by Kit Habianic
Mary bobbed out of the crush, saw the look on her face. ‘You got us, now, Red.’
The bus vanished into the darkness that swirled out of the pit.
‘Watch out, girls,’ Sue yelled. ‘They’re coming in.’
Deep inside the police lines, Helen spotted dozens of officers tightening their chin straps. The front line of shields swung open. Dark shapes darted out, grabbed women from the edges of the group. Three leapt on Shirley, the vicar’s wife. Two others dragged Chrissie to a waiting Black Maria.
Sue gripped Helen’s arm. ‘When they come for you, go soft and limp like you’re dead,’ she said. ‘Don’t fight. You’ll get hurt, and the bastards get off on it.’
Shields slammed into the crowd like bulldozers. Helen looked up through the warp and bend of Perspex into a suntanned, snarling face.
‘Aren’t you ashamed, attacking women?’
The policeman smiled. ‘We’re getting ninety quid overtime for this, you silly bitch. No shame in that.’
She couldn’t help herself. ‘No shame in blood money?’
‘I’m doin’ my job, darling. Shame your men won’t do theirs.’
He dragged her to the line of police vans. She relaxed her muscles, let her body sag. It made no difference. The policeman picked her up and lugged her through the doors like a builder tossing bagged cement. She fell heavily, jarring her spine. Flashes of colour exploded behind her eyes. She lay where she landed.
***
By the time the doors of the van opened again, morning had ripped a gash in the darkness. Helen lay, not moving, blinking against the light. Long blue arms reached for her, dragged her out into a car park beneath a busy flyover. They were not in Ystrad any more. Two policewomen dragged her into a tall, pebble-dashed building, pulled and pushed her down a long corridor, past dazed-looking protesters.
Time passed. She sat alone in a locked cell. Something wasn’t right. She felt cold to the bones, but her clothes dripped sweat. Her heart thudded to the remembered beat of the police batons. Women’s voices seeped through thin walls. She wished she had company. Wished she could call her mam. For a long time, no one came. At last, the door creaked open. She had never been so relieved to see anyone. But when she tried to stand, her legs were having none of it.
‘Sue!’ It came out strangled.
‘Christ, Red,’ Sue rushed over. ‘Are you sick?’
‘Don’t feel too clever.’
‘Put this on.’
Sue took off her donkey jacket, tucked it around Helen’s shoulders, ran back to the door and hammered on it, yelling for help. The heavy miner’s jacket made no odds, nor did the yelling. Eventually, Sue gave up. Midday passed. No one came. Helen curled up on the bench, knees curled towards her chin, Sue slumped on the floor nearby. Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through Helen’s abdomen. She writhed and shrieked in agony. Cramps juddered up her body.
Sue grabbed her. ‘What is it?’
But Helen couldn’t gather breath enough to answer. She tried to stand, but dizziness laid her flat. Sue threw aside the jacket, gasped. Helen looked down at herself. The bench was pooled with thick, dark blood.
— 3 —
Gwyn waited and waited, but the girl did not come. Weeks passed and she had yet to come to thank him. Even though he put a good word in for that boy with the police, offered to drop the burglary and assault case, refused to leave the cop shop until the sergeant agreed to free the boy on police-to-court bail. And to see her now, turning up on the line, howling like a harridan. Disgraceful behaviour. Some thanks for trying to care for his family and save his pit, for speaking up, against his better judgement, for that rabble-rousing boy.
He peered at himself in the living room mirror, comb in hand. Rearranged his hair, first this way, then that. He was greyer than ever, these last months. He squared his shoulders, called up his old bravado. Still a good head of hair on him, even so: in good nick for a fellow who’d spent half a life below ground. He’d already notched up more years than the old man. He breathed out sharply, chest grating a metallic rasp. He dusted his shoulders. His best suit, bought from C&A in Cardiff. He slipped his feet into his best brogues and set off past the women – ‘Do you not look lovely this morning, ladies.’ – and waited at the end of the road for Albright.
