Widows & Orphans (35 page)

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘He sent me a visiting order. Put me down as his mother.’

‘Didn’t anyone check?’

‘He told them I was his real mother who gave him away when he was born.’

‘He’s playing the system. It’s always easier for family members.’

‘No, he’s ashamed of me. He used to see things so strange and special. Now he sees them same as everyone else. And what does he see when he looks at me: a fat old bag!’ She began to shake violently.

‘That’s nonsense!’

‘Is it? How would you know?’ She jerked her glass and splashed wine on the carpet. ‘Oh lord, I’ll fetch a cloth.’

‘It’s only a drop; it doesn’t matter. Don’t forget, I’m moving out on Friday.’

‘Of course it matters. I’m the cleaner!’ She fell into a strange rhythmic sobbing. ‘That’s what I am: the cleaner.’

‘And I’m the boss. At least for another two days. So please don’t worry.’

‘You do understand, don’t you?’ she asked urgently. ‘I know what they think of me downstairs: a silly tart with a toy boy. But you know that I really loved him. We were Adam and Eve.’ Duncan pictured the whitewashed wall. ‘Age didn’t count. I remember when the vicar said how it only came into the world with the snake and the apple. I thought that was beautiful. I thought it was paradise. And now I’ll never see him again.’

‘You mean not till he’s released?’

‘I mean not till never. He says he won’t come back to Francombe. He’s through with this place.’

‘What about his mother?’

‘She’s gone into a home. I looked in on her Christmas time. She had carers from the Council. Kurds. She said she only wanted English, so they’ve sent her over Leversden way. I’d visit but it’s three bus rides.’

‘If you’d like a lift…’

‘What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? Tell me! You’re a clever man, Mr Neville.’

‘No, I’m an educated man. There’s a difference.’

‘Do you ever wonder what it’s all for? Life, I mean.’

‘I do indeed. Far too often.’

‘My mum never had much of anything, except kids. But she had God. In her eyes everything happened for a reason. It was all part of His plan. And as a kid I believed that too. Because she told me. And the teachers told me. And the Bible told me, in words that sounded like answers even when they weren’t. But I can’t believe it any more. If God’s all-good like they say, then why does He make things so hard for us? If it’s a test, why doesn’t He give us one we can pass?’

‘Have you thought of speaking to Henry … Father Grainger?’

‘I tried after Jordan’s arrest. But all he said was that God didn’t want us to feel too sure of ourselves; He wanted us to ask questions. Why, when it just makes us more unhappy? If there’s no hope in this world and there’s no hope in the next, what’s the point of us being here?’

‘I wish I had all the answers – I wish I even had one – but I don’t.’ After giving up on God, Duncan had told himself that the purpose of life was to make the world a better place for the next generation but, having seen how little respect that generation had for the one before, he was less convinced. He racked his befuddled brain for evidence that all the scientific and
technological progress over the centuries had been matched by comparable advances in morality, empathy or behaviour. Nevertheless a vestige of his father’s seigneurial code prevented his abandoning Mary to her despair. ‘That said, maybe Henry’s right and our curiosity is what saves us? Maybe the only way we can change the world is by questioning the universe? In the meantime let’s polish off the bottle.’

How ironic that like a disillusioned priest the one consolation he could offer her was wine! He refilled her glass, which she downed in three gulps as if anxious to escape before divulging anything else. Then, staggering to her feet, she proposed to return to work. Gently overruling her, he guided her to the door with the reminder that he would see her at the leaving party on Friday. Feeling unusually energised, he decided to check his email, only to recall that his laptop was being repaired and he would have to go down to the office. While there he would write to Tim Barker (Mr Fixit) who, having promised to sort out the problem over the weekend, had rung on Monday to say that he was having trouble recovering data from the hard drive. Baffled by the workings of a telephone, let alone a computer, he had been reluctant to take issue with him, simply stressing the importance of speed since, from Friday, he would no longer have access to the
Mercury
system and be forced to join the Internet surfers at Chomp ’n’ Click Cyber Café.

