“It’s because when people like you were our union reps back in the eighties you were too busy playing politics and screaming about AIDS and sexism instead of fighting for jobs. Youse all just stood back and let Thatcher and Tebbit kick the union movement to death. Youse said yessir, no sir, to the Maxwells and Murdochs and Carnegie Wilsons while they decimated our jobs and wrecked our industry. And then you buggered off to a cushy number in the sun while we run about the country like headless chickens, desperate for casual shifts anywhere that’ll pay our bus fare.” Chic stopped suddenly, his flow of invective in need of fuel.

He stumbled away, in search of more whisky, while Stewart, refreshed by support, returned to the attack. “Squandered our birthright, you and your pals did,” he shouted, his bloodshot eyes blinking wildly as he thrust his purple face close to hers. For the first time since the harangue had started, she felt slightly nervous, not convinced that she could get out of this unscathed. “Did you come back to laugh at us? Is that what you’re doing here, drinking our whisky?” Stewart yelled. “It’s not on, you bitch, it’s not on!”

Lindsay’s heart sank even further as she saw Tom Jack shoulder his way through the men who surrounded her. All she needed right now was for the general secretary to add his weight to the bully boys.

“You’re damn right it’s not on,” Union Jack roared loud enough to stop the Northumbrian piper in mid-phrase. His pipes died with a wheezing groan.

Lindsay steeled herself for his onslaught. But to her astonishment, he moved to her side and grabbed Stewart Grant by the shirt-front.

“This is supposed to be a ceilidh,” Union Jack growled. “Who the hell do you think you are, turning it into a war? Bloody hell, it’s come to a pretty pass when a Yorkshireman’s got to tell a bunch of drunken Jocks how to behave at a ceilidh.”

Stewart’s mouth kept opening and closing without a sound.

“This isnae anything to do with you, Tom,” Chic said, his voice placatory. “We were just having a wee word with Lindsay here.”

“Anything you’ve got to say to Lindsay, there’s a time and a place for, and it’s not here. And as long as I’m general secretary of this union, anything that happens at conference is to do with me. You’d all do well to remember that. Now, Lindsay, I want a word with you.” Abruptly, Tom pushed Stewart away from him and steered Lindsay across the room to a quiet corner.

“I’ll not forget this, Tom Jack,” Stewart spluttered vainly at their retreating backs.

“Neither will I,” Lindsay said. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”