The Daughter

by Michelle Frances

  ‘I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you can water down.’

  Kate picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, it’s Grace.’

  ‘I should apologize—’

  ‘No. No, it’s OK. There’s something I’ve remembered. When the twins were babies, John was the sleeper. He’d go for at least two hours every morning and afternoon. Arnie would only nap for an hour at most. He’d wake his brother and I’d have a grumpy baby on my hands for the rest of the day. So, I changed their routine. I’d put John to bed in the cot upstairs and Arnie –’ she caught her breath – ‘Arnie, I would put in the pram. Outside. So he didn’t wake his brother. He’d sleep in the garden. He’d be there when all those sprayers went past.’

  Kate swallowed. ‘It’s not your fault, Grace.’

  Grace started to cry, small controlled sobs. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’

  Kate couldn’t sleep. She listened to the sound of Tim snuffling beside her and felt the tiredness in her bones, but her mind wouldn’t switch off. Every time she thought about Grace and Arnie, she was enveloped by a wave of outrage and helplessness. It was so unfair. Big companies, big corporations, they could do what they wanted. Nobody listened. Nobody cared as long as they were making money. Her fists were clenched and, sighing, she tried for the umpteenth time to relax. It was like what had happened with Becky, all over again. How many people had to die before someone did something? She felt Tim stir beside her. Her restlessness was disturbing him. She suddenly sat up. Someone has to do something. She nudged Tim. He groaned.

  ‘Tim,’ she hissed.

  ‘Wha’ is it?’

  ‘It’s the rules again. The rules are wrong. Bystander, my arse.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Someone has to change the rules.’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought you already did that?’

  She switched the light on and he winced. ‘No, listen. These crop-spraying rules. Maybe that’s what Becky was trying to do. Expose the insanity of the “bystander” method. Let people know what was really happening. How ill people were getting.’ She sat up suddenly, proud. ‘My daughter. She wanted to tell everyone what was going on.’

  ‘She was amazing.’

  ‘She was. But she never got to tell her story. What if . . .’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Well, Becky can’t tell her story anymore. What if someone did it for her?’ She paused. ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I’m not! I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

  It was a ludicrous idea. She didn’t have the first clue about journalism. She slumped back down on the bed.

  ‘I didn’t even finish school. Let alone go and get a degree.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I work in a DIY store. It’s not exactly high-flying stuff.’

  ‘Who cares.’

  ‘No one will take me seriously.’

  ‘Greg did.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I was personally involved.’

  ‘And you’re not this time?’

  ‘Not really . . .’

  Tim held up a hand. ‘Just stop right there, young lady. Your brilliant daughter was taken away in her prime and didn’t get to finish one of the most important stories of her burgeoning career. Your daughter.’

  ‘But I can’t write!’

  ‘You’re pretty persuasive. Need I say it again? Greg. Can’t believe I’m quoting this man’s name so much and in my own bed,’ he added, grumbling.

  ‘But that was just me talking. Gobbing off.’

  ‘Write down what comes out of your gob. Simple pimple.’

  Kate lay back on the pillows. Thought for a moment. ‘But what about spelling, grammar, sophisticated words? All that stuff?’

  ‘I do believe there is a magic button on the keyboard for all that guff.’

  ‘Sophisticated words?’

  ‘Maybe not that bit. But there’s a – what’s it called – thesaurus.’

  Kate was quiet for a moment. ‘You really think . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even with my crappy education?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though—’

  ‘Yes.’

  She snuggled in next to him. ‘Well, I suppose I can give it a try.’

  ‘Good. Now, can we go to sleep? I’ve got to be up at five.’

  She kissed him. ‘Yes. I love you.’

  ‘Elephant juice too. Now, lights out.’

  She flicked the switch. Lay there. Still buzzing. Maybe . . . just maybe she could. She owed it to Becky to try. She was pretty sure no one else at Becky’s paper had picked up the story – if they had, Grace and the others would’ve been contacted, they’d have known about it. She heard Tim’s breathing soften as he fell back to sleep.

  She’d have to regain Grace’s trust. Try and get her to talk, confide in her. The others, too. She’d have to do more research. There was science stuff to figure out as well. Chemicals. Reactions. She had been pretty good at science before she got pregnant. She’d taken chemistry and biology at GCSE, passed neither but the potential had been there. She might have to find experts to talk to, interview. This was going to take a while. Months maybe. She suddenly thought of Arnie and wondered how ill he was. Whether time was on his side. And Rob, working all hours as a cab driver for Abby and his wife, Helen.

  She nudged Tim again.

  ‘Uh . . .?’

  ‘Sorry. But it’s not just the story.’

  ‘No?’ he said in a muffled voice.

  ‘It’s money. They need money.’ She sat up straight. ‘In fact, that’s the most important thing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘They need money, Tim.’

  ‘Espect they do.’

  ‘Someone needs to help them get it.’

  ‘That’s great, Kate. You’re a wonder. I know you can do it.’

  He rolled over and she let him sleep. Flipping heck, she’d just gone from not being sure whether or not she could write a few words to deciding to help them get compensation. She was mad! She lay there for a moment, her heart still racing.

  There was something else. A warm thought spread throughout her body. Becky, this is how I make it up to you. I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m going to try. For you.

  NINETEEN

  Friday, 20 January 2017 – thirty-five days before the accident

  Becky shivered in the large farmhouse kitchen and decided against taking her coat off. She’d taken advantage of the fact Terence was out of the office all morning and snuck out to Ashdown Farm in Ramsbourne. She hadn’t bothered to make an appointment, preferring to surprise Justin Holmes, the farmer.

  He’d been unintimidated when she’d introduced herself as a journalist (it was only a small exaggeration) from the Herald and she suspected her youthful looks were what had got her through the door. He wasn’t bad-looking himself: late twenties with a definite wholesome vibe going on.

  Justin noticed her pinched face. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘heating’s not on. Doesn’t seem any point when I’m out on the farm all day.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Becky breezily and watched as the kettle came to the boil, sending billows of steam into the cold room. As Justin made them both a mug of coffee, she looked around. It was as far from a cosy farmhouse kitchen as you could get. It had an unloved air about it – the Aga was cold, and Becky wondered if it was ever used. A microwave had centre stage on the worktop and when Justin opened the fridge to get milk, she saw a few ready meals and that was about it. Several pairs of boots stood haphazardly at the back door in some mad dance formation and a single series of muddy prints had at some time traipsed across the room. Perhaps he’d been in a rush – forgotten to take them off. A lone breakfast bowl, the cornflakes drying out and sticking to the china, sat by the sink. He’s obviously single, thought Becky, and then he handed her the burning-hot coffe
e and the scalding mug demanded her attention.

  He took a sip of his drink and watched her, a smile on his face that was almost flirtatious. It was clearly down to her to start the conversation, which was fair enough as she’d doorstepped him.

  ‘Thanks. For the coffee.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  She looked around the kitchen. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  ‘Now I know you’re just being polite.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I managed a farm for the National Trust. In Kent.’

  Becky nodded. There was a momentary lapse in the conversation as she mentally tried to finesse her approach.

  ‘As flattering as it is to be cross-examined like this –’ Justin smiled and waved a hand towards the window – ‘I do have work to get on with. Perhaps we could get to the point?’

  Becky straightened up. The point it would be. ‘I wanted to ask you about your farm – specifically the crop-growing process.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I know all farms – most farms – spray their crops regularly. I’m interested in finding out more about this – what you use and when.’

  ‘Why would that be of interest to you?’

  ‘Are you aware of links between illnesses and the chemicals used to spray crops?’

  ‘Hypothetical.’

  ‘Maybe. Not everyone says so, though.’

  ‘Nothing’s been proven.’

  Becky smiled. ‘Not yet. Could you tell me what you use on this farm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Could you tell me how often you spray?’

  He didn’t answer her this time.

  ‘Are you aware of several cases of cancer in residents in the houses surrounding your farm’s land?’

  He paused. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Ever think there might be a connection?’

  He took the coffee out of her hands, which was a shame as it had finally reached a pleasantly warm temperature.

  ‘Are you throwing me out?’ said Becky.

  ‘Only if you refuse to leave.’

  ‘Those families – they’d love to know what was actually in those bottles of pesticides. What chemicals were going on their gardens, their pets, their children.’

  ‘It’s time for you to go.’ Justin opened the back door and the wind gusted into the room, freezing it further.

  ‘Whose products do you use? Which manufacturer?’

  ‘Out.’

  He came over to her and put a firm hand between her shoulder blades. Pushed her towards the back door.

  ‘OK, OK!’ said Becky, hands up in surrender. ‘I’m going.’ Her bike was leaning against the wall and she put on her helmet and straddled the seat. She looked back at him. ‘It’s gonna catch up with you all, you know. At some point, this is all going to come out in the open.’

  He gave a wry smile, and she cycled away, wincing against the cold. The track was frozen solid, and her bike weaved and bumped across the ruts of mud. She knew he was watching her. A glance back confirmed this. So, no rooting around then. As she went through the yard, she saw the pesticide store – marked by the obligatory ‘hazardous’ warnings on the outside. If only she could go over, but he’d be on her in seconds.

  She still cycled surreptitiously closer, looking longingly at the grey steel box, wishing she knew what was inside. And then she noticed something. One of the stickers on the container’s exterior had a small corporate logo at the bottom. Senerix. This, Becky knew, was an agrochemical company, who made numerous products for farm-crop management. It was a small victory, but nonetheless, joyous. She turned and pedalled for the track that led to the road.

  She slunk into the office around noon, knowing Terence wouldn’t be in for another half an hour. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed her late arrival, but it was quiet – people were out working or grabbing some lunch before the team meeting. Darcy, one of the PAs, glanced up but just gave her a friendly wave. Becky had some work to urgently catch up on but couldn’t help first firing up her computer. A couple of minutes on Google, just to satisfy her curiosity.

  Senerix’s website came up. It was sleek and professional, with bright colours and pictures of smiling personnel in sunny fields; the epitome of the healthy outdoors. Snapshots of lush green crops with the company slogan emblazoned over: ‘Your Food is Our Future: Crops in our Care’. Becky clicked onto the ‘Products’ tab and then hovered, unsure. There was a whole range available – did Justin use their pesticides or herbicides, or any one of the other six products Senerix produced? She chose herbicides and a list of eight came up, all with powerful, gladiatorial-sounding names.

  She picked the first one: Crixus. It was a herbicide that killed broadleaf weeds and grasses in a number of crop fields including wheat and oilseed rape. She went to click on the product data sheet.

  ‘What’s that?’ said a voice behind her. Flustered, she immediately closed the tab, hoping, praying, Piers hadn’t seen anything.

  ‘Do you have to go round creeping up on people?’ she said crossly, as she pulled out the notes she was supposed to be working on.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  Becky felt herself tense. Saw Darcy looking over at them from the other side of the office.

  ‘Where have you been all morning?’ asked Piers.

  ‘Your admirer’s watching.’

  ‘Huh?’ Piers looked up, saw Darcy and gave her a wave. She smiled but the frown on her face didn’t entirely disappear.

  ‘There’s nothing going on between us,’ said Piers.

  ‘Don’t have to explain yourself to me.’

  ‘I know that. But me and Darce – we’re just mates.’ He leaned in further and Becky pulled away, conscious of Darcy’s gaze.

  ‘She likes you. She’s of the belief you like her. Have a bit of decency.’

  ‘Not sure why she should think that.’

  Becky rolled her eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Piers, ‘you’ve not told me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where you’ve been.’

  ‘Following up on a call from the news desk. Cat up a tree.’

  ‘Think you’re funny?’

  She turned round on her chair and faced him. ‘Think you’re subtle? I know you want the reporter job.’

  ‘So do you, Ellis,’ replied Piers.

  ‘What is it with you and surnames? Some hang-up from your days at your oppressive boarding school? My name is Becky.’

  ‘Anything you say, Ellis.’

  Irritated, Becky turned back to her screen.

  ‘Are you trying to trump me with some story?’ asked Piers.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Hand to hair!’ said Piers, victoriously. ‘Now I know you’re lying.’

  Damn! She had to work on her poker face. Becky checked the clock. Twenty-five past twelve. She stood. ‘Daily conference. Last trainee there has to make the tea.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘New initiative. Terence announced it this morning. Did you not get the email?’

  She waltzed off, leaving him stymied. A minor triumph, she thought. It wasn’t true, but it was satisfying to see Piers’s reaction, nonetheless.

  The moment Becky came home that night she threw her bike helmet and bag down and ran up the stairs two at a time. She had the house to herself – her mum was on her date with that guy Tim who’d stalked her at B&Q. Becky mentally sent her a good luck wish as she opened up her laptop and began searching Senerix’s website. She double-clicked the product data sheet for Crixus. At the top were pictorial warning signs: a lifeless tree and overturned dead fish, and the outline of a human head and chest, with the heart ripped out. Underneath the visual warnings, there were several statements in bold type: ‘Suspected of causing cancer if inhal
ed.’ ‘Suspected of damaging the unborn child.’ ‘May cause damage to the nervous system through prolonged exposure or repeated exposure.’

  This stuff is going onto our foods, she thought. She knew it would be scientifically tested – vigorously tested – and there would be evidence that the weeks and months from application to harvest, the rain, the time passing, would neutralize the harm to humans. Personally, she’d still rather not take the risk.

  But the massive oversight was that when these chemicals were applied, when they were undiluted by time and weather, there were people, families in their gardens just metres from the edges of the fields. And because of the current rules, it was legal.

  Becky sat back in her chair. As sobering as it was, deep down she knew all this was still speculation. Not the piece of damning evidence she craved, evidence that would prove the chemicals caused Arnie’s and the others’ illnesses.

  She pulled up the file with all the personal information she had on the families in Ramsbourne – names, addresses, telephone numbers – and downloaded it onto a memory stick. Then she deleted the original document. She tucked the stick into her jacket pocket – she would hide it tomorrow, somewhere out of the house. Something made her want to protect these people, from what exactly she didn’t quite know, but a growing sense of unease was making her extra vigilant with her information.

  Becky glanced at her watch. It was getting late. Her mum might be home soon, and Becky was looking forward to getting caught up in the fun of the post-date conversation. She was about to leave her room and go downstairs when an email notification popped up. One new message: a Facebook friend request. She grimaced when she saw the name: Adam Langley. She hadn’t seen him since graduation day. He’d been at UCL too – had a room in the same house share as her best friend Maria on her journalism course. He’d taken a shine to her, in a bit of a cringy way, she’d thought. He was always a little too close for comfort, tried too hard. She remembered one occasion when she’d been over to see her friend and he’d made ‘too much’ shepherd’s pie for himself and wondered if she – and Maria – would join him. They’d sat in the cramped kitchen eating lumpy mashed potato, his sports kit drying on a rack near her elbow as he had some sort of squash match to go to later that evening – she hadn’t paid much attention to what it was.