The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Thanks a lot. Dad away?’

  ‘Yes, he went off yesterday to New York for a few days,’ said Francesca briefly. He had: at ten minutes’ notice and without any kind of an explanation beyond ‘I’m having a very difficult time.’

  ‘Sandie’s in the nursery if you want her,’ said Jack helpfully. ‘And she might give you a sweetie if you’re good.’

  ‘Sandie gives you sweets, does she?’ said Francesca. ‘I’m not too sure about that.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Jack cheerfully. ‘Kinder eggs mostly. If I’m good and don’t bother her when she’s on the phone.’

  ‘On the phone!’

  ‘Yes, she loves the phone.’

  ‘Does she now?’ said Francesca. ‘There’s the postman, Jack, want to get the letters?’

  ‘Cool!’ said Jack.

  He came in with a small pile; Francesca flicked through them. Nothing very interesting: bills, junk mail, an invitation to join a chain charity luncheon – what the hell was a chain luncheon, she wondered – another to buy tickets for a ball, and at the bottom of the pile a rather fanciful envelope with deckle edges. The postmark was Guildford: Heather Clarke. Poor woman. She’d liked her at the funeral. She must go and see her soon.

  Dear Mrs Channing, (the note read)

  Just a quick note to say I was so sorry I wasn’t able to speak to you for longer at Mr Booth’s funeral. My son seemed intent on rushing me away! But it was very nice to see you.

  I thought Mr Channing spoke so well. He really brought dear Douglas Booth alive for us all again. How you will all miss him – and how the company will too.

  Please send my best wishes to Mr Channing also, and tell him how much we all appreciate Oliver being given a job there. And thank you for your help in that matter too. I know he is enjoying it very much, and certainly doesn’t take it for granted … And I know he will work hard; he was simply unfortunate losing his other job.

  Incidentally I was so interested to hear that Mr Channing has become a trustee of the convent and the home for the disabled in Devon. What a very worthwhile project, and what an extremely kind, good man he is.

  Thank you again for your own kindness,

  Yours sincerely,

  Heather Clarke

  Francesca put the letter down and sat staring at it. She felt icy cold and very shocked. Bard a trustee of a home for the disabled! Which meant giving up quite a lot of time and underwriting its debts; she spent enough time on her various charity committees to know that. A trustee of this place of her mother’s, the one where this handicapped child was – it must be that one, it was too much of a coincidence to be anything else. What the hell was going on? Why had neither of them told her, what kind of conspiracy had they hatched between them, and why should it matter in the least if she did find out? And what was Bard doing, getting so heavily involved in something so outside his sphere of interest? And a convent, for God’s sake, Bard was famously hostile to convents, to anything to do with the Catholic Church, largely because of Pattie and her devout adherence to it.

  It just didn’t make any kind of sense, any of it; and it was outrageous, the two people closest to her, in some kind of conspiracy behind her back. She felt angry and, worse than angry, extremely hurt. And for the first time since Duggie’s death he was away: in New York, so she couldn’t ask him about it. And anyway, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to,

  ‘Mum! MUM! You deaf or something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are deaf. You’d better get an ear trumpet. I said can I get down?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes of course.’

  ‘Is it time to go to school?’

  ‘Um – I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, look at the clock, then. Oh dear. She’s gone deaf, Barnaby. And I’ve got to go to school.’

  ‘I’ll take you. Shall I, Francesca?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re right, Jack. She has. I said shall I take Jack to school? In the car?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes please, Barnaby, that’s very kind.’

  ‘Only Sandie needs her car, so can I borrow yours?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh – yes. Yes of course.’

  Barnaby grabbed Jack’s hand, and ushered him swiftly towards the door. ‘The – the Merc?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to.’

  ‘And – keep it till lunchtime?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Barnaby. ‘Come on, Jack, quick as you can.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jack. ‘Blimey blimey blimey.’

