This Little Piggy

by Bea Davenport

  “Nicki, this is my friend Amy. She’s come to watch the newspaper being printed.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it. The first time I saw that I was really excited. I nearly wet myself when I saw my name in print.”

  Amy sniggered. Clare gave Nicki a mock-glare. “Come on, let’s leave this very rude person behind and go down to the printing presses.”

  As Clare had expected, Amy went wide-eyed when she saw the huge reels of paper being loaded in. She stuck her fingers in her ears, laughing, when the machines started to whirr into action and watched with bright eyes and an open mouth as the newspaper pages rolled across the high rails and clattered off the presses, packaged up by the machines. The familiar smell of oil and ink made Clare smile. Nicki was right – you never got tired of watching the papers print.

  One of the printers brought out a pile of early editions to take up to the newsroom. “Want the first one, then?” He handed a paper to Amy, who looked at it as if someone had handed her some newly-minted bank notes.

  “Wow. I just saw that get made. That was amazing. Are you in here today, Clare?”

  “Let’s see.” Clare leafed through the pages. “Yes, look. There’s my name on this piece about the women raising funds to support the miners’ strike.” She was pleased with the show, which went across two pages towards the middle of the paper.

  “I would love it. My name in the paper like that. It must feel amazing.”

  Clare was about to say the novelty had worn off. But she looked at Amy’s eager face and said, “Yes, it is pretty amazing. Maybe that’ll be you one day, eh?”

  Amy nodded, with a child’s confidence that nothing would stop her doing whatever she wanted when she was older. Clare hoped it wouldn’t be knocked out of her too quickly. She remembered the teachers at her own school telling her to give up her dreams of being a journalist. ‘Surely,’ the careers teacher had said, looking down her nose, as if Clare had said she wanted to be a stripper. ‘Surely you can think of a loftier ambition than that? You want to spend your days sticking your foot in someone’s door?’

  It was the wrong thing to say to Clare, who quite liked the idea of sticking her foot in someone’s door. Imagine being paid to get up people’s noses. It sounded like it might be fun. And it was, for a long while. She couldn’t tell Amy that she’d reached a point where it felt like something of a grind. That nothing was really new, in news, any more; that in local papers, the same sorts of stories came around again and again like fairground horses. And meanwhile many of the national papers seemed to be writing about worlds that she didn’t even recognise, with a ruthlessness and an agenda she hadn’t been trained to expect.

  Back in the newsroom, Nicki told Clare a long version of how Catt had made her cry. “She was just shouting at me. I couldn’t get a word in. I was trying to stop the paper printing a mistake and she wouldn’t listen, she just shouted me down.”

  “She’s a bully,” Clare said.

  Amy nodded wisely. “You should smash her face in.”

  “I should.” Nicki let Amy sit at her desk and clack out some words on her typewriter. Clare grinned at Nicki as Amy’s grubby index finger pressed down hard on the keys.

  “Why are the letters all mixed up, I mean why isn’t A at the start of the line? What happens if you make a mistake? How d’you rub it out? What do you do when you get to the end of your piece of paper?”

  She liked the bicycle-bell pinging sound when the carriage lever was pressed and eventually, after taking several painfully long minutes to type ‘By Amy Hedley’, she lost patience and clattered her fingers all over the keys at random and laughed as she pulled the paper out.

  “Ah well. Makes about as much sense as some of the stories that get written in here,” Nicki said. “It just takes practice, Amy.”

  “Like Teeline. So you get faster and faster?”

  “That’s right. Although some of us still only use two fingers.”

  “I would love a typewriter. Then people would stop saying my writing was messy. It would be brilliant. I’d practise and practise till I got super-fast.”

  Clare took Amy to a bakery for her lunch, where she tucked away an impressive amount of pastries, then drove her back to the estate. She resisted Amy’s pleas to be allowed to stay with Clare for another night.

