The Shift Key (27 page)

He what?

He was already heading downstairs – he had made a mug of hot Bovril and a slice of toast to fill his belly – he had disposed of this exiguous nourishment … when he stopped and thought again.

And the word that haunted his mind was:
after-effects.

He shook his head abruptly. He was in the kitchen with an empty mug before him and a plate that bore dry crumbs. He rose, glancing at his watch and realizing with dismay what time it was, to put the used crockery in the sink.

A car pulled up outside.

He ran water over the plate and mug, mechanically.

There was a tap at the front door.

He ignored it.

There was a ring at the bell.

That was loud enough to be heard next door. Annoyed, he marched into the hall, set to say, ‘Dr Hastoby in Hatterbridge is on duty this weekend –’

Instead he said, blinking, ‘Jenny?’

She confronted him, hands on hips, glaring. ‘Yes, it’s me!’ – kicking the door to with her heel. ‘And you’re not bloody going to turn me out! Come here!’

Once more engulfed by recklessness, he did so.

‘Why didn’t you stay?’ – spelled out by wet lips against his neck. ‘Don was right! And he’s been in his job longer than I’ve been alive!’

What am I doing here? I’m in bed, not alone! This is incredible! What became of my pyjamas
–
her clothes?

But he did know, if only vaguely. He recollected, when he set his mind to it, how his hands had met the sleekness of her inner thighs as he drew down her jeans.

Who? Not possible for it to be Jenny …

It was.

What, though, was she saying? It had to do with the after-effects of inhaling Oneirin –

‘I’m not a dream! Damn you! I’m
real real real!
’

And his mouth remembered shaping foolish words.

But not as keenly as the rest of him remembered her.

‘I knew if someone didn’t do this right away it would be too late for bad and all and I’m so glad I figured it out right because I’ve made so many crazy mistakes …’

It was Sunday morning. There was light behind the close-drawn curtains, grey and misty. Steven stretched and turned
over, and finally convinced himself that someone real was talking to him.

He had thought it all imagination.

But she was rolling him on his back, her hand exploring his crotch, erecting and straddling him, speaking as it were with both her mouths as her breasts bobbed up and down. She was saying again, ‘I wish you’d stayed to hear what Don said about you! He was right! If a place like this doesn’t have a doctor that can tell the difference between the Devil and a leak of chemicals –!’

He cried out, a blast of over-long chastity overcoming him. (Last night …? But last night was a veil of dream.)

She fell beside him, snugglingly content, one arm across his chest, and carried on with what she was saying.

‘And
if a place like this doesn’t have someone like me whose business it is to watch and listen and take notice, people like Frass can get away with murder!’

He yawned tremendously. When he could, he said, ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Don’t you see?’ She sat up, arms linked around knees, head turned away from him. ‘We shouldn’t have had to wait until Mr Phibson went off his head before finding out what was really going on. Don said as much last thing before he and Wilf got back in their car and drove away. He said – and I’m absolutely sure he’s right – that but for the lucky accident of there being a reporter on the spot, who … No, I oughtn’t to repeat the rest.’

He caressed her back. ‘Go on.’

‘Well’ – biting her lip – ‘he made it sound as though I’d done something special. All I did was make a few phone calls.’

‘And turn down my invitation to dinner,’ Steven murmured. He was waking up by degrees, and discovering that he felt much better than he had during the past few days. His mind felt normally alert.

‘Yes. Sorry about that … But, you see, I did it for my sake, not the sake of the people here. Do you know what I mean?’ She turned a troubled gaze on him.

‘Same reason I made that godawful speech.’

‘I suppose so.’

There was a pause. Eventually, sitting up, Steven said, ‘Well, things did turn out better than I expected.’

‘I know. But I think Don was right when he said – Of course, you weren’t there when I preached my little sermon about the information revolution. I was saying roughly that when everyone is supposed to be better informed than ever in history it doesn’t seem to make much difference. And just before he and Wilf left Don said it’s because we don’t make use of it. People who want to be reporters – he was aiming this at me, and I promise you I got his point – think they have to go to London or some other big city, or places where there are riots or crimes, because all the news is happening there. He said it isn’t the right way to go about it any longer. He said it’s a hangover from the old centralized pattern due to the invention of the railways, and the pattern’s changing, so that a major news story can break even in a hole-in-the-corner place like this. And what’s happened here is going to have national repercussions, which is typical of the way the future’s likely to develop. At least,’ she concluded doubtfully, ‘that’s more or less what he said. I think.’

