by Kit Habianic
As soon as the back door closed, Iwan turned on Angela. ‘The answer’s no. Forget it.’
‘Is a couple of hundred quid each.’
‘Mam!’ Scrapper was outraged.
‘No,’ Iwan repeated.
‘Not for a couple of million,’ Scrapper said.
Iwan turned to him. ‘Between me and your mam, this.’
‘No, isn’t. Not when it’s about selling out the bloody strike, Dad,’ Scrapper picked up his mug and hurled it across the kitchen.
The mug crashed into the wall above the stove, shattered into a dozen jagged shards. Helen flinched. She had never seen this side to Scrapper, this white-hot fury.
She put a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s go next door, Scrap.’
He swatted her away. ‘We don’t sell out our pit, our butties, our community. Not for any price.’
He never snapped at her before. Had never raised his voice, not in twelve months courting. She went to the stove, gathered the broken crockery, unsure, suddenly, where she stood.
‘Is not about you, Simon Jones,’ Angela said.
‘Yes, but Mam—’
‘You heard your wife, Simon,’ Iwan said. ‘Scram.’
Scrapper stormed out of the kitchen, slammed the living room door behind him.
***
He stood at the window, slumped against the frame, gazing through the curtains at the street, Helen moulded her body against his, leaned her cheek against his shoulder blade. Slipped her arms around his waist. The tighter she held on, the more scared and alone she felt.
‘Sorry, Red,’ he said at last. ‘Shouldn’t have blown a gasket by there.’
‘I’m pregnant and all, Scrap.’
His body stiffened. He pulled away, eyes the colour of ash. ‘Oh God, Red. No.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The word hovered between them. Helen sank down on the sofa.
‘Sorry?’ he said at last. ‘After all, it takes two.’
‘What should we do?’
He perched next to her, didn’t touch her. ‘Are we ready to do this?’
‘No.’
‘D’you want to get rid of it?’
‘No. Maybe? I don’t know.’
‘How far gone are you?’
‘Five weeks, the doctor reckoned.’
‘We got time, then. To think it over.’
The argument continued in the kitchen. Iwan’s voice was low, insistent. Helen knew she had chosen the worst of times to deliver this news.
‘You’re not to tell them, Scrap. Not today.’
‘Damn right. You know what Mam’s like. We’ll decide first, tell ’em after. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ she breathed.
The argument became louder, more heated. Angela was yelling now. Then a loud crack rang out, the sound of flesh striking flesh. The yelling stopped.
‘C’mon,’ Scrapper pulled Helen to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But Scrap, shouldn’t we—?’
‘It’s not dad did the hitting, bach.’
— 7 —
Winter loomed. The trees shed their leaves as though laying them down in surrender. Scrapper threw himself into picketing. Whatever he and Red decided, everything had a new urgency. Come rain or sun or bawling gale, he stood on the line with his pamphlets and his placards and stoked the brazier higher and gave it some hwyl. But nothing stopped Albright and Captain Hook and his two one-time butties speeding through. Albright gave up driving when the flying pickets showed up. He hired a scab driver and a scab minibus to fetch the four of them to and from work. Albright cared more about the state of his car than for the livelihoods of his men or the future of his pit.
It was scant consolation that no one joined Matt and Alun in the back of that bus. All the same, Scrapper found himself counting the lads in as they gathered every morning before dawn. And that’s how, one wet Friday, he spotted that Dai was missing.
‘We’d best go round,’ he told Iwan.
Dai and Debbie’s two up, two down was scruffier than ever, the pavement and doorstep smeared with mud. A cobweb covered the front window, a tiny spider twirling in the breeze.
Scrapper had overheard the women teasing Debbie about her poor housekeeping.
‘So,’ Debbie snapped. ‘How I keep a fella happy got nothing to do with housework.’
Debbie was away, off raising funds in the West Country with Sue. All the same, Scrapper felt a jolt of fear when no one answered his knock.
The door was unlocked. ‘Dai, you home?’
They found Dai slumped in his armchair, his bulk almost dwarfed by the outsized flowers that danced across the living room walls, two empty bottles of Thunderbird chucked on the floor. Dai was snoring like a tractor. Scrapper put a hand on his arm, shook him awake.
