Getting Home

by Celia Brayfield

  ‘Later this week, we’ll be offering the Oak Hill Development Trust the opportunity to explain why they want to build a business park where ten thousand people will come to work every day on a piece of land which is so poisoned that nobody should even be walking on it without a mask and protective clothing,’ Rod leaned into the camera confidently, making up the words as he spoke and quite intoxicated by his own fluency. ‘And we hope that the Helford and Westwick Council planning office will be able to tell us just why they gave permission for this development. And today on Family First, after the break, I’ll be talking to Stephanie Sands …’ – From Camera Two came a shot of Stephanie, smiling serenely in her new hound’s-toorh check suit from Bon Ton, poised on the sofa – ‘who has just found out that her house is going to be knocked down to make way for a road to the development. How’s that for your ultimate suburban nightmare? So stay with us now, we’ll be back very soon…’

  An eruption of cheering and applause from the audience greeted the Family First logo, something colourful featuring flowers-and a rising sun, which flashed on to the screen before the commercials rolled. The rabbit, lolloping purposefully down one of the aisles, froze in alarm.

  ‘Isn’t that our kidnap wife?’ demanded the senior producer of no one in particular.

  ‘What it is …’ Maria got up and came over to sit on the arm of the director’s chair next to him. She was perfecting the earnest yet pouting manner, Meryl Streep does Betty Boop, for those little moments when a woman just has to front up to trouble and argue that black is white. ‘We did start with her as a kidnap wife, I know. But it turns out her husband’s going to be released now. Only he’s coming home to find his house is going to be demolished, you see? It’s even better, isn’t it? I mean, it was two tragedies for the price of one kind of thing. How could we turn it down?’

  ‘How indeed.’ The senior producer ruffled what was left of his hair with the end of a pen, looking perplexed but intrigued. ‘Oak Hill Development Trust, yeah? Isn’t Allie tied into that somehow. That husband …’

  ‘He’s resigned,’ the senior researcher put in gallantly ‘It was on the financial news last week.’

  Maria looked squarely at the producers. ‘This was such a great story …’

  ‘Great story!’ The senior researcher, scenting freedom, backed her all the way.

  ‘You mean, this was Allie’s tip?’ The senior producer suddenly seemed downcast.

  ‘No!’ Maria insisted, ‘No – she – ah – well –’

  ‘She doesn’t know?’

  ‘Well, not exactly…’

  The senior producer weighed the value of his star against the value of the show, and found that Allie lost. She’d be fired, but so would they. On the other hand, another season of having his nuts vaporised by that overactive Barbie doll might have been too much. He might just walk away with enough career to save.

  A telephone warbled on the console and the vision mixer answered it. ‘No kidding!’ she squeaked. ‘No kidding! They want you …’ and she handed the producer the telephone. He listened attentively, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right, right, I got ya. Right.’ And he hung up. ‘People,’ he announced, suddenly full of the joy of incident, ‘there’s an emergency. Right here. A real one. Some woman hijacked a helicopter and ran into the building just now. She’s armed and dangerous. Because we’re transmitting, security are going to cordon us off. Rest of the building’s being evacuated. Of course, Alamo rules apply – anyone who wants to leave now …’ He looked around the room, but nobody moved. The, rush of live breaking news was making all eyes sparkle. The idea of giving the audience the same chance to avoid being shot was not considered.

  ‘OK. Better speak to the studio.’ He reached for a switch. ‘Rod?’

  Rod heard the voice of the senior producer buzzing in his ear-piece. ‘Emergency situation in the building, some woman with a gun – security are on the case, nothing to worry about, just carry on, OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rod agreed, uneasy. Excitement was making the man talk at twice his usual speed.

  ‘Oh – and – uh, great report, Rod, great, great … next time, if you have to reschedule a film like that, remember to check with the gallery here that everyone’s up to speed with the transmission schedule, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, OK.’ Standing in the middle of the set, Rod looked over the heads of the audience in the vague direction of the gallery, which was invisible at the far back of the auditorium. Since his microphone carried his voice, all he had to do was speak into the air like Moses chatting to God on Mount Ararat. The rush of being on camera was wearing off. Where, he asked himself, was the barrage of outrage and complaint for which he had rehearsed. They had both been fully prepared for Stephanie’s half of the programme to be summarily axed. ‘You’re really OK with this?’ he ventured.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Absolutely,’ the senior producer reassured him, a chuckle in his voice. ‘But thank God Allie’s been caught up in traffic, eh?’

