Widows & Orphans

by Michael Arditti

‘They did everything they could: hiring a barrister so for once it wouldn’t be David and Goliath. But the panel agreed with the LEA that Rose’s needs would be best met at a special school.’

  ‘So they didn’t listen to you?’

  ‘Oh, they listened. Not that it did Rose much good – or me for that matter. Technically I’m an independent witness but there’s still a sense that I was breaking ranks.’

  ‘Can Linda and Derek appeal?’

  ‘Yes, on a point of law; not merely to repeat old arguments.’

  ‘It’s the same for us with the pier. We could apply for a judicial review but only if there’d been a fault in the application or consultation process. I’ll give Linda a ring tomorrow. Truth is we’ve barely spoken since the business with Craig.’

  ‘I’m sure she understands. When we were chatting before the hearing, she was anxious to know how you were coping with the move.’

  ‘I trust you told her “well”.’

  ‘I know my job. But I hope it’s the truth.’

  ‘I think so. I really do. Right now I’m a little demob-happy. Tomorrow I put my final issue to bed and clear my desk. Though the real test will come on Friday afternoon when the bigwigs from Newscom arrive for some gruesome retirement presentation to Sheila and Ken and me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll sail through it. Unflappable as ever.’

  ‘At least I have Friday evening to look forward to.’

  ‘Me too! Matthew used to pour scorn on Valentine’s Day, at any rate once we were married. Strange when you think how much they loathed each other but it wasn’t that different from Barbara’s contempt for Mother’s Day. Stop it, Ellen! Won’t you tell me where we’re going?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Not even a hint?’

  ‘I’ve already given you one: backcomb your hair!’

  Lulled by the prospect of the dinner dance at the Metropole, Duncan sank into a deep sleep, waking reinvigorated for his last day at work. As he sat in his office waiting for Ken to finish his piece on the planning decision, he read through the page proofs. Despite the entreaties of his staff, he had curbed any valedictory impulse. There would be no spread of highlights from ‘my twenty-seven years as editor’, let alone ‘my family’s 144 years as proprietors’. He had confined his contributions to a leader attacking the Council’s failure to meet its affordable housing quota and an ‘On This Day’ column celebrating Francombe’s first cinema, the Alhambra, which had opened in February 1914 with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Elsewhere there was the usual assortment of horror stories, such as the cannabis farm at the Exeter Road children’s home, the racist attack on the Stafford Cripps estate and, most distressing, the quadriplegic man left to look on helplessly all night after his carer suffered a stroke; interspersed with feel-good stories, such as the motorist who married the student she picked up on the St Anselm bypass (‘Hitchhiker Hitched’, in the jaunty caption), and the grandfather, father and son who had shaved their heads for Autism Awareness.

  Duncan wondered how much of this mixed bag would survive under Newscom and the transition to what Brian, who was being kept on by the new management, had described without a shred of embarrassment as ‘churnalism’. But then what else could one expect from a man whose job description was no longer that of ‘writer’ or ‘journalist’ but ‘linear supplier’? With only Rowena and Jake remaining in Francombe, the scope for local news would be strictly curtailed and the bulk of the paper filled with syndicated pieces on celebrities and lifestyles and, wherever possible, celebrity lifestyles. Mindful of the irony, Duncan pinned his hopes on the emergence of a latter-day version of the Francombe Citizen.

  ‘Knock knock!’ Sheila called through the half-open door and walked in with a plate of gingerbread.

  ‘But it’s not Thursday,’ Duncan said, as she handed it to him.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Delicious,’ he said, breaking off a piece and eating it quickly for fear that she was about to cry. ‘I shall miss this.’

  ‘Won’t I be able to bring you any at home?’

  ‘I most certainly hope so. But I can’t expect it on a weekly basis.’

  ‘Who else do I have to bake for?’

  ‘Yourself,’ Duncan said, without thinking.

  ‘My GP tells me I’m borderline diabetic. One of the old ladies at Castlemaine died on Monday.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I hardly knew her. There’s some hoo-ha over her funeral. Jean asked if I’d made my own arrangements. She said people like us – she meant her and me – with no one to look out for us couldn’t leave it to chance.’

