On an impulse she opened Orph’s door and went in. She hadn’t been in there for a long time. It was different. There was still the same airless dirty feel about it, but it was no longer so bare. There was a heap of papers lying by the bed. She went over and stirred them with her toe. They were all Phil-type publications, lefty newspapers and political pamphlets. Orph doesn’t understand this sort of stuff, she thought. On the wall opposite the bed there were pictures from newspapers and magazines, raggedly cut out and stuck with sellotape. She peered at them. There didn’t seem much rhyme or reason to them. There was one of a street with two burned-out cars on their sides—in Ireland, she guessed. There were a couple of some big march, seas of banners and a line of police. And some colour supplement pictures of a film about a boxer. A whole series of the hero fighting and blood-bespattered. Another, grainy grey of newsprint, showed a terrified woman about to be stabbed. Emma realized that it must be from a film review. The only factor they seemed to have in common was violence. As she turned away she ducked her head to see if the other magazines were still under the bed. They were. Well, at least he hadn’t put them on the wall. Orph had turned into something quite unpleasant. And now he would do what Phil said, blindly. . .

  But what was wrong with that? She was the one who was wrong. Who had done nothing for him. Who still did nothing.

  When she went to bed she lay awake for hours, and her dream finally was of Phil and Orph together, fighting, spattered in the bright red blood of the film pictures.

  Chapter 36

  The picket line met at the factory gates at 6.30 each morning. It was cold and dark at six when Orph got up. He dressed quickly, putting on clothes that felt damp with chill. He went down from his room and straight outside without getting anything to eat or drink. The streets were deserted at that time, with the odd single car speeding through. Most houses were blank and black, windows indistinguishable. In a few, though, lights were on, or came on as Orph walked by. Behind closed curtains other people’s lives, their beds and their risings and dressings, their early morning yawns and skins and smells, their privacy. Orph walked past the windows. The curtains were all drawn, he couldn’t see in. A milk float passed him, ghostly silent in its motion. Birds waking squawked from the rooftops. As he turned the corner to the road approaching the factory, another person came into sight, a man trudging along in front of him, shapeless and dark with a thick coat and cap on. There was a dark cluster of men in front of the gate.

  Orph joined them silently. One or two nodded at him, and Phil, arriving seconds later, slapped him on the back. “Hiya kid. How’s it going?”

  Orph looked at the ground and muttered “OK,” and Phil moved on to talk to the other men. In the east the sky was turning a dramatic purple pink, and a thin band of cloud that lay low on the flat horizon was tinged with yellow. Colour began to bleed into the dark shapes on all sides. Green of leaves and grass emerged, a man’s red scarf grew bright; pale colourless faces were tinged pink. The purple in the east was lightening, gradually an even wash of pink, smooth as an eggshell, pink as a watermelon, was spread over the entire eastern sky, and for a few moments the world was beautiful in the magical pink light. Men’s faces glowed warmly. All colours intensified. A fine faint sprinkling of frost on leaves and walls suddenly sparkled. The sun came up, shone for a minute or two in the crack between earth and cloud, then slid up from the horizon and was masked by grey. Daylight. Already stale, merciless as fluorescent light. Men turned up their collars and stamped their feet.

  Someone was talking of getting hold of a brazier so that there would be something to keep warm over on mornings like these.

  Another laughed. “You expecting a good few mornings like this then? Be glad to see the end of it, me, I’m not about to start making it comfortable. Might get into a habit then, see.” They laughed companionably, their steamy breath mingling in the air. Orph stood leaning against the gate post—with them, but outside their cheeriness.

  One of them moved suddenly. “Ey up—we’re off.” Round the corner came the olive green bus that carried workers from outlying villages. They were the hard core of those resisting the strike. Slowly it approached the gate.

  “Close up!” shouted Phil. The men moved awkwardly to form a line across the gateway. The bus stopped several yards from them, rattling and rumbling, clouds of exhaust belching out into the cold air.

  The driver leaned out. “Out of the road!”

