‘The reality of the situation?’ laughed Paul. ‘You’d know about reality then, would you, Comrade?’
‘I know this strike has cost over two and a half billion pounds,’ shouted Terry. ‘That this government will spend however many billions it takes in order to beat us –
‘That’s reality,’ said Terry. ‘I know that.’
Paul shook his head. Paul sighed. Paul held up his palms. Paul sat down.
Bill Reed squeezed the end of his nose between two of his fingers and said, ‘WE. ARE. ALL. BEING. MANIPULATED. AND. DESTROYED –
‘DESTROY –
‘DESTROY!’
‘But by whom?’ asked the President. ‘That’s the question.’
*
It has just gone midnight. Neil Fontaine washes his hands again in the sink of the private bathroom of the Jew’s office at Hobart House. He washes them again and again. He dries them and goes back into the office.
The Jew is standing by the phones with his tins full of pins. The Jew is waiting for the word from the area directors. The Jew and the directors have high hopes for high numbers today. There have been adverts in all the newspapers. New bribes on the table. Under the table, too. Tax-free incentives. Interest-free loans. Cash advances –
Safety in numbers. High numbers. High hopes.
The Chairman has even called from Palm Beach to wish them luck –
They will need it. In his heart of hearts, the Jew knows they will.
The Jew stands by the phone with his tins of pins and waits for the word –
But in his heart of hearts, the Jew knows it won’t come. Not this morning. Not yet.
The directors will blame the weather. They’ll say next Monday will be better –
The Jew will be disappointed. But in his heart of hearts, the Jew won’t care.
The Jew stares at the remaining clusters of red pins on his map. The Jew smiles. The Jew likes symmetry. Precision. In his heart of hearts. The six points of a star –
‘March the sixth,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘That will be the last day of this dispute.’
Peter
them popping into soup kitchen for their breakfasts on their way home. There was snow on ground and sun out now. Mood still seemed positive and I felt guilty about way I’d been over New Year. Maybe it’d be all right. But then I opened my eyes and I looked about us — Folk waiting for a word down Welfare. Folk queuing out door for electricity payments — Lads pushing their barrows through village to riddle through snow on top of spoil. Police on every corner. Either spitting or smiling at women with their babies — Place looked like a late fucking Christmas card from hell. A bloody, fucking hell — I got in car. I switched on engine. Let it turn a bit. Got it going — Went down Panel. People had something to look forward to before Christmas, said Derek. There was a sense of purpose and a sense of community. Knowledge that people were there to help. There were supporters coming up from London. From down South. From abroad. Now people just see strike with no end in sight. Except defeat — Heathfield coming out like that and saying there’d be no power cuts, said Tom. That were a disaster, that. Like saying we’ll have to be out another year, that is — If that’s what it takes, said Johnny. That’s what it takes — Johnny, I said, with best will in world, folk can’t do it — Not another year. Derek nodded. This kind of talk’s premature, said David Rainer. Talking like we’ve lost — Talking realistically, said Tom. That’s what we’re doing. Derek nodded again. He said, If there are no power cuts, our whole strategy’s buggered — Buggered anyway, I said. There’s been no support whatsoever. Just talk. Not one single leaflet. Not one fucking march. After all that was said at Congress in September — No brass. No support. Nothing — That’s trade union movement for you. History repeating itself, said Johnny. That’s what it is. David Rainer shook his head. He said, Been out longer than in 1926 now — Result will be same though, said Tom. Beaten and divided — Beaten and divided, said Derek. That’s what it’ll be. Mark my words — There was this portable television we had in Welfare. Little black-and-white one, on its last legs, it was. It was in good company and all. Folk would just sit there all bloody day and watch it. Just waiting for some news. I dreaded it when I came back from Panel and I had nothing for them. Half of them knew more than me anyway. They all had a different paper and would sit there and compare notes. There was not much else to do. Just wait for news and talk — Talk, talk, talk. That’s all I’d bloody done for past ten months — Talk and listen. But folk had enough of it all now, I could tell. Local folk — Lot of their goodwill was fading now we were into January. Police presence wasn’t as heavy in village itself. Like folk had forgotten what had happened. I’d hear people moaning about amount of stuff miners’ kids had got for Christmas. Like it were kids’ fault — Hear them moaning about miners and their families having too much to eat and drink. To smoke — How they weren’t as bad off as they made out. How they liked being on strike — It got our Mary right mad. Nearly got her sacked from factory — This supervisor was going on about how she’d seen all Christmas parties on telly for kiddies with all raffles and stuff. How miners had never had it so good and why was it only miners that folk ever felt sorry for? — No one had done anything for her and her family. Not when her husband was out during steel strike — Mary had had a right go. Told her she knew nothing. That she had no idea how hard up folk were. That it was the kindness and generosity of others that had given them kiddies a Christmas. People from down South and people from abroad. Not round here. How miners had supported the steelworkers. How they had made sacrifices for them. But where were steelworkers now? That was what Mary wanted to know — Woman had backed off when she saw how worked up Mary was — But it wasn’t just her. There was moaning all over now — Feeling it had gone on too long. People wanted to get back to normal — Pensioners. Shopkeepers. Local businesses — Painters and decorators. Builders and garages — Each one of them had been undercut by miners looking for a bit of cash in hand. Folk
The Forty-fifth Week
Monday 7 — Sunday 13 January 1985
The Right Honourable Member of Parliament had come back for more in the underground car park. In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —
His mouth moved again. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm more questions —
Malcolm still could not answer. Malcolm still could not hear –
But Malcolm had more tapes —
From the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –
They would find more answers here. They would hear more tapes —
More recordings of the Dead.
Today was the day. Yet another of the days. These endless fucking end days –
Another NEC meeting. Another showdown between the Militants and Moderates. There would be an attempt to expel Nottingham. There would be a move to restructure and reorganize the remaining areas. The Militants would then command the majority on the Executive. The Militants would then have the initiative. The Militants would then control the course of the dispute –
Then the witch hunts could begin. The witch hunts and the inquisition –
The torture and confessions. The trials and executions. Burnings and beheadings.
Today was the day and Terry wasn’t invited. Terry wouldn’t be missed.