  ‘You’re retiring, not dying, Sheila!’ Duncan said, stifling his impatience. You’re healthy … independent. The world’s your oyster.’

  ‘But I don’t like cruises! I’m sorry. I should go and buy the champagne.’

  She hurried out, leaving Duncan acutely aware that he had secured her pension but not her future. He made a mental note to take her out to lunch in the next fortnight and discuss the various options open to her from voluntary work to adult education and even – he pondered as he munched a piece of gingerbread – setting up her own baking business. At noon Stewart sent through the proofs of Ken’s copy: the concise, dispassionate and vibrant prose demonstrating why he remained at the top of his game after four decades. Two years ago Duncan would have predicted that his retirement would be an even greater wrench than Sheila’s, but he had lost his zest along with the libel case in which Megan Riley, high priestess of the Salter Wood coven, alleged that he had irrevocably damaged her professional reputation with his report that she had invoked a curse on the Mayor during a rally to save the Ley Park adventure playground. Besides which he had a project to occupy him in the shape of his long delayed History of the Fishing Industry in Francombe from the Middle Ages to the Present Day.

  ‘Catchy title, that,’ Brian had said. ‘Should fly off the shelves at the Seafood Festival.’

  Having signed off the pages, Duncan steeled himself to enter the reporters’ room where the entire staff was gathered, including Trevor who, having guaranteed his position with Newscom, greeted his outgoing editor more affably than he had done in years. Overplaying his ineptitude, Duncan opened the first of the champagne bottles that Sheila had bought (‘three for two’ to the end) and poured everyone a glass.

  ‘I’m not going to make a speech,’ he said.

  ‘Hear hear!’ Trevor interjected. ‘I mean…’

  ‘We’ll save that for Friday,’ Duncan said, sparing his blushes, ‘but I can’t let the occasion pass without saying a few words. This is a sad but inevitable moment. In recent years I’ve often felt like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Rowena said, as Brian sniggered.

  ‘For me this hasn’t been a family business so much as a community one – there, you knew you wouldn’t get away without hearing the word one last time. Perhaps I’m being too much of a Jeremiah in fearing that everything will change. After all, the Mercury name is being kept on along with several of you: Brian and Trevor in Basingstoke; Rowena, Jake and Stewart here, even if your roles will be redefined.’

  ‘Yes, how many “s”s in Sassenach?’ Stewart asked to general bemusement. ‘I’ll quite likely be subbing the Aberdeen Advertiser or the Hull Gazette.’

  ‘I’m keeping what I really think about you all till Friday … oh, that came out wrong! For now I just want to thank you for the support you’ve given me over the years and say that, although I’m leaving the Mercury, I’m not leaving Francombe and I look forward to seeing you socially.’ He found himself staring at Brian, whose eyes were a blank. ‘So I ask you to drink to the future of everyone here and of the Mercury. The future!’

  ‘The future!’

  Duncan raised his glass as the toast was echoed. Then, feeling a desperate urge to escape, he edged towards the door. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll slip away.’

 
; ‘Not so fast, boss,’ Ken said, stepping forward with a package that Duncan immediately identified. ‘Your last paper won’t be out till tomorrow but we’ve got together to give you a sneak preview of the front page.’

  Taking a gulp of champagne Duncan unwrapped the spike and studied the tribute from his anagrammatic reporters. ‘I shan’t read it now,’ he said, his eyes misting over at the allusion to the well-loved caretaker, who had once provoked such ridicule. ‘But I shall do as soon as I’m upstairs. Thank you … thank you all so much. I’ll truly treasure it.’

  Thuds and thumps resounded around him as he made for the door and they banged him out in the time-honoured way. He went up to the flat where, suddenly feeling confined, he decided to take himself out for lunch and then to a film matinée, an indulgence that he had not enjoyed for years. But a glimpse of the snowfall outside his window deterred him so, after heating up a tin of soup and wishing that he had drunk another glass of champagne, he sat down to read the spike. Laughing out loud at the affectionate raillery, he was startled by a knock at the door.

