This Little Piggy (6 page)

Clare slotted her pen into the spirals at the top of her notebook. She thought about Amy again. “Funny, isn’t it? How differently everyone thinks about the strike. The miners don’t think it’s pointless, they think they’re fighting for their jobs.

“And I’ve been out on those picket lines, just like you have. There’s so much anger against those who don’t support it, whether it’s the press, the scabs, the police. You can see it. It’s hard to predict what that kind of anger will drive people to do.”

“I’m disappointed, Clare,” Seaton said. “You’re trying to drum up a problem about the strikers. We’ve only had little incidents up here. No big trouble like they have down in Yorkshire or Nottingham. Let’s keep it that way, eh?”

“Okay.” Clare cast around for a way of keeping the peace. “Did your dad work round here?”

“He worked at a few of the local pits. Sweetmeadows was the last place he worked before he retired. I went to school with more than half of the men on that picket line today. The last thing I want is any aggro.”

“What does your dad think about the strike, then?”

Seaton paused. “He’s not around to say. He died about a year after he retired. Lungs.”

“I’m sorry.”

At the end of the day Clare lingered in the office, putting off the point when she would have to go back to her own flat, her fingers clacking listlessly at the typewriter keys. She tried to write up Amy’s story in a way that seemed credible.

Police are running out of leads into the horrific murder of little Jamie Donnelly. But they dismissed rumours that the baby was killed out of revenge after dad Rob broke the bitter miners’ strike and went back to work at Sweetmeadows Colliery.

One witness, who the
Post
has decided not to name, claims to have seen a man lift baby Jamie out of his cot and throw him over the balcony at Jasmine Walk. Another man picked the baby up and ran away towards the bins where Jamie’s body was later found, the witness claims.

The young witness was too afraid to speak out immediately but later told the police what they saw. Chief Inspector Bob Seaton said the claims had been looked into but that they were not pursuing them any further.

Meanwhile, police also dismissed as ‘unlikely’ the fears by the Donnelly family that the tragedy was carried out by supporters of the four-month-old miners’ strike. Rob Donnelly’s mother-in-law, Annie Martin, told how the family had been subjected to name-calling and spitting in the street, as well as two broken windows at their home. Chief Inspector Seaton said that although the police were pursuing all possible lines of enquiry, he did not believe that supporters of the dispute would resort to such a violent act.

Clare yawned and rubbed her eyes. It was late but still light and breathlessly warm. She should go back to the flat, of course. She should tidy up, she should open some post. But she knew it would be all she could manage to pick her way through the mess and fall into bed. She kept promising herself that any day now, she’d wake up and feel different, that she would somehow find the energy to sort everything out. But over six weeks on, she still wasn’t feeling any better.

Tuesday 17th July
The miners’ union office was in a prefabricated hut across the road from the colliery and attached to the workers’ social club. Clare could hear the loud, gruff voices coming from inside and she took a deep breath before turning the door handle. It was always an intimidatingly male environment, off-putting even before the strike got under way and the miners’ feelings towards the local reporters changed for the worse. Clare was hoping that George Armstrong, the long-time union official, would still be civil to her, in spite of the
Post
’s editorial stance on the strike, which had been openly hostile from Day One.

But when Clare pushed open the door to the smoke-fugged room, she wasn’t prepared for the way the voices stopped dead, the way everyone looked at her like she was an apparition of Margaret Thatcher herself. She swallowed, tasting the smoke and male sweat in the air.

“Er, hi, I’m from the
Post
.” She was well aware that most of them knew that already. “I just wanted a quick word with Mr Armstrong?”

One of the men swore. George Armstrong held up a hand, but another man stood up and leaned towards him.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” He stabbed a finger towards Armstrong’s face. “You told the papers before you even told your comrades. That says it all.”

Clare looked at the little group of men, baffled, as Armstrong shook his head and said, “Nah, nah, it never came from me.”

He looked grey-faced, Clare thought. “Should I come back in a few minutes, if you’re in the middle of something?” Anything that avoided getting their backs up any further.

