not to fall out with them.”
Clare sighed. “Trouble is, he can’t keep avoiding it forever. If he claims to be ill one more time, Catt’s out for his bollocks.”
“I think he was hoping it would all be over quickly. I mean, none of us thought we’d still be here four months on, did we?” Stewie looked out of the car window at the row of men standing at the colliery gates with their placards: No Pit Closures. Victory to the Miners. Coal Not Dole.
“I guess not. You have to admire them, though. Can’t be easy, living off nothing for all this time. Yet we’re more worn down than they are.”
“Here we go.” Stewie jumped out of the car as the minibus carrying the handful of strike-breakers headed towards the gates. The line of police officers pushed back the picketers as they took up their shouts of “Scabs!” and tried to get at the bus. Clare watched as the bus went in, someone behind the window giving the picketers the V-sign, and Stewie’s camera making its constant clicking, whirring sounds.
Once the bus had gone through the gates and the shouts quietened down, Clare went up to the picketers as they stood, swearing, shaking their head in the direction of the pit. “Smell that bacon,” one commented, glaring at the line of police officers. “Bunch of pigs.”
“How’s it going?”
They looked at her, their faces hostile. “You’re the bird that was in the union office the other day,” one of the men said.
“That’s right. I just wondered what the mood of the men is, at the moment.”
“We’re fine,” said the same man. He nodded in the direction of the pit. “See that bus? There were about five or six scabs on it. Know how many men work here, on a normal day? Two hundred. Just remember that, pet. There are hundreds of us still out on strike and we’ll keep it up until we win. That lot…” he jabbed a finger towards the colliery. “… they’re pathetic. They’ll be begging us to come back, in a week or two. You just watch.”
When Clare went into the newsagent’s, Jai had an envelope for her.
“From your mining friend,” he said, as she headed up the stairs to the office. The room felt claustrophobic and already too warm, even though it wasn’t yet eight-thirty. It would only get more stifling as the day went on. Clare had a go at opening the little window, brushing away the cobwebs and dead flies that had accumulated along the sill and behind the plastic blinds. It wouldn’t budge.
She tore open the envelope. It was a ticket to a benefit that evening at the miners’ welfare club, to raise money for trips out over the school holidays. Clare fingered the ticket. It just said: Benefit Night for the Miners’ Families. £3 Waged, £2 Unwaged. There was no note with it, but she knew this was Finn giving her an ‘in’. She’d mentioned to him the other day that she particularly wanted to do something about the miners’ wives and families. This would be a great start. Good job she’d stayed out of trouble on the picket line. She pushed slips of typing and carbon paper into her typewriter and began: Striking miners remained upbeat on the picket lines today as the bitter dispute continued well into its fifth month. Defiant men told the Post that they were in no mood to give up in spite of the handful of strike-breakers who were bussed into the pit…
Clare followed it up with a feature-length piece marking eight days since baby Jamie’s death, detailing how the police were no further forward and families on Sweetmeadows were still living in fear of a psychotic killer. At the end of the working day, though, Clare had around half an hour spare before heading along to the miners’ benefit. She’d planned it that way. She had a carrier bag full of sweets, pens and comics for Amy, seeing as it was the start of the school summer holidays. She made sure to scurry away before Joe or anyone else from the office called to persuade her out to the pub: she didn’t want questions
Clare sighed. “Trouble is, he can’t keep avoiding it forever. If he claims to be ill one more time, Catt’s out for his bollocks.”
“I think he was hoping it would all be over quickly. I mean, none of us thought we’d still be here four months on, did we?” Stewie looked out of the car window at the row of men standing at the colliery gates with their placards: No Pit Closures. Victory to the Miners. Coal Not Dole.
“I guess not. You have to admire them, though. Can’t be easy, living off nothing for all this time. Yet we’re more worn down than they are.”
“Here we go.” Stewie jumped out of the car as the minibus carrying the handful of strike-breakers headed towards the gates. The line of police officers pushed back the picketers as they took up their shouts of “Scabs!” and tried to get at the bus. Clare watched as the bus went in, someone behind the window giving the picketers the V-sign, and Stewie’s camera making its constant clicking, whirring sounds.
Once the bus had gone through the gates and the shouts quietened down, Clare went up to the picketers as they stood, swearing, shaking their head in the direction of the pit. “Smell that bacon,” one commented, glaring at the line of police officers. “Bunch of pigs.”
“How’s it going?”
They looked at her, their faces hostile. “You’re the bird that was in the union office the other day,” one of the men said.
“That’s right. I just wondered what the mood of the men is, at the moment.”
“We’re fine,” said the same man. He nodded in the direction of the pit. “See that bus? There were about five or six scabs on it. Know how many men work here, on a normal day? Two hundred. Just remember that, pet. There are hundreds of us still out on strike and we’ll keep it up until we win. That lot…” he jabbed a finger towards the colliery. “… they’re pathetic. They’ll be begging us to come back, in a week or two. You just watch.”
When Clare went into the newsagent’s, Jai had an envelope for her.
“From your mining friend,” he said, as she headed up the stairs to the office. The room felt claustrophobic and already too warm, even though it wasn’t yet eight-thirty. It would only get more stifling as the day went on. Clare had a go at opening the little window, brushing away the cobwebs and dead flies that had accumulated along the sill and behind the plastic blinds. It wouldn’t budge.
She tore open the envelope. It was a ticket to a benefit that evening at the miners’ welfare club, to raise money for trips out over the school holidays. Clare fingered the ticket. It just said: Benefit Night for the Miners’ Families. £3 Waged, £2 Unwaged. There was no note with it, but she knew this was Finn giving her an ‘in’. She’d mentioned to him the other day that she particularly wanted to do something about the miners’ wives and families. This would be a great start. Good job she’d stayed out of trouble on the picket line. She pushed slips of typing and carbon paper into her typewriter and began: Striking miners remained upbeat on the picket lines today as the bitter dispute continued well into its fifth month. Defiant men told the Post that they were in no mood to give up in spite of the handful of strike-breakers who were bussed into the pit…
Clare followed it up with a feature-length piece marking eight days since baby Jamie’s death, detailing how the police were no further forward and families on Sweetmeadows were still living in fear of a psychotic killer. At the end of the working day, though, Clare had around half an hour spare before heading along to the miners’ benefit. She’d planned it that way. She had a carrier bag full of sweets, pens and comics for Amy, seeing as it was the start of the school summer holidays. She made sure to scurry away before Joe or anyone else from the office called to persuade her out to the pub: she didn’t want questions
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