Durham Trilogy 03. Never Stand Alone

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Later, a solicitor came and insisted they were transferred to an exercise yard where they could breathe and move about more easily. It was at this point that Mick was taken away to be interviewed.

  He was put in a stark room with a plainclothes policeman who did not give his name or say a word. They sat for ten minutes until another plainclothes officer came in. The interrogator lit a cigarette and blew smoke at Mick.

  ‘You’re from Brassbank in County Durham. How did you get down here?’

  ‘On a bus,’ Mick said wearily.

  ‘Whose bus?’

  ‘Proud’s. They’re local—’ Mick suddenly broke off. Why did he want to know that?

  ‘Where did you stay last night?’

  Mick did not reply. He was certainly not going to get the kind Kirkups into trouble.

  ‘You’ve done a lot of picketing, haven’t you?’

  ‘Have I?’ Mick scowled.

  ‘How do you get your instructions?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Mick snapped. ‘I demand my right to a phone call. Me wife doesn’t know where I am.’

  The man smiled. ‘Ah, yes, your wife.’ He picked up the photograph of Carol and Laura confiscated earlier. Mick’s stomach twisted at the sight of the two of them on a swing smiling straight at him. ‘We’ll make sure she’s told where you are. Nice kid. What’s her name?’

  ‘Laura,’ Mick said automatically, then felt suddenly vulnerable that this man knew his daughter’s name.

  ‘I remember when my little girl was that age - can’t see enough of them, can you? Pretty wife too. Must be awful having to go away from them so often. Do you really think there’s any point picketing away from home?’ His voice had become sympathetic, confiding. He almost whispered, ‘Geordies like you aren’t troublemakers, not like the Scots and the Yorkies. You’re naturally law-abiding, hard-working, salt of the earth. You don’t owe these people down here anything. All they’ve done is get you into trouble.’

  Mick stared at him hard, resenting the man’s patronising air. Not for a moment was he taken in by the crude attempt to set him against his comrades. Unity is strength, he heard his father’s voice echo in his mind.

  ‘The police have caused the trouble,’ Mick answered bullishly.

  The officer drew back and paused while he smoked. When he spoke again his tone was more businesslike. ‘How are you managing without any money coming in? You must be in debt by now. Three months’ wages down the can. You’ll never make it up again. Admirable loyalty.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘But is it deserved? I mean, are you picketing for yourself or for this leader of yours, Scargill?’

  Mick was drawn. ‘For all of us. It’s one and the same thing.’

  The two officers smiled at each other as if he had said something amusing. ‘I disagree with you there. You see, Scargill doesn’t care about your welfare. He’s not a real union man like Gormley was. Gormley got results, he knew how to negotiate. Your Scargill’s just a political wrecker. He’s using you for his own political ends, manipulating you to try and bring down the Government.’

  ‘Read that in the Tory press, have you?’ Mick laughed in scorn.

  ‘What newspaper do you read?’ the man asked him quickly.

  ‘Local one.’

  ‘Does it tell you how Scargill lives in the lap of luxury while you struggle to pay your mortgage and eat? Does it tell you that your precious leader has a chauffeur while you foot soldiers are having to sell your cars because you can’t afford to run them any more? No, of course it doesn’t. Because you’d all go back to work tomorrow if you knew how you were being led by the nose.’ He leaned closer, eyeballing Mick. ‘How do you feel about Arthur being paid out of union money - your subs - when you’re not even getting any strike pay?’

  Mick felt contempt for the man before him and his attempt to demonise their union president. He could see how such arguments were being used every day to alienate the public from their cause, but he had met Scargill in person at the Quarryhill rally and did not doubt the man’s sincerity in trying to save their jobs. They needed a strong leader to stand up to the forces ranged against them, embodied in men like the detective in front of him.

