The Greening (7 page)

I was walking down a long corridor in a palace or temple made of light. Its tall columns and graceful arches reached high into the light blue and then deepening indigo sky. The walls I passed were constructed of myriad shimmering minuscule bubbles of coloured light, all fusing into one soft white iridescence. A figure in white approached – whether male or female I could not tell – with arms outstretched in welcome. As it drew closer I saw its beautiful countenance. The being smiled at me with such compassion and tenderness that I felt touched in my heart.

“Come,” it said. “Come and see.”

I followed as it moved ahead of me with a fluidity and grace that made it seem almost to be floating. It led me into a vast room filled with shelves containing row upon row of books. “You can rest a while here and learn what you need to learn before you go on to the next place,” it said. “This library is for souls who choose to serve by healing. Healing takes many forms. You must search here to discover your own path of service.”

I can remember nothing more of the dream. When I awakened the following morning I felt calmer and more rested than I had done for a very long time. I felt more confident, too, of coping with whatever the day might bring.

The next morning, as I walked across the editorial floor, I sensed a febrile, nervy atmosphere. We were in the throes of a big story. I could feel it and so, I sensed, could everyone else. That morning’s issue had the arms story as front-page splash. A leaked memo from our embassy in Jakarta had revealed that the UK government knew that British arms sold to Indonesia were being used to repress the people of East Timor, which Indonesia had been occupying illegally for twenty-five years. The sale was a direct contravention of the UK’s proclaimed ethical foreign policy and the memo gave the lie to a statement made by the Foreign Secretary to the House of Commons.

It was a very big story indeed. Patrick must be deeply involved in it, but he had yielded not a hint. I assumed we would continue investigating the story and run a follow-up the next day. Presumably, Alex’s interview with Miss Stephens, the mole’s former lover, would be used then. I had barely reached my desk when Milo called me across. I headed for the news desk.

Milo said, “I’m putting you on the FO story. You’ll be working with Chris and Steve, with Caz, Imran and Alex for backup. The Editor’s decided to run the mole’s personal story tonight. Alex has got some useful stuff from the bastard kid’s mother. Very heart-rending, just the job. She touchingly thought if she talked to us she could protect the kid. She’s also said the mole’s got an alcohol
problem. Better and better.” Milo punched the air gleefully. “Thank you, God!”

He continued, “Imran’s in Bristol, chasing the kid at uni. Steve’s chasing the mole’s wife. If my luck holds – and I think it might – she’s in the dark about the kid. The big interview is yours. The mole’s at a conference in Oxford. He knows the game’s up and has agreed to give us the works on condition we go easy on his family. Dr Trevor Newell. He’s a specialist on South-East Asian affairs. If the FO press office rings you, act dumb. You know nothing. You’re not doing a story. Chris is going to ask the FO for a comment just before we go to press, so they’re put on the spot. You’re doing a complete exposé, all the dirt, everything you can get. See what you can dig up.”

As Milo briefed me, a hot and pricking sensation rose up my spine to the back of my neck. “Milo – why are we discrediting our source?” I asked.

“Why not? Two bites of the cherry.”

“But it makes no sense…”

“Which planet are you on? We get another scoop tomorrow. Don’t give me this crap, Meredith. Just get on with it.” Milo called across to Simon, the Deputy News Editor, “Brief Jo on the mole interview.”

Simon, who was on the phone, made a gesture of assent to Milo and indicated that he would talk to me at my desk in a moment. I walked back across the newsroom, the blood pounding in my ears and a jangling sensation in my brain. I was sweating and feeling sick. I was an experienced reporter. I was used to tackling difficult stories. I usually relished the challenge. But this time it was different.

The instruction to do something that I knew to be terribly wrong, knew to be a betrayal of the beliefs that informed my work and my life, delivered in such a sudden, brutal and matter-of-fact way, had knocked the wind out of me. Suddenly, just like Alex, I had to make a decision that I knew would affect the rest of my life.

I sat in front of my computer, staring blindly at the screen. I was in shock. Then I thought:
How could I have failed to realize
that this moment would come?
As Milo had said, which planet was I on? How arrogant had I been to think that, because everyone knew what I stood for and the Editor particularly liked my work, I would be safe? I had been treading a fine line between an awareness of the insecurity of journalists in the new Fleet Street and a belief that I would never be pushed this far. Suddenly that seemed naïve and vain.

Simon arrived with a briefing and details of my appointment with Dr Newell. I was due to catch the train to Oxford in half an hour’s time. I had a critical decision to make and no time to even think about it. I gathered together my papers, bag and coat and headed out to the main road, where I hailed a taxi.

As I sat on the train, feeling frightened and worried, my thoughts of the previous evening came back to me. I realized why. The sudden, shocking assault that had been Milo’s instruction reminded me of Great Aunt Vaughan, and how I had felt when she had delivered her icy warnings that I would come to no good. Those verbal assaults had been like sharp poison darts. They came unexpectedly, when I was unprotected, making me doubt my sense of self, doubt who I really was.

Except for Michael. He had made all the difference. When I had run to him for comfort, he had shown me how to slough off my aunt’s words. The balm of his friendship and the validation and confidence he gave me had made me strong. When I told him how well the Joker’s card had worked with Aunt Vaughan, he had said, “Now you’re getting it. Other people don’t upset us. We upset ourselves.”

As the train rumbled northwards through the outskirts of London, I thought again about the Joker’s card. In adulthood, it had slipped my memory and I had tended to meet any onslaught in defensive, fighting mode, taking it all on the chin. Could Michael’s Joker be the solution to this problem? Was there a way in which I could do the interview without compromising my principles? Or must I pull out of the assignment and lose my job, if I had the courage? I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift off into a
reverie. I opened my eyes and, looking out across the unfolding green fields of Oxfordshire, I began to see a possibility.

