ‘Can you not look beyond yourself, for once. Things are bad enough without a baby to worry about.’
Something had changed in him these last weeks. As though he blamed her for landing him with a court case. She felt guilty about that. But if she hurt
the baby, she’d feel worse. Her only choice, she reckoned, was to stop arguing and play for time.
Angela took the pasta machine out to the shed, came back with Sue Griffiths.
‘You got a visitor, bella.’
Sue gazed up at the ceiling, puzzled. ‘What’s this; medical supplies?’
‘Tagliatelle and lasagne,’ Angela said.
Sue looked none the wiser.
‘Home-made pasta,’ Helen said.
‘Duw, there’s impressive,’ Sue said. ‘Always thought that stuff grew on trees. You free tomorrow, Red? The girls are picketing the pit.’
‘A women’s picket?’ Iwan said.
‘Thanks for the enthusiasm,’ Sue said. ‘Dewi bust a gasket. Said there’s no place for women on the line.’
‘He might have a point,’ Iwan said. ‘Been hairy out there, lately. Coppers bussed in from all over. They’re handy with their truncheons, the big-city pigs.’
‘We’re keeping it peaceful,’ Sue said. ‘There’ll be no argy-bargy.’
‘Might not be down to you, bach.’
Helen had no enthusiasm about joining the picket. But if she went, she’d make her point. Scrapper would have to see that she was serious. That she was willing to do her bit for the cause.
‘I’m in,’ she said.
‘No you don’t,’ Iwan said. ‘Dai Dumbells took a truncheon across the face last week. We’re packing lads off to hospital every day.’
Sue shuddered. Helen grabbed her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll look out for each other,’ she said.
She turned to see Scrapper in the kitchen doorway, eyes on him like flints.
***
He sat on the bedroom floor, wearing three sweaters, rifling through his leftover LPs. Joy Division blared from the stereo.
‘You’re not going, an’ that’s an end to it.’
He wouldn’t look at her. He was acting like a Victorian husband. It was unconvincing, sat like an outsized suit on his skinny frame.
‘I want to do my bit, Scrap.’
He turned the music up to drown out the sound of their voices. ‘You’re not to go, Red. Not in your condition. The last thing I need is you getting nicked.’
It was the final straw. For weeks, he’d acted as though the baby didn’t exist. Now he was using it against her. Every way she turned, he had her trapped. All the more reason to break free for a few hours. It was a chance to speak to Sue; she would know what to do.
‘Like you care about my condition,’ she said. ‘You want our baby dead.’
He got up, grabbed his jacket. ‘That’s low, Red.’
The back door slammed behind him.
***
She woke to the creaking of floorboards, to the icicle nudge of toes. Scrapper’s hair was thick with tobacco smoke, his breath sticky with cider. She lay still, wondered what to say to him. But he rolled away from her, already snoring. Next time she woke, he was creeping around the bedroom, getting ready to go out. She heard him shuffle arms and legs into clothes, scrape a comb through his hair. The bedroom door opened, closed. A mutter of voices. Then two pairs of boots clomped across the landing and down the stairs. She waited until she heard the back door close, then snapped on the bedside light and pulled on her clothes.
Her mam-in-law was standing on a kitchen chair, turning the sheets of pasta. Her hair hung down her back like seaweed, her face creased from sleep and worry.
‘How can I change your mind?’
‘You can’t.’
‘Is trouble today for sure.’
‘We’re not out for trouble. We’re showing that we support the lads.’
She downed her tea, went to the bathroom. What she saw wasn’t pretty: freckles dark against blue-white skin. Eyes shadowed purple. She patted on base and blusher, fixed her hair in a knot, on impulse, added a slap of red lipstick.
Her mam-in-law bit back a smile when she emerged. ‘Is a while since you put on your warpaint, bella.’
***
At ten to six, Mary Power pulled up in a scruffy VW camper. Her grey-blonde hair fluffed damply around her ears. Helen climbed in, greeted the dozen women inside, sat next to Sue. Mary fired up the engine, and they juddered down the High Street with a crunch of brakes and gears. The road was lined with parked cars, vans and minibuses, windows draped with union banners, placards and hand-drawn posters. Mary leaned on her horn. As they passed, the vehicles pulled out behind. Every car, van and bus had a woman behind the wheel. It was unusual, in Ystrad, to see a woman in the driving seat.
‘Bloody hell,’ Mary said. ‘Not bad for three days’ notice.’
The convoy stretched the length of the village as the minibus turned off the High Street. Helen squeezed her hands inside her gloves. Her parka, jumper and leggings offered scant protection against a morning that had teeth. Debbie sat alone, cheek pressed against the window. Her face was clammy. Helen felt sad for her, suddenly. She hadn’t found being pregnant hard, at least physically. Debbie looked to be struggling.
‘Heard about the baby,’ she said quietly. ‘Congratulations.’
Debbie flinched as though she’d been slapped. ‘You spiteful little bitch.’
