Fred Wallace nods again.
‘My name is Stephen Sweet,’ says the Jew. ‘I am here to help.’
Peter
ten thousand that day. Put me in mind of my father and all — Marched with my father that day. He’d be retired now if he were still alive. He’d still march for Joe, though — Banners were out and bands. Arthur, Jack and all lads. Half of us with black eyes and bandages. Piper playing Flowers of the Forest in a right strong wind. Service were at Pontefract Crematorium. It lasted an hour. Then Arthur spoke. He said, We owe it to memory of Joe Green and David Jones to win fight to keep pits open, jobs secure and our mining communities intact, and make no mistake — We are going to win. Magnificent, Arthur was. Needed to be — They weren’t going to charge that TV Copper. Krk-krk. Talk Union might take out a private summons against bastard. He were only one of many, like, but he were one they caught. One they caught on camera, lathering this young lad with his truncheon. That was Great Britain in 1984 for you — Policeman could belt living fucking shit out of an unarmed, shirtless kid on national television and get away with it. Not only that, whole of state jumped to his defence — But if a bloody miner, who had served this country, man and boy for thirty year, if he wanted to stand on a picket line and persuade another man to help him defend his job, his family, his community, his whole way of life, then they’d nick you and charge you — 3444 of us since start of March. Probably a few fucking more today and all — Back on active service. Coal House again. NCB’s Regional Office, Doncaster. Not all lads were impressed. Older blokes especially — Just lasses that work there, said Joey Wood. Tall Paul nodding, too. He said, Going to look bad on telly — Fuck telly, said Brian. It always looks bad on fucking telly. I said, If you don’t want to go, go direct to Harworth for half-eleven — Few of blokes nodded and stayed put. Rest of us went out to cars and vans. Drove straight up to Doncaster, no problem. There for quarter to eight. Parked down a back street. Made us way to Coal House. Not many stormtroopers today. Krk-krk. Them that were there looked a bit shocked when we all rocked up. Made themselves into a police wall for scabs to hide behind. Only enough of them to reach from Police Station to Court House, which was where lads had chased first lot of office scabs they’d come upon. Half-eight scuffles started. Then reinforcements arrived from RAF Newton or Lind-holme or wherever it was they were hiding them this week. Now wall stretched from Court House to doors of Coal House. Nine o’clock and scabs set off — Big push from all lads. Load of bricks thrown at Coal House windows — Lot of lasses who were scabbing had got bags over their faces. Lot of them crying and shaking. Running as fast as they could, like — Not very nice for them. All abuse they got — Then this fucking policeman went through a plate-glass window. That was that then. Load of arrests after that — Sixteen windows broken. Eleven cars damaged. Thirty-seven people assaulted. One thousand pickets — Bloody pointless. Drove back to Welfare. Queue of folk waiting for us as usual — Bills. Debts. Bills. Debts — Bloody DHSS. YEB. Same as fucking usual — They were talking about discipline, Panel were — NEC were proposing a new national disciplinary rule. Rule 51 — It was a way to clamp down on acts detrimental to Union, meaning Notts mob mainly, though it could be anything: breaking strike by crossing picket line; leaking documents; anything — There was a lot of anger about our own discipline, too. Discipline on our own side — Disobedience. Things that had happened at Coal House — SCC had been dead against it. Lads had still gone — Pissed a lot of folk off, that had. Then there was still anger about Orgreave; Scholey, vice-chairman of BSC himself, he’d been on box saying Orgreave was only a diversion so they could bring in what they needed through Immingham and Trent Wharves. But here we were still arguing toss about whether to picket place or not. I’d heard enough — Enough to last me a lifetime — I stood up. I took out piece Mary had cut from paper. Notes we’d made from news. MacGregor’s told his area directors that a long strike was preferable to an early settlement, I said. Now how’s that
The Eighteenth Week
Monday 2 — Sunday 8 July 1984
Malcolm Morris and Alan Cole drove down from Euston to Buckingham Palace Road —
The Rubens Hotel. A few steps up from the Clifton Park Hotel, Rotherham —
The job was the same, though.
They parked and used the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the hotel. Introduced themselves to the in-house security and the men from the Met. The talks were to be in one of the larger rooms on the second floor. The Board would have the room to the right. The Union the room to the left. Everyone had a chuckle at that.
The man in charge of in-house security handed over two sets of keys. He said, ‘Thekeys to the roomon the left. Thekeys to the talks.’
Malcolm handed back the keys to the room on the left. He shook his head.
‘We know what King Arthur’s going to say,’ Cole told everyone. ‘Big Mac, though, now that man’s a lawuntohimself. Lawuntohimself.’
In-house security put the keys to the room on the right into Malcolm’s hand.
Malcolm picked up the cases. He stood up. Left.
Cole followed him back out into the corridor. They took the service lift up to the third floor. Room 304. The room above the talks.
Cole said, ‘I’m sorry, Chief.’
Malcolm opened the door. Locked it after them. ‘Just can’t keep it shut, can you?’
Cole sighed. He closed his eyes. Nodded and said again, ‘I’m sorry.’
Malcolm looked at his watch. He drew the curtains. Switched on the lights. He stripped down the double bed. Handed the linen to Cole. Cole dumped it in the bath. Malcolm took the mattress off the bed. Leant it against the curtains. Heopened up their cases on the baseof the bed—
They laid out their equipment. They set it up. They looked at their watches —
Malcolm put on his overalls. He picked up the smaller case. Took the stairs—
Room service –
On a silver plate.
The Troika had gone to the Rubens Hotel for the talks. Everybody else was left to wait. Divide their time between Congress House and the pub. Pace the corridors. Cross their fingers. Pray at a table in the bar at the County, if you were Terry Winters –
Pray that both sides wanted a deal. That a deal could be reached —
That Terry could be saved.
Terry nodded to himself. Terry thought the President knew the time was right –
There was no Triple Alliance any more. No support. No stomach for it.
Terry nodded again. Terry thought the Chairman knew the time was right, too –
There’d been only seven hundred responses to the Chairman’s letter. The huge NCB adverts running in the papers this week looked like a waste of taxpayers’ money –
Money —
Terry closed his eyes. Terry bowed his head. Terry said his prayers.
‘Your lips are moving, Comrade.’
Terry opened his eyes. Terry raised his head. Terry said another prayer –