  ‘Missing me already?’ he said, opening it to find Sheila.

  ‘I’m sorry, Duncan, but there are two policemen asking for you downstairs.’

  ‘Can’t somebody else deal with it? I’m officially retired.’

  ‘They asked for you by name. One of them’s Ted Ravenscroft.’

  ‘Perhaps he hasn’t heard about the takeover. Where are my shoes?’

  Having slipped them on, he made his way downstairs with Sheila following anxiously. As he passed the reporters’ room, he was surprised to find Brian and Jake hovering in the doorway. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said as he headed down to the ground floor.

  ‘Hello, Ted … Constable,’ he said to the two policemen who were waiting warily. ‘You’re a bit behind the times, Ted. I’ve edited my last issue. If there’s anything you want from now on, you should speak to Rowena Birdseye.’ ‘Duncan Neville?’ Ted asked, his voice even more uneasy than his stance.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Duncan replied perplexed.

  ‘Are you the owner of the Apple MacBook serial number W88134K20P2 left at Mr Fixit, 32 Bartholomew Road, Francombe on Friday, 7 February 2014?’

  ‘I’m the owner of an Apple MacBook, which I took in for repair last week, but I’ve no idea of the serial number. What’s this about? Has it been stolen?’

  ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of possessing indecent images of children. You don’t have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.’

  Ten

  Your New Mercury

  by Andrew Falkirk, Newscom Media (South East) Divisional MD

  Thursday, 13 March 2014

  Regular customers will notice many changes in their paper this week. Last month Newscom Media, one of the UK’s largest local and regional media groups publishing over 130 weekly titles in print and digital form, bought the long-established Francombe & Salter Mercury. To celebrate this new era in the paper’s history, we have given it a much-needed makeover, starting with the title.

  The New Mercury, as it is now known, will continue to provide comprehensive coverage of local news and events but in a fresh, accessible form that’s fully in line with today’s busy lifestyles. So you’ll find shorter, snappier articles, a 50 per cent increase in the use of colour photography, plus a regular four-page cartoon and puzzle supplement.

  We shall maintain the paper’s honourable tradition of campaigning journalism but, in the belief that the most effective action stems from the grass roots, we’ll leave it to you, our customers, to lead these campaigns, offering you a platform to highlight official abuse, waste and sleaze, to protest against cuts to services, and to raise funds for worthy causes. At Newscom we aim to reflect the concerns and values of our customers and advertisers, giving our customers a fuller understanding of the events and activities taking place in their local areas and providing our advertisers with unrivalled access to local markets.

  At the same time we’re convinced that in today’s world there’s more that unites the purchasers of our various titles than divides them. In this global village the local is universal and the universal local. We’re all interested in the same fashions, the same trends and the same celebrities. So in the New Mercury we aim to share content with our neighbours from Land’s End to John o’Groats. We intend to reach outwards rather than look inwards.

  For too long the old Mercury swam against the tide of technological change. At Newscom we recognise that our customers want choice in the way they consume content. With our unique ability to synergise our print and online operations, we’re able to provide our customers and advertisers with up-to-the-minute material across a variety of media.

  These are exciting days for Francombe. Work is soon to start on the renovation of the pier, which will put the town back at the forefront of the leisure industry. We at Newscom are drawing up plans to turn Mercury House into the UK’s first vertical shopping mall. We hope that you’ll support us as we both generate and report on this change.

  For someone so reluctant to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday, Adele had taken a keen interest in the preparations for the party. As Duncan had predicted, her misgivings, prompted by the sale of the paper and his own arrest, dwindled as the day approached, to be replaced by a constant fear that he would bungle the arrangements. He had respected her wish that it be an intimate gathering; not that there was much choice, given her reduced social circle. So along with Alison, Malcolm, their two sons and Jamie, he had invited her three fellow bridge players, two former colleagues from the Townswomen’s Guild, the president of the horticultural society and Henry.

