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The smell of damp canvas and stale tea always hung heavy in the Copperas Hill sorting office. Billy Harrison tipped his heavy leather bag onto the metal sorting table with a dull thud, the sharp metallic scent of ink hitting his nose. It was barely past seven in the morning, but the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a depressing, flickering drone that made his eyes ache.
Around him, the room was a blur of blue shirts and red elastic bands. The older posties worked in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, slots filling up with letters for the terraces of Toxteth and the grand houses near Sefton Park. But the air today was thick with something else. Friction.
"Alright, Billy lad?"
Ste, a lad Billy’s age with a bleached crop and a permanent smirk, leaned against the adjacent sorting frame. He wasn't sorting. He was flicking through a stack of brightly coloured flyers printed on cheap, glossy paper.
"Watch it, Ste," Billy muttered, throwing a bundle of final notices into the Dockside cubby hole. "The supervisor’s got his eye on this section today. My old man says they’re looking for any excuse to sack lads before the strike vote."
Ste snorted, shoving the flyers into his back pocket. "Your old man lives in the dark ages, Billy. Jim’s still waiting for the revolution while the rest of us are just trying to buy a pair of decent trainees. Look at these." He patted his pocket. "Legal tender. State of Mind at the university union this Saturday. Five quid a ticket. I’ve sold fifty to the students up at Mount Pleasant already. Made more than my week’s basic, and I didn't have to carry twenty pounds of junk mail up three flights of flats to do it."
Billy hesitated, a letter for Mrs. Gallagher hovering in his hand. The temptation was a physical ache. His postman’s wage barely covered his board to his mum and a few pints at the weekend. The city was skint, yet the university campus was a bubble of southern accents and grant money. "It's dodgy, Ste. If the managers catch you trading on the clock..."
"They won't," Ste whispered, leaning closer. "Unless someone tells them. And you're not a grass, are you?"
Before Billy could answer, the heavy double doors at the end of the floor swung open. Tommy Higgins walked in, his heavy boots caked in dried grey mortar, a thermos flask clutched in his massive fist. He wasn't supposed to be in the sorting area, but Tommy went wherever he pleased.
"Billy!" Tommy shouted, his booming voice cutting through the chatter of the room. "Is your dad still down at the regional office? Tell him he needs to get his backside down to the site on Duke Street. The gaffer’s brought in three lads from Manchester. Non-union. They’re laying the damp course now."
The sorting office went dead quiet. The word non-union hit the room like a brick through a window.
Billy dropped the letters. "Manchester lads? Dad said the council promised local labour only for the rebuild."
"The council says a lot of things when they’re spending money they haven haven't got," Tommy spat, wiping a streak of brick dust from his forehead. "They’re paying them cash in hand, Billy. While we’re sitting here arguing about overtime, they’re cutting the legs right out from under us."
Outside, the rain had stopped, replaced by a biting cold that turned the puddles on Lime Street to sheets of black ice.
A few hundred yards away, Sandra and Chrissie were walking briskly past the grand columns of St. George’s Hall. Chrissie was moving with purpose, her boots clicking aggressively against the stone, while Sandra lagged a step behind, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The city centre was bustling with shoppers rushing between Blacklers and TJ Hughes, but to Sandra, the crowds felt suffocating.
"Chrissie, wait," Sandra called out, stopping near the fountain. "We shouldn't do this. Jim Harrison has got the weight of the docks on his shoulders. He doesn't want us turning up at his office crying about a council flat."
Chrissie turned around, her face pale but determined. "It’s not just a flat, San. It’s our home. If we don't fight the council on this, who will? Jim's the union convenor. He represents the community, not just the fellas on the cranes. We’re part of this city too, whether the busybodies on the crescent like it or not."
Sandra looked away, targeting her gaze at a passing green Liverpool bus. "What if they ask questions, Chrissie? What if the paper gets hold of it? 'Two girls fighting the council.' My dad will see it. He hasn't spoken to me since Christmas, but he'll see that."
Chrissie walked back, her expression softening. She reached out, tentatively touching Sandra’s gloved hand, mindful of the shoppers passing by. In 1986, even a touch on a public street felt like an act of defiance. "Let them look," Chrissie said softly. "We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of."
As they turned the corner toward the union headquarters, neither of them noticed Billy’s post van turning onto the street, or the look of absolute panic on Billy's face as he stared at the dashboard.
