Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded, going on the attack too. ‘You never said owt about going out.’

  ‘I’m meeting Carol,’ Kelly replied curtly, ‘and don’t go changing the subject.’

  ‘You must be daft if you think I’d cross a bloody picket line,’ Sid snapped. ‘Life wouldn’t be worth living around here if I did, you know that as well as I do.’

  ‘The sooner this is all settled the better.’

  ‘I agree with you there,’ Sid sighed and put his feet up on the coffee table. He flicked on the TV while Kelly reached for her bag and checked it for cigarettes. ‘Where you going? I might join you later.’

  Kelly waved a hand vaguely. ‘Oh, we haven’t decided yet.’

  Sid gave her a bleak look. Til probably go down the club later and see what’s happening.’

  ‘Aye, do that,’ Kelly answered and hurried out.

  Sid went into the kitchen and helped himself to a can of lager, wondering why Mick had never mentioned that Carol was seeing Kelly that evening. The sweetness of Kelly’s perfume still hung in the room and Sid felt suddenly very alone and empty. He would have to put a stop to Kelly’s disappearances and the money she seemed to spend too easily, whether there was a strike or not. Sid banged down his full can on the coffee table where it frothed angrily. He would go and seek company at the club, he decided, since he couldn’t find it here. Pushing on his boots, he stormed out of their quiet semi-detached house. They had bought Number Six, the Birches, two years ago on the small development after the 1920s Coliseum cinema had been pulled down, but he had never thought of it as home.

  That Saturday, loud-hailers were heard around the close streets and back lanes of Brassbank, announcing a meeting at the Welfare that evening. Carol knew from Mick that his father was going to speak as union branch delegate and she was curious to hear him.

  ‘Come and help me in the kitchen,’ Lotty suggested when Carol raised the matter of going. ‘We’ll put tea on afterwards. Our Val can stop in with Laura.’

  Carol was pleased that her mother-in-law had suggested it, but she was quite unprepared for the sight that evening. People had come in from the surrounding villages and the car park was overflowing, with cars lining the length of the high street. As she helped Lotty fill the large urn, she glanced out at the packed hall and said, ‘This’ll never make enough tea for all that lot.’

  ‘They’ll not all want tea,’ Lotty laughed and busied herself putting out cups and saucers.

  When the meeting began, Carol squeezed into the hall, noticing the overflow of people listening through the open doors at the back. The branch secretary had already spoken, but there was a lot of calling and grumbling from the assembled miners. Then Charlie Todd got up to speak and Carol could see her small, thickset father-in-law standing with fists gripped like a fighter. His voice carried across the restless crowd.

  ‘Comrades! This is going to be the most important meeting of your working lives, believe me. This isn’t just to decide about Cortonwood or any other pit, it’s a fight for the union - our union!’

  ‘He’s telling lies!’ someone shouted from the depths of the heaving mass.

  ‘Not a word of a lie!’ Charlie shouted back and stabbed the air with his finger. ‘Cortonwood is just a test for us to see if we’ll stand up for our livelihoods. If they can close Cortonwood saying its coal is too expensive then they can close any pit on economic grounds.’

  ‘Never Brassbank!’

  ‘Aye, even Brassbank! They’re testing our loyalty to the NUM, and if we fail we might as well close down the morra. ‘Cos if you don’t back the union, why should management listen to us?’

  ‘We should only strike for pay, like we did in seventy-two and seventy-four,’ another member shouted. ‘That’s what the union’s for. This doesn’t affect us.’

  ‘By God it does! This is more important than striking for pay,’ Charlie insisted. ‘We’re fighting here for the right to work - for us and for our sons and our grandsons! Cortonwood was closed overnight with no review and no consultation - no redundancy notice. Men had been transferred there only in December and told they had a secure future. Now they’re out on their ear in a couple of weeks’ time. And that’s just the start of it, the beginning of a massive pit closure programme, just like Arthur Scargill told us. Don’t trust their promises that your jobs are safe, it means nowt. The only thing you can rely on is what our leadership is telling you.’

