As if Dawson’s intervention had been her cue, the Chair proposed that the matter should be put to a vote. After the extensive preliminaries, this was remarkably quick: a show of hands with ten in favour, one abstention (the bus shelter champion), and one against (the man who had cavilled at the mermaids and who remained visibly piqued by the planning officer’s putdown). A chorus of boos, peppered with cries of ‘Fix’ and ‘Sell-Out’, rang out from the gallery and Glynis Kingswood sank her head in her hands. Duncan, however, felt strangely detached. Defeat was now such a part of his life that he was inured to it. He watched while Geoffrey shook hands with the architect and planning officer before crossing to talk to some of the councillors. The Chair struggled to maintain order as she wound up proceedings, but people were already starting to slip away.
‘I’ll have twelve hundred words on your desk first thing tomorrow morning, boss,’ Ken said to Duncan as he passed him on the way to the door.
‘I’ll look forward to them.’ Ken looked at him quizzically. ‘You know what I mean. I think it warrants a final one-word headline. “Shame!”’
As Ken left, Duncan turned back to Glynis.
‘Well, nobody can say we didn’t give it our best shot.’
‘There’s always the High Court. We can apply for a judicial review.’
‘True,’ Duncan replied without conviction. Whatever the flaws in the committee’s decision, Geoffrey was far too shrewd an operator to have bungled the application process.
‘So Weedon’s won?’ Glynis said, catching his drift.
‘The Weedons of this world always do. The Francombe we held dear is dead and buried. The tunnel of love has been boarded up and replaced by a massage parlour.’
He broke off as Geoffrey Weedon walked up to him, holding out his hand. ‘No hard feelings?’
‘Excuse me,’ Glynis said, heading for the door.
‘Is it something my best friends don’t tell me?’ Geoffrey asked, dropping the hand unshaken.
‘Oh, I’m sure they would,’ Duncan replied. ‘You look pleased with yourself.’
‘It takes forty-three muscles to frown and only seventeen to smile, or so I’m reliably informed.’
‘How many does it take to smirk?’
‘You should know by now that that’s not my style.’
‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your victory. I don’t see any sign of Derek.’
‘He and Linda had some meeting to do with Rose. Frankly it’s no great loss.’
‘Or Frances,’ Duncan added, refusing to become enmeshed in Weedon politics.
‘She’s a little down after all the business with Craig,’ Geoffrey said, lowering his voice accordingly. ‘She and Derek went to visit him in Ashfield on Saturday.’
‘How’s he coping?’
‘Not too well. Apparently he’s had a Union Jack tattooed on his wrist.’
‘No doubt you’re another one who blames me for what happened.’
‘On the contrary, I think it was the best thing for all concerned, especially Craig. He was out of control. Ashfield will knock him into shape. He’ll be taught discipline and respect.’
‘But Frances doesn’t see it that way?’
‘She’s more worried about his GCSEs. As you know, I don’t set much store by academic qualifications.’
‘No, as you never cease to remind us, your own alma mater was the University of Life, or was it the School of Hard Knocks?’
‘I always enjoy our skirmishes, Duncan. And not just because I usually come out on top. You’re the one person in this town who’s a worthy opponent.’
‘Am I supposed to feel flattered?’
‘Ever since we were at St Columba’s. Do you remember when you won the form prize and I won one for industry?’
‘That was forty-odd years ago!’
‘You’ll never know how much it rankled. I thought it was because of my dad’s car repair shop. Your dad owned Mercury House and mine was just a mechanic. Industry, see?’
‘You know perfectly well it means application … hard work.’
‘It’s still sweat, if only on the forehead.’
‘I wouldn’t complain. Look at you today. Industry pays.’
‘What will you do now you’ve sold the paper?’
‘I didn’t know you cared!’
‘There may be an opening at Weedon’s. We’ll certainly need some PR work for the pier. I’ve always admired your way with words.’
‘Is this what you mean by not smirking?’
‘I’m serious. Never at a loss for a pithy epithet, present company excepted. Have you totted up how often the Mercury’s described me as “controversial”? Derek says it’s a euphemism for shady, but I tell him my old pal Duncan would never resort to such underhand tricks.’
‘Thank you. To answer your question, I won’t be looking for anything else for a while. I need some time to reflect: cultivate my garden.’
‘I didn’t know you had green fingers.’
‘It’s a metaphor.’
‘From Voltaire, yes, I know. Don’t look so astonished. I told you you were a worthy opponent. If only you’d realised the same was true of me.’
With a smile that stretched his seventeen muscles to the full, Geoffrey rejoined his architect and agent, leaving Duncan to commiserate with his allies. He finally escaped and drove back to Mercury House where, surprised to see the lights on in his flat, he assumed that Neil must have stayed late, until he heard a familiar drone from the stairs.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he said to Mary who was vacuuming the sitting room carpet, a pointless exercise given the boxes stacked against the wall, ready for the removal men on Friday.
