“Oh, shut up. How are you anyway, stranger?”
“Not bad,” ventured Het. “Well, been better… in all honesty.”
In the kitchen she made them tea. Black with one sugar for him, strong with lots of milk for her. The teaspoon clinked against the plate of Arthur’s by now completely defrosted dinner.
“How did it go?” Shell said, knowing the answer, and when Het told her the strike was going ahead, said she was glad. Het accepted his drink and blew it cooler, causing the puckered stain on his neck to stretch. Shell was disappointed when he didn’t ask why she was glad, because she wasn’t really.
“Sorry for just turning up out the blue like this.”
“You’re all right. Not seen you for an age.”
It had been a long time. Their unfamiliar reflection was reminder enough of that. Caught within the frame of the window, they could have been in a painting: two people with china mugs, one balancing her chair on two legs, the other interlocking his fingers on the table. Het drank his tea. Shell drank hers.
“Good job it were you at the door,” Het said. “I might have cracked him one.”
“Wouldn’t have been first time.”
Het chuckled and emptied the tea into his mouth. It must have been scalding. “You’ve no idea where he might be?”
“Why do you wanna know?” said Shell, her initial surprise at Het’s appearance giving way to her suspicious nature.
“Just do.”
“Aye, but since when do you ever pop round for a chat?”
She went to the biscuit barrel, opened it and found nothing inside.
“Already said. He weren’t at ballot.”
“Aye well our Arthur never turns up to half union shite. And let’s face it, he’d skip his own funeral if he could.”
“Ah, Shell…”
“What?”
Het was smiling. Shell sat in the chair closest to him.
“Nothing, really. You just reminded me of what me mam used to say: there’s two kinds of people you don’t need to worry about if you’ve not seen them in an age. Those you can’t forget, and those who never change.”
“An’ which am I?”
“Oh, bit of both.”
Het’s knuckles were terrific things, like bolts, and Shell was surprised at her urge to reach out and touch them. She pinched her thigh under the table and said, “Well, believe it or not, I have changed. Unlike some.” She finally succumbed and touched her hair. “Once upon a time I’d have dragged from you what you wanted wi’ Arthur. Now I’m not bothered.”
She counted to five in her head.
“I just need to know he’s on board with everything,” Het said.
“What for?” asked Shell, suppressing a smile. “They’re only closing a few pits.”
“Serious?”
Casual shrug.
“Well if twenty thousand jobs is a few I’d hate to think what a lot is. And what about Cortonwood?” Het began picking at the skin around his fingernails. “Perfectly good pit is Cortonwood.”
Shell glanced over the table. Het looked unbelievably weary.
“I just don’t understand it,” he said.
“TV said only Yorkshire’s voted yes.”
“Rest’ll follow.”
“They’ve changed welfare.”
“Union’ll sort it.”
“Frigging union.”
“There’s power in a union,” said Het. “That’s why I’m here, ’cause this is important. I need to make sure our kid’s up for it, Shell, as if my own brother’s not… Well, it doesn’t exactly bode well, does it?”
“Never had you pegged as superstitious.”
“What I’m saying is if we can get everyone on board we’ll be fine. Six weeks and done, tops.”
Shell had never seen Het like this. She hadn’t seen him in years, really, not since she’d gotten married. Het and Arthur had fallen out after Sam was sent to borstal for putting their father in hospital. And who had Shell been to say anything? She was new to the family, just another woman with an opinion.
Het continued. “They’ll back down if everyone stands up,” he said, “they’d have to. Shutting working mines, it’s a deliberate attempt to provoke us. If a pit’s not exhausted or unsafe, it can’t be shut, let alone wi’out union say so.”
“Sounds like they can and not much anyone can do about it.”
“There flaming is.”
Smartened-up as he’d never been, Het was finally grinning. A working man, far too proud of it. The grin became a nod as he gestured to ask if he could use the toilet. Shell nodded, then, hand flat against her neck, exhaled loudly as Het left the room. Her stampeding pulse frightened her.
Het returned. Shell couldn’t help noticing the damp patches on his cords from where he’d wiped his hands after washing them. Or maybe it was piss, she thought.
“So he’ll be down pub?”
“Probably.”
“Which ones does he go in?”
“All of them.”
The living-room door opened and struck Het in the back. It was Lawrence, dressed in his parka, a red t-shirt and jeans.
“Uncle Het,” he said. “What’s he doing here, Mam?”
Het stared at Lawrence’s head.
“He’s after that father of yours,” Shell said. “Off out somewhere?”
“After us Dad, Het?”
“Right first time.”
“Well, he’s not in.”
Lawrence stepped properly into the room, spotting his trainers under the coffee table where he’d kicked them off earlier. He went over and began to pull them on.
“I can see that,” said Het.
“Er… Lawrence?” said Shell.
“He’s gone out,” said Lawrence to Het.
“All right, Sherlock…”
“An’ I know where he is.”
“What? Where?” said Shell.
“I’ll show you, Het. S’where I’m headed.”
“You’ve school tomorrow,” Shell insisted.
“This is important,” Het said, missing the look Shell gave him. “An’ I’ll keep an eye on him.”
They’d only ignore her if she didn’t give permission. Shell watched them bustle outside and hurry towards Het’s car. After they’d gone she went to the tissue box, extricated the bobble from her hair and shook her curls loose. The fags were finished so it was back to waiting. The bars of the fireplace throbbed their volcanic orange. She could not forget Het’s eyes. She pinched her thigh at the thought of them.
She pinched it as hard as she could.
3
THERE WAS A crusted pattern flecked across Arthur’s hand. It was too dark to see, but he could feel it.
And his knuckles hurt when he flexed his fingers. He was lying on the grass, in the countryside or maybe a garden, and the stars studded above him like beads. He was damp all over. He hated the damp.
He sat up to rub the wetter target-shapes on his back. He could taste iron, actually, wasn’t as drunk as before but still felt it, and how long had he been bleeding for?
There was the gargoyle, the marker overlooking Threndle House. Arthur groaned, sort-of-remembering resting against the warm metal counter of the chippy, dinner out of a newspaper by the bandstand, then the pub. Always the pub. Front teeth clacking the glass’ brim, sprawl of empties in front, alone because everyone else was at the welfare for the ballot. Every hand packed bolting to vote yes.
Every hand except his. Withered rollies and then the shop, pointing over the bloke’s shoulder at the serious stuff regimented like bottles in a shooting gallery. Arthur must have come here afterwards, wandering the grounds of Threndle House a firmer prospect than home.
He stood up, drunk. Was that smoke nearby? There could hardly be many fires going at this hour. Likely it was just mist.