Mebbe you’re going at it too much like a pig at a tater. Mebbe you need to hone your skills a bit.’ He was aware of the truth of it from Minnie.
‘D’you want to borrow Minnie again, Jericho?’ Dog Meat enquired sincerely. ‘Maybe you could rekindle some flame in her for me.’
‘I reckon not, Dog Meat. Oh, I don’t mean she ain’t worthy. She’s a fine-looking wench and plenty to grab hold of, I grant ye. But I had me fill—’
‘I could do with the money, Jericho …’
‘And couldn’t we all?’ Jericho pulled up his collar. The drips down his neck were cold now to his skin, which was already cooling.
‘Any fear of a loan then?’
‘I never loan money, Dog Meat. Don’t believe in it. Ask Tipton Ted Catchpole for a sub if you’re that desperate.’
‘Tipton Ted? He wouldn’t give me the drippings off his nose. I even have to provide me own vittles. Which reminds me … I got sod all to eat for me dinner tonight.’
‘Well, steal something.’
‘If you’ll help me, Jericho …’
Jericho nodded.
They were ambling through a shallow cutting. Just behind them stood the newly erected bridge that carried the road to Pedmore and Lye Waste. Woodside was a smattering of cottages and workshops, huddled in a warren of short, narrow streets. The two young men turned back to the bridge and scaled the embankment.
‘Now what?’ said Dog Meat.
‘Mebbe there’s a corner shop … Hark … Can you hear what I can hear?’
Dog Meat cocked an ear. The raucous cackle of a hen elicited a grin as he imagined tender plump chicken for his dinner that night with a mound of boiled potatoes. The sound originated some distance from the top of the cutting, so they followed it. It led them along a bending narrow lane at the end of which lay a fenced field that housed a pig sty, a hen house and, at its furthest point, a cottage. The pigs evidently enjoyed having the run of the field, judging by the black mud they had churned up where they had been rooting. A score of hens pecked at the ground, overseen by a proud, strutting cock.
Jericho looked about him for signs of human life. All seemed quiet, save for the snorts of the pigs and the clucking of the hens.
‘I’ll nip across and pick up one o’ them chickens,’ Dog Meat said.
‘And how many dinners will yer get off that?’
‘Tonight’s.’
‘Well, think on, Dog Meat.’ Jericho tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘If you could pick up a young pig it’d feed you for a few nights.’
Dog Meat looked at his workmate and grinned. ‘Roast pork. D’yer think Ma Catchpole would roast it for me?’
‘Aye, especially if you promised her a bit for herself. And if you gave some to Minnie, it might put you back in her good books.’
Dog Meat was convinced. ‘Help me catch that little bugger, eh, Jericho?’ He pointed to a small pig that was rooting in the mud, remote from the rest of its family.
‘Mebbe we should wait till it’s dark,’ Jericho suggested. ‘Somebody might see us and tell the police.’
‘That’s all well and good, Jericho, but if it’s dark I won’t be able to see the bloody pig. Any road, there’s nobody about, look.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They clambered over the picket fence that was lined with chicken wire and, in the rain, crept stealthily up behind the young pig. When both men were within two yards of it, the pig turned around with a squeal and scampered off, turning away from them.
‘Bugger!’ Dog Meat cried, and turned to follow it.
The pig began rooting again in a fresh spot and seemed to settle down. Once more, Dog Meat and Jericho inched towards it, a step at a time. Once more, the pig turned and scarpered.
‘Stun it with a brick,’ Jericho advocated, and himself picked up a half house-brick that lay close by. The pig found another spot where he hoped for some uninterrupted rooting, and Jericho hurled the brick. He missed, merely succeeding in splattering the animal with mud, provoking it to move on again.
‘Dive on it, Jericho,’ Dog Meat urged in a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘You dive on it,’ Jericho replied. ‘It’s you as wants it.’
‘Might as well dive on a sunbeam. Tricky little bugger this, eh? Why don’t I just get a fowl?’
‘Nay, go for the big prize,’ Jericho encouraged. ‘It’ll be worth it. Just dive on it.’
Dog Meat dived. Just as he was about to smother the pig it let out a frightened shriek, wriggled free and scurried smartly away. Dog Meat was face down in the sticky black mud where the pig had been standing. Jericho laughed aloud as Dog Meat, recovering from his prone position, sat covered in treacly goo and reached down for his boot, which he took off and hurled at the pig resentfully, missing the animal again.
The commotion had, by this time, alerted the occupiers of the cottage that stood at the far end of the field that something was amiss. A window opened and a man’s voice called, ‘What the bloody hell d’yer think yo’m up to?’
‘Christ! Get me boot, Jericho!’
‘Well, you ain’t about to get the pig now,’ Jericho responded.
‘Bloody, buggering, brilliant idea o’ yourn,’ Dog Meat moaned, standing on one leg in the mud. ‘Fetch me me boot quick, afore that bloke gets here. He might have a gun.’
A huge pig, that Jericho estimated must be at least a quarter of a ton in weight, trotted towards them from the far end of the field, splattering dabs of mud behind him.
‘Aye up!’ Jericho yelled. ‘Sod the bloke and his gun. The biggest bloody pig you’ve ever seen in your life has spotted us. Quick, Dog Meat, run – else that’s what you’ll end up as – bloody dog meat.’
Dog Meat turned to look and saw the great, grotesque animal bearing down on him, great swathes of fat shuddering around him as he ran. The navvy struggled to upright himself and began hopping desperately through the mud. ‘Where’s me bloody boot? Get it for me, Jericho.’
But Jericho was striding through the mud towards the sturdy fence over which they had climbed in the first place to get into the field. When he reached it he turned to look at Dog Meat lurching towards him on one leg, the vast pig angrily looming ever closer.
‘Run, Dog Meat, you daft bugger,’ Jericho shouted. ‘Never mind bloody hopping. You’ll never make it.’
Dog Meat heeded the advice and threw himself headlong over the fence just as the pig got its snout to his damp rump. He rolled over and shook his head, taking a second to get his bearings and to decide whether or not he was hurt. He sat up then, his hat skew-whiff, a disgruntled expression
