Billy Elliot (13 page)

I
knew Mr Elliot. I’d had him in quite a few times in the past few months. A leather jacket, a suit, a watch, some cut glass. People thought the strike was good business for me, and maybe it was, but only in the short term. I’ll be honest, I think the miners are misguided, I think Mrs Thatcher probably has the right ideas about the way the future is going. Sometimes hard decisions have to be made, but I don’t always like the way she goes about it. This is my community too. In the long run, what good is it going to do me if all the local industry closes down? Poor people don’t buy much jewellery and they soon run out of things to pawn. So I tried to give good prices and I kept the interest low as I could for the duration of the strike. People have long memories about this sort of thing around here, and I wanted them to remember that Dainty and Sons were fair about it.

I’d seen an awful lot of jewellery at that time. Chains and bracelets, that sort of thing, I’d been seeing those for months, but the rings only really started to come in as Christmas got close. Everyone wanted to give their families a good Christmas after going without for so long, and by that time they had nothing else left. They’d been scrimping and saving and selling off the family treasures one by one, and now it had come to this. It was awful – not the sort of thing you want to evaluate in terms of hard cash. People coming in with the
pain all over their faces. They were so desperate, they had nothing left, absolutely nothing. Some of them tried to explain it to me, so I wouldn’t think badly of them. It was heartbreaking, really. And so unnecessary. It was just a matter of time by then, everyone knew that except for the real diehards. It was just a question of how much Scargill was prepared to let them suffer.

I’d never seen it before, the wedding rings. The odd one or two of course, but never like that, half a dozen a day or more for a while. People had never been that poor before, not in my lifetime. In they came, husbands and wives, singly or together, and they’d put their little band of gold down on the counter and look at me, and my heart just sank every time. I knew I was bound to disappoint them. The thing is, people can’t separate their feelings from the pure value. Your wedding ring is your romance, your marriage, your kids – everything. You’ve probably been thinking about it for weeks, plucking up courage, steeling yourself for it, trying not to think of all the memories it represents, all the love and heartache. But to a jeweller, you see, it’s just a piece of gold. It might be worth the world to you, but to me – well. My scales only measure the weight, put it like that.

Like I say, I’d seen Mr Elliot a few times before. I’ve come to be a bit of a judge of character. People get excited at times like this – violent even. I’ve been threatened more times than I can count. Not that I think Mr Elliot was going to do anything rash, but I could tell at once that this was costing him dear. If I’d known at the time that his wife had died a couple of years ago I might – well, I don’t know what I’d have done. He was a man right at the end of his strength. He needed that money badly, very badly indeed, I knew that. Why else should
he come in to sell his wife’s wedding ring now, of all times? He’d got through Christmas, which was when people usually reach out and cash in the very last whisper of wealth. Why was 5 January any different? Something must have happened. He really needed that money.

‘How much?’

‘Are you sure about this, sir?’

‘I know me own mind. How much?’

Well. What could I say? People come here for money, not advice. I picked it up, checked the hallmark, weighed it out. Went through the other bits one by one.

‘I can offer you twenty-five pounds for the lot.’

‘What?’

You see? I watched the colour drain from his face. ‘That’s my wife’s ring,’ he said.

‘You bought it new? Jewellery is always worth less secondhand.’

‘But inflation ...’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I know it must be worth more to you and your wife than I can offer.’

He looked shocked. No, not shocked. Horrified. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘Mr Elliot? Are you all right?’

‘Aye.’ He looked down at the tinkle of gold. What could I do? It was tat, more or less. ‘Twenty-five pounds?’ he repeated. ‘Make it thirty.’

‘Mr Elliot, I wouldn’t argue about your wife’s ring. I know it must mean a great deal to you, but in purely financial terms, twenty-five is already more than it’s worth.’

‘Aye. Right.’ He stood there looking at it, frowning as if the
ring had tricked him. ‘OK then.’

‘You want to go ahead?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye. I’m sure, just give us the money.’

If he’d asked my opinion I’d have told him that a measly twenty-five pounds wasn’t worth what it was costing him to do this, but like I say, people don’t come here for advice. In fact, advice about that sort of thing is the last thing anyone wants from a pawnbroker. I counted out the notes and handed them over. Before he left I promised to keep the ring safe until the end of the strike.

‘It’s just surety for a loan,’ I told him. But you could tell from his face, the way he felt, it was like I’d just told him he was tat and that his love for his wife was tat, too. Well. Hard times. No one loves a pawnbroker in times like this, but everyone ends up in my shop. I just hope whatever he had to spend the money on was important enough, that’s all.

I
don’t know how to describe how I felt. It was like being blinded. Like the last little corner of light had been taken away from me. It was like all the good years, before Sarah was taken from us, like they were all worth nothing as well.

Aye, well, I know it’s stupid. It was just a ring, but I felt so helpless. I walked out of the shop and I knew at once what I was going to do. And I knew it was impossible to do it, and I knew that I was going to try and do it as hard as I could – for Sarah, and for Billy. Tony? I didn’t even dare think about him.

