Until Our Blood Is Dry

by Kit Habianic

  Sue waited for her to catch up. ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘We need flowers.’

  ‘Early in the year for flowers, bach.’

  ‘We gotta find something. Where should we look?’

  ‘Try where the light hits the soil, I guess. Nothing grows in darkness.’

  They combed the verges but found nothing. But as they rounded a corner, Sue cried out. Up ahead, vivid against dark tree trunks, a flowering cherry blazed with white blossom. Helen pulled off half a dozen small branches then Sue pulled a loop of string from one of the many pockets in her dungarees, tied them into a makeshift bouquet.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Helen said.

  She plunged into the woods, following the sound of running water. Her feet sank into leaf mulch as she pushed through low-slung branches.

  ‘We need to find the stream, Sue.’

  ‘I hear it up by there.’

  An eerie screeching sound split the undergrowth. Helen saw a flash of pink and blue as a jay fluttered past her. She followed the bird, saw it settle on a tree stump. She pushed after it and found herself in a tiny clearing, split by a stream. Splintered sunlight turned the water into a ribbon of sequins.

  ‘This is the place.’

  Sue looked at her.

  ‘I just need a minute.’

  Sue clambered up the bank, perched on a flat-topped boulder under the straggly pine trees. She pulled out her tobacco tin. Helen scrambled up next to her. They sat together, watched the smoke melt into the sharp, cold air.

  ‘I came here once,’ Sue said. ‘After my mam died.’

  ‘So that’s why you understand.’

  Sue squished her cigarette stub into the earth, rolled another.

  At the water’s edge, Helen breathed in the sawdust scent of ferns. Watched the crystal water tumble between the rocks.

  ‘Will you sing something, Sue?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. A song to say goodbye.’

  ‘Like ‘Joe Hill’?’

  It was the song the men sang for the dead and the fallen on the line and at lodge funerals. Sue took a deep breath.

  ‘I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night

  Alive as you or me

  Says I, but Joe you’re ten years dead.

  I never died, said he. I never died, said he.

  ‘In Salt Lake, Joe, I said to him,

  Him standing by my bed.

  They framed you on a murder charge

  Says Joe, but I ain’t dead—’

  They sang the final verse together, voices soaring into the trees.

  ‘Joe Hill ain’t dead, he said to me.

  Joe Hill ain’t never died.

  Where working men are out on strike,

  Joe Hill is by their side. Joe Hill is by their side.’

  Helen gripped the bouquet, touched her lips to it and breathed in the scent of winter. Time to let go and find a way to live. She hurled the bouquet into the stream, watched the current bear it away.

  ***

  They drove back to Ystrad in the rain, passing retired miners, heading home from their allotments, backs bent against the downpour. Children chased each other through puddles. Soon, the triangle of metal that marked Blackthorn loomed above the trees. The village and the colliery looked peaceful, from above, beautiful, even, the winding gear silent and gathering rust.

  Helen turned to Sue. ‘Do we have to go back so soon?’

  ‘Red Lion?’

  ‘Can’t face people just yet.’

  ‘How about The Mountain Ash? There’ll be no one we know up by there.’

  ***

  The rain had stopped by the time they pulled up. Sunshine leaked through cracks in the slate-coloured clouds, cast an eerie orange light. Ivy clung to the pub’s stone walls. Helen stooped under the lintel, entered an old-fashioned room with low, deep-set windows that let in a trickle of daylight. Dried flowers and copper kitchenware hung from the beams. A real wood fire sucked the air from the room. They ordered two halves of bitter, walked through the lounge bar towards the rose garden terrace outside.

  Sue, walking ahead, pulled up abruptly.

  ‘What is it?’ Helen pushed past, stopped too.

  Scrapper stood on the stone balustrade, gazing out across the valley. He had his arms around Debbie Power, his cheek pressed against her cheek. Helen put out a hand to steady herself. The sky darkened as a cloud chased its shadow across the sun.

  Scrapper seemed to sense he was being watched. He turned, startled.

  ‘Red?’

  A flicker crossed Debbie’s dark, pretty face. ‘Well, now. Look who’s here.’

  But they didn’t move away from each other. Debbie wasn’t the intruder here, Helen realised.