“Why, no, have a seat, I think you might as well hear what we all think about our wonderful leader.” A stocky little man stood up and offered Clare his chair. For a moment, Clare wasn’t sure whether to take it or not. She couldn’t work out the atmosphere and what exactly was going on. She looked at the only one she knew by name. “George?”

George wiped his hands across his face. “I’m resigning from the union.”

Clare blinked. “Because of the strike?” A few weeks earlier, George had given her a long interview in which he’d told her the miners had no choice if they wanted to protect their jobs and the strike was a moral responsibility for all the men. “What’s changed your mind?”

“I’m trying to tell them. We need to have a proper ballot before we carry on. And I’m sure we’re walking into a bloody great trap that the government’s made for us.”

“The ballot would be a waste of time.”

Clare looked over at the new speaker, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties. “The fact that we’re all out there on the picket line is enough to show the men support the action. And what’s the choice? Roll over and let Mad Ian McGregor close all the pits down?” There were murmurs of agreement.

“No, just to do some more talking, that’s all. To make a strike official, through the proper channels, if that’s what it comes to.”

George Armstrong had been in the union for twenty-five years and he’d been the branch leader for fifteen of them. Clare had enough biographical details to turn the story into a front page lead, with just a few more quotes.

“So, George, if you’re leaving the union, does this mean you’ll be crossing a picket line?”

Armstrong screwed up his face as if the very thought was causing him physical pain. All the men were staring at him.

“George. Don’t do it, man. Change your mind right now and we’ll all forget about it.” It was the tall young man from the back again. Clare couldn’t remember seeing him before today.

She followed Armstrong as he walked out of the office and into the bright daylight, squinting and blinking hard. Clare pretended not to notice he was struggling not to cry. They chatted a little longer. Armstrong refused to let Clare send a photographer out, but it didn’t matter. The paper had a folder full of library pictures they could use.

“George, I’m really sorry to ask this right now, but the reason I came out to see you was because of this baby’s death at the flats.”

George looked at her as if she was talking another language. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing, I hope. But some of the Donnelly family are saying the baby’s murder might’ve been linked to the strike. Because Rob went back to work. I just wanted to know what you thought about those rumours.”

George gazed across the road at the colliery gates. Clare waited for him to say the idea was outrageous and an insult. Instead, he shook his head. “I don’t think it’s very likely. If anything bad happens these days, someone tries to blame a striking miner. But it’s no good asking me, love.” He jerked his head back towards the union hut. “Go in and ask someone from the new regime.”

“Who’s taking over from you?” Clare asked.

George twisted his mouth. “I’d put my money on Finn McKenna.”

“Which one’s McKenna?”

“You saw him in there. The gobby one at the back.”

“Have I met him before?”

“It’s unlikely. His family’s from round here but he was working down Nottingham way. He wasn’t even a miner. Says he was in security or some such at the pit. And the strike made him join the union and come out on the picket lines. Or that’s his story, anyway.”

“You don’t get on with him?”

“He’s already taking over in the union. He’s the one to watch.”

An hour later, Clare phoned her copy over direct to Dave Bell, who promised she’d get the front page lead in the late night final edition. “You’re turning in some brilliant stuff, Clare. I was telling Blackmore that your baby death copy’s been spot-on.”

“Is that why you gave Chris Barber the by-line on Friday?”

The phone line crackled as Bell sighed hard. “That was a mistake, Clare. Don’t get paranoid. Not when you’ve just given me this cracking good story and made my day.”

Just after she’d ended the call, Joe rang. “Fancy going back out to Sweetmeadows? I want another go at the Donnellys. Five days on and the police are no further forward with finding Jamie’s killer.”

“I’ll wait outside the office.” On the way, Clare bought some bubblegum and a Double Decker bar, pushing them into her bag in case she met Amy on the estate. She followed Joe’s car for most of the short drive.

“Heard about your union story,” Joe said, as they each got out of the cars and slammed the doors shut. “That’s a belter. Armstrong’s not answering his door or his phone anymore, so you’ve got the exclusive.”

