Widows & Orphans

by Michael Arditti

  ‘No and I’m not going to. Everything they print is lies.’

  ‘I know that’s the fashionable viewpoint, but fortunately it’s not true or else the libel lawyers would rake it in even faster than they do now.’

  ‘Did you see what they wrote about my dad?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Mum tried to hide all the papers, but Sue and I bought them with our own money. Even the photographs didn’t look like him! But they were more like him than the words. “Cruel”, “wicked”, “heartless”, “unashamed”, “evil”. And those are the words that people will have to remember him with for ever, like they were carved on his grave. Our RE teacher said we should never call anyone evil, only the things they’ve done. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

  As he shepherded him down the corridor, Duncan felt Neil’s shoulders quiver with rage either at the press’s betrayal of his father or at something he found harder to articulate: his father’s betrayal of him. He feared that in seeking explanations for her son’s behaviour, Ellen had lost sight of the most basic: his deep-seated ambivalence towards the “cruel”, “wicked”, “heartless”, “unashamed”, “evil” father whom he felt honour-bound to defend to everyone but himself.

  Passing the photographs of the annual Mercury sports days on the stairs, Duncan contemplated his own father. The paternalistic editor presenting trophies to his workers had been less solicitous at home. Would their lives have been happier if Adele, tiring of his infidelities, had left him in the Seventies? Probably. But she had been so scarred by her parents’ divorce and her mother’s subsequent breakdown that her overriding concern was to spare her children a similar ordeal. Duncan never knew his maternal grandmother, but his father had painted a grim portrait of a woman who vented her marital grievances on the entire male sex and whose overprotectiveness towards her daughter (she fed the teenage Adele senna tea every Friday night to keep her away from boys) was the source of her lifelong frigidity.

  With no one to authenticate the portrait – certainly not Adele, who refused to hear a word against either of her parents, not least those that they had exchanged in court – Duncan suspected his father of embellishing it in order to justify his conduct. In the event, his philandering proved to be as damaging as his mother-in-law’s prudery since Duncan was so determined not to follow in his footsteps that several women, including Linda, had accused him of coldness. He wondered whether, on an unconscious level, that might have been his father’s wish since, Oedipus and his complex notwithstanding, it was clear that the greater resentment in the ‘family romance’ was felt by fathers for the sons who displaced them, first in their wives’ affections and then in the wider world. But before he could make up his mind, they arrived at the reading room.

  ‘After you,’ he said, ushering Neil inside and switching on the lights. ‘This is where you’ll find a copy of every issue from day one. Apologies if it’s a little gloomy; it’s a constant battle to replace all the bulbs. But there’s plenty of light on the table in the corner, plus a socket if you want to bring your laptop.’ As Neil walked along a row of shelves, skimming his fingers over the dusty spines, Duncan was struck by the image of him slashing them with a penknife.

  ‘Smells like mushrooms,’ Neil said, sniffing his fingers.

  ‘And new-mown hay. And wood. And almonds. Sorry, I’m getting carried away. To me, it’s the most evocative smell in the world. That’s the advantage you have over your classmates. They’ll need to search out history; you hold it in your hands. Why not pick a volume – it doesn’t matter which – and see what you find.’

  Neil staggered, as he edged a volume off the shelf. ‘Fuck! That’s heavy.’

  ‘Please take care. They’re fragile.’

  ‘You could of warned me!’

  ‘What have you got here?’ Duncan examined the date. ‘July to September 1916. I think someone’s been cheating.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Neil asked indignantly.

  ‘It’s not hard to work out what was making the headlines then.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘World War One? The Battle of the Somme?’

  ‘We’ve only done the Nazis.’

  ‘Let’s try our luck with the most recent volume,’ Duncan said quickly. ‘Put that one back first, will you? It’s easy to mix them up.’ Neil pushed the volume back on the shelf. ‘April to June 2013, fresh from the binders.’ He opened it in the middle. ‘16 May 2013. Slope Street lavatories closed after … That’s not particularly interesting. How about this? John Hitchings’s obituary.’

