Dated over five years before, the one she was searching for had been written by the financial correspondent of a Sunday newspaper.
‘It will,’ it said. ‘obviously relieve the tense situation created by the sudden and largely unexplained resignation of the five senior executives of Stirling Industries in the US, that Robert Stirling has appointed his son Theo to head up the US operation and to restore confidence in the company in a shaky market.’
The voice of Matt G. Harksey came floating back. ‘Forced to say I had resigned... avoiding a scandal... incompetent Stirling...’ There was no denying the facts, they were all there.
‘Winchester and Oxford-educated Stirling is no stranger to American hard-nosed business methods or boardroom battles,’ Ellie read on, ‘having started his working life in disagreement with his own father.’
That Ellie found surprising. The accepted view of Stirling senior and his heir was that of a closely united duo, but clearly this hadn’t always been the case. She smothered a yawn and read on.
‘It is no secret that Stirling junior was not keen to join the family firm, which was founded by his grandfather just after the Second World War. But in a surprising volte-face shortly after leaving Harvard Business School, it was announced that he would be joining his father after all in one of the fastest-rising property companies in the UK, rumoured at the time to have narrowly avoided disaster when a rival company had beaten them to a lucrative contract they had thought was in the bag.’
Her heart missed a beat. No other details had been included. No names, no dates. She let out her breath. If Jed read these cuttings, he would be none the wiser. And it was all so long ago.
‘Having successfully masterminded the expansion of the company from its original home base in Dorset to London and New York, Theo Stirling now finds himself based indefinitely in the States, attempting to restore the financial security of the company.’
Since then, Ellie knew, his visits to London had been brief and infrequent. Good. Less chance for him to interrupt their campaign.
Joe calculated that the planning committee would hold fire on a decision until Conrad Linton presented them with his final application. They could then oppose it. Local support could help stall a decision long enough for Conrad to get bored with his plans being frustrated and sell to Oliver, to rid himself of an unprofitable problem.
So given that it was now October, Linton wasn’t due back until early in the New Year... Ellie paused. For the first time it occurred to her that they really didn’t have much time if they were to capture the imagination and support of the county.
They? Slowly she lowered the sheaf of cuttings and knew that at some point that evening, during the hours spent with her brother and Joe, her old friend and colleague she had slipped over the edge from regarding herself as an outsider, back to being very much one of them. Weeks ago the thought would have horrified her. Now it gave her comfort and intensified her desire to fight not just every inch of the way for them, but until she’d won.
She turned her attention back to the cuttings and her strategy for the next day.
For those who remembered the strange goings-on between John Carter and Robert Stirling it was, in that small close-knit community, in the way of small villages that resent outside meddling, a subject that commanded a discreet silence.
Until Theo Stirling damn well started to interfere again, Ellie thought furiously.
Memories of the first night she had encountered Theo again came flooding back. He had warned her to stay out of the arena. He had told her she would cause untold damage.
She do the damage? Of all the arrogant assumptions. It was Stirling who was the public figure, not Oliver. Stirling who would attract just the sort of gossip and speculation that she and Oliver had, for their father’s sake, so successfully avoided. Damn the man, she thought coldly. And any thought of Theo Stirling’s ability to confuse her emotions was wiped away by the more pressing need to put a stop to him attracting attention to the Carter family before it became public knowledge that he was once again trying to disrupt their lives.
She found it comforting, after an evening back in the centre of family life, to know that she wasn’t alone in fighting to keep Theo Stirling off their backs.
Reaching out, she pressed the switch on the bedside lamp and as she lay back on the pillows, enjoying the stillness of the night, a slow smile spread across her face. She hadn’t thought about Focus once, not once.
‘You’re winning,’ she whispered happily. ‘You’re winning,’ and with that she closed her eyes and for the first time for a long while she fell into a quiet, peaceful sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
The interview was not what Ellie, or indeed Joe McPhee, had expected.
Sandy Barlow, bright and breezy with headphones clamped on to his shock of beige hair, had greeted Ellie with a silent wave as she was ushered into the soundproofed studio where the midday news programme was already well under way.
A well-known rock star was just vacating the studio, having spent ten minutes lavishly promoting his latest record and a concert in a nearby town, and swept past Ellie, bringing in his wake an entourage of minders which said much for his bank balance but even more about his ego. Ellie smiled her agreement as the producer rolled his eyes in disbelief and nodded her assent as he mimed to her if she wanted a water.
She waited silently as Sandy, arms waving as though he had a visible audience and clearly in his element, cautioned drivers to avoid roadworks in the area and exhorted all and sundry to be sure to come and see him open a local supermarket later in the week.
‘After this next record, I’m going to be talking to local girl made good in the big city, journalist Eleanor Carter. Eleanor, who is now based in London, is home for the weekend with a story that is a reminder to all of us that home is where the heart is.’
After which he cued in Paul Simon singing ‘Homeward Bound’, pulled his headphones round his neck and switched his microphone off so that he could chat to a by now extremely nervous Ellie.
‘So when are you going to feature me in Focus?’ he asked cheerily as he glanced through the notes in front of him.