  ‘Why?’ she croaked.

  ‘We were talking,’ Scrapper said.

  Two glasses stood on the balustrade. A pint glass, nearly empty, a wine glass stained with lipstick the colour of strawberry milkshake.

  ‘All the way up here, to talk,’ she said flatly.

  Debbie picked up her glass, touched Scrapper’s arm and walked with a swagger back to the bar.

  ‘I’ll be in the car park,’ Sue said.

  Helen put a hand on the balustrade to steady herself. ‘I always knew you’d go back to her. In the end.’

  ‘Go back? That’s nuts, Red. There’s nothing going on with Debbie. But I can talk to her, about anything, and not feel like I’m trampling on eggshells.’

  ‘You’re throwing this back at me?’

  ‘Let’s keep this simple; d’you trust me; yes, or no?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  — 7 —

  Scrapper’s thoughts were muzzy from the drinks he’d scored at the solidarity meeting. He’d stayed on after giving his talk, let the trade unionists and newspaper sellers and pick-and-mix lefties stand him round after round, the better to avoid that cold house and colder bed, the loss and disappointment in his parents’ eyes and that same conversation, rewound over and over.

  But here it came again. This time, it was Iwan who’d waited up for him.

  ‘There’s nothing between me an’ Dai’s missus,’ he said again.

  Iwan breathed an angry sigh. ‘You’re not stupid, son. Why seek any kind of comfort from a woman other than your wife? You got no chance to make things right if you can’t see why that’s wrong.’

  Make things right. With Red gone to live at Sue’s. After Iwan turned in, he slumped on the sofa, watched the fire in the grate flicker and die. Everything was lost. What hope did he have of winning back his wife? What right did he have to try? There was nothing for her here, except cold and hunger and misery. But without her, he was— what? There was nothing ahead for him but emptiness, a yawning void.

  He picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘He-e-ey,’ Debbie spoke in her huskiest voice.

  He realised his mistake at once. ‘Orright,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I dropped by the Stute earlier.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Came looking for Dai. To talk about the divorce.’

  He sucked in his breath. He might not be an innocent bystander, not exactly, but what happened between Dai and Debbie had nothing to do with him. No matter how anyone else tried to frame it.

  There was a long, awkward silence.

  ‘But he loves you,’ he said at last.

  Debbie’s breath hissed down the line. ‘You alone?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You know what we could be doing, you and me, alone together, right now?’

  An image assaulted him. Not an image; a memory. Debbie opening her blouse. Undoing the tiny buttons, one by one by one. Eyes fixed on his face. A black lacy bra. Hard little breasts.

  ‘Don’t.’ It came out like a groan.

  ‘You’re missing it just like me, eh, Scrap?’

  ‘Stop it,’ his voice shook. ‘Look at us; both married. Both a complete mess.’

  ‘And
?’

  ‘And talking like that just fucks things up more.’

  ‘So-o-ooo?’

  ‘So I can’t do this. Maybe you’ve given up on Dai but I’ve not given up on Red. Not yet.’

  The receiver clicked. The line hummed. Debbie was gone. Suddenly his thoughts were sharp and clear. He’d done it. Here was proof how much he loved his wife. He needed Red to know that one of them, at least, still believed in their marriage. He went to the kitchen, gulped down a mug of water. It was icy cold, made his forehead ache, sobered him a little. He fetched boots and jacket and set off out. If Red wouldn’t talk to him, she had to hear him out, at least.

  It was mild outside, for February. The steel toecaps of his boots clinked on the pavement as he paced up and down, pondering what to say to make Red see sense.

  As he passed the bus stop, a figure peeled out of the shadows, silent but at speed.

  ‘Nowhere to go, Scrapper Jones?’

  ‘Mind your fucking business, Captain Hook.’

  ‘I’ll give you Captain Hook, insolent boy,’ Red’s dad was swaying, his eyes glassy. ‘Word is, my daughter’s gone and left you. I knew it wouldn’t last. Knew she’d come crawling back.’

  Hearing the overman say it made Scrapper realise how laughable that was.