‘I’ll be out of your way in two ticks.’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘Only they kept me late at the Metropole and I knew you were at the Town Hall, so I thought I’d do downstairs first.’
‘That’s fine. It’s good to see you. I need a drink. Can I tempt you with anything? Whisky? Brandy? I may still have some sherry.’
‘No, I mustn’t.’
‘How about if I open a bottle of wine?’
‘Well, if you twist my arm. Only a small one mind.’ Duncan went into the kitchen, bringing back a bottle of office Shiraz. Dearly hoping that it now belonged to Newscom, he unscrewed the top and poured them both a glass.
‘To tell the truth I’m glad of your company.’
‘Did the pier thingamajig go through?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘It’s wicked. After all your hard work.’
‘If only it were just the work. Sit down a minute and enjoy the wine.’
‘I can drink and clean at the same time. It’s what Janine calls multitasking. Not that she’d know!’ As if to demonstrate her dexterity, she clasped her glass in her left hand while vigorously dusting the television stand with her right.
‘Was Neil here when you arrived?’ Duncan asked.
‘No, but he left his mark.’
‘The lavatory?’
‘I’ve got two sons so I know accidents happen, but with him it seems to be every time.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with it. Neil has problems.’
‘It can’t be easy for his mum.’
‘It’s not.’
Duncan was reluctant to admit that he had yet to mention Neil’s bathroom mishaps to Ellen. Over the past few weeks Neil had noticeably warmed towards him, seeking his help in the final stages of his history project and using his flat as a bolt-hole after school. Even the unfortunate choice of David Copperfield as his English set book had cast only a faint shadow over their rapprochement. Duncan was anxious not to threaten it by betraying him to his mother, who would either know about the problem already and be mortified that it had come to Duncan’s attention or else wonder why a boy who was so clean in his habits at home should be so messy at Mercury House.
‘And you?’ Duncan, asked, eager to change the subject. ‘Things can’t have been easy si
nce Norman’s release.’
‘They haven’t,’ Mary said, putting down her duster. ‘We’re squashed in together like a tin of sardines. Honest, I sometimes feel like the old woman who lived in the shoe – you know, in the nursery rhyme? The two boys are at each other’s throats. Norman won’t take Nick’s depression seriously. He says it’s all in the mind. Still, it’s not all bad news. Now he’s back, we don’t have enough beds. So he has to bunk with his dad while I squeeze in with the girls.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, her eyes glistening.
‘Let’s be devils,’ Duncan said, refilling their glasses.
‘I’ve been to see Jordan in Feltham,’ Mary said tentatively.
‘Really? He must be coming home soon.’
‘No, he was due out in March when he’s done three months. But he’s been in some trouble – he wouldn’t say what but his face was a mass of bruises – so they’re making him serve his full term.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘He sent me a visiting order. Put me down as his mother.’
‘Didn’t anyone check?’
‘He told them I was his real mother who gave him away when he was born.’
‘He’s playing the system. It’s always easier for family members.’
‘No, he’s ashamed of me. He used to see things so strange and special. Now he sees them same as everyone else. And what does he see when he looks at me: a fat old bag!’ She began to shake violently.
‘That’s nonsense!’
‘Is it? How would you know?’ She jerked her glass and splashed wine on the carpet. ‘Oh lord, I’ll fetch a cloth.’
‘It’s only a drop; it doesn’t matter. Don’t forget, I’m moving out on Friday.’
‘Of course it matters. I’m the cleaner!’ She fell into a strange rhythmic sobbing. ‘That’s what I am: the cleaner.’
‘And I’m the boss. At least for another two days. So please don’t worry.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ she asked urgently. ‘I know what they think of me downstairs: a silly tart with a toy boy. But you know that I really loved him. We were Adam and Eve.’ Duncan pictured the whitewashed wall. ‘Age didn’t count. I remember when the vicar said how it only came into the world with the snake and the apple. I thought that was beautiful. I thought it was paradise. And now I’ll never see him again.’
‘You mean not till he’s released?’
‘I mean not till never. He says he won’t come back to Francombe. He’s through with this place.’
‘What about his mother?’
‘She’s gone into a home. I looked in on her Christmas time. She had carers from the Council. Kurds. She said she only wanted English, so they’ve sent her over Leversden way. I’d visit but it’s three bus rides.’
‘If you’d like a lift…’
‘What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? Tell me! You’re a clever man, Mr Neville.’
‘No, I’m an educated man. There’s a difference.’
‘Do you ever wonder what it’s all for? Life, I mean.’
‘I do indeed. Far too often.’
