Clare arrived at Amy’s house at around four and once again she found herself having to call through the letterbox before Amy would answer the door.
“Happy Birthday!” she said, holding out a card. “Is your mum still not around, then?”
Amy shook her head. “Out.”
“Right.” Clare looked past Amy, trying to see into the flat, but the girl wasn’t opening the door any wider. “Never mind. Are you having a good day? What did you get in the end?”
Amy blinked a little. “Noffink. I think she must’ve forgot.”
“No! Maybe that’s where she is, out shopping for you. Mums don’t forget their kids’ birthdays.”
Amy sniffed. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I never got anything last year either. She just forgets, that’s all.” She wiped her hand across her nose. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, Amy. It does matter. Here,” Clare held out the wrapped-up Walkman box. “And this.” She handed her the second present too.
When she opened the first present, Amy’s eyes went wide. “I can’t believe it. You’re not giving this to me? Is it a real one?”
“I’m not going to give you a toy one, am I? Look, if your mum asks, it’s only because someone gave it to me and I didn’t need it.”
“She won’t be bothered.” Amy tore at the paper and pulled out the cassette. “This is ace. I can’t believe it.”
“You said that already.” Clare laughed at the child’s face, which was pink and open-mouthed. “Give it a go, then. I put batteries in.”
With a grin stretched across her little face, Amy clicked the tape into the Walkman and popped the tiny headphones into her ears. “I love all these songs so much. I’m going to dance to them all night. I’m not even going to bed.” She was smiling so hard that Clare wanted, for a sharp moment, to cry.
“Hey.” Clare waved to get Amy’s attention back. “Have you eaten?”
Amy shook her head.
“Come on then. I’ve finished work for the day. I’ll get you something. Leave a note for your mum to say where you are.”
Amy ran inside, shutting the door behind her, and came out wearing the new T-shirt, its whiteness highlighting the grubbiness of her shorts.
“That was quick. You left a note, like I said?”
“She won’t care.”
“But you left a note?”
“Yep. I’m starving. Can we go to the Wimpy?”
“We’ll go wherever you like. It’s your birthday.”
For a tiny scrap of a girl, Amy could put away some food. After her burger and chips, she started eyeing the menu again. “I can’t decide whether to have a Banana Boat or a Brown Derby or a Knickerbocker Glory. What’ll I get?”
“Whatever you want. They all look disgusting to me, I’m afraid.”
Amy looked shocked. “No, these are gorgeous. They’re my favourite foods ever. Are you on a diet then? My mam’s always going on about dieting. You don’t need to do it, though. I think you look beautiful. As beautiful as Lady Di. Beautiful-er.”
“Okay, just for that, you can have two desserts if you like. Don’t be sick, though, or your mum’ll kill me.” After ordering the desserts, Clare tried to eke a little more information out of Amy. “So, your mum. Does she have a job?”
Amy shook her head, her mouth full of ice cream.
“Where does she go, then?”
“I’ve told you. Out with a fella.” She grinned, her mouth smeared in a dark red sauce. “It’s better than when she stays in with a fella, anyways. I hate that.”
“How come?”
“Just, you know. What they do. It’s yuck. And I don’t like all her boyfriends.”
Clare nodded, finding Amy’s lifestyle hard to picture. She was shocked at the thought of Amy being left on her own for hours on end, and just as horrified that the child would have to put up with a string of strange men in her home. Clare’s mum had been no prize-winning parent, but she’d barely let Clare out of her sight as she was growing up. Clare had no idea what passed for normal, when it came to bringing up kids. Talking to Amy made her feel lost. And utterly helpless.
Later, sitting at home and staring at the TV screen without taking anything in, Clare couldn’t push Amy out of her thoughts. There was something about her. Clare could listen to her prattling for hours, about pop music and TV and school. She made Clare laugh, and it took a lot to do that these days. Just for the day, she’d decided to stay off the subject of baby Jamie and Amy’s story about the men who, she claimed, had thrown him over the balcony. After all, if Amy had forgotten about it, temporarily, then she didn’t want to scare her by bringing it up again. Let the kid enjoy what was left of her birthday. Such as it was, with what seemed to be only one card and a couple of presents, from someone the girl barely knew, and a mother who’d gone out with a boyfriend and forgotten all about her.
She’d dropped the girl back outside the flats, knowing that the little thing was probably going back to an empty home and the threat of a child murderer still on the loose. But what was she supposed to do, exactly? Tell the authorities, with all the consequences that would set in motion? Take her back here, to her own neglected flat, and get accused of acting unprofessionally, and getting too involved? She was already crossing that line, she well knew. Clare clutched her stomach, wishing she hadn’t had any food, because her insides were aching.
A little after the nine o’clock news, Clare’s phone rang. It was Joe. “Hi, kidder. I need to talk to you. Can I call round?”
“Here? No,” Clare said, a little too quickly. “Is it urgent?”
“I’d just rather talk to you when you’re not typing a story with one hand and only half-listening. Why can’t I come round?”
“Can we just… I’ll meet you. Name your pub.”