  ‘She’ll never go back to you. Not walking, crawling or on wings,’ he said. ‘You’ve done your worst with me but you’re the one who’s lost, Gwyn Pritchard. You’ve lost everything.’

  The overman caught Scrapper by surprise, grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall.

  ‘You got a nerve, Scrapper Jones. You put your stupid, wrong-headed principles before my daughter’s well-being. Some husband.’

  ‘You don’t know shit about—’

  ‘I know you’re too proud and lazy to take care of your own.’

  Scrapper’s legs buckled. The words struck home. Was that how Red saw it? When he looked into those eyes that were so much like Helen’s eyes, he saw that he and Captain Hook were the same; rigid and angry and pathetic. But there was no sympathy on that tough, grey face, only Captain Hook’s certainty that he was right. That everyone else, who fought so hard and gained so little, was stupid and short-sighted and wrong.

  He gathered up his strength and slammed Captain Hook into the bus shelter until the overman doubled over, coughing.

  ‘Speak to me like that again, I’ll fucking kill you.’

  Gwyn stopped coughing then, barked out a laugh. ‘Stupid boy. You’d struggle to manage even that.’

  Scrapper backed away. Was the overman daring him – goading him – to do his worst? He was angry enough to oblige him. He grabbed Captain Hook by the collar, flexed his arm to strike.

  Footsteps ran towards him. ‘No, Scrap. He’s not worth it.’

  It was Matthew Price. He had filled out since Christmas. His skin was clear and scrubbed, hair freshly bleached. No black roots now. No roots to him at all.

  ‘Typical scabs, sticking together.’

  Matt ignored the comment. ‘Don’t get yourself nicked a second time. Not on account of this scumbag.’

  Captain Hook stopped coughing, smirked at Matt. ‘Tell him, shall I?’

  ‘Tell me what? What in God’s name does he have on you?’

  Their eyes locked. Matt looked away first.

  ‘You’ll never understand, Scrap,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Does it bloody matter? Whatever it is, it’s not too late, Matt. Come back out, and you’ll see.’

  ‘Come out?’ Captain Hook scoffed. ‘Welcome him with open arms, would you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? If you believe a word this one says, you got coal dust for brains, Matthew Price.’

  Matt slumped as though his bones had come unglued. He backed away. Shuffled down the street without a second glance.

  ‘Nice one, lad,’ Captain Hook said. ‘You’ve lost your butty, lost your wife. You’re hell-bent on losing your job and your livelihood. Well done, lad. It’s over now. For all of us.’

  — 8 —

  ‘You reckon that chicken factory might be hiring?’ Helen asked.

  Sue blinked at her. She looked like a child in the mornings, in her outsized, mannish pyjamas, curls falling into her eyes as she fixed their tea and toast.

  ‘You said when we drove past,’ Helen persisted. ‘Near that Japanese components place. Said there’d be a chicken factory soon.’

  Johnny Griffiths was sorting leaflets. His deft fingers shuffled three stacks into single batches to hand out with his newspapers. Slogans in heavy type. A Day’s Pay For The Miners. No Benefit Cuts. Free the Guildford Four.

  ‘They got no unions,’ he said. ‘Bloody dodgy, them new industrial estates.’

  ‘I got to start earning,’ Helen said.

  ‘Stick with school, Red,’ Sue yawned. ‘Get A-levels, you’ll have more choices. Get a better job, or get a grant and go to college. Do anything you want.’

  ‘I can’t sponge off you forever.’

  Johnny stopped sorting, rapped her on the hand.

  ‘You’re helping take care o’ me,’ he said. ‘An’ we like your company.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Sue said.

  But it wasn’t right, scrounging from her friends. Helen went up to the bedroom that belonged to the old man until his accident. It was crammed with too-large furniture, a foot of paisley carpet between the solid, dark wardrobe and the carved wooden bed. The heaviness that pressed her wouldn’t shift. She pulled on the black jeans and matching polo neck borrowed from Sue. The outfit might just pass for businesslike.

  The phone shrilled in the hall. ‘Red, it’s for you,’ Sue called.

  She caught her breath. There was no chance she’d hear back from Bryn Tawel Hospital this soon. Not with twenty people chasing every vacancy at nursing school. Most likely it was Scrapper. But Sue was under orders not to put Scrapper through.

