Heaven's Promise by Paolo Hewitt

parents, Margaret Thatcher was the last straw. ‘Look at her eyes,’ my father would exclaim when she came on TV, ‘they’re not only evil but they’re unbalanced. Mark my words. She’ll ransack this country and then walk away leaving us all in the shit.’
    This, coupled with the feeling that he and mum could never shake off, namely that this country treated everyone like a child who had to be in bed by ten at the latest, forced their hand, and they fled to more civilised climates, places where you can get a coffee at two in the morning or walk the street late at night without being hassled by the cops.
    I fully agreed with my parent’s decision to split but I have to say that everytime I pass Big Ben, I have to resist the urge to pop in and harangue the collected MPs for letting people as good as my parents just up and leave, for this country is so much poorer without the likes of them, and I won’t hear any different.
    It took me a long time to suss out that every political team was simply there to maintain the status quo although I must just add that I would never waste my vote given the people down the ages who have fought for us to have that right. The least we can do is mark a piece of paper every four years, if only in memory of their indomitable spirit, although Brother P. had come to these conclusions a lot earlier than me and had decided to live, as most do now, by his own rules and regulations, come hell or high water.
    Which is why, in 1985, we linked up by Kentish Town tube station. The miners’ strike was about halfway through and in an effort to keep them going, some miners had travelled south and set up stalls all over town to raise money, food and clothing for the fight.
    On a bitterly cold day I had arisen at an early hour to go and lend some of my time to their cause and, on reaching their stall, found that the Brother P. had beaten me by a good five minutes and was busy handing over a bag full of sandwiches, cakes, fruit and plantain.
    â€˜That’s really good of you,’ the young, fresh faced miner who was manning the stall, was telling him, ‘it’s not often you see your kind...’
    â€˜Our kind,’ said the Brother P. automatically, ‘our kind.’
    The miner looked at the man in front of him and recognised a new breed of Briton, different colour but British all the same. He extended his hand. ‘You’re right my friend, our kind it is.’
    These were the early days of the strike, a testing lull before battle proper commenced and this country’s working class showed, once again, the way forward. The war might have been lost but in battle their sense of unity was a real and true testament to how easily people can come together and if that sounds naive, then so be it. Never let anyone tell you different, for that, such as making the poor feel guilty about having money, is just another ploy by the rich to keep their loot.
    At the stall, I had no choice but to break the ice between us and say, ‘Alright, nice pair of strides you got on.’
    The man didn’t even glance down at his blue and grey Prince of Wales check number, but simply replied, ‘Yeah?’ in that familiar questioning tone I have come to know so well. We left it at that.
    Over the next few weeks we nodded to each other when we passed until it became crystal clear that the silence would have to be broken, which it was in a record shop where we bumped into each other whilst simultaneously reaching for a copy of The Isley Brothers album, ‘Black Berries.’
    Brother P. said, ‘Cool, you take it. I know where I can get another copy.’
    â€˜Where’s that?’ I enquired and we were off and running, parlaring about this, that and the other. We ended up back at my home as my P&M were both at work. I skinned up a huge joint in celebration of our link, smoked off a bit and then offered it to him.
    â€˜No thanks, I don’t. It