  ‘We should have a ballot to decide before we strike,’ one miner grumbled, ‘not be forced out by Yorkshire’s flying pickets.’

  Charlie dealt with him sharply. ‘We had a ballot back in eighty-one to take strike action if any pit was closed for reasons other than seam exhaustion - eighty-six per cent in favour. That’s our mandate and a bloody overwhelming one!’

  ‘That was then,’ the dissenter persisted.

  ‘Listen, comrade,’ Charlie urged, his face passionate, ‘we’ll be up against the whole establishment just like in twenty-six and seventy-four - not just the NCB, but the Government and all its muscle. They want to break us because we miners stand up for ourselves and have the most effective union in the country. We have two centuries of struggle behind us, remember. We had to fight the coal owners for every improvement in wages and conditions and we finally beat them when we got nationalisation thirty-seven years ago. And why did we win? ‘Cos we had a bloody good union who fought for us all the way! But the Government would have us back to the bad old days, given half a chance. The Tories still hate us for bringing them down in seventy-four. Priva-tisation is already creeping into the industry by the back door, giving over contracts to private firms where union men would’ve been employed before.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ the heckler scoffed. ‘They’d never privatise the mines again.’

  ‘Shut up and let him speak!’ another jostled.

  ‘If the NUM is broken, that’s what you’ll get,’ Charlie insisted. ‘Privately owned mines and profit put before the safety of the men. And don’t think they’ll have anything to do with union members either. Listen, you daft bugger, it’s only a generation since the coal owners ruled our lives. Look around the graveyards of County Durham and see how many men were killed in their pits, the names on the monuments - our forefathers - thousands of them! I tell you now, this generation of union men is never going to allow privatisation back!’

  Carol noticed a shift in the crowd; they were listening now. It was as if Charlie had struck a sudden chord of unity, conjured up the memories of their collective past. Carol could almost sense the ghosts of their forefathers standing amongst them, willing them to take heed. She felt a prickle down the back of her neck as she listened with them and Charlie intoned like a prophet at the far end of the hall.

  Tonight the choice is yours,’ he told them. ‘If you vote against strike action you’ll be throwing away everything your fathers and grandfathers fought and died for. You’ll be the murderers of our industry, not just killing your own job but those of the men beside you. And there will be no jobs to pass on to your sons. Think what that will mean to our communities - you’ll be killing them off too. Make the wrong decision now and you’ll spend the rest of your life on the dole regretting it. But endorse the decision of Council to strike from Monday and we stand a chance!’ he urged. ‘Scotland and Wales have already agreed, Kent and Derbyshire will be joining too, and the rest will be picketed out. Don’t let our enemies trick you into demands for more ballots when we already have our mandate. The one real bond of comradeship we all share as union men is that we never ever cross the picket line, and that’s how we’ll get the others to join us, those who think they don’t need to fight for their jobs and who can’t see beyond their next pay packet. We’ll picket them out quickly and bring the strike to a swift end. Remember the victories of seventy-two and seventy-four.’

  Charlie lifted his fist in a salute that reminded Carol of the picture of Lenin on the Brassbank lodge banner that hung on the wall behind him, rall
ying the workers to action.

  ‘Brothers, your jobs - the very future of our families and villages - are at stake. Like it says on our banner: “Never Stand Alone!” Well, we won’t, we’ll be with our pitmen comrades. The fight-back has started, lads, so let’s get into it!’

  The hall burst into a thunder of applause and whistling and Carol felt her heart beating fast. She was quite overwhelmed by his words. All her life she had lived in this village, but it was as if she had gone around with her eyes closed, oblivious to its realities.

  The pit had always been there, humming and clanking away, and the pitmen had come and gone from it like the tide lapping in and out on the beach below. She could not imagine Brassbank without it and it had never really occurred to her that such a catastrophe could come about. But now she saw how important it all was to her and Mick and his family - to Laura and her generation now growing up in the pit’s shadow. It was their lifeblood, their prosperity, their inheritance - their future. Carol knew then that she was going to have to fight for it too.

