Over the next few days, as the Titanic continued its slow progress up the eastern seaboard, Claire became increasingly obsessed with the pig. Jimmy thought she was off her rocker.
They had a hard enough job as it was producing a daily edition of the Times, without Claire slipping off every half an hour to coo over the dirty, foul smelling porker. As far as Jimmy could see it had no redeeming features at all. Even the cows were more interesting. And they were dead boring. Several times he had to leave the newspaper office in the capable hands of their chief reporter, Ty Warner, and the rest of their news team (which had grown over the past few months to five reporters, two photographers, an IT expert and an idiot who made the tea) to make the arduous trip to Deck 3 to drag her back up to work.
Deck 3 looked as much like a farmyard as any part of a ship can look like a farmyard. Petty Officer Benson had been put in charge as punishment for his latest breach of discipline, and he clearly wasn't enjoying himself at all. 'What do I know about chickens?' he complained when Jimmy arrived, looking for Claire. 'I grew up in London. Never been on a farm. Only been to a petting zoo once. I got bitten by a goat.' He sighed before pointing Jimmy in the right direction. 'She's still in there. I think she's in love.'
Jimmy rolled his eyes, then continued along the deck to where Benson had helped construct a sty for the pigs. Six of the filthy beasts had their noses buried in a trough, hungrily gorging themselves on waste food from the Titanic kitchens. Claire's pig was off to one side, having her snout stroked by the Times' chief photographer.
'Claire.'
'Shhhhh! She's almost asleep . . .'
'Claire, I don't care!' Jimmy clapped his hands together with a loud smack, but the pig paid no attention. Deaf and stupid, Jimmy decided. 'We've work to do, Claire. What is it with you and the pig anyway?'
'She's just. . . cute.'
Jimmy snorted.
'She is,' Claire insisted. 'The rest of them, they just want to eat all the time. Babe's more interested in being pampered and having a chat.'
Jimmy wasn't sure which of these ridiculous pieces of information to tackle first. 'Babe? You've given it a name?'
'Sure. Babe. You've heard of Babe, right? The book? The movie? The sheep-pig?' Jimmy shook his head. 'Jimmy, it's really famous!'
'Not in my neck of the woods.'
'Well, take my word for it. Babe was a really clever talking pig who thought he was a sheepdog, and this Babe is just as smart. She's always getting into mischief, and anyone who gives Benson as hard a time as she does has to be doing something right.' Claire gave Babe's snout another delicate stroke. 'We have great little chats, don't we. Babe?'
Jimmy gave it a few moments, just in case by some miracle the pig suddenly winked at him and said, 'We certainly do, young man, now pass me a sandwich,' before asking Claire if she had mistakenly swallowed some mind-bending drugs.
Claire smiled. 'I know it's silly, but there's something about her. She's got such a nice personality.'
Jimmy shook his head. 'That's what they say about girls who aren't very pretty. She's got a nice personality.'
Claire tutted. 'And what would you know about girls, Jimmy Armstrong?'
Jimmy shrugged. 'I know about you.'
'And what is it you think you know about me?'
'I know you've got a nice personality.'
Claire bit her tongue. He was always trying to wind her up. She fought a constant battle not to respond in kind, or to punch him. She continued to pet Babe.
Jimmy looked at Claire with a very small measure of regret. 'Claire, look — I know you like it—'
'Her. She. Babe.'
'I know you like her-she-Babe — but maybe it's best not to get too close.'
'Why not? I get a better conversation out of her than I do with you.'
'Because, you know, in case something happens to her.'
Claire snorted. 'What's going to happen to her? She's perfectly safe here.'
Jimmy sighed. 'Claire.' He pointed along the deck to where the cows were lazily grazing from their own trough. 'Look, we have the cows on board for milk, right?'
'It doesn't take a rocket scientist to work that out, Jimmy.'
'OK, and those chickens running about all over the bloody place like . . . chickens. They're on board for . . .'
'Eggs, Jimmy. Eggs'.
'So, following that logic, the pigs are on board for . . . ?'
Claire was about to give another rapid-fire response — only she couldn't immediately think of one. She was thinking: cows — milk: chickens — eggs: pigs . . .; cows — milk: chickens — eggs: pigs . . . Her mouth dropped open a little. Her eyes met Jimmy's.
'No... ?'
Jimmy nodded. 'Unless you've worked out how to milk a pig. It's pork.'
'No!'
'Fraid so.'
'They wouldn't.'
'I think they would.'
'Not my Babe!'
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. Then a thought struck him. 'Unless . . .'
Claire looked suddenly hopeful. 'Unless what, Jimmy?'
'Unless . . .
'Jimmy!'
'Unless she really can talk — then we could retrain her as a radio operator!'
Jimmy spun on his heel and strode away before Claire could attack him.
'I hate you, Jimmy Armstrong!' she yelled furiously after him. But as soon as he was gone she allowed the tears that had been welling up to spring from her eyes. She stroked Babe some more. How could anyone . . . ?
No!
It wasn't going to happen. Her dad owned the Titanic, he was the boss, even over Captain Smith, and she was her daddy's little girl. He would do whatever she demanded. Nobody was going to impose a death sentence on her friend Babe. NOBODY!