He boarded the minibus, nodded his good mornings, sat himself down in the back. Metal-shuttered windows shattered the landscape into a thousand tiny squares. He gazed through the naked trees at the winding gear. The twisted skeleton was coated with a fine red layer of rust. He sighed, pressed his spine into the plastic seat cover, pondered what he needed to do. Albright had some big-shot Coal Board managers coming up to Blackthorn from London this morning, asked Gwyn to sit in with them. He sensed an ill wind.
The minibus split the ranks of pickets, like an ocean liner through rough seas, roared through the gates. Matt Price and Alun Probert climbed out, wandered down to the workshop. Gwyn went to the canteen, fixed himself a tea, nipped out to the courtyard for a smoke in time to see the pit gates swing open and a chauffeur-driven black Rover purr into the yard.
***
The big shots went straight to the boardroom. Low winter light flooded through the windows, bounced off beech veneer. At one end of the table sat Adam Smith-Tudor. At the other stood Albright. Between them sat the two senior managers, dressed like undertakers in fine dark wool suits. Gwyn shuffled in, took a chair opposite them, feeling shabby. The men raised their eyes briefly, turned back to their documents. He felt judged and found wanting. Albright flitted round the room, poured coffees, distributed papers, showily eager to please.
Turnbull, the younger, brasher senior manager tugged his platinum cufflinks, consulted an outsized platinum watch. ‘Right, gentlemen. When you’re ready.’
Henshall, his colleague, nodded. ‘We’re due at the next pit on the list at eleven.’
Albright cleared his throat. ‘Right. Thanks for allowing me to put my case to you. Simply put, as the survey reports I sent you show, there is no good reason – economic or practical – to shut down Blackthorn.’
Gwyn jerked to attention. Shut it down? The words sank in like rocks hitting water. He fired a shocked glance at Smith-Tudor. But the area boss had his eyes fixed on Albright, now positioned at the whiteboard, where he’d taped a map of the mine.
The little pit boss took a dark red fountain pen from his pocket. It matched, exactly, the colour of his suit.
‘As you know, we had some flooding after heavy rainfall last month. The survey shows the coalface to be unstable here, near seam two,’ he jabbed the pen. ‘We need to shore up the tunnels that lead to seam three. We also need to prop up the roof here, in the main seam, after an incident eleven months ago when a man was killed.’
He paused, bowed his head. Smooth English hypocrite. All the while Blackthorn’s lawyers fighting Margaret Parry’s compensation claim.
‘All in all, the survey found that nearly a third of the mine’s working area fails to meet the minimum safety standard,’ Albright said. ‘We need to address this before we reopen the coalface.’
Henshall and Turnbull put their heads together, held a muttered discussion.
‘And your projections for securing the mine to standard?’ Turnbull said.
‘A hundred and twenty grand, tops, to secure the work areas, ready to resume full operations.’
Henshall shook his head. ‘Money we don’t have.’
The bravado seeped from Albright’s smug little face. Not the answer he’d expected. Not what Gwyn expected. It would fall to Smith-Tudor to sort out these jumped-up English paper-shifters. He promised, Smith-Tudor; said Blackthorn would be fine. Said it was pits with falling yields that faced the chop.
Gwyn waited for the coalfield boss to tell Henshall and Turnbull to get stuffed. A long silence followed.
‘With respect,’ Albright started up again. ‘Did you look at my calculations? Based on the Coal Board’s own price forecasts, invest now and you’re looking at a return o
f more than seventy-five percent within five years. Secure the mine now, the strike should be over by the time we’ve finished.’
Gwyn’s missing fingers throbbed murder. Highfaluting talk of forecasts and figures defeated him. Bottom line was, when the men come back to work Blackthorn would turn a profit; there was damn good coal – and plenty of it – to be mined at his pit.
Red-faced now, Albright kept going, ‘My figures show that Blackthorn is not – I repeat, not – an uneconomic pit,’ he said. ‘With adequate investment, it would be highly profitable. It employs a hundred and fifty men, sustains a community of twelve hundred souls—’
‘That’s neither here nor there,’ Henshall cut in.
‘I disagree,’ Albright practically hissed the word. ‘One of the militants’ most powerful arguments is that the Coal Board is taking a hatchet to traditional mining communities. Ystrad is as traditional as it comes,’ he waved a hand at Gwyn. ‘Let’s prove the hardliners wrong.’
