GB84

There were bound to be recriminations. There were recriminations –

There was also anticipation –

Excitement.

The President went from fringe meeting to meeting. From ovation to ovation –

Branches and palms beneath his feet. Straw and clothes spread upon the floor –

The President rode his donkey up and down the Golden Mile –

Here to banish the money-changers. The dealers in doves –

Here to accept his fate. His imprisonment. His crucifixion. His martyrdom –

‘— they have come today for the National Union of Mineworkers. But we are going to resist with all the power we can muster and if that means we have to suffer, either being fined or sent to jail, then that is something we will have to accept. Because I want to make it clear that if the offence I have committed is contempt, I plead guilty. Because the only crime I have committed is to fight for my class and my members –

‘I am not someone who wishes to go to Pentonville Prison, but I want to make it absolutely clear that if the choice facing me is to be committed by the High Court to spend a prison term in Pentonville or any other jail for standing by this trade union and our class or, alternatively, having to live with the imprisonment of one’s own mind for betraying one’s class, then there’s no choice as far as I am concerned –

‘We have come too far and we have suffered too much for there to be any compromise with either the judiciary or the government –

‘I stand by my class and by my union — and if that means prison, so be it.’

The President bowed his head. The President raised his fist –

He was the Resurrection and the Light.

The whole room rose as one. Clapped their hands as one. Stamped their feet –

The President stepped back from the podium. The President left the platform.

The President parted the sea. The President walked on the water –

He worked his way through the crowd –

The shakes of the hand. The pats on the back –

Terry Winters waited by the door for the President. Now was Terry’s chance –

He took his hand out of his pocket. He stepped forward out of the crowd –

‘President,’ said Terry. ‘I’d like to introduce Mohammed Abdul Divan.’

The President looked at Terry. The President looked at Mr Divan.

Mohammed Abdul Divan put his hand out. He said, ‘I am here to help.’

The President took the outstretched hand. The President shook it.

Martin

him what the bloody hell he’s playing at. Fat fucking chance of that though — Police have got his whole bloody street sealed off. Krk-krk. Two cars at end of his drive. Tit-heads at his door. Boards over all his windows. Scab sprayed over all boards — Neighbours say wife and kids have gone into hiding — New names. New addresses — He leaves house on a mor-ning with a hood over his head, they say. I stand there on pavement outside his house. I shake my head. I still can’t fucking believe it. You stupid fucking cunt, I think and shake my head again. But I’m raging inside. Raging. I shout at his house, You know what you’ve fucking started now, don’t you? But it just sits there. Boarded up and blind. But fuck it and fuck him — He’s fucking dead. Dead to me. Dead to us all — I go home. I open door. I put on light — It doesn’t work. They’ve cut us off again — Notice on mat in hall along with another letter from Board and another from TSB. I kick them out of road and walk in. I shut door. I stand in hall — No furniture. No food. No gas. No electricity. No wife. Nothing — Not even a bloody exit. Nothing. No way out. No one — I go up stairs. I lie down on floor. I pull some clothes over us. I close my eyes and I pray. Pray I wake up one day and they’re all dead — Banks. Electricity Board. DHSS. Coppers. MacGregor. King. Heseltine. Lawson. Ridley. Havers. Walker. Brittan. Tebbit. Thatcher — Dead, fucking lot of them. Them or me. Dead — It is dark. There are whispers. There are echoes — Cwithan. Scriccettan. Things fallapart — Day 211. War. That’s what it is now — Pete always said it was civil war. But there’s nothing fucking civil about it — It’s a one-man war. Lads want that one man dead and all. Fucking strung up — Things he’s done. Things he’s caused. Things he’s brought to village. Things pigs have dished out on his behalf — Nippers nicked. Blokes beaten. Folk frightened. Knuckle that Keith, Chris and me got. Boot that others took — Things he’s brought to village. Things he’s caused. Thing he’s done — Shame. Shame. Shame — Every day he works. Shame and fucking siege — Fucking siege. That’s what it is. A fucking siege — For one scab. One bloody fucking scab. No one else. Just him — He’s going to have to pay price for what he’s done. Price is revenge — Revenge. That’s what folk want — Revenge. What everybody wants — Picket. Non-picket. Miner. Non-miner. Man. Woman. Young. Old — Revenge. For what he’s done. Every single person in village wants it — Revenge. They’re going to fucking get it and all. One way or other — Pete has petitioned Panel for a mass picket. Panel are taking their bloody time. Lads are impatient — Few of them were over at Silverwood and ambushed a few coppers. Pigs will want their pound of flesh for that and all. But it made lads feel better. Less fucking helpless at any rate — They won’t wait much longer, though. Pete knows that. Panel do, too — Then yesterday another fucking scab only goes and joins Geoff the Mega Scab. That’s it now. Panel will have to give go-ahead for mass picket — There’s going to be one anyway. Come what may — I get down to Welfare for half-four in morning. Feelings are running high. Folk pat us on back. Folk ask after Keith. Folk ask after Chris. That’s why I’m here. That’s why most folk are here — Ladies from Action Group. Pensioners. Everybody — Pete’s wife is handing out whistles to all lasses. Make some noise, that lot will — Everybody’ll know we are here. Know why we’re here — Pete has his plan. Pete lays it out. Lads listen — Past two days scabs have come in Brampton way. From by me — Few start on again about how scabs are not even from village. Outsiders — Foreigners. Just like me — Pete shuts them up. Pete tells us all where to go. Picket is to be all along Woodhouse Green to junction by post office. By police station — Pigs have had sense to shut place up, though. Not that it stops them getting dogs out for us — And that’s what we get. Dogs barking and usual chorus of Morning, wankers! Least we’re team-handed today — Lads here from Maltby. Dinnington — Thousand of us facing thousand of them. Them and their dogs at six in morning — Then lasses with their whistles start up. Hear them for miles — Means only one thing. Kick-off — Bus on its way. Bertie the Scab Bus — Ten cop

The Thirty-second Week

Monday 8 — Sunday 14 October 1984

It is the last night of the Conference. It has been a good conference, too. The Home Secretary has attacked their president. The Minister has had a good go, too –

They all had. Even ministers the Jew did not care for.

The talk was of police that did not buckle. Governments that did not crack –

Governments that would not let the working miners down –

Of heroes and villains. Last battles and lost causes. Winners and losers.

There had been standing ovations for the Widow Tarns from Shirebrook –

For Bolsover Bill, Creswell Chris and Warsop Wendy –

For Don Colby and Derek Williams. For Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn.

Tomorrow the Prime Minister will close the Conference with her own speech. Business will return to London. Normal service resumed. But there is still tonight –