8th January 1972, the night before the morning after.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven times. Each one cleaved through the silence of the evening, the gentle ticking having long been ignored. As the final note dissipated, she looked at him sitting forward in the chair, his head in his hands.
Her brow furrowed. A dimple appeared in her cheek as she pursed her lips. There was nothing she could say to ease the tension of the moment, or the situation they found themselves in. Instead, she left her own seat and knelt before him, placing her hands on his forearms.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. Her eyes took in every wrinkle on his hands, clean and scented with Imperial Leather, the shadows of coal dust lurking under neatly trimmed nails. She ran fingertips over his cool skin, feeling the hairs flatten then bounce back up as the pressure ebbed and flowed. Goosebumps followed in her wake.
He dropped his hands, revealing a face lined with misery. Tired eyes, red rimmed. He stared over her shoulder, to where a hand-painted sign leaned against the wall. He reached for her, taking her soft hand within his calloused palm. He exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging. Finally, their eyes met. In that moment, no words were spoken.
In eleven short hours, he would get on the bus. When he stepped off at the other end, he would stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow miners, signs held aloft, a determined chant filling the air. And they would march. Heath be damned, they would march.
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