David Peace - GB84

The President had the casting vote. The President would not cast it –

It was deadlock. It was stalemate. It was cowardice. It was abdication –

In the rain, the delegates came to Great Russell Street. In the rain, the hundreds came. In their hundreds to stand outside Congress House. In their hundreds to shout in the rain –

No surrender! No surrender! No surrender!

The main event started on the floor of the conference. The Last Fight –

Minutes to go now. Seconds out –

The fight between Yorkshire in the red corner –

‘Out until there’s an amnesty and the five named pits reprieved.’

South Wales in the blue –

‘ A dignified and honourable return.’

Outside the rain fell on the men for six hours as the delegates argued inside –

We’ve given you our hearts –

‘You should have the guts to make a recommendation,’ they argued –

We’ve given you our souls –

‘Or you will have ratted out on this strike,’ they argued –

We’ve given you our blood —

‘Give them leadership and repay the loyalty they have given you,’ they argued –

We’ve given you everything we had –

‘Or sit back with blindfolds on, as the strike collapses around you,’ they argued –

And then you sell us out –

‘We have to live in the world as it is,’ they argued, ‘not as we would like it —’

Tarred and feathered with the rest of the scabby bastards —

The Welsh proposal was carried 98 to 91 –

Total. Fucking. Knock. Out; Total. Fucking. Sell Out –

‘Don’t anyone in this conference lower their eyes,’ the President shouted at them. ‘Don’t be ashamed of what we have done. We have put up the greatest fight in history —’

It was all over –

‘We have not sold our birthrights. We have not prostituted our principles —’

Here —

‘The greatest achievement is the struggle itself —’

Today —

‘We have changed the course of history and inspired the workers of the world —’

Now —

‘Comrades, it is upon such struggles that democracy itself depends!’

Total. Fucking. Silence.

The President walked out of the conference and out of Congress House –

Into the rain. Into their tears. Into the pain. Into their fears –

Into the media and into the police. Into the miners and into their families –

Into the guilt and the shame. Into the anger and the sorrow —

‘This dispute goes on,’ shouted the President above the traffic and the weather –

‘We’re not going back,’ chanted the men. ‘We’re not going back!’

‘We will continue to fight against pit closures or job losses!’

‘You’ve been betrayed!’ the men screamed back at him. ‘You’ve been betrayed!’

‘Make no mistake — do not underestimate this Union’s ability to resist!’

‘Scum! Scum! Scum!’ they wailed. ‘Scab! Scab! Scab!’

Awake! There are screams all over Pete’s walls. Awake! Blood running into their carpet — It takes a minute to remember. Lifetime to forget — I lie there on his sofa. I watch them crawl away — I was walking back from my Sunday half. Long way round — Rain had stopped. Tim pulls over — Big smile on his face. His chops — He said to us, Great news, isn’t it? What is? I asked him. Strike’s over, he said. Haven’t you heard? I shook my head. Fucking joking, I said. How’s that good news, then? Tim could see I was fucked off. He said, Just be good to get back to work. That’s all I meant — I shook my head again. I turned back. Day 363— Not over yet. There’s still some picket duty today — Lot more here than usual. Feeling there are scores to settle — Lot of hot talk. But in end it comes to nothing — Harder shove. Louder shout — No one wants to get fucking arrested today. No, thanks — Be like one of them blokes got themselves shot on Armistice Day. Nicked today, sacked tomorrow — No, thank you. Not after twelve fucking months — There’s another meeting in morning. Third or fourth in a week — Lot of bitterness and anger about events at NEC yesterday. News just sinking in — Mixed emotions. Charged emotions — Yorkshire Area want everyone to march back into their pit together. United — Banners and heads high. Brass bands and what-have-you — But what about them that have been sacked? asks Keith. They going to march back in, are they? — Meeting and whole place descends into bedlam. Pandemonium — Lads are shitting themselves now. Don’t know if they’ll get taken back or not — Lads being told one thing. Then being told another — Terrible to see. Horrible — Looks of fear on all these faces. Looks of defeat and despair — Faces you’ve seen on picket line. Faces that have looked into eyes of their horses and their dogs — Their visors. Their shields — Faces that have taken their truncheons and their boots. Battered and beaten — Faces that watched their wives and kids go without. Faces that suffered for twelve fucking months — Faces now lost and frightened. Frightened of what future holds — Future none of us can afford. Lot of us stay supping today — Night on tiles. Hurts your face — Blow little we have left. Pray they pay us again — Awake! In my coat on Pete’s sofa. Awake! Mouth tastes of earth and shit — Least I didn’t bloody dream. Them nights over with now — Day 364. Mary’s made a breakfast for us. Packed us some snap and all — Like first day of spring today. Beautiful — I follow Pete down Welfare for half-eight. Nearly whole of village is out — Lot of emotion. Lads that have been sacked are going to push banner — In front of them, Pete and other three branch officials. Rest of us will fall in behind — I’m stood there thinking, Don’t cry and don’t look for Cath. Don’t cry and don’t — But I look about and see Big Chris with his handkerchief out. Soft bastard — Then we’re off and I turn round. I can’t believe how many there are — More than 50 per cent still out. Easy — Makes me feel proud. Makes me feel sad — To see us all here now. Together — Shoulder to shoulder. United — Marching as one. Now it’s too fucking late — Pete and them lot reach gates and call for a minute’s silence for those who have died during dispute. That’s when I see them — Not just the eight hundred stood with me here on our Pit Lane. The support groups and all those that helped us — Not just them. But all the others — From far below. Beneath my feet — They whisper. They echo — They moan. They scream — From beneath the fields. Below the hills — The roads. The motorways — The empty villages. The dirty cities — The abandoned mills. The silent factories — The dead trees. The broken fences — The stinking rivers. The dirty sky — The dirty blue March sky that spits down upon us now — The Dead. The Union of the Dead — From Hartley to Harworth. From Senghenydd to Saltley — From Oaks to Or-greave. From Lofthouse to London — The Dead that carried us from far to near. Through the Villages of the Damned, to stand beside us here — Together. Shoulder to shoulder. United. Marching as one — Under their banners and their badges. In their branches and their bands — Their muffled drums.