‘That’s less than last week,’ screams the Jew. ‘It’s just not good enough, Neil!’
Neil tells him about the bad weather. Neil doesn’t tell him about the talks –
‘The eve of a historic breakthrough,’ the Union were saying —
‘Uncork a bottle of my finest,’ says the Jew. ‘I’ll be back for dinner, Neil.’
‘And not a moment too soon, sir,’ replies Neil Fontaine before he hangs up –
Neil is driving the General Secretary of the TUC back to Congress House.
*
They asked after his wife. They didn’t wait for his reply. They didn’t really care –
Nothing mattered now, but Terry knew that (Terry has known that for a time).
‘It has to be an honourable settlement,’ Dick was telling the rest of the Executive. ‘The men will not sell their souls now. Not at this stage —’
Everybody nodded. Everybody knew that –
Phrases had become empty. Faces become blank. Words empty. Looks blank —
The Fat Man stood up. The Fat Man distributed photocopies of the agreement –
‘This is an honourable settlement,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Honourable —’
The National Executive flicked through the eight points of the document –
Reconciliation. The right of the Board to manage, the right of the Union to represent. A return to work and a return to a new Plan for Coal. The modificationof the Colliery Review Procedure. The incorporation of an independent reference body into the CRP. The future of all pits to be dealt with by this new CRP, including those collieries with no satisfactory basis for continuingoperations. The CRP to provide a further review where agreement could not be reached. But,point eight —
At the end of this procedure the Board will make its final decision –
The President put down his photocopy. The President looked up at the Fat Man –
No more talks. No more alterations. No more discussions. No more negotiations—
‘This is the best possible deal,’ said the Fat Man. ‘The best possible deal.’
‘So she says,’ smiles the President. ‘And so he says. And now so you say.’
‘But what do you say?’ asked the Fat Man. ‘You and your Executive?’
‘It’s unacceptable,’ said the President of the NUM. ‘That’s what I say.’
‘So what can I do now?’ asked the Fat Man. ‘What more can I do?’
‘You can pull out the entire trade union movement in industrial action in support of the National Union of Mineworkers –
‘That’s what more you can bloody do!’
The Fat Man looked up at the President. The Fat Man shook his head –
‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘It’s too late and you know it.’
The President looked down at the Fat Man, and the President shook his head –
His fingers squeezed his nose. His eyes filled with tears –
The President looked round the table at the National Executive Committee –
They shifted in their seats. They picked their pants out of their arses and sighed. The will is there, they said. The wording is not, they argued –
Is it hell, they shouted. The wording is there, they said. It’s the will that’s not –
They lit their cigarettes. They drank their teas. They looked to the President –
The President picked up the points. The President read them through again –
The President put them down again. The President said again, ‘Unacceptable.’
No man’s land –
The President caught again here. The President trapped again –
Piggy-in-the-middle –
The TUC and the government. Hand in hand. The government and the Board. The Board and the TUC. The TUC and his own fucking Union. The Left and the Right. The Militants and the Moderates. The Hardcore and the Soft. The Left within the Left. The Right within the Right. The Tweeds and the Denims. The Traditionalists and the Modernists. The Europeans and the Soviets. The wet and the dry –
The black and the white. The right and the wrong. The good and the bad –
United we stand. Divided we fall —
Factions and fractions. Fictions and frictions –
Never. Fucking. Ending.
The President shook his head. The Executive did not. The Fat Man nodded –
Nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded —
‘The Minister will help,’ he promised. ‘The Minister wants to end the strike and, where there’s a will, there is always a way.’
The Fat Man picked up his papers. The Fat Man left for Thames House –
Left them to their bitter pills. Their factions and their frictions –
To accept this or reject it. To strike on or return …
Terry made his excuses. Told them he had to go. They didn’t listen. Didn’t care –
To return without an agreement or return with an agreement …
Terry took the train back up to Sheffield. Terry sat in first class –
An agreement that had no amnesty or an agreement that did …
The receiver had ended the sequestration. The receiver had sole control –
An amnesty that included all sacked miners or that only included some …
Terry had to move fast. Terry had to move by night. Terry had lots to move –
The suitcases and the biscuit tins. The cardboard boxes and the padded envelopes. The cash and the columns. The additions and the subtractions. The sums and the cost –
His fractions and his fictions —
The price –
Every. Fucking. Thing.
‘Be careful,’ said the voice from the doorway to his office. ‘Makes you go blind.’
Terry looked up from his desk. Fuck. Terry said, ‘What does?’
Bill Reed switched on the lights. He said, ‘Playing with yourself in the dark.’
‘What do you want now?’ asked Terry.
‘Just wanted to know how your wife was doing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Terry. ‘Recovering very well.’
Bill smiled. ‘Reassuring to know such things are still possible.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ said Terry. ‘Now was there anything else, Comrade?’
Bill Reed stopped smiling. Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters –
Terry Winters smiled back. Terry Winters didn’t care –
Nothing. Fucking. Mattered. Now –
The clock was ticking down. Tick-tock. The final countdown had commenced –
These were the last few days.
*
The Jew is back from the beach. Fresh from the festivities –
‘They’re holding fucking what?’ he is screaming at Neil. ‘When? Where? Who?’
The Jew has Neil take him straight to Hobart House –
‘Monday! Downing Street!’ he shouts into the car phone. ‘The Prime Minister!’
The Jew thunders up the stairs. The Jew storms into the Chairman’s office –
The Chairman is at his desk. Pen in hand. The Chairman is at his tether’s end –
‘They are politicians,’ he sobs. ‘I am just an industrialist.’
‘But this is 1985,’ rants the Jew. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
The Chairman nods. The Chairman stiffens his upper lip –
‘Have they stormed the barricades?’ raves the Jew. ‘Have they killed the King?’
The Chairman tears up his letter of resignation –
‘What time shall I expect the knock upon my door?’ laughs the Jew –