Cassette #10
Hello Sean.
I bet this photo gives you the willies, doesn’t it? Do you remember how scared you were I’d get run over by a horse?
I felt terrible for leaving you behind and though I pretended otherwise, I worried about April all day. But looking back, I think it was the right thing to do, both in political terms and personally.
I grew up a bit that day, that’s the thing. Talking to all those struggling miners’ wives and singing protest songs on the bus and getting angry, really angry, about the injustice of it all, changed me, or at least started a process of change. It really did.
I was still so young, that’s the thing. I had lived so little. I honestly think that I was still working out who I was meant to be, back then. I had never been on any kind of demonstration before and it was, to my surprise, the most exciting thing I had ever done.
As an aside, thinking back on it all, I do worry about the kids today, don’t you? I mean, we were hardly communist radicals, were we? But we still knew right from wrong. We still knew when to stand up and say, “No!” We knew when to protest and shout and lie down in the road. April’s generation, and younger kids even more so, all just seem so passive to me.
Whether it’s the NHS or the rich not paying their taxes, or this stupid Brexit business, there are plenty of things to be furious about, but I don’t think many of them even consider getting off their arses to vote, let alone demonstrate. I’ve talked to April about this and she’s all, “Oh, what’s the point?” which seems to be the overriding belief of our time. She seems to think that clicking on some Facebook petition is about as radical as it gets. So, I do worry that we’ve somehow produced a generation of ostriches.
And I don’t just mean that they bury their heads in the sand and let the politicians get away with murder these days, either. I mean that April’s generation is missing out on all of that fun, as well. Because, yes, we believed in the causes and, yes, we were genuinely angry about entire mining communities being left without a livelihood. But God, we had fun fighting it, didn’t we?
To start with, on the bus going down that morning, everyone was sleepy. It was a very early start and they were students, after all.
But as we got nearer to Orgreave, we began to see the rows of police vans lined up, and the atmosphere became electric. I have never seen so many police, Sean. They were like an army.
The people we met that day were amazing. I remember getting involved in a big argument with a guy from the NUM who was worried about what he called “lassies” getting involved in the picket line. He and this friend of his, who had the biggest moustache I had ever seen, argued with Theresa and a friend of hers for half an hour about whether we should be there at all. But in the end, he understood that it was important for us to be there, and we understood that, like yourself, he was genuinely scared for our safety. The truncheon wielding police, he pointed out, weren’t women. They were very heavily armoured, surprisingly angry policemen.
In the end we split up. The lads went off with the pickets and we joined the miners’ wives and their kids to demonstrate on the sidelines.
It was a brilliant experience talking to them. They were so involved, so aware of the way the story was being manipulated by the media. They were so grateful that we were there, that someone who wasn’t a miner or a miner’s wife could actually be bothered enough to go to fight alongside them. A couple of the women were so moved that they cried all over us. I had never really done anything for anyone before and to feel that gratitude, that bond, was lovely.
About eleven o’clock the so-called “scabs” arrived for the shift change, and the police began to force their way through the picket line. I was relieved, if the truth be told, to be on the sidelines.
We shouted and screamed and waved our banners. I was completely hoarse by the time I got back to the bus.
I think a couple of people got bonked with a truncheon that day, and one guy got tripped up by a policeman and cut his ear open. But that’s about all that happened as far as I could tell. Things really weren’t that bad.
The real violence happened the following Monday, as I recall. They waited until the weekend was over, knowing that all the non-miners would be back at work, that all the stroppy students would be in lessons. You, Theresa and I watched it all on television together on Monday night. It was horrific, even to watch, and I think that it was only then, only when I saw the images of police on horseback riding into the crowds and beating people over the head with their batons, men and women alike, that I finally understood what you had been so afraid of.
I cried as we watched it and I cried about it for days afterwards. I cried, too, when the NUM finally caved in, because I knew that all of those lovely people I had met had no hope left at all.
Despite all of our demonstrations and all of those pamphlets we gave out in the Wulfrun Centre, we failed, I suppose. Thatcher won, the mines closed, exactly as Arthur Scargill had said they would, and nothing was done to help any of the people left behind. Perhaps that’s why no one bothers to demonstrate anymore, because it turned out that no one cared how many people demonstrated. Perhaps that’s the day we were all beaten.