  On the day itself Chris came to cook, set out and serve the food, while his friend Paul, whose artistic talents were not confined to doll-making, decked the sitting room, dining room and hall with bunches of balloons, garlands of paper flowers, strings of tissue pompoms and, most strikingly, eight full-size photographic cut-outs of Adele aged between ten and sixty (vanity had vetoed any later image). Chris who, much to Duncan’s embarrassment, refused any payment for what he described as a birthday gift, had returned to work soon after Duncan moved back to Ridgemount. Having agonised over cutting Chris’s hours now that he himself could attend to his mother’s basic needs, he discovered that Chris in turn had been worrying how to tell them that, with his grandmother safely installed in Castlemaine and his injured shoulder ruling out lifting, he had decided to go back into catering management. He would, however, be happy to help out with Adele whenever he could.

  Duncan pondered the irony that for all the damage Neil had done him, he had unwittingly solved the problem of how to limit Adele’s expenditure. It’s an ill wind, he thought bitterly as he found himself once again reliving the ordeal of his arrest. He sensed Ted Matthews’s discomfiture and his colleague’s contempt as they drove him to Falworth Road police station. Once there, he had his watch, wallet, keys, belt and mobile confiscated – although he was permitted to make a call on the station phone to Victor Sheringham, his solicitor – before being escorted down to a cell. Victor, who had planned to leave work early to take his daughters sledging on the South Downs (inducing Duncan’s one authentic pang of guilt), headed straight for the station, where he learnt that, when Tim Barker examined Duncan’s hard disk, he had uncovered over four hundred indecent images of children.

  ‘What children?’ Duncan asked. ‘Are they friends or strangers? How old? Girls or boys?’

  ‘I know nothing except that they’re underage,’ Victor replied wretchedly, ‘There are some girls but mainly boys.’

  ‘There you are then!’ Duncan said, with a momentary sense of exultation. ‘How can they be mine? I haven’t felt the slightest stirring in that direction since school.’

  Victor who, to Duncan’s dismay, seemed more concerned to find a valid reason for his having looked at the images than to accept that the very notion was preposterous, asked whether he m
ight have downloaded them during the course of an investigation into child pornography that had subsequently been dropped.

  ‘You’re saying that under the pressure of weekly deadlines I managed to forget that I had four hundred pictures of unspeakable wickedness and degradation on my screen? No!’

  Duncan reaffirmed his innocence when shortly afterwards he was taken up to an interview room, which reeked of body odour and air freshener, and questioned. Having explained that the laptop did not have a password and that the only people who had access to his flat were his son, his fiancée, her son and his cleaner, he asked whether it might have been possible for someone with a grievance against him (‘the sort of computer whizz-kid who hacks into the Pentagon’) to make it look as if he had downloaded the images in order to incriminate him.

  ‘Who would want to do that?’ one of the two interviewing officers asked incredulously.

  ‘The Mayor, half the Town Council, assorted hoteliers, property developers, publicans, supermarket chains, bus companies, hospital administrators, not to mention your own chief constable. Anyone whom the Mercury has held to account over the past twenty years!’

  To his own relief and Victor’s surprise, Duncan was not charged but released on police bail pending further investigation. Victor drove him home, where his parting remark that ‘At least I don’t need to give you my usual spiel about not talking to the press’ fell flat. Duncan had not realised how deeply he was in shock until he struggled up the stairs. Every step seemed like ten and by the time he reached the top he was gasping for breath. He stumbled through his front door, poured himself a tumbler of whisky and sank on to the sofa, but the respite was short-lived. Having ignored the flashing nine on the message indicator of his answering machine, he was forced to respond to the call that came through a few minutes later. Sounding strained, Alison announced that she was on her way to Francombe, having been rung up by a distraught Adele with news of his arrest. His horror that his mother knew was heightened by the memory of the firebomb attack that had triggered the death of Mrs Ponsonby. Panic-stricken, he proposed to drive straight over to Ridgemount but Alison dissuaded him, insisting that Adele was safe in the hands of Chris and that he himself needed rest.