For the best part of a decade, I was an active member of the National Union of Journalists, holding a variety of posts at local and national level. During that time, I was elected as one of Manchesterâs representatives for several Annual Delegate Meetings. My experiences in the union provided me with the knowledge that underpins this book. But I should emphasise that neither the events nor the characters in Union Jack are even remotely based in fact. The truth is that, just as thousands of delegates to union conferences have told their spouses, we spent our time in earnest debate, working tirelessly to improve the lot of our members. If we looked worn out by the time we returned home, it was simply because of the energy we had expended in passionate argument. Would I lie to you?
On a more serious note, Iâd like to thank the many fellow trade unionists who became friends over those years for their help, conscious and unconscious, in the preparation of this book. These include Sue Jackson and Kerttu Kinsler, Diana Muir, Scarlett MccGwire, Gina Weissand, Malcolm Pain, Eugenie Verney, Nancy Jaeger, Pauline Norris, Sally Gilbert, Colin Bourne, Tim Gopsill and Dick Oliver. Most of all, I want to thank BB, who gave me inspiration when I needed it most.
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely in the mind of the reader.
Mid-Atlantic, April 1993
âI could murder some proper orange juice,â Lindsay Gordon grumbled, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the plastic cup of juice on her airline breakfast tray. She sipped suspiciously. It managed to be both sharp and sickly at the same time. âYou know, something that tastes like it once met an orange. This stuff hasnât even been shown a photograph.â
âYouâd better get used to it,â Sophie Hartley said, peeling the lid back from her own cup and knocking back the liquid. She winced. âNot that itâll be easy. Think you can survive two weeks without freshly squeezed juice?â
Lindsay shrugged. âWho knows? If it was only the juice â¦â
Sophie snorted. âHark at it. This is the woman whose idea of healthy eating used to be adding a tin of baked beans to bacon, sausage, egg and chips. Listen, Gordon, you canât come the California health freak with me. I can remember when the nearest thing to fruit juice in your flat was elderberry wine.â
âHuh,â Lindsay grunted. âDonât get superior with me just because you used to eat your vegetables raw even though you could afford the gas bill. Anyway, Iâm not a California health freak. It would take more than a bunch of New Age born-again hippies to change Lindsay Gordon, let me tell you. First thing Iâm going to do when I get off this plane is head for a chip shop and get tore in to a fish supper.â
Sophie shook her head, smiling. âYou canât fool me, Gordon. Three years in California and youâre working out, eating salad twice a day, swallowing vitamins like Smarties, even wearing jumpers made from reclaimed wool. Youâre a California girl now, like it or not.â
Lindsay shuddered. âRubbish. The odd jog up the beach, thatâs all, and I was doing that long before America.â
Sophie grinned affectionately at her lover, and wisely held her peace.
âLadies and gentlemen, we are now commencing our descent into Glasgow Airport. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat-belts. Please extinguish all smoking materials â¦â
âLooking forward to it?â
Lindsay shrugged. âYes and no. Iâve been out of the game a long time. Iâm not sure I even know what the issues are for trade unionists in the UK any longer.â Sophie squeezed her hand. âItâll be just fine.â
Lindsay smiled. âShouldnât it be me saying that to you, Dr Hartley? Youâre the one delivering a keynote paper at an international conference.â
âPlay your cards right at this media conference, and youâll be a doctor soon too. Pick the right brains for your thesis, and theyâll be begging you to accept a Ph. D.â
Lindsay pulled a face. âIâm not so sure. Iâm not even sure Iâve still got the old interview techniques. Teaching journalismâs a long way away from practising it.â
âYouâll be fine,â Sophie assured her. âYouâll soon adapt to being back in the old routine. After all, youâll be among friends.â
Lindsay gave a shout of laughter that turned heads three rows away. âAmong friends? At a union conference? Soph, Iâd feel safer in the lionâs cage half an hour before feeding time. One thing Iâll never be able to forget is the aggro level of Journalistsâ Union conferences. Youâd think we were arguing over life and death, not politics. I canât imagine that amalgamating with the broadcasting and printing unions has made the atmosphere any friendlier. Itâs not culture shock Iâm afraid of â itâs being trapped in a time warp.â