  ‘Never heard of him!’

  ‘I doubt many of our readers have, but that’s the point. He was a milkman in the Falworth Road area for forty years, and there aren’t many of those left in the twenty-first century. For thirty years he kept a dray horse in a stable behind Plover’s Yard. See, there’s a photo of them together.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘When Brian – he’s one of our reporters – went to interview his widow, she assumed he was joking. She couldn’t understand why anyone should be interested in her husband. But he got chatting to her and gleaned some fascinating stories. Like this! As a schoolboy during the war – that’s the war against the Nazis,’ he said pointedly – ‘he helped a friend whose father was a haberdasher to steal silk from the barrage balloons that were sent up to stop German bombers flying low over the harbour. As his widow says: “there was no lack of fancy knickers in Francombe during the war.”’

  ‘She was right. Who’s interested?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Obituaries regularly top the poll for the most popular section of the paper. But more than that, they’re an invaluable resource for the future. Who else is recording this stuff? I don’t suppose John Hitchings kept a diary; he wasn’t the literary type. His wasn’t the sort of life to rate a mention in the national press. Which is why I always tell my writers that they’re social historians as much as hardcore reporters. In a hundred years’ time, anyone who wants to find out what Francombe was like in 2013 will pick up this volume, just as we picked up the one for 1916.’

  ‘That’s ninety-seven years.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘From 1916 to 2013 is ninety-seven years, not a hundred.’

  ‘I think you know what I meant.’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said it’d give me an advantage over the other kids. One of them’s Jamie.’

  ‘He’s chosen to do a project on the wheel park with his stepfather.’

  ‘You’re not mine!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not my stepfather, not now and you never will be.’

  ‘I never said –’

  ‘You said he was doing a project with his stepfather, like I was doing one with mine.’

  ‘You’re making something out of nothing,’ Duncan replied. ‘Nobody’s forcing you to come here, Neil. If you’d rather tackle something else…’

  ‘Like what? The decline in Francombe’s fish stocks?’

  ‘In which case, you must decide what line you’re going to take and follow it through. You could look at changes in the Mercury’s coverage of a particular area –’

  ‘Like Falworth Road?’

  ‘You could of course make it geographical, but I was thinking more of something thematic: sport or tourism or the Town Hall.’

  ‘The Mayor and that?’

  ‘Local government in general. Or you could look at broad feature coverage. When I took over in 1986, there were far more of what we called “gold clock stories” – people who retired after fifty years with the same firm.’

  ‘Losers!’

  ‘That’s not how we saw it then. Their jobs gave them status and security. They crossed over into their social lives. At the Mercury we had a cricket team and a drama club. We took works outings to London: football matches at Wembley; West End shows.’

  ‘So what changed?
’

  ‘The world – the whole world – and this little corner of south-east England couldn’t remain unscathed. We had a Prime Minister who told us there was no such thing as Society and set about proving it. And though many of us were happy to see an end to some of the dottier things that had been done in the name of Society with a big S, we soon found that she and her friends were destroying society with a small s too. Or as I’d rather think of it: community. That’s something you’ll hear a lot of around here. A couple of years ago the staff set up a swear box for every time I used the c word. It cost me dear but I wasn’t surprised. Community’s what we’re all about.’

  ‘What about trials?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I could write about the changes in how you cover trials.’

  ‘You could,’ Duncan replied uneasily. ‘You’d learn a lot about the shift in social attitudes from the way court cases are reported. Fifty years ago, people routinely referred to the “criminal classes”. They talked about “wastrels” and “ne’er-do-wells” up before the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly fifteen times in as many months. Nowadays, offenders are treated with more respect.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re still members of the community.’

  ‘One pound, please!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the swear box.’

