“Can’t get the pictures if you’re not.” He grinned. “Can’t spend the rest of the afternoon gossiping with you. I’ve got prints for tomorrow’s paper to develop.”
He stood up and loped off to the darkroom.
I pulled open my desk drawer and took out the copy of the Cross file which I’d collected from Figgis’s office when I’d got back. I pulled my old Remington towards me and started to bat out the story about the strange disappearance of notable Councillor Derek Cross. It would lead the first edition the following day.
My phone rang and when I lifted the receiver a voice said: “If it isn’t salty seadog Colin Crampton. Albert Petrie speaking.”
My heartbeat quickened. After missing the interview, I’d expected my name to be about as popular as ‘Daily Express’ with the Mirror’s news editor.
“I’m very sorry that I wasn’t able to get to the interview yesterday – or warn you I wouldn’t be coming,” I said. The excuse sounded feeble.
“No need to apologise,” Petrie said. “The story always comes first. And you landed one of the best crime stories I’ve seen in many a long year. I’ve got three of my finest bloodhounds from the newsroom working on our own follow-up even as we speak. But you seemed to have squeezed all the juice out of the story and left nothing for us.”
“Does that mean the job offer might still be open?” I asked.
“’Fraid not, bold Colin.” Petrie sounded disappointed. “As I mentioned when we first spoke, we needed to fill this post quickly. So we’ve appointed one of the other candidates – Charlie Youngman from the Northern Echo. Great journalist on land. Not sure about the sea.”
“Thanks, anyway, for the call. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. And if there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
Could Petrie do anything for me? A little light bulb came on in my brain. I thought he could.
I said: “As you mention it, there is something. And it might also give you that follow-up on the Trumper story that your bloodhounds are hunting. There could be some more juice to squeeze.”
“I’m listening.”
We talked for another five minutes. After I’d put the phone down, I felt more satisfied than I had done since Ted Wilson had first told me the story of the disappeared golf man in Prinny’s Pleasure. I decided I’d write the rest of the Cross copy later. I put on my jacket and went out.
I had an important message to deliver.
Two days earlier, I had left Mary Farnsworth in tears.
Now, she was smiling as she let me into her flat. The smile took years off her. I’d thought she was a young woman turning into an old woman before her time. But it seemed she just needed a fair chance to flourish as the attractive young woman she could be. And, after long years of waiting for her father’s name to be cleared, the chance had now come. She led me into her sitting room. A copy of the afternoon’s Chronicle was on the table. She glanced at it as we walked over to the easy chairs and sat down.
“I’m going to cut out the front page of the paper and frame it,” she said.
“And hang it on the wall?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ll hang it somewhere I see it every day.”
“That won’t include the smallest room, I hope. My byline is on that story.”
She giggled in a girlish way I would have thought impossible at our previous meeting.
I said: “You may have something else to frame tomorrow.”
“You’re writing another story?”
“Yes, this is a story that will run for several days. Besides, there are other aspects not involving Reggie that will eventually result in a trial, perhaps more than one. But it’s not the Chronicle I’m thinking about. An hour ago, I was talking to Albert Petrie, the news editor of the Daily Mirror. He was fascinated when I told him about Reggie’s heroism in France and how he didn’t get the medal he deserved.”
“The Mirror is interested in father’s story?”
“More than interested,” I said. “Tomorrow, the Mirror’s front page will carry the headline FORGOTTEN HERO. It will be the start of one of the Mirror’s famous campaigns to right an injustice.”
“That means Reggie will get the medal?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. The Mirror will be running a national campaign which will set out the facts, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the War Office will agree to award a medal.”
“I understand.”
“But let’s not forget that the Daily Mirror has a circulation of more than five million and its campaigns are highly influential.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears and she began to cry.
But this time her tears didn’t come from grief. It seemed as though she realised a great shadow had been lifted from her life and that justice was about to be done. She rummaged in the sleeve of her cardigan and found a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Every time you come, I end up in tears.”
“I’ll remember to bring some paper tissues with me in future,” I said.
“I better stock up if I know you’re coming.”
A fresh smile broke through the tears.
“I thought I better come to warn you because a journalist from the Mirror will be telephoning you in a few minutes. And a reporter will come here to see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll have plenty to tell them now,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
I grinned. “No need. I get paid for doing this.”
I stood up, headed towards the door, turned back.
“But it’s at times like this that I realise I’d do it even I weren’t.”
The telephone rang. Mary looked uncertainly from me to the phone – not sure whether she should see me out or answer it.
I pointed to the phone. “That’ll be the Mirror. Better get ready to tell them the story of a hero,” I said.
I walked back to the front door and let myself out. That was easy, I thought. Now for the difficult bit. I glanced at my watch.
I was due to meet Shirley in twenty minutes.
Chapter 22
I’d been nearly drowned by Trumper and run down by Darke.
Could what Shirley had in store for me be any worse?
