by TP Fielden
‘Well, obviously I’ll have a word,’ said Judy. She looked out of the window to see Terry taking a picture of a pretty girl sheltering from the rain in the bus shelter. ‘What’s the problem, Peggy?’
‘He’s letting the side down!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He hasn’t written a single story for a month. He’s the editor!’
‘What does he do with his time?’
‘Sits in there all day. Does the crossword, plays chess with himself, re-files the files in the filing cabinet. Sings songs. Can’t look at me when I take him in his tea. He’s not well, Judy. But more important, there’s no news about Riverbridge in the Riverbridge Advertiser! The pages get filled up with all the news from Temple Regis and around, and people are stopping me in the street and asking – why are we paying thruppence and getting nothing for our money?’
‘OK, let me go and talk to him.’ Terry was still snapping away at the girl in the bus shelter – his photo sessions always took longer when there was a woman at the other end of the lens.
Judy walked across the bare floorboards of the ancient office and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so she opened the door gently.
‘Hello, Greville,’ she said sweetly, ‘just passing. Terry Eagleton’s here too. Fancy coming out for a cup of tea?’
Greville Charles had changed considerably since she’d seen him at Christmas. Though still not forty, it was as if all life had gone out of him. His floppy blonde hair had turned grey, the suit he wore, though smart, belonged to a larger, stronger, man, his eyes had taken on a penetrating stare when he lifted them from the book on his desk.
‘Lovely to see you.’ He still had his perfect manners, but looked away as soon as their eyes made contact. ‘How’s Terry?’
‘Same as always. Photographing some girl in the rain.’
A slight noise came from the man’s throat but you could hardly call it laughter. He turned a page in the book and bent his head over it.
‘Can I help, Greville?’
‘Nothing to be done, Judy, nothing to be done. I just think there’s nothing to be done.’
On the wall behind his desk was a photograph of Greville which can only have been a year old, yet could have been taken twenty years before. Judy sat down opposite him and looked into his once-handsome face.
‘What’s that you’re reading?’
‘Parade’s End. There’s some salvation here.’
‘How so?’
‘Everything comes out right in the end. Well, no it doesn’t. But there’s a way of looking at it which can be a help. It’s best to look at it that way.’ His eyes slithered across the desk as if he was searching for something.
‘Peggy tells me you never go out of the office.’
‘Mm.’
‘Greville, you’re a reporter. It’s what you’re supposed to do. Go out, meet people, get stories, write them. There can’t be a more rewarding job in the world.’
He did not move.
‘Mr Rhys is worried about you. And then he’s worried about the Advertiser too – we can’t go on filling up your space with stories which have no bearing on Riverbridge.’
‘I’m stuck.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m stuck, I can’t leave. I can’t go anywhere, see anybody. Stuck!’
‘Look at me, Greville.’ He did not. ‘I know what you’re suffering, I’ve seen it in others – old friends, old colleagues. Shell shock is a terrible…’
‘Shell shock!’ Greville repeated, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. ‘You haven’t a clue. You just don’t know…’
‘I do know. I think what you should…’
‘It’s all very well for you, Judy – you had a brilliant war, now you’re a brilliant reporter, you have everything I could wish for. You have…’ he searched for the word, ‘poise. The poise which comes with confidence in your abilities, the belief that your brain’s well-stocked with ideas and experiences which can be put to use in your job, whether it’s reporting or… whatever it was you did before.’ He looked for matches. ‘You cannot possibly know what it’s like.
‘I’m supposed to be a reporter. I’m supposed to wander up to people, ask them a few cheeky questions, sidle away and write up the story in a way which doesn’t upset anybody but still appears newsworthy. Can’t do it any more.’
‘Yes, you can, Greville. You’re a good reporter.’
