by James Clarke
“Many police?” she said, washing the mugs under the tap with her finger. There was a huge dispatch force billeted past Strepley, not far from Fernside Grammar. Each bobby there was on a pocketful of twenties a day, Hertfordshire police in this case. Since they’d managed to persuade those scabs at Silverwood and elsewhere – Allerton and Brodsworth were two pits that sprang to mind – various billets like this had been stationed across the county now that the whole of Yorkshire had exploded.
“I’ll give you one guess,” said Arthur.
Shell didn’t need to guess. How much must it be costing the government to subject its people to this? No one around here had voted for them, yet they were the ones picking up the tab. They said Thatcher was the daughter of a grocer. Well, Shell couldn’t walk home with her own groceries these days without being pulled over by the police. Where you going? What you doing? Who you married to and where is he?
The bloody law with its bloody hands on her bloody hips, spinning her this way and that. There were stories about the dispatch forces. Only last month, in Armthorpe, there’d been hundreds of their vehicles stashed in the pit grounds, and quite rightly there had been a picket to try and stop it, only for the protesters to be charged, chased into town. You’d have thought that’d be the end of it but no, the police descended on the picketers, attacking them wherever they found them. Any householder who tried to help out was set upon, their home besieged, smashed up, civilians dragged to the vans along with the picketers, pulled through their own gardens, chucked down, beaten and detained. They said it was seven policemen to every prisoner. Armour, truncheons, the lot. Horses in front rooms. Dogs on the lawn. Saliva on the footstool and fat bastards in uniform stepping on Nanna’s hot water bottle.
Straight after that the police held a victory march through Armthorpe centre, half those responsible for the carnage dressed in boiler suits with no ID numbers, just as had been at Orgreave that day. There, the most violent had been dressed the same, a brutal lot, more army than police, like them in Belfast got. One minute Maggie was parading all over the Falklands, sinking her ships. The next she was giving the same treatment to her own people. Truly, these were strange times Shell was living in.
Arthur said, “Considering there were supposed to have been a tip-off at Kellworth, there were a hell of a lot at Woodthorpe an’ all. Whole set of police waiting at the bridge to Settle Lane. We’ve ended up running a mile or so back to try and get to the pit another way. Still pitch dark, love, lot of rain about. Here, mind fetching us another of them?”
Shell put a second pan of water on the hob. There was another moth. She opened the drawer to fetch a fresh teaspoon and saw the kitchen scissors, which took her back to the fetid rug and the fatty smell of its burning that day. Why did every memory become such a stone in her shoe?
“You keep your head down, don’t you?”
Arthur glanced at her. “Aye can’t have more than one of us wi’ form in cells. Lawrence’ll never come back.”
Not even realising he’d put his foot in it, Shell’s husband carried on as brazenly as a bluebottle. “We went through the forest instead. Mad in there, it were, we could see only ten yards in front, if that. We’ve come to the compound and bumped into another lot on picket who’ve had the same idea. They were waiting outside engine house when we found ’em, so that made a good few of us waiting for this sergeant to move on.
“We had to wait till he’d passed on his patrol, stripes on his arm, right here, clear as day he were that close, Shell, only Gordon’s taken his time in the woods, he’s slipped on his way to meet us and made a noise. Sergeant turns his head, blows his whistle. Next thing we know there’s a gang of forty coppers in riot gear coming our way. There were nowt to do but hold us hands up. They’ve had us rounded up in a circle and marched down the pit exit. Anyone lagging got an hiding, those that were making good pace an’ all for that matter. Then just as we’ve got near the main road, another load arrived. Bloody trap it were. Half the lads legged it into the car park only it were that dark and wet you could hardly see where you were going. They ran straight into a third squadron waiting wi’ batons. I managed to run the other way. No chance of going back to help bloody rest.”
