Big Meetings & Sad Partings

I don’t recall how old I was when I first attended the Durham Miners’ Gala, which we always referred to as The Big Meeting in our family. I’d imagine I was probably about 5 or 6, which would make it around 1970 or 1971. That point in time makes sense to me for a couple of reasons; firstly my dad, who though he was never a miner, served his time as a sparky down Heworth Colliery, took a job with Durham Council street lighting department at Framwellgate Moor depot in early 1971 and therefore had a reason to be in the area, as well as a bright yellow work transit he could park anywhere he wanted in the county. Secondly, my sister (we’ve been estranged for more than a decade now) was born in March 1970, so probably I’d have been carted down there in the back of the old fella’s van for a day out, well away from her incessant screaming. My dad always said that if she’d been born first, she’d have been an only child. In contrast, my entire somnolent life has seen me fall into a state of complete unconsciousness the moment my head hits the pillow.

The Big Meeting always takes place on the second Saturday in July, which often coincided with the start of the school holidays in those days and also the meteorologically important St. Swithin’s Day. As my mother believed it didn’t rain on my birthday of August 11^th from 1964 to 1996, I have to conclude Big Meeting day was always dry in the early 1970s.

My grandpa Harry Cusack (he’d been christened Patrick Henry, but the family never used their real first names for some reason I never quite got to the bottom of; witness the fact my dad was actually James Edward Cusack, though everyone called him Eddy) had spent a large period of his working life in England underground, digging coal. He had retired perhaps 5 years before I was born, because of a “shortness of breath” that was diagnosed as pneumoconiosis; a curse on as many as a third of all pitmen. The pension and compensation subsequently awarded to him were a tribute to the tireless work done by NUM officials in looking after members suffering with ill-health.  Interestingly, my ex-wife’s paternal grandfather who worked at Kiveton Park Colliery in South Yorkshire, claimed those miners he worked with who smoked a pipe were far less likely to succumb to this debilitating lung disease, presumably because of all the coughing and spitting they did to clear out their tubes, while non-smokers suffered terribly with what was known in those parts as “Chapel Lads’ Cough.” It was so named as refraining from tobacco and Methodist abstentionism almost always went hand in hand.

Rather like the South Yorkshire chapel lads, my grandpa was a teetotaller; a lifelong Pioneer, though he did smoke. It seems rather strange to think of a member of the Cusack family as a non-drinker, considering my Uncle Harry ran pubs and social clubs for many years, my dad loved a pint and my Uncle George, who followed his father into a career under the ground, latterly at Westoe Pit, was a tremendous boozer, who almost singlehandedly kept Wardley club open. Instead of drinking, my grandpa spent much of his leisure time playing the cornet with the Heworth Colliery Brass Band. When the pit shut in 1963, it was renamed the Felling Silver Band and when his breathing difficulties made it impossible to play an instrument any longer, he used to march at the head of the band. He did that every year at The Big Meeting until 1975. Later that same year he was diagnosed with dementia, though back then it was called “hardening of the arteries,” which resulted in him being moved to Stannington Mental Hospital, near Morpeth in Northumberland, where he died in February 1978. The decision to have him “put away,” as was the terminology of the day, caused a fissure in the family that never properly healed; the 6 surviving Cusack children were never all on speaking terms again, even at their mother’s funeral in May 1993. Now only 2 are left.

The picture at the top shows them all at The Big Meeting; from left to right we have Grandpa with the tuba, Maureen (now Hird) in the white coat, George, Grandma, Marion (now Cusack), Harry, Mollie, Kath (my mother), Brian (almost obscured), two people I don’t know and then Eddy. Quite why he’s carrying a tuba I’ve no idea as he never played a musical instrument in his life, though he had a great voice for Irish folk songs. I’d hazard a guess the photo is from the late 1950s, possibly 1959. Obviously it’s before 1963 as the banner behind is still for Heworth Pit, showing Keir Hardie, Peter Lee and one other, but not the Felling Silver Band. Also, Brian and Marion were the youngest on there by several years, and I presume they’d only recently started walking out together. Also, Maureen’s husband to be, John G Hird, is not on here; as he was born in October 1937, he was presumably doing his National Service at this time. I’m unsure who took the photo; a possible answer could be Bob who was married to Mollie. The only people still alive who are on this photo are Brian and Marion, Maureen and Kath, though her dementia is so severe as to render her continued existence a curse rather than a blessing.

