Born Under Punches by Martyn Waites Page B

to the kitchen.
    Argument resumed.
    They have allies too, influential ones: media magnates suck up to Thatcher. She lets them build their expansionist empires in return for free publicity. Same with big businesses. If there’s one thing she loves more than the subjugation of the populace it’s naked, aggressive capitalism. Which also leads to the subjugation of the populace. All enforced by the police. Oh, yes, after Orgreave we can be in no doubt about whose side the police are on.
    And where’s the Labour Party in all this? Defeated. Humiliated. Demoralized and fighting among themselves. They’re supposed to be leading the opposition, fighting against her, but they’ve let us down. They’ve got too many problems of their own. They’re scared to challenge her.
    So against this evil bunch, the miners must find new allies in this struggle. And we must help them because they can’t fight alone.
    A glass of wine appeared on the desk.
    He looked up. ‘Thanks.’
    She looked back at him. Her eyes held unreadable emotions, but her tone had softened slightly.
    â€˜Please, Stephen. I hate being late. And this dinner’s important to me.’
    Larkin looked at her. Blonde hair kept long and fringed, subtly but well made up, stylish clothes making only a passing concession to her current student status: long black pleated skirt, white silk blouse, brocaded waistcoat, boots, beautiful face, eyes of startling arctic-blue sky. Larkin again felt something stir inside him. He knew what.
    â€˜I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he said.
    Argument suspended.
    â€˜Good. And take those ridiculous glasses off.’
    â€˜They’re for writing,’ Larkin replied.
    â€˜They’ve got plain glass in them.’ She spoke as if explaining this to a four-year-old.
    â€˜So?’ Larkin sounded hurt and defensive. ‘They focus my mind. Elevate my work. Sharpen my thinking.’
    â€˜Bollocks. You wear them so you can look like Morrissey.’
    â€˜Oh, fuck off. No, I don’t,’ said Larkin, hurt. ‘It’s because …’
    â€˜Stephen? I was joking.’
    She smiled. He sighed.
    â€˜Ha fuckin’ ha.’
    She turned away with another unreadable look on her face, crossed to the stereo and changed the record. The needle dropped to the vinyl, hisses and scratches, then ‘Perfect Skin’ by Lloyd Cole and the Commotions kicked in. Charlotte crossed to the sofa, took a textbook from her bag and began to read. Larkin took a hefty mouthful of wine, resumed his argument.
    Take, for instance, Coldwell colliery, just outside Newcastle in Northumberland. The pit itself is one of the most profitable in the region, if not the country. It’s got a strong workforce and a good history of productivity. But it’s been earmarked for closure. Naturally, the workers are fighting back. So why is it being closed down? Simple. Politics. They’re taking power away from the regions, centralizing it in Whitehall, taking it back themselves. If we’ve got no job or nothing to hold them to ransom with, we’ve got no voice. Plus we’re Geordies. We’re working class. We’ve got a strong local tradition of socialism and union membership. We’ve got our own opinions. So that makes us a threat. That makes us the enemy. The enemy within. So we have to be disposed of.
    Both Larkin and Charlotte loved the Rattlesnakes album. Their taste in music was one of the few things they had in common. Charlotte, middle class, star pupil at her private school, was in the middle of the third year of a law degree at Newcastle University. Great things were expected of her. Larkin, on the other hand, was the son of a bus mechanic and defiantly working class. He had attended university for two terms before deciding it could teach him nothing he didn’t already know. He had dropped out, becoming first a face about town then a chronicler of the faces about