  “This is a picket!” shouted a small man with fair hair and a red face.

  The driver laughed shortly. “And these are workers.”

  “Scabs!” shouted someone else. “Scabs! Scum!” In the frosty air their shouts sounded thin and unconvincing. No one could hear properly over the noise of the bus.

  Joe, a tall man from the centre of the line, stepped forward and looked up at the driver. He spoke formally. “This factory is on strike. We ask these men not to go into the factory as blacklegs.” Men in the bus leaned forward to hear. He saw their faces patchily through the dirty, dust-smeared windows. One man had his nose pressed flat against the glass and smiled idiotically as Joe caught his eye.

  “Come on,” said the driver, “you’ve done your bit, Joe.” Stern-faced, Joe signalled to the men, who moved aside with relief, and the bus crawled past them. Those inside stared out.

  The man next to Orph suddenly went taut. “Livey! You fucking bastard—look!”

  From the general weary awkwardness of playing a silly game, a real spark of anger flared up. The men clustered together, voices raised. “Said he was with us—the bastard!”

  “Wants to save his own neck—that’s all!”

  “That’s what they all think—they’ll be the ones to stay—we’ll get the chop.”

  “They’re right an’ all. We’ve separated the sheep and goats nicely for ’em, haven’t we?”

  Joe cut in contemptuously, “That’s exactly what they want you to think—and if everybody thought ’n’ did that, those fuckers’d be sitting pretty would’n they? They’ll chop you anyway mate, whether yer strikin’ or not.”

  Voices rose in protest. “But we’re making it easy, aren’t we, we’ll be the ones they pick on.” “Those bastards, it’s them we’re fighting for!”

  It was a discovery; slowly the men began to feel an astonishing hatred for those who went in on the bus every morning. Men who had been personal friends with bussers were particularly bitter. The unfairness of it was overwhelming. They were striking to protect jobs. Those bastards wouldn’t join them, so their jobs would be safe. It dawned on them slowly, from a haziness and a humorous indifference to unions and politickings, it dawned on them that they hated those men. Not the owners, but the bussers; the men who should have been with them but were too cowardly. The picket didn’t grow. In fact it shrank—by day five there were only seven of them, and it had become routine to step aside for the bus and then turn after it with that sudden surge of pointless anger, to shout emptily across the factory yard. Most mornings, two policemen in a patrol car drove slowly past, but they did no more than glance at the handful of men.

  Phil was furious. “It’s not a picket, it’s a fucking kids’ tea party. It’s laughable.” He spilled his anger to Orph, best of all listeners, who never argued back. He was particularly incensed by the police, angry as a point of honour that they had not yet considered the picket serious enough to involve themselves in it. “Those bastards. They sit there and bloody laugh at us. They don’t even have to get out of their car, they don’t consider us worth bothering with. Bastards. Fucking pigs. We’ll show them—we’ll make it worth their while. I’d like to wipe the smiles off those faces, Orph—Jesus, I’d like to shock them and show them we mean business. I hate those faces, fat complacent pigs—too stupid to wonder whose side they’re on. They’re not bright, they’re not well paid—too swollen-headed with the importance of being a big nasty policeman to realize they’re being shat on too. God I’d like to show them.”

  By the sixth day the glamour of being a picket line at 6.30 in the morning had worn off entirely. The talk was bitter as they waited for the bus, collars turned up futilely against the driving rain. “Saw Thomas last night in the boozer. The cunt. Smiled as if butter wouldn’t melt. Sent his wife over to say hello to mine. I asked her if he was getting us a round in, seeing as he’s getting wages and some of us aren’t.” He laughed shortly. “Then I got it in the neck from my missus—why haven’t I got as much sense as him, and why take it out on the poor woman anyway—talk about support, changes with the bloody wind.” Others joined in. Their wives were against the strike. They were frightened. It was the bussers’ fault. Orph stood close with them as they talked, inside the circle of anger and complaint.

