TWNS-2-6-Kindle Master

by Alexander, Nick

  “Great,” Jenny says. “Um, well, have a good weekend.”

  “I’ll try,” Sean says.

  “And, erm, Sean,” Jenny adds as she leaves. “It’s good to see you doing so well.”

  By the time the spinning wheel has vanished and Sean’s computer screen has gone blank, he’s no longer doing well. He’s wondering, instead, how to survive this weekend, how to make it through to Monday now that the subject of the next twelve months’ holidays has been launched, like a Cruise missile, at his oh-so-fragile cheer.

  Because what, after all, could be more depressing than trying to work out when he wants to take five weeks of holiday? Five weeks to be spent alone. What could possibly be worse than deciding what he should do and where he should go. Is there even any possible destination that would not make him feel ten times more scared and one hundred times more vulnerable than he does right now?

  Snapshot #10

  110 mm format, colour. A group of young people are posing for a photograph. The front row is made up of children holding handwritten placards. One of these reads, “When I grow up I would like to join the coal line, not the dole line.” The second row is made up of students, some of whom are holding Socialist Workers Party placards saying, “Victory to the miners.” Behind the group can be seen a row of middle aged miners’ wives with their own larger banner stretched between flagpoles. It reads, “BLYTH MINERS WIVES. Thatcher snatched our milk, now she wants our daily bread.”

  Sean peers in at the photograph until he spots Catherine’s and Theresa’s grinning faces.

  The trip had been organised by the Miners’ Support Committee of the students’ union. They had booked a coach to take people to the Orgreave picket line, and Theresa, a willing militant for almost any cause, had roped Catherine into going with her, much against Sean’s wishes.

  Though Sean had been terrified that the demonstration would turn violent, he had been unable to talk sense into Catherine, and as Theresa was their usual fall-back babysitter it had fallen to him to stay behind with fifteen-month-old April. The result was that he wasn’t even able to go along to make sure Catherine stayed out of trouble.

  It was, he remembers, the first time that he had been left alone with April for more than a few hours, but Catherine had insisted that he’d be “just fine”. He’d been terrified that something would go wrong and he wouldn’t know how to deal with it. But he had been flattered, too, by her confidence in his parenting abilities and determined to prove her right.

  In a last ditch attempt at getting her to change her mind, he had walked with her into town through the deserted early morning streets, little April sleeping in the pushchair. Theresa had stayed at a friend’s house for the night and would meet them there.

  He can remember the huddled mass of students waiting in a fug of early morning cigarette smoke, their rolled up banners at their sides. And he had managed to convince Catherine not to go, albeit momentarily.

  Theresa had turned up carrying a bunch of Socialist Workers Party placards, which she had spent the evening stapling to wooden sticks. “She’s coming,” Theresa had insisted, when Sean had told her the news. “I don’t know what kind of patriarchal society you think you’re living in, Sean, but the days when husbands could decide that their wives should stay at home is long gone, honey. It’s her sisterly duty to come and she’s coming, aren’t you, Catherine?”

  Catherine, torn between her husband and her friend, had looked hesitant.

  “Plus, it’ll be fun,” Theresa continued. “You’ve hardly been anywhere since April was born. It’ll do you good to get out and about.”

  This, apparently, had clinched it, because Catherine had wrinkled her nose and nodded. “She’s right, you know. I think I need this.”

  “It’ll be dangerous, though,” Sean had protested. “You’ve seen what’s happening on the telly. It’s really rough out there.”

  “You think I won’t look after her?” Theresa had asked, feigning offence.

  “No, I…”

  “Well then,” she said. The subject, it seemed, was now closed.

  Sean had spent the day watching the television, partly terrified he might catch a glimpse of his wife being whacked with a truncheon, partly hopeful he’d spot Catherine and be able to say, “Look, April, that’s Mummy on the screen.”

  But despite the hundreds of support buses Sean knew were travelling from all over the country, there was remarkably little coverage. The news, instead, was full of upcoming elections to the European Parliament, a subject that the media had never shown any interest in before, or, for that matter, since, but which they had, that day, inexplicably preferred to the massive pro-miner demonstrations around the country.

  Cassette #10

  Hello Sean.

  I bet this photo gives you the willies, doesn’t it? Do you remember how scared you were I’d get run over by a horse?

  I felt terrible for leaving you behind and though I pretended otherwise, I worried about April all day. But looking back, I think it was the right thing to do, both in political terms and personally.

  I grew up a bit that day, that’s the thing. Talking to all those struggling miners’ wives and singing protest songs on the bus and getting angry, really angry, about the injustice of it all, changed me, or at least started a process of change. It really did.

  I was still so young, that’s the thing. I had lived so little. I honestly think that I was still working out who I was meant to be, back then. I had never been on any kind of demonstration before and it was, to my surprise, the most exciting thing I had ever done.

  As an aside, thinking back on it all, I do worry about the kids today, don’t you? I mean, we were hardly communist radicals, were we? But we still knew right from wrong. We still knew when to stand up and say, “No!” We knew when to protest and shout and lie down in the road. April’s generation, and younger kids even more so, all just seem so passive to me.

