Until Our Blood Is Dry

by Kit Habianic

  ‘But it’s that rabble that started it,’ he scolded her. ‘Go looking for trouble, trouble’s what you get.’

  ***

  The women moved aside as he pushed through his front gate. Their faces were pale, lips tight with disapproval.

  ‘Lovely to see you, ladies. It’s business as usual at the pit this morning, if your fellas’d care to stop by—’

  Chrissie Hobnob lurched forwards, as if to slap him. Gwyn flinched. A nifty right hook on Chrissie. He heard her through the walls, dishing out clips around the ear to her sons.

  ‘What d’you say to them two lads?’ she demanded. ‘How’d you drive ’em to turn scab?’

  ‘Remember what we agreed, Chrissie,’ Mary said.

  Chrissie pulled back, face like ash against too-black hair. ‘Enough is enough,’ she said. ‘I say let the lads do their worst.’

  ***

  In the corner shop, Geraint Mags-N-Fags took Gwyn’s five-pound note, slammed twenty Embassy on the counter. Handed him his change without a word.

  Gwyn rolled his Daily Express under his arm. ‘A bloody fine morning to you, and all.’

  He waited outside the shop for the pit manager. At last, Albright pulled up in the hired Land Rover, Alun Probert and Matthew Price slumped on the back seat. He climbed into the passenger seat, pasted a smile to his face to greet his boss.

  ‘Orright, Mr Albright, boys?’

  Albright fired up the engine. The Land Rover pelted past the shops. Gwyn gripped his seat belt. As nervy as a cat on a fish tank, the pit boss. Same performance every morning, speeding through Ystrad like the devil was giving chase.

  He turned to Albright, thinking to distract him. ‘Got a game at the weekend, then?’

  ‘We’re playing Liverpool.’

  ‘The Reds’ll struggle to beat Everton at home,’ Alun Wet-Ears said.

  Gwyn shot the lad a sour look. Since when did the apprentice give two figs for football?

  ‘Bridgend are playing, and all,’ he said.

  Albright yawned. ‘Maybe you boys can take me to a game some time. These little local games must be fascinating.’

  Gwyn felt his missing fingers prickle but decided not to rise to it in front of his lads. He ferreted around for something else to say.

  ‘Lady wife doing alright?’

  ‘I’ve bought tickets to see David Bowie for her birthday next month.’

  Matt breathed in sharply. ‘Bowie? He’s not coming to Wales?’

  Albright nodded. ‘Only St David’s Hall, of course. But still.’

  ‘Loves Bowie, I do.’

  Gwyn lowered his sunshield, used the mirror to turn a hard stare on Matthew Price.

  ‘Really?’ Albright said.

  ‘Aye. Got every single one of his albums.’

  Albright beamed at him. ‘Well, I’m becoming quite a fan. That new duet with Tina Turner – marvellous.’

  ‘More a Ziggy man, me,’ Matt said.

  ‘Aren’t you just,’ Gwyn muttered.

  ‘There are tickets left, apparently,’ Albright said. ‘If I see you there, I’ll stand you a drink. You and your girlfriend.’

  In the mirror, Gwyn watched Matt blush and button his lip.

  ***

  Smoke rose as usual from the braziers outside the pit gates. But as the Land Rover sped closer, Gwyn saw something had changed. The usual line of pickets had vanished. The men had not reached the gates. Tooled-up policemen had shoved them to the side of the road, where quite a crowd had gathered. A couple of hundred men were penned in behind a line of shields and helmets. As Albright sped past, Gwyn saw most were strangers. Flying pickets pitched against riot police, both sides drafting outsiders into Blackthorn. He turned and grinned at the lads.

  ‘Looks like Scargill sent you a welcoming party. Took him a while, didn’t it?’

  The little apprentice was shaking. Matt pulled his denim jacket over his head, slumped lower in his seat. As they drew closer, a roar burst from the crowd. Bodies thudded against the shields, tried to break through to the road. Albright leaned on the horn and accelerated towards the gates. Gwyn raised his good hand, flashed two fingers to the pickets. At the front, he spotted the hotheads from the lodge: Scrapper and Iwan Jones, Dewi Power, Dai Dumbells. Matt buried himself deeper beneath his jacket. Gwyn pressed his face against the mesh that covered the windscreen, locked eyes with the girl’s husband.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he mouthed.