Smith-Tudor rolled Albright’s survey report into a baton, fixed the pit manager a patronising smile. ‘That argument is bullshit, dear boy.’
Gwyn jerked to attention. Why in hell was the area manager siding with the toffs from head office – toffs who wanted to take a hatchet to his pit? Smith-Tudor had promised to see Blackthorn through the bloodshed.
‘No it isn’t,’ Albright said. ‘Not when all I need is a hundred and twenty grand and six weeks to get the pit moving.’
‘Now you listen to me, eh, sonny,’ an ice-pick for a voice, Smith-Tudor. ‘I have twenty-eight pits to consider. My budget is tight. You expect me to throw that kind of money at one pit, eh, for sentimental reasons?’
‘Sentimental? Close the pit, and you dump this community on the scrapheap,’ Albright said. ‘You agree, don’t you, Gwyn?’
‘Ah yes,’ Smith-Tudor smiled through bared teeth. ‘Our proud local warrior. What d’you say, eh, Richards?’
‘Pritchard,’ Gwyn said.
‘Come on, then,’ Smith-Tudor said. ‘Suppose we did pour money into Blackthorn. Reckon that rabble would be grateful, eh? Reckon you could talk them into coming back to work?’
Gwyn pushed his chair away and stood, all four bosses staring him down like a firing-squad. He gripped the table until his missing fingers ached for mercy.
‘Sod the lodge,’ he said. ‘We got ’em on the ropes. There’s only one way the strike will end. They’ll lose, we’ll win and they’ll come back to work on our terms. The lodge is finished. It’d be a crime to close this pit.’
A wolfish smile spread across Smith-Tudor’s face. ‘You realise the implications of what you’re saying, eh, Pritchard?’
‘I do, aye.’
Smith-Tudor turned to the London men. ‘Well I’ve heard nothing in this room to change my mind,’ he said. ‘Fact is, gentlemen, closure is the quickest, least painful option for Blackthorn.’
Gwyn’s stomach went into free-fall. He lied then, Smith-Tudor. Lied when he said the pit would be safe. When he said they had to smash the lodge to let Blackthorn get on with making coal. Lied from start to finish.
Henshall was addressing himself to Albright. ‘Make no mistake, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Your efforts will not go unrewarded. The NCB is committed to progressing young talent. This decision bears no reflection on your management skills.’
Turnbull cleared his throat. ‘Our decision is confidential until the Coal Board announces it. Any leak, whether to the miners or to the media, will have severe repercussions.’
‘You’re not telling the men?’ Gwyn said flatly.
Henshall, the more senior manager, eyeballed him. ‘Our number one priority – and the decision has been made at government level – is that the union must not win this strike,’ he said. ‘We expect a national return to work. On our terms.’
‘Can’t have individual pit closures cloud the issue, eh,’ Smith-Tudor said.
Henshall clicked shut his briefcase. ‘If we announce that Blackthorn is to close, support for the strike will harden. The union is buckling; the labour movement is on its knees. We are this close to winning. We can’t let the loony left regroup around a fight to save named pits.’
Albright slammed his fist on the table. ‘Have them limp back to be sacked?’
‘A conscience, eh, Albright?’ Smith-Tudor smiled cyanide at him.
‘Won’t be you doling out P45s,’ Gwyn muttered.
The thought of it. Of looking two hundred men in the eye and handing them their marching orders. Albright stood, folded his papers, followed Henshall and Turnbull out to the corridor.
That left Gwyn alone with Smith-Tudor. He was tempted to grab the area boss by the lapels and shake him until his chins rattled.
‘You said if we kept the coal flowing there’d be a future for this pit. Said you’d look after me.’
‘You’ve let me down, Richards. Too bad you aren’t up to scratch, eh. Would have suited you, a desk job. Given you the chance to wear them kecks—’ he switched to mocking Wenglish ‘—more reg’lar, like.’
He closed his briefcase and left the room, a jaunty bounce to his gait.
