Enemy Within , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - MacNeil Wilson Robert

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209 pages

English

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The Enemy Within is set around the time of the 1980s miners' strike, a tumultuous era that continues to fascinate. It tells the story of how Jim, a young manager at a British colliery, and Paul, a miner, confront the threats to the survival of their mine, their community and their industry.Half a mile underground, they're faced with an impossible deadline before being forced to confront the deadly hazards of fire, flood and roof collapse. The miners' strike casts them onto opposing sides of a conflict which severs the bonds of family, friendship, and love, turning their pit village into a battlefield. The women's stories are told, as their parts in their community's struggle cause them to see themselves in a new light. As the story races to its cliff-hanging climax, only time and events will determine who of them and which of their relationships will surviveThe Enemy Within is a true-to-life story of a fight for survival, in which a cast of unforgettable characters battle, above and below ground, to preserve their communities, their way of life and their industry. This positive portrayal of British coal-mining will appeal to anyone with an interest in both the history of the industry and the human impacts of the miners' strike.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 novembre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785898167
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

About the Author
Robert MacNeil Wilson graduated in Mining Engineering at Nottingham University. Aged only 24, he was in charge of a coalface, half a mile underground in one of Warwickshire’s mines. During the miners’ strike, he lived in a pit village and was in sole charge, on several occasions, when his pit was besieged by massed pickets. Robert is a Chartered Engineer and rock musician.

Copyright © 2016 Robert MacNeil Wilson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The English Civil War Part II (Personal Accounts of the 1984/85 miners’ strike)
by Jeremy Deller, published by Artangel, 2001.

Matador
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Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
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Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1785893 544

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To my pit dad, Mick Cooper

And to Les Baldry,a big man who stood by a young ‘non-stat’, when the chips were down, on two, seriously interesting occasions.

With my boundless gratitude to Jo Faulkner for her support, without which ‘The Enemy Within’ would have remained unwritten.

Special thanks to Moira Clinch for creating the brilliant, characterful cover that adorns “The Enemy Within’.
Contents
About the Author
Peril
Together
Stopping the Wheels
The Challenge
Mad Jack
Back Down
Party Night
Weighing It Up
A Surprise
Acceleration
The Game Fair
The Election
Establishing the System
Bonus
Progress and Risk
Work Safe
A Special Conference
Riding Out
Fretting
Shaft Exam
Called Out
Emergency Overtime
A New Threat to Whitacre Heath
At the Nick
Consultation
Pest
Using the Overtime
Winter Training
A Fight to the End
Lol’s Visit
Dicky Heart
Buried
Breaking Up
Christmas at Whitacre
Bitter
Flashpoint
Strike Ballot
From the Court of King Arthur
The First Picket Line
A Pot of Tea
Early Days
Broken Glass
Occupied
Back to Normality
Women Against Closures
The Battle
Removed
Engineman
Come the Revolution
Persuasion
A Forced Sale
Thieves
The Enemy Within
A Monthly Ritual
Another Minority
Baptism
Democracy at Work
Intimidation
Warning
A Dark Morning
The Fight is On
Extraordinary
Bribery
The Earl of Stockton
Fire Fighting
Trespass
Madness
Saved
Good News
Celebration
Who Do You Love?
Visitation
A Chance Encounter
Released
Christmas and New Year
Bullies
U D M
Snow-Picket
Retribution
Diane
The Ambulance
Open Shop
The Attack
London
Black and Blue
Resignation
The End
Going Back
Paul’s Strike
Optimism
The Note
Who Are You?
Hope and Harmony
The Manrider
The North End
Planning
The Borehole
Senior Management
Planning the Wall
The Inrush
The Shepherd
Psalm 23
Together
A personal message
The Enemy Within: List of Characters
Glossary of Terms
Guidance Notes
Peril
Nothing could stop it now. They’d tried everything. Round the corner, out of sight, he broke into a run. Stooping under the twisted, steel arches, he scurried along between the snaking rails of the narrow track.
He hadn’t expected to survive this long; after hours in mortal danger, he revelled in the relief of getting away from where it would burst in on them.
Rounding a bend in the tunnel, he pulled up, his pretence of flight over. He was going nowhere.
He just needed a few seconds alone then he’d be able to see it through.
The suspense had been tortuous but it wouldn’t be long now, most likely only a matter of minutes. There was no prospect of escape but at least they wouldn’t know anything about it. When it came, it would be instant; oblivion.
They’d be wondering what he was doing.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. The only light was from the lamp on his helmet. No one had followed him.
He shook his head.
As he got down to his knees on the dirt floor between the wooden sleepers, the wet cloth of his trouser legs bunched up, pinching at the skin on the backs of his knees.
‘How did I end up here?’
People on the surface would be starting their evenings; his mates getting ready to go out for a couple of pints, his family at home, his girl.
His girl.
All of them oblivious to his peril, taking comfort, safety, life itself for granted; in their ignorance, confident of seeing him again.
But he knew his destiny. He would never see their world again. His fate was to die; down here, like this.
He stemmed the flow of thoughts. He hadn’t come here for that.
He closed his eyes and cleared his head.
When all else had failed he’d felt the urge to do it, one last time.
He’d tried doing it, back in the heading, without the others noticing. But praying silently, eyes open, had felt inadequate, too likely to be missed, to go unheard so deep underground.
He had to do it properly, out loud.
He bowed his head, clamped his hands together and took a deep breath. It tasted earthy, redolent of the grave.
He rid himself of it, letting it out in a rush.
‘Help me find a way to beat this. Let us live.’
He paused.
‘Just let me live to see my wedding day.’
Knowing he was asking the impossible, he screwed his eyes tighter, willing his plea on its way.
That would have to do.
In the quiet, his breathing calmed. He opened his eyes and looked around.
After the brief promise of hope, it was a bitter blow to find himself still down there, still condemned.
Getting back up to his feet, he noticed the dust stuck to the knees of his orange overalls. He grabbed each leg, in turn, to brush some of it off. He couldn’t have the others guessing what he’d been doing.
Straightening up a little, he turned, took another deep breath then stepped out to head back, to face it with them, to see it through, to the end.
Part One
Whitacre Heath
Together
Eighteen months earlier.