  “Your mum will think you’ve left home,” Clare said, as she stopped the car.

  “She won’t care.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course she will. She might’ve been ringing my home number while we’ve been out. Go on, off you go. I’ll see you soon.”

  “When, though?”

  “I don’t know. Next week sometime, I promise.”

  Slowly, Amy got out of the car and turned to give Clare a mournful look.

  “I said, I’ll see you soon.” Clare gave Amy a wave. “Remember to tell your mum about the police station.”

  Back at her flat, Clare put her head around the door of the little spare room. On the bed was a piece of paper with a drawing in felt tip pen. It looked a bit like a newspaper’s front page, done in Amy’s scrawl, and the mock-headline read: Clare Is The Best!!! From Amy!!!

  Clare picked it up and took it through to her kitchen, where she pinned it onto her cork notice board. She was just wondering how to spend her evening when the phone rang. It was Finn.

  “You’re not going to knock me back two nights in a row,” he said.

  Clare smiled, surprised at how her insides felt full of bubbles when she heard his voice. “You’re right. I’m not. What do you want to do?”

  They met in one of the quieter pubs just outside the town centre.

  “You look great,” Finn said, giving Clare a quick kiss on the cheek. “Tell you what, I was seriously grilled by my mother after you’d gone. You’d think I’d proposed to you, the way she carried on.”

  Clare folded her arms. “Really? When I was there I got the distinct impression they thought I was leading you astray. There was some reference to a girlfriend of yours?”

  Finn nodded. “Jackie. We’d been going out for a long time. But it wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “How come?” Clare kept her arms crossed.

  “We’d known each other since we were at school. We’d drifted a bit, that’s all.”

  “Why, though?”

  “Honestly? I think she thought she was seeing someone with prospects. She’s a lot less impressed with a striking trade union leader who hasn’t had any money coming in for four months.”

  “That’s a shame. Especially if you’ve known her so long.”

  “It was for the best. She’ll see that, in the end.”

  Clare liked listening to him getting passionate about the strike, and the way he was more angry and raw about the subject than Joe, who looked at everything with a journalist’s detachment. She noticed that sometimes Finn avoided answering the odd question about simple things such as his last job, but decided not to press him. I have to stop talking to everyone like I’m grilling them, she thought. This isn’t an interview. I have to stop being so paranoid.

  At the end of the evening, Clare found herself outside her flat with Finn enveloping her in a tight hug. “I should go,” Clare said, freeing one hand to rummage inside her bag for her keys.

  “Make me a coffee?”

  Clare shook her head. “I’m done in. I’ve had a long day.”

  “It’s Sunday tomorrow, no reason to get up early.”

  “There is for me. I’ve got some stuff to write up,” Clare lied. “Honestly, Finn. Not tonight. Sorry.”

  Finn stepped back and shrugged. For a moment, he looked like he might be about to punch the wall. Then he shook his head and smiled.

  Clare opened the front door as narrowly as she could and slid into it, closing it quickly behind her. That must have looked really weird, she thought. But having a kid in the flat is one thing: they don’t really care about piles of rubbish and mess. Finn, on the other hand, would think she was some sort of mad hoarder who couldn’t loo
k after herself. Maybe that was true, to an extent. She stumbled into a pile of carrier bags lying in the hallway. She liked Finn. Part of her wanted to take the next step and ask him inside. The strange combination of her attraction to Finn and her urge to help Amy was having an unexpected effect, on her body and her head. For two months now, she’d felt like rock: cold, numb, unable to move. Now she could felt herself shifting, softening, giving way. It was good and it was terrifying, at once.

  She ran the tap in the kitchen for a long time, waiting for the water to cool. Then she took a series of long gulps. She’d hardly had anything to drink over the course of the evening and she felt bone-tired. It had to be the heat.

  The jangling, persistent phone ringing was the last sound Clare wanted to hear. She sat up slowly, clutching her head, and looked at the bedside clock. It was one in the morning. She swore as she threw herself out of bed and shuffled to the living room.