All thought of email was swept aside when he made his way downstairs and into the reporters’ room, stopping to savour the unique stillness of what a few hours ago had been a hive of activity. He cast his mind back to the day when his father had first introduced him to the gang of impassioned, irreverent, serious, funny men and women whose lives were far more thrilling than any he had read about in books. How he had loved to watch them as they went about their work! On special days they gave him the job of cutting up the paper and date-stamping stories for the files (putting his friends’ pop-up
farms and home-made greeting cards to shame). Stirred by the memory, he walked towards the case room, which had lain empty for years. No sooner had he entered than it was once again filled with the clatter of typesetting machines and the dense heat of molten metal. Brushing against a crate, he instinctively recoiled as though from a trolley that held a forme ready for the press. He vividly recalled his own delight and the compositors’ horror when, minutes before deadline, one slid off and smashed into gibberish. Somehow they managed to reset it in time, adding to the romance of a process that could not have been further removed from the cold, clinical world of digital technology.

Despite all his years in the editor’s chair, it was his childhood memories that predominated. Giddy with nostalgia, he decided to make a final tour of the building, going first to the boardroom where three of his four predecessors remained to greet him while the fourth had been crated up and sent to auction, ready for a probable relocation to America, where he would be no more than an incidental name on a label. Studiously avoiding the archives, which, holding no interest for Newscom, were to be stored in the Central Library, he walked through the entrance hall to the basement, for sixty years home to the printing presses and the hub of the entire operation. Although it now housed nothing more sinister than a colony of rats, the thunderous room crammed with brawny men reeking of sweat and dust and the waxy barrier cream that they rubbed on their hands had once given the descent to hell a very specific meaning.

Chastened, he went up to his office where he read through his mail. He was both surprised and touched by the messages of support prompted by his departure and impervious to the occasional gibe, such as that from Luca Salvatore who claimed that Francombe in general and the Pizza on the Prom in particular would be a happier place without his meddling. After replying to a batch of well-wishers, diligently finding
a distinctive tone for each, he glanced at his watch and, not wanting to call Ellen from his desk, returned to the flat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ringing her from the sitting room, ‘I lost track of the time.’

‘Did the meeting go on longer than planned?’

‘No, it was over hours ago. Actually it was over months ago.’

‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘At least you did your best.’

‘Trouble is it wasn’t good enough. Take no notice,’ he said, sensing her disquiet. ‘I’m just a bit down.’

‘You and me both.’

‘More problems with the kids?’

‘Not mine for a change. I spent the afternoon at Rose’s tribunal.’

‘Of course. With so much else going on it slipped my mind. What did they decide?’

‘As I expected, they went for Haycock Road.’

‘Linda must be devastated. No wonder Derek wasn’t at the Town Hall.’

‘They did everything they could: hiring a barrister so for once it wouldn’t be David and Goliath. But the panel agreed with the LEA that Rose’s needs would be best met at a special school.’

‘So they didn’t listen to you?’

‘Oh, they listened. Not that it did Rose much good – or me for that matter. Technically I’m an independent witness but there’s still a sense that I was breaking ranks.’

‘Can Linda and Derek appeal?’

‘Yes, on a point of law; not merely to repeat old arguments.’

‘It’s the same for us with the pier. We could apply for a judicial review but only if there’d been a fault in the application or consultation process. I’ll give Linda a ring tomorrow. Truth is we’ve barely spoken since the business with Craig.’

‘I’m sure she understands. When we were chatting before the hearing, she was anxious to know how you were coping with the move.’

‘I trust you told her “well”.’

‘I know my job. But I hope it’s the truth.’

‘I think so. I really do. Right now I’m a little demob-happy. Tomorrow I put my final issue to bed and clear my desk. Though the real test will come on Friday afternoon when the bigwigs from Newscom arrive for some gruesome retirement presentation to Sheila and Ken and me.’

‘I’m sure you’ll sail through it. Unflappable as ever.’

‘At least I have Friday evening to look forward to.’

‘Me too! Matthew used to pour scorn on Valentine’s Day, at any rate once we were married. Strange when you think how much they loathed each other but it wasn’t that different from Barbara’s contempt for Mother’s Day. Stop it, Ellen! Won’t you tell me where we’re going?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

‘Not even a hint?’