‘Not any more. I ask myself, what right do I have to go poking into other people’s lives? Do they like what I’ve written when it appears in the paper? At what point does a genuine interest in a story become personal prurience? What’s the whole thing about journalism, anyway? Why do we do it, and is it justified? Why not leave people alone, let them just get on with their lives without putting them on the front page?’ His hand was shaking and he gave up the attempt to light his cigarette.
‘These are very good questions, Greville, I ask them myself. All the time.’
‘No, you don’t. You get out your notebook and pencil, you do your impeccable shorthand, you sit in front of the typewriter and ten minutes later – job done! You don’t ask whether you’re ruining people’s lives!’
Judy looked at him steadily. ‘What you’re saying is, you can’t bring yourself to talk to people any more.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t want to go out – leave the office.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the word agoraphobia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that what you’re suffering?’
‘No, it’s not. I have come to a point in my life where I feel it is impolite – no, more than that, far more – to question people about aspects of their lives. We should leave them in peace.’
‘Think of all those people who come into the office with their reports from the flower shows – they want to see their name in the paper.’
‘Then why don’t they just pay for an advert and have it printed that way?’ He suddenly looked tragic in the way he sat there.
‘Come out and have a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want to. I’ll sit here with my book.’ The tears were rolling down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the end of his tie.
Judy got up. ‘Are you saying that all journalism is bad, Greville? That we should shut down this newspaper and the Express and the rest?’
‘Prying into people’s lives.’
‘I’m going to tell Mr Rhys that you are to have a holiday. You are in a deep dark hole and you need help in getting out of it. Coming into the office every day and yet repudiating the business which pays your wages is illogical.’
‘I haven’t spent the money! It’s in the Post Office savings account. When they fire me I’ll pay it all back!’
Judy came round the desk and put her arm round his shoulders. She could feel the bones through his suit jacket, moving up and down as he tried to stifle his sobs.
‘They’re not going to fire you, Greville. You’re unwell, they will look after you. They love you.’
‘Zither,’ he said, suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Such a remarkable word, don’t you think? Zitherzitherzither…’ as the word trailed away his eyes went frighteningly blank.
Peggy put her head round the door.
‘Dr Henderson has come,’ she said. It was hard to tell whether her tone was one of disapproval, or relief.
SEVENTEEN
The journey up from Regis Junction was all Miss Dimont hoped it would be – soothing, charming, restoring. She had the cardboard ticket inside her glove and valise by her side long before the Riviera Express – never to be confused with the newspaper of the same name – clanked and shouted itself to a shuddering halt.
It being the holiday season, nobody much was leaving Temple Regis on a Friday afternoon and as the train slid to a halt she was pleased to see it was almost empty. She found a corner in the compartment nearest the restaurant-car and settled comfortably in as the Expre
ss shunted and puffed its way out of the station. There were two quick stops, Newton Abbot and Exeter, and then the steam train would begin its long leisurely voyage to the capital city, gliding on ribbons of steel, juddering occasionally as it crossed the points, yawing as it took the curves.
Her favourite waiter Owd Bert was on duty, and after Exeter came to knock politely on the compartment door to beckon her towards his domain.
‘See you wuz on,’ he said. His white bumfreezer jacket looked jolly with its gilt buttons and the array of medal-ribbons over his breast pocket. ‘You come up only the other day, din yer, Miss?’
‘A sudden invitation,’ said Judy, smiling. ‘Nice to be back on board. I’ll come with you now but just a cup of tea, Owd Bert, no cake, thank you.’
He looked disappointed. ‘That’s no good for business,’ he chided, genially waving his arm towards the empty restaurant car. In the early evening light it was at its prettiest, with gleaming silver on starched white tablecloths, flowers bobbing in their silver vases, and the sun colouring the car with an almost mystical glow. Perhaps those few passengers aboard the Riviera Express had brought sandwiches, or maybe they were waiting for the dinner hour, but not a seat was taken.
