Chapter 9

  1984

  The year everythin’ changed. The year I learned wot it really meant ter lose.

  I was raised in a world of coal an’ sweat, a world where men toiled under the earth, our bodies blackened by the dust that clung ter our skin like a second layer. Me dad was one of ’em. So was ‘is dad before ‘im. It were the only life we knew, the only way ter earn a livin’, put food on the table, keep a roof over our ’eads. But in 1984, that life came under attack, an’ I found meself at the front lines ter defend it.

  I remember the first day of the strike like it were yesterday. The pit were silent, a strange, eerie stillness settlin’ over the town. We all gathered, our faces set like stone, fists clenched in defiance. I stood up on some old crates, me voice cuttin’ through the cold northern air.

  "Fair wages! Fair work! Dignity for a workin’ man!" I shouted, me throat already raw.

  I believed it, every word. I thought we could stand together, that we could force ‘em ter see us, ter respect us. But deep down, I knew the truth. We weren’t just fightin’ Thatcher. We weren’t just fightin’ the government. We were fightin’ progress, an enemy that couldn’t be beat.

  “You can’t turn back the clock.” Thacher says on the telly.

  The months dragged on. The picket lines grew, an’ so did the hunger in our bellies. I saw men who’d once stood firm start ter crack. Some crossed the line, ashamed but desperate. Others grew harder, angrier. It took its toll on all of us. I kept shoutin’, kept marchin’, but inside, I were startin’ ter wonder if we’d already lost.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then they came wiv an offer. The government, they wanted this strike done. They said every miner could take a year’s wages an’ walk away. At first, I thought the men’d refuse, thought they’d stand wiv me ter the bitter end. But I was wrong. One by one, they took it. Tired, broken, they walked away. I stood there, watchin’ the fight fade from their eyes, seein’ ‘em accept wot I weren’t ready ter.

  Then they came ter me. As head of the strike, they wanted me gone more than any of ‘em. Offered me two years' wages. Like I was some problem they needed sweepin’ away.

  But I weren’t done yet. I sat across from them men in suits, looked ‘em in the eyes an’ pushed back. They needed me quiet, needed me ter disappear. So I made ‘em pay for it. Haggled me way up, bit by bit, till they agreed. Four years' wages. More money than I’d ever seen, more than I’d ever dreamt of. The fight were lost, but at least I’d won somethin’ in return.

  One night, long after me missus an’ the kids had gone to bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table. A single candle flickered on the old formica, shadin’ me face in long shadows. Me hands, once strong, shook slightly as I rubbed ‘em together, like I were tryin’ ter scrub away the years of coal dust that’d sunk deep into me skin.

  Me boy, Victor, found me there, his voice soft. "Dad?"

  I didn’t look up. Just kept rubbin’ me hands, me shoulders heavy under the weight of every miner in that town. An’ then, in a voice so quiet it barely felt like me own, I said the words I never thought I’d say.

  "You can’t fight progress."

  The words tasted like ash in me mouth, but I knew ‘em to be true. No matter ‘ow ‘ard we fought, no matter ‘ow long we ‘eld out, the world were changin’. An’ we were bein’ left behind.

  Three months later, the strike ended. The mines shut down. The men went ‘ome, not as victors, but as ghosts of a time that were already gone.

  I never forgot that night at the kitchen table. An’ I never forgot them words.

  Cos I were right.