The whole room turned to Terry fucking Winters –
Terry shook his head. His head red. His head in his hands. His hands dirty –
His hands over his eyes –
His eyes full.
*
They’ve had a bit of a lie-in this morning have these would-be Working Miners. They have yet to come down to the lobby of the Mayfair Westbury and it is already well past ten o’clock. But they have had a busy week have these would-be Working Miners. They have been in court each day to hear their action against the Yorkshire Area of the NUM over the Union’s failure to hold a ballot. They have been on television. They have been on the radio. In the papers. They are the men of the moment are these would-be Working Miners.
Neil Fontaine waits for them in a comfortable chair in the lobby of the Westbury while the Jew tries to keep Carl Baker patient.
‘They certainly deserved their champagne,’ the Jew is telling him.
Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I could do with a glass or ten myself.’
‘And you will have one, Carl,’ says the Jew. ‘As many as you want. Later.’
Carl Baker nods. He looks at his watch again –
The Jew has organized a lunchtime press conference for Grey Fox in the upstairs room of a pub near the High Court. Here Grey Fox will reveal himself to be none other than mild-mannered father-of-two Carl Baker from the Bevercotes pit. He will announce the launch of the Carl Baker Fund for Democracy. Then Carl will travel to the BBC and speak on The World This Weekend, after which the Mail on Sunday will accompany Carl on yet another tour of the pits and the villages of the British coalfields –
Carl Baker looks at his watch again. He says, ‘I don’t want to be late.’
‘And you won’t be,’ says the Jew. ‘You won’t be.’
Carl Baker nods. He says, ‘I think I need to use the bathroom again.’
The Jew and Neil Fontaine watch Carl Baker walk across the lobby in his tight pale denim jeans and his tight pale cotton jacket. He is going greyer by the minute. He has also grown a moustache since he first met the Jew. The Jew is flattered –
But Neil Fontaine is worried. He is not sure this is the right man. He tells the Jew, ‘Fred Wallace called, sir.’
‘And has the John Wayne of Pye Hill assembled his posse?’
Neil Fontaine says, ‘They are all saddled up, sir.’
‘Excellent news,’ says the Jew. ‘Will you make the necessary arrangements?’
Neil Fontaine says, ‘Certainly, sir.’
The lift doors open. Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie step out. The ladies are laughing; their men carrying the suitcases.
The Jew stands up. The Jew says, ‘Good morning. And how are we all today?’
The Working Miners and their wives all nod and smile.
‘Good, good, good,’ says the Jew. ‘Now where has our friend Carl got to?’
Neil Fontaine stands up. He goes down to the Gents’ –
Carl Baker is washing his face in the sink. He looks up at Neil –
His skin is grey. His eyes red. His tongue forked —
Neil Fontaine staggers back. Back from the sink. Back from the mirror.
Carl Baker dries his face with a paper towel. He says, ‘Are you all right?’
‘They’re waiting for you upstairs,’ says Neil.
Carl Baker puts the wet paper towel in the basket with the other wet paper towels. He follows Neil Fontaine back up the stairs and across the lobby. He says hello to Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie –
He smells of sick.
‘Right then,’ says the Jew. ‘To the pub.’
Neil Fontaine holds open the doors for the Jew and his friends and their families. He hails a taxi for Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie. He gives the driver the name of the pub near the court. He hands him the fare in advance. He shuts the door of the cab –
The Jew and Carl wave them bye-bye.
Neil Fontaine holds open the back door of the Mercedes. Carl gets into the back. Neil Fontaine waits for the Jew to get in –
The Jew stops. He looks at Neil. He says, ‘You don’t look at all well, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine says, ‘I’m fine, sir.’
‘Really?’ asks the Jew. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’
Peter
him or something, him waving shotgun around like a bloody madman. I told him, Put gun away fore someone gets hurt, Frank — You want some and all, do you, Pete? he shouted down from window. I said, Don’t be daft. It’s not a bloody film, is it? This is real life — Fuck off, you and whole bloody lot of you — Fair enough, I said. I’ve tried. I walked back down path to pavement. I could hear them all over in next street. It sounded like they were giving Paul’s car some hammer. I didn’t blame them. You couldn’t. Next news police van was coming down road. Krk-krk. Lads all walking back this way now. Police obviously didn’t fancy their chances. But when I turned round I could see a load more vans coming down into village. Krk-krk. Be putting on riot gear in back — Lads started running. Me and all — I thought, Fucking hell, and I said to Keith, It’s starting again — Never bloody ends, he said. Never bloody ends — Panel again. David Rainer nodded. He said, It’s right. Tomorrow. Gascoigne Wood — There’ll be civil war, said Johnny. Civil fucking war, that’s what there’ll be. I said, What you think we got now? Not a fucking picnic, is it? Johnny shook his head. He said, It’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming — He’s right, said Tom. Will look like a bloody picnic next to this, I tell you — So what we going to do? asked Derek. What bloody hell we going to do about it? Does anyone know who he is? Tom asked. Johnny nodded. Johnny said, Name’s Brian Green. Fucking electrician. I said, Has anyone from Kellingley or Barnsley spoken to him? Johnny said, He’s a scab, Pete. First fucking scab in Yorkshire. What’s point? Not until tomorrow, said David Rainer. Not until tomorrow, he’s not — It was another one of them mornings when lads didn’t need telling. Not after last week. I went up with Tony Stones, Mick Marsh and Lester. Gascoigne Wood. Just as dawn came up. That many pickets, there were tailbacks. Easy four thousand by eight o’clock. Easy. Most anybody had seen since Orgreave. Police out in force, of course. Krk-krk. Thousand of them. One. Fucking. Thousand — All for one bloke. One. Fucking. Bloke. Five thousand folk on both side, gathered in a fucking pit lane, first thing of a morning, all because one bloody bloke wanted to sell his fucking soul. Take their scab shilling. I hoped he choked on it. Hoped he fucking choked. But you looked at all them coppers on all that overtime and you knew it was more than any bloody shilling and all. I stood there trying to work it out. How much it must have been costing them to get this one scabby bastard into that one pit to sit on his arse for eight hour. Say this for coppers, they’re always quick enough to tell you how much they’re on. How King Arthur had done more for police pay than any Home Secretary. Everyone knew they didn’t get out of bed down South for less than a hundred quid a shift these days. There were a thousand of them easy, so that were a hundred grand straight off then. Just on police pay. Like Billy in Welfare said, She must really hate us. Really fucking hate us—And then shout went up. I got on my toes to get a good look at him. I couldn’t see much, though — Raining fucking bricks as usual. Heavy weather — Just this blue taxi coming roaring up pit lane. Ninety mile an hour — Mass push. Lot of fucking scrapping. Helmets going up. Smoke coming off fields where lads had lit some bales — They got him in, though. They always did — Mick Marsh said there were two of them in back and all today. Lester bet other one was just a pig — Ten quid said so. Why they called him Lester — But how could you tell? Both scabs were sat in back of taxi with their jackets over their heads — Like real men. Them jackets would be on their heads for rest of their lives now — Fucking pressure they must have put on him, though. That first one. Felt for him in a way. Not that it was something you’d ever say, like — But who’d want to be him? That bastard. Only scab in Yorkshire. First scab in Yorkshire — What a thing to tell your kids. Your grandkids — There was Home Front. Then there was your own doorstep — And this was our own doorstep all right: Silverwood — Home of our Panel. Fucking war zone, what it was now. Like pictures of bloody Belfast or