  Francesca sat down at the table when they had gone, spooning yoghurt into Kitty and trying to stop herself minding so much about Bard and her mother. She supposed in some ridiculous way she was jealous. That they hadn’t told her. Maybe it wasn’t right; maybe Heather Clarke had got the wrong end of the stick. She wasn’t the brightest woman in the world and her devotion to Bard was such that if she’d been told he’d run away and joined the Moonies she would say what a wonderful thing to have done. Who would know, how could she check on it? And who would have told her in the first place?

  And then she realised: Oliver. It was exactly the sort of thing he would be dealing with, in his new position, in the financial office at Channings. She could ask him.

  She looked at her watch: only half past eight, too early to ring him. He probably wouldn’t get in until nine at the earliest. Shit.

  Sandie came in, started clearing the table round her. ‘Sorry about the car, Mrs Channing. It was very nice of you to lend Barnaby yours.’

  ‘What? I lent Barnaby the Mercedes?’

  ‘Well, he just drove off in it. With Jack.’

  ‘Oh Lord. I wasn’t thinking, how extremely rash of me. I – oh well. I hope Mr Channing doesn’t find out, that’s all. We’ll have to get Barnaby a car of his own, we can’t go on like this, playing box and cox with them all the time. Why couldn’t he have had yours, Sandie? Well, I’ll have to take it, I’m afraid. I need a car this morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid I need it,’ said Sandie, ‘to do the shopping and collect all that dry cleaning for you.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to manage in taxis, I’m afraid. I have to go and see – ’ She stopped.

  ‘Liam?’ said Sandie.

  There was something in her voice that Francesca didn’t like: it was insinuating, over-familiar. For some reason it bothered her.

  ‘Mr Channing, yes,’ she said coldly. ‘In hospital. And Sandie, I don’t want you giving Jack sweets, they’re very bad for him.’

  Sandie looked at her. Her voice was polite, but her expression was coolly blank. ‘If you say so,’ she said, and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut just too loudly behind her.

  Francesca went upstairs and handed Kitty over to Nanny, feeling upset. And then sat down in her bedroom, the door firmly shut, and rang Channings’ number. A pause: then a slightly nervous-sounding Oliver.

  ‘Oliver, hallo. Don’t sound so anxious. It’s just a silly little thing, but Mr Channing is away, as you know. Oliver, there’s some confused message here about a trusteeship. You know, of the convent in Devon. You know about that, do you? Yes? Oh – oh, good. That is right is it, Mr Channing is to be a trustee? Oh, and there’s a new building as well? Oh yes, of course. Yes, yes, I thought so, but I thought I’d better double check, a friend of mine wanted to help with some of the paperwork, as it’s a charity, you know, so I thought before I put her onto Mr Channing, well, you know what he’s like if things aren’t a hundred per cent right, and it’s early days – yes, thank you, Oliver. Yes, of course, I’ll tell her to talk to my mother, what a good idea. Thank you again. Well, sorry to have disturbed you, and I’ll see you soon, yes, bye Oliver.’

  She slammed the phone down, feeling near to tears; she hadn’t handled that at all well, had heard her own voice getting louder and more foolish every moment. But at least she knew. And putting up a new building as well. He was obviously very deeply involved. Bloody hell. How dared they? How dared they?
<
br />   She picked up the phone again, dialled her mother’s number. Rachel’s throaty voice answered it immediately.

  ‘Mummy, it’s me.’

  ‘Francesca sweetheart! How are you? And how is that darling baby? I was so sorry to – ’

  ‘The darling baby’s fine, thank you. Mummy, would you kindly tell me what the hell is going on? Just why are you and Bard in league behind my back, on this damn convent or home or whatever, and would you mind telling me how it can possibly be so terribly important to you that you’ve managed to persuade him to do it at all?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Mr Townsend? This is Jess Channing. Kirsten tells me you want to talk to me. What’s it about?’

  ‘Oh – hallo, Mrs Channing. It’s very good of you to ring me. Yes, I did. I’m a journalist – ’

  ‘Yes she told me that. She seems to think quite highly of you. I wouldn’t see you if she hadn’t, I don’t trust the press. But your paper seems quite decent, not one of those rags. Now what is the article about exactly?’

  ‘It’s about socialism, Mrs Channing. About its changing face. And people like you, who have made it your life’s work.’