  But the man had needled him. Mick answered, ‘The union would be bankrupted in weeks if everyone got strike pay. But we’re not in this for the money; we’re in it to save the future of our industry. If the Government hadn’t rigged the benefits against our families, we wouldn’t be in such debt. But we’re prepared to suffer to keep our pits open. People like you should be grateful that the miners of this country are willing to stand up and fight for our coal instead of supporting a government that brings in foreign coal at any price. Shut down our pits and that’s British coal gone for ever.’

  His questioner gave him a dismissive look as if he was not worth listening to. ‘Lots of miners secretly believe there should be a national ballot but are too afraid to say so.’

  Mick snorted. ‘How the hell do you know what miners really think? You wouldn’t be asking me all these questions if you did.’

  For the first time the interrogator let his annoyance show. ‘You lost a lot of public sympathy by striking without one,’ he snapped.

  ‘We had our mandate for strike action,’ Mick answered staunchly. ‘If we waited for the Tory press to give us their blessing, no buggers would ever go on strike at all. Miners have always stood up for what they believed in and fought for their rights. If they hadn’t, we’d still be in the dark ages of private pits and no union representation.’

  The officer rounded on him. ‘What do you vote in general elections?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Mick replied.

  ‘Are you a communist, Todd?’

  ‘I’m a socialist - and a Newcastle supporter,’ Mick said mockingly.

  ‘Your father’s a communist, isn’t he? A delegate.’ He thrust his face close, threateningly. ‘He organises the Brassbank pickets, doesn’t he?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me father?’ Mick was growing impatient too. How did this man know about his family anyway? ‘And why have I got to listen to a Tory political broadcast? Am I being charged with holding political beliefs that don’t agree with yours?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be charged, don’t worry.’ He stubbed out his cigarette violently in the metal ashtray. ‘Breach of the peace, threatening behaviour, carrying an offensive weapon. I’ll throw the lot at you. You’re in the shit, Todd!’ Turning, he stormed out of the room.

  Late that night they were herded on to buses and confined in narrow metal cells until they reached the magistrates’ court. To Mick’s dazed amazement he saw crowds of supporters thronging the building and shouting encouragement to the men as they were escorted away. It lifted his spirits.

  He was crammed into a dark old cell with a dozen others and waited again. It was the endless dead time of hanging around that was the worst to cope with, Mick thought. Dan kept close by him all the time, but said nothing. Finally they were led out along a dingy corridor and up into the courthouse. Three other men emerged from a cell behind them. As they climbed the steps, they passed other miners descending.

  ‘Mick, lad!’ a familiar voice called.

  Squinting in the dimness, Mick recognised his uncle. ‘Eddy! What’s the score?’

  ‘Doing us in job lots, marra. Magistrates get to bed quicker that way,’ he joked.

  They were herded on and Eddy disappeared into the gloom below. But just the sight of his cheerful uncle gave Mick the strength to hold up his head and face what lay ahead. As they entered the court, Dan mumbled suddenly, ‘Thanks for sticking up for me today.’

  Mick glanced at him in surprise. That’s all right, marra,’ Mick smiled and went ahead.

  It was over quickly and without much formality. They were handed out charge sheets in the court and hardly questioned. All sixteen were dealt with at the same time and released on bail on condition that they did not go within one mile of Orgreave or visit any premises of the Coal Board, Bri
tish Steel or the Central Electricity Generating Board. A curfew from eight till eight was also imposed.

  Mick was too tired and too relieved to be released to think about the restrictions imposed on them, until they were outside.

  That’s an end to picketing for us,’ Marty Dillon sighed.

  ‘And to any social life,’ Eddy grimaced. ‘Not that I can afford one now.’

  ‘Hey,’ Marty laughed unexpectedly, ‘if we cannot gan on any Coal Board property then half of us cannot gan home the night! It’ll be a tent in Captain Lenin’s garden for you and me, Eddy.’

  ‘Aye,’ Eddy agreed, ‘tucked up by eight o’clock with a few cans from the Captain’s cellar. By! Do you think we could gan back to court and ask them to extend our bail?’

  Mick broke into their fantasising. ‘Anyone thought how we’re going to get home first?’