Still, it was a life changing experience for me, like I say. I felt part of the strike and part, even though I wasn’t, of the students’ union. I felt part of Theresa’s so-called sisterhood, too.
Oh, here’s a juicy story you’ve never been told. I just this second remembered.
So, on the way back, I fell asleep with my head on Theresa’s shoulder. When I woke up she was caressing my hair and do you know what she asked me? She wanted to know if I had ever made love with a woman. When I said that I hadn’t, she asked me if I’d like to try. Can you imagine how embarrassed I was? This was in the middle of a crowded bus, after all. I had only just turned twenty.
I said “no” of course. I was way too prudish to ever discuss such a thing, and I can honestly say that I have never been tempted since.
But I was quite in love with Theresa that day, and in that moment, though I said, “no”, it wasn’t the whole truth. In that specific instant, I would actually quite have liked to say yes. Just to try it, so to speak. I bet you’re shocked now, aren’t you?
Anyway, when we got back to Wolverhampton, you and April were there, waiting for me, and I was so tired and so happy to see you both that I cried.
As far as any lesbian tendencies were concerned, that, as they say, was the end of that.
• • •
On Monday, Sean chooses his holiday dates. He books three weeks in January and two in March. He has no idea exactly why he chooses the dates he does, other than the fact that it means he doesn’t have to think about holidays for the longest possible time. “You’re sure you don’t want Christmas week?” the secretary asks. “Because I think you’ll be the only one here.”
“Yes,” Sean says, trying to block even the thought of what a week’s holiday, alone, at Christmas, might feel like. “Yes, I’m sure.”
On Thursday evening, April phones him.
“Hi Dad,” she says. “Ronan and I were thinking of coming up for the weekend. The weather’s going to be fabulous, apparently. What do you think?”
“Sure,” Sean says. “Why not? I was going to go and visit Mum, but there’s no reason that can’t wait. I’ll just tell Perry.”
“We can postpone it for a week if you want,” April says, “but there’s a massive anti-Brexit demo happening in Central London, so it’s going to be a nightmare around here. We thought we might as well.”
“Can’t you hang out at Ronan’s place?”
“Nah, it’s rented. You know he rents it on Airbnb sometimes? Well, it’s booked for that weekend. And round here is going to be madness. The demo’s starting in Hyde Park, I think.”
“Oh,” Sean says, thinking back to Catherine’s last tape. “And you don’t want to go to that?”
“The demo? Me?” April says, sounding shocked. “No.”
“Why not?”
“When did you ever see me at a demo, Dad?”
“You spend enough time complaining about Brexit,” Sean says.
“Well, of course. It’s stupid. But there’s no stopping it now. You know that.”
“Yes,” Sean says. “Yes, I think I do.”
“So are we on?” April asks. “For the weekend.”
“Sure,” Sean says. “I’ll see you then. When are you coming?”
“Friday night. To avoid all the hassle.”
Once the call is over, Sean lays his phone on the table and pushes it around with one finger like a toy car as he runs the conversation and the contents of Catherine’s tape through his mind. Because, yes, he can see, in a way, how that day changed Catherine. She had been a poorly educated girl from a council estate when he met her. She had been bright as a button, that’s for sure, but she had never asserted herself in any of the discussions that happened at college until that day. But after the demonstration she had known what she thought, at least about that one subject. And she hadn’t been afraid to take on anyone who disagreed with her.
“You’ve changed your mind?” April asks, the second she picks up the phone.
“No. Well… sort of,” Sean splutters. “Look, how would it be if I came down instead?”
“But I told you. Central London’s going to be…”
“How would it be if I came down and we went to the demo together.”
“Really?” April asks. “Why?”
“To express our disagreement, maybe?” Sean offers.
“There was a vote, Dad. We expressed our disagreement then. And we got outvoted.”
“Maybe that’s not enough,” Sean says.
“You’re freaking me out a bit, now.”
“Have you ever been to a demonstration?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“No,” Sean says. “But have you?”
“Well, no. Have you?”
“Yes,” Sean says. “Lots.”