He came with her for something to do. The welfare was full of the latest breakdown in peace talks. Things had been nearly sorted in July before Thatcher intervened, demanding the coal board toughen its stance, thus ruining any chance of a resolution. Two months on and no surprises. The Trade Union Congress had backfired so there was no chance of a general strike anymore, no coordinated support from the other unions that might have turned the tide. And now the dockers were back at work the ports were open, which was all the government were really bothered about. Winter was on its way. People said Thatcher had ordered millions of pounds worth of candles.
Shell left Arthur having a game of snooker and went to join the queue for the food parcels. The rented truck had visited that day: SOGAT were responsible for this latest regional donation. The NUM had been given a hundred grand at the start of August, and all over the county it had been feeding folk. Though, when that was totted up, it came, per Yorkshire miner, to less than two pound a family.
Shell stopped on the way for a nosey in the kitchen. Her peering through the serving hatch alerted Olive Butterworth to her presence. Olive was pouring water into Styrofoam cups arranged across a tray like an army of model soldiers. She wore a Litten Lady t-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash, Shell was tempted to say, as she tried to see what soup was brewing in the vat.
“Shell,” Olive cooed, blocking the hatch. She wore a ton of badges. She had been speaking at some of the local meetings, brandishing her puce son Matthew, who, if Olive had her way, was destined to become the latest in a line of fitters, the next generation of Brantford Butterworths. Easy to picture Smug-Arse’s bottom lip wobbling while she garnered all the applause. Palsied and quick, Olive’s eyes teary, the epicanthic robes of worthiness that at all times she draped herself in, plain to see.
“I wonder what we’re in for this week,” Shell said, nodding towards the parcel queue.
Olive handed her a cup that might as well have been a thimble. It contained orange squash. “Same old snap, unless you know something I don’t,” she said. “A rare delight having you show your face, Shell. Things picked up round yours, then, I take it?”
“Not especially, but I’m grand and ta for asking.”
“I heard your Lawrence is living at his gran’s.”
Shell didn’t rise to it.
“And Joyce is here an’ all.” Olive gestured across the room.
“Well, good for Joyce,” said Shell, automatically searching out Joyce’s mushroom head. Unlucky enough to make eye contact with the woman, she glanced at her shoes and raised her hand a touch.
“Seen Het of late?”
Olive’s nose wrinkled.
“Like you say, it’s been a while,” Shell added, too quickly.
“Comes in enough. On his own now an’ all, I see.”
“As well he might.”
Olive sprayed the hatch jamb and began to wipe it. “You’ll have heard he was nicked the other week.”
“What for?” said Shell, having to put her hand on the wall.
“Unlawful assembly.”
Shell couldn’t speak.
“Oh, aye. He’s made bail but you know how it is, they’ll have you confessing to all sorts. A mate of our Johnny were arrested up Orgreave an’ now he’s been charged with conspiracy to riot. Dragged out of picket, beaten black and blue. Now they’re charging him. What’s up, love?” Olive said. “You’ve gone all quiet.”
Shell joined the parcel queue. The woman at the front was going on about the rigmarole with the social. So far below, she said, were the families of those on strike shy of the forty pounds a week it was supposedly sufficient to live on, that it was almost funny. Shell blotted out the noise as
best she could. Her food parcel, when it came, contained potatoes, a loaf of bread and some jam. It tended to vary. Some days you might get a bag of sugar and beans. Other days it was soup, Yeoman pie filling tins and a tub of margarine. God, what Shell would have given for normal butter. It was the little things you noticed, in between the big stuff. A good job Arthur liked jam sandwiches, a good job it wasn’t raining and a good job Shell had a decent night’s sleep in her for once, otherwise she didn’t know what she’d do, she might have to sit down for a minute and be sick.
Het.
She touched her trimmed hair, cut for free the other month on a barstool set on a donated bedsheet here in the welfare. That was the last time she’d been seen out in public. Since Sheffield, Arthur had been collecting the food parcels, so how else was Shell supposed to know about Het? Probably Arthur had kept it from her, the conniving bastard.
