Billy and the Strike

In February 1972, when the action of this tale takes place, Britain was in the grip of a national coal miners' strike, which had begun on January 9th. To conserve fuel, the government introduced scheduled power cuts, usually lasting between six and nine hours at a time. The strike caused great inconvenience to many, but for some, like thirteen-year-old Billy, there were opportunities to be found in the chaos.

When Emily Agnew started going around on the pillion of Frankie Noonan's motorcycle, her friends did what they could to prevent the relationship from blossoming. They reminded her that Frankie had once been sent to Borstal; that he was a wastrel from a family of rogues, and that at just twenty-three, he'd already developed a strong liking for the bottle.

Emily was torn between her well-meaning friends, and her new beau, who had always shown her kindness and was never shy of putting his hand into his pocket. As she dithered over her dilemma, a turn of events took the decision for her and her mother made hasty arrangements at the local registry office. Four months after the wedding, Emily had a boy, Billy.

Love's first blossom soon faded and over the years Frankie was out of work as often as he was employed. In moments of solitude, Emily sometimes wondered if perhaps her friends had been right. When boozed up, as he often was, Frankie became volatile and one wrong word could result in raised hands. On several occasions, Emily had gone into the street wearing her large framed sunglasses when the weather didn't warrant their use.

Beer was top of Frankie Noonan's list of priorities. When his own meagre allowance had been depleted and he wanted more money to slake his thirst, he would seek funds from his wife. When flattery and light cajoling failed, as they always did, his mood would darken and he would try to browbeat her into submission. If she resisted still, he would simply take money from her purse when she wasn't around.

Frankie's unofficial taxation policy placed considerable strain on Emily's household budget. Matters came to a head one afternoon when she received a visit from a gentleman representing the local electricity board. He had come, he told her with a smile, to disconnect the electricity supply because of an unpaid bill. When Frankie came home from the Black Bull to a house in darkness, he blamed Emily for mismanaging the housekeeping budget. She replied that if he spent as much money on keeping the family home lit as he did on getting lit himself, then such situations would never arise. The ensuing row had become so heated that a neighbour called the police.

Rather than make arrangements to settle his debt with the electricity board, Frankie recruited one of his shady friends to hook up the supply illegally. Despite her early misgivings about this, Emily gradually came around to the idea of buckshee electricity, as it allowed her a little more cash for other things. For three weeks everything was going well in the Noonan household, and then the police knocked at the door one night. Frankie was arrested and charged with electricity theft. The case went to court and, because of his past record, he was sentenced to three months in prison.

Frankie's incarceration did not drag Emily down into the depths of poverty as she had feared. With none of her housekeeping funds being diverted towards the cash registers of local bars and betting shops, she coped, although paying the bills was still a struggle. Thirteen-year-old Billy stepped up to his new role of man of the house with some enthusiasm, and he demonstrated a suitable level of maturity for the post by secretly taking up smoking. To pay for his new habit, Billy began to steal small items that he could quickly sell to his friends at school.

Billy never doubted that he loved his father, but the prolonged absence of the latter made life at home a lot more tolerable. There were no rows, there was more money around and Billy could get away with a lot more under Emily's lax regime. So it was with some disappointment that Billy heard his mother say one Saturday lunchtime, "This time next week your dad'll be home. He gets out on Thursday." She slid a fishcake from a frying pan onto Billy's plate, where it fell onto a pile of chips. Billy grunted an acknowledgment as he shook vinegar from a bottle onto his lunch.

Emily sat opposite Billy and lit a cigarette. She pressed a copy of the local newspaper flat onto the tablecloth and put on her reading glasses. The country was in the grip of a national miners' strike which had entered its fifth week. The Noonan household faced another spell of life without electricity, but theirs would not be the only lights going out this time: to preserve coal stocks during the strike, the government had introduced a series of power cuts to all parts of the country.

"It says here there's people been taking tea and sandwiches to pickets down at the power station," Emily said softly, as though talking only to herself. "I know what I'd like to take to them, causing all this disruption and inconvenience." She carefully tore a timetable of forthcoming power cuts from the newspaper. The burning cigarette in her mouth sent up a wisp of smoke that stung her eyes, causing her to grimace. She dropped the cigarette into a saucer she had been using as an ashtray and studied the timetable. "Six o'clock tonight the lights go out," she said.

"What are we going to do?" Billy said.

"Lord knows," Emily said, taking a last drag of the cigarette and crushing the dog end in the saucer. She opened her purse. "It's a damned disgrace," she said, tipping the contents onto the table and then pulling individual coins from the mix with her forefinger. "You know Archie's stall on the market where I get my soap powder?" she said. Billy nodded. "Go down on the bus and see if he has any candles. Get a box if you can." She handed him the coins. "Then go to McDowell's and get a battery for your little transistor. You know the one to get?" Billy nodded again. Emily sighed. "We must have something to listen to while the lights are off. Honestly, it's like there's a war on."