“Really? For what? I mean, which demos? In aid of what?”
“Lots of things. With your mother. I’ll tell you tomorrow. And on Saturday – it’s on Saturday, right?”
“Yes. But…”
“On Saturday, we can go. Together.”
“Hold on, Dad. Ronan’s just got in.”
April’s voice becomes muffled, but despite the fact that Sean can’t quite make out her words, he can tell, from the tone, that she’s explaining his proposed change of plans to Ronan and not sounding happy about it.
“Is this to do with Mum?” she asks, when she returns. “Is it some sort of post-Mum midlife crisis?”
“No,” Sean says. “Look, if you’re really against it, then forget it.”
“I don’t mind,” April says. “Not really. And Ronan actually thinks it’ll be fun.”
“It will.”
“But it just sounds strange. It doesn’t sound like you.”
“Hum,” Sean says. “Well, maybe you don’t know me quite as well as you think you do. Maybe we never know anyone quite as well as we think we do.”
“You are weird at the moment, you know. But look, I’ll check with the others,” April says. “Because there’s only the one sofa. And if anyone else has people staying it won’t be possible.”
“Of course.”
“But I think it’s probably OK. Matt may even be away that weekend, so you might be able to have his room.”
“Sure,” Sean says. “Well, let me know.”
• • •
As parking near April’s place is impossible, Sean travels to London by train.
By the time he has negotiated the underground and made his way to her shared apartment it’s almost eight p.m.
Matt, as predicted, is away for the weekend, so April shows Sean to his room.
The flat, in Hyde Park Gardens, is beautiful if tatty, and from Matt’s rear windows Sean can even glimpse, through a gap in the houses on Bayswater Road, Hyde Park itself. He dumps his bag on Matt’s Swedish office chair and crosses to the window, looks out, then turns back to scan the room.
Matt, who is a successful graphic designer, is young and funky, and it shows. The room is youthful and colourful. There’s an Aladdin Sane Bowie poster on the wall and a large collection of vinyl. Matt has twin DJ decks permanently installed and bookshelves stuffed with art books.
Sean walks around the room. He runs his fingers across the spines of Matt’s records and then peeps, nosily, into a wardrobe. The room makes him feel young again, even as it makes him nostalgic for his own lost youth. God, how he’d love the chance to live the whole thing again!
“You all right in there?” April asks, peering through the open door.
“Yeah,” Sean says. “I’m just looking around. This is such a cool room.”
“Matt’s life’s work,” April says.
“The room?” Sean asks.
April takes a step into the room and expounds, “No. Being cool, I meant.”
Sean detects a note of bitterness in her voice and remembers that at the beginning, before she met Ronan, his daughter had, Catherine said, had a thing for Matt.
“Weren’t you a bit in love with him at the beginning?” Sean asks.
“God, Mum tells you… told you… everything,” April says, faking outrage. “And I wasn’t in love with him. I just…” She shrugs coyly. “I had a crush, that’s all. He’s pretty good looking. But he knows it, if you know what I mean.”
“Right,” Sean says.
“Waaay too busy being cool,” April explains.
“Yes. I know the type.”
The doorbell rings, so April turns to head to the front door. “Great,” she says. “I’m starving.”
When Sean gets to the kitchen, Ronan is already unpacking a series of metal trays from a carrier bag. “Hey, Sean,” he says.
Sean slaps him gently on the back then squeezes his shoulder. “Hi Ronan,” he says. “You brought food. I was intending to take you both out somewhere.”
“You can do that tomorrow,” April says, peeling back the cardboard lid of one of the containers and peering at the contents, then dipping a finger in and sucking it. “We thought this would be nice,” she explains. “Just the three of us.”
“No Aisha, either?” Ronan asks, his Irish lilt making the word Aisha run into the following word either to form one long list of vowels.
“No. She’s out with friends,” April tells him. “… said she was going clubbing afterwards, I think.”
Together, they divvy out the curries before moving to the fold-out table in the lounge.
“This is such a nice flat,” Sean says, looking around. “It reminds me of being a student.”
April laughs. “Only, we’re not students, are we? We’re thirty-something professionals. But no one can afford a flat anymore in London.”