She set aside those thoughts for the small hours. She was tired and poor Het. Done in and poor Het. And she missed her son. She’d shaved Lawrence’s head then upset him after he’d been kicked out of school, the poor thing. She was pretty sure he had no idea about what had gone on in Sheffield. No one knew about that apart from Joyce and Arthur, and Shell wasn’t about to broadcast it – people thought little enough of her as it was.
But she had to wonder if he’d heard. Why else would he act the way he did every time she went to see him? On her visits Lawrence acted so off, in fact, that Shell feared he still harboured suspicions as to her involvement with Het. Course Arthur had sworn to her that he’d convinced Lawrence of the truth . . . Shell didn’t believe him. Their boy was so morose, and he’d stood her up when she went to see him on at least three occasions now. There was no other way to explain it. ‘He just goes out,’ Arthur’s mother explained, looking so bloody pleased with herself, never mind that it was some way to see Shell being treated by her own flesh and blood. Never mind that it was some way to grin at your daughter-in-law, who was clearly upset while you polished your worktops. Lawrence could be dead in a ditch and all Helen could do was act high and mighty, informing Shell that three of her own she’d raised with the same freedoms and no harm had it done any of them.
No comment.
Shell had given Lawrence time. A season of his own accord before the strike finished and he signed up at Brantford, as she was certain that he would. In the meantime his departure was just another thing for her to endure, so she crouched by the convector heater and warmed herself like some vagabond.
The hot air comforted Shell’s exposed ankles, and for a moment there was nothing in her head, nothing at all. Then she realised this was exactly how she’d been made to crouch in Sheffield, the torchlight shining up between her legs.
She stood up so fast it made her feel faint. Now turn around, drop them knickers and squat. A teasel in her thoughts. She and Joyce in transit, rattling in cuffs. “Cheer up, ladies,” that blond copper had said, straight-backed, tough hands on tough knees, like some granite statue. His badge had a white rose on it, hung in the middle of a star.
DoB and fingerprints. Echoing corridors. Unflattering light. Shell had grown up trusting the police. They were supposed to help people, look after their community and protect what’s right. She was relieved her father would never hear about what happened; he was buried under a sober knoll by a neat red path at St Michael’s. She had laid tulips at his polished headstone the day after her arrest and confided to the grave about how embarrassed she was by the whole ordeal. She said she didn’t want any part in the strike now. She didn’t want to see people, hated her weakness, her place in the world.
Dad said not to fret. He always said what Shell needed to hear now that he was dead. Shell had touched the earth that covered his body, letting herself snivel a bit, her legs beginning to ache, kneeling down, but, for crying out loud, getting the knees of her jeans wet.
“Not a word Joyce. Serious.”
“But, Michelle!”
“You know what folk’ll say. Do you want everyone gossiping behind us backs? I’ve worry up to my eyeballs as it is.”
A cheer pitched and splashed now on the other side of the room, which seemed a far more worthwhile thing to dwell upon, better than the hollow walk to the bus stop, Joyce Stride’s sobs ringing in your ears. Arthur had his snooker cue raised, so Shell went over to him, joining in with the applause, on the way spotting a notice Sellotaped to the wall. They were running a charabanc to Skegness on Saturday and if anyone was interested in going, they should put their names down. She took the biro from her handbag. The Costa del Skeg. Arthur could bring the suncream.
Saturday.
Shell stuffed the blankets and towels into a rucksack along with some jam sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and carefully slid some magazines she liked into her handbag so they wouldn’t spoil. Under her arm was a beach windbreaker, in her purse the money Si Gaskell had advanced her. He’d agreed to knock it off her wage, which was good of him, so when he brushed past her on his way to the oven as she was cashing up at the till, she let him get away with leading with his crotch: his rotten reward.