  The men were taking a show of hands and Carol could only count five or six miners out of the hundreds there still opposed to strike action. She was dismayed to see that one of them was Sid Armstrong. But there was overwhelming support for Charlie and the other officials. As the hall broke into a cacophony of excited talk, Carol turned to look at Lotty and saw the older woman’s bright eyes swimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, Carol!’ she cried.

  They stepped towards each other without a word and hugged each other tight. Carol realised with surprise that the wetness on her cheeks was from her own tears. She was fearful yet exultant. For the first time, she felt like a Todd - and proud of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first week of the strike seemed unreal to Carol. Mick no longer went off to the routine shifts underground. The locker rooms and lamp room remained silent and the cutting machines idle as the men stayed at home or gathered at the Welfare Hall. Mick took Laura to school the first day, but by the second he had volunteered for picket duty and was out early in the morning. His father spent every waking hour at the Welfare, trying to organise picketing and sorting out the miners’ benefit problems.

  ‘The lads on strike can’t claim owt,’ Mick told her, ‘but the Social are deducting fifteen pounds from the benefits the families are claiming.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Carol asked, dumping down a bag full of groceries and debating what to make for tea.

  ‘Cos the Government are saying we’re getting fifteen pounds each in strike pay,’ Mick growled.

  ‘But none of you are getting any strike pay!’ Carol flopped down.

  ‘Exactly. If we paid that amount out, the union would be bankrupt in weeks. But that’s what the DHSS are saying,’ Mick sighed. ‘Some families will be living on next to nowt, once their savings are gone.’

  ‘Good God!’ Carol said in annoyance. ‘Do they really intend to starve people back to work like they did in twenty-six? It’s barbaric.’

  ‘The union will do what they can to help out,’ Mick answered sombrely, ‘but it’s going to be hard.’

  ‘Thank goodness for me job at the shop,’ Carol said and got up. Mick didn’t answer, but switched on the TV news.

  As she busied herself in the kitchen, Mick shouted in, ‘Can you make up some bait an’ all?’

  ‘What for?’ Carol asked, coming into the sitting room and seeing pictures of dozens of police arrayed around the gates of some pit. The newscaster was announcing that the NCB had successfully sought an injunction against ‘flying pickets’. From now on pickets had to be confined to their own pits. “The Nottinghamshire police are being reinforced by men from five other areas . . .”

  ‘I’m driving some of the lads down to Ollerton tonight,’ Mick said quietly.

  Carol looked at him worriedly. ‘But they’ve just said—’

  ‘The union in Nottingham have asked for our help,’ Mick interrupted. ‘They think we might be able to persuade some of the lads who are crossing the picket line to stop. There’s a lot of Durham pitmen went down there in the sixties who we think’ll listen to us.’

  ‘That’s if the police let you anywhere near them,’ Carol snorted. ‘And that doesn’t look likely.’ She waved at the television.

  ‘We’ve got to try,’ Mick insisted. ‘There’s only a handful of pits still working anywhere, and we’ve not been on strike a week yet.’

  Carol felt the old tension inside that she experienced when Mick went underground. ‘I wish you could just picket locally - there’s no bother at all with the police here.’

  ‘Aye, that’s why we can let Grandda and the other pensioners picket in Brassbank while we go further afield.’

  ‘Are you enjoying this?’ Carol asked in surprise.

  Mick’s look was boyish. ‘It reminds me of when I first went picketing in seventy-two - kipping on people’s floors, listening to “Maggie Mae” on the radio. All the lads together.’

  Carol sighed. ‘I just remember the telly going off early and filling me bedroom with candles. I hope this one’s over as quickly.’

  Mick took her hand. ‘Well, we’re never going to win if we stay at home, pet,’ he said and smiled in reassurance, ‘and we are ganin’ to win.’

