Het went to collect his post. It was the morning after Skegness, he was exhausted from lack of sleep and no surprises why.
More bills. He was behind on the rent and everything else. He leafed through the letters until he reached a final one he couldn’t explain, his name and address typed neat, no post mark, nothing. Thin as that.
He tore the envelope open. The letter was from Clifford Briscoe, the pit manager at Brantford.
Dear Mr Newman, blah blah… It has come to light… gross misconduct… arrest… terminated.
He’d been sacked.
Fireworks. Your brunette years donated and the grey ones coming for you with no chance of a reprieve. Het thought about breaking something but couldn’t bring himself to punch the wall or smash any of his stuff. He set a fist against the armrest and began to push. You put down a twenty-six year shift and now your P45 was winging its way towards you. He’d be for the blacklist if he was convicted, never mind prison.
Water Street was cold and impersonal. Its russet bricks were damp and the muck between them worm-holed and loose-seeming. Het tried to see through the front window. Although there was no sense of Arthur being in, he wasn’t hanging around to make sure. He went around the back of the house and thumped the door.
Shell had either been crying or was badly allergic to something. Frail golden flies were all over the place as she answered Het’s knock. They crawled on the lightbulb and over the table. Upon everything.
“What you doing here?”
“What’s wrong, love?”
“I said what you doing, Het?”
“I’ve been sacked.”
The door was pulled to. Shell reached for Het’s scar, a gesture that made him duck away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come.”
He almost took flight but didn’t, his clunking legs carrying him down the backs beneath the sycamores until Shell grabbed him.
“You’re not going off on your own?”
“I don’t know,” Het said. “I don’t know.”
They ended up at the dell. It was a short way past Barnes’ Wood, a glade irrigated by the River Ogden that encouraged damp loving alders to grow. The trees’ bark was hoary and fissured and their pear-shaped leaves were bruised and had started to wither. There was no dramatic colour to an autumn alder. Their leaves simply dropped away.
They sat where it was dry so Het could explain the letter. He couldn’t keep the emotion from his voice. He didn’t know what he was going to do.
Shell had only the comfort of herself to offer, which worked all too well, the smallest surprise of the day. She kissed Het so hard that he thought she might have cut his mouth. And as they happened then, as they would, over and again, at least for as long as they could, Het opened his eyes and saw at the base of the nearest commanding alder tree distorted roots emerging from the netherworld like giant mutated chicken’s feet. October days and things were changing, and if the choice was to betray your own feelings or those of a brother who’d blown his chance, then really, that was no choice at all.
Shell became Het’s occupation; he had little else to do. They were direct if they bumped into each other. Cordial nod, retain the distance, nothing suspect. When they met later it was different. Thrown together in the stolen deep at Het’s flat; breaking curfew come evening or at nightfall, at the dell. They even did it in his car once with the back seats down. Flesh sticking to leather. No room for anything except them.
Shell hardly spoke during these brief meetings, and that was fine. There wasn’t a great deal to say when you were getting everything you wanted. All Het had to do was concentrate on owning it. Not messing up.
Under Het’s encouragement Shell re-joined the Litten Ladies. Any fool could see what that did for her. Illuminated, she was a confident speaker. Rational and passionate, she got people’s hopes up; not a strident bone in her body. Het was proud to watch her. She was and wasn’t his, but that didn’t matter.
It didn’t.
Because Shell hadn’t been complimented, she said, in such a long time, when Het congratulated her after another of her speeches. Hers just hadn’t been that sort of marriage. That justified everything. Shell sat down with Arthur and finished her drink.
Het’s brother was another matter entirely. It was all the sleeping Het was doing, each empty day leading to an early night followed by a late lie-in, the odd nap in between, his mind a nomad of the furtive trail, right up until the moment when Het would stun himself awake, thinking Arthur had twigged what was going on, thinking Shell was going to end things, sustain her marriage rather than him.
Mid-month. NACODs were due on strike on the twenty fifth and Het was letting his hopes get dangerously high, because without the manager’s union on board, every pit in the country would have to stop. There would be no power available for any industry. No power for the country and its voters. Not a single thing would be able to function. That would make the government listen◦– they’d flaming have to.
Talking of fantasy, Het and Arthur were on speaking terms again. They’d done a grand job of avoiding each other since the break-in at Threndle House, yet after accusing Het of getting too close to Shell that summer, Arthur had been almost genial. Probably he felt guilty. It was so like Arthur, sauntering into Het’s flat then chucking his drink at the wall. If Het had failed to spring across the room he didn’t know what would have happened. It must have killed Arthur. Never once had he physically bested Het. No matter how quick his mouth was, Arthur could never drop his older brother one. Het had fixed his nose and sent him home to Shell.
Then it had gone and happened, becoming guilty of the very thing you’d been so hurt to be accused of. Het had met his brief and told him about himself◦– long-serving worker, no record of arrest, paid up union man◦– and been tempted to confess what he’d been up to with Shell, just to get it off his chest. Sly pints with your sister-in-law over a plate of chips drenched in vinegar and burger sauce. Having it away every spare minute. The days were getting colder and so was Het.
The thing was that with Lawrence at his gran’s and Arthur never in, Shell was easy to get away with. Arthur had to be up to something: he certainly wasn’t picketing like he was supposed to be. Het resolved to have a word. Although it was easier to steal Shell with his brother out of the picture, he still wanted to see Arthur put right. While they were at it they could work out a plan for Lawrence. That would please Shell. It might even slow the hawks from swooping over Het’s life as they did every day now. One for each problem, an entire cast.
The front door opened. Het could smell the pissy reek of old fags. Shell was there, face on her. She was always so off with him at first.
Het said, “I’m here for Arthur.”
“What do you want wi’ him?”
“We’ve things to discuss.”
“You know I don’t like being sprung upon.” Those marauding eyes. The day sounded like a seashell against Het’s ear. “He’s having a bath,” Shell said. “You’re best not coming in.”
“It’s fine, I’ll wait. Look… is everything?”
“Shut up… It’s fine.” Her cloistered face turned coy. “Gives us chance to tell you the news, actually, Het. Hang on a tick.”