  Something thudded against the boot of the car. In the wing mirror, Gwyn saw Dai Dumbells launch himself at the Land Rover, grab the metal grille on the rear windscreen, lose his grip. Dai fell back into the road, writhing on the ground. Two policemen leapt on Dai, went in heavy with their truncheons.

  Matt turned and saw it too, sucked in his breath.

  Albright put his foot to the floor. The Land Rover sped through the gates.

  ‘Shit!’ the pit manager’s soft white hands gripped the steering wheel, veins showing blue beneath his skin. ‘We’ll get a bus and driver to bring us in. I won’t be held responsible for some idiot getting himself killed.’

  The jeep squealed to a halt outside the management offices. Albright turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, face pale and clammy. He pulled a purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow.

  ‘No concern for safety,’ he said. ‘Not theirs or ours. You’d think they were desperate.’

  He wrenched open the car door and vanished into his office. Gwyn levered himself out of the car and waited for Matt Price.

  ‘Ooh, I loves David Bowie,’ he mocked.

  Matt curled in on himself, said nothing.

  ‘You’d rather scab on your butties than tell the truth, eh, lad?’

  Matt slunk away, went to join Alun Wet-Ears in the cafeteria.

  The men had nothing to do most days. Gwyn kept them busy, even so. A matter of pride, that. He might have them sweep out the lamp room again. No point getting them started too soon, though. He’d let them fix themselves a tea, give them time to cool their heels. He leaned against the car bonnet, dizzy suddenly, breath coming ragged. His second attack in a week. He vowed to see Dr O’Connell, get himself checked over. It would take all his strength to see this through to the end. But he had two lads back at work, even so. Two, against the odds.

  — 9 —

  Angela had shut the bracchi early again, went off to sweet talk a supplier demanding payment, leaving Helen to tend to the garden, with a long list of dos and don’ts. Helen was setting about Angela’s herbs with secateurs, beheading chives, oregano and fennel to stop them running to seed, when Mary Power showed up at the garden gate.

  She brought a second food parcel. A box of eggs, a tin of corned beef, a cabbage, packets of rice, white beans and kidney beans, a tub of margarine, two packets of digestive biscuits and a carton of powdered tomato soup. Angela got sniffy about packaged food, especially the powdered stuff, and they had more tomatoes than they knew what to do with. Even so, Helen thanked Mary warmly, grateful to take a pause from gardening. She ignored Mary’s protests and went to brew up a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘Tidy crop you got by there,’ Mary plonked herself on the wall with her mug. ‘Fruit trees, an’ all.’

  Helen nodded. It was more than they could do to keep up with it all. The plum trees were shedding fruit faster than she could pick it. Iwan and Scrapper could only help out at the weekend. They had gathered bucket-loads of plums for Angela to fill a dozen glass jars with home-made jam. Now, they were out of containers. Fallen plums lay on the lawn, raising clouds of fruit flies. Meanwhile, she had onions, courgettes and runner beans to pick, and gooseberry and blackcurrant bushes about to ripen.

  ‘My mam-in-law’s got green fingers.’

  Mary nodded thoughtfully. ‘A lot o’ work for you both, the lads out picketing all week. Reckon we might help each other out?’

  ‘Help each other out how?’

  ‘Soup kitchen’s got a hundred families to feed. We could help you harvest, t
ake what you can’t use to the Stute.’

  It sounded fair enough but Helen didn’t fancy Mary’s chances. Angela was as tetchy as a teased cat since the meeting at the bank.

  ‘Best you ask my in-laws.’

  Iwan and Scrapper walked in then, clothes streaked brown and green, hair flecked with bracken and stick-a-back leaves, as though someone had bounced them down a hill.

  ‘The pigs chased us cross-country,’ Scrapper said.

  ‘Ask the in-laws what?’ Iwan said.

  ‘I was looking at Angela’s fruit and veg,’ Mary said. ‘Wondered if we could help you wi’ harvesting. Take whatever’s spare for the soup kitchen.’

  ‘That’s a superb idea,’ Scrapper said.

  Helen dug her elbow in his ribs. ‘We’ll ask your mam, won’t we.’

  ***

  Later, Helen showed Angela Mary’s gifts. Her mam-in-law still felt affronted to receive food parcels, although she didn’t say so to the men. Angela held a lot back, lately.

  She picked up a square tin, narrowed her eyes to read the label. ‘Is what, corn beef: meat or vegetable?’

  Helen shuddered. ‘Corned beef. My mam uses it for sandwiches. Cooked and mashed meat; looks and smells like dog food.’

  Angela clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Twenty years I lived in South Wales. Still shocked by what people eat.’

  ‘I love corned beef,’ Iwan said. ‘Reckon we should give it a try.’

  ‘You want it, bloody cook it yourself,’ Angela said.

  Helen left them to it. By the time Scrapper came out of the bathroom, scrubbed and clean, the smell of fried onions wafted from the kitchen. He turned on the evening news. Iwan appeared from the kitchen, proudly carrying three plates piled with corned beef hash. Angela stomped in behind him with a plate of toast and sliced tomatoes.

  ‘Go on, cariad; just try it,’ Iwan said.

  Angela ignored him. ‘You are right, bella. Smells like dog meat.’

  Helen hadn’t eaten all day. The gloopy mess of onion, potato and meat smelled better than it looked. She took a cautious taste.

  ‘Oh wow, Iwan— that’s dead good, that is.’

  Iwan beamed. ‘Just fried it up with potatoes, chucked in a heap of garlic, chilli powder and onions.’

  They ate in silence, eyes on the television, waiting for the newsreader to mention the miners hurt at the picket at Didcot. But the reports moved from politics to international affairs to sport.

  Scrapper shook his head. ‘Seven men in hospital and not one bloody word.’

  ‘Anyone from Ystrad?’ Helen said.

  ‘Bloody lucky Dai Dumbells wasn’t one of them,’ Iwan said. ‘He nearly fell under a truck. Police were straight on him. We fetched him from the cop shop on the way back. They’ve charged him with affray.’

  ‘Dai was gutted,’ Scrapper said. ‘Said Debbie’d tan his hide.’

  ‘No question she’ll do that,’ Iwan said.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Scrapper said. ‘Mam, Mary wanted to know if you could spare some fruit an’ veg from out back.’

  Angela dropped her toast. ‘She wanted what?’

  Helen glared a warning at Scrapper, put down her fork. ‘Mary asked if she could help,’ she said. ‘Noticed we been struggling to harvest. Said she and the other women could lend us a hand, maybe take the leftovers to the Stute.’

  ‘Fair dos,’ Scrapper said. ‘We got more than enough for ourselves.’

  ‘More than enough?’ Angela echoed. ‘I worked these fingers to the bone.’

  ‘C’mon, Mam. We’re sick of runner beans and courgettes and plum jam. If Mary wants some, why not?’

  ‘It’s for feeding the lads and their families,’ Iwan said.

  Angela slammed her plate down on the coffee table. ‘You are not serious. Is five months I put up with this strike. No money coming in. Not from son, not from husband. Schiappa’s bracchi survived the general bloody strike. There’s every chance it won’t survive this. And now those women after my garden? My garden! No – basta. Is final straw.’

  Iwan put out a hand to ruffle her hair, drew back thinking better of it. He switched off the television.

  ‘What’s this about, Angie?’

  Angela stacked the plates. Forks clattered angrily. Knives tumbled onto the carpet. She dumped the plates with a crash in the kitchen, blasted back into the front room.

  ‘Is about the fact that you were wrong, Iwan Jones. Wrong to defy Gwyn Pritchard and get suspended. Wrong to fall in behind a strike you cannot win. Five bloody months, the village on its knees and no one backing down. Is madness. All of it.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ Iwan said.

  ‘I do mean it. Is too much. I’m sick of no money. Sick of bills. Sick of politics an’ picketing. And now those bloody women after my vegetables.’

  ‘It’s only runner beans and courgettes, Mam,’ Scrapper said.

  ‘Non solo fagioli e zucchine, Simon Jones. Is about feeding a family. About owing the bank five hundred pounds. Is about putting this family first.’

  — 10 —

  Summer dragged on, hotter and more oppressive by the day. Scrapper felt sluggish, weighed down by the stalemate, by the bills that piled up. His arms and back were stiff from under-use, muscles melting to reveal his bones. Even his body betrayed him. Red’s face was paler and thinner than before. Iwan’s hair had thicker streaks of grey. Angela walked as though wading through quicksand. He couldn’t forget her words: you were wrong to stand up to your bosses, wrong to back a strike you cannot win. Truth was, they had to win. Had no option but to keep going.