  That night Carol lay awake after Mick had crept out of the house at 2 a.m. She heard the car engine start up and listened as it grew fainter down the back lane. She imagined him meeting up with the other young men on the chilly steps outside the Welfare, sharing a cigarette, whispering jokes and encouragement. Lotty might be there making them hot drinks before they set off, for Carol knew that her mother-in-law was spending all her free time down at the hall, helping her husband. She had astonished them all by buying a moped so she could come and go on errands and bring Charlie meals while he spent long hours organising the men.

  Mick had laughed. ‘She’s always had her eye on a motorbike since I got mine.’

  Carol tossed and turned in the empty bed and was finally on the verge of sleep when a small, ghostly figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Laura?’ Carol called softly.

  The little girl padded quickly to the bedside and pulled at the covers.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’s gone to meet some of his friends, pet.’ Carol put out a comforting arm. ‘They’ve got work to do.’

  ‘But Louise Dillon says our daddies aren’t working any more,’ Laura said, puzzled.

  ‘Not at the pit, but they’ve got plenty to do still.’

  ‘Can I sleep in your bed tonight?’ Laura asked. ‘There’s a dinosaur under mine.’

  Carol smiled in the dark. ‘Won’t Teddy be lonely?’

  Laura waved her battered bear in triumph. ‘He wants to sleep in your bed too.’

  Carol relented and pulled back the covers. It was probably the wrong decision and she might find Laura in their bed every night from now on, but at that moment she wanted the comfort of her daughter’s warm body beside her as much as Laura wanted her reassurance.

  They snuggled down together with Teddy and sleep came quickly.

  By the time Carol went to collect Laura from school, Mick was home, tired and foul-tempered.

  ‘They turned us back at the county border - couldn’t get anywhere near Ollerton! There were van loads of them and roadblocks everywhere,’ he fumed. ‘It was unbelievable. We even got stopped on the Al and questioned. One copper told me he’d take me car keys off us and we could all walk home if I didn’t turn round and eff off back to Durham right then. It was like something you see on the telly about a police state - I couldn’t believe it was happening just a couple of hours away from our own doorstep! What happened to freedom of movement and citizens’ rights all of a sudden?’

  Carol listened to him vent his frustration until the evening news came on.

  ‘Listen, they’re saying something about Ollerton,’ she interrupted.

  They watched in amazement and then with mounting horror a
s they saw the angry rows of pickets, arm in arm, attempting to block the hundreds of police bringing in the day shift. There was jostling to and fro and a lot of shouting and then snapshots of violence that made Carol’s stomach churn. This cut to an announcement from the Home Secretary, Leon Brittan, that three thousand more police were on standby from seventeen different forces, who would be given what power they needed to stop vehicles and people coming into Nottinghamshire.

  Carol and Mick looked at each other as the ominous words sunk in.

  ‘They’re so organised,’ Carol said, quite stunned. ‘It’s as if... Oh, Mick, I’m glad you didn’t get through today.’

  He looked at her with steely blue eyes. ‘Maybes not today, but by heck we’ll try again!’

  For the next few days, Mick was sent on picketing duties to pits in the area and to the power station at Blyth where they had success in turning back union drivers. The rail unions rallied to their support and were severely hampering the movement of coal stocks.

  ‘Just like in twenty-six,’ Grandda Bowman told Carol when he stopped by for a cup of tea after picketing at the pit gates. She would hear him whistling through the gaps in his teeth as he came in the back yard, bent over his stick like the crooked man in Laura’s nursery rhyme book. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. The banter with the local police appeared friendly and he sometimes came away with bars of chocolate and sandwiches for his dinner.

  ‘That brother of yours - what’s his name?’ he wheezed.

  ‘Simon?’ Carol queried.

  ‘Aye, Simon. He gave me a packet of tabs yesterday. Canny lad.’

  Carol thought cigarettes were the last thing the old man should be receiving with his bronchial chest, but she was pleased by the gesture. She had not seen her brother since the strike started; in fact she had avoided seeing any of her family, knowing how awkward it might be for Mick. But she knew that sooner or later she would have to face them all.