  ‘Hiya, bach. How you keeping?’ it was an older voice, warm and concerned. ‘I know it’s hard. But we miss you, all of us.’

  ‘Iwan I—’

  ‘I’m not calling to put pressure on you, cariad. Just to say, we’d love to see you. When you’re ready. Take care, lovely.’

  She could see them both, Iwan in his armchair, grey eyes narrowed in concentration, lost in his tall, pink newspaper or some tome from the library at the Stute. Angela in her kitchen, dark ponytail swishing as she cranked out armfuls of pasta, something tasty bubbling on the stove. She could see both of them, but not Scrapper. When she tried to picture Scrapper, Debbie Power blocked her view.

  ***

  The ice cream parlour was shuttered, lights blazed above it. She was tempted to slip round to the back door, let herself in, go up to the kitchen to sit with her mam-in-law. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet. Betty’s boutique was boarded up, planks nailed across the door, the flat above deserted. She would never keep her promise to buy that waistcoat with her first wage packet.

  She jumped as a figure emerged into the half-light, donkey jacket buttoned, head hidden under a flying helmet with sheepskin flaps. Part fighter pilot; past ghost-of-miners-past. She laughed, relieved. Siggy Split-Enz. It had to be.

  ‘What?’ He took her relief for mockery.

  ‘I thought you were a bwci-bo, come to drag me into the fog.’

  His eyes crinkled. ‘You wish, sweetie. Heard you left the bracchi. Fancy a brew?’

  He unlocked the metal shop grilles, snapped on the salon lights. Fluorescent strips blazed white. He pulled up a chair for her, fussed with kettle and tea bags as she told him about leaving home and looking for work. He poured the tea, parked himself in front of the mirror, removed his hat and reset his flattened hair with wax. His upper lip sprouted a new pencil moustache. He’d turn heads in any town, Siggy. A diamond on a coal tip.

  Helen couldn’t stop herself. ‘I saw you,’ she burst out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Matt Price. Up at the barn.’

  ‘And what did you see?�
��

  ‘You and him. Together. Like boyfriend and girlfriend.’

  Siggy gave a low chuckle. ‘Like boyfriend and girlfriend. Who did you tell?’

  ‘No one. I never breathed a word.’

  ‘Well, you had better not. Matthew does not tell the truth about himself.’

  ‘Ashamed of you, but not ashamed to scab?’

  Siggy dabbed wax on moustache and eyebrows. ‘Your dad found out. Used that information to bully Matthew back to work.’

  Helen took a gulp of too-hot tea. A piece of work, her dad. She could imagine his glee unmasking Matthew Price. It made sense at last. Why else would Matt turn scab?

  ‘Siggy, I’m so sorry.’

  Sorry was too small a word for the shame she felt.

  Siggy picked up a hairbrush, advanced on her. ‘Did you walk through a hedge this morning? This needs a trim.’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’

  ‘You are not looking for a job with this hair. You will ruin my reputation.’

  He set to work with clips, comb and scissors, stepped back with a flourish. ‘Now you can say to people, Siggy cuts my hair.’

  She turned from side to side, admiring his handiwork. ‘What would you do if you caught Matt with someone else.’

  ‘Who cares, if it is just sex.’

  ‘But if he loved you, why go somewhere else?’

  ‘Women,’ he sighed. ‘I hear the same thing, all day long. If he loved me, he would. If he loved me, he wouldn’t. Men are simple creatures, schatzi. It is never as complicated as you think.’

  ‘You reckon I should give Scrapper another chance?’

  ‘Not if you do not want to. But why not let him explain himself?’

  — 9 —

  Another night, another solidarity meeting. Scrapper downed several pints for courage before getting up to speak. The student comrades seemed to find him exotic, somehow, which made them less exotic to him. Afterwards, he let them take him out for a curry. They ordered bottle after bottle of sour red wine and the girls asked wide-eyed questions about working below ground. Wine was no friend to him, he found. It got him properly maudlin for missing his wife. He wound up too wazzed to cycle and had to wheel his bike home. Sleet and wind battered him as he staggered across the valley. By the time he passed the pit, the sky was edged with light.