This Little Piggy

by Bea Davenport

  “I didn’t know if you like any of those bands. It’s got George Michael in it and…”

  “I like everyone, just about,” said Amy, riffling through the rest of the bag. “The charts is my favourite thing. This is so brilliant. What’s it for?”

  “It was your last day at school today, right?”

  Amy paused. “Oh. Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You didn’t go to school today, did you?” Clare asked.

  Amy smiled and shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Not at all?”

  Amy shook her head. “Thanks for this though. Can we go get chips or something?”

  Clare glanced at the door. “Is your mum not around?” She resisted the word ‘again’.

  The girl unwrapped a tube of sticky, melting Rolos. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “That depends what it is, Amy.”

  “You have to promise or I can’t tell you.”

  Clare promised, knowing she shouldn’t.

  “She didn’t come home last night.”

  “Your mum?” Clare’s stomach clenched. “She was away all night? Is that why you didn’t go to school?”

  “I never woke up in time.”

  “Right.” Clare felt out of her depth. “So have you had, I don’t know, breakfast and lunch and stuff?”

  “I had Sugar Puffs. We never had any milk though.”

  “Dry cereal, that’s all?” Clare sighed. “Okay, let’s go get something right now. And Amy, your mum. Do you know where she is?”

  Amy followed Clare down the stone steps and across the bare courtyard that fronted the blocks of flats. “No. But she’ll turn up tonight, probably. She always comes back in the end.”

  “Always?” Clare repeated.

  There were groups of kids hanging about. Even the idea of a killer roaming around wouldn’t stop them from playing outside on the first evening of the school holidays. And there had to be safety in numbers, although Clare noticed that a couple of mums were sitting on a wall, smoking and chatting but keeping a casual eye on the children. Parents’ faces kept appearing at the windows and glancing out, in a way that wouldn’t have happened before Jamie died. Amy linked arms with Clare as they walked past the others, showing her off.

  Clare got into the driver’s side of the Mini and pushed open the passenger door for Amy. “Are you saying she does this quite often? Goes away and leaves you on your own?”

  Amy put a grimy finger to her lips. “You promised not to tell anyone, remember?”

  “I did.” And I’m regretting it, Clare thought. “But you know she shouldn’t be doing that, don’t you? You’re too young to be on your own all night.”

  “I’m fine. And I’ve got Max.”

  “Who’s Max?”

  “My dog, who’d you think? He’d take care of any burglars.”

  “Hmm. By slobbering them to death, I suppose. But where does your mum go?”

  “I don’t know, do I? Out with her boyfriends and stuff. I told you, I’m okay. Only usually she leaves me some money and this time she forgot.”

  Clare watched, finding herself unable to eat, as Amy tucked away her sausages, chips and gravy, all slathered in salt, vinegar and ketchup. “Look, I have to go somewhere for work. I can come by later on to make sure you’re all right.”

  Amy shook her head, quickly. “Don’t do that. If me mam’s back she’ll kill me for telling on her.”

  “But what if she isn’t back?”

  “She will be, honest.”

  Reluctantly, Clare left Amy back at the flats and drove to the miners’ social club. She felt slightly sick. She’d just played a part in leaving a little girl alone in her home, with only a half-feral-looking dog for company, on one of the worst estates in the district, where only a week ago a baby had been brutally killed. And where, if she was to be believed, the same little girl was the only one to have seen the killer or killers in action. Clare pulled on the handbrake, checked her reflection in the car mirror and decided to give the benefit event no more than an hour. If anything happened to Amy, she’d never forgive herself.

  The woman on the door of the social club looked Clare up and down, as if she was trying to find a reason not to let her in. Clare waited, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Finn McKenna gave me the ticket,” she said, after a minute or two. “I’m here to write something about the benefit, for the Post.”

  “Write what sort of thing?” The woman didn’t look impressed. “The Post’s no friend of the miners, that much we know.”