Ellie swallowed hard. Telling friends she was redundant was one thing; announcing it on local radio quite another.
‘I... er... um. I don’t work for Focus anymore,’ she told him.
Sandy Barlow looked puzzled and ran his eye down his notes. Ellie intercepted the next question.
‘I parted company with them three months ago.’
‘Oh, I see, where are you now?’
Ellie could hear Paul Simon: ‘I need someone to comfort me-ee, Homeward Bound, I wish I wa... as...’ She took a deep breath.
‘Nowhere. I mean I freelance.’
Gemma’s voice came back to her. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, could happen to anyone.’
She cleared her throat. Her voice held a note of defiance.
‘Actually I was made redundant.’
Sandy whistled softly. Ellie waited for the astonishment. It didn’t come. She could hear Paul Simon bringing the beautiful ballad to a close.
Too concerned with the record and cueing Ellie in, Sandy had time only to look sympathetic, before moving briskly on.
‘Oh, that’s tough. Poor you. Now, I’ll start by asking you about the threat to... where is it? Oh yes, Willetts Green, then take you on to urging support for a local campaign to prevent the land being misused.’
Ellie thought he must have misunderstood and then with a wave of relief sweeping over her, realized she’d done it. She’d said it, and nothing dreadful had happened. Nothing at all. Sandy Barlow was racing on.
‘Then we’ll break for a record, after which you can take some calls...’
‘Calls!’ whispered Ellie, aghast. ‘What calls?’
‘You wait,’ Sandy grinned. ‘The airwaves will be jammed. Just pick up those headphones when I tell you... no need to worry, I’ll guide you through it...’ He had started to replace his he
adphones and, flicking his microphone back into life as the song faded away, continued his lively patter.
‘That was Paul Simon and this is Eleanor Carter, star profile writer, formerly with award-winning Focus magazine, now spreading her talent around as a freelance writer, who has returned briefly to her home in Willetts Green with some disquieting news. Good morning, Eleanor, nice to have you with us. Tell me...’
And they were away.
Clearly, calmly, Ellie described the pleasure that would be removed from the lives of so many people not just in the area but nationally if Linton’s Field was redeveloped. With a knowledge of the environment she was, until that moment, unaware that she possessed, she talked fluently, passionately about the need for protecting wildlife and areas of widely acclaimed beauty to give ordinary working people a breathing space, somewhere to find a sense of peace and calm in their stressful lives.
‘It’s also so wrong, so very wrong, that the livelihood of people like my brother and his wife should be so threatened and maybe even sacrificed on the altar of someone else’s ambitions. I’m sure that the people who are bidding for this land would not want to redevelop it if they were aware of just how much damage they would do. And for what?
‘We live in tough times, the recession has caused lots of hardship already. Homes have been lost, families split up. Savings that were meant to cushion the elderly from the financial burden of paying for basic living expenses are dwindling as prices spiral and resources dry up. So many people have been made redundant and no-one who has gone through it would wish it on anyone. The management who make these decisions rarely suffer as much as the foot soldiers further down the line.’
If it occurred to her that Sandy Barlow had gone very quiet and that no further questions were being put to her, Ellie didn’t care. Her voice left no-one in doubt that these were no mere platitudes being voiced by a successful career woman doing her bit. Ellie, with a conviction and passion born of the misery of the last few weeks, was unstoppable. She hadn’t noticed the urgent exchange, the silent agreement between the producer and Sandy to let her just talk.
‘When you are out of work, no-one wants to know. You face four walls each day and hesitate to spend money because you don’t know what the future holds. So when I hear of quite unnecessary acts that would inflict even more bleakness on our lives, I can’t just stand back and say nothing. Do nothing. This is not just for my family, but for anyone who has worked hard and through no fault of their own become a victim of someone else’s decision about their lives.’
For the first time she noticed Sandy’s signal and stopped abruptly, looking apologetic.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed as the commercial break took over. To her bewilderment, the producer raced through the door and clasped Ellie’s shoulders in delight.
‘Marvellous, bloody marvellous. Keep it going. The lines are jammed. But not just about your campaign.’
Sandy, beaming from ear to ear, blew Ellie a kiss. ‘Brilliant. Wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t sell this to the national networks.’ Ellie was utterly dumbfounded. What were they going on about? She soon found out.
‘Hello, Maurice,’ Sandy greeted the first caller. ‘What’s your question for Eleanor Carter?’
Maurice was obviously nervous, a first-time caller with a middle-aged voice, nothing to betray anything else about him.
‘I haven’t got a question, I just want to say, I was made redundant a year ago and frankly I’ve never even thought about saving any land, but when I heard her... Miss Carter... I just felt she was talking about me.’
Ellie held her breath. Who was he? Did she know him?
‘It’s bad enough not knowing if you will ever work again, trying to pretend you’re not redundant, that you chose to go. Stupid, isn’t it? But one has one’s pride, and I realize it has been walking or just sitting gazing out over undisturbed countryside that has kept me sane,’ he went on. ‘Knowing that round here there are a few isolated areas where you can just get away from it all. I’ve never heard of Linton’s Field but I’ll campaign for that young lady any time. Sorry, boring old bugger I know, just wanted to say it,’ and he rang off.