The humped-backed bridge was barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Knowing it well, he let his car’s speed fall away, tensing as the parapets closed in on him from both sides; alert, as always, to the possibility of some idiot appearing, at speed, from the opposite direction and ploughing, head-on, into him.
Cresting the brow, the road ahead was clear. He breathed out, snatched a glance to the left before accelerating away.
In the middle of the field of tired, autumn grass, an old man was picking his way back along the winding path from the river. A small boy with a child-sized fishing-rod over one shoulder hurried towards him with urgent, bouncing steps.
In the lay-bye, further down the road, a young woman leant on the stile into the meadow. Dashing away the strand of brown hair fluttering over her eyes, she called after the boy. He turned, shouted something in reply then gave her a quick, little wave as he pressed on to where the old man now stood waiting.
As the car window dropped below the hedge, depriving him of anymore of the scene, the woman’s slim figure caught his eye as she strode round to the back of her beige Allegro to wait for his car to pass.
He waved in acknowledgement. As he drove past, he looked into her eyes and was rewarded with a slight smile.
Horace had an open face, his eyebrows always slightly raised, his lips always ready to form the gentle smile he bestowed, now, upon his grandson.
‘Hiya Grandad! How are they bitin’?’
‘Ooh, I’ve copped a few, but we’ll fare better, now you’re ‘ere,’ Horace said, patting the boy on the shoulder as he frisked past.
They made for the river bank, where the willows draped into the water, Horace’s stiff-hipped, rolling gait an awkward contrast to the light, skipping steps of the child in front of him.
Although Horace was diminutive, one consolation of Martin’s shortness was that it made their height difference appropriate for that of an eight-year old and his grandfather.
‘You made good time, lad,’ Horace said.
‘I know. Me mum picked me up straight from school so I didn’t have to walk back home,’ the boy called back, over his shoulder. ‘I got all me stuff ready last night and got changed in the car.’
‘Good lad, it’ll gi’ us a good couple of hours, toppin’ up that keep-net.’
Settled back at his peg, on his canvas-seated stool, Horace drew satisfaction from how much his grandson had absorbed of the angler’s art. Snatching a glance at the little boy by his side, he mused on their similarities.
Facially