  “I can’t help what the editor writes,” Clare said, trying to look past her into the function room, to see if McKenna was around. “But personally I’m on your side. I want to write something positive. That’s why Finn gave me the ticket.”

  The woman said nothing, but turned to the couple standing behind Clare. She took that as an agreement that she could go in. The room was dark, thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. Someone was operating a small portable disco, with a few coloured lights flashing half-heartedly on and off, but no one was dancing. Kids were running around, chasing each other in and out of the tables and sliding across the polished floor. Clare couldn’t see Finn McKenna anywhere. She walked up to a long table where two women were pulling cling film away from paper plates, heavy with sausage rolls, pork pies cut into sections, chunks of cheese speared with cocktail onions and homemade cakes. She introduced herself and noticed how people’s faces seemed to close down.

  “I want to write about how people like you are trying to keep things together,” Clare said. One of the women grunted and kept unwrapping food, but the other nodded. “Everything’s a help. Tonight is to raise money to take the kids on some days out over the summer.”

  Clare started making notes. She found her way around the organisers and chatted to some mums and kids. She listened to the start of the set by a local band, singing local folk songs and the old songs that had been reworked for the strike: Which Side Are You On? We Are Women, We Are Strong. When no one was watching, she slipped some money into the collection buckets.

  The hour passed quickly. Clare was heading for the door with a sheaf of good quotes, when she spotted Finn in the lobby. She waved at him.

  “You came. Thanks. Let me get you a drink,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to steer her back towards the bar. He smelled of a fresh, lemony aftershave and his hand, with its strong fingers, felt cool on her slightly clammy arm.

  “I’m just going. Sorry.” Clare held up her notebook. “But it’s been great. Everyone’s been really helpful. I should be able to get a good piece out of it.”

  “Come on, one drink.” McKenna’s hand didn’t move. “It’s Friday night.” He had a camera on a strap round his neck and he nodded down at it. “Promised I’d take some snaps.”

  Clare moved to the side a little and made an apologetic smile. “I really have to go.”

  “Hey, Finn.” The woman taking the tickets stood up. “There was a lass in here a few minutes ago, looking for you.”

  “That was me,” said Clare.

  “No,” the woman said. “Another one. Someone called Jackie?”

  Finn’s expression was hard to read but Clare sensed he wasn’t pleased. “Jackie? You sure?”

  “Aye. I sent her to your mother’s house.”

  “Damnit.” Finn turned to Clare. “I need to go and sort something out, but I’ll be back. Wait for me.”

  Clare smiled and sidled past him towards the door. “I’m sorry. I have to be somewhere.” She pushed open the door and breathed in the warm evening air and the faint, beery smells that drifted out of the building. She turned back for a moment. “Hope you sort things out. I’ll let you know when the piece is going in the paper. Thanks for the ticket.”

  In the car, Clare wondered, briefly, why she hadn’t quizzed Finn further on his personal life. It could have made a decent line, particularly if his girlfriend had an interesting job or was supporting him through the strike. Instead, she’d o
nly asked if he was married and when he’d said no, she hadn’t pressed him further. With a warm rush of embarrassment, she remembered that at that point the conversation had got a little flirty in tone. Truth was, he was very attractive. She didn’t want to feel anything for him, but there it was. She worked hard at pushing Finn McKenna out of her thoughts as she drove, as fast as she could get away with, towards the Sweetmeadows estate.

  Clare hadn’t really worked out exactly what was going to happen when she went back to check up on Amy. She’d just have to play it by ear. Clutching a couple of the sugary cakes from the social club, wrapped in a paper napkin, Clare ran up the steps and tapped on the door of Amy’s flat. It was Tina who answered the door. She stared at Clare.

  “What is it?”

  Clare opened and closed her mouth. Then she said, “I’m so sorry to bother you at this time of night, Tina. I was chatting to Amy earlier on and I think I might’ve left my notebook here?”

  “You came in here?”

  “No, I was just talking to Amy at the door.” Clare didn’t want to drop the girl in trouble with her mother. “I thought she might’ve picked it up.”

