Again

Nursing a mug of coffee in my hand, I run my tongue over my teeth. I wonder if these dentures would hold up against a punch to the face.

The manager of the café frets behind the counter, eyes flicking from the clock, to the large windows, to the television. A presenter’s voice comments that the protest will be turning down this street, that it’s been peaceful so far, but it’s only 10 o’clock, so anything could happen. 

I admire them, these youngins. In my time, these coffee-shop windows would have been smashed in with bricks before you could say ‘revolution’. I certainly didn’t shy from a little property destruction, and most policemen knew when to stay out of a woman’s way when she saw red. Men fight all the time, but when a woman takes up arms, you know it’s serious. 

Besides, police brutality spares no man - and no woman. You would think a bloke - and one of the law, at that - would refrain from breaking a lady’s nose, but I’ll tell you for free that that’s not the case.

Sure enough, police have started to line the square, some on their horses, some on the ground. Some carry shields, batons, guns and tasers. I shudder, eyeing them, remembering people trampled underfoot not far from here, bones smashed in so that they never healed right. It’s hard to believe that anything has changed. 

Our Miners’ Strike didn’t achieve much. We were young, brave and broke - a deadly combination if ever I’ve seen one, and we fought tooth and nail for our work. Not my work, exactly, but for the jobs of my brother, my father, my cousins. Us women didn’t work much then, but to kill off an industry was no better than a death sentence for us all. They took our options from us, made us into labourers, and then blamed us for having no other options. They cared about the coal, just not the hands that got it, black and sooted as they were. We fought for what little money they gave us. The north bled as we turned to the streets. 

And it bleeds still, from the looks of it, even if the leeches come from a different cause. I sip my coffee, watching the television screen, and I fancy I hear the distant shouts of a protest looming. I try to hide my smile as other customers tut around me, remarking about a political war, loss of traditional values, reverse racism. It’s all meaningless chatter from people who won’t pick a side, who won’t fight because it’s not them in the firing line, who won’t cause trouble even when it’s breaking down doors on their street, coming for their neighbours, their friends. 

I’ve learned that, if you don’t pick a side, the winners will gobble you up anyway. 

I drain the dregs of my coffee, waiting, letting the caffeine prick my body into action. These days, I need all the energy I can get. 

“Folks, I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.” The man behind the counter says, using the remote to turn down the television. Customers start to murmur their complaints. “I’m sorry, but we just don’t know what’s happening with this protest, it’s due to pass by, and you know what these people can be like.”

 “Aye, I certainly do.” I smile. With an effort, I stand up from the table, pulling on my cardigan, stooping to pick up my stick. In my day, a nice young man would’ve helped me, but no more.  

I slowly sidle up to pop a fiver in the tip jar. “You have a good day, now.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Cheers.”

Around me, customers scuttle off, out into the sun. Some pause outside the windows, pointing to where the protest approaches, along the empty road that’s usually busy with shoppers. I follow them, fast as I can, my walking stick heavy in my hand. I reckon I could break a couple of bones with this stick. 

The little bell overhead rings once as I exit the coffee shop, and immediately I want to shrug off my cardigan in the heat. I don’t often feel warm these days, but this is summer, the kind I used to see as a lass, when all you could do was doze in the garden, drinking lemonade, not caring if you burned, not caring who saw you stain your skirt with the green of the lawn. 

The protestors are coming. People around me make their way to their cars, or to higher ground to watch, so later they can see they were here, that they participated, whatever their political tendencies, whatever the truth may be. I, however, seem to be rooted to the spot.

What am I doing, what am I thinking? The image of my brother beaten half to death, forty years ago now, is fresh in my mind. The following years of hunger, of charity-shop clothes, of my father’s unemployment settle in my belly like stones I have been forced to swallow. Our punishment for fighting. Our fight for nothing. 

So what does it matter? What does fighting do, what does it accomplish? 

Before me, I start to make out what is written on some of the protestors’ signs. I have to squint through my spectacles, but I see the letters BLM painted in black, quotes written in red, phrases decorated in glitter, the faces of victims carried, martyrs. Chanting fills my ears, fills my heart, as they grow ever louder, ever closer. 

The first of the protestors pass by me, several of them holding up a banner. Justice! it reads, that all-too-familiar demand. A girl, holding the edge of the banner close to me, is clearest. She is shouting with her comrades, fierce as the fire struck at the heart of rebellion. Sensing my gaze, she stops mid-shout, and turns to me. She grins. Then she’s away again, marching, onwards towards the square, where the police stand to control them.

I’m too old for this, I know that. This square has seen too many shouting faces, too many people crushed underfoot as they try to escape arrest, too many vicious protests, counter-protests, batons raining down from the sky. One blow, and my bones will break. My doctor would be livid if I had to explain why I needed yet another knee surgery. And yet, my heart pulls at me. And yet, forty years ago I would’ve smashed in that coffee-shop window. And yet and yet and yet. 

“Do y’need a lift home, pet?” I am startled out of my thoughts. A young man at my elbow looks down at me, concerned. “Are you here alone? It’s dangerous, y’know.” 

“Oh, I know. Thank you.” I pat him on the arm. I take a few steps forward, towards the tide of the protest, that river of shouting, of brave faces, that could so easily sweep me away. In the corner of my eye, the young man shakes his head. He must think I’m mad, that old age has taken the last of my sense. Perhaps it has. 

A leaflet is blown over the tops of my shoes. I catch the words protest written in a bright orange before the wind carries it off again, to stir someone else into action. A sign, if ever there was one. 

“Excuse me?” I step forward. No one hears over the shouting, and those in front of me merely look at me quizzically before continuing on their way, banners in hand. I try again, “excuse me?”

“Are you alright?” A dark-skinned man steps out from the crowd. He is tight-lipped, frowning, concerned for an old lady perhaps, or expecting trouble. Maybe both.

I falter, fidgeting with my stick. There could be rules about this kind of thing. Laws, even. Can people still just join protests if they fancy it? I might have to sign something somewhere…

“Are you alright?” The man asks again. He doesn’t appear in the least bit worried that the protest streams forward without him. 

I swallow. We don’t take things lying down, up here. Never have, never will. 

“Is there room for one more?” I ask, straightening up to meet his gaze as best I can. 

For a moment, he says nothing. I think he will shake his head, send me on my way, and I will hear about this protest from the comfort of my flat, my dinner in my lap, apart like the rest of them. And then he smiles.

“Of course,” he chuckles warmly. “Of course! Here, take this if you like.”

He opens his palm to reveal a little badge: a black fist in a black ring. 

“Thank you.” I take it, securing it to my cardigan, making sure the pin is safely pointing away. If it’s going to stab anyone, it should be a copper. We used keys between knuckles in the eighties. 

“Shall we?” He asks, offering his arm as if he were asking for a dance, leading me out onto the ballroom of equality. His grin is wide, the lines of his face etched with hope. 

This time, I’m the one who laughs. I take his arm. “Thank you very much!” 

Slowly, tantalisingly, we merge with the crowd, surrounded by bodies, by shouting, but also by laughing, by friends holding hands so as to not lose each other. It is dangerous, yes, but it is also human. 

I can’t see much, but the sun filters through the canopy of posters and boards above me, of fists risen against the sky. Together, we march towards the square. This time, I don’t think we’ll lose. This time, I think they’ll listen. And if they don’t, well, we’ll do what northerners do: we’ll bide our time. Then we’ll do it all again.