Terry Winters took off his glasses. Terry put them in his jacket pocket. He smiled.
Diane leant forward. She whispered, ‘Fuck me before dinner. Upstairs. Now.’
Terry nodded. He said, ‘Without me, they’d be bankrupt already.’
Diane rubbed her fingers over his lips. She said, ‘You talk too much, Comrade.’
*
The Mechanic needs time to think this through. Space. He drops Jen off at her sister’s. Goes in with her just to make sure. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s. Goes back to his. Theirs. He makes a couple of calls. Makes sure he’ll be rid of the Rover first thing tomorrow. He has another shower. Another drink —
The Mechanic lies on his bed. Their bed. He switches on the news —
‘An elderly woman has been found brutally murdered in the Shropshire countryside. The seventy-nine-year-old rose grower and anti-nuclear campaigner was —’
They will want answers. Then they’ll want silence.
Martin
she shouts. You’re all bloody blind. I get up from table. I say, Do you want a lift in? Listen to you, she laughs. How long you think you’ll be able to keep car? I say, They give us petrol money — Aye, he’ll pay you when you picket for him, she says. I shake my head. Do you want a lift in or not? He going to pay your tax, your MOT? He going to pay for your tyres, your radiator? You’ll have driven it into ground before he’s finished with it. You’ll be no bloody use to him then. See how much he pays you then — Bugger her. I put on my coat. I go outside. I get car out of garage. I sit in drive for a bit. She doesn’t come out — Bloody bugger her. I set off into Thurcroft. Go down Welfare. I’m very early. I wish I’d put my name down for either days or nights now. Not fucking afternoons. Pete comes in. Asks if I fancy going into Doncaster with him. Coal House. Too right, I do. Get there just before eight. There are only a couple of coppers. Krk-krk. Hundred-odd of us — Parkas. Kagools. Boots. Trainers — Coppers on their walkie-talkies. Krk-krk. Shitting it. NCB staff turn up about quarter-past to half-past eight. Police everywhere now. There’s usual shoving. Shouting. Scuffles. Most of NCB staff take one look and go home. One — nil to us. Pete and me drive on over to Bentinck — Reality. Windows down. Roadblock fucking City. Krk-krk. Have you heard what I was telling them other lads? Pete shakes his head. No, he says. I have not — We know you are peaceful, says copper. But if you carry on you’ll be arrested because you’re liable to cause a breach of the peace. What? says Pete. So if we just drive on towards colliery, then we’ll be arrested? Aye, says copper. You will. So don’t bother. Day 22. Bred into them, John is saying on A18. They’re not Union men. Never have been. You’ve seen their houses. Their cars. Remember me dad telling our Kevin, Work down there and you’ll end up a scab — Rich like, but a scab. That was fifteen, twenty year back. They’re all, Fuck you, I’m all right Jack, says Tony. Always have been — Fucking incentive schemes, says Michael. Made it worse. Remember that fucking ballot? John laughs. They were completely outvoted. Cunts just ignored result and went their own sweet fucking way as usual. Now them same cunts want another vote, says Michael. Long as it suits them, says Tony. If it didn’t, they’d just sod us anyway, says John. Bred into them. I say, Aye-up. Company. Fucking hell, says John. Not again. I pull over. I wind down window. Krk-krk. Where you going? Fishing — Fuck off — That’s not very nice, says John. I don’t give a shit, says copper. You’re pickets and I want to know where you’re going? I say again, We’re off fishing. Get out, he says. I get out — Driver’s licence — I hand it over. Rest of you, out, he says. John, Tony and Michael get out of car. Two other coppers come up. One of them takes down registration. Other takes keys out of ignition. He goes round back, opens up boot. You got a warrant to do that, have you? asks Tony. Why? asks copper. Got something to fucking hide, have you? I think they have, sir, says one with his head in my boot. He stands up, six small logs in his arms. One with driver’s licence in his hands, he’s shaking his head. Now what have we here? he asks. They look like offensive weapons to me. I look at him and smile. He throws my driver’s licence down on road. You’ve got ten minutes to get back to Yorkshire, Mr Daly of Hardwick — Or what? asks John. Or you’re all fucking nicked. Day 25. Cath wants to go over to her sister’s. She lives just outside Lincoln. Place called Branston. It’s a straight run down A57. We get on road after breakfast. I want to try to get there and back before National starts. We pass Shireoaks and are just by first turn off into Worksop when I see all cones across road. Them parked up in a lay-by. Krk-krk. Crowbars and cameras out. Smile. They wave us over to side. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He taps on glass. I wind down window. Where you going? Lincoln. Why? See her sister. Where you live? Hardwick. Where’s that? Just back up there. Near Thurcroft, says Cath. What you do? You what? Your job? I’m a miner. Are you now? he says. Thurcroft? I nod. Working, are you? What’s that to you? He shakes his head. Turn your vehicle around, he says. What?
The Fourth Week
Monday 26 March — Sunday 1 April 1984
Theresa Winters woke Terry up. She had made him porridge. Scrambled eggs on toast. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She dropped him at the station.
Terry stood on the platform. He stamped his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He had a first-class seat on the first train down.
The train was ten minutes late.
Terry found his seat. He ordered coffee. Breakfast. He checked his files:
National Coal Board vs National Union of Mineworkers: NCB High Court action against the NUM’s pension-fund investment policy.
Terry checked his notes:
Union constitutionally opposes investment of funds overseas and in industries that compete with coal.
He checked his sums:
£84.8 million annual contributions from members; £151.5 million from the NCB; £22.4million in pensions and £45.2million lump-sumpayments to be paid annually; £200 million for investment.
The President would be representing the Union. Himself. The President would be conducting their defence. Personally. The President would be waiting for Terry. Himself. The President would be counting on Terry –
Personally.
Terry put away the file. He picked up the complimentary copy of The Times:
More miners join strike as pickets increase; BSC cutbacks 50 % at Scunthorpe; Miner found hanged —
Terry felt sick. Terry looked at his watch. Terry changed carriages –
Terry sat at a table in second class as the train pulled into King’s Cross.
Terry Winters knew they would be waiting for him. Watching him.
*
‘These people need our help‚’ says the Jew again –
‘They are putting concrete blocks and metal poles across their roads. They are smashing their windscreens and slashing their tyres. They are urinating in plastic bags and throwing them at these people as they try to go to work.’
Neil Fontaine nods. He keeps his eyes on the motorway.
‘Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Lancashire, Leicestershire — these are the places where we shall win this war.’
The Mercedes leaves the M1 at Junction 21.
‘These are our people, Neil. These are their places.’