I arrived at Oxford Station and took a taxi to the Randolph Hotel, where I was to meet Dr Newell. The receptionist directed me to his room and I took the lift to the third floor. I knocked on the door of room number 37 and it was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in his fifties. He greeted me courteously and his manner was calm, but beneath the surface I detected a nervous apprehensiveness.

We sat together in armchairs at a large window that overlooked the busy street. I began by thanking Dr Newell for agreeing to see me. I said I would try to make things as easy as possible.

He said, “Your editor has promised me that my family will not be troubled any further. My wife is unwell.”

I took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth, whatever the cost.

“Dr Newell, I’m afraid that promise will not be kept. I expect you know that one of my colleagues has already interviewed Geraldine Stephens?” Dr Newell nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but another colleague is attempting to interview your son. Both those interviews are scheduled for publication in tomorrow’s paper. Another of my colleagues is attempting to secure an interview with your wife.”

The silence that fell between us was deafening. The rumble of traffic in the street below seemed far away, as though we were detached from the rest of the world, cocooned in a moment taken out of time. Dr Newell’s expression during those few minutes, as he took in what I had said and considered it, was something I shall never forget. The desperation and hopelessness in his eyes wounded me deep inside. I felt myself being stripped open, to reveal an inner worthlessness. I felt dirty, guilty and ashamed. It was still not too late. I could gather up my things, make an excuse and leave. The silence ended as Dr Newell turned to look me in the eyes.

He said, “It must have taken some courage to tell me that.”

For the first time in an interview, I felt I was losing control of the situation. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. Dr Newell
leaned forward and put his hand over mine. “It’s a dirty business, isn’t it? Even those of us who try to do the decent thing get caught in the net. Should we accept what we are, do you think? Acknowledge our fallibility and weakness and ask for understanding?” He smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose that approach would cut much ice with your editor.”

I remained silent. Dr Newell said, “I can see that a lot of unpleasant stuff is going to come out that will be deeply hurtful to the people I love.”

He stood up and walked to the window, and looked down on the street below. He said, “There goes the world, busy about its business, rushing here and there. We all do it. Until the moment when life catches up with us, and then we have to stop. Doing the right thing. I thought I was. Well, I had no choice. Sometimes there is no choice. People are dying in East Timor because we’re breaking our own rules. Someone has to speak up and this time it fell to me.” He returned to his chair. He looked desperate.

He said, “Help me.” I thought he was about to cry and reached out my hand to him. He grasped it in both of his and then began to sob softly. Whilst the journalist in me was keenly aware that I had not yet switched on my tape recorder, the better part of me rejoiced. That omission felt like a victory.

I said, “I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?”

Dr Newell looked up. His eyes were rimmed red. He took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

I said, “We could make the best of the situation. We could reveal now everything that you know is going to come out eventually, the things that I am sure you would prefer remained private, and I could write up my interview from your point of view. I could try to present your story so that you receive the understanding you spoke of. I can’t guarantee anything, but I can promise – and I will keep my promise – that I will write the story in that way.”

“Give me a moment.” Dr Newell crossed to the telephone and dialled a number. He said, “Darling, it’s not good news. There’s a journalist trying to get hold of you. Try to say nothing. Yes, of
course. Don’t you worry now. I’ll see you later.” He replaced the receiver and dialled another number.

“Geraldine? It’s Trevor. I’m so sorry about all this. I know. I assure you, it’s none of my doing. I’m trying as best I can to retrieve the situation. Have you reached Freddie yet? God, this is a disaster… the press are after him. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please keep trying. We don’t want a journalist telling him…”

He paused. I sensed that the person to whom he was speaking was giving him a hard time. He said, “You know, we made a terrible mistake. We should have told him the truth. No, I respected that. No, of course I didn’t want to hurt him. But I do think we made a mistake. I wish you’d told him all those years ago. It would have been better. Of course I’m not blaming you. I’m the one who’s to blame. Look, we’ll get nowhere arguing about it. Please believe that I’m now doing what I can to save the situation, to put things right. Very well. All right. We’ll speak again. Goodbye.” He replaced the receiver and returned to sit opposite me.

“Very well, Joanna,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”

I said, “Just before we start, I have to tell you that my way isn’t the way I was briefed, but I’m pretty confident that what I write will be liked and will be published.” Dr Newell nodded his assent.

It was a strange experience to listen, like a priest in the confessional, to someone revealing the secrets of his life. When Dr Newell had begun his career, everything had seemed set so fair. A double First from Oxford was followed by a PhD in political science and then a professorship. He joined the Civil Service and rose swiftly. He was highly respected in both government and industry.

Well, that was the outer story. Behind the outer form was the shadow of someone who had aimed high and worked hard but never entirely shaken off the traumas of his youth. Dr Newell came from humble beginnings. He was brought up on a rough council estate in Glasgow, where knife fights and drunken brawls were regular occurrences. His mother had been unwell for most of his childhood and she died of cancer when he was nine. This left him in the care of his violent, alcoholic father. Dr Newell worked hard to
make a life for himself. His diligence and natural brilliance brought him a means of escape – a place at Oxford.

But, in order to cope with the pressures, he turned to drink – the one thing he had sworn he would never do. He drank secretly, using it as a prop to give him courage and get him through. “I never really admitted to myself how bad it was getting,” he said. “It’s amazing how you can fool yourself when you really want to.” It had taken him years to control his alcoholism and he had been dry for the past ten years.