‘Heavy thinking this early in the day has never been my forte,’ Steven sighed. He turned over to glance at the bedside clock and discovered it wasn’t nearly as early as he had imagined. He sat up.

‘Goodness! We shan’t be able to find a
Globe
anywhere within miles! They’ll have been snapped up!’

‘It’s okay, it’s okay! They keep all the papers for me every day! But’ – her tone altered – ‘we ought to find out how much of the story actually got into print.’

She swung her legs to the floor, looking around for her
clothes. He too rose from bed.

‘I’ll go and make some coffee.’

‘You do that’ – drawing on her panties. ‘I’ll get the papers.’ Jeans – sweater, not bothering with her bra – and shoes. ‘Back in five minutes!’

‘Right!’ – seizing his dressing-gown from the peg behind the door. Tying the sash, he was struck by a sudden thought.

‘Uh – does anybody know you’re here? I mean, I suppose your landlord knows you were out all night …’

‘Oh, Steve!’ In the doorway, she blew him a kiss. ‘As Don said, the old patterns are changing! Even in Weyharrow!’

Alone in the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it to boil, Steven pondered the implications of the past few days. Last night, he remembered, he had spoken with great bitterness about the determination of the local Establishment to make people believe nothing had really happened – that it was all a storm in a teacup.

Nonetheless, it had turned into a whirlwind.

Don is right. Every community nowadays needs a reporter, or someone who can be relied on to blow the gaff, at least. Every community needs someone who can look beyond the comfortable habits of the past and say, ‘This might be dangerous – this might be fatal!’

As though to underline his thoughts, the bell for morning service began to toll from the church. He wondered whether his prediction had been right, and the archdeacon – or someone sent by him – would be preaching hollow comfort and false reassurance yet again.

It must not go on! The ancient pattern – yes – was breaking up.

He began to think in terms of giving an interview to the
Chapminster Chronicle
when he took over Dr Tripkin’s practice. Now it was known that the village’s misfortunes were indirectly due to the Goodsir family, and their greed, it
wasn’t likely that people here would much respect the old squirearchy in times to come. After Mr Phibson’s breakdown they would doubtless have less respect for Parson, too. Who was to fill the void, if not the doctor for his knowledge, and the reporter, for being in contact with the greater world beyond the limits of the village? It was a parallel …

Not, of course, that one could make it quite exact. But it was a most intriguing prospect. Weyharrow might set a useful trend.

A tap at the door: no doubt Jenny. He went to answer.

And it was, arms full of newspapers, but face downcast.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. ‘Didn’t they run the story?’

‘Oh, it’s all over the front page,’ she muttered, pushing past him. ‘Questions are likely to be asked in the House – people from the Ministry of Defence are going to be hauled over the coals for wasting public money – everything I dreamed of is happening.’

‘Then what’s wrong?’ he repeated, following her into the kitchen where she dumped the papers on the table.

‘Marmaduke died in the night. Marmaduke Goodsir. I don’t suppose you met him. I did, two or three times. He was the only one of that ghastly family worth a spit in the bloody ocean. Apparently Basil and Helen got back last night and found him dead in his chair. Know what that means?’ She fixed him with a blue glare. ‘Now Basil can do what he likes – break up the library and sell it to America – turn the Court into a hotel – anything could happen! Everyone in the village who leases a house or land from the Goodsirs is scared stiff! This is
awful!

Mechanically he handed her the promised cup of coffee; mechanically she accepted it and made to sip, but it was still too hot.

He said at length, ‘You know something?’

‘What?’

‘I suspect you care for Weyharrow.’

Hand on cup, she checked. After a moment’s thought she said, ‘I think you’re right. And I think you must, too.’

‘I just discovered that I do. Sit down. I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking while you were out … Eggs and bacon? You didn’t eat anything last night.’