‘It looks so lovely,’ said Judy to Owd Bert, and though perhaps his critical gaze focused more on the sheen of the wine-glasses and the polish on the wooden seats and bulkheads, he too could see and sense a beauty in his carriage. He marched off, every bit the soldier, to order Judy’s tea from a backstage underling.
She looked out of the window at the racing fields and took comfort in her flight from Devon. Seeing Greville Charles in such a terrible state had unsettled her, for she was very fond of him. Before this illness he’d always displayed such a sweet nature, shy and retiring but playful and good at his job. Though ten years separated them each, armed with the knowledge that comes from half-spoken conversations about war work, viewed the other with considerable respect. Neither would talk about what the war had asked from them, or what they had given, yet both knew that the person opposite had given their all. Instinctively she knew Greville had been a hero on the D-Day beaches; just as easily he could tell Judy had excelled in the very secret game she played in the corridors below Whitehall. Neither needed to say more.
Owd Bert brought the tea and a plate of Lincoln biscuits, ‘Don’t spoil yer dinner!’, and wandered off to draw others into his lair. Judy looked at the sharp bright polish on the shiny teapot, felt its heat, and things suddenly seemed better.
Greville had been a joyous member of staff, dropping into the Express offices with whimsical tales of Baskerville-like hounds eating the population of Riverbridge, of two-headed postmen and three-legged clergymen, the pockets of his tweed coat bulging with books of poetry. True, he had never married which was remarkable, given his charm and good looks, and for all the world you would think the war was behind him. But it constantly lurked in the shadows, and not only for Greville.
‘Taunton! Taunton next stop!’
Perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen a career in newspapers, but what else would he do? Or the rest of us, come to that? Who are we, thought Miss Dimont, this ragged bunch of mongrels and misfits who end up in local newspapers – why are we here? Why do we do it? Then again, who else would have us?
She thought of the bulbous John Ross, whistling his tunes of glory up and down the office, with the bottle of whisky he could never touch rolling around in the dark of his desk drawer. Of Betty, good at her job but terribly bad at life. Of Rudyard Rhys, the crouching tiger ready to spring on the failings of others rather than confront his own. Of Athene, a spiritual being cast down to dreary earth by a vengeful deity who knew perfectly well her place was up there in the clouds. Peter Pomeroy, who had to hide his sandwiches in his desk and peck at them like a heron, too embarrassed to be seen eating. And Ray Bennett, well into his dotage but still hoping the theatre would claim him back and whisk him away from this lowlier calling.
Come to that, what about herself? Heart broken in war, moral compass jiggered by peacetime espionage, her Devon sanctuary constantly threatened by the prospect of maternal invasion – was she any better than the others? Who was to say that Greville Charles was any worse?
She got out her novel and tried to think about other things, but as the miles rolled by and Owd Bert’s tea gently permeated her veins, the words of Edith Wharton became less absorbing. She was going to London on a whim, at the behest of a journeyman musician she barely knew, with no clear idea of what might be achieved. The shock of someone being so brutally shot in cold blood spurred her forward and yet, with a gunman on the loose, she could easily be putting herself in danger.
Arthur had promised to pick her up at Paddington so at least she had a henchman to hand – even if he was, oh, seventy-two or three! But Arthur was still active, and his past experiences ideally suited him to the job – though it was true he did occasionally got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
Miss Dimont freshened the teapot from the hot-water jug and broke a biscuit in pieces. The lulling movement of the Pullman train, the orderly rows of tables and napkins and silver and glass, the occasional mournful cry of the engine’s whistle, allowed her to review what she knew of the case, and prepare herself for what might come in the days ahead.
Patricia Rouchos, which wasn’t her real name, came from a Mediterranean country but – it would seem from her reading of the album photographs – had settled in London long ago. That meant she could be a refugee of war.
Well-off, decidedly, but wearing cheap clothes when she was found. Choosing a cheap room at Buntorama, rather than one where she might enjoy Temple Regis’ delights more comfortably – why did she do that? And why was she in Temple Regis in the first place?