  ‘Why, may I ask?’ Had it been possible for him to turn into a pillar of salt, the senior producer would have done so. As it was he shuddered momentarily, turned around and faced his star. Allie stood in the doorway, stripping off her wet jacket and kicking off her ruined shoes while a make-up artist behind her combed back her hair. ‘Gel,’ she ordered, ‘no time for anything else. Slick it back. Then the face. Hurry.’

  ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ he blustered. ‘There’s a maniac on the loose in the building. With a gun. Didn’t you see the security …’

  ‘Network’s coming to us in ninety,’ announced the vision mixer, preparing to begin transmission again. A wardrobe assistant appeared with a green jacket, apologising.

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ Allie told her, twitching her arms down the jacket sleeves with reptilian speed. ‘I’ll sit behind the worktop. Tell the floor. I’m coming down.’

  ‘Allie’s doing the interview behind the desk, everybody. Move Stephanie over now. Coming to us in one minute.’

  Stephanie, having heard nothing of this, only saw the floor manager convulse into action and leap towards her. ‘I’m going to have to move you,’ he announced, snatching the microphone from. her lapel. Obediently she got up from the sofa and followed him to the tiled worktop usually reserved for mixing the Cake of the Week where she struggled on to a high stool and looked around for Rod. A sound man appeared to help her re-fix the microphone.

  Rod had not moved from the sofa area. He was listening intently to his ear-piece, an expression of tragedy settling on his face. He shook his head, looked over at Stephanie, mimed something unguessable and waved crossed fingers. The sound man scurried over and detached his mike. Immediately he ran over to Stephanie.

  ‘God, I got my worst marks for mime,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘What I meant was, the bitch is back. It’s over to you. Break a leg, sweetheart!’ A strong warm hand squeezed her thigh and then he was gone, back in the twilight zone beyond the studio lights.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen!’ The floor manager was capering out in front of the audience. ‘Our star presenter, award-winning hostess of Family First — Allie Parsons! Put your hands together everybody …’ He waved his arms, trying to conjure applause. The illuminated signs under the monitor screens facing the audience flashed the word ‘Applause’. A few biddable souls clapped. Allie appeared at the back of the seating, scampered down the aisle waving left and right to the silent audience, and tripped over the rabbit.

  People laughed. In the gallery, Maria laughed so severely that she got hiccups. At the edge of the set, Rod laughed from the depth of his diaphragm, the sound of Jove chuckling over a thunderbolt. Stephanie laughed so heartily that the last shred of fear in her heart evaporated. The rabbit’s owner, with an air of deep injury, struggled out of his seat and recaptured the animal.

  The floor manager helped Allie to a stool on the far side of the counter, where her wet pink skirt, ruined hose and bare feet were concealed. The make-up artist comb
ed her hair again. Somebody shoved two coffee cups in front of them. The audience subsided to titters. The red light on Camera Three flashed.

  ‘Welcome back,’ gushed Allie, almost falsetto with relief that she had triumphed over every foe to reach her goal. ‘Welcome back to Family First. I’m Allie Parsons. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the first half of our programme, but well, I’m here now and isn’t this cosy?’ She pulled a cup towards her and pretended to sip coffee. ‘Just like home! Only for my guest here, Stephanie Sands, home hasn’t been so sweet lately, has it Stephanie?’

  The light on Camera Three died. The operator dragged Camera Two closer to Stephanie and the light shone red. Allie mugged encouragement at her. Out in the audience, she saw Gemma give her a thumbs-up. ‘No,’ Stephanie agreed. ‘Ever since I found out that our house was going to be demolished to make way for a road to the new business park, things have been just about as bad as they could be.’

  ‘Huh?’ Allie almost dropped the cup, slopping coffee on the worktop.