It was half past seven by the time I walked into Clarence Square and made my way towards Shirley’s flat. The skies had cleared of cloud and it had become a balmy golden August evening. There were plenty of people out enjoying it. A group of girls skipped with a long rope on the green in the middle of the square. An old man on a pushbike cycled home with a bag of fish and chips in the basket on the handlebars. A young curate with an armful of hymn books hurried towards the church. For them, at least, I thought as I trudged along, life was going on as normal.
But what about mine?
I walked slowly towards Shirley’s flat trying to think how I could open the conversation. Should I start with an apology? Or try to explain why I’d acted as I had? Or simply greet her as though nothing had happened? I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I formed words into sentences but they just jumbled in my mind. I was supposed to be a hotshot journalist and I was stuck for an intro. Perhaps, after the last few days, I was just too tired.
But I decided to do what I always did when I wasn’t sure what to say. I would simply trust to the moment that I’d find the right words. So I strolled up to Shirley’s front door and rang the bell. I shuffled from foot to foot while I waited for her to come.
She answered the door looking freshly bathed and without make-up, but more beautiful than ever. She was wearing a tee-shirt and jeans. The tee-shirt had a slogan printed on the front: “The answer’s no.”
I said: “You don’t even know what the question is yet.”
She said: “With you, I don’t need to. You better come in.”
She turned and led me down the hall. The back of her tee-shirt was printed with a single word.
“Probably.”
We w
ent into her tiny sitting room. It was temporary accommodation and sparsely furnished. A bit more than four walls and a floor, but not much. It had a couple of worn easy chairs, a small coffee table and a magazine rack. The curtains didn’t meet in the middle. A copy of the Chronicle’s night final was on the coffee table.
“As instructed, I didn’t bring my toothbrush,” I said.
“You’re learning,” Shirley said.
“But I have no rooted objection to waking up in the morning with unscrubbed teeth – if it’s in a good cause.”
Shirley said: “If you’re looking for a good cause, I can recommend Dr Barnardo’s.”
“Ding ding,” I said.
“Becoming a bus conductor, are you?”
“No, just signalling the end of round one,” I said. “Shall we retire to our corners and get fanned with towels by our seconds? Then we can come out fighting again.”
Shirley shrugged. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
She sat down in one of the easy chairs. I took that as a signal that I could sit in the other one. Its broken springs pinged and twanged as I lowered myself into it. It felt like sitting on a pile of bicycle parts.
I said: “I see you’ve read the Chronicle.”
Shirley glanced down at the paper. “Why do people want to read about such awful things?” she said.
She looked sad.
“Because they happen,” I said. “Because they have a right to know. And because, this time at least, it has righted a wrong.”
I told Shirley about my visit to Mary Farnsworth and how her father had been cleared of the suspicion of killing Mildred Trumper.
“That’s good,” she agreed. “But I suppose it’s done your career no harm.”
“Not exactly. I got the story but missed out on the Mirror job because I didn’t make the interview.”
“Of course. You stood them up before me. Two in one day. Must be some kind of a record for you.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said.
“It’s the way you are,” she said. “That’s why I’m moving on.”
I paused to absorb that news. The ringing bells of a police car racing down Western Road broke the silence.
“You always said you would,” I said at last. “Will it be in a month or two?”
“Sooner than that,” Shirley said.
“Next week?”
“Tomorrow.”
I stood up, walked over to the window and looked out between the gap in the curtains. I hadn’t expected this. I thought there would be time for me to repair our relationship. I turned back to her.
“Does it have to be so soon?” I said. “I planned to take a few days leave next week. I thought we could make that Paris trip we’d been talking about.”
“Go to Paris? So you could stand me up again while you’re chasing some fripon down the Champs-Elysées. I don’t think so.”
“It wouldn’t be like that.”
“Wouldn’t it? I’d rather not take the chance.”
She stood up and moved towards the door.
“Now I’ve got to get on with my packing. I’m planning to catch a morning train to London tomorrow.”
She left the sitting room and crossed the hall to a small bedroom. I followed her. A couple of suitcases lay open on the bed. Some clothes were already neatly folded in them. Others lay on the bed or on hangers from the picture rail around the room. Shirley took a pair of red slacks and deftly folded them. She put them in one of the cases.
I said: “It’s against my own interests to offer to help with your packing.”
“Against mine, too,” Shirley said. “I don’t want my clothes to end up looking like dish rags.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. Faced with Shirley’s imminent departure, I felt miserable. She seemed so determined. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would be likely to change her mind.
“I’d like to think we’ll be keeping in touch,” I said.
“You can always write. Shirley Goldsmith, care of The World.”
We fell silent while she sorted through some blouses, folded them and put some in one suitcase and some in the other.
I said: “When you’ve finished packing, could we have a final drink, perhaps even a late supper?”
“I don’t think I’ll have time,” she said.
She picked up a brown jacket and started to fold it.