‘Westbury – Westbury!’
She stayed at Buntorama, but spent all her time – as far as one could tell – in the Marine Hotel. In the Primrose Bar she had spent a very long time in discussion with Bobby Bunton. Did she try to pick him up, or was it the other way round? What were they talking about? Bunton described her as a prostitute, but given the apparent affluence in which she was raised, was that really likely?
And when Judy mentioned this to Hugh Radipole, why did he take such angry exception to the idea? It had really quite upset him, which had left Miss Dimont to wonder whether it was just that the hotelier hated the thought of call-girls on his premises – or was there was something between him and the murdered woman? Did he know her better – far better – than he let on?
Certainly there was something between Radipole and Bunton, and not just the upstairs-downstairs battle which was going on between them – the holiday camp with its funfair pitched against the sophisticated hotel with the Chicago jazz singer. Radipole was urbane, smooth and worldly while Bunton was an upstart ruffian in an ill-fitting suit – and yet their actions seemed to stem from a common origin. Miss Dimont couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was definitely something there.
And what about Bunton and Miss Rouchos – was there something there? Surely he had his hands full with Fluffles Janetti and the various Mrs Buntons he still had in tow? On the other hand…
‘Tickets please!’ Another familiar face leaned over the table-cloth and broke her thought pattern.
Great Western Railways employed the politest, longest-serving staff – men and women who took pride in their jobs and befriended the regulars – and here was Mr Brass. Miss Dimont could never remember his real name – something obscurely Cornish – and so she concentrated on his waistcoat buttons, which were always beautifully polished.
‘Plenty of seats in First Class,’ Mr Brass offered genially. ‘It’s almost empty, go on and make yourself comfortable!’
‘That’s so kind – but I’ve got my book here. And I may have a drink before we arrive. And,’ she added, smiling, ‘to be honest I just love sitting in the restaurant car, so comfortable, so elegant.’
Mr Brass said something indecipherable in Cornish, perhaps, as he clipped her
ticket, and moved forward up the car. Another country, thought Miss Dimont, who though born in Belgium counted herself a full-blooded Devonian, and looked with wonderment at those who chose to live in the wrong county.
She cudgelled her brains over the nature of the killing – coldblooded, no-nonsense, leaving behind not a single clue. Some of the men she’d worked with in the war had those skills, and maybe she would have time to drop in to the Special Forces Club, hidden away in a small street behind Knightsbridge, and see who was hanging around the bar. The club was a gathering-place for all those who had a hand in wartime undercover work, a building filled with heroes every day of the week and she was a welcome guest. But Miss Dimont generally preferred the Chelsea Arts, where dangerous behaviour meant something completely different.
‘Pewsey! Watch your step when alighting the train, please!’
The gin-and-tonic Owd Bert brought as the great steam locomotive forged its way onwards to Newbury fizzled in her brain and helped her concentrate. Her thoughts turned to what Uncle Arthur said about the safebreaker Ramensky – that he could have been working for Hugh Radipole when Radipole was still in the car-trade. It was pretty clear the hotel-owner had been involved in something underhand during the war – despite his lordly air there was a bit of a stench about him – and the obvious conclusion was war profiteering. It just wasn’t possible for him to have amassed enough cash selling cars, however smart they were, to be able to buy and refit such a huge hotel as the Marine. It led her to think that maybe Radipole had come to Temple Regis in an attempt to re-invent himself, leave his past behind. No more selling dubious Lagondas to old chumps like Arthur!
‘Paddington! Paddington! All change please, all change!’
The old chump himself was there when she alighted the train on Platform Four.
‘Huguette, dear girl! Got the flivver waiting for you over there!’
‘Not the old Lagonda, Arthur? With the cylinder head gasket?’
‘No, I had it turned into corned-beef tins. Got a Jag now – whooo, you should see it go!’