‘I’ve already given you one: backcomb your hair!’

Lulled by the prospect of the dinner dance at the Metropole, Duncan sank into a deep sleep, waking reinvigorated for his last day at work. As he sat in his office waiting for Ken to finish his piece on the planning decision, he read through the page proofs. Despite the entreaties of his staff, he had curbed any valedictory impulse. There would be no spread of highlights from ‘my twenty-seven years as editor’, let alone ‘my family’s 144 years as proprietors’. He had confined his contributions to a leader attacking the Council’s failure to meet its affordable housing quota and an ‘On This Day’ column celebrating Francombe’s first cinema, the Alhambra, which had opened in February 1914 with
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
. Elsewhere there was the usual assortment of horror stories, such as the cannabis farm at the Exeter Road children’s home, the racist attack on the Stafford Cripps estate and, most distressing, the quadriplegic man left to look on helplessly all night after his carer suffered a stroke; interspersed with feel-good stories, such as the motorist who married the student she picked up on the St Anselm bypass
(‘Hitchhiker Hitched’, in the jaunty caption), and the grandfather, father and son who had shaved their heads for Autism Awareness.

Duncan wondered how much of this mixed bag would survive under Newscom and the transition to what Brian, who was being kept on by the new management, had described without a shred of embarrassment as ‘churnalism’. But then what else could one expect from a man whose job description was no longer that of ‘writer’ or ‘journalist’ but ‘linear supplier’? With only Rowena and Jake remaining in Francombe, the scope for local news would be strictly curtailed and the bulk of the paper filled with syndicated pieces on celebrities and lifestyles and, wherever possible, celebrity lifestyles. Mindful of the irony, Duncan pinned his hopes on the emergence of a latter-day version of the
Francombe Citizen.

‘Knock knock!’ Sheila called through the half-open door and walked in with a plate of gingerbread.

‘But it’s not Thursday,’ Duncan said, as she handed it to him.

‘I didn’t think you’d be in tomorrow.’

‘Delicious,’ he said, breaking off a piece and eating it quickly for fear that she was about to cry. ‘I shall miss this.’

‘Won’t I be able to bring you any at home?’

‘I most certainly hope so. But I can’t expect it on a weekly basis.’

‘Who else do I have to bake for?’

‘Yourself,’ Duncan said, without thinking.

‘My GP tells me I’m borderline diabetic. One of the old ladies at Castlemaine died on Monday.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I hardly knew her. There’s some hoo-ha over her funeral. Jean asked if I’d made my own arrangements. She said people like us – she meant her and me – with no one to look out for us couldn’t leave it to chance.’

‘You’re retiring, not dying, Sheila!’ Duncan said, stifling
his impatience. You’re healthy … independent. The world’s your oyster.’

‘But I don’t like cruises! I’m sorry. I should go and buy the champagne.’

She hurried out, leaving Duncan acutely aware that he had secured her pension but not her future. He made a mental note to take her out to lunch in the next fortnight and discuss the various options open to her from voluntary work to adult education and even – he pondered as he munched a piece of gingerbread – setting up her own baking business. At noon Stewart sent through the proofs of Ken’s copy: the concise, dispassionate and vibrant prose demonstrating why he remained at the top of his game after four decades. Two years ago Duncan would have predicted that his retirement would be an even greater wrench than Sheila’s, but he had lost his zest along with the libel case in which Megan Riley, high priestess of the Salter Wood coven, alleged that he had irrevocably damaged her professional reputation with his report that she had invoked a curse on the Mayor during a rally to save the Ley Park adventure playground. Besides which he had a project to occupy him in the shape of his long delayed
History of the Fishing Industry in Francombe from the Middle Ages to the Present Day.

‘Catchy title, that,’ Brian had said. ‘Should fly off the shelves at the Seafood Festival.’

Having signed off the pages, Duncan steeled himself to enter the reporters’ room where the entire staff was gathered, including Trevor who, having guaranteed his position with Newscom, greeted his outgoing editor more affably than he had done in years. Overplaying his ineptitude, Duncan opened the first of the champagne bottles that Sheila had bought (‘three for two’ to the end) and poured everyone a glass.