The family time would be worth it. The plan was for Arthur to fetch Lawrence from his gran’s, while in the meantime Shell would catch the bus to Wolton where they’d all meet. A number of families were already in the WMC car park by the time Shell arrived. They hadn’t the weather yet, though at this hour you couldn’t be sure of what was in store. The optimistic had their swimwear with them but Shell didn’t fancy the water. Thinking of all that space below got on top of her.
The mustard and white charabanc arrived, an old fashioned thing. She tried to see if anyone she knew had scratched their names on the backs of the chairs as the driver started to load people’s bags into the hold. She wouldn’t let him touch her luggage. There was no way a stranger was handling her family’s stuff.
Soon the vehicle was full and people were impatient to be setting off. No sign of Arthur and Lawrence. Shell stood by the front doors and scrutinised the road. She’d specified the time. She’d definitely told them.
Wolton was on the other side of the pit, smaller than Litten but larger than Strepley. Shielding her eyes, Shell could see Brantford’s headgear, the stilled winder and the corner of the massive hopper, the dust-slaked cableway that ran skips of spoil to the looming heaps on the other side of the valley. Although the pit wasn’t operating, the smell of methane, sulphur and coal smoke still lingered, and Shell could feel the prickle of coal dust on her skin. She glanced at the coach and spotted some nosy hag staring at her, which was all she needed. She stormed over and knocked on the window. “I know very well the time,” she called. “Think I can’t see you crowing there, you old bat?”
She spat on the kerb weeds and sparked a fag. Fluctuating light refracted off the windshield of the coach, reflected no son, no husband and certainly no apology. The driver asked if she was coming or not. They’d to get a move on if they were to miss the traffic. Shell said she’d be with him, her family had been held up.
“Would you mind giving us another minute?”
“I’ll give you two.”
Shell barged into the WMC. One for the synapses, the place reeked of bleach, had a pine-effect tiled dancefloor, seating round its edges and a tan haemorrhage staining the ceiling, from either damp or cigarette tar, Shell wasn’t sure which. A pair of dart boards were hung on a wall. Shell tripped on one of the board’s rubber runways in her hurry to ask the barmaid if she could leave a message in case anyone called for her.
Another repeat of them showing her up. She was getting that laddered feeling again and had to breathe through her nose as she wrote:
Dear Lawrence and Arthur
I’ve gone on my own
Sort tea yourselves
Mam.
The nib of the pencil broke as Shell drove it into the paper to impress the full stop. “Two blokes, about yea big,” she told the barmaid. “Same face, one
grey, one a boy: hesitant buggers when they want to be.”
She handed the girl the note.
“Tell ’em I were here. Give them that.”
People clapped her onto the coach and the engine battled into life. Shell shoved her things down the aisle and propped them in her lap as she dropped into the only available seat and tipped her head back to catch her breath. She was so angry and disappointed she could cry.
“You look flustered.”
It was Het.
“Well shift over and let me chase my breath then,” Shell managed to say, then stood up so he couldn’t see her face.
She hoisted her belongings into the overhead compartment then sat once she’d composed herself. Het fit uneasily into the space next to her. He looked as cramped as a Great Dane in a Wendy house.
“I’ve Racing Post if you need a fan,” he said.
“Must be desperate times if you’re resorting to that.”
“It were already on the seat.” Het smiled, handing it over.
Shell wafted herself with the paper. It had been spilled on so was crinkled funny. “When did you get here, anyway?” she said.
“About a minute before you.”
“Did you see us name on t’lists or summat?”
Het didn’t answer. As he took the bag Shell hadn’t been able to fit into the overhead compartment and set it on the floor between his feet, Shell grit her teeth. Her mouth wanted sewing shut sometimes.
“Just a shock to see you,” she said.
“Been an age since I’ve seen the beach,” Het replied, changing the subject. “And as I can’t picket, I thought why not.”
“I only just heard.”
“Don’t worry,” he said swiftly. “I’ve been looking forward to this actually. Bit of sunshine.” He might have lost weight, and his hair had less wax in it. “You not wi-?”
“No.”