  After the bus had gone in, Phil called after Joe as he was marching away from the gates. It had taken him a while to conclude that Joe really didn’t know what he was doing.

  “What?” Joe didn’t stop walking, and Phil had to run to catch up with him.

  “This is hopeless. It’s bloody useless.”

  Joe said nothing.

  “Look, what’s going to happen? They’re drifting away already. Every morning we let the fucking bus in—we might as well stay in bed.”

  Joe stopped. “What d’you want to do?” he asked wearily.

  “We’ve got to be more aggressive. We’ve got to stop the bus—what the bloody hell’s the point of standing aside for them every morning, like a row of fucking butlers?”

  Joe started to walk again, Phil side-stepping eagerly beside him. “You’re going to stop a bus with six men and a boy who’ve never been involved in any action before.”

  “Well, either we do something or we give up—this is worse than useless.” The police car, late this morning, drove quickly past them and through a huge puddle, showering them with muddy water. “Fucking wankers!” Phil hopped up and down, flapping water from his coat. “I bet they’re killing themselves—”

  Joe spoke evenly, interrupting him, “The only other thing we can do is call a mass picket.”

  “Well why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m not sure we’ll get many takers.”

  “But even a few—and I could get a couple more students along—”

  Joe winced. “I could spend a week trailing round and get nowhere. They’ll support us in principle—by the time I’ve been round to every convenor I can get hold of and spun them the sorry tale. And they’ll call meetings and rant about support till kingdom come, just like our lot—then we’ll be lucky if we get more than one bloke along from each place. And they’ll be the militant loonies anyway.”

  “That’s exactly what we want Joe. Militants—action—fireworks—something to happen.”

  Joe looked at him. “You’re not dry behind the ears yet, lad.” He lengthened his stride.

  “When?” called Phil, stopping.

  “Give me three days. Friday.” He walked rapidly away.

  Phil was delighted with his success. It seemed to him that Joe didn’t have the confidence to push this into real confrontation—but he did have the men behind him. With Phil’s help they could really put this dispute on the map—why not? Next stop flying pickets. He went back and told Orph gleefully that there would be fireworks on Friday.

  There were twenty-seven men at the gates on Friday morning.

  Phil was exuberant. “We’re gonna get them today, boyo!” he told Orph. He made a clenched fist and punched it into his left palm. Orph nodded back with the ghost of a smile on his face. They stood in a noisy crowd in the gateway, Joe in the middle discussing tactics with three of the new men. Steve and Ellis arrived together and smiled at Orph without speaking. Conversations stopped dead at the sound of engines. Two police vans roared around the corner and stopped a hundred yards from the gates. In the sudden silence the men stared. The van doors opened and ten policemen emerged rapidly from each.

  Joe swore. “I thought we’d kept it quiet.” The policemen moved towards them, and the newcomers amongst the men moved resignedly aside. The original pickets stood still, staring like rabbits.

  “Move aside!” called a sergeant briskly. “Clear these gates.” The men looked confusedly at Joe. He gave a slight shrug and stepped aside. They allowed themselves to be shepherded into two little huddles on either side of the gateway, penned in by a line of police. It was so sudden and efficient that they hardly knew what had happened.

  Phil was at Joe’s elbow. “What the fuck are they doing? Why did you let them move?”

  Joe glanced at him contemptuously. “We’re outnumbered, man.”

  The quiet was eerie; apart from the sergeant’s brisk voice, he police didn’t speak at all, and the men were cowed and awkward. Phil was furious. He longed for scenes like newsreel pickets where hordes of men, drunk with the power of their numbers, screamed and jeered at police, even when face to face with them. Here, it was pathetically small and intimate; it was embarrassing even to talk. The police stood in two silent lines, arms linked, as if they were about to execute a stately and formal dance. Their neat uniforms contrasted starkly with the men’s shabby layers against the cold. Someone said, “They’re coming,” and there was a stirring amongst the two groups of men. They took their hands out of their pockets and moved forwards, craning their heads to watch the bus approaching. The newcomers to the picket, Joe’s militants, moved right up behind the police, linking arms. Orph found himself pulled into it by Phil, who twisted his arm around Orph’s elbow. To his left was the short fair man; he fumbled awkwardly for Orph’s arm then grasped his hand as the bus drew level with the end of the police line. The sudden noise of the engine made it possible to talk again and the new pickets were shouting “Push! push!” The bus windows were steamed up, but the passengers had wiped clear patches to look through. Their faces stared out nervously.

