all right, gents?’ he said pleasantly.
‘Nowt we can’t take care of ourselves, Peter,’ said Satterthwaite, staring with cold dislike at Colin Farr. He was Pedley’s brother-in-law and shared with his sister the distinction of using the steward’s real name.
‘Not in here, you can’t,’ said Pedley. ‘Down the hole or in the street, you do what you like. In here you do what I like. Arthur, you’ve got some sense …’
He jerked his head towards the door. Downey gently took Farr’s elbow.
‘Come on, Col,’ he said coaxingly. ‘Let’s go and sit and have a chat. It’d be like old times for me. Your dad and me had some good nights in here …’
‘Not that many, Arthur,’ sneered Satterthwaite. ‘He didn’t dare show his face in here much at the end. I’ll give you that, Farr. You’ve got real nerve. I’d not have thought even you would have had the brass balls to come in here tonight of all nights.’
Farr swung towards him. His glass fell from his hand and crashed to the floor, scattering beer and splinters. Downey flung his arms round the youth to restrain him. Pedley said, ‘Belt up, Harold! Col, you get yourself out of here else you’re banned. Now!’
Farr was trying to struggle free from Downey’s restraint, then suddenly he relaxed.
‘You know what, Harold?’ he said. ‘You’re full of shit. It’s time somebody took you apart but who wants to get covered in shit?’
Tommy Dickinson arrived from the bar, his face wreathed with concern.
‘What’s going off, Col?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got you a beer.’
‘I think mebbe Col’s had enough,’ said Pedley.
‘You’re right there, Pedro,’ said Farr. ‘More than bloody enough!’
He pulled free from Downey, seized the glass from Dickinson’s hand, drained it in a single draught and banged it down in front of Satterthwaite with a crash that almost shattered it.
‘Take it easy, Col,’ said Downey.
‘You can fuck off too,’ snarled Farr. ‘Call yourself a friend? What did you ever do for my dad? What did any of you ever do?’
He pushed his way past Dickinson and headed for the exit door.
Dickinson slurped hastily at his pint and said, ‘I’d best go after him.’
‘He’ll be better left,’ advised Downey.
‘What the fuck do you know?’ said Dickinson rudely. But when Pedley said, ‘Arthur’s right, Tommy. Best leave him for a bit anyway,’ the chubby miner allowed himself to be led back to the bar where he was soon retailing a lurid version of the incident to eager ears.
Downey resumed his seat, looking anxiously towards the door.
‘For Christ’s sake, Arthur, why do you get so het up over a loonie like yon bugger?’ demanded Satterthwaite.
‘His dad were my best friend,’ said Downey defensively.
‘So you keep telling us when most’d keep quiet about something like that. Or is it just that you think mebbe May Farr’ll become your best friend too if you wet-nurse her daft bloody son?’
Downey’s long face went pale but Stella Mycroft said slyly, ‘Arthur just likes helping people, don’t you, Arthur? Then mebbe they’ll help him.’
‘Oh, you can talk, then?’ said Mycroft. ‘I didn’t hear you say much when that bastard were talking to you.’
‘No need, was there?’ said Stella. ‘A lady doesn’t need to open her mouth, or anything, when she’s got three old-fashioned gentlemen around to defend her honour, does she?’
Satterthwaite snorted a laugh. Downey looked embarrassed. And Gavin Mycroft regarded his wife in baffled fury.
Outside the Welfare, Colin Farr had paused as the night air hit him, taking strength from his legs but doing little to cool the great rage in his head. He looked around as if he needed to get his bearings. The Club was the last building at the western end of the village. After this the road wound off up the valley to a horizon dimly limned against the misty stars. But there were other brighter lights up there, the lights of Burrthorpe Main.
Farr thrust a defiant finger into the air at them then turned towards the town and began to stagger forward.
Soon the old grey terrace of the High Street was shouldered aside by a modern shopping parade. Business, badly hit by the Great Strike, was picking up again, as evidenced by the brightly lit supermarket window plastered like a boxer’s face with loss-leader Special Offers. Farr pressed his forehead against the glass, enjoying its smooth chill against his fevered skin.
A car drove slowly by, coming to a halt before the Welfare. A stout man got out. He stood on the Club steps rolling a thin cigarette, then instead of going in, he walked along the pavement towards Colin Farr.
‘Got a light, friend?’ he asked.
‘Don’t smoke. Bad for your health,’ said Farr solemnly.
‘You’re an expert, are you?’ laughed the man. He was studying Farr’s face closely in the light from the supermarket window. ‘It’s Mr Farr, isn’t it? From Clay Street?’
‘Depends who’s asking.’
‘Boyle’s the name. Monty Boyle. You may have heard of me. Here’s my card.’
He undid his jacket and took a card out of his waistcoat pocket.
‘I was thinking, Mr Farr,’ he went on. ‘We may be able to do each other a bit of good. I’m supposed to be seeing someone at your Club, but that can wait. Is there somewhere quiet we can go and have a talk, and a coffee too? You look like a man who could use a coffee.’
‘Coffee,’ said Farr, studying the card closely. ‘And somewhere quiet. It’s quiet here. And lots of coffee too.’
Boyle followed his gaze into the supermarket where a pyramid of instant coffee dominated the window display.
‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I don’t think they’re open.’
‘No problem,’ said Colin Farr.
And picking the man up as if he weighed fifteen pounds rather than fifteen stone, he hurled him through the plate-glass window.
Fifty yards away the doors of a parked car opened and two uniformed policemen got out. The younger, a constable, ran towards the supermarket. Behind him at a more dignified pace walked a sergeant. The constable grabbed Colin Farr from behind as he stood laughing at the man sprawled amidst the wreck of the coffee pyramid. Farr drove his elbow back into the policeman’s belly and turned to grapple with him.
‘Now then, young Colin, behave yourself,’ said the sergeant reprovingly.
‘That you, Sergeant Swift? Don’t go away. I’ll sort you out after I’m done with this bugger.’
So saying, Farr lifted the constable in the air and hurled him after Monty Boyle.
Sergeant Swift sighed and raised his night stick.
‘Sorry, lad, I can’t wait,’ he said and brought it down with moderate force and perfect aim on the base of Farr’s neck. Then he held out his arms to catch the young man’s body as he fell into a darkness deeper and blacker than riding the pit.
‘And how was the people’s poet today?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The young man in your class whose literary style