“Sure,” Sean says. “But I still think it’s kind of fun. How much do you pay again?”
“A thousand a month,” April says.
“Each? Wow.”
“Yes. It’s going up to £1200 a month in June, too.”
“Only…” Ronan starts. But April shoots him a glare, effectively silencing him.
“Only what?” Sean asks.
“Only nothing. So, how have you been, Dad?”
“Yeah,” Ronan says, forking mushroom Biryani to his mouth. “How have you been?”
April, who isn’t drinking, waits until the second bottle of Chardonnay has been opened before she dares to say what’s on her mind.
“So Dad,” she says. “Ronan and I… um… we have something to tell you.”
Sean sips at his wine and nods encouragingly. “Go on?”
April glances at Ronan. “Shall I, or…?” she asks.
Ronan shrugs. “Whatever you want. It’s up to you.”
“Right,” April says, taking a deep breath. “So, we want to move in together. We’ve found a great little flat in South Hampstead that we can just about afford. It’s small…”
“But lovely,” Ronan interjects.
“It is,” April agrees. “And it has a little box room Ronan can use as an office.”
“You know that I work from home most of the time, right?” Ronan asks.
Sean nods. “Sounds good,” he says, wrinkling his brow and smiling simultaneously because he senses that there’s more to come. “But won’t you miss this place? I thought you liked sharing with Matt and Aisha.”
“God, no,” April says. “No, I’m sick to death of sharing.”
“Aisha steals her makeup,” Ronan says, raising his eyebrows. “And Matt won’t do any housework.”
“Ah,” Sean says. “The joys of sharing. I remember it well.”
“We just want a place of our own,” April says. “You get to a certain age and you just want to be on your own, you know?”
Sean nods knowingly. “And then you get to a certain age and the worst thing you can imagine is being on your own.”
April bites her bottom lip. “Sorry, I’m being insensitive,” she says. “I need a padlock on my mouth or something. I always have done.”
“Not at all, sweetheart,” Sean says. “I’m just being silly because I’m jealous of your setup here. I want to live in Matt’s cool room and mix records at parties, I think.”
“You could move into April’s room,” Ronan offers, jokingly. “It’ll be free soon.”
“The commute might be a bit of a drag,” Sean says. “To Cambridge, I mean.”
“Anyway,” April says, sounding frustrated by all the small-talk. “There’s another reason we need to move.”
“There is?”
She glances at Ronan and reaches for his wrist before turning back to face Sean. “I’m pregnant,” she says. “So we really need to sort out our own place before that happens.”
“God!” Sean says. “You’re pregnant?”
Despite the fact that he thought he had sounded pretty convincing, April pulls a face. “You knew. Did Mum tell you that we were trying?”
“No,” Sean says. He looks at Ronan and, despite himself, wonders if the baby is Ronan’s. And then he looks at April and wonders, then forcefully decides, that she is his daughter. “Nope,” he says. “She really didn’t say a word.”
“Huh,” April says. She’s clearly unconvinced.
“She didn’t,” Sean insists, even though he’s not sure why he’s lying. Perhaps because Catherine has told him not in person but on the tapes. And April doesn’t know about the tapes, yet, does she? “But it’s not a new concept, you know?” Sean continues. “Boy meets girl. Girl gets pregnant… Plus, I noticed that you’re not drinking.”
“Ah,” April says. “Yes, I suppose with my track record that is a bit of a giveaway. Anyway, you can understand now why we need our own place.”
“You know we had you in a shared student house for your first two years,” Sean reminds her.
“Yes. But like I said. I’m not a student.”
“No. That’s true. I wasn’t saying…”
“The thing is,” April interrupts. “We need your help.”
“OK. Fire away.”
“They need a guarantor. For the rent. It’s two thousand two hundred a month.”
“It’s only because I’m self-employed,” Ronan tells him. “I mean, we can pay it. But we need to convince them of that.”
“Of course,” Sean says. “No problem.”
“Really?” April asks.
“Of course. Why would I say no?”
April’s features slip into a cute frown. She leans in and pecks her father on the cheek. “Oh, thanks Big Daddy,” she says. “You’re the best, you are.”
“You’re welcome, Little Daughter.”