  It was Amy. “Clare, Clare, you have to come over,” she gabbled on the other end of the line. She sounded breathless and tearful.

  Inwardly, Clare groaned. “What is it, Amy? Do you know what time it is?”

  “No. Midnight or something. But you have to get here quick. Horrible things are happening. Please.”

  “What sort of things? What do you mean?”

  “There are fires. And people are running round and smashing things up. I’m scared. Clare, please hurry up.”

  “Are you on your own again?”

  “Max is here. But he’s scared too. He keeps crying.”

  “Where’s your mum?”

  “How should I know? Clare, please?”

  Somewhere behind Amy’s voice, Clare could hear the sound of sirens.

  “Okay then. Hang in there. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She flung on some clothes and trainers. Then she picked up the phone and called the duty police desk. “Hi, it’s Clare Jackson from the Post. Can you tell me what’s happening on the Sweetmeadows estate? I’ve heard there’s some trouble.”

  “Working late, aren’t you?”

  Clare swallowed back the urge to shout at the officer. “Yes, I am. Can you just give me an idea about what’s going on?”

  “Hold on.” The phone went quiet for a few moments. Then the officer came back. “We’re not making any media comments on Sweetmeadows at the moment.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not making any comments? That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s what I’ve been told to say to you. It’s an ongoing situation.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll go and find out for myself. Thanks a lot.”

  Clare dropped the phone with a growl. She was about to run out to the car, when a thought struck her. She didn’t usually do this, as a matter of principle, but she decided to let someone know where she was going. She dialled Joe’s number.

  It took him what felt like many minutes to answer.

  “I’m sorry to wake you up.”

  “This better be bloody good, Clare.”

  “It’s going to sound daft but I’m about to drive out to Sweetmeadows, and…”

  “Tell me you are kidding. Do you realise it’s… Jesus, it’s quarter-past one in the morning. Have you finally lost the plot?”

  “No, the thing is, I’ve heard there’s some trouble going on. It sounds bad.”

  “Stay out of it, then. Pick it up on your calls in the morning.”

  “I have to… I think I should go and see for myself.”

  “You’re not expecting me to come with you?”

  “Of course not. I just wanted someone to know where I was and I picked on you. Sorry. Wish I hadn’t troubled you.”

  There was silence on the end of the phone, apart from Joe’s breathing.

  “Okay, so you can go back to bed now.”

  “I will.” There was a curt click on the end of the line. Clare swore at the phone and ran out of the door towards her car.

  As she drove into the road leading into the estate, Clare noticed a faint orange glow to the sky overhead. A row of police cones indicated the road was closed off, so she parked up and started heading into the estate on foot. A fire engine sat on the corner, its engine thrumming, and as she passed it she looked up to see if she recognised any of the crew.

  One of them leaned out of the window. “Hey. You’re not going in there on your own, are you?”

  Clare looked up. “I have to. There’s someone I need to see.”

  “I’d advise you to wait, love. It’s not safe. We’re not going in there ourselves at the moment and that’s on the advice of the police.”

  “How do you mean, not safe?” Clare looked at the sky again. She could smell sulphurous smoke. “Something’s burning. Surely you need to…”

  “We’ve been in already. We were pelted with bricks and all sorts. We had to get out or one of our lads would have been hurt. I’m telling you, don’t go in there on your own.”

  “Who’s doing it?”

  “Group of kids, protesting about some mate of theirs who’s been arrested, I gather.”

  “Are the police there?”

  “Same problems. They’re on the edges of the estate, waiting until things calm down.”

  “But…” No wonder Amy sounded so terrified and even that brute of a dog was scared. “You can’t just leave the people who live there to sit and watch the place burn down around them, can you?”

