“That lot,” Ian said, gesturing with his thumb at the radio. “Bloody coppers on their horses, acting like the Cossack army. The writing’s on the wall, Lindsay. This government isn’t going to stand for any sort of trade union activity, you mark my words.” When he was angry, Ian’s Salford accent always reemerged from the southern patina it had acquired over ten years of working in London. The thickness of his accent was a rough guide to the level of his anger. Right now, he sounded like a refugee from Coronation Street.

“Before Thatcher’s finished with us, she’ll have the Combination Acts back on the statute book. A few years from now, we’ll all be arrested for conspiracy if we try to hold a chapel meeting,” he continued.

Lindsay sighed and reached for her cigarettes. “It’s so shortsighted,” she said. “The government’s always telling us about the wonderful economic success of the Germans, about how they don’t have strikes. It never seems to occur to them that that’s because the German bosses consult the workforce before they embark on anything that affects them. But this government doesn’t want consultation, they want confrontation.”

“Yeah, but only on their terms. As soon as journalists try to confront them with the hard questions about what’s happening in this country, they slam the shutters down. Look at the hassle they’ve been giving the BBC!” Ian exploded. Then, suddenly, he fell silent, mouth clamped shut, the muscles standing out against the sharp line of his jaw.

“I suppose it’s keeping Laura busy,” Lindsay said uncertainly, assuming Ian’s silence was somehow connected to his lover, Laura Craig. Laura was employed by the JU to organize union activities in the broadcasting sector. The government’s recent ham-fisted efforts at censorship and control had given her several thorny problems to deal with. Lindsay had often heard Ian complain that he hardly saw her these days.

“I suppose it is,” he said coldly. A slight gap in the traffic opened up, and Ian accelerated jerkily to take advantage of it. As he drew close to the car in front, he braked sharply enough to throw them both against their seat belts. “Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his thick, straight salt-and-pepper hair.

“Problems?” Lindsay asked with sinking heart. She had enough on her own plate without having to bother with someone else’s hard time, she thought bitterly. But Ian was a friend. She felt obliged to give him the opening.

“You could say that.” The news program ended, and the jaunty signature tune of The Archers jangled in their ears. Ian’s hand shot out and twisted the volume knob as far down as it would go. “She’s moved out,” he said softly in the sudden peace. His gray eyes stared straight ahead.