She was met with silence and got a strong sense they were humouring her.
‘Has anyone done anything like this before?’ asked Sunita.
‘Yes. There was a recent landmark case in California. A school-grounds worker who has been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin lymphoma took a major agrochemical company to court, saying their herbicide product, which contains glyphosate, caused his terminal illness. He was awarded several million dollars in compensation.’
‘Wow, so he actually beat them?’ asked Sunita.
Kate could hardly lie to her. ‘The company is appealing.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Ian. ‘What about in this country?’
‘No . . . but that doesn’t mean to say we can’t be the first,’ she added quickly. Look, I’ve prepared a pack for each of you documenting evidence, cases around the world linking pesticide and herbicide use with cancers and other illnesses. The rise of Parkinson’s in rural Lincolnshire amongst people who live near potato farms. People who live near a cranberry-growing area near Cape Cod who have been found to have twice the risk for all brain cancers. Farm workers with prostate cancer, even livestock. The farm here heavily uses a product called Crixus which has been cited in other reports where cancers have been found.’ She held out the folders she’d got out of her bag earlier, but no one reached for one. ‘The bottom line is, do you believe the chemicals sprayed on a regular basis just metres from your home are the cause of your families’ illnesses? If so, are you prepared to fight those who’ve done this and demand their acknowledgement, an apology and compensation?’
‘But surely you need proof? Or at least very strong evidence that shows that there’s a direct link between this Crixus and cancer?’ Ian’s wife, Hazel, had spoken. ‘You see, the thing is, a lot of us are aware of some of these incidents and events but there’s one thing that’s not been said here tonight. It’s all legal.’ She waved a hand towards the window. ‘That farmer out there is not breaking any laws.’
‘Yes, surely you need scientific evidence,’ said Sunita. ‘Professional statements, academic papers. Have you got anything like that?’
Kate kept the optimistic smile on her face. ‘Not yet . . .’
‘And what are the chances of us winning, if we even get this to court?’ asked Ian.
‘Well, it’s hard to know for sure. But that’s not a reason not to bother, is it?’
The taxi driver, Rob, had remained silent until now. When Kate had gone to his house, she’d kept her eyes from the weed-entangled garden, the piles of washing stacked in the kitchen. His wife, Helen, who had ME, had been in bed and his daughter, Abby, had had soft-tissue sarcoma but was now in remission. Kate knew he was responsible for the care of them both, plus he paid all the bills. ‘Just because we’re ill and we live next to this farm . . . it doesn’t actually prove anything,’ he said.
‘I’m working hard to—’
‘You’re wasting your time. They’re never going to pay up. Even if you do manage to pull together some sort of case, you’re going to be locked into a legal battle like this American fella that will be delayed for years. Not everyone here has that sort of time.’
Kate refused to buckle. She gave a hopeful smile as she looked around the room.
‘It’s very nice of you,’ said Sunita kindly, ‘to think of us like this, but in all honesty, for a lot of us it’s too much effort when it’s so likely to fail. We’ve got enough on our plates just dealing with the day to day.’
‘I’ll do all the work.’
‘Why?’ said Ian. ‘What’s in it for you?’
‘I don’t want a cut. If that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Kate quickly. She paused; she’d never really considered this question fully before, but she knew the answer as if it were ingrained in her brain. ‘Like my daughter before me, I cannot stand an injustice. I’m helping because I’m sick of seeing the small guy, the ordinary person, get shafted, while the rich and the powerful continue to get richer and more powerful. We are not second-class citizens. They need to know we’re not going to put up with it,’ she insisted, ‘and they need to change. And the only way they’ll do that is if we hit them where it hurts most – in their pockets.’ She looked around the room; everyone was listening, but it was impossible to tell if she was getting through. No one spoke. Kate took a deep breath. ‘I feel I need to do it to make sense of my daughter’s death.’
‘I’m in,’ said Grace and Kate threw her a grateful look. She looked around the room again, waiting for others to follow, but some glanced away, some smiled apologetically.
‘In order for it to work, it really needs to be all of you. A united front. It makes the case much stronger,’ she added, but her words fell to the ground. The silence grew awkward and suddenly Kate felt foolish.
‘OK . . . well, thanks for coming anyway and I’m sorry for wasting your time.’ She suddenly had to get out of there. She gathered together the files and hurriedly stuffed them back into her bag and then, clutching it all tightly, made an embarrassed exit.
Grace ran after her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Kate quickly. In truth she was deeply upset.
‘They’re just so preoccupied. Take it from me, I know.’
Kate’s phone beeped, and she dug it out, expecting it to be a text message from Tim, seeing when she might be home, but it was an email. From the office of Dr Zayan.
She opened it and read it through. Eyes shining, she looked at Grace then walked back into the living room and resumed her place.
‘Listen up, please, everyone. I know you want to go home but I’ve something else to say.’ She held up her phone. ‘I’ve just had an email from a Dr Bernhard Zayan in France. I went to see him recently as he believes that herbicides have caused cancer in a number of school children in his village whose school backs onto vineyards. In particular, products made by the same company that makes those used here.’ She started to read the email aloud.
‘Dear Kate,
I have been thinking about your visit a lot since you left. I have also been thinking about the people you told me about in your English village. They remind me of the people here in my French village and I know what it is like to want to help, to seek justice for them. I admire you wanting to do this.
This will be a complex journey, full of shocks and outrage. Did you know that the president of the main cancer charity in France was previously the chief executive officer of a major agrochemical company? How is that, you ask yourself? Because this is a tightly controlled industry, where big money is at stake. Millions – billions – of dollars.
Some say these corporations will never admit it. But that is also what they said about the tobacco industry. So maybe there is hope.
Against my better judgement, I will help. I will write up whatever reports and evidence you need. I will tell you what I know about Crixus and will let you have access to my research. Your friends in England deserve more people on their side and if I can be one of them, I will.’
Kate looked up. She knew at once that something had been ignited. It wasn’t just her anymore; there were other people on board. A doctor, a professional, had offered to back them.
She took a punt. ‘I need all the details: when you moved here, how often the spraying took place, when you or your family members became ill. We’ll need to do medical reports, determine the costs of your future care needs. I’m sorry, it will be hard, but we need to be thorough. I’d like to visit each of you in turn, starting as soon as possible. I have my day job too, but I’m going to fit this case in around work and night school using every spare minute I have.’
Nobody objected. A smile bubbled up inside her. She was in. She was in!
The rest of the email, she’d keep to herself for now:
You will need more, though. More support, much more evidence. It is a huge battle and they will try to crush you like an ant.
You may have read my article, but did you bother to read the responses? The scathing counter-articles writ
ten by Senerix’s in-house ‘scientists’ questioning my training, my medical knowledge, even my motivation? They said my claims were ‘fake science’, made me seem like a deluded fool, a man out of touch.
The resistance from these companies is so strong. And yet it is like fog. Impossible to grasp, to move aside. Impossible to see a clear way through. This is how the chemical companies like it. They will do anything to keep it that way. They will lobby governments and fund their ‘research’ programmes. They will fight. And they will deny, deny, deny.
Yours,
Bernhard
That part, she would think about later.
THIRTY-ONE
Kate put every spare waking second into her campaign. She interviewed the villagers, family by family, learning how peoples’ windows were regularly covered with a thin film of chemicals after spraying, the same film that rested on children’s bike handles, garden-swing ropes, the clean washing on the line and the surface of ponds that pets would drink from.
The more she spoke to them, the angrier she got, but she had to contain it, to keep focused and calm. More than one family had had to leave their houses when spraying took place, although this was hard when they were woken at five in the morning by the fumes that came through their open bedroom windows. She also contacted doctors and research scientists around the world, asking for their professional support. She would work late into the night, typing away on her ancient computer, trying to organize her notes into a coherent case. She would anxiously back everything up – twice.
Kate had been nervous when she’d started interviewing the families in earnest. She was aware she was asking them to talk about some of the most painful events in their lives. But the person she was most nervous of was Rob, the taxi driver.
He was sitting opposite her now at a small table, tucked away in a corner of Ramsbourne’s local cafe. It was late afternoon in the middle of the week on an unseasonably cold day and several people were huddled over steaming coffees. A large glass of orange juice, which Kate had bought, was on the table in front of Rob. Kate watched as he drew patterns in the condensation on the glass, knowing he was uncomfortable, knowing she was too.
‘How’s Helen?’ she asked.
‘She’s OK. Having a good week, actually. She’s been up and about a bit. Did the food shop yesterday.’
‘That’s great!’ Kate exclaimed, then immediately regretted her showy burst of enthusiasm as Rob had closed up again. ‘Um . . . well, if it’s OK with you, I’d like to go over a few of the facts.’ She paused. He said nothing. ‘When did you move to Ramsbourne?’
‘Helen and I came here when Abby was five . . . seven years ago.’
‘And you’ve lived in the same house the entire time?’
‘That’s right.’
Kate wrote it down in her notepad.
‘And . . . when did Abby get ill?’
He flinched. ‘It was Helen first. She got ME four years ago. Had to give up her job as a dental nurse.’
‘How bad is her illness?’
‘She’s not making it up, if that’s what you mean. It’s a proper disease you know, not just some excuse for being lazy or anything.’
Kate held out a placating hand. ‘I know, I know. What I meant is, is she able to help with the running of the house?’
‘Not often.’
‘Are you able to get anyone in?’
He stared at her coldly. ‘Who’s going to pay for that, then?’
Kate nodded. ‘The reason I’m asking is that I have to assess costs – as part of figuring out what compensation you should be entitled to.’ She took a breath. ‘Back to Abby . . . when was she diagnosed with sarcoma?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘And now . . .?’
‘In the clear.’
‘That’s great,’ said Kate.
‘So, you really think you can have a go at whoever owns this farm then?’
‘Yes, I do.’
He frowned at her, eyes hostile with scepticism. ‘How much?’
She was taken aback by his bluntness.
‘In compensation? Well, it would depend on everyone’s types and levels of illness, loss and hardship. But something in the region of two to five million.’