Billy took the money and put it in the pocket of his jeans. As he pulled on his coat, his mother handed him a calico shopping bag. "Thank God you can still get on the bus for half fare," she said, smiling and gently pushing the fringe from his forehead. Billy returned the smile and left the house.

An icy gust blew down the market square, causing those Saturday afternoon shoppers who had braved the deep chill to shudder. To the accompaniment of various shouts from traders advertising their wares, Billy walked through the throng. A young mother ushered a wailing child into the warmth of a bakery. A council employee in a donkey jacket, hired to keep the market free of litter, picked at the corner of a sheet of newspaper, which had become stuck to the wet pavement. Behind him, a young man holding a bicycle stood in a shop doorway, repeatedly flicking and shaking a cigarette lighter, and becoming increasingly frustrated to the point that he mouthed a profanity without removing the cigarette that protruded from his lips.

As Billy approached Archie's stall, he noticed that there was a lot of activity around it. The enterprising trader had brought a plentiful supply of candles, and there was no shortage of customers eager to buy them. Billy took his place in the queue, turning his back to the icy wind that blew a fine drizzle directly between the two rows of stalls. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and studied the dew that had formed on the coat of the elderly man ahead of him.

All the talk around the stall was of the current political situation, and Billy heard one waiting customer repeat his mother's phrase of damned disgrace. When it came to his turn, Billy mumbled his order and the stallholder dropped a box of candles into the bag.

As he crossed the market square on his way to McDowell's department store, Billy encountered a middle-aged man in a belted and buttoned raincoat who was doing brisk trade selling peat to coal-starved customers. He had no stall, just a pile of cut peat on the flagstones and a good supply of bags. A small crowd had gathered around the trader, who was of the old-school raconteur type: quick-witted and rich in patter. After he made a suggestive joke about keeping warm in bed, some of the women present laughed and nudged each other, while others tut-tutted. The joke was beyond Billy's comprehension, so he continued on his way.

The January sales had ended, but McDowell's was teeming with shoppers stocking up on goods to be used during the power cuts. Battery-operated items, such as torches and radios, were selling well, as were hot water bottles, thermos flasks, and blankets. Those packing the aisles didn't demonstrate the same level of cheer they had shown a few months earlier in the run-up to Christmas. This time around there was a distinct air of gloom across the store, as shoppers were keenly aware that the clock was ticking towards the first blackout.

Billy knew that a busy store offered greater shoplifting opportunities, so he strolled around the aisles confident that his mission would be successful. He stopped at the modelling section, where he picked up and examined a small pot of black enamel paint. After a furtive look around to see if anyone was watching, he dropped the pot into the sleeve of his coat. He then gripped the cuff of his coat sleeve, which pressed the pot against his wrist. He wandered about some more, and at an opportune moment, he release his grip, allowing the pot of paint to fall into the bag.

This was Billy's modus operandi, and he performed the trick twice more that afternoon, first stealing the battery his mother needed for the radio, and then returning to the modelling section, where he filched a pot of gold enamel. Billy left McDowell's unchallenged, and he trotted through the drizzle to a tobacconist's at the bus station, where he bought five cigarettes with the battery money.

Billy got off the bus and took a shortcut along the single railway line that was used to transport coal from the nearby pit. The line ran parallel to a row of hawthorns at the bottom of the back gardens on Billy's street. In several places, these had been trampled down to create shortcuts for residents, or bolt-holes for coal thieves. Billy clambered up the slope and between the hawthorns into his own garden and he walked along the path.

Stopping at the wooden shed that stood by the fence, Billy crouched and reached into the gap between the shed and the ground. He pulled out a biscuit tin, which he opened to reveal the spoils of previous shoplifting ventures. He dropped the two pots of paint into the tin and replaced the lid, and then, after sliding the tin back into its hiding place, the young thief went indoors, announcing his return with a hearty cry of "I'm home."

At ten to six, Emily pushed candles into the candlesticks that stood at each end of the mantelshelf. She lit a third candle and dripped molten wax into a saucer, pressing the base of the candle into the pool, which quickly solidified. She told Billy that this light was to be used when going into other rooms in the house.

"Can I have a candle in my room?" Billy said. Emily shook her head.

"I'm not having you reading comics in bed with a naked flame," she said. Billy complained, but the ruling stood. "Now go upstairs and make sure everything's switched off before the lights go out."

In his bedroom, Billy had an idea. Rummaging in a drawer, he found a small tin torch his father had given him at Halloween. It contained no batteries, but there was a plentiful supply in the tin under the shed. He hurried downstairs just as the lights went out. Emily lit the two candles on the mantelshelf and Billy tuned the radio to a music station.