***
By the time Gwyn staggered outside, the Rover had left the courtyard. The wind was biting cold, gusting a force that hurled him sideways. He steadied himself, struggled to fill his lungs with air, tasted wood smoke blown from the braziers beyond the gate. The winding gear was still. He closed his eyes. When the wind dropped, he could have sworn he heard footsteps. Far echoes of the many men that Blackthorn had chewed up and spat out over the years. Alf Manifesto, the fifty souls lost to the firedamp blast of 1960, Gabriel Parry, his old man.
What would he have to say for himself, the old man? No point thinking that way. The old man never had a good word to say about anything. In that instant Gwyn saw him, squatting in the shadows of the winding house, a roll-up between his lips. Vivid as the day, he was: black moustache bristling, blue eyes slitted against the light.
‘Maybe one of us’ll outlive this pit, eh, Dad?’
— 4 —
Day after day, Helen lay in bed. The blankets weighed down on her. She didn’t leave the bedroom, lay barely moving, said not a word. Life went on as usual, for the men, at least, off every morning to picket, plodding back in the afternoons. But for Helen life did not go on. How could it? Her mam-in-law whirled around mopping and dusting and clearing cupboards, as noisy as everyone else was silent.
Sometimes she came to sit with Helen, tried to get her to talk, to eat.
‘Is crazy you didn’t tell us. Why?’
Because your precious son wanted rid of it.
‘At least try to eat, bella.’
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t.
She had even less to say to Scrapper. When he came to bed at night, she moved away from him, feet hooked over mattress. They lay awake, not touching, not speaking. Laid out next to each other like the dead.
His words – stupid, empty words – drove more distance between them.
‘You’re wrong to think I didn’t want the baby, Red.’
But you didn’t, did you?
‘We should sue the police. The lads reckon we got a case.’
Bring our baby back, will it?
‘Won’t you hold me, at least? It’s not only you that hurts.’
She lay like a boulder in his arms, pulled away as soon as she could. Some nights, she drifted off to sleep for an hour or two. Slept and heard a baby cry, the sound drowned out by the thudding of batons on Perspex, by the juddering pulse in her head. She woke up every time bathed in sweat. When she slept, the dream replayed itself. She tried her best not to sleep.
Scrapper came home later and later, stayed in the living room, spent the night there, more often than not. When he did climb into bed, his skin smelled of sweat and booze and rage. On one of those nights, he reached for her, laid cold hands on her arms, her legs, her breasts. She said nothing, felt nothing, lay still and let it happen. When he finished, his tears fell hot and salty on her
face. She rolled away from him. After that, he didn’t touch her at all.
Finally, her mam-in-law summoned Dr O’Connell again. Helen heard him creaking up the stairs, the squeak of leather shoes on floorboards.
Whispers floated in from the kitchen. ‘Is natural, the grieving. Destroyed all of us, this. But she’s a ghost, doctor. Won’t talk to us. Can’t eat. Can’t look at us.’
The cold whisper of a stethoscope.
More questions. ‘You’re in good shape physically, Helen, if too thin. Let’s talk about how you feel.’
Ta very much, Doctor. Let’s not.
‘Okay, fine. I’ll prescribe you antidepressants. See how you go.’
An image of a grubby dressing gown. Of empty, red-rimmed eyes.
No.
‘The pills will take the edge of it, my dear.’
‘I said, no.’ The words exploded from her chest.
‘Well, we have to do something,’ the doctor said, exasperated.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. How is a miscarriage anyone’s fault?’
He didn’t understand. None of them did. The baby was gone. Her mam’s words came back to her. The irony. To end up like her, anyway, and with no baby to show for it.
The doctor scribbled into his notebook, packed stethoscope and thermometer into leather briefcase and left. She waited until she heard the kitchen door close, threw on some clothes and grabbed her parka. She crept down the stairs, daps in hand, set off into the cold. It was only when she turned onto the High Street that it struck her she had nowhere to go.
A couple stood on the porch of the pub, yelling at each other. It was the girl with bleach-blonde dreadlocks. Her boyfriend had a smacked-up nose and flattened cheekbones, arms bare despite the cold in a sleeveless t-shirt, biceps like pale balloons. The girl was giving it plenty, face pushed into his face, screaming at him. Helen watched them, felt something like envy. Only people who had feelings for each other could fight like that.
