by TP Fielden
‘After Moomie’s set was over last night – three encores, Judy, think of it! – we sat in the bar with Sticks and he told us he used to see the dead woman at those London parties. Obviously, most of the time he’s playing drums so he can’t hear much, and he never learns her name, but he says until about four years ago she was a regular on the circuit.’
‘Go on.’
‘Only he says he barely recognised her the night he clocked her in the Primrose Bar. Said she’d changed her hair, was wearing very frumpy clothes, cheap shoes – he thought she was down on her luck or that something had gone wrong in her life – in the old days she used to wear a load of jewellery, had expensive hair-dos and looked as though she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue.
‘He couldn’t understand what she was doing with a twerp like Bobby Bunton. Rich he may be, Judy – but the wrong sort, a real creep. And obviously pretty nasty with it too – I’ve yet to tell you what his man Baggs said to me. Threatened me, he did! They’re a dirty lot!’
‘So what actually happened that night?’ said Judy, her mind finally clearing. ‘I’m beginning to get the feeling, I don’t know why, that Radipole probably chucked Bunton out – not because of Fluffles’ drunken behaviour – but could it be because he and Bobs were arguing over this woman?’
Terry looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. ‘One minute you can’t remember your umbrella, even when it’s raining,’ he said, ‘next minute you’re ahead of me. Seeing round corners! I tell you, it’s infuria…’
‘Get on with it,’ urged Judy, her headache speaking for her.
‘Well, you’re right in a manner of speaking,’ he conceded. ‘Sticks and the boys came into the Primrose Bar for a quick one after their rehearsal and saw it all. Fluffles was three sheets to the wind and had obviously been knocking it back for some time – summoning the waiter to light her cigarette, fetch her fresh napkins, and so on – anything to draw attention to herself. Bunton was at the bar with this Rouchos woman for a very long time, heads together kind of thing, and then Radipole comes in. The two have a row, the Rouchos woman backs off and disappears, then Fluffles gets up to have her say and falls over. Apparently quite a sight to see – most of it came out on display. Shame I couldn’t have got a bit more of that in close-up when I was taking her pic the other day, because…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Dimont impatiently. Men – and bosoms!
‘She took over the row because Bunton was pie-eyed by this stage. He kept on saying, “We’ve got to sort this problem out,” but nobody was listening. Fluffles laid into Radipole, called him a snob, a crook – all sorts of things – then turned it on the woman – even though she’d hopped it – and started discussing her morals. Bobs had been chatting her up something rotten but Fluffles thought it was the other way round.
‘It was getting out of hand, so Radipole called the head waiter and had them slung out. Clever man – he went round every table, apologising, ordering them drinks, explaining that Mr Bunton had had too much sun and that he, Radipole, was concerned about Miss Janetti’s ankle which he thought she’d sprained, so he’d called them a taxi. She was still only half-clothed as she left the bar – that satin dress of hers had split wide open and Sticks told me…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Dimont, urging him forward, ‘concentrate, Terry, on what’s important! The row between these two men – who everyone thinks are at loggerheads over a perimeter fence and who appear to be on the brink of triggering a class war in Temple Regis – I’m right, aren’t I? It wasn’t about their respective businesses, but about the woman?’
‘Prob’ly.’
‘Probably! Huh! You know, Terry, you really ought to…’
But the driver’s door of the Minor had already slammed. If he had any manners the snapper would have offered to see Judy across the road, but long ago she’d resigned herself to this kind of behaviour after views had been exchanged. She scrambled into her Pacamac and hurried across to the Corn Exchange.
She and Terry never quite made it. As they turned the corner into Temple Street, the main thoroughfare through town, a hooting, shouting, seething mass of people waving flags and placards suddenly appeared and headed towards them, exhibiting all the signs of that finely judged level of controlled anger at which the British excel. It was a march, a protest march. The crowd ranged from scruffy youths to ladies in hats, from clergymen in dog-collars to mothers with prams. They moved slowly but with purpose, and the thin line of townsfolk who stopped to witness this surprise disruption seemed to be nodding their quiet approval.