  Whether it’s the NHS or the rich not paying their taxes, or this stupid Brexit business, there are plenty of things to be furious about, but I don’t think many of them even consider getting off their arses to vote, let alone demonstrate. I’ve talked to April about this and she’s all, “Oh, what’s the point?” which seems to be the overriding belief of our time. She seems to think that clicking on some Facebook petition is about as radical as it gets. So, I do worry that we’ve somehow produced a generation of ostriches.

  And I don’t just mean that they bury their heads in the sand and let the politicians get away with murder these days, either. I mean that April’s generation is missing out on all of that fun, as well. Because, yes, we believed in the causes and, yes, we were genuinely angry about entire mining communities being left without a livelihood. But God, we had fun fighting it, didn’t we?

  To start with, on the bus going down that morning, everyone was sleepy. It was a very early start and they were students, after all.

  But as we got nearer to Orgreave, we began to see the rows of police vans lined up, and the atmosphere became electric. I have never seen so many police, Sean. They were like an army.

  The people we met that day were amazing. I remember getting involved in a big argument with a guy from the NUM who was worried about what he called “lassies” getting involved in the picket line. He and this friend of his, who had the biggest moustache I had ever seen, argued with Theresa and a friend of hers for half an hour about whether we should be there at all. But in the end, he understood that it was important for us to be there, and we understood that, like yourself, he was genuinely scared for our safety. The truncheon wielding police, he pointed out, weren’t women. They were very heavily armoured, surprisingly angry policemen.

  In the end we split up. The lads went off with the pickets and we joined the miners’ wives and their kids to demonstrate on the sidelines.

  It was a brilliant experience talking to them. They were so involved, so aware of the way the story was being manipulated by the media. They were so grateful t
hat we were there, that someone who wasn’t a miner or a miner’s wife could actually be bothered enough to go to fight alongside them. A couple of the women were so moved that they cried all over us. I had never really done anything for anyone before and to feel that gratitude, that bond, was lovely.

  About eleven o’clock the so-called “scabs” arrived for the shift change, and the police began to force their way through the picket line. I was relieved, if the truth be told, to be on the sidelines.

  We shouted and screamed and waved our banners. I was completely hoarse by the time I got back to the bus.

  I think a couple of people got bonked with a truncheon that day, and one guy got tripped up by a policeman and cut his ear open. But that’s about all that happened as far as I could tell. Things really weren’t that bad.

  The real violence happened the following Monday, as I recall. They waited until the weekend was over, knowing that all the non-miners would be back at work, that all the stroppy students would be in lessons. You, Theresa and I watched it all on television together on Monday night. It was horrific, even to watch, and I think that it was only then, only when I saw the images of police on horseback riding into the crowds and beating people over the head with their batons, men and women alike, that I finally understood what you had been so afraid of.

  I cried as we watched it and I cried about it for days afterwards. I cried, too, when the NUM finally caved in, because I knew that all of those lovely people I had met had no hope left at all.

  Despite all of our demonstrations and all of those pamphlets we gave out in the Wulfrun Centre, we failed, I suppose. Thatcher won, the mines closed, exactly as Arthur Scargill had said they would, and nothing was done to help any of the people left behind. Perhaps that’s why no one bothers to demonstrate anymore, because it turned out that no one cared how many people demonstrated. Perhaps that’s the day we were all beaten.

  Still, it was a life changing experience for me, like I say. I felt part of the strike and part, even though I wasn’t, of the students’ union. I felt part of Theresa’s so-called sisterhood, too.

  Oh, here’s a juicy story you’ve never been told. I just this second remembered.

  So, on the way back, I fell asleep with my head on Theresa’s shoulder. When I woke up she was caressing my hair and do you know what she asked me? She wanted to know if I had ever made love with a woman. When I said that I hadn’t, she asked me if I’d like to try. Can you imagine how embarrassed I was? This was in the middle of a crowded bus, after all. I had only just turned twenty.

  I said “no” of course. I was way too prudish to ever discuss such a thing, and I can honestly say that I have never been tempted since.

  But I was quite in love with Theresa that day, and in that moment, though I said, “no”, it wasn’t the whole truth. In that specific instant, I would actually quite have liked to say yes. Just to try it, so to speak. I bet you’re shocked now, aren’t you?

  Anyway, when we got back to Wolverhampton, you and April were there, waiting for me, and I was so tired and so happy to see you both that I cried.

  As far as any lesbian tendencies were concerned, that, as they say, was the end of that.

  • • •

  On Monday, Sean chooses his holiday dates. He books three weeks in January and two in March. He has no idea exactly why he chooses the dates he does, other than the fact that it means he doesn’t have to think about holidays for the longest possible time. “You’re sure you don’t want Christmas week?” the secretary asks. “Because I think you’ll be the only one here.”

  “Yes,” Sean says, trying to block even the thought of what a week’s holiday, alone, at Christmas, might feel like. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  On Thursday evening, April phones him.