  Dan stood shivering beside him. He had not spoken a word since they had been transported to the court. But he nudged Mick and gestured towards a group of police standing at the bottom of the court steps. They were in shadow.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mick asked.

  Dan grunted, ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’

  Mick peered again into the dark. Something about the way one of them was standing, the glint of street light on his bald head ... It was Bob, the miner who had befriended them at breakfast, now an age ago. But he was chatting casually with the policemen around him, sharing a joke. All at once, Mick’s incomprehension over Bob’s aggressive behaviour at Orgreave became clear. The man had attached himself to their group and drawn information out of them about their families and village as skilfully as any detective and later he had been the one to incite them to violence on the picket line. Was it possible he was a policeman? One of the agent provocateurs that were rumoured to be at work amongst them?

  Mick swore in fury. ‘I’m going to have it out with him, the bastard!’

  Eddy stood in his way and Marty caught his arm.

  ‘Haway, man. We’re in enough trouble as it is,’ Eddy warned. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

  Before Mick had time to protest there was a shout across the street. Someone came running towards them through the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘It’s Sid!’ Eddy cried in delight.

  ‘All right, marras?’ Sid asked them cheerfully.

  ‘What you doing here?’ Mick asked in amazement.

  ‘Come to collect you buggers,’ Sid answered. ‘Borrowed Dimarco’s van. Been hanging around for hours. Wouldn’t let me in the court.’

  ‘You’ve been inside them enough recently,’ Marty teased him. ‘Time you gave someone else a bit of the limelight.’

  ‘Dimarco’s given me some sandwiches and cans for you to scoff on the way back,’ Sid told them.

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Eddy grinned.

  ‘Did you come all this way on your own?’ Mick asked, walking beside his friend.

  ‘Na, Freddie Burt’s with us.’

  ‘Hurry up then,’ Marty said, quickening his step, ‘else there’ll be nowt left to drink.’

  Mick smiled and clapped Sid on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, marra.’

  ‘Fancied a trip out,’ Sid answered. ‘Breaks the boredom. But you’ll soon find out about that now you’re picketing days are over.’

  They arrived back in the early hours of the morning, as grey light was seeping into the sky over the North Sea. Mick had to be woken and he felt stiff and disorientated as he climbed out of the van outside the Welfare Hall, yet he was thankful to smell the freshness of an onshore breeze and see the familiar outline of Brassbank’s steep streets huddled around him. They tramped into the hall and there was a yelp of delight and welcome from the tired lodge members and family relations who had kept vigil all night.

  Charlie came up and clapped his son on the shoulder and Lotty threw her skinny arms round her son in relief.

  ‘Have you eaten anything? By, look at that black eye! Have they tret you badly?’ she fussed over him.

  ‘I’m all right, Mam,’ Mick smiled wearily. ‘Where’s Carol?’

  A voice spoke behind him. ‘She came down earlier. She’ll be relieved to see you safely back.’

  Mick turned to see the journalist, Pete Fletcher, smiling at him, his face fashionably unshaven. Mick’s immediate reaction was disappointment that Carol was not here to meet him, he had somehow visualised her being there. Then he felt annoyance that this outsider should be the one to tell him.

  Lotty added quickly, ‘She had to get back to let Denise home - she was minding Laura. She only went an hour or so ago. You get yourself off home and we can hear about it all when you’ve had some sleep.’

  Mick nodded. He was utterly exhausted. He was too tired and too confused by the day’s events to make sense of them yet. The memory of the riot and the arrest, the interrogation and the series of dismal cells appeared jumbled in his mind, each nagging for attention like toothache.

  ‘Aye, I’ll see you in the morning,’ Mick said, turning to leave.

  Pete padded after him. ‘Good to see you back, Mick. Perhaps I could call and interview you at some stage. Carol thought it would be a good idea.’

  Mick’s irritation rose. ‘Listen, all I want to do is gan home and see me wife. Just stay out me way till I’ve had some kip, do you hear?’