‘That’s Jacquetta Hawkes!’ said Miss Dimont, elbowing Terry, who was struggling with the catch on his camera-bag. ‘Quick – get her against the crowd and I’ll do the interview!’
The hat the woman wore, pulled down as a shield from the rain, obscured most of her face but the moment Judy heard the roars of’ ‘Ban the Bomb’, she knew it must be her. Nobody had given advance warning of the march, but since the early spring such demonstrations had been cropping up everywhere – ‘a good way of getting the young out for a nice long walk’ she’d remarked jauntily at the photos of the first Aldermaston march.
But now she could see for herself the earnestness in the marchers’ faces. Even as they joked and skipped along to the music from a steel band, there could be no denying they meant what they said on their boards and banners.
Let our Earth
Be A
Nuclear-Free
Zone
Youth
Against The
Bomb
Nuclear War
=
Suicide
The Ban the Bomb movement had hit a particular nerve. For the older generation, the threat so soon after the end of the war of a further, far more calamitous conflict was enough to win their sympathy. Among the younger generation the future of mankind – or the lack of it – was enough to drive them onto the streets.
At the head of the procession was an earnest-looking chap in a dog-collar and one or two individuals who might be very distinguished indeed had not the summer rain made them look like drowned rats.
‘Come on!’ said Judy, summing up the situation in an instant, ‘let’s get her now!’
She joined the head of the march and introduced herself to Miss Hawkes, the celebrated author of Dawn of the Gods and married to somebody terribly famous.
‘This is wonderful!’ Judy, her face lighting up, shouted at her. ‘So unexpected! But why here – why Temple Regis? You’ve done these marches in Aldermaston and Manchester and places, but a seaside resort in Devon?’
‘Look for yourself,’ called back Miss Hawkes with an impressive sweep of her hand. ‘These people watching us have come from all over the country to have a pleasant holiday. They’ll take home with them to the many places they come from the message we bring.
‘Look at their reaction!’ she went on. Terry obligingly swung his lens around. ‘They’re pleased to see us – their conscience is speaking to them, and even if they’re not joining in the march you can see what’s going through their minds.’
‘Erm, look, can you stop for a minute? Just over here by the bus shelter?’ called Judy. ‘It’s important I get the best out of this story – and I must say, Miss Hawkes, you could have let us know you were coming! Just a few words.’
‘Just for a moment,’ conceded the lady, rather grandly. ‘Then we’re off to Exeter.’
They edged into the bus shelter, already full to overflowing with people escaping the summer’s ravages, and Judy dug out her notebook. Terry had disappeared into the crowd.
‘Please,’ she repeated. ‘Why the protest here, why the protest now? What do you hope to achieve?’
The great woman pushed back the brim of her soaking felt hat to reveal a noble face. ‘It’s time for women to make their voices heard,’ she declared. ‘London is full of politicians, and they’re all men. But we are more than half the population, and we’re entitled to have our voices heard.
‘I don’t like to segregate women from men, that’s not what I want to do. But this is different – men have gone beyond killing each other – they’re now preparing to kill us and our children. We have to do what we can to stop it!
‘We women are nurturers, we give birth. We have a responsibility to see that this madness comes to an end. Look over there,’ she said, pointing back at the march, now trailing away towards the railway station, ‘more than half of them women. We have to make our voices heard!’
Well, thought Miss Dimont, I’ll drink to that. I must get back to the office to write this up quick – and ohdearoh-dearohdear – that means goodbye to the Cat Rescue Coffee Morning and the Austerity Lunch!
She turned to thank her interviewee but Miss Hawkes had already gone, striding back towards the head of the march, hips swaying slightly to the tune ringing out from the oil-drums of the steel band.
She looked round for Terry. The march had cut a swathe through the holiday crowds but now things were returning to normal and they mingled as before, bringing back the more measured pace of life in Temple Regis. The rain had stopped, the plastic hoods were taken off precious perms, and hunched backs returned to their former upright posture.