I said: “Shirley, I know you’re angry but we could have more great times together.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. On the other side of the bed to me.
“I’m not angry,” she said. “Sure, I was spitting like an angry cobra when you stood me up. But when I’d cooled down, I knew you couldn’t help it. You had no choice but to follow that story. Trouble is, cobber, you’ll always be chasing stories – it’s what you live for. And if I stick around, I’ll always be waiting for you to return from the hunt. I’m not sure that I want to be the little woman who sits at home. In fact, I know I don’t.”
I said: “If I wanted a little woman, I’d have dated the midget from the circus.”
“It’s not a joke,” she said. She dropped the jacket on the floor. “Now look what I’ve done.” She picked it up again and started refolding.
I said: “There are two reasons why I want you to stick around. I think you’re great company. I admire your adventurous spirit. And, finally, I think I love you.”
Shirley stopped folding. She held the jacket half folded in front of her.
“That’s three reasons,” she said.
“Who’s counting?”
Shirley put the jacket on the bed. She leant over her cases and fussed around the clothes she’d already packed. It was two minutes before she spoke. It seemed like half a lifetime.
“I’ve had a great time with you these past six weeks. Yes, I can’t believe I’ve just said that after you’ve stood me up twice and got me arrested once. But even great times have to end.”
“They don’t have to.”
“They do if you want to move on.”
“And you are sure you want to?”
“That’s what my guiding spirit tells me. It’s like a voice in my soul which is telling me it’s time for walkabout.”
She picked up the jacket and started to refold it. I sat on the bed searching my brain for something I could say that would change her mind. But I couldn’t think of any argument that would sound convincing. Slowly, I stood up, crossed the room, bent over and kissed Shirley on the cheek.
“Great travelling,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Sure.”
“And join me for that last drink if you can later this evening. I’ll be the only customer in Prinny’s Pleasure.”
“Have one for me. But you’d do that anyway.”
“I’ll see myself out,” I said.
“See ya!”
I crossed the room and looked back. Shirley was staring at the half-folded jacket as though it held all the secrets of the universe.
I tramped back to the Chronicle offices through streets crowded with holidaymakers enjoying the warm evening.
I didn’t share their joy. Shirley’s news had sent my spirits tumbling. The stories I’d written for the paper in the last few days suddenly didn’t seem so great after all. It was as though the adrenalin rush I’d been experiencing had gone into reverse. I thought about giving up my job and going walkabout with Shirley. But I didn’t think she’d have me. In the mood she was in, if I decided to go west, she’d head east. It looked as though we had come to a final parting.
But I still had a job to do. I had to write a story about the bent property developer Septimus Darke and the corrupt Councillor Derek Cross. The story, based on the information in the Cross folder, was needed for the first edition tomorrow. So I plodded back to the Chronicle, dragged myself up the stairs to the newsroom and slumped down at my desk.
It was a tough story to write as most of the information in t
he Cross folder would now be evidence in a criminal trial. But I focused on the task and after a couple of hours had only about six pars to write. I was just thinking about how to wrap up the story’s conclusion when my phone rang.
I picked up the receiver and an excited woman’s voice said: “Mr Crampton, I’m so sorry to call you at work. It’s Beatrice Gribble.”
The Widow had never called me at the office before.
I said: “Mrs Gribble, is my flat on fire?”
“Mr Crampton, you will have your little jokes. No, your flat is not on fire. But I have just seen the Evening Chronicle with the wonderful news that that dreadful Darke man has been arrested.”
“Yes, happened this afternoon.”
“And this is all your doing, I’m sure. I see your name is on the article.”
“Yes, it’s my byline.”
“I hope this means that the appalling Darke won’t be buying Mrs Saunders’ house and ruining our lovely square.”
“I shouldn’t think he’ll be buying any houses for quite a time, Mrs Gribble.”
She said: “Please call me Beattie. Now that we’re such good friends.”
I said: “Of course, Mrs Gribble. I have to go now as the crossword compiler wants me to help him with some clues.”
“Clues?”
“Yes. One across: Beneficial cricket extra says farewell. Seven letters.”
“What’s that?” asked the Widow.
“Goodbye.”
I rang off, turned back to the Remington and began on the last few pars of my story.
I’d just wound the last folio out of the typewriter when the phone rang again.
Ted Wilson said: “Well, catching the big fish this afternoon has certainly stirred up the hen coop.”
I said: “But it hasn’t done a lot for the world of mixed metaphors.”
“Rogerson, the assistant chief constable has resigned. Official. The chief showed me the letter. And Superintendent Gregson left the office hurriedly after we’d brought in Darke in handcuffs. Word is he won’t be coming back.”
Ted sounded a little drunk. I could hardly blame him.
“A good result from your end. I’ll mention it to Figgis in the morning and we’ll run something on it.”
“Yes, the place will never be the same again. With Darke out of the way, there are people here wondering where their next backhander is coming from,” Wilson said.
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