Clare found Joe propping up a smoky bar near the docks. “So who are you hiding at your flat? Some new bloke? Given that your love life is such a complete mystery these days.”
Clare laughed. “No one. And my love life isn’t a mystery, it just doesn’t exist. I wanted to come out and have a drink, that’s all. And you always take me to the best places.” Joe didn’t smile. “Okay, so what’s this about?”
“Couple of things. There’s something you need to know. Look, I was in the office most of today and I think I should tell you that Chris Barber spent most of the day whingeing. About you.”
“What’ve I done? I’m the one who should be whingeing about him, surely.”
“True. But he’s telling anyone who will listen that, as the chief reporter, he should be covering the murder story, not you. And that you’re being given special treatment as a sop for not getting his job.”
“Bloody cheek. I don’t suppose anyone is listening, though?”
“Most people think he’s an arsehole, you’re right. But I happened to be next to your newsdesk when he was saying all this to Sharon Catt. And he got quite a sympathetic hearing. Sharon doesn’t have many allies in that office.”
“How do you mean?”
“I heard her telling him that she would have a word. That it might be time to send him into your patch, while it’s so newsy, to get his name established. That, er, you might spend a bit of time on the features team.”
Clare slammed her glass down and swore. “I don’t believe it. Features! The bloody nursery. No way.”
“I just thought I should warn you. Knowledge is power and all that. I thought you could prepare your argument so that if they ask you to move over for him, you’re ready to talk your way out of it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. Jesus Christ, that man. He got the job that everyone tipped me to get. They sent me out to the sticks and said I needed experience of running my own patch. I didn’t want to go but I made the best of it. And now he wants to take that from me as well. I can’t win.”
Joe nodded sympathetically. “That’s your argument, then. They told you they wanted you to run your own patch. Surely they can’t take it off you just to hand Barber the b
est stories of the day?”
“They can do whatever they want, that’s the problem.” Clare took a long gulp of her gin and tonic. “But thanks for the tip-off. Forewarned and all that. Did you say there was something else?”
It was Joe’s turn to take a slow drink of his beer. He stared into what was left of the drink. “This is a bit awkward, to be honest.”
Clare swallowed. “What? Out with it.”
“Okay. Promise not to get angry with me.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
“Look, it’s just this. I was walking past the Wimpy Bar at tea time. And I swear I saw you sitting in the window with that weird kid from Sweetmeadows.”
Clare gave a deep sigh. “And?”
“Does it even need an ‘and’? What the hell were you playing at?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re not in the habit of eating there, so don’t make out that you just bumped into her. What’s she called again?”
“Amy.”
“Right. Amy. You took it upon yourself to take this Amy out for something to eat? Why?”
“I’ll tell you why, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself. Because it was her birthday and she was all on her own and her selfish bitch of a mother hadn’t even remembered to buy her a card.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Now shall I list all the reasons why it’s not your problem?”
“Don’t bother.” Clare swirled her drink around in her glass. “I already know them.”
“So how come I spot you sitting having a banana split with the scruffiest of all the scruffy little beggars on that estate?”
“I don’t know. Except I just felt really sorry for her. And I just couldn’t walk away and leave her. She’s only ten, Joe. Ten years old. And she looks after herself almost all the time, from what I can see. Only this was her birthday.”
Joe shook his head. “I never had you down as such a soft touch. Remember what Seaton said about her? She makes things up. And anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, you’re only spending time with her because she lives on Sweetmeadows and you happen to be doing a running story there. When it’s all finished, she’s going to expect you to keep calling round. You absolutely shouldn’t be getting so mixed up with her. It’s not fair on the kid – on Amy.”
Clare drained her glass. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”
“So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on, as you put it. I know you’re right, so you can spare the lecture. I shouldn’t have taken her for tea. I should have left her alone and hungry, on her birthday, right? Because I’m not a human being, I’m some sort of news robot.”
Joe groaned. “Are those violins I can hear?”
Clare slammed her glass down on the table. “Stop it. Just for one minute, can’t you drop the Harry Hardnose act? Don’t you ever get sick of pretending that you’re not quite part of humanity, you’re just someone who stands on the sidelines and takes notes?”
Joe looked startled for a moment. Then he laughed. “Is this a competition to see how many clichés we can stuff into a single sentence? Bet I can beat you at that.”
“Funny.” Clare fixed her gaze on her glass.
“Oh, please not the silent treatment. Come on, we might not agree about everything, but at least let’s talk to each other.”
Clare breathed in and out, hard. “What’s the point? You won’t get it.”
Joe touched Clare’s hand. “I’ll try.”
Clare slid her fingers away. “Look, when I was Amy’s age, I was a bit like her. Not for the same reasons, not because my mother didn’t care about me. My mother – she wasn’t well. She had, you know, problems. So sometimes I didn’t have clean school clothes and sometimes I couldn’t afford the same things as everyone else, or go on the school trips.
“So I got picked on, just like Amy does. Kids can be meaner than you can ever imagine, unless you’ve been through it. So now when I see Amy, I want to help. More than that. I need to help.”