She got back to the Minor but there was still no sign of Terry. They had an arrangement that if ever they got parted on a story, whoever had the keys (it was usually Terry) would drive back to the office while the other took the bus. Miss Dimont made a beeline for the bus-stop which a green-and-cream single-decker was approaching.
As she reached for her purse a hand touched her sleeve.
‘Excuse me… sorry to interrupt… hope you don’t mind my asking – I noticed you talking to the woman at the head of the procession. Are you a reporter, by any chance?’
Just my luck, thought Judy with an inward groan. She seemed pleasant enough but this really wasn’t the time to be discussing what a wonderful life I must have, meeting famous people and all that.
‘Well, yes,’ she said in a guarded but perfectly polite tone whose timbre carried the message, I am charmed that you’ve noted my job but I hope you can see I am a busy person in a bit of a hurry to get back to the office to write this story up.
‘Judy Dimont, Riviera Express.’
‘I do so love Athene’s column,’ said the woman but got no further. It infuriated Miss Dimont because people always said that. Not, what a glorious front-page exclusive you had last week on the bust-up between contestants in the Glamorous Grannies competition down at the Lido. Or, I remember the wonderful exposé you did on the ruinous cost of the new flower-baskets outside the Town Hall. No, it always had to be Athene!
‘She’s a lovely person, very sincere.’ The bus mercifully was nearing the stop, her escape just moments away.
‘There’s something I think you should write,’ said the woman. Her hand was still on Judy’s sleeve.
‘Oh yes?’ So often people’s idea of what constituted a story was infuriatingly wide of the mark.
Had this woman suddenly discovered a new way of growing prizewinning azaleas? Did she think the Mothers’ Union ought to get more coverage in the Express? Perhaps her daughter was a child prodigy…
‘Erm – bus is here,’ said Judy. ‘Look, can I give you…’ and out of her purse, mangled by the heavy copper coins with which she was going to pay the fare, she dragged a small business card. ‘We always welcome readers’ ideas,’ she said, churning out the usual old response. ‘Perhaps you’d like to write in?’
The woman’s grip tightened. ‘No, listen,’ she hissed. ‘This is something you must expose. It’s gone on too long, it’s tearing people apart, it’s ruining people’s lives! Something must be done!’
Judy looked at her as if for the first time. The woman seemed very ordinary, far too ordinary to be in the possession of a scoop. Yet beneath her soft exterior she could sense an inner fire, a determination to see this thing through.
Dammit, she was going to miss the bus! ‘Let’s sit down on the bench over there,’ she said, gently taking the woman’s hand off her sleeve. ‘We’ll have a nice chat about it.’
THIRTEEN
‘You have no idea,’ the woman was saying, the words fizzling out like an electric current, ‘I’ve waited years to say this! I’ve hoped others would say it for me, but nobody seems to have the courage to break the magic circle.’
‘I can see you’re really quite upset,’ said Judy, focusing properly for the first time – so much seemed to have happened this morning, and starting the day in a whisky-induced fog was no help – ‘please tell me, though, who you are.’
‘I will tell you, but not my name.’ The woman’s urgency seemed at odds with her dress – middle-class, anonymous, hiding the shape of a pitifully thin body. Her face was worn and anxious. ‘It really can’t go on!’
She half-turned towards Judy. ‘For ten years I’ve been dying. No, I’m not ill – I’m dying because of a mad, misguided belief which has driven a stake through the heart of my marriage. I need your help!’
‘I don’t think…’ said Judy, shifting uncomfortably on the bench, ‘I’m afraid however distressing, the Express doesn’t write about personal domestic troubles… it wouldn’t be…’
‘It’s not me,’ interrupted the woman. ‘Or, not just me – it’s the many women in Temple Regis! And if it’s the many here, then think how many more up and down the land, families put to shame by the wretched Freemasons.’
‘The Freemasons?’