  ‘Nice try! That was scrapped after a few weeks, before I went bust. Besides, it was 10p. Now I must get back to my desk. You have a rummage around in here. Work out if the trial idea is feasible. I’ll help you as much as I can. You’re free to come here any afternoon after school, though I should warn you that Tuesdays and Wednesdays are press days so they’re manic. If you want somewhere more comfortable, I’ll lend you the keys to my flat. The one thing I ask is that you let either Sheila or me know whenever you leave the building. This evening you’ve got till 6.30, when I’m taking your mother to the pier consultation at the library. I don’t suppose it’s your thing, but you’re very welcome to tag along.’

  Duncan’s supposition was correct and, after finding a ‘sick’ story about a Salter man who, on divorcing his wife in 1998, sued her for the return of the kidney he had donated to her six years earlier, Neil took the bus home, leaving Duncan to lock up and collect Ellen. Although she had forgiven him for his silence over Sue, he had barely seen her over the past three weeks when she had stayed in every evening with the children. To Duncan’s surprise, this turned out be a blessing since, with their meetings limited to two rushed lunches and a blustery walk on the cliffs, they had fallen back on late-night phone calls in which they voiced their mutual longing more freely than they had done face to face. Not since Linda had he found someone with whom he was so sexually compatible. Anxious to refute the charge of coldness, he had too often placed his partner’s needs above his own, leaving him frustrated and, in the case of Lea Brierley, physically repulsed. With Ellen, however, he had nothing to prove.

  In a sign of her newfound confidence, she had allowed him to meet her at the Child Development Centre, the much maligned ‘mushroom building’ in north Francombe. The Centre, with its red-and-white speckled roof and cylindrical frame, which according to its architects put the requirements of its young clients above those of its staff (and according to its critics those of awards committees above both), consisted of a large circular foyer surrounded by a series of therapy and consulting rooms. Ellen let him in and he felt a boyish thrill at finally being admitted to her place of work, even though her colleagues had already gone home.

  Clasping her to his chest, he kissed her with both passion and relief. ‘Thank you,’ Ellen said, gazing deeply into his eyes. ‘Just what the therapist ordered.’

  ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘Well then?’

  He kissed her again, feeling her breath recharge every cell in his body, before she broke off to yawn.

  ‘Oh dear! Was it that bad?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had the day from hell.’

  ‘They’re still not cutting you any slack?’

  ‘The trouble is it’s just as tough for the guys who’ve worked here for years. It’d be one thing if we only had to deal with the kids; the real problem’s the parents. They expect us to wave a magic wand and, hey presto, their kids will start to talk.’

  ‘You can see their point of view,’ Duncan said, remembering Linda’s ambitions for Rose.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s the kids’ point of view that counts. Just because we’re speech therapists doesn’t mean we regard it as the be-all and end-all of communication. I had a mother this morning who demanded – and that’s putting it politely – that I give her severely disabled son vocal exercises.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course not. I explained, as gently as I could, that the pressure she was putting on the boy was making things even harder for him and that we needed to work together to find him the right AAC – sorry, that’s alternative and augmentative communication aid.’

  ‘Did she agree?’

  ‘You’re joking! She accused me of wanting to turn her son into a robot and swore that she’d never let him become dependent on technology. A minute later she took out her BlackBerry and wrote a memo to herself. You couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘Linda told me Rose is about to get her first VOCA.’

  ‘You’re out of date; she got it last week. It’s a simple entry-level model, like a communication book on a screen. But it’s still a quantum leap.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing it. How’s she coping?’

  ‘It’s early days. She’s easily flustered and hits the wrong keys, so we’re reducing the number of symbols per page until she gets the hang of it. On Friday she threw a strop and refused to go on, but eventually we coaxed her into trying again. Linda said she’d never seen her so excited as the first time she heard herself – OK, the synthesiser – speak her name.’