Ellie’s eyes flew to meet Sandy Barlow’s. She didn’t know Maurice at all. He just felt he knew her, felt the same. Sandy looked jubilant.
Call after call came, from people who had lost jobs, who asked Ellie’s advice, who wanted just to share their fears with someone who understood. Finally the question came that Ellie had been dreading, not knowing how she would cope.
‘Carol from Bourne Green on the line,’ intoned Sandy. ‘What’s your question, Carol?’
Carol sounded defensive and aggressive and was clearly steamed up.
‘I think your guest has got a right bloody cheek. What does she know of the misery of being unemployed?’ she burst out. ‘She’s a well-known journalist. I read her magazine. She has choices in life. I have none. I was made redundant a year ago and I scrape around for work. There’s not a lot of that for graphic artists in London and none at all around here. Just jumping on the bandwagon to get sympathy for her campaign is cynical. What do you know, Miss Carter, about the shock of having your job taken away? Go on, just tell us that, then we might believe your campaign.’
Ellie licked her lips, and looked helplessly at Sandy. He stared back, offering no help, no intervention.
‘Carol,’ she began. ‘I do understand. I understand more than you think I do. You see...’ She stopped. The gulf was wide, she wasn’t sure she had the courage to leap. And then she thought of Denton, and Judith, Gemma and Bill, and today, all the other people, like Maurice, who had occupied her life for the last half hour.
‘You see, Carol, like you I don’t have that many choices, because last August I too was made redundant. I know what it is to feel scared at night, to sit staring in disbelief out of the window. Like you, I’ve been there, Carol, every last, frightening, resentful, angry, fearful inch of the journey from security to not having a clue what’s going to happen next. I’m out there too, Carol. We may have different jobs, we may not even have anything else in common, but believe me, Carol, you, me and every other man or woman who has lost their job, have one thing to share and instead of berating each other we should become allies, and start to make it easier not to be ashamed of it.’
Ellie paused, looking uncertainly at Sandy and then at the producer through the glass window in the control box. They were both mouthing and gesticulating with their hands, urging her on.
‘Angry, yes — but just for a while. I’m just starting down the road to recovery, Carol. No, not a job, but coming to terms with myself and determined to do whatever little I can to stop people like me and you, and my brother and anyone else who has called in this morning, being hurt any further.’
‘Tell me how, Ellie,’ broke in Sandy carefully. ‘How can you do that?’
Ellie wasn’t fooled. Even in the midst of such an outpouring of honesty, she knew, as a journalist, that she was saying not what he had expected to hear, but something he could never have hoped for.
Too late to worry about that.
‘How, Sandy? Well, I’m going to try to encourage people in jobs to treat people who haven’t got one with a great deal more courtesy. Return a phone call, answer a letter, keep them in mind for when a job might come up, maybe a drink, lunch every now and then. Not much is it? But when you are abruptly left to cope alone, it can mean the difference between sinking into depression and keeping your spirits up.’
There. She’d done it. Sandy silently applauded her. Carol had gone off the line.
Ten minutes later Ellie left the studio, having been shrewd enough to lift the mood of the programme to end on a positive note by exchanging quips with a crusty old Colonel who’d phoned. She’d made sure to give Joe McPhee’s paper a good plug and urged anyone who wanted to save Linton’s Field to write to her via Joe so that the campaign could start in earnest.
But as she emerged to meet the ecstatic producer, she was cy
nical enough to know that their joy had its roots as much in getting the kind of drama they needed and rarely found on local radio as in pleasure in her contribution.
‘You don’t want to come back next Saturday?’ he half joked. ‘Great stuff. You’ll have them linking arms across the road to stop anyone touching the place. You really meant it, too, didn’t you?’
‘I do mean it,’ said Ellie. ‘And I’d like to come back if we need to whip up some more support.’
‘No problem. Delighted. You’ve got a good voice for this kind of thing,’ with which he signalled for his PA to show Ellie out of the tiny building.
Chapter Eighteen
Ellie reached her flat late on Monday evening. She heard the phone ringing as she opened the door, dropped her case and ran to answer it.
Joe McPhee was brisk but Ellie could tell he was trying hard to sound quite cool.
‘TVW, lassie. Want an interview. I said we could probably squeeze it in. It’s for PrimeMovers. Goes out tomorrow, early evening.’
Ellie knew the programme. It was regarded as the sounding voice for the West Country, politically influential, socially significant.
‘Wow, Joe,’ she laughed. ‘Go on, admit it, you’re impressed. Squeeze them in indeed.’
Joe allowed himself a chuckle. ‘But the real point is, can you get back to do it?’
Ellie hadn’t thought of that. But after Saturday’s broadcast, Joe had been fielding enquiries all day from the networks for Ellie to talk to them. Meeting all their requests had delayed her planned departure but on the drive back to London, having completed two phone interviews for radio stations covering the Willetts Green area, and agreeing to write a piece for Joe’s paper, she had committed herself to do whatever it took to make the campaign a success.
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