  Tina looked back over her shoulder for a second, then shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Oh, okay. Maybe I’ve dropped it somewhere. Sorry to have disturbed.” Clare walked backwards along the balcony, then turned and almost ran back down the steps. She threw herself into her car and sat back in the driver’s seat, placing the backs of her hands on her hot face to try to cool it down. Tina must have thought she was a complete flake.

  As Clare headed home, her embarrassment gave way to something else. In part, relief: Amy’s mother was back home and the child was no longer in the flat on her own. But there was something else that she was trying to ignore. Vaguely, and without really articulating in her head how it would happen, Clare had pictured herself rescuing Amy. Clare didn’t need to root around inside her brain to find what was compelling her to meddle in Amy’s life; she knew exactly what she was trying to replace in her own. But it turned out she wasn’t needed. And that was a good thing, for everyone. Though, as she put the key into the door at home, kicking aside the papers on the mat, she couldn’t shake the feeling of flat, overwhelming disappointment.

  Saturday 21st July

  These days, Clare didn’t like weekends and was keen to try to fill them up with things that would keep her out of the flat. She always woke too early, for a start, around five-thirty in the morning, sometimes even earlier. So she showered and dressed as if she was going to work, then drove into the office. The newsagent’s shop had just opened and Jai was putting the last of his morning papers out.

  “It’s Saturday, Miss Beautiful,” he said, grinning at her. “You should still be in bed.”

  “I know, I know. But I’ve got something to write up.” Clare was glad to have the excuse of last night’s miners’ benefit to take her into work, but in fact she had been coming into the office every weekend for the last five weeks or so. It was just about the only advantage of having an office to herself, that she could see. No one, except Jai, was there to ask questions if you were there late into the night, early in the morning or on days when you should have been having a life.

  So she sat down and started typing: Young miner’s wife Margie Jeffries wasn’t looking forward to the school summer holidays. With husband Micky out on strike, she wondered how to help her two boisterous boys – Christopher, six and Andy, eight – fill the long six weeks. Thanks to a fundraising benefit held at the Sweetmeadows Social Club, however, she and some of the other miners’ families can look forward to some trips out…

  When midday arrived, Clare had written the benefit night feature and six other dateless stories that would see her through any quiet days next week. What’s more, if anyone were to tot up her story count, they couldn’t fault her: she was outstripping every other reporter by a long way. Particularly Chris Barber, which was partly the point of the frenzied work. The other point was filling that aching hole in the rest of her life. Other people’s stories were a great way of doing that. Sometimes, Clare thought, being a journalist turned you into a big blank page, waiting for other people to come and write on it. Your own life was what ended up on the spike.

  She’d banked on the phone ringing at least once, with some lead for another story. It hadn’t. So with a long afternoon and evening ahead of her, Clare faced the prospect of going home. She’d just been paid, though, so maybe some of the girls could be persuaded to get together and do something, if they’d forgiven her for being such lousy company the other night.

  On the other hand… Clare flicked through her contacts book for Finn McKenna’s number. She held her fingers over the dial for a few moments, then called him. “Hi, it’s Clare Jackson. I just wanted to say thanks for the invitation last night. People were kind to me. I think it’ll make a great piece.”

  “You’re working today?”

  Clare hesitated. “Sort of. No, not really. I just had a few things to do in the office.”

  “You finished?” Finn paused on the end of the phone and then said, “So what’re you doing now? Come for a drink?”

  “Umm, yeah, I could do that, for a few minutes, maybe.”

  They arranged to meet at a seaside pub, a few miles out of town – Finn’s suggestion. It didn’t escape Clare’s notice that he could have picked somewhere much nearer, but where they would both be much more likely to be spotted. Not that there was any reason to hide. After all, it was perfectly reasonable for a reporter to be having a drink with a local union leader in the middle of a controversial national strike.

  Finn was wearing a pressed white shirt and his aftershave smelled freshly-applied. The shirt looked expensive. It must have been a pre-strike purchase, Clare told herself. She toyed with the notion of asking who did Finn’s ironing as she couldn’t quite picture him doing it himself, at least not quite so painstakingingly. But she didn’t.

