The Stars Look Down

This is a story of simple working people,

such as there are the world over,

in all countries, at all times.

Here are their hardships, their humour

and, above all, their heroism.

The unconquerable heroism of men

who take heroism for granted,

as part of their daily lives.

Neither plaster saints or romantic rebels,

they live lives far from the limelight,

without publicity and with no spokesman,

save when some great crisis or disaster

lifts them into the headlines.

Yet these people are the backbone

of nations, the stuff of human destiny.

Simple working people

such as there are the world over,

in all countries and at all times.

Fenwick, do the men work tomorrow?

- Not on Scupper Flats, Mr Barras.

- Against your union?

The union isn't being asked to work there.

There's a million tons of floodwater

ready to wash down on us.

You don't think I'd chance

flooding my own mine?

Show us the plans of the workings, then.

- No plans never existed.

- There's two opinions on that.

It's you who've put the wind up the men.

- And the union should be backing us up.

- Davey.

This your lad who's after the university

scholarship? I'd like to help him.

The men won't work Scupper Flats.

The unions made the drill test. We

wouldn't send you down if it wasn't safe.

30 years in this pit, Bob, and you do this.

We all think Bob Fenwick's right!

We're with Fenwick!

- Nobody needs to go against the union.

- Better than being drowned!

- Know what you can do with the union.

- Make him show us the plans.

Show us plans.

- It isn't dangerous, is it, Father?

- I'll teach them a lesson.

I hear them sound their trumpets.

First, angel sounds, then follows hail

mingled with blood.

The angel sounds a great mountain

burning with fire cast into the sea.

The third part of the sea becomes blood.

Not water, my brethren, but blood.

'Tis not water that has brought us here,

but blood. I hear them sound their trumpets.

The first angel sounds

and then follows hail mingled with blood.

Morning, Mother.

Hello, Nicky.

I got nothing for you today, Mrs Fenwick.

- You thought I'd have a bit left over, eh?

- Bit of lights, maybe.

I've nought for you, Martha,

nor your good-for-nothing family.

No woman's ever had better sons

than mine, nor better man neither.

Maybe an empty belly will make him

think twice before calling a strike.

- He had good reasons.

- Aye! A clever chap!

Bringing misery on the whole town.

You go back and tell him.

I'll have no begging around my shop.

Keep these doors shut. I've had enough

of these cadgers mooching round.

Sitting up all night, stuffing your head

with the high-faluting rubbish.

You and your scholarships.

(RASPING COUGH)

That'll do, lad.

If you don't know enough now to pass

that scholarship, 12 hours won't help.

Why don't you go for a walk up the field?

- Hughie!

- What is it, Mother?

- Breakfast.

- Breakfast?

Did you say breakfast?

That's what I call a feed.

Oysters, pickle. Pity I'm not hungry.

I'll just have a piece of that bread.

I don't like that kind of fun.

Tha shouldn't mock good food.

You're lucky to get anything

with your father clever like he is.

Isn't every man who can scare miners

about a bit of water,

get them to strike against the unions.

Thank you.

My father wasn't so clever,

nor my grandfather. They was just men.

Master Pit commanded, men obeyed.

They were daft enough

to think of their own families.

Your father's cleverer than that, Hughie.

He can see through solid coal

to the floodwater t'other side of it.

Mr Barras and the union can't find that

for all their instruments.

Barras knows it's there.

There's plans of them workings.

- Taking a chance on it, that's all.

- Chance?

- If Father says he's seen it, he has.

- He's seen it in the bottom of a glass!

Plans or no plans, I've been sitting about here

for eight weeks and I'm fed up.

That's the way I like to hear a man talk.

Too many lads nowadays break

their necks to get away from pit.

At least I've got one son

who wants to work with his coat on.

She's right. 'Tisn't a coat I want to work in.

Not much difference

between a coat and a football jersey.

Tynecastle United are paying apprentices

five quid a week.

If he can get away from the pit, I can,

and I don't have to read no books.

- How then, Davey?

- Hello, Joe.

- You going tomorrow for examination?

- Aye.

You're lucky. One of these days

you'll see me in Tynecastle too.

- What would you do in Tynecastle?

- Not listening to college professors.

- There's money in Tynecastle, Davey.

- Money?

Tynecastle's not the spot for that.

Morning, Davey, Joe.

London's the spot. Georgie Cumming's

making 3 a week singing on the street.

That's what I'm after. 3 just for singing!

What I'm after is big money.

You'll need it to pay back all the money

you pinch out of my pockets.

- Your son's a born capitalist, Slogger.

- You bet your life I am.

You've got to have money.

Ever going to make money in the pit? No.

I want big money and I'm going places.

You go to college.

I'm going to look after myself.

You can smile, Davey, but where

will high-mindedness get you?

Wasting your time fighting for the miners?

What an ambition!

I'd sooner stay in Scupper Flats.

This whippet's running to skin and bone.

- I said so at the time.

- You gave Bob here the first cheer!

- He said so!

- Keenest of all to save your skins.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes