from the power stations is at its highest. Not in the spring, when everybody’s looking to turn off their heating. And when you go for major industrial action against a bitch like Margaret Thatcher, you cover your back. You follow the labour laws. You follow your own rules. You stage a national ballot. You don’t rely on a dubious interpretation of a resolution passed three years before for a different purpose. Oh yes, the wives had known it was futile. But they’d kept their mouths shut and, for the first time ever, they’d built their own organization to support their men. Loyalty, that was what counted in the pit villages and mining communities.
And so Mick and Jenny were still hanging together. Jenny sometimes wondered if the only reason Mick was still with her and Misha was because he had nowhere else to go. Parents dead, no brothers or sisters, there was no obvious bolthole. She’d asked him once and he’d frozen like a statue for a long moment. Then he’d scoffed at her, denying he wanted to be gone, reminding her that Andy would always put him up in his cottage if he wanted to be away. So, no reason why she should have imagined that Friday was different from any other.
Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss
‘So this wasn’t the first time he’d gone off with his paints for the day?’ Karen said. Whatever was going on in Jenny Prentice’s head, it was clearly a lot more than the bare bones she was giving up.
‘Four or five times a week, by the end.’
‘What about you? What did you do for the rest of the day?’
‘I went up the woods for some kindling, then I came back and watched the news on the telly. It was quite the day, that Friday. King Arthur was in court for police obstruction at the Battle of Orgreave. And Band Aid got to number one. I tell you, I could have spat in their faces. All that effort for bairns thousands of miles away when there were hungry kids on their own doorsteps. Where was Bono and Bob Geldof when our kids were waking up on Christmas morning with bugger all in their stockings?’
‘It must have been hard to take,’ Karen said.
‘It felt like a slap in the face. Nothing glamorous about helping the miners, was there?’ A bitter little smile lit up her face. ‘Could have been worse, though. We could have had to put up with that sanctimonious shite Sting. Not to mention his bloody lute.’
‘Right enough.’ Karen couldn’t hide her amusement. Gallows humour was never far from the surface in these mining communities. ‘So, what did you do after the TV news?’
‘I went down the Welfare. Mick had said something about a food handout. I got in the queue and came home with a packet of pasta, a tin of tomatoes and two onions. And a pack of dried Scotch broth mix. I mind I felt pretty pleased with myself. I collected Misha from the school and I thought it might cheer us up if we put up the Christmas decorations, so that’s what we did.’
‘When did you realize it was late for Mick to be back?’
Jenny paused, one hand fiddling with a button on her overall. ‘That time of year, it’s early dark. Usually, he’d be back not long after me and Misha. But with us doing the decorations, I didn’t really notice the time passing.’
She was lying, Karen thought. But why? And about what?
Friday 14th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss
Jenny had been one of the first in the queue at the Miners’ Welfare and she’d hurried home with her pitiful bounty, determined to get a pot of soup going so there would be something tasty for the tea. She rounded the pithead baths building, noticing all her neighbours’ houses were in darkness. These days, nobody left a welcoming light on when they went out. Every penny counted when the fuel bills came in.
When she turned in at her gate, she nearly jumped out of her skin. A shadowy figure rose from the darkness, looming huge in her imagination. She made a noise halfway between a gasp and a moan.
‘Jenny, Jenny, calm down. It’s me. Tom. Tom Campbell. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ The shape took form and she recognized the big man standing by her front door.
‘Christ, Tom, you gave me the fright of my life,’ she complained, moving past him and opening the front door. Conscious of the breathtaking chill of the house, she led the way into the kitchen. Without hesitation, she filled her soup pan with water and put it on the stove, the gas ring giving out a tiny wedge of heat. Then she turned to face him in the dimness of the afternoon light. ‘How are you doing?’
Tom Campbell shrugged his big shoulders and gave a halfhearted smile. ‘Up and down,’ he said. ‘It’s ironic. The one time in my life I really needed my pals and this strike happens.’
‘At least you’ve got me and Mick,’ Jenny said, waving him to a chair.
‘Well, I’ve got you, anyway. I don’t think I’d be on Mick’s Christmas card list, always supposing anybody was sending any this year. Not after October. He’s not spoken to me since then.’
‘He’ll get over it,’ she said without a shred of conviction. Mick had always had his reservations about the wider ripples of the schoolgirl friendship between Jenny and Tom’s wife Moira. The women had been best pals forever, Moira standing chief bridesmaid at Jenny and Mick’s wedding. When it came time to return the favour, Jenny been pregnant with Misha. Mick had pointed out that her increasing size was the perfect excuse to turn Moira down, what with having to buy the bridesmaid’s dress in advance. It wasn’t a suggestion, more an injunction. For although Tom Campbell was by all accounts a decent man and a handsome man and an honest man, he was not a miner. True, he worked at the Lady Charlotte. He went underground in the stomach-juddering cage. He sometimes even got his hands dirty. But he was not a miner. He was a pit deputy. A member of a different union. A management man there to see that the health and safety rules were followed and that the lads did what they were supposed to. The miners had a term for the easiest part of any task - ‘the deputy’s end’. It sounded innocuous enough, but in an environment where every member of a gang knew his life depended on his colleagues, it expressed a world of contempt. And so Mick Prentice had always held something in reserve when it came to his dealings with Tom Campbell.
He’d resented the invitations to dinner at their detached house in West Wemyss. He’d mistrusted Tom’s invitations to join him at the football. He’d even begrudged the hours Jenny spent at Moira’s bedside during her undignified but swift death from cancer a couple of years before. And when Tom’s union had dithered and swithered over joining the strike a couple of months before, Mick had raged like a toddler when they’d finally come down on the side of the bosses.
Jenny suspected part of the reason for his anger was the kindness Tom had shown them since the strike had started to bite. He’d taken to stopping by with little gifts - a bag of apples, a sack of potatoes, a soft toy for Misha. They’d always come with plausible excuses - a neighbour’s tree with a glut, more potatoes in his allotment than he could possibly need, a raffle prize from the bowling club. Mick had always grumbled afterwards. ‘Patronizing shite,’ he’d said.
‘He’s trying to help us without shaming us,’ Jenny said. It didn’t hurt that Tom’s presence reminded her of happier times. Somehow, when he was there, she felt a sense of possibility again. She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and it was as a younger woman, a woman who had ambitions for her life to be different. So although she knew it would annoy Mick, Jenny was happy for Tom to sit at her kitchen table and talk.
He drew a limp but heavy parcel from his pocket. ‘Can you use a couple of pounds of bacon?’ he said, his brow creasing in anxiety. ‘My sister-in-law, she brought it over from her family’s farm in Ireland.