‘So, what’s that work out at each?’
Kate shook her head. ‘No, that would be just for you. And Helen and Abby. I did a bit of checking – a carer costs approximately fifteen pounds an hour. If you had help for only two hours a day, assuming Helen needed help for the next forty years, that’s nearly half a million. And her care needs could well go up. And there’s Helen’s loss of earnings, your loss of earnings while you’re caring for them both. And Abby . . . hopefully she’s going to be fine now but if . . . in the future . . .’
He stared at her for a moment, then started laughing. It was loud and hard, and people were looking round. She got embarrassed and was about to ask him to stop, when he suddenly ceased.
‘You seriously think whoever owns this farm is going to pay two million for each of us?’
‘Well, each case will be different, but potentially, yes.’
Kate could see Rob was angry. He took a sip of his drink, seemingly to try and calm himself down before he spoke.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of research myself since you came along. Once you’d persuaded us all to come with you down this road, I thought maybe there’s a chance – Kate seems to think so. I came across this article from a few years ago. A case in New Zealand. An organic farmer had his entire crop contaminated by his neighbouring farmer’s genetically modified seed, which blew over during harvesting. His whole livelihood gone. So, he decides to sue. Quite right too, you’d think. And he’s got all the evidence, all the proof. A no-brainer, right? Except what happens next is that this other farmer, the GM one, he gets a call from some top fancy lawyer offering to help him out. Represent him. Oh no, he says, I can’t afford the likes of you. You don’t have to, says this lawyer, cos someone else is gonna pay my humungous fees. The GM-seed manufacturer heard about your little dilemma and has offered to cover all costs. And, seeing as they have very deep pockets, they could just go on paying and paying –’ Rob waved his arm around – ‘ad infinitum. Or at least for as long as it took to stop the other guy, the organic guy, from winning. All the GM farmer had to do was promise to keep this little arrangement a secret.’
‘I—’ started Kate.
Rob held up a hand. ‘I’m not finished. It would’ve been cheaper to just compensate the organic farmer, but they couldn’t do that as that would mean they’d have to admit to being in the wrong. And that GM-seed manufacturer, well, guess what? They also make herbicides. If they’re going to those lengths to protect their seed business, what do you think they – or any other similar company – is going to do about their herbicide business?’ He paused. ‘So, what happens when Ashdown Farm’s herbicide supplier gets wind of what you’re up to? Realizes you’re planning on making this public – and apportioning blame on their very lucrative product?’ He leaned across the table. ‘What’s gonna happen then?’
Kate was silent. She’d seen the same article and had been as outraged as Rob was now. But she wasn’t going to give up. Hell, they’d hardly started.
Rob stood. ‘I’ll give it a couple of months. Don’t let us down, Kate. No fannying about, it’s not a game.’ He took his coat from the back of his chair and turned to leave. Kate watched as he crossed to the door then, drawing up his hood against the rain, he left without a backward glance.
She sighed. Already the weight of this undertaking was resting heavily on her shoulders. She’d learned quite a bit on her evening course, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough. She was completely out of her depth. As she started to pack up her notebook, a new truth stared her in the face: she needed help.
Kate gathered her jacket and bag and left the cafe. As she made her way down the road, a man crossed a little way in front of her. For a brief moment she caught his face and thought it looked familiar. But th
en he turned away and headed into the pub. Where had she seen him before? Tall, with a horseshoe moustache. She shook her head, couldn’t remember. Not wanting to miss her train, she hurried on.
Janković walked slowly through the pub, looking around methodically, not finding what he was looking for until he came into the snug. He stopped in the doorway. A fire was lit against the cold and Justin Holmes was holed up at a table, alone, working on some paperwork.
Justin looked up as Janković unzipped a pocket on the front of his damp leather jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and laid it over the paperwork on the table.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Justin, taken aback.
Janković tapped the sheet of paper and Justin looked down, even while knowing what it was. There, printed out, was his resignation letter. His second resignation letter.
‘I thought we’d been through this,’ said Janković.
‘I quit.’
‘Not possible. You are a highly valued member of the company.’
‘What if I just left?’
‘We’d find you.’ Janković smiled. ‘Why the sudden change of heart? Has something happened? Someone been in touch? A new visit from a newspaper?’
Justin tried to keep his voice steady. ‘No.’
‘Only, you know you are supposed to let us know. If there are any.’
‘There hasn’t been.’
Janković sat back languidly in his chair, arms outstretched so his fingertips reached the table. ‘You were not meant to find out. And as you did, you will have to stay in employment. You’ve had a pay rise, a significant one.’
‘It’s not—’
Justin stopped talking as Janković suddenly stood. He moved away from his chair, walking around the table until he was behind Justin. Justin made himself sit still, not turn around. Suddenly an excruciating pain seared the back of his neck, accompanied by a sickly burning smell. Justin leapt up, clutching his neck in agony. ‘What the fuck!’
Janković was standing behind him, a red-hot ember pinched in some tongs. Justin backed away as Janković replaced the ember on the fire.
The Daughter Page 17