‘Huh? Gabe?’
‘It’s us, you daft sod,’ Iwan said. ‘High time you eased up on the liquor.’
Dai squinted up at them, cheeks flushed purple. Bits of paper were scattered all around him. Unopened brown envelopes; unpaid bills. He gathered up the papers and shoved them under the cushion.
‘How much?’ Scrapper said.
Dai shot him a look as prickly as his chin. ‘Dunno what you mean,’ he answered, his voice a little too slurred, the better to dodge the question.
‘We’re strapped for cash too,’ Iwan said. ‘How bad’s it got, butty?’
Dai’s fist landed heavy on the cushion. He didn’t speak.
‘We’re short at least seven hundred,’ Scrapper tried to lighten the mood. ‘C’mon butty, bet you can’t top that.’
Dai raised a dark eyebrow. When he spoke, his voice was clear. ‘At least you own your fucking home. At least you got a roof above your women’s heads.’
But for how long. Scrapper shuddered. ‘Bank on your tail again?’
‘Landlord,’ Dai said. ‘He’s given us a fortnight to stump up five months’ rent or out on our ears.’
What could Scrapper say? There was nothing he could do to ease the pressure on Dai. None of them could. All of them had gone month after month without a wage packet and no end in sight.
‘What does Debbie say?’ he said at last.
Dai shrugged. ‘Fuck the landlord, an’ fuck the banks, she said. Gone off giving speeches when the world’s caving in on us. As helpful as a rubber chainsaw, my missus.’
Scrapper laughed, saw the look on Dai’s face, stopped.
Iwan grabbed Dai by the shoulders, shook him lightly. ‘You’re not considering the Christmas bribe?’
Scrapper braced himself for rage, for indignation. Dai said nothing. There was a long, awkward silence.
The tension was shattered by a racket in the street outside. He heard the growl of an engine, shouts and then a short, sharp scream.
***
Mary Power lay in the road next to the lodge minibus, bags of groceries scattered around her. Scrapper ran out in time to see a van clear the corner at speed, tyres screeching on the tarmac. He caught a flash of white panelling before it vanished. He ran over to Mary. She was struggling to get up, her face blank with shock.
‘Did the bastards hit you?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I tripped. They tried to scare me, is all.
‘Scare you – but who?’ Iwan demanded.
‘Buggered if I know,’ Mary’s voice was unsteady. ‘They drove right at me, yelling, die, commie bitch.’
‘Must be NF,’ Iwan said.
‘Nazis, squaddies, off-duty coppers, same difference,’ Mary said.
Scrapper gathered the scattered groceries, followed Iwan and Mary back to safety on the pavement. Dai stood framed in his front door, a hand on each wall to steady himself.
‘Scumbags,’ he said. ‘They come at us with truncheons. They starve us and beat us and lie to us. Now they’re attacking our women. Reckon the fucking Provos had a point.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ Iwan said.
‘You reckon,’ Dai’s face was dark with fury. ‘An eye for an eye. It’s wha
t that Tory bitch believes.’
‘We’ll not stoop to her level, love,’ Mary said.
‘Stoop to her level? She won’t stop – the bosses won’t stop. Not until they finished us off. Like they finished off poor Gabe.’ Dai lurched back indoors, slamming the door behind him.
‘I told you not to worry about Dai, Dad,’ Scrapper said. ‘He’s solid. He’ll never scab.’
Iwan and Mary exchanged a look.
‘He’s taken Gabe’s death way too much to heart,’ Iwan said.
‘Debbie’s struggling with him,’ Mary said. ‘Says he’s forever finding fault with her. Small wonder she’s gone off fundraising, when she’s having it tough at home. But she needs to keep an eye on that one. We all do.’
***
Scrapper insisted they drove Mary down to the Stute. She was too shaken to get back behind the wheel. By the time they got home, dusk was bedding in. Rain drifted sideways. At the top of the High Street, the bracchi was ablaze with light. Angela stood at the window, arms folded. On seeing them, she burst out into the street, a flurry of hands and bosom and hair. ‘Is Helen not with you?’
He shook his head. ‘We’ve been down the Stute. Mary Power got attacked.’