The strike was over in all but name. We all knew it. We had nothing left and the government was still as firm as ever. The strike hadn’t spread the way we’d hoped, the public was sympathetic to us, but that’s all. Sympathy doesn’t win that sort of struggle – you need hard support. There was charity but not much else. Not enough of it, anyhow. A couple of months, maybe even a few more weeks and we’d be called back to work. But it’d be too late by then. The audition would be over by then. And all I needed was one week’s work. One wage packet. It’s all I wanted, you understand – nothing for myself. I just wanted to give Billy his chance, and I knew that no one else was going to do it for me. I had to sort this out by myself.

It was just a blur, the whole thing. Meeting the others on a
patch of waste ground. Gary Stewart was there, I remember that. ‘Well, who’s the big man now?’ he said. I said nothing. Well, he was right. Getting on the coach. They treated us like dirt, counted us off one after the other. You, name? You, not seen you before. Come to your senses at last, took your time. Didn’t even let us smoke on the coach. Aye, no one has any respect for a scab, not even the bosses.

I knew news was going to get out. Jackie Elliot’s turned scab. Well, sooner rather than later. I didn’t try to hide my face like some of the others. I just sat there. Let them see, I thought. And I wasn’t going to try and explain it away, either. I knew what I was doing and why I was doing it. I was scared, though, I don’t mind admitting that. As we got close to the pit we could hear the roar. The crowd! Yelling and shouting, the police banging their shields, the men chanting. Our bus was second in. I watched the first one slow down and go into the crowd like it was being swallowed up. The men heaved forward, the coppers linked arms and shoved back. The noise was deafening. It felt louder on that bus than it ever had when I was on the ground. Missiles flying through the air, eggs, stones, bricks, flying over the coppers’ heads, crashing against the wire mesh over the windows. The men pushing forward, trying to shove the police right up against the coach and make it stop like that.

Then we went in. My heart was going like a drum. The coach slowed right down. I tried to keep my face forward, I didn’t look away. Let them see me, I thought.

We inched our way in. There was this sea of faces and noise all around us, it was terrifying. BANG BANG BANG! Rocks against the grid over the windows. Terrifying. Screaming and shouting. Then a group of men got up and managed
to rip the grid right off – god knows how. The window was bare. There was a huge cheer. Straight away stones started coming thicker than ever and the glass cracked and crumbled onto us. Those of us on that side got up and went across to the other window. The coach had stopped by this time and the crowd was rocking it from side to side and my heart leaped, but it wasn’t fear. Understand? I thought, Good. Because, if they turned it over and pulled us out and kicked us to bloody death, that way I wouldn’t have to go in. I wouldn’t have to go through with it. I wanted them to get me. I wanted them to know what I was doing.

The police were lashing out, men were going down. The coach inched forward. I turned my head to one side to look out of the window next to me, and what did I see, staring straight back at me? Our Tony. Right there. Our eyes right into one another. The coach moved away in through the gates. I felt like I’d turned to stone. I’d thought I didn’t care who saw me. I’d thought nothing mattered any more, but when Tony watched me riding the coach in through the gates to the pit, I thought I was going to die of shame.

I
cried out, ‘Dad, Dad!’ The coach pulled away and through the gates as if my voice had scared it off. Just for a second I wished I’d kept my mouth shut and I looked from side to side to see who else had seen. But then, well. The look on me dad’s face. I never saw me dad look like that at me. He was like, like a kid about to burst into tears. Like he was dying. I just had to get to him, that’s all I knew. I shoved me way through the crowd and ran round the wire to the side, and I wasn’t thinking then about what a traitorous bastard me own dad was, I was thinking – no, I knew – I knew he was in trouble. I was scared for him.

I ran round the fence. I could see the scabs getting off the coach, I was hoping it was a dream but there was me dad with them. I bawled, ‘Dad! What the f*** are you doing! Dad, come back, Dad!’ He heard me, looked over to me. The official tried to shunt them inside out of sight, but Dad pushed him away and took a few steps towards me. The official grabbed him, and Dad swung at him, but it wasn’t much of a punch, it was a sort of lunge, like he was drunk or mad or what. And he was crying. Crying. I never saw me dad in tears before. I screamed ‘Dad! Dad!’ over and over, and he came staggering towards me. It was terrible. That f***ing wire! He came right up to it and leaned against it, and I was trying to put my hands through to touch him. I wanted to put my
arms around him. He was leaning against it, tears pouring down his face, barely able to say a word.

‘It’s for wee Billy,’ he said.

‘F*** Billy! You can’t go back, not now!’

‘Look at the state of us, man! What have we got to offer the poor sod?’ He was a right mess, all snot and tears, and I was f***ing crying now and all. What a pair! I couldn’t help it. It was my dad, see?

‘You can’t do this, not now. Not after all this time. Not after everything we’ve been through.’

‘He might be a f***ing genius for all we know,’ he said. He stood back and wiped his nose, a big trail of slime up his arm. I just wanted to take him in my arms and tell him it was all right, everything was gonna be all right. I never knew! I didn’t understand.

‘Please, Dad!’

‘I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry.’

‘Dad, please ...’

‘We’re finished, son. What choice have we got? Let’s give the kid a f***ing chance, eh?’

‘He’s just a kid, he’s only twelve years old, for Christ sake! What about me? You can’t do this. We’ll find him some money if it’s that important. We’ll get him some. Just come out, Dad. Please! Do you think he’ll be proud about this, do you?’

Some people ran up behind us. Robert Martin and Colin Simons from the union. ‘What’s he playing at, Tony?’