  ‘Oh yes? Hasn’t done it much good, has it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The party. Hasn’t done it much good, making it our life’s work. Dreadful mess it’s in and it’s getting worse. Smith and now Blair, nothing more nor less than Tories. I don’t understand people, I really don’t.’

  ‘No,’ said Gray carefully. ‘No indeed.’

  ‘Are you a socialist?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  ‘Never be afraid of declaring your politics,’ she said sternly. ‘If you’re a Tory then just come out and say so, don’t apologise. Anyway, I don’t think there’s much point you talking to me. I can’t tell you much. Talk to Barbara, she’s your girl.’

  ‘Barbara?’

  ‘Yes, Barbara Castle. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about it all. Want me to ask her for you?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes please.’

  He was so engrossed in his fictional piece, so delighted at the prospect of talking to Barbara Castle, that he forgot, briefly, his real reason for wanting to talk to Jess Channing. Just as she was ringing off he realised what he was doing.

  ‘Mrs Channing, don’t go. Please. I really do want to talk to you as well. I feel you’re a bit of living history. It’s so marvellous, talking people of your generation.’

  ‘Living history!’ she said, and emitted what he imagined might be a laugh. ‘I’m very old, if that’s what you mean. You’ll have to use plain language if you’re going to talk to me. Well, you can come if you like. I don’t want to be taken anywhere, I don’t like the sort of place I imagine you’re thinking of and I don’t approve of expense accounts which is what I expect you’ve got. You come here and I’ll give you some lunch’.

  ‘Oh, but – ’

  ‘Look, it’s either that or nothing. It’s all the same to me. I’ll give you a good meal. Not that men seem to eat properly any more.’

  ‘Well – thank you. I’ll try to be worthy of it. Thank you very much. Will Kirsten be there?’

  ‘I don’t know. She said she was very busy with her job. I think you helped her get it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Gray.

  ‘Very good of you. She’s a nice girl, under all the nonsense, Isambard and her mother between them have given her a rotten start.’

  ‘Er – well – ’ Gray heard his own voice floundering.

  ‘Come tomorrow, that suit you, one o’clock? Don’t be late.’

  ‘No, Mrs Channing. Thank you.’

  Just before he left for Kennington, he had a quick graze through the Channing file. He had been through it so many times now he was beginning to know it by heart. And the early cuttings. But there was nothing. No clues, no leads, nothing even remotely suspicious, just a long catalogue of success. Always less interesting than failure. He was no nearer making any kind of progress with his investigations, about what might have happened twenty years ago. Hopefully today would help.

  Teresa Booth had just finished turning out Duggie’s desk when she discovered an old Ordnance Survey map of what appeared to her to be a remote district of Scotland. Closer examination confirmed that it was a remote district of Scotland, with an area heavily circled in pencil. On the edge of the pencilled circle was a small town called Auchnamultie. Intrigued, she lifted her phone and dialled Graydon Townsend at his office. He was out, but his nice assistant said he would be back after lunch.

  ‘Just tell him there’s a place in Scotland called Auchnamultie,’ she said, ‘and I’m sending him a map. He’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘Fine,’ said the nice assistant.

  Jess Channing was waiting for him in her small house. She was wearing the same stark black as she had at the funeral; it was obviously not purely for purposes of mourning. She was a very tall woman, he realised, as she ushered him in, and he realised too where Kirsten’s fine bones came from – and her wild hair. Jess Channing’s was white, drawn back into a large bun and kept most severely under control with what looked like over a hundred hairpins, but there were tendrils escaping nonetheless around her neck, which was long and delicate (again like Kirsten’s) and her forehead, which was high and hardly lined.

  ‘Drink?’ she said. ‘No alcohol, but there’s plenty of water and some ginger beer. Which I made.’

  ‘I’ll have ginger beer. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll start straight away,’ she said, leading him into her dining room. He was surprised by how pretty it was.

  ‘Kirsten looks like you,’ he said as he sat down, shook out his napkin. ‘I expect lots of people tell you that.’