  “Hi Dad,” she says. “Ronan and I were thinking of coming up for the weekend. The weather’s going to be fabulous, apparently. What do you think?”

  “Sure,” Sean says. “Why not? I was going to go and visit Mum, but there’s no reason that can’t wait. I’ll just tell Perry.”

  “We can postpone it for a week if you want,” April says, “but there’s a massive anti-Brexit demo happening in Central London, so it’s going to be a nightmare around here. We thought we might as well.”

  “Can’t you hang out at Ronan’s place?”

  “Nah, it’s rented. You know he rents it on Airbnb sometimes? Well, it’s booked for that weekend. And round here is going to be madness. The demo’s starting in Hyde Park, I think.”

  “Oh,” Sean says, thinking back to Catherine’s last tape. “And you don’t want to go to that?”

  “The demo? Me?” April says, sounding shocked. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “When did you ever see me at a demo, Dad?”

  “You spend enough time complaining about Brexit,” Sean says.

  “Well, of course. It’s stupid. But there’s no stopping it now. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Sean says. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “So are we on?” April asks. “For the weekend.”

  “Sure,” Sean says. “I’ll see you then. When are you coming?”

  “Friday night. To avoid all the hassle.”

  Once the call is over, Sean lays his phone on the table and pushes it around with one finger like a toy car as he runs the conversation and the contents of Catherine’s tape through his mind. Because, yes, he can see, in a way, how that day changed Catherine. She had been a poorly educated girl from a council estate when he met her. She had been bright as a button, that’s for sure, but she had never asserted herself in any of the discussions that happened at college until that day. But after the demonstration she had known what she thought, at least about that one subject. And she hadn’t been afraid to take on anyone who disagreed with her.

  “You’ve changed your mind?” April asks, the second she picks up the phone.

  “No. Well… sort of,” Sean splutters. “Look, how would it be if I came down instead?”

  “But I told you. Central London’s going to be…”

  “How would it be if I came down and we went to the demo together.”

  “Really?” April asks. “Why?”

  “To express our disagreement, maybe?” Sean offers.

  “There was a vote, Dad. We expressed our disagreement then. And we got outvoted.”

  “Maybe that’s not enough,” Sean says.

  “You’re freaking me out a bit, now.”

  “Have you ever been to a demonstration?”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “No,” Sean says. “But have you?”

  “Well, no. Have you?”

  “Yes,” Sean says. “Lots.”

  “Really? For what? I mean, which demos? In aid of what?”

  “Lots of things. With your mother. I’ll tell you tomorrow. And on Saturday – it’s on Saturday, right?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “On Saturday, we can go. Together.”

  “Hold on, Dad. Ronan’s just got in.”

  April’s voice becomes muffled, but despite the fact that Sean can’t quite make out her words, he can tell, from the tone, that she’s explaining his proposed change of plans to Ronan and not sounding happy about it.

  “Is this to do with Mum?” she asks, when she returns. “Is it some sort of post-Mum midlife crisis?”

  “No,” Sean says. “Look, if you’re really against it, then forget it.”

  “I don’t mind,” April says. “Not really. And Ronan actually thinks it’ll be fun.”

  “It will.”

  “But it just sounds strange. It doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Hum,” Sean says. “Well, maybe you don’t know me quite as well as you think you do. Maybe we never know anyone quite as well as we think we do.”

  “You are weird at the moment, you know. But look, I’ll check with the others,” April says. “Because there’s only the one sofa. And if anyone else has people
staying it won’t be possible.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I think it’s probably OK. Matt may even be away that weekend, so you might be able to have his room.”

  “Sure,” Sean says. “Well, let me know.”

  • • •

  As parking near April’s place is impossible, Sean travels to London by train.

  By the time he has negotiated the underground and made his way to her shared apartment it’s almost eight p.m.

  Matt, as predicted, is away for the weekend, so April shows Sean to his room.

  The flat, in Hyde Park Gardens, is beautiful if tatty, and from Matt’s rear windows Sean can even glimpse, through a gap in the houses on Bayswater Road, Hyde Park itself. He dumps his bag on Matt’s Swedish office chair and crosses to the window, looks out, then turns back to scan the room.

  Matt, who is a successful graphic designer, is young and funky, and it shows. The room is youthful and colourful. There’s an Aladdin Sane Bowie poster on the wall and a large collection of vinyl. Matt has twin DJ decks permanently installed and bookshelves stuffed with art books.

  Sean walks around the room. He runs his fingers across the spines of Matt’s records and then peeps, nosily, into a wardrobe. The room makes him feel young again, even as it makes him nostalgic for his own lost youth. God, how he’d love the chance to live the whole thing again!

  “You all right in there?” April asks, peering through the open door.

  “Yeah,” Sean says. “I’m just looking around. This is such a cool room.”

  “Matt’s life’s work,” April says.

  “The room?” Sean asks.

  April takes a step into the room and expounds, “No. Being cool, I meant.”

  Sean detects a note of bitterness in her voice and remembers that at the beginning, before she met Ronan, his daughter had, Catherine said, had a thing for Matt.