“People have died.”
Het snorted. “All the more reason to keep going.”
Mam ladled some hotpot into the bowls. Beige swill with bits in it. The government were claiming all this nonsense was to streamline the industry and save money, never mind it cost money to shut the pits, it didn’t save. It was obvious to Het that if the NUM backed down over this then the government would think they had a green light to do whatever they pleased, boss the unions over anything. They’d send it all up the Litten Path. Gas, bus, rail, post, health, prisons, you name it.
“Well just remember you don’t have to bark every time NUM says so,” said his mam. “Last time they tried this we got stuck wi’ a three day week. Streets full o’ rubbish. Never mind the fact most of our brass goes straight into their leaders’ back pockets.”
Het left the table before he said something out of turn. Union corruption was a thing of the past, and occasionally over-stepping the mark in the name of what was right didn’t mean every union wanted crushing. Up the stairs and to the left, he went, into the blandest of all rooms, the pensioner’s spare. Lawrence’s smell shocked Het: teenage sweat and teenage spunk, cheap deodorant failing to mask it. A pair of hairy feet stuck out from under the blanket of the usually well-made, single bed.
“Lawrence?”
“Time is it?”
“Six.”
The lad groaned.
“Breakfast’s ready,” Het said.
“I can smell the mutton.”
“Well that’s better than nowt, which is your other option.”
“In that case I won’t dawdle.”
Het waited. “…I’m not seeing much movement. Come on. Up.”
Lawrence rolled over, squinting through a gap in the quilt. “Are you wearing them gegs of yours or what?”
Het was wearing them all right. The pictures on the wall were of the moorland, the sky, a forest. The linen chest was open, contents ruptured everywhere, and the egg-shaped rug he’d bought his mam for Mother’s Day a few years ago was doubled in the middle from where Lawrence had obviously skidded into the room, rucked it up and left it.
Het tried yanking the covers from off the bed. “You’re not my dad,” Lawrence said irritably, grabbing the sheet and pulling it up to his neck. “That’s his trick you’ve taken up.”
“Five minutes,” Het replied, letting go. He went downstairs and began setting the table.
Lawrence soon joined them. The kid might have been in a rotten mood after being turfed out of school, but of late he’d barely a civil word for Het, and it was getting tiresome. It was probably Arthur’s fault. After Het got back from Selcroft his brother had shown up. Shaking he was, asking for a drink of water. Arthur didn’t manage a single sip. He just lobbed the entire pint at the wall the moment Het passed it to him. The glass smashed. Het’s pullover was soaked though.
Arthur flew at him. “You’ve to stay away from her!”
“Who?”
“You’ve not even the nerve to admit it!”
Quite so. Het would deny everything if he had to, his heart especially. He managed to roll Arthur over and pin him down, accidentally busting his nose, and eventually sent him packing with an ammonia phial stuffed up his nose and the assurance nothing was going on with Shell.
How could anyone think Het would do a thing like that? Although he might have feelings for Shell, he would never act on them. Had somebody said something? Had Arthur spread the gossip on to Lawrence? Likely the two were in cahoots. Curse their closeness. Het could smell the lad’s B.O. wafting sourly across the table.
Eyes shadow-ringed and girlish. Hair scruffily the same length all over. Lawrence clearly got as much guidance about his appearance as he did with everything else. Someone had to pick the pieces up for Shell. “Got a job yet?” Het said, buttering his bread. He’d burnt himself on the hotpot before and now the middle of his tongue felt dimpled and sore.
“No, Uncle Het. Have you?”
Lawrence held his hand out for the salt shaker, which Het slid down the table, with satisfaction watching it stop out of the lad’s reach.
“So what’s plan of attack? Cause from what I can tell you’ve room and board and no means to pay it.”
“Gran, will you tell him?”
“Oh, leave off, Het. Let him eat.”
“Has Arthur even been round to ask about this arrangement, Mam?”
Had he heck been round.
Helen swilled down her hotpot with a glass of Tizer and frowned. She’d always been soft on Arthur. “He’ll stay as long as he wants,” she said. “He’s having a think, aren’t you, love?”
Lawrence didn’t answer.
“Of that I’ve no doubt,” replied Het. “Though what’s on his mind is a flamin’ mystery.”
Lawrence was always shrugging. His gran said he lacked confidence. Het thought he had it in spades.
He said, “Been up to much wi’ all this free time then?”
“This and that.”
“Summer eh.”
No answer.
Young lads needed three things to feel self-assured: a sense of direction, to be included and never to be made to feel small. Het had been young himself once. All he had to do was let his wisdom bleed through. Avoid condescension.
He cleared his throat. “Seen this one, Mam?” he said, expanding the broad chest of his that he was still dead proud of. “Bright lad. Strong lad. Could be of great use one day.” He wiped at a clump of hairwax he could feel behind his ear. “Capable of big things in the right job, you, Lawrence… So I want to know.” He lent himself a fatherly manner. “Have you started thinking long-term? Cause Brantford will gladly take you.”
Pine forest quiet, Lawrence shook salt on his buttered bread, hotpot untouched.
Het tried again. “As it’d be a shame to end up scratching on. No kidding, lad, if I’d even half your brain an’ it were being put to waste the way yours is, I’d never forgive myself.”
Still nothing. It didn’t matter if it was half six in the morning or half six at night. Het banged the table. “Knock, knock! Earth to Lawrence—”
“Obviously, Het, obviously it’d be a shame!”
“Well… glad we’re in agreement.”
“Fancy taking us down Brantford to scab tomorrow, do you?”
“After, lad. I mean after.”
“After they’re mothballed the pits? Do you think that’s my plan? Sitting on us arse until the end of time?”
“I should hope it’s not. And there’ll be no mothballing!”
“Oh, get gone, you’ve no idea what it’s like. Sixteen and stuck living in this shithole wi’ nowt to do except walk about, no jobs except down the pit or a poxy few quid’s training scheme bloody miles away.”
Sixteen was a working age, always had been. The edges of Het’s scar bristled as they tended to do whenever he was blushing. This indignant cub was another one who was always trying to make him feel past it, acting like he was visible from several miles away. Lawrence was one big afterthought. He’d say anything and tell himself it didn’t matter.
He made shoo signs with his hands. “I’m fine, all right.”
“I just want to help, Lawrence.”
“And what if I said I don’t need your help.”
Het’s mam interjected. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Why not hear your uncle out? What can it hurt?”
Het almost thanked her out loud. When she nodded at him, he cleared his throat as gently as he could then adopted the same tone he used when collaring newbies at the complex’s gates or on the wooden steps leading to the pit entrance, making sure they knew who to address and on what team. How to press their point and when to do so.