  ‘She’s a brave kid – and a bright one,’ Duncan said, seizing the chance to fulfil Linda’s commission. ‘I’m sure she’d thrive within the right educational environment.’

  ‘I hope you’re not fishing, Duncan. You know I can’t talk to you about that.’ She eyed him sharply, as if weighing up his loyalties to Linda and to her.

  ‘Of course not. But I gather that after the disappointing report from the nursery school your assessment is vital if she’s to stay in mainstream schooling.’

  ‘Then you’ll also have gathered that it’s strictly confidential. You wouldn’t want to see me struck off?’

  ‘Not for the world!’

  ‘That’s a relief. There’s a limit to how often I can pack up and leave a town in disgrace.’

  Linking arms, she led him out of the Centre. They drove to the library, heading straight for the Reference Section where the architectural drawings for the renovated pier were newly on display. Duncan edged through the room to inspect the intricate floor plans, elevations and cross sections, with the seemingly innocuous labels: Revue Bar; Museum; Cinema 1. Turning to the crowd, he spotted Glynis and Bill Kingswood looking like the agents for a defeated parliamentary candidate; Ken Newbold holding an ominously empty glass; Vivien Pilling taking a rare evening off from her café; and Henry Grainger in animated conversation with his Methodist counterpart. Conspicuous at the centre was a trio of Weedons: Frances, exuding her unique brand of sprayed-on glamour, talking to a dumpy woman in a sari; Geoffrey subtly deferring to two sober-suited businessmen, whose very anonymity gave cause for alarm; and Derek showing a large polystyrene model of the proposed reconstruction to Ralph Welch.

  Scenting conspiracy, he sought out the one Weedon he could trust. ‘Is Ralph Welch your bank manager?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Linda said, bristling at the brusque greeting. ‘I bank on line.’ She turned to Ellen with whom, to Duncan’s surprise, she was now on kissing terms.

  ‘You weren’t sure you’d find a sitter,’ Ellen said.

  ‘My long-
suffering mum. I had no choice. It’s Derek’s big night.’

  ‘Not to mention Geoffrey’s,’ Duncan said.

  ‘Try not to pick a fight with him, Duncan, please.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.’ Lorna Redwood’s voice sputtered over the microphone, accompanied by a loud whistle. ‘If you’ll take your seats, we’re ready to start.’

  ‘Catch you later,’ Linda said, as she moved to join Derek. Eschewing his usual choice of a middle-row seat, Duncan escorted Ellen to the front, where they sat opposite the Weedons like feuding in-laws at a wedding.

  ‘To anyone who doesn’t know me,’ Lorna said smugly, ‘I’m Lorna Redwood, Chair of the Council’s Leisure and Recreation Committee.’ This triggered a lone cheer from one of the librarians, of which she feigned disapproval. ‘I’m delighted to have been asked to chair this meeting, but I must stress that I’m here in a purely private capacity. While the Council has been eager to seek the widest possible consultation on a matter of such intense public interest, it has no power to impose one, and, indeed, it has played no part in organising this evening’s event. Now without further ado let me pass you over to Geoffrey Weedon.’

  There was a smattering of applause dragged out by Derek, while Frances kept her hands in her lap as if they had just been manicured. Geoffrey stepped up to the microphone and Duncan took some satisfaction from seeing that, for all his success, he still felt the need for a comb-over.

  ‘Thank you all for coming. It’s great to have such a large turnout. As Lorna said, we’re under no obligation to hold this meeting, but at Weedon’s we’ve always believed in transparency. So whatever you may have heard, this is no PR stunt. The designs aren’t set in stone. Miss Nisbett and her team have kindly agreed to display them here for the next four weeks. There are message boxes sited throughout the room.’ Derek stood up and pointed them out as if they were emergency exits. ‘Yes, thank you,’ Geoffrey said, visibly irked by the interruption. ‘So please do have your say. I guarantee that every comment will be taken into account before we submit our final plans to the Council.