by Emily Gunnis
They reached the back of the press pack. ