Kit Habianic's Blog - Posts Tagged "wales"

Until Our Blood is Dry has launched at last. Available at all good independent booksellers, major chains and on the internet.
Parthian Books held a launch party for the book at the Wheatsheaf pub in Fitzrovia, the boho wateringhole where Dylan Thomas met Caitlin and the rest is-- messy.
The Welsh Cultural Embassy pop-up event featured the very talented and Welsh Dan Tyte, Rhian Elizabeth, Jonathan Edwards and Sion Tomos Owen.
Star billing was poet Dannie Abse, who held a hushed audience in the palm of his hand.

A magical afternoon.

Stop press: Saturday 24 May, Waterstones bookshop in Newport.

I'll be in the store from 1230-1330, reading from my debut novel Until Our Blood is Dry.

If you're in Newport, do please stop in, say hello, have a chat about writing or books or memories of the miners' strike.

Until Our Blood is Dry (Parthian Books, April 2014)
Book of the Month, May 2014 for the Welsh Books Council and independent booksellers in Wales.

Here's an interview from this weekend's Western Mail/Wales Online about what inspired my novel, Until Our Blood is Dry.
http://www.walesonline.co.uk/whats-on...

This autumn the UK government ruled out holding an independent enquiry into claims of police brutality during the so-called Battle of Orgreave, a milestone during the year-long miners' strike. This scene from Until Our Blood is Dry takes us back to that blazing hot day in Yorkshire, and to the medieval-style battle that followed.





Until Our Blood is Dry

The field stretched across a hillside, looking down on the coke plant. Below them, a line of police stood ten deep, long shields glittering coldly. Scrapper shuddered. The couple of thousand miners and supporters were well outnumbered by the boys in blue. Behind the shields, he saw dog handlers, muscular Alsatians straining at the leash, and other officers on horseback.

Time passed and heat rose as the sun hardened in the sky. At the top of the field, some boys from Kent kicked a ball between them. Scrapper stripped down to his vest, tied the arms of his sweater around his waist, tried not to stare at a group of knottyhaired students sprawled against a tree trunk, breathing clouds of pungent smoke.

The lines of police and dogs and horses drew closer together, shifted into a solid mass. The miners did the same. Scrapper sensed both sides waiting for some kind of signal. Then he heard it – the far-off growl of engines. On the road beyond the hedgerows, a lorry was approaching the plant.

The mood darkened so fast, he thought clouds had closed around the sun. All at once, his boys were shouting, bodies crushed against him, carrying him forwards. A slow, heavy beat rose from behind the line of long shields, batons thudding on Perspex, daring the miners to come down.

The cry went up: ‘The workers. United. Will never be defeated.’

Goosebumps studded Scrapper’s arms and legs. He and his butties, stood shoulder to shoulder with men from the other coalfields, with trade unionists and newspaper sellers and students.

Tears pricked his eyes. He was proud – so fucking proud – to be a part of it.

Until Our Blood is Dry