‘My mum never had much of anything, except kids. But she had God. In her eyes everything happened for a reason. It was all part of His plan. And as a kid I believed that too. Because she told me. And the teachers told me. And the Bible told me, in words that sounded like answers even when they weren’t. But I can’t believe it any more. If God’s all-good like they say, then why does He make things so hard for us? If it’s a test, why doesn’t He give us one we can pass?’
‘Have you thought of speaking to Henry … Father Grainger?’
‘I tried after Jordan’s arrest. But all he said was that God didn’t want us to feel too sure of ourselves; He wanted us to ask questions. Why, when it just makes us more unhappy? If there’s no hope in this world and there’s no hope in the next, what’s the point of us being here?’
‘I wish I had all the answers – I wish I even had one – but I don’t.’ After giving up on God, Duncan had told himself that the purpose of life was to make the world a better place for the next generation but, having seen how little respect that generation had for the one before, he was less convinced. He racked his befuddled brain for evidence that all the scientific and technological progress over the centuries had been matched by comparable advances in morality, empathy or behaviour. Nevertheless a vestige of his father’s seigneurial code prevented his abandoning Mary to her despair. ‘That said, maybe Henry’s right and our curiosity is what saves us? Maybe the only way we can change the world is by questioning the universe? In the meantime let’s polish off the bottle.’
How ironic that like a disillusioned priest the one consolation he could offer her was wine! He refilled her glass, which she downed in three gulps as if anxious to escape before divulging anything else. Then, staggering to her feet, she proposed to return to work. Gently overruling her, he guided her to the door with the reminder that he would see her at the leaving party on Friday. Feeling unusually energised, he decided to check his email, only to recall that his laptop was being repaired and he would have to go down to the office. While there he would write to Tim Barker (Mr Fixit) who, having promised to sort out the problem over the weekend, had rung on Monday to say that he was having trouble recovering data from the hard drive. Baffled by the workings of a telephone, let alone a computer, he had been reluctant to take issue with him, simply stressing the importance of speed since, from Friday, he would no longer have access to the Mercury system and be forced to join the Internet surfers at Chomp ’n’ Click Cyber Café.
All thought of email was swept aside when he made his way downstairs and into the reporters’ room, stopping to savour the unique stillness of what a few hours ago had been a hive of activity. He cast his mind back to the day when his father had first introduced him to the gang of impassioned, irreverent, serious, funny men and women whose lives were far more thrilling than any he had read about in books. How he had loved to watch them as they went about their work! On special days they gave him the job of cutting up the paper and date-stamping stories for the files (putting his friends’ pop-up farms and home-made greeting cards to shame). Stirred by the memory, he walked towards the case room, which had lain empty for years. No sooner had he entered than it was once again filled with the clatter of typesetting machines and the dense heat of molten metal. Brushing against a crate, he instinctively recoiled as though from a trolley that held a forme ready for the press. He vividly recalled his own delight and the compositors’ horror when, minutes before deadline, one slid off and smashed into gibberish. Somehow they managed to reset it in time, adding to the romance of a process that could not have been further removed from the cold, clinical world of digital technology.
Despite all his years in the editor’s chair, it was his childhood memories that predominated. Giddy with nostalgia, he decided to make a final tour of the building, going first to the boardroom where three of his four predecessors remained to greet him while the fourth had been crated up and sent to auction, ready for a probable relocation to America, where he would be no more than an incidental name on a label. Studiously avoiding the archives, which, holding no interest for Newscom, were to be stored in the Central Library, he walked through the entrance hall to the basement, for sixty years home to the printing presses and the hub of the entire operation. Although it now housed nothing more sinister than a colony of rats, the thunderous room crammed with brawny men reeking of sweat and dust and the waxy barrier cream that they rubbed on their hands had once given the descent to hell a very specific meaning.
Chastened, he went up to his office where he read through his mail. He was both surprised and touched by the messages of support prompted by his departure and impervious to the occasional gibe, such as that from Luca Salvatore who claimed that Francombe in general and the Pizza on the Prom in particular would be a happier place without his meddling. After replying to a batch
of well-wishers, diligently finding a distinctive tone for each, he glanced at his watch and, not wanting to call Ellen from his desk, returned to the flat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ringing her from the sitting room, ‘I lost track of the time.’
‘Did the meeting go on longer than planned?’
‘No, it was over hours ago. Actually it was over months ago.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘At least you did your best.’
‘Trouble is it wasn’t good enough. Take no notice,’ he said, sensing her disquiet. ‘I’m just a bit down.’
‘You and me both.’
‘More problems with the kids?’
‘Not mine for a change. I spent the afternoon at Rose’s tribunal.’
‘Of course. With so much else going on it slipped my mind. What did they decide?’
‘As I expected, they went for Haycock Road.’
‘Linda must be devastated. No wonder Derek wasn’t at the Town Hall.’
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