When Emily went upstairs to use the bathroom, Billy dashed outside. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew stronger, swishing through the leafless hawthorns, causing them to creak. He pulled the tin from under the shed and removed the lid. Fumbling in the dark for the correct batteries, he became aware of movement in the grass beside him. He turned and gasped at the tall figure that stood looking down at him, only three feet away.

"Hello, son," the figure said.

"Dad!" Billy said. "Have you escaped?" This question caused Frankie to laugh. He glanced towards the house to check that Emily wasn't around, and then retook cover behind the shed.

"No, lad," he said in a quiet voice, "I told your mother that I'd be out next Thursday, but I was released this morning. I want to surprise her and make sure there's, uh, nothing in the house that shouldn't be there, see?"

It had been a while since Billy smelled alcohol on someone's breath, but here it was back again like an unwelcome guest, stirring memories of fights and arguments, tears and broken crockery. Frankie crouched to inspect the tin on the ground. "What's all this?"

"Just stuff," Billy said, barely audibly. Frankie inspected the contents.

"What would you want with three identical keyrings and all these batteries, and pen knives? These are all brand new. Why are you hiding them under the shed?" Billy's silence was as good as an admission that the items were stolen. Frankie grabbed his son and pushed him against the side of the shed. He spoke angrily, but in a hoarse whisper that Emily wouldn't hear. "Is this what you've been getting up to while I was away, you light-fingered whelp?" he said. "Have you learned nothing from my mistakes? You bring one more piece of stolen property into this house, and I'll fix your fingers so you can't even pick up a pencil." He shoved Billy onto the garden path. "Now get indoors before you get my boot up your arse. And don't tell your mother I'm here." Billy ran into the house and up to his room, where he dived onto the bed.

Frankie entered the living room just as Emily was descending the stairs. He sat in an armchair that faced the door and waited. A pale light appeared in the doorway, and Emily entered the room.

"Well, well, well," Frankie said. Emily squealed and dropped the candle she was carrying. Frankie laughed loud and rose to embrace his wife. He led her on a dance around the room to the tinny sound of the radio, which played Albatross. As they swept past one of the candles on the mantelshelf, Frankie noticed that Emily's eyes were shining wet. The song ended and after their impromptu dance, Frankie produced a half bottle of whisky from his coat pocket. "Now, let's celebrate a homecoming," he said, and he laughed again.

Billy rose from his bed and walked to the window. He looked out at a panorama of black, with only a few pale grey clouds daubed upon it. There was no street lighting, no dim glow from behind the curtains of the houses opposite, and at the end of the road, the Ship Inn stood becalmed in a sea of darkness. This unfamiliar view stirred in him an intense feeling of loneliness and he shuddered in the cold air. A momentary blaze of headlights from a car turning at the top of the road reassured him that there were still people out there.

Billy uttered a curse towards his father, and he wondered what would become of his tin of treasure. Then, hearing movement outside the door, he jumped into bed and pulled the blankets over himself, pretending to be asleep lest someone came in to check on him. With eyes tightly shut, he listened to the clumsy footfalls on the stairs, his mother's giggling, his father's low whispering, and then the creaking bedsprings in the next room.

The unexpected return of his father meant that Billy had to give up a breakfast of bacon and eggs for the far less appetising dish of cold baked beans with bread and margarine. Sitting at the kitchen table, Billy watched with some resentment as his father chewed a mouthful of bacon while sawing the next slab from the rasher with his knife. As he ate, he made a repeated grunting sound, u-huh, u-huh, as though voicing approval of the fare. Emily was in the living room, singing.

After swallowing the last mouthful of food, Frankie pushed his empty plate away. He took a drink from a mug of tea and then sucked his teeth clean, making a noise that Billy found repugnant. He stifled a belch and then lit a hand-rolled cigarette, throwing the match onto his plate where it came to an abrupt halt in a smear of grease and egg yolk. He blew a large cloud of smoke into the air above the table, spitting out a stray strand of tobacco that had stuck to his lower lip with a tup.

"I meant what I said last night about the stealing," Frankie said. He looked towards the kitchen door to make sure Emily wasn't around. "I'll not tell your mother about it; God knows she has enough on her plate, but any more of it and I'll grass you up good. Got it?"

"Yes, Dad."

Frankie picked up Emily's purse and opened it. He pulled out a note and, as he stuffed it into his shirt pocket, he noticed Billy watching. "Not a word. Not a bloody word," he said, taking his coat from the back of the chair and putting it on. He took a hurried last gulp of tea and left by the back door. Billy watched from the window as his father disappeared behind the shed. When he came back into view, heading towards the gap in the hawthorns, Billy saw that he was carrying the biscuit tin.