“I would ask my dad,” Ronan says. “But…”
Sean raises one hand, interrupting him. “It’s not a problem,” he says. “Really.” His voice sounded slightly broken, and he realises that he’s unexpectedly on the verge of tears. “Sorry, um… need the loo,” he says, stumbling from the table before they can notice.
In the bathroom, he closes and locks the door, then sits on the closed toilet seat and rubs his brow. He swallows with difficulty. Because, yes, despite having prepared himself for this moment, he’s upset. Catherine’s absence, at this specific moment in his life, feels devastating.
After a minute or so, he stands and looks into the mirror, at his own, glistening eyes.
He hears Catherine’s voice saying, “I never wanted grandchildren. Other people’s kids have always seemed a special kind of hell.” He hadn’t realised it before, but he now knows that it was a lie designed to make him feel better. Because of course nothing, quite simply nothing, would have made Catherine happier than meeting her daughter’s first child.
When Sean gets back from the bathroom, April and Ronan are smiling at him and looking expectant. There’s a vaguely fake air to their expressions from which Sean deduces that they’ve been discussing something contentious in his absence.
“So, there’s one more thing,” April says, as Sean resumes eating. “We don’t… We don’t think we want to get married.”
“OK,” Sean says, slowly. “Why not?”
April screws up her nose. “We just don’t really believe in it. Neither of us do.”
“That’s fair enough. It’s entirely up to you two, I would think. As long as you agree.”
“We basically do,” April says. “You don’t mind, then?”
“Do I mind not having to pay for your huge, white wedding?” Sean asks. “Uh… let me see…”
“And you’re not shocked?”
Sean laughs.
“Do you think… ? How do you think… ?” April stammers.
“What would Mum have said?” Sean prompts.
“Yeah.” April nods. “She wouldn’t have minded, would she?”
“I doubt it,” Sean says. “But I really couldn’t say.”
“I don’t think she would have minded,” April says, clearly trying to convince herself. “I honestly don’t.”
“It’s immaterial,” Sean says with a sad shake of his head. “She’s not here, sweetheart.”
During the train journey back to Cambridge, Sean tries but fails to sleep.
To say that he had not slept well in Matt’s bed would be an understatement. The streetlamp outside had shone directly on his face (there were no curtains) and Matt’s lumpy, sagging mattress was quite simply the worst Sean has ever known. Matt needs, Sean thinks, to spend a little more on his bedding and a little less on records. He berates himself for being an old fogey as soon as he thinks this, but the fact remains that it’s true. The bed really had been awful.
By Saturday morning, Sean’s back had been stiff, and by Sunday, he had been thinking that he would have to book an appointment with an osteopath just to get his vertebrae yanked back into line.
But despite his lack of sleep and despite the gentle motion of the train, Sean’s unable to doze. His mind, instead, is running over April’s declarations, and the experience of the anti-Brexit demonstration. Because, yes, the demonstration had been a disappointment.
They had joined the straggling line of protesters just as they were leaving Hyde Park but within an hour they had abandoned the procession to duck into a branch of Pizza Hut instead.
“I feel like a real traitor,” Sean had said, once they were seated. The last stragglers were still walking past the window.
“Now you know why my generation doesn’t go to demos,” April said. “It’s just too depressing.”
“Surely it’s depressing because no one goes, not the other way around?”
“I think it’s like a vicious circle of apathy,” Ronan suggested.
“Plus, it doesn’t change anything, Dad,” April said. “Do you remember all the people who protested against the Iraq war? There were millions of them. But it didn’t change a thing. That’s how they’ve turned us into such an apathetic nation. By never listening. By not giving a damn what people think.”
Thinking back to Catherine’s similar analysis of the miners’ strike, Sean could only concur.
“But to concentrate on the serious stuff,” Ronan had said. “What kind of pizza are you having?”
Once home, Sean is finally able to catch up on his missing sleep. He lies down on the sofa and it’s only when he wakes up to darkness that he remembers he still hasn’t opened this weekend’s package. He glances at the broadband box and sees that it’s almost seven-thirty. He’ll make dinner and then he’ll open the next envelope and he’ll spend the evening with Catherine. It will be almost like not eating alone, he thinks.