Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

      V.L. McDERMID

      Union Jack

      Contents

       Title Page Note To Readers Prologue: Mid-Atlantic, April 1993 Part One: Blackpool, April 1984 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Part Two: Sheffield, April 1993 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Epilogue About the Author By The Same Author Copyright About the Publisher

       NOTE TO READERS

      For the best part of a decade, I was an active member of the National Union of Journalists, holding a variety of posts at local and national level. During that time, I was elected as one of Manchester’s representatives for several Annual Delegate Meetings. My experiences in the union provided me with the knowledge that underpins this book. But I should emphasise that neither the events nor the characters in Union Jack are even remotely based in fact. The truth is that, just as thousands of delegates to union conferences have told their spouses, we spent our time in earnest debate, working tirelessly to improve the lot of our members. If we looked worn out by the time we returned home, it was simply because of the energy we had expended in passionate argument. Would I lie to you?

      On a more serious note, I’d like to thank the many fellow trade unionists who became friends over those years for their help, conscious and unconscious, in the preparation of this book. These include Sue Jackson and Kerttu Kinsler, Diana Muir, Scarlett MccGwire, Gina Weissand, Malcolm Pain, Eugenie Verney, Nancy Jaeger, Pauline Norris, Sally Gilbert, Colin Bourne, Tim Gopsill and Dick Oliver. Most of all, I want to thank BB, who gave me inspiration when I needed it most.

      Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely in the mind of the reader.

      For BB: Good things come to she who waits

       PROLOGUE

       Mid-Atlantic, April 1993

      ‘I could murder some proper orange juice,’ Lindsay Gordon grumbled, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the plastic cup of juice on her airline breakfast tray. She sipped suspiciously. It managed to be both sharp and sickly at the same time. ‘You know, something that tastes like it once met an orange. This stuff hasn’t even been shown a photograph.’

      ‘You’d better get used to it,’ Sophie Hartley said, peeling the lid back from her own cup and knocking back the liquid. She winced. ‘Not that it’ll be easy. Think you can survive two weeks without freshly squeezed juice?’

      Lindsay shrugged. ‘Who knows? If it was only the juice …’

      Sophie snorted. ‘Hark at it. This is the woman whose idea of healthy eating used to be adding a tin of baked beans to bacon, sausage, egg and chips. Listen, Gordon, you can’t come the California health freak with me. I can remember when the nearest thing to fruit juice in your flat was elderberry wine.’

      ‘Huh,’ Lindsay grunted. ‘Don’t get superior with me just because you used to eat your vegetables raw even though you could afford the gas bill. Anyway, I’m not a California health freak. It would take more than a bunch of New Age born-again hippies to change Lindsay Gordon, let me tell you. First thing I’m going to do when I get off this plane is head for a chip shop and get tore in to a fish supper.’

      Sophie shook her head, smiling. ‘You can’t fool me, Gordon. Three years in California and you’re working out, eating salad twice a day, swallowing vitamins like Smarties, even wearing jumpers made from reclaimed wool. You’re a California girl now, like it or not.’

      Lindsay shuddered. ‘Rubbish. The odd jog up the beach, that’s all, and I was doing that long before America.’

      Sophie grinned affectionately at her lover, and wisely held her peace.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are now commencing our descent into Glasgow Airport. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat-belts. Please extinguish all smoking materials …’

      ‘Looking forward to it?’

      Lindsay shrugged. ‘Yes and no. I’ve been out of the game a long time. I’m not sure I even know what the issues are for trade unionists in the UK any longer.’ Sophie squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll be just fine.’

      Lindsay smiled. ‘Shouldn’t it be me saying that to you, Dr Hartley? You’re the one delivering a keynote paper at an international conference.’

      ‘Play your cards right at this media conference, and you’ll be a doctor soon too. Pick the right brains for your thesis, and they’ll be begging you to accept a Ph. D.’

      Lindsay pulled a face. ‘I’m not so sure. I’m not even sure I’ve still got the old interview techniques. Teaching journalism’s a long way away from practising it.’

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ Sophie assured her. ‘You’ll soon adapt to being back in the old routine. After all, you’ll be among friends.’

      Lindsay gave a shout of laughter that turned heads three rows away. ‘Among friends? At a union conference? Soph, I’d feel safer in the lion’s cage half an hour before feeding time. One thing I’ll never be able to forget is the aggro level of Journalists’ Union conferences. You’d think we were arguing over life and death, not politics. I can’t imagine that amalgamating with the broadcasting and printing unions has made the atmosphere any friendlier. It’s not culture shock I’m afraid of – it’s being trapped in a time warp.’

       PART