  ‘My house is going to be demolished,’ Stephanie repeated, suddenly feeling as if champagne were running in her veins instead of blood. There was a warm patch on her thigh where Rod had touched her. She caught Allie’s gaze, noting that the true colour of the eyes was a dismal muddy grey. ‘You know, the house which you picked out for me, Allie. For me, and my husband and our baby. Because you were my friend, you said, you picked this house for us. And now it’s going to be knocked down so they can build a road to the new business park. At Oak Hill.’ In her mind’s ear, Stephanie heard four million people gasp in outrage.

  Allie was white with surprise and making a strange gurgling sound. As if trying to call a waiter, she was waving at the gallery while she was out of shot. The light on Camera Three suddenly shone again.

  ‘Get ready,’ mutrered Crusty to the eco-warrior next to him in the audience. ‘Get ready,’ he warned Gemma. ‘About a minute now. Pass it on.’

  ‘Stephanie,’ Allie broke in with relief, ‘I’m going to have to stop you right there. We’re having a little technical problem—’

  ‘No you aren’t,’ Stephanie told her, standing up and leaning over the counter. ‘The problem you’re going to have, Allie, is that you were a director of this Oak Hill Business Park, so you’re not just a lousy excuse for a friend, you’re also responsible …’ From the corner of her eye she saw a banner appear in the audience. GREED KILLS, it read. Jemima Thorogood was holding it up with both hands, waving it from side to side. She saw more people standing up, unwrapping their coats and pulling out their hidden weapons – ‘Responsible, in fact, for trying to poison at least ten thousand people …’

  Allie jumped off her stool and ran out to the front of the spotlit stage. With malicious attentiveness, the operator in charge of Camera Three swung around and followed her. ‘Cut!’ she shouted, waving with both arms to the impervious gallery. ‘Cut it! Cut it now! This woman’s crazy! Get security …’ A paint ball exploded by her feet and she jumped. A string of lighted firecrackers sailed through the air and landed behind her. Allie saw herself on a monitor, a lank-haired, paint-spattered, gesticulating scarecrow, and she screamed.

  As Stephanie recoiled from the firecrackers she found Rod beside her, scooping her protectively to his side. ‘Brava!’ he whispered, ducking to dodge a flour bomb. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Eco-warriors waving banners were climbing over the seats and jumping on the stage. ‘Forward!’ shouted Crusty, tearing off his hat and tossing it into the crowd. A dog had appeared from somewhere, barking in ecstary. People at the back were throwing toilet rolls. Topaz jumped on one of the sofas, waving the flag of the New Green Army.

  ‘Rock and roll,’ muttered the senior producer in the gallery happily. ‘We can stay with this a minute or two. Grass-roots reaction. All good television, I think.’

  24. The Most Approved

  Sanitary Arrangements

  The riot in the Channel Ten studios, when local campaigners protesting against plans to develop a toxic site in Westwick were joined by the mercenaries of the New Green Army under their famous leader, Crusty, was blessed a thousand times by the compilers of the midday, six-o’clock and evening news bulletins, who-had live footage to engage their audiences, and by all the newspaper editors, who slapped a large picture of Crusty on their front pages. Crusty had one arm around Clara Funk, who held a placard insisting PEOPLE FIRST.

  An inquiry into the Oak Hill Development Trust was immediately ordered by the environment department, and by Sunday the supplements had geared up to crucify Helford & Westwick Council, with Chester Pike and Adam DeSouza nailed up each side as the accompanying thieves. Ted Parsons was highlighted as the heroic whistle-blower who had resigned his directorship and left his wife rather than see profits put above public health.

  Stephanie stayed in bed that Sunday morning. She felt oddly fragile. Max, of course, said nothing, but padded to the kitchen to make her coffee and bring it up on a tray with a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and a red leaf from the garden. Whereupon she found herself crying. The day had been the day she had dreamed of for six whole months, the day Mr Capelli called from the Foreign Office to announce that the negotiations were over and Stewart was coming home. She had been bursting into tears at odd moments ever since; tears of joy, she told herself, knowing that there were other emotions involved as well. Fear, for instance, and a little shame for having fallen short of perfect fidelity, and sadness for the bold, independent self she feared she would now have to put in a basket and file away. But mostly joy. Joy for Stewart, and for herself and her son, alone and undefended no more.