  The two men held each other’s look but Mick could not make out what the reporter was thinking behind his spectacles. Mick turned away first.

  By the time he reached home he felt deflated and almost too tired to speak. He found Carol asleep on the settee under a blanket, her brown hair spread across a cushion. As he approached, she woke up and at once flung her arms round him.

  ‘Mick! I was so worried.’ He heard the tears in her voice and hugged her tight.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered and kissed her head. ‘But I’m back now.’

  It was too dark for Carol to see his bruising, but he winced when she touched the cut above his eye.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ she asked angrily.

  ‘Nothing that can’t be mended,’ Mick assured her. But black memories of the day sprang up at once to plague him. He held Carol tightly to him as if she could keep them at bay. ‘Come on, let’s get to bed before Laura’s awake.’

  Carol kissed him tenderly. ‘I’m proud of you, Mick. They can say what they like on telly about you lads. But when this is all over they’ll be calling you heroes not criminals. You stood up for us all today and that makes me so proud.’

  Mick kissed her swiftly and then turned away in case she saw the tears in his eyes. If only she realised that it was her who gave him strength. It had been the thought of her that had kept him going all day and made him hold out under interrogation. And he wondered fearfully what it would take to break that strength. To what further lengths would they have to be pushed before it was all over?

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Look at this!’ Mick waved the letter at her, his unshaven face livid.

  Carol paused from packing Laura’s sandshoe bag with her shorts and T-shirt for the end of term sports day. Blustery clouds raced past the kitchen window and she wondered if the rain would hold off until the afternoon. Laura was hopping about excitedly at the thought of the races and games in the football field and Carol so wanted the children to have a fun afternoon. She wanted it for the parents too, the mothers who could not afford any other treats for their children and the fathers with endless time on their hands this summer.

  ‘Don’t just ignore me,’ Mick shouted again. ‘It’s from your bloody father!’

  At the sound of Mick’s raised voice, Laura scarpered outside and went to wait for Louise and Mark to pass by. Carol knew that Mick’s bad temper upset the girl and she felt annoyance at his thoughtlessness. She took the offending letter irritably.

  It was an invitation to Mick to return to work, promising generous bonus payments and holiday entitlement if he did so. There had been similar persuasions in the national newspapers, with full-page adverti
sements enticing the men to go back. But this letter had her father’s signature on it and Carol felt her blood boil.

  ‘Just ignore it,’ she said, crushing the letter into a ball and throwing it towards the empty grate. ‘It’s not worth the paper it’s written on. You shouldn’t take it so personally, all the men will have had one.’

  ‘Course it’s personal.’ Mick paced around the room. Carol noticed that his muscly body was turning to flab with too little exercise and too much stodgy food at the soup kitchen. ‘I can ignore it, but will all the others?’ he demanded. ‘People are getting desperate for money. Marty says they’re putting their house up for sale before they get repossessed.’

  Carol could feel the cloud of anxiety hanging over her husband. ‘People will manage. We’re getting in funds all the time from other unions and sympathisers - even from abroad. And we’ve got the trip to London coming up.’

  Mick swung round. ‘You’re not going away again, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean again?’ Carol snapped back. ‘I’ve never gone away overnight before. Anyway, I told you about this last week.’

  ‘You’re out all the time for the Women’s Group - shaking buckets in Durham, picketing workshops. I don’t know where you are half the time.’

  ‘I always tell you where I’m going,’ Carol protested. ‘It’s you who doesn’t listen any more.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like being cooped up here all day with nowt to do,’ he complained, ‘while you go swanning off.’

  ‘I know exactly what it’s like,’ Carol replied. ‘I’ve been doing it long enough. Except when you used to come home the house would be tidy and the washing done and your meal on the table. What do I find when I get back from tramping round town rattling a bucket and taking abuse in the streets? A pigsty, that’s what! Why can’t you lend a hand a bit more instead of moping around feeling sorry for yourself?’