  Someone yelled, “Get them!”

  “Scabs!”

  “Go home!”

  “Cunts!”

  Screams of rage broke from the men and they threw themselves against the police backs, forcing the channel they had cleared to close in slightly. The bus slowed. Instantly the police were unimportant, no more than an irritating fence which happened to be in the way. The men heaved against the solid blue backs, some butting with their heads, others reaching over to batter the sides of the bus or kicking at it under the policemen’s arms, their fury all directed at the familiar faces behind the glass. The policemen were forced in so that they were only inches from the juddering rattling bus, and as the enraged pickets thumped its sides, the driver lost his nerve and stopped completely. For a moment there was nothing but screaming and hitting. Looking down, Orph could see Phil’s foot kicking repeatedly at the policemen’s legs. The fair-haired man’s grip on his hand was tight and slippery with sweat. The engine revved ear-splittingly, the bus jolted forward and was past them in a fog of stinking exhaust. The line of police broke suddenly as the man in front of Phil twisted round sharply to grab him, and Orph went sprawling forward on to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and lunged after Phil—who was already being dragged away, bucking and kicking. “Fucking pigs!” Orph screamed shrilly, and one of the policemen holding Phil looked back coldly at him.

  From behind, the short fair man grabbed hold of Orph’s hand and pulled him back into the body of the crowd. “They won’t let go of him for you!” he muttered, with a flicker of humour.

  Finally the majority of the pickets were back against the wall, looking as awkwardly uninvolved as they had at the start. The factory gates swung shut, the doors were slammed on the last of the arrests, and the remaining line of policemen walked quickly away without another glance, as if the men behind them were less than nothing.

  Embarrassed and silent, the men watched them go then glanced at one another. Joe had been taken. And Phil. And three other men. They broke apart and went quickly towards their homes. Orph was among the last to move. He kicked at a piece of glass lying on the pavement, kicking it along at every step up to the corner of the street. Then he gave it a hard kick that sent it spinning into the air to land in someone’s garden. Mechanically he tucked his shirt into his trousers and walked slowly homewards. His pale face was as expressionless as ever.

  Chapter 37

  That night he and Emma were alone for supper. Alison had gone down to the police station and was going on to see Steve. Emma questioned Orph nervously about what had happened, and he gave her a short, factual account. She felt guilty and ashamed, and spoke to him with the caution and respect that had been part of her approach to him a year ago, at the children’s home.

  When he had finished eating he went straight up to his room and sat on the end of the bed in the dark, looking out of the window. It was drizzling, but there was no wind, so the window was not even spattered. It was as if the rain was falling a very long way away; it pattered lightly on the roof and garden outside, giving the silence a dimension. Looking out to the right, it was possible to see a small section of street beyond the gardens of the neighbouring houses. There was a street-lamp in the middle of it; on either side the wet street gleamed orange-black. The church bell tolled nine. Orph sat in more or less the same position for the next hour. During that time two pedestrians with a dog went down the street and three cars swished slowly past. The church bell tolled ten, and from downstairs the urgent theme music of the ten o’clock news and Big Ben’s shorter, swifter strokes mingled oddly with it. A few minutes after ten, another pedestrian appeared. A tall one, with a strangely bell-shaped head. Orph leant forward intently, then ran down and out into the rain, leaving the front door slightly ajar behind him. He was in time to see the tall pedestrian—a man—slowly cross the shiny street at the junction and turn left out of sight. Orph looked up and down the empty dripping street then returned silently to his room.

 

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