  “We’re told the building that’s alight is a derelict one, some sort of storage unit. As far as we know, there’s no one in immediate danger. We can’t go rolling in there and put ourselves at risk for that. We need to wait until things settle down a bit. That’s on the word of the police too. We can’t operate if we’re being pelted with missiles, I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Clare looked across at the estate. “I still have to go and find my friend.”

  “I’m advising you not to go in there.”

  “Yes, but advising me isn’t the same as stopping me, so thanks, but I still need to get in.”

  As she turned the corner, Clare could see two fires going on: one was a car that was burning itself out, and another was some sort of outbuilding, as the fireman said. The smell of petrol and smoke caught at Clare’s throat and made her eyes smart. Little groups of people were standing around watching: older people standing back with their arms folded and younger kids running around in some sort of strange excitement, as if it was a late-night party. Across a wall, a sheet had been draped, and on it was painted the misspelled slogan Craigy is Inocent. Around a dozen teenagers were sitting along the wall, drinking from cans.

  Walking across the square, Clare felt small and very exposed. She could sense that she cut a conspicuous figure, like walking into some sort of no-man’s-land. A young lad strode towards her. “You live here?”

  Clare shook her head. “No. But I need to go and find someone. What’s going on?”

  The lad pointed to the painted banner. “See that? Craigy’s our mate. He got taken away today, for nothing. We want everyone to know that he’s innocent.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Someone grassed him up for taking a bike or something. They put him in a van and he hasn’t come back.”

  “So you’re protesting?” Clare decided to take a gamble. “I work for the paper. I could write about this and get you some publicity.” A small group of teenagers were circling her.

  “Tell the paper this. Craigy is innocent.”

  “How old’s Craigy? What’s his full name?”

  “Jason Craig. He’s seventeen.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “Aye, over there.” A girl pointed up towards one of the flats. “He’s not done anything.”

  “We want to know who dobbed him in it,” someone else added.

  Clare thought about Amy and hoped there was no way they’d be able to find out that she’d been talking to the police.

  “Do you think,” Clare asked, carefully, “that what you’re doing might make things wors
e? Or that maybe you might be making people frightened?”

  “Whose side are you on?” a girl asked, stepping nearer.

  “No one’s side. I just report things. Is anyone prepared to give me their name?”

  Everyone shook their heads and the girl turned her back.

  Clare looked up towards Amy’s flat. She was sure she could see a small shape bobbing about behind the window. She ought to get up there.

  As she turned to walk away, one of the teenagers tapped her hard on the shoulder. “Hey. What’ll you be putting in the paper?”

  “What you’ve told me. And I’ll ask the police about Jas - er, Craigy.”

  “You can’t say we started the fires. They’ll get us too.”

  Clare held her hands up. “I didn’t see who started anything. And I don’t even know your names, remember? But why not let the fire crews in to put them out? Before someone gets hurt?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but walked towards the flats, hoping she sounded more self-assured than she felt inside.

  Amy practically leaped on her when she arrived at the door of the flat. “You’ve been ages.”

  “Amy, are you telling me your mum didn’t come home at all, not since Friday? You’ve been on your own all this time?”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “I keep promising that. I need to know, though.”

  Amy put her skinny arms around Max’s thick neck. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. She’s probably staying at her boyfriend’s, but I don’t know where he lives.”

  “I don’t suppose you have his phone number either?”

  Amy shook her head. “So can I come to yours again?”

  “I think you’ll have to, for the rest of tonight anyway.”

  “What about Max? I think he knows something’s going on. He keeps making whiney noises.”

  “I’m not allowed pets, Amy, I only rent the flat.”

  Amy hugged the dog a little tighter. “I can’t leave him here tonight. He’ll be scared. And I’ve run out of his food too. He’s really hungry.”

  Clare sighed. “Have you got a lead for him? And a collar?”

  “He doesn’t like it.”

  “Tough. He’s lucky I’m taking him at all. Get a lead on him and we’ll get going.”