  “I’m glad you went along. Those women deserve a bit of recognition for their work,” Finn said, handing her a glass of orange juice clinking with ice.

  “I want to do more on the women. The wives and mothers,” Clare said. “They’re the ones trying to hold things together, right? I want to do something about how it is to try to live on – what is it? Twenty-six quid a week supplementary benefit? Like maybe a diary-style piece for a week, from one or two of the women. What they’re eating and what they’re going without and which bills are not being paid.”

  “You’re right, that would work. Take my mam,” Finn said. “My dad is on strike, so’s my uncle and so am I. She’s had a good wage coming in for the last few years and now she’s got none. No family to help out. Two big men still to feed, though.”

  “Would she talk to me?”

  “I think so. And,” Finn wrote a name and number down in Clare’s notebook, “this is someone who wants to form a Women Against Pit Closures group, like they’re doing down in Yorkshire. Maybe if you talk to her and put something in the paper, she’ll get a few more women joining in.”

  “Brilliant.” They sat outside, looking over towards the cliffs. The breeze from the sea brought the temperature down, making the heat more bearable, but Clare wished she’d brought her sunglasses, to stop herself blinking and wiping her eyes in the bright sunshine. She hoped she wouldn’t get one of her dizzy spells. The last thing she wanted was someone chivvying her along to see a doctor.

  “Tell me something, how do you feel about the men who’re breaking the strike?”

  Finn kept gazing out towards the sea. “Is this on the record?”

  “Everything’s on the record with me, Finn.”

  “I’ll be honest. Bloody angry. I’d like to shake them. And you can guess which ones are going to crack first. Rob Donnelly – everyone said he was never quite one of the lads. But at the same time, I know what’s going on in their heads. They’re always wondering where the next meal’s coming from and how they’re going to get through the next
couple of days, never mind the next few weeks. So I know the pressure they’re under. That doesn’t stop me thinking that what they’re doing is wrong.”

  “But aren’t they just putting the needs of their families first? You know, the ones like Rob Donnelly, with a troupe of young kids?” Just two young kids, now, Clare thought. Not so much of a troupe.

  “We’ve all got families. I haven’t got young kids of my own, but I’ve got a mother and a sheaf of red bills. We’re all going through it. Some of us are just a bit stronger than others. More determined, if you like.” Finn took a long drink of his pint. “The thing is, this can only work if we stick it out. If they chip away at us, bit by bit, with more and more men going back to work, we can’t keep going. So tough as it is, we have to hang in there.”

  “Do you think you can win? Be honest.”

  “If I didn’t think that, I couldn’t get up in the morning. Yes, we will win. Only a tiny minority have cracked and gone through the picket lines.”

  Clare frowned. “I just can’t see Falklands Maggie and her crew backing down. Can you? Really?”

  Finn smiled. “It’ll take a union as strong as the miners to beat her, that’s for sure. But we’ll stick it out. They’re trying to starve us back, but it’s not going to work. We need more reporters on side, though. The lads pick up The Sun and they get disheartened. It might not be outright lies they print, but it’s distortion. There’s only one point of view, which is anti-union. It wears you down.”

  Clare nodded. She was conscious of Finn giving her the odd appraising look, his gaze lingering on her bare legs. She shifted in her seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Finn said, suddenly. “I shouldn’t be staring at you like that. I’m embarrassing you.”

  “You’re not.” Clare wondered how obvious her body language had been. Truth was, she liked being the object of Finn’s attention.

  “You’re very attractive, that’s all.”

  Clare looked at her drink. “Thanks.”

  “I’m making it worse now.”

  Clare shook her head. But she decided it was time to go. “Look, thanks for the drink, and there’s really no problem, but I need to be somewhere shortly. Sorry.” She remembered telling Finn earlier that she was free for the afternoon, but he didn’t argue. She didn’t want him to know how much she really liked him.