The women had been best pals forever, Moira standing chief bridesmaid at Jenny and Mick’s wedding. When it came time to return the favour, Jenny been pregnant with Misha. Mick had pointed out that her increasing size was the perfect excuse to turn Moira down, what with having to buy the bridesmaid’s dress in advance. It wasn’t a suggestion, more an injunction. For although Tom Campbell was by all accounts a decent man and a handsome man and an honest man, he was not a miner. True, he worked at the Lady Charlotte. He went underground in the stomach-juddering cage. He sometimes even got his hands dirty. But he was not a miner. He was a pit deputy. A member of a different union. A management man there to see that the health and safety rules were followed and that the lads did what they were supposed to. The miners had a term for the easiest part of any task - ‘the deputy’s end’. It sounded innocuous enough, but in an environment where every member of a gang knew his life depended on his colleagues, it expressed a world of contempt. And so Mick Prentice had always held something in reserve when it came to his dealings with Tom Campbell.
He’d resented the invitations to dinner at their detached house in West Wemyss. He’d mistrusted Tom’s invitations to join him at the football. He’d even begrudged the hours Jenny spent at Moira’s bedside during her undignified but swift death from cancer a couple of years before. And when Tom’s union had dithered and swithered over joining the strike a couple of months before, Mick had raged like a toddler when they’d finally come down on the side of the bosses.
Jenny suspected part of the reason for his anger was the kindness Tom had shown them since the strike had started to bite. He’d taken to stopping by with little gifts - a bag of apples, a sack of potatoes, a soft toy for Misha. They’d always come with plausible excuses - a neighbour’s tree with a glut, more potatoes in his allotment than he could possibly need, a raffle prize from the bowling club. Mick had always grumbled afterwards. ‘Patronizing shite,’ he’d said.
‘He’s trying to help us without shaming us,’ Jenny said. It didn’t hurt that Tom’s presence reminded her of happier times. Somehow, when he was there, she felt a sense of possibility again. She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and it was as a younger woman, a woman who had ambitions for her life to be different. So although she knew it would annoy Mick, Jenny was happy for Tom to sit at her kitchen table and talk.
He drew a limp but heavy parcel from his pocket. ‘Can you use a couple of pounds of bacon?’ he said, his brow creasing in anxiety. ‘My sister-in-law, she brought it over from her family’s farm in Ireland. But it’s smoked, see, and I can’t be doing with smoked bacon. It gives me the scunners. So I thought, rather than it go to waste…’ He held it out to her.
Jenny took the package without a second’s hesitation. She gave a little snort of self-deprecation. ‘Look at me. My heart’s all a flutter over a couple of pounds of bacon. That’s what Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill have done between them.’ She shook her head. ‘Thank you, Tom. You’re a good man.’
He looked away, unsure what to say or do. His eyes fixed on the clock. ‘Do you not need to pick up the bairn? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the time when I was waiting, I just wanted to…’ He got to his feet, his face pink. ‘I’ll come again.’
She heard the stumble of his boots in the hall then the click of the latch. She tossed the bacon on to the counter and turned off the pan of water. It would be a different soup now.
Moira had always been the lucky one.
Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss
Jenny’s eyes came off the middle distance and focused on Karen. ‘I suppose it was about seven o’clock when it dawned on me that Mick hadn’t come home. I was angry, because I’d actually got a half-decent tea to put on the table. So I got the bairn to her bed, then I got her next door to sit in so I could run down the Welfare and see if Mick was there.’ She shook her head, still surprised after all these years. ‘And of course, he wasn’t.’
‘Had anybody seen him?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘You must have been worried,’ Karen said.
Jenny shrugged one shoulder. ‘Not really. Like I said, we hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. I just thought he’d taken the huff and gone over to Andy’s.’
‘The guy in the photo?’
‘Aye. Andy Kerr. He was a union official. But he was on the sick from his work. Stress, they said. And they were right. He’d killed himself within the month. I often thought Mick going scabbing was the last straw for Andy. He worshipped Mick. It would have broken his heart.’
‘So that’s where you assumed he was?’ Karen prompted her.
‘That’s right. He had a cottage out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere. He said he liked the peace and quiet. Mick took me out there one time. It gave me the heebie jeebies. It was like the witch’s house in one of Misha’s fairy stories - there was no sign of it till suddenly you were there, right in front of it. You wouldn’t catch me living there.’
‘Could you not have phoned to check?’ the Mint butted in. Both women stared at him with a mixture of amusement and indulgence.
‘Our phone had been cut off months before, son,’ Jenny said, exchanging a look with Karen. ‘And this was long before mobiles.’
By now, Karen was gagging for a cup of tea, but she was damned if she was going to put herself in Jenny Prentice’s debt. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘When did you start to worry?’
‘When the bairn woke me up in the morning and he still wasn’t home. He’d never done that before. It wasn’t as if we’d had a proper row on the Friday. Just a few cross words. We’d had worse, believe me. When he wasn’t there in the morning, I really started to think there was something badly wrong.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got Misha fed and dressed and took her down to her pal Lauren’s house. Then walked out through the woods to Andy’s place. But there was nobody there. And then I remembered Mick had said that now he was on the sick, Andy was maybe going to go off up to the Highlands for a few days. Get away from it all. Get his head straight. So of course he wasn’t there. And by then, I was really starting to get scared. What if there had been an accident? What if he’d been taken ill?’ The memory still had the power to disturb Jenny. Her fingers picked endlessly at the hem of her overall.
‘I went up to the Welfare to see the union reps. I figured if anybody knew where Mick was, it would be them. Or at least they’d know where to start looking.’ She stared down at the floor, her hands clasped tight in her lap. ‘That’s when the wheels really started to come off my life.’
Saturday 15th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss
Even in the morning, without the press of bodies to raise the temperature, the Miners’ Welfare Institute was warmer than her house, Jenny noticed as she walked in. Not by much, but enough to be perceptible. It wasn’t the sort of thing that usually caught her attention but today she was trying to think of anything except the absence of her husband. She stood hesitant for a moment in the entrance hall, trying to decide where to go. The NUM strike offices were upstairs, she vaguely remembered, so she made for the ornately carved staircase. On the first-floor landing, it all became much easier. All she had to do was to follow the low mutter of voices and the high thin layer of cigarette smoke.
A few yards down the hall, a door was cracked ajar, the source of the sound and the smell. Jenny tapped nervously and the room went quiet. At last, a cautious voice said, ‘Come in.’
She slid round the door like a church mouse. The room was dominated by a U-shaped table covered in tartan oilcloth. Half a dozen men were slouched around it in varying states of despondency. Jenny faltered when she realized the man at the top corner was someone she recognized but did not know. Mick McGahey, former Communist, leader of the Scottish miners. The only man, it was said, who could stand up to King Arthur and make his voice heard. The man who had been deliberately kept from the