  Stewart Sands, who was awarded a copy of the Sunday Post by the first secretary of the Embassy in Moscow before boarding his Aeroflot flight home, looked at the picture of Crusty and discovered it meant less to him than if it had been an alien from another universe. The world to which he was returning seemed bizarre.

  Stephanie and Max were there to meet him at the airport. Stephanie thought he looked thinner, warier and calmer. Stewart thought that his wife had somehow regained the enchanting something which had captivated him the first moment he saw her. It was a bewitching, thrilling, indefinable quality, the vital essence of her, which he thought he must have overlooked for a few years in all the hurly-burly of young parenthood. He felt he might be able to make sense of the world again.

  Stephanie knew that her husband had overlooked nothing. She had lost herself for a while in Westwick, allowed her spirit to follow a chimera, the seductive dream of an ideal life which had no existence at all except in the minds of people who felt their lives were less than ideal and sought to buy their way into perfection. As soon as she sensed that her husband had reoriented himself, she told him she wanted to move back into the city.

  Allie Parsons was arrested for obstructing the emergency services in doing their duty. She was released without charge, but betrayed to the media by an indignant police officer and slimed in the tabloids over her connection with the now notorious Oak Hill Trust. Sacked by Channel Ten, she moved to Los Angeles to make a new career, lost ten years from her age and married a plastic surgeon.

  The senior producer of Family First seized on Rod Fuller and ensured that he followed his sensational debut with a tri-partite documentary on urban renewal which won them the Prix Italia. Rod then found himself propelled to Channel Ten’s flagship news programme. Maria d’Amico took over Family First. Eighteen months later Rod and Maria got married, with Sweetheart as a still-dubious bridesmaid. In their pre-nuptial agreement they pledged never to court the curse of Hey! magazine by allowing it into their lovely home.

  Topaz Lieberman decamped to Strankley Ridge to be with Crusty, but after a winter of boiling water to wash clothes and trying in vain to stop the eco-warriors treading mud into the yurt she moved back to her family, arguing that a presence in the city was essential for the next phase of the revolution. Damon Parsons also joined the New Green Army. The horse was soon an unrecognisably we
ll-turned-out animal, the brown parts of its coat glowing like new chestnuts and its mane neatly pulled to a length of nine inches. To ensure the Army’s self-sufficiency, widen their skill resources, keep the horse shod and enjoy hammering things, Damon signed on for a vocational degree in blacksmithing at Whitbridge University.

  Harrier Homes took over the remains of Tudor Homes and allowed Ted to resign with dignity and a pay-off which he considered perfectly reasonable. He moved in with Gemma and they were robustly happy, although the cat terrorised Moron and Ted found that the pain of living in a botched modernisation was like having a tooth abscess.

  When the Sun Wharf project was completed they moved into an apartment there with their five girls, and argued about the roof-terrace, which Gemma wanted to plant as a urban jungle and Ted saw in more formal terms. She called him borings. He called her unreasonablet. She called him controlling. He called her impractical. She stuffed a handful of manure down the neck of his shirt. Flora demanded silence for. the completion of her project on Psychotherapy and the Practice of Martial Arts.

  The manure was not as well rotted as it should have been. Ted took a lengthy shower, was encouraged to find that the plumbing functioned perfectly and retired to his own territory, his study, where he unpacked the sad crate of his personal things from his office at Tudor Homes. Jackson Kerr’s advertisement for the second phase of Maple Grove houses was dusty but unscathed.

  ‘Maple Grove,’ it proclaimed in lettering with fanciful serifs such as was used in story-book illustrations:

  The Healthiest Place in the World – annual death rate under 6 per thousand.

  Only 20 minutes from the City Centre

  Close to Westwick Green station.

  The Estate is built on Gravelly Soil and has the most approved Sanitary Arrangements.

  Cozy Comfort

  A Green Location

  About 500 houses on the Estate, all in the picturesque