Over and over and over –
Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Again and again and again.
Peter
preferable when it’s costing them an arm and leg? Because he’s worried that any settlement now would breakdown again when stocks were still low. That’s why. So I say we take his warning as a piece of bloody good advice. I say we push for a return right now. Keep overtime ban on. Mend some fences. Build our bridges back with Nottingham. Triple Alliance. Rest of movement. Clear some debts. Then, Bang! Hit bastards hard, right before Christmas. They won’t be able to last long then, I’m telling you. I sat back down. David Rainer nodded. He said, Not up to us, though, is it, Pete? So who is it up to then? asked Johnny — But there were no answer to that. Because we all knew bloody answer. That was why. Martin Daly came round ours tonight. Thought they’d put you in Middlewood, I said. He didn’t laugh. He shook his head. He said, You don’t know half of it — Fair enough, I said. How’s your Cath? Not bad, he said. What about you? Looks like it hurts — Only when I breathe, I said. He laughed. He shook his head again. He said, Bloody state of us, eh? I said, Not just us, lad — Right there, he said. Pint going to hurt, is it? Not if you’re buying. He laughed again. He stood up. He said, Best get our straitjackets on then, hadn’t we? Ended up in Hotel. I could tell Martin weren’t keen. Talk at tables was what you’d expect — They go on about uneconomic pits and then they spend sixty-five million quid a week on police, compensation costs to industry, alternative power and lost income tax. Sixty-five million fucking quid. Every week. That’s nigh on ten million fucking quid a day. It’s been over a hundred days. Hundred days at ten million quid a day. Never spent a bloody penny round here before. Think about it, said Billy. Ten million quid a day for a hundred days. Fucking hell, she must really hate us. Really fucking hate us — I was nodding. Everybody was — That fucking letter, Danny said. Wish I’d never opened bloody thing. Should’ve fucking burnt it like Keith did. Dear Colleague, Your future is in danger. Everybody will lose — and lose disastrously. Your savings will disappear. The industry will be butchered. Twenty or thirty pits in danger of never reopening, Join your associates who have already returned to work. Sincerely, Ian MacGregor. Your future is in danger? Little Mick nodded. Who does that Yankee bastard think he is? I’m sat there reading that fucking thing with a black eye and two fucking broken ribs. I know my future is in fucking danger — In fucking danger from him and her and their fucking boot-boys — That’s who my future’s in fucking danger from — I was nodding. Everybody was — You saw photo on front of Miner? That bloke were an army sergeant driving that police van during London march — Khaki shirt. Sergeant stripes. Badges. Insignia. The lot — Clear as fucking day. I’m telling you, that weren’t first time, either. That were never just police at Orgreave. Never. Not in a month of fucking Sundays. Not a number on any of them, were there? I know I didn’t bloody see one. Army, that’s who they were. Fucking troops. Light relief after Northern Ireland. Light relief. 1926 all over again — I was nodding. Nodding and watching Martin at bar. Bar and dartboard. Bloke at table got out his photocopy of Ridley Plan. Revenge, he said. That’s what this is. Revenge — I nodded. Everybody nodded — I’d had enough, though. I stood up. I went outside. I needed some fucking air. Our Jackie had left a sandwich out for us when I got back — Two slices of Mighty White. Margarine. Packet of cheese and onion crisps — Bloody crisp sandwiches again. I ate it and went up. Mary was asleep. I checked alarm clock. Put on my pyjamas. Got into bed. Lay there looking up at ceiling. It was midnight. Had to be bloody up again in an hour and a half. Didn’t want to sleep, though. Ruined even that, hadn’t they? I couldn’t remember a single bloody dream I’d had before strike. Now I couldn’t close my eyes for more than five minute fore I had them open again — Shitting bricks. Sweating like a bastard — Total darkness. I can touch my nose with my finger and still not see my finger. Hear hammering on metal in distance. Or was it here? Near. Here with smell of wood. Mice. Then hammering stops. Mice are gone. There’s a different noise. Different
The Nineteenth Week
Monday 9 — Sunday 15 July 1984
Christopher, Timothy and Louise were about to break up for their summer holidays. Theresa Winters thought the children should go down to Bath to stay with her mum and dad, at least for a couple of weeks. Terry thought Theresa should go too. Theresa was hurt. How would she be able to help him if she went down to Bath? How would she be able to support the strike? Help the women’s action groups? Did he not appreciate the cuttings she took from the papers, the videos she made from the news? Did he not want her to assist the welfare groups? Did he not want her to attend the Women Against Pit Closures Conference at Northern College next Sunday? Theresa had stopped washing the frying pan and the grill. She was staring at her husband. Her hands wet. Christopher, Timothy and Louise had stopped eating their cereal. They were staring at their dad. Their mouths open. Terry Winters looked down at his newspaper. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His mouth moved –
‘I’m sorry,’ he told them. He stood up. He left them –
Terry Winters went to work.
Terry spent most of the day organizing the hand-delivery of confidential envelopes to the finance officers on each executive committee of each separate area. These envelopes contained individual sets of instructions; the individual sets of instructions to his latest master plan –
His greatest masterstroke —
Instructions to authorize with immediate effect the payment in full to all non-elected employees of the Union (Regional and National) their entire salary for fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend the collection of rents on any properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to transfer the deeds and titles of properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) to the tenants of the properties concerned for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend repayments to the Union (Regional and National) of loans made by the Union (Regional and National) to employees for the duration of fiscal 1984/85 –
Each instruction a masterstroke —
Each instruction divesting the Union of its assets at national and regional level, pre-empting the possible sequestration of funds while simultaneously ensuring the loyalty of its employees in its darkest of hours –
The darkest, darkest of hours yet to come.
Clive Cook called Terry back within an hour. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive used the telephone in his office at Huddersfield Road to call Terry at St James’s House. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive failed to use the codes. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would –
Just like Bill Reed had said Clive would.
Terry listened to Clive’s questions. Then Terry said, ‘Just fucking do it, Clive.’
Terry hung up. Terry stood by the phone. Terry picked it up again –
Click-click.
Terry hung up again. Terry walked backwards down the stairs. Terry went out.
Terry called Diane back from a phone box in the station. He’d dreaded this call. He’d gone over it tens of times in his head. Hundreds. He knew it had to be said –