‘Please don’t tempt me. I’m on a diet, as usual … Oh, all right: an egg. Poached, though, not fried. Dry bread.’

‘Speaking medically, I approve.’ He hunted among the kitchen cupboards for a poacher, found one, and poured in water. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Old Mr Goodsir’s death is another part of the way the pattern’s breaking up, isn’t it? Life in a village like this must once have been very certain, very predictable, very secure. I mean there’ve been no civil wars, let alone invasions, for centuries –’

‘Invasions, yes,’ she said absently, perusing the
Globe.
‘Chris the Pilgrim and his bunch.’

‘Hmm! You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. But that only adds to the force of my argument.’

‘You haven’t told me what it is yet … Oh, see what Don said about you!’

He bent over her shoulder, one hand tousling her hair, and followed her pointing finger. She read aloud: ‘Dr Stephen Gloze, 28, the young
GP
deputizing while Weyharrow’s resident doctor is abroad, summed the matter up by saying, “I would have preferred devils because they can be exorcised, while we know of nothing that will drive this poison from our blood and bone.” Steve, that’s marvellous!’

‘He spelt my name wrong,’ Steven grunted, turning back to the stove. ‘It’s with a “v”.’

‘That’s probably the sub’s fault … Oh, you’re pulling my leg!’ She jumped up to embrace him. ‘But aren’t you proud?’

The phone rang.

‘I’ll go!’ Jenny exclaimed, and was in the hallway before he could stop her.

Let it not be a medical emergency
…

It wasn’t. She was back, flushed with excitement.

‘It’s Nigel Mender! He says the rest of the council have been on the phone to him all morning, and he wants a word with you, so would you drop by the hotel at lunch-time? He says everybody he’s been talking to thinks you were wonderful last night. And – and he said …’

‘Something about you?’

She nodded, eyes bright. ‘He said that if I hadn’t thought of calling in the nationals it could have been ages before we found out about the leak from Helvambrit.’

‘Did what’s-his-name – Wallace – get his story in, too?’

‘I haven’t looked yet … What shall I say?’

Steven glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Say one o’clock.’

‘They open at twelve –’

‘It’ll give us time to make love again and have a bath together.’

She stared at him for a long moment as though unable to believe her ears. Then she grinned enormously and dashed back into the hall.

As he set her breakfast before her a minute later, he said in a musing tone, ‘Squire and parson … Doctor and reporter could make a bloody sensible replacement.’

‘What?’ She glanced up, uncomprehending.

‘Just something that’s been going through my mind. I’ll explain later. Eat up.’

‘Okay.’

When he did get around to explaining, on the way to the hotel, she listened intently and at last gave a firm nod.

‘You’re right, of course. There’s only one thing I don’t like about it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never been the sort of person who wanted to take charge.’

‘Nor have I. I never wanted to be a consultant, or head of a teaching department. I want to be a country
GP
, that’s all … But you want to be a Fleet Street reporter.’

‘Not any more. Like I said, I don’t have the right antennae. I found that out last night. What I want to be is what’s most badly needed.’

‘Say it.’ He squeezed her hand.

‘A communicator. A link between a place like this and everywhere else. So that what happens there won’t be so awful in the future, and what happens here won’t ever again become a national scandal.’

‘Let’s say that to Nigel and the other councillors. If they understand what we’re driving at, we’re in.’

‘Agreed.’

Contentedly, she linked one arm with his. With her other hand she waved at Stick and Sheila, emerging from the Marriage after a Sunday noontide drink. Stick excused himself and came rushing over.

‘You heard about Marmaduke?’

‘Yes!’ Jenny’s sunny mood clouded again. ‘Isn’t it awful? When one thinks of what Basil may do now –’

‘That’s it! He can’t! Cedric was here a while ago and told us!’

Both Steven and Jenny blinked at him; Steven said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘The estate’s been left in trust to him! Basil and Helen can go on living at the Court, but they can’t sell anything – the library, the house, the land – without squandering a fortune in lawyers’ fees to challenge Marmaduke’s will! That’s what he’s claiming, anyhow.’