‘Is why I’m bloody worried. Madmen driving round and the girl not home from school.’
Ice crackled the length of Scrapper’s spine. Where could Red be? He looked up and down the road, expecting to see her walk towards him. But the street was empty, the silence broken only by the hiss of rain on slate roofs. It was tea-time. If Red hadn’t phoned, something must be very wrong; something to do with the baby, or with the thugs in the white van.
‘Wait by the phone, Mam. Dad, go back down the Stute, ask the women if they seen Red. I’ll try the school.’
He set off up the hill. The skies split open, rods of rain soaking his jacket. He scaled the school gates and jogged around the building but the doors were locked, classrooms dark and empty. He headed back to the High Street. The shops would be shut and shuttered. Even the doctor’s surgery would be closed. A thought struck him. Should he take the bus to Bryn Tawel, ask for Red at the hospital? He shook himself; no point panicking. Not yet. Not before he’d tried everywhere else first.
The Co-op was open. He peeked through the window. A figure was walking towards the cashier, wire basket piled with cans of beer. It was Matthew Price. Their eyes met. Matt shot him a half-arsed smile; less a smile than a smirk. Rage hurled Scrapper into the shop. He grabbed Matt, shoved him backwards.
‘Attacking women now, are you?’
He slammed Matt against a shelf. Cartons of breakfast cereal, powdered desserts and instant mash crashed onto the floor. Then Iwan was there, pulling him away. The checkout girls huddled in a corner, hands raised to shocked mouths.
Iwan turned to Matt. ‘Bunch of blokes went for Mary Power. Know anything about that?’
Matt shook his head. His bleach-blond hair had grown out, half an inch of black roots matching the bags beneath his eyes.
‘We can’t believe a word this lying toe-rag says,’ Scrapper burst out.
‘You seen our Helen today?’
‘No,’ Matt said.
Iwan shoved Scrapper towards the door. ‘We’d best keep looking.’
Scrapper was still fired up to give Matt a smack. But he knew Iwan was right; the thugs in the van were out there somewhere. They had to find Red, and fast. The rain had stopped. Across the road, Johnny Scrag was loading his van with trays of unsold meat.
‘She went by about an hour ago,’ Johnny said. ‘You tried Siggy’s? I’m sure I heard a woman’s voice by—’
Scrapper rushed to the hairdresser’s, burst in, the doorbell clanging protest. Siggy was bending over a customer, his back turned to the street. He snapped upright.
‘Have you seen—?’ Scrapper broke off, thrown by the sight that greeted him.
Siggy looked him up and down, stepped aside with a flourish. ‘And here he is, your gorgeous husband.’
Helen sat in the slouchy leather swivel chair, waist-length curls sheared into a glossy, chin-length bob. Scrapper glared at her, relieved and wrong-footed and annoyed.
‘You like?’ Siggy purred.
‘What in hell’s going on, Red?’
‘I got my hair cut—’
‘Bloody obvious you got your hair cut,’ his voice was harsh with relief. ‘But why not tell Mam where you were? Why waste money we haven’t got on getting your hair fixed?’
‘A woman’s beauty is not a waste. Not ever,’ Siggy said, affronted.
Helen smiled up at him. ‘Siggy bought my hair, Scrap. I’ve earned us five quid. Enough to buy a Sunday roast.’
‘Siggy did what?’ Iwan’s face turned pale with shock.
Siggy held up a long red plait and stroked it. ‘My friend is making hairpieces for theatre. Rare to find hair this beautiful.’
The shame of it. ‘Red, how could you sell your hair?’ Scrapper demanded.
Hurt chased confusion across her face. ‘I wanted to treat us to a roast dinner. I wanted to cook for you, just this once.’
‘That’s a lovely thought, bach,’ Iwan said. ‘But you shouldn’t have. It’s not like it’s a special occasion.’
Scrapper frowned at her in warning.
‘We don’t need no occasion,’ she murmured.
Siggy fussed around, chasing stray hairs from her face and neck with an outsized brush.
‘So schön,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can model for me, test some new styles?’
‘What, me?’ Red blushed.
‘Of course you,’ he handed her a five-pound note and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘These two could not carry it off, I think.’
They crossed the road to Johnny Scrag’s van, where Iwan picked out a shoulder of lamb.
