It's good to talk

It's good to talk

A man sits uncomfortably on a plastic chair in a village hall. It's a decent sized space, and the 8 chairs look lost and tiny in the setting. Our man is in his 40's, not heavily built but with large, flat hands and a strength to his appearance that screams his profession as physical labour. The chill of the winter evening has pervaded the hall and he sits still in a faded green parka, unzipped but still providing warmth. He is looking down towards his hands, that twist and grip within each other. He knew he would have to do this but now the moment was upon him he felt a nervousness different from any he had previously experienced. He took a deep breath, lifted his head to meet the eyes of the man in the cardigan across from him and began to speak.

"My name is John."

He spoke hesitantly. Addressing crowds of people, unless they were a rugby team, was not exactly his wheelhouse.

His mouth moved silently, and just for a second he flashed a look of pleading at the man in the cardigan, anything to take the glare of the spotlight away.

"It's OK, John. This is a safe space to talk."

The man in the cardigan had a soft, soothing voice. It provided a stark contrast to John's own deep gravelly tone. He realised that he would have to use that voice now. He needed to talk about it. But even after all this time he was still angry about it.

"20 years, I worked down that pit. 3rd generation." Bitterness dripped from his voice. "Then they just up and close."

There was a murmured agreement from a man sat two seats to the left. John glanced in his direction but didn't recognise him, but then again it was a big place.

"Almost a year now, I've been out of work, and it's driving me loopy. I had a paper round at 13 and I've worked constantly ever since."

His voice was low now, barely audible enough for those on the other side of the circle, and he still had trouble lifting his head. It was hard enough to open up about this as it is, but he just couldn't meet anyone's eye. He couldn't stand to see the pity on their faces.

"It wasn't a great job. Dirty, heavy, physical but it was honest work and I was good at it. I was able to keep a roof over my family's heads and food on the table."

Like many of his generation, he is proud of his work ethic. He was a working man, and that was built into his identity.

"And the job centre is a joke. They're so patronizing. Like they think that I don't even want a job. Like I want to be there. They keep telling me that I have to go to job finding workshops. Two long hours of some smug so-and-so in a suit telling us that we can get a job if we just try hard enough."

It was so embarrassing. Every two weeks, having to sit in that office, while someone 10 years younger than him tells him how disappointing it is that he hasn't found a job in a small mining town with no mine anymore.

"I go to all their meetings, I apply for all their suggestions. Apparently, I'm not qualified for any of them. There's nothing in this town anymore now the mine has closed. Half the shops are shut and boarded up. The only building in town getting any use is the bloody job centre."

There were nods all around the circle. They weren't all from the same town but it was the same all over the north. Once proud communities reduced to near ruins of unemployment and crime.

"It's beginning to really wear on me. I'm arguing with the wife over absolutely nothing. She's more irritated, I think I'm getting under her feet. Or we just aren't used to spending so much time together. Everything has been so hard lately and I just don't know how to make it work."

He didn't know how to let on just how much this bothered him. He loved his wife but he couldn't remember the last time they had a day without another argument. Is it really still a relationship if you spend more time rowing than talking.

"I've got two little girls, and they're my whole world. This last year, having to explain to them...."

His voice broke at that point. He'd discussed some pretty heavy stuff over the last 5 minutes, and it made him angry, but not upset. But his girls...

"We were never really well off, but they got what they needed. But the amount of times I have had to tell that we can't afford to go places or get them the things that they want.... I know they try to understand but I can't take the look of disappointment on their little faces."

The welled tears in his eyes begin to run down his face. He tries to hold them back but there's no stopping them now. He wipes a rough hand across his face and tries to carry on.

"Something has got to change, I don't know how long I can do this. I don't want to do this anymore. Sorry, I... I can't."

The chair squeals as he stands up sharply. He knocks it to the side so he can get out of that room as fast as he can.