Clare shrugged. “It was a total fluke. I went to ask him about baby Jamie and I walked in on the guys having a big row.” She thought for a moment. “Heard of a union man called Finn McKenna?”

Joe gave her a sideways look. “Funny you should say that. I’d never heard the name until today. But I had a message to call him. Is he in charge now?”

“That’s who George Armstrong thought would step into the breach. And he was there, this morning. I’d never seen him before either. Face of the future, apparently.”

As Clare and Joe climbed the stairs towards the third floor of Jasmine Walk, the sounds of raised voices grew louder. Clare and Joe quickened their steps. One of the voices was Annie Martin, the other was a man’s deeper tone. They stopped before turning the corner onto the walkway, to listen in.

“You can take your card,” Annie was saying. “And you know where you can stick it. One thing we don’t need is any sympathy from the likes of you.”

Clare poked her head around the corner for a second, and turned to whisper to Joe. “It’s him again. That McKenna bloke.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. He nodded towards the walkway and together they walked round the corner.

Annie turned to look at them, then turned back to Finn McKenna. “Bugger off. And take your crappy card with you.”

McKenna was holding an envelope. “A lot of Rob’s workmates have signed it, that’s all. He might want to see it, even if you don’t. You need to understand, Annie, that all the lads are sickened by what happened. It doesn’t matter what Rob’s done. Something like this…”

“Rob hasn’t done anything, except try to take care of his kids. So don’t you come here acting like you’re doing us a favour.”

McKenna held up his hands. “Fair enough. This is a bad time. I just wanted to make it clear that these rumours going around are all lies. None of the union lads would’ve harmed the baby. And we’re all sorry for what’s happened.”

“You said that. Now sod off, like I told you.”

Joe and Clare looked at each other. Joe followed McKenna down the steps while Clare went up to the Donnellys’ door. “You okay, Annie?”

“That’s some nerve. Coming here with a sympathy card signed by all the bloody bastards who’ve been posting dog shit through the door.” The expression on Annie’s face was hard but her eyes were wet.

Clare followed Annie indoors, without waiting to be asked. “You still think it was all related to the strike, then?”

“There’s no question in my mind.” Annie walked through to the tiny kitchen and filled a kettle.

“How’s Deborah?” Clare perched on a little bar stool.

Annie jerked her head in the general direction of a closed bedroom door. “Still on pills. What do you expect?”

Clare nodded. “And you? Looks like you’re the one keeping everything going.”

“I don’t know about that. But Rob’s in pieces, Deborah’s out for the count, and there’s still two little ’uns needing their dinner cooked and their socks washed.”

“They’re lucky to have you.”

A pile of sympathy cards, several inches high, lay face down on the kitchen table. Clare picked one up and put it down again. “Lots of cards.”

“Aye. Little Becca asked me if it was someone’s birthday.” Annie blinked hard again. “I have to say this. We’ve had cards and flowers and knocks on the door, every one offering to help. Half of them may be just being nosey, I suppose. But they slag off this estate and they call the people who live here worse than thieves, when at the end of the day, the folks all rally round to help. You should print that in your paper.”

“I will,” said Clare.
Tragic Baby Gran says thanks
. She glanced at a few more of the messages of sympathy and then asked, “When’s the funeral, Annie?”

“We’re talking about it. The priest from St Lawrence’s is coming round tomorrow, if Deborah’s up to it. Only thing is, we don’t know if the police will release…” Annie bit her lip and swallowed. “If they’ll release his body.” She cast around for a hankie and grabbed a tea towel to wipe her eyes.

Outside on ground level, Amy was there, showing Joe how well she could do cartwheels and headstands, and Joe was trying to look impressed. He looked relieved to see Clare. Amy took a few steps towards her on her hands. “Did you do my story?” she demanded, her stringy hair trailing on the ground and her face slowly going pink.

Clare bent down and angled her head. “I did the petition one. It went on the front page. I’m talking to the police about the other one.”

Amy jumped back to a standing position and smacked her hands together to get rid of the grit. “Them. They’re bloody useless, the police. They don’t know anything. And they don’t listen.”