Joe sighed. “But Amy isn’t you. You can’t rescue her, Clare.”
“I know. But she looks up to me, you know? I can’t just be another person who lets her down, who just doesn’t care. Especially not when I know how it feels.” For a fraction of a second, Clare wondered if she should tell Joe the other reason why Amy seemed to be filling a painful gap. But she pushed the idea away.
“Look,” said Joe. “If you think the kid’s being neglected, then tell the social services, like I said. That’s the right thing to do. It’s sensible and it’s legal. Then your conscience is clear. But you can’t take her on by yourself.” He paused while Clare nibbled the edge of the lemon slice from her drink. “Tell me you see that?”
“I do, sort of. But I can see another side to it too. Okay, I’ll be careful. But don’t tell anyone, Joe. The social services might take her away or something. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”
“Not even if that’s what she needs? Maybe she should be in care, if she’s being left alone like you say. You can’t go wading in, trying to sort it out yourself.”
“You promised not to tell anyone.”
“No, I didn’t, actually. But I won’t, for now. Just back off, though. For your own good and for the kid’s sake too.”
“I promise. Another?”
“Going to give me a hint on tomorrow’s Barber-blasting exclusive then?”
“Not a chance.”
Clare bought another round, but things felt cool between them, in spite of Joe’s attempts at cracking jokes and changing the mood. Clare wondered if Joe guessed he wasn’t being given the whole story. Then he looked over at the door. “Uh-oh,” he commented. “Look who’s just come in.”
Finn McKenna was making his way to the bar, where Clare noticed that the men slapped him on the back, shook his hand and offered to buy him a pint. They may have been loyal to George Armstrong but McKenna was the new man of the moment. He spotted them and came over, the foam from his pint trickling slowly down the side of his glass.
“Oh, look, it’s the enemy within,” Clare said, and McKenna grinned at her.
“I’m thinking of getting that on a T-shirt. Thatcher hasn’t done herself any favours with that remark. It’s put people more on our side, if anything.” He and Joe gave each other a brief and not entirely friendly nod. Then he pulled up a stool. “I’m glad I ran into you, Clare. I called you earlier, but you were out. Something you might be interested in.”
“Go on.” Clare was conscious of Joe watching them closely.
“A concert to raise money for the strike. Thursday night at the City Hall. Two bands and a couple of comedians. I’ve got you a ticket, thought we could both go along.”
“Thursday night? Yep. Sounds great.”
“Brilliant. Seven-thirty. Shall I just see you outside?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
Finn stood up and looked towards the bar. “Better get back to the lads.” He winked at Clare.
Clare cast around for something to say. “This used to be George Armstrong’s pub. He stays away now, I’ve noticed.”
Joe gave a grunt.
Clare fished the lemon slice out of her drink again and started chewing the edge of it, waiting for Joe to say something. There were a few moments of strained silence. Then he said: “Are you seeing Finn McKenna? As in, are you going out with him?”
Clare raised her eyebrows at Joe. “No. Well, not exactly, not entirely.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve had lunch with him, once, and he’s just asked me to go to a gig with him, but I don’t know whether that’s a date. He might just want to get some good press coverage.”
“Sounded like a date to me.” Joe glared down at his pint. “And you knew about him being arrested, at the weekend. You never even gave me a hint about that.”
“What if it is a date?”
“I don’t trust him. There’s
something not right about him. He’s being questioned by the police. And…”
“What are you, my dad, all of a sudden? What’s it to you who I go out with?”
“Well…” Joe raised his eyebrows and for a moment, Clare wondered exactly what he was going to say. Then he seemed to think better of it. “It’s just… okay. Maybe it’s the same thing as I was saying about that little kid.
“You’re getting way too close to your stories, you’re getting personally involved with the people that you should be keeping at arm’s length. It’ll stop you being detached when you write. If you start seeing Finn McKenna out of work, you won’t want to write anything critical about the strike. And then if the whole romance crap goes wrong, you won’t even want to talk to him for a quote when you need to. It’s got disaster written all over it.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point. Now can you let me make my own decisions?”
Back at the flat, fired up by a couple of gins, Clare made herself go into the little box room again. She’d got as far as putting some of her unwanted purchases into black bin bags, waiting for the charity to come and collect them. She pushed the heavy bin bags into the middle of the floor so that she didn’t have to look at the stain on the carpet.
Something made her take the next step. She used the back of a spoon to prise open the first tin of emulsion paint. The clean smell took her by surprise. It’d been a long time since she’d smelled anything so fresh, or that said ‘new start’ quite so clearly. The thick paint made a satisfying glooping sound as she poured it into the tray, its texture reminding her of Amy’s melting ice-cream. She’d also forgotten how satisfying the process of painting something as simple as a wall could be. Most of it was covered in minutes, a shade of white with a hint of pink, the latest decorating fad. The freshly painted wall made her think of a new page in her notebook, of 1st January. And of a newborn baby. But she pushed that image away. Compared to the faded colours of the rest of the room, the wall’s brightness made her blink. And smile.
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