‘Let’s raise us a tune, ladies,’ Sue’s voice was unexpectedly loud. ‘How about a blast of ‘Build A Bonfire’ to get us in the mood?’
‘Let’s not,’ Mary said.
No one took up the call to sing. Helen turned to Debbie again, but Sue tugged on her arm, started talking about Angela’s pasta. The bus emerged from the railway tunnel. Up ahead, a line of blue uniforms stretched across the pit gates. As they drew closer, Helen saw armoured bodies, standing three deep. Police vans lined the slope above, glinting in the half-light like rows of teeth.
‘Well, girls,’ Mary wrenched the handbrake. ‘Reckon they been expecting us.’
They climbed out of the van. Helen pulled her parka closer. The thin cotton was flimsy, her boots drank in mud and morning dew.
Sue pulled her aside. ‘What was that, with Debbie?’
‘Didn’t mean to upset her. Dewi said she’s expecting. Told us before Christmas. Is she not telling people yet?’
Sue sighed. ‘I could throttle Dewi Power. Look, Red; Debbie’s not pregnant.’
‘But we heard it from Dewi. He said—’
‘Debbie decided not to have it, Red. And Dai’s taken it bad.’
Helen clutched Sue, horrified. No wonder Debbie was so quiet. So cold.
‘Shit. I never meant—’
‘Leave it. I’ll explain to her.’
Now was the time to talk to Sue. This was her chance. But before she could begin, Mary had shouldered her megaphone.
‘Comrades, sisters,’ she shouted. ‘This is a non-violent picket. We’re here to show solidarity with the lads. Link arms, an’ follow me.’
The women drew together. Sue pulled Helen to the front to join Mary, behind them a dozen lines of women, everyone chanting.
‘Here we go, here we go, here we go. Here we go, here we go, here we go-o-oooo!’
Ahead of them, Helen saw the police line harden into a barricade of bodies and shields. Resin batons thudded on Perspex shields; slow, thuggish, brutal. Goosebumps studded her arms and legs. Her pace slowed to the truncheons’ beat. Mary halted a yard from the riot shields, raised her megaphone.
‘We are women from Ystrad an’ from all over Wales,’ she said. ‘We are here to make peaceful protest. Here in solidarity with the men.’
The drumming quickened.
A hoarse voice answered from inside the police lines. ‘You do not have permission to protest here. Your presence outside this pit is illegal. You must leave immediately, or we will arrest you for obstruction.’
Mary stretched on tip-toe, tried to look the speaker in the eye. ‘Blackthorn is our pit. We’re here to defend our pit and our community. We got every right to be here. Every right to protest. Ladies, make some noise.’
The chanting started up again; louder, more defiant. But the batons beat louder too,
and faster. Helen stared up at the policemen, saw narrowed eyes, faces creased from the weight of helmets and the tug of chin straps. The many pairs of visored eyes seemed to look right through her.
A light flared. Someone was filming the protesters from deep inside the line. As Helen blinked, dazzled, the riot shields slammed forwards. Bodies packed around her, crushing her ribs.
‘Ladies,’ the hoarse voice mocked. ‘You call yourselves ladies?’
‘They’re sluts,’ came another voice. ‘Scargill’s sluts. They think they got the balls to take us. Bunch of fuckin’ lezzies.’
A bellow of outrage rose from the brazier, where the men were gathered. Their placards bristled with outrage. The blue line stirred, bubbled, broke loose. Beyond the crush of bodies, Helen heard the sound of running feet, the thwack of truncheons, the shouts of the men. The sound echoed across the valley; cries of pain and fury, chanting, shouting. And she was caught in the middle of it all, crushed and trapped and scared.
As she squinted into the light, she heard the growl of an engine.
‘Shift girls,’ Sue yelled. ‘It’s the scabs.’
The police line softened for a moment; paused, hardened and drove forwards. The shields attacked in a v-formation. Helen lost her footing. As she struggled, a shuttered windscreen loomed over her. The cry went up.
‘Scab, scab, scab!’
As the bus drew closer, the police lines split for a second. She saw Scrapper on the far side of the road, a riot shield rammed into his face.
‘Red,’ he yelled. ‘Go home, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m fine,’ she shouted, but she could tell he hadn’t heard her.
The pit gates swung open. Helen looked up, saw a baton rise above her head. Instinct kicked in. She ducked as it slammed down. The woman behind her screamed a wounded animal scream. Terror kicked in then, for the baby, if not for herself. As the crush surged again, she clawed her way to the back of the crowd, her breath tearing at her lungs.
The scab minibus slipped through the crowd. Next to the driver sat Mr Albright, the pit manager, his face hidden behind a copy of The Times. Behind him, she made out two bodies huddled under blankets. As the gates slammed shut she saw the face pressed up against the back windscreen, mouthing insults through the glass. Stones and cans and bottles bounced off the grilles that covered the windscreen, thudded onto the roof, but her dad didn’t flinch.