It is interesting to reflect on my feelings towards those present. I’ve never been a particularly family orientated person, mainly because I grew up in such a dysfunctional and violent family unit. As a victim of childhood physical abuse, I’ve always viewed families as dangerous rather than nurturing places.  For the most part, I felt a distance from my grandparents; there was no dislike or fear, it was just that my mother’s mother, who I thoroughly disliked because of her permanently miserable worldview, lived in the next street to us and was always around. I really don’t know why Eddy put up with her. As regards the Cusack family, I do recall that I was scared of Maureen, who was almost always in a state of nervous hysteria and of Mollie, who was forever annoyed with me. George I never really knew, while Harry I liked enormously as he was absolutely superb craic and never patronised me; even when I threw up Pernod and black all over the kitchen lino at a family get together when I was 16.  Brian and Marion used to remind me of Bob and Thelma from The Likely Lads, partly because they lived in Whickham. Once I met them again properly in around 2007, I found them to be intelligent and interesting people, though as you can see, I have never used the words Aunt or Uncle in this piece as an honorific for any of these relatives. This is because of need to keep my distance from those I’m related to. Indeed, the only reason I used Grandpa was to distinguish between the two Harrys. I have great affection for Harry’s two kids, my cousins Grahame and Karen, who I rarely see I must admit. Also, I’ve recently became quite well acquainted with Bob and Mollie’s son, my cousin Bob, on account of the fact his daughter lives near me and we often run into each other and stop to chat. I do have other cousins; some I know to say hello to, some I don’t and some who I regard, as well as my sister, as being implacable enemies. It would not bother me one scintilla if I never speak to any of them again. I’ve already decided not to attend my mother’s funeral to avoid any potential unpleasantness.

And what of The Big Meeting? I suppose I stopped going when Grandpa’s condition deteriorated. Certainly, I don’t recall being there once I’d started secondary school. It just dropped off my radar and out of my consciousness. Even when I became a teenage Marxist, we didn’t go. It took me until almost 21, in 1985 to go again. During the 1984/1985 NUM strike, The Big Meeting had been cancelled because of the need to protect assets, both human and financial, at such a crucial time. After the strike was lost, I went in 1985 with Felling Labour Party. We had a bus pick us up outside Harry’s old bar, The Swan, at Heworth. Arriving there on the rainswept Saturday morning, I was staggered to see cops with riot shields and armoured vans waiting to meet us. It was that kind of a day; lousy weather, an ugly mood of triumphalism meets despair. I didn’t even hang around for the speeches; got the bus to Low Fell and skulked up Kells Lane towards home in a fug of despair.

However, 2013 was a very different matter; it was the first one after Thatcher’s death, so you had to be there to celebrate the fact. I proudly carried my union banner (UCU Northern Region) from the Market Square to the Racecourse, where we heard inspirational words from Owen Jones, Davy Hopper and Bob Crow (the latter 2 have gone now of course), before having a right good drink in the sun.  It was a reinvigorating occasion, in the same way the horror of the 2015 general election caused the biggest spike in Labour membership in decades, not to mention the small fact of the subsequent organic campaign that elected Jeremy Corbyn as leader. Here we are, with 200k plus at Glastonbury and at Durham, acclaiming Corbyn as the person to lead the Labour Party to power and to put right the wrongs of the last however many years of austerity. Make no mistake, this is not a cult of the personality; this is the voice of the people saying we want change. Just look at the performance of Laura Pidcock, the newly elected MP for North West Durham; a leader in the making I shouldn’t wonder. You know, I taught her A Level English Literature a dozen years ago; now here she is, fighting for Socialism in parliament. I was proud to see her at Durham.

Of course, I wasn’t at this year’s Big Meeting because of other commitments; Tynemouth CC losing to Durham Academy by 2 wickets with Benfield 3 Esh Winning 2 in the opening friendly of the season as the football filling in a sporting sandwich. Thankfully, the baton for the class struggle has been passed down a generation. My Ben, who turned 22 the week before, was there. He marched, took photos, including the one above, listened to the speeches, had a proper drink in The Head of Steam and came away revitalised and reinvigorated. He’s a Labour Party member and a Socialist; he understands how Capitalism has failed. Thankfully he has youth (and a dislike of cricket) on his side; his generation may not be the stormy petrels of the revolution, but they’ll do more than pacific loons like me.

And that brings me to the loss of my dear friend Niall, who passed last week. His humanist ceremony of farewell has a dress code of either loud, tasteless shirts (his speciality) or red; partly because he was a Liverpool fan and partly because he was a Socialist and hated the bloody Tories. I hope his send-off does him proud. He was a great bloke and I’ll miss him acutely, but I'm eternally privileged to have known him.