Scrapper pulled Red aside. ‘We agreed, didn’t we? Not one word. Not ’til we decided.’
‘We agreed.’
She paid the butcher, tucked the parcel under her arm. Scrapper hung back, watched her walk up the street, her hair the only spark of light and colour against the monochrome landscape. It called to mind the old days, when she first caught his eye. When everything he did was to try to impress her. When he wasn’t broke and exhausted and worried.
Angela was waiting, face pressed up against the bracchi window. She rushed out, threw her arms around Red, pulled back, shocked.
‘Is what, this hair? Look just like that Debbie Power.’
Red flinched.
Iwan handed Angela the parcel of meat. ‘The girl swapped it. For this.’
Angela eyed the meat, then Helen. ‘Is some kind of barter deal? This whole bloody country gone back to Dark Ages.’
***
That night, Scrapper lay in bed, belly full, for once, skin slick with heat. But the feast had brought him no peace.
‘Red?’
‘What?’
‘We can’t do it. It’s no world for a child, this.’
‘We can try, Scrap. I’ll do my bit, you’ll see.’
Knowing that was what troubled him most. ‘Red?’
‘What?’
‘Maybe it’s time you went home.’
‘What?’
‘I got no right to keep you hungry. To risk the roof over your head. I got no right to be a dad if I can’t support my wife and kid—’
She sat bolt upright. ‘Scrapper Jones!’
He couldn’t look at her. ‘What choice we got, bach? Got nothing to live on. Scares me stupid, to think of the alternative.’
‘What alternative?’
‘Don’t you get it?’ he burst out. ‘I’m not a man if I can’t feed and provide for my wife and babby and lower than a beast if I go crawling back.’
— 8 —
Helen stood outside the Stute, shaky from cold, stomach in knots. It felt like crossing enemy lines every time she walked in there. Some of the men and women in the Stute still saw her as the scab’s girl, would never change their minds. It made her uneasy, too, to be courting the
women who stonewalled her mam in the Co-op. Whose kids scribbled graffiti about the Pritchards in the alleyways and in the toilets at school. But she had no choice. She had a solid reason, now, to help the women. Help them she would.
She took a breath, squeezed the lump of anthracite in her pocket and went inside. Chatter and the rattle of cutlery bounced off the rafters. Half a dozen women were unfolding trestle tables and setting places for supper. Others were shaking out snagged bunting and knotted tinsel. Chrissie Hobnob smiled, waved Helen over to the kitchen.
Steam pillowed through the serving hatch. Mary Power stood at the stove, face pink, hair net restraining her dandelion curls. She raised her ladle in greeting.
‘Orright, bach?’ she said. ‘Come to give us a hand again, eh?’
Helen nodded.
‘Excellent. Let’s start you off by here.’
‘Christmas decorations, already?’ she asked.
‘Why not?’ Mary said. ‘It’ll be here soon enough. We’re makin’ cawl for tea today. Butcher donated a huge bag o’ bones. Nothing more festive’n a bowl o’ hot soup.’
‘So where d’you want me?’
Shirley, the vicar’s wife sat at the kitchen table, knife in hand, in front of her a hillock of unpeeled carrots, turnips and potatoes. She handed Helen a peeler.
‘You can help with this little lot for starters.’
Helen swallowed a sigh and set to work on the vegetables.
The vicar’s wife was staring at her. ‘So what do Iwan and Simon think about the Coal Board’s Christmas incentives?’
‘The bribes?’ Helen said.
‘Atta girl,’ Mary grinned. ‘Always best to call a spade a bloody shovel.’
‘Just wondered who’ll fall for it,’ Shirley said.
‘Buck up, Shirl,’ Mary said. ‘The lads stuck it out this long.’
At rest, Mary’s face was weary, her eyes sunken and shadowed. But when she smiled, she buzzed energy and strength. Helen felt a rush of warmth for the union boss’s wife. Of course the lads would stick it out. They had to. If they fell short, God help them. Mary and her troops would hold them to account.
Shirley was waiting for an answer. ‘Ice cream parlour’s not open much, lately. Everything alright at home, Helen?’
The glint in her eye said the question carried more than its weight.
