Shell gazed at the distant country, an irresistible sight that gave her comfort. Here, for once, she felt free, free of her reckless family and her stunted existence, free of the welfare with its bowl of 10p’s, the tower of Weetabix and enough teabags to last until October. She was free even of Het’s laugh that made things go as thick and fuggy as winter mist. And this peace made her hope to one day find the answer she was in search of, although she couldn’t remember ever posing life a question.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to. Lawrence would be on his dinner soon. How had he even got to be sixteen? He’d managed it so quietly, dashing along the skirting boards towards his O-levels. Finding the paper with the college ads the other day had been an eye opener. There her lad was, thinking about further education, and there she was, not even knowing when his exams were, let alone that he was considering working somewhere other than the pit.
She was useless not knowing that. Mind you, you had no chance with a teenager, especially one like Lawrence. If only he could be a kid again, even for a day, now that Shell had more of an idea what she was doing as a parent. Kiddies told you everything; they were little cupboards you could open whenever you wanted. Now she’d never know what was going on in her son’s head. It was what she imagined missing a plane to be like, watching Lawrence’s feelings jet off while she was left stranded on the runway.
She chucked her dog-end in the river and returned to the streets. Olive was waving and Linda was tapping her watch. Shell couldn’t resist sneaking a final look at the way she’d come. For some reason she was mesmerised by the distant hilly range and the thought that every city, every citizen petered out before something like it, a vastness she’d never understand, such mystery. She could see the way to Lawrence bound up in that feeling.
The route was a single track.
To Joyce’s satisfaction they divvied only five quid shrapnel between the lot of them. Shell ignored her snide gaze and led everyone to the main stage to hear the speeches.
The crowd was swollen. Shell could see two women in primary-coloured business suits interviewing groups of miners who themselves had small crowds of people surrounding them. There was a makeshift stage where couples handed out pamphlets. A preaching student was gesticulating, standing on some milk crates with a karaoke microphone in his hand, the microphone connected to a boxy guitar amp.
It was so busy that the Litten Ladies had to stop a fair distance from the front and spread out in the crowd, two or three abreast or single to a gap. While everyone waited for Arthur Scargill to arrive, a chant began to do the rounds. Call and response. Shell smoked through the entire thing.
A huge cheer went up when the union leader finally showed his face. He stepped confidently across the stage like a rock star. Shell couldn’t see a thing so went on her tiptoes, putting her hand on the shoulder of a man in front, who gave her a dirty look. There was a lot of clapping and cheering as Arthur◦– he had to be called Arthur◦– said how proud he was to be here. But what good did pride ever do? Shell had learned that one the hard way.
So many police, each of them a blue danger point lined up along the NCB building with its stripe of grey brick spanning it like a belt strap. The police resisted the crowd as it poured forward at something Scargill had said. Shoved people regrouped and steadied themselves, creating the space Shell needed to escape from Joyce and get a better view of the stage. Jan called after her◦– she didn’t turn around.
She found her way to some steps. From the top, a sight like nothing she had ever seen washed ahead: banners and placards, flags and people perched on each other’s shoulders, a thousand heads, a human stew. Shell stuck her fingers on either side of her teeth and blew a piercing whistle across the square. Plenty of people stared.
Bloody look at me then.
Scargill didn’t turn; he had his hand raised. Too kind, you’re all too kind. He wore a blue suit, which somehow felt out of order to Shell, as if the guy had come straight from the set of a Saturday night quiz show. Shell had never seen anyone in the flesh who’d been on TV. Yet here was their ashen chief, and he had that same combed hair, side-parted, coarse as donkey mane, that same neck with no chin as he had in real life. Her dad used to call men like Arthur Scargill chinless wonders; and not that it was their fault, but, no offence, it sort of was their fault. Shell thought Scargill was OK. His sideburns looked authentic, he cleared his throat like a working man and thanked people the right way. He felt like one of them, and that was important because if he wasn’t one of them, he was doing a damned good job of faking it and what else would he be lying about?
He talked of counties, negotiation. He talked of unity and strength. Everyone lapped it up, and why wouldn’t they? You don’t come to these do’s to be told what you don’t want to hear. You come to have your lily gilded, to be grouped together and buttered-up, glazed merrily in your kiln.
The speech went on. They’d win because they were the good guys, only there was talk of what a win might mean, and Shell didn’t trust that. There was always a catch. Then again perhaps the catch was that she was always looking for one. Shell chewed her hair. This was another benefit of the strike. Her mind felt open as it never had before.
Some pissed lads behind her were acting all giddy.
“Do you mind?” Shell said.
“Who pulled your chain?”
“You lot, I can’t hear nothing.”
“Oh calm down, Doris.”
“Aye, shouldn’t you be back at home wi’ t’kiddies?”
“Some of us are here to support the effort,” said Shell, wrinkling her nose at the stink of beer.
“She must be on t’blob. Decorators in.”
They were laughing and Shell couldn’t stand being laughed at. “Oh, shut yer traps,” she said. “I’ve not come all this way to listen to some babbies who’ve just crawled out from behind their mothers’ skirts of an afternoon. You’re pathetic.”
“How’s about you be quiet,” someone else called from nearby, which made the lads crease up with laughter. Shell searched for where the voice had come from and saw Joyce Stride watching her, scowling.
She tried to concentrate on the stage. It was no good. A kernel of unease had taken seed in the veiled uncertainty in people’s faces earlier, in the bags under Cherry Cairns’ eyes and her Arthur’s damaged face, and now it was in flower. She would never confess to anyone how relieved she’d been when her husband wouldn’t let her clean his wounds that morning. It was hard enough to feel attracted to Arthur these days. A cracked plate for a face, she just wouldn’t have known what to make of.
The three behind her were jostling again. Shell huffed at them once more and wished for Het.
“Go on, Trev. Go on, dare you.”
A hand darted below Shell’s waist like an eel snapping out of a wall, grabbing at her behind. She’d been expecting the louts to try something, so managed to get hold of the wrist, dug her nails into the exposed section of skin and tugged hard, forcing the hand’s owner to tumble off the stairs into the crowd.
He landed like a rock dropped into a sandpit. People were knocked sideways as the lad’s beer bottle flew from his hand, smashed on the pavement and became a wet asterisk.
Scattered folk picked themselves up as the police arrived, four officers varying in size. They roughed Shell’s aggressor to his feet. He was winded and making desperate huck-huck noises. Shell tried to keep calm. She was tempted to go and see if the young man was OK, but one of the officers had hold of him. “Man up,” the officer said, forcibly straightening the lad upright by the collar. The copper was fair-haired. He had pretty eyes and one of those cruel, playful mouths. “What the fucking hell you doing?” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.