  ‘They don’t and I’m delighted to hear it. If she dressed a bit better she’d be a nice-looking young woman. I worry about her though. No inner resources. All emotion, no intellect.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Gray, ‘she seems very bright to me.’

  ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t bright,’ said Jess severely, ‘I said she had no intellect. There’s a difference. Ill-read. Do you read?’

  ‘Well – not very much now. No time. I did though.’

  ‘You should make time for it. What takes all your time up, anyway? Your work I suppose. Dangerous that. It’s what my son does. Works and nothing else. You’ve met Isambard, have you?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Once or twice.’

  ‘Do you think that company of his is in trouble?’ she said suddenly. Gray was so startled he dropped his tape recorder. Fiddling about with it, re-setting it, gave him something to do, and he hoped concealed his real feelings. This looked as if it would be better even than he had hoped.

  ‘Well, I really have no idea,’ he said.

  ‘Oh come along. Of course you have. You work on the financial pages, don’t you?’

  ‘Well – obviously it’s having a tough time. All property companies are. And it doesn’t seem to be getting any better for any of them. But he’s very clever, is Mr Channing. A survivor.’

  ‘I think,’ she said calmly, ladling soup into a bowl, ‘it would be the best thing in the world for him if it crashed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gray. ‘Oh I see.’ He smiled at her uncertainly. ‘This is very nice soup.’ It was: delicious.

  ‘Leek and potato. Nothing fancy. Yes, it would bring him back to basics. He’s lost sight of everything that matters. He could start again, he’d be fine. What did you think of that service, incidentally?’

  ‘Oh – very nice. Yes.’

  ‘I thought it was shocking,’ she said, ‘really shocking. Dreadful plastic place, piped music. You need a church at your departure whether you believe or not. Some good hymns to send you on your way and a sense of eternity. That place felt like a supermarket that opened yesterday and will close tomorrow. More soup?’

  ‘Yes, please. Did you make the bread?’

  ‘Yes of course. And what did you think of Mrs
Booth’s little outburst?’ The black eyes, so like Bard’s, were gleaming with pleasure.

  ‘I – well, I thought – ’

  ‘You like her, don’t you? I saw you with her at the house. Nothing wrong with that, I like her too as a matter of fact. I think she’s honest. Very important, honesty. Kirsten’s honest, you know. Just the same, she shouldn’t have done it. Teresa Booth I mean. Not then. If poor Douglas was anywhere there, he’d have been very upset. So let’s hope he wasn’t. Now then, what can I tell you about the old days? I can remember Mosley coming to the East End, you know, him and his Blackshirts. I was only just married, my husband was in the party as well of course, and two of his friends got hurt in the fighting. That wasn’t about politics of course, that was gang warfare.’

  ‘So what is about politics?’ said Gray. He really wanted to know, his genuine quest set aside.

  ‘People. People and their needs and their ideals. And balancing those things. That’s where the party’s gone wrong. It’s all about needs and not about ideals. Thatcher, she got it right, in her way. I didn’t approve of her of course, but she knew about that balance. You know what Nye Bevan said? The Tories are hard on the outside and hard on the inside, whereas we’re hard on the outside but soft inside. Quite true.’

  ‘And when did you join the party?’

  ‘Oh, when I was eighteen. Wonderful years. To be working in it, watching it grow, seeing the Trade Unions getting strong, looking out for the workers, for the unemployed … But perhaps the most exciting time was after the war. When we got in finally. They sang “The Red Flag” when they met in the Commons for the first time ever you know, the new government. The officials were horrified, hurried on with things, as if they were covering up some dreadful social gaffe.’ She smiled at Gray. ‘Is this the sort of thing you want?’

  ‘Oh – yes. It’s wonderful.’ He was already writing this piece in his head; it was far too good to waste.

  ‘Right. Fish pie? Just wait a minute and I’ll carry on.’

  She did carry on; it was wonderful. Gray’s tape ran out twice. She had known them all, Bevan, Morrison, Attlee, Stafford Cripps. She saw the birth of the National Health Service – ‘Disgraced now, Nye would weep’ – the burgeoning of the welfare state – ‘Out of hand these days, I’m afraid’ – the housing boom –