  The more he thought about it, the more rage seeped from his pores. All of it came back to his butty. Of the many wrongs the boys had faced, that betrayal hurt him most. He made up his mind, at last, to find Matt, to talk to him. He needed to hear from his butty’s own lips what turned a solid class fighter into a scab.

  Come Saturday night, the clock crawling towards closing time, he set off down the High Street on his bike. He rested his feet on the pedals and cruised down the road that wound below the coal tip, braking only when he reached the settlement below Ystrad. It was a ghost town, now, built for a coal seam long dug dry. There was nothing to keep anyone here. The lone terrace of two-up, two-down miners’ cottages was all but derelict, most of the dwellings boarded up and left to rot. In the middle was Matt’s house, lights off, curtains drawn upstairs and downstairs. Scrapper leaned his bike against the lamp-post across the street and parked his backside on the pavement to wait.

  An owl hooted portents up in the fields, unnerving in a night as thick and warm as soup. He was dozing off when he heard footsteps running towards him. Hands slammed his shoulders, shoved him backwards.

  ‘Come to dish out more, have you?’ Matt loomed over him. ‘Despicable, holding an old woman prisoner at home.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘Bad enough getting shunned and picketed, but Mam’s had a guts-full of the graffiti and silent phone calls.’

  Matt stank of ale and sweat and fear, his eyes were sunken and rimmed red. Scrapper almost felt sorry for his butty. Everything he knew about mining, he had learned from Matt Price: the difference between the moaning of rocks settling into position and the rumble of rocks about to drop. How to hold a pickaxe and hold his drink.

  He stood, rubbing the elbow that broke his fall. ‘I need to know why, Matt.’

  ‘Aye, cos you’ll understand.’

  ‘How the fuck can I, if you won’t say?’

  Matt didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve not got the balls to explain, have you, Matthew Price? You got no balls, no backbone, no loyalty to your butties.’

  ‘Loyalty,’ Matt echoed.

  ‘Yes, loyalty. All of us looked out for you. Fed you, stood you drinks. You’ve thrown all of it back in our faces.’

  Matt balled his fists. Scrapper braced himself to get hit a second time. Maybe he’d hit back, just this once, since Iwan wasn’t here to stop him. Or maybe he’d hang
his hands by his sides, let his butty do his worst. No pasting could hurt more than the dull ache sunk deep beneath his skin. But Matt held back, a look on his face that Scrapper couldn’t read.

  ‘I’m fucking sick of it all. Sick of pointing fingers, of walking around with my head bowed.’

  His self-pity robbed Scrapper of breath. ‘Then get the fuck back behind the strike,’ he struggled to get the words out. ‘Every last one of the boys would welcome you back with open arms. It’s not too late, Matt.’

  Matt laughed bitterly. ‘Are you stupid or deluded, kid?’

  ‘We stick together, we can win this.’

  ‘You seriously believe that, with the bosses using force to smash the strike? With the labour movement hanging the miners out to dry? Look behind you, Scrapper Jones. There’s no one there.’

  ‘That’s why you shafted us? Pull the other one, Matt.’

  But Matt was no longer looking at him. He was staring at the house, at a figure hammering on the upstairs window. Her hair was pale against the orange glow of the street lamp. An old woman, with mad terror in her eyes. Matt’s mam struggled to open a security catch.

  ‘It’s fine, Mam,’ Matt shouted. ‘I’m fine.’

  The woman vanished, reappeared with a telephone, the receiver wedged between her shoulder and her ear as she dialled with unsteady fingers.

  ‘Great,’ Matt said. ‘You’d better go, Scrapper Jones. Fuck off and don’t come back. We got nothing to say to each other.’

  — 11 —

  Helen woke to the sound of rain thrumming on the slates on the roof, to the rumble of thunder and voices raised in the bedroom next door. Better the raised voices of Scrapper’s parents than the poisoned silences she remembered from home. The sound unsettled her, even so. The rain drummed on and on. Eventually, the voices stopped. At last, the downpour ended.

  The men left to go picketing in Nottinghamshire and her mam-in-law announced that the bracchi needed a spring clean. The shop was spotless. Helen was cleaning the grout between the tiles with an old toothbrush when the doorbell jangled and Mary Power trotted in, followed by Chrissie Hobnob and a woman who looked about Scrapper’s age, who had long brown curls.