Three hours from now they’ll be wanking in circles –
‘These men are the backbone of this nation,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘The backbone.’
The Mechanic is screaming into the phone in a service station, southbound on the M6 –
‘Schaub? Julius fucking Schaub?’ he’s screaming. ‘You think I’d have gone anywhere fucking near this if I’d known that little cunt was going to be in on it?’
‘Relax,’ says the voice on the receiving end. ‘Relax —’
‘Relax?’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘You’re telling me to fucking relax? I got the wife in the fucking car, you fucking wanker. You think I’d have brought her along if I’d known fucking Schaub was going to be there?’
‘Someone dropped out,’ says the voice. ‘We needed —’
‘Wise fucking man.’
‘Let me finish,’ says the voice. ‘Someone dropped out. We needed a body at short notice. We called Vince. Vince called Julius. Julius was available.’
‘Schaub’s always fucking available,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Because no one wants to work with the fucking cunt.’
‘Please,’ sighs the voice. ‘We need you on this one.’
‘You should’ve fucking thought of that before you went and invited that fucking little pervert along then.’
‘We will make it up to you,’ says the voice.
‘I’m listening.’
‘An even four for your troubles.’
‘I should fucking think so,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I should fucking think so.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like this before, Neil?’ shouts the Jew from the backseat.
Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He never has seen anything like this before –
An entire county completely sealed off –
All roads in and out of Mansfield and Nottinghamshire blocked with checkpoints; the motorway down to a single lane in each direction; tracker dogs in every field; helicopters and spotter planes overhead; three thousand police deployed –
Every taxi and coach firm in Yorkshire and Derbyshire told not to accept fares from miners or face immediate arrest; every taxi and coach stopped just to make sure; every private car and van –
The Dartford Tunnel closed. The borders with Scotland and Wales.
Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes in sight of the Mansfield Headquarters of the Nottinghamshire NUM; the Jew waiting in the back by the car phone for the result –
The sound of helicopters in the sky and the Attorney-General on the radio:
‘If it does involve a lot of extra police work, then so be it. It is not involving the government in the dispute.’
The car phone rings. The Jew picks it up. The Jew listens –
‘Two hundred and seventy for a return?’ he says. ‘That’s seventy-five per cent. That’s fantastic news.’
The Jew hangs up. The Jew dials South –
‘What did I tell you?’ says the Jew. ‘He’s already lost.’
Martin
work can. Threatening anybody who obstructs them with jail. I mooch about house all afternoon. Telly and crossword for company. My name’s down for nights again this week. Cath’s got more hours at shop. Never see each other. I go down into Thurcroft for about half-five. One in Hotel. One in Welfare. Folk start to meet up about seven-thirty. Now they’ve had their little vote and one of ours has died, it’s different. Up a notch. Don’t need a coach now either. Can see how it’s going to be from here on — Hardcore unless it’s a rally or something. No firm will hire us a coach anyway — None would get through either. Private cars and vans, that’s us. Fifteen to twenty per shift. Pete gives out pieces of paper with name of pit and best way there. Bloody Bentinck again. He gives us quid for shift and money for petrol. Me and three other lads are in with Geoff again tonight. Dayshift have told us police are all over shop. Krk-krk. Not messing about either. Numbers, names, and piss off back to where you come from. Told some lads to be down their local nick first thing with their driving licences. Lip and they’ll have your keys. We’ve got maps out in car. Don’t even bother with usual ways, ways Pete’s written. Fields and farms for us. Helicopters with big bloody searchlights overhead. Everyone but Geoff with their heads down — Hour later we give up on Bentinck. Like a fucking police state. Geoff calls Silverwood. Click-click. Tell us to try Harworth. But then a carload of lads from Markham pull up. Got a CB radio. Heading to Bilsthorpe — Know a good way up there. We follow them — Anything’s better than lying among crisp packets on floor of Geoff’s car. It’s gone half-nine by time we get there. Never seen so many fucking police. We park up on side of main road and join picket at entrance to pit lane. Some of scabs have already started showing up. They don’t hang about either. Leg it straight in. Can’t even see them for police half of time — Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab — There’s a song every now and again from us. Sneers and jeers from police. This goes on for a couple of hours — Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab — One point I’m right up against this copper. Won’t tell us where he’s from. Not from round here though. Tell from his accent. Things he says. They’ve had their vote, he tells me. They want to work. So why don’t you lot fuck off back to Yorkshire. About midnight, we do that. Day 17. Cath’s laid out my suit on bed. Ironed us a shirt. I watch end of breakfast telly. Have a couple of hours. You took us from the wild-fields. Get up. Put on my suit. Sit there till it’s time. Just thinking. We meet at Welfare at one. There’re about twenty cars and banners going. Everyone to be at South Kirkby cricket club for two. We have a pint then into cars. I go with Geoff again. Unbelievable scene at their cricket field: hundreds of buses and cars parked up; thousands and thousands of men in their Sunday best; banners from every lodge in Britain; other unions here and all. Hearse sets off from lad’s house. Five cars follow with family and friends. There’s a drummer up at head with Arthur, Jack Taylor and all big shots — our lads and all banners walking behind them. First banner is from lad’s own lodge, Ackton Hall. Procession goes for a mile up to All Saints’ Parish Church, village streets lined with women and kids. Three hundred of lad’s family and friends inside church. Everyone else outside in silence. Blokes with tears down their faces. Big blokes: Pete; Geoff; me. It’s hard — Two kids. No dad now — Follow them up to cemetery in Moorthorpe. Lad goes into ground for last time. We call in Robin Hood on way back. Long faces and short drinks. Lots of both. Big disputes develop a logic of their own, Pete is saying. It’ll be right. Back in Thurcroft, King Arthur’s on television in Hotel. Dead lad’s dad had told him, Under no circumstances must we give up now. We must fight to save pits and jobs because that is what their son gave his life for. We all get right fucking smashed. Nothing to eat. I walk all way home. Pass out. You took us from the whale-roads. Wake up in my suit and I can’t stop fucking crying. Day 20. Cath’s on warpath again. Every time he comes on news, she switches it off. I tell her, You’re blaming wrong bloke. Blind,
The Third Week
Monday 19 — Sunday 25 March 1984
They wake up in a four-poster bed in an olde hotel in the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon. They are hungover. It takes a minute to remember why they’re here. The Mechanic switches the radio on. 99 Luftballons. They have a shower. Eat breakfast in the room. They check out. Feel better. Theytake the A46 and the A422 into Worcester. Jendrives. Theypark outsidethe Pear Tree. They go inside. The Mechanic makes the phone call. Gets the address.