The heat from Billy's face caused the window to steam up. "Things were much better when you weren't here, you bastard," he said. He picked up a scrubbing brush from the windowsill and threw it against the kitchen wall.

The next power cut was scheduled for six o'clock that evening. Emily was in the kitchen preparing lunch and baking scones for tea. Billy sat at the kitchen table doing homework. The radio provided background music, and when the two o'clock news came on Billy took his homework up to his room. He knew that his father would soon be home.

The bedroom was cold, so Billy fashioned a shawl from a counterpane and sat cross-legged on the bed reading a textbook. The temptation to go back down to the smell of cooking and the warmth of the kitchen was great, but Billy resisted. He would sooner sit coatless on the windy heights of the local pit heap than endure his father's company after a session at the Black Bull. One Sunday, Frankie attempted to force Billy to swear, with his hand on a bible, that he had never smoked a cigarette. Emily had intervened just in time to rescue her son from lying under oath.

Frankie announced his return with a slam of the front door, followed by a curse and then a heavy collision with the passage wall that caused a small framed picture on the other side to rap like a door knocker. The living room door opened, and Frankie swayed in the frame, wearing the fixed smile of the happy inebriate. The neck of a bottle of brown ale protruded from his coat pocket.

"The wanderer returns," he said with a laugh, but his geniality could not diminish the simmering rage of his wife, who was laying cutlery on the dining table. Emily had noticed the missing money and she challenged her husband about it.

"You've not been home twenty-four hours and you're already up to your old tricks," she said. "That money was to go towards new football boots for Billy, not booze for you." Without uttering a word, Frankie placed the bottle on the table, took off his coat, and went into the kitchen to wash his hands.

Emily went into the passage and yelled at Billy to come down for his lunch. As Billy spread the counterpane on the bed, he heard raised voices downstairs. The peaceful Sundays during his father's imprisonment were gone, and the rows had returned immediately. He listened to the sound of a scuffle and both parents shouting. There were loud thumps and something got knocked over. Sensing that this was worse than their usual heated exchanges, Billy rushed downstairs and into the living room.

"Stop it," Billy yelled. Frankie had his hand over Emily's mouth. He squeezed her cheeks, giving her face a grotesque melted appearance. Emily responded by grabbing Frankie's hair and clawing at his face, as Billy's puny arms tried to separate the warring parents. During the struggle, Emily's full upper denture slid from her mouth. Frankie grabbed it and threw it with some force into the fire.

"Now," Frankie said, panting from the exertion, "get me my dinner."

Emily went into the kitchen where she cried into a tea towel. Billy followed and, in an attempt to trick Billy into thinking the situation was less grave than it looked, Emily started putting Frankie's dinner onto a plate. Despite her efforts, she was unable to stifle sporadic sobs. She took the plate into the living room, where she laid it on the table with little ceremony. "Choke on it," she said, in a voice altered by her missing denture, and she returned to the kitchen. where she and Billy took their own lunches.

Frankie only ate part of his lunch, but he drank the full bottle of beer. He started watching television but soon fell into a drunken slumber on the settee. As he snored and snorted, Emily sneaked out to the telephone box that stood outside the Ship Inn.

Frankie was still sleeping when the power went off and Billy lit the candles. The dozing drunk hadn't been roused by the sound of the doorbell, nor the heavy footsteps in the passage. He woke when he became aware that someone was rocking him to and fro and calling his name. In his befuddled state, and with the room lit as it was, Frankie was utterly confused but eventually, he came to and he recognised Elsie's brother, John.

"Come on, you," John said, "you're leaving for good." He pulled Frankie to his feet. There's a bag with your belongings at the door, now sling your hook and don't ever come near my sister again. You're finished here."

Frankie noticed a second man lurking by the fireplace, so he meekly complied with John's instructions. He was given a drink of water and allowed to wash his face, and then he walked out of the house never to return. The last Emily heard was that he had moved to Edinburgh.

The strike ended and the power cuts ceased. In early March Emily took a job at a local travel agent. In preparation for her first day, she sat at the kitchen table applying makeup. Billy sat opposite, slurping his way through a bowl of cereal. "You be careful on that bike," Emily said.

"I will," Billy said. He rose and put his empty bowl into the kitchen sink. He put on his coat, hat, and gloves.

"See you later," Emily said, with a smile that revealed a new denture.

"Ta'ra," Billy said. No longer a smoker or a shoplifter, he had taken on a paper round and was saving up to buy a guitar. He went outside to the shed to get his bike.

As Emily went into the bedroom to get dressed, she heard the gate creak, She looked from the window at Billy, who mounted the bike and pedalled up the street. She watched the tiny red light all the way until it was visible no more.