‘They’re supposed to be the most wonderful organisation, aren’t they? We hear only about the good they do, the charity they distribute round the world. The determination to follow a—’ and here she paused before almost spitting out the word, ‘Christian path.
‘Well, I know it sounds a cliché, Miss, er, but don’t you think charity should begin at home? And if not there, then where? What’s the point?’
‘Dimont. Judy Dimont.’ The rainclouds had disappeared and the holiday crowds were milling happily around again, but even with the hot sun the woman’s forceful words made the air seem chilly.
‘The bailiffs came round today. They came into my home, and they marked pieces of furniture and other things which they say will provide some money when they sell them. It broke my heart when they said my grandmother’s portrait might make ten shillings.’
She looked bitterly towards Judy.
‘We have no money, for ten years we’ve had no money. After university my husband found a respectable job, but then he went and joined the Freemasons. From that moment on, it seems he was prepared to give away not only his money, but his independence and the capacity to think for himself. He – and the Freemasons – have ruined our family life!’
Miss Dimont was thinking of Dud Fensome. Were his rulings on Betty’s hair and weight – issued with total disregard to her own wishes and feelings – born of this misanthropic culture? It sounded very much as though they were.
‘Where does it all go?’ the woman was saying, shaking her head. ‘The money, I mean – that’s the question I keep asking myself. There’s all the stupid paraphernalia they have to buy – aprons made out of kid leather, gilded medals, fancy gloves – you should see the stuff he’s shelled out on over the years as he’s worked his way up through the – what do they call it? The Craft.’ The woman spat out the word. ‘You can’t begin to believe the expense!’
‘I do see what you mean,’ began Miss Dimont, tentatively. ‘But I don’t see what I can…’
‘I heard you talking to that woman, Miss Hawkes, isn’t it? She was saying it’s time women got up and did something about the Bomb. Well, what I say is that before you start trying to do things about a calamity that may never happen, let’s see if something can’t be done about this wholesale extortion of family funds.’
The woman was well-spoken and clearly well-educated. Her clothes were chosen because they were hardwearing and likely to last, and had evidently been bought many years ago.
‘The children’s
school uniforms – I have to buy them on the never-never,’ she was saying. ‘We have margarine instead of butter. My husband has a gin when he comes home in the evening but to make the bottle last, I don’t. I walk and don’t take the bus. I choose the cheapest cuts of meat at the butcher and look away in shame as he glances at me sideways as if to say, “what’s a lady like you doing eating so poorly?”’
‘Haven’t you discussed this with him?’ said Judy. ‘Asked him to stop spending so much?’
‘Of course I have! But he takes the view, like most men, that if he earns the money it’s his to be spent as he sees fit. And he talks of all the good around the world the Freemasons do, and how we contribute to that.’
‘Well, it’s true,’ replied Miss Dimont. ‘They do do good.’
‘What a shame, then,’ said the woman sharply, ‘that I don’t get a visit from a man knocking on my door saying, “Hello, I’m a Freemason – do you need any help?” Because my answer would be yes, yes, yes! “Come in and help me balance the housekeeping, for a start!”’
‘I see. It’s a terrible…’
‘It’s not just that.’ She looked down at the crumpled pasteboard card in her hand. ‘Miss Dimont, that’s an unusual name. It’s worse than that, Miss Dimont. It’s a secret society for men, run by men, to advance men, to gratify men, designed to exclude women and keep them in ignorance and at their feet.’
The reporter nodded in sombre agreement but the notebook remained in her raffia bag.
‘My husband works for the civil service – I won’t tell you what he does but he has a responsible job. He’s clever but he’s stupid at the same time. We should be able to afford holidays but he says we live by the seaside, why go anywhere else?
‘Once a year there’s a Ladies’ Night when we’re expected to put on the finery we no longer possess, so we can do our husbands proud. Then – back in your box! – we’re surplus to requirement. I tell you, Freemasonry may have done great things around the world but it’s destroyed the love for my husband – and I’m not alone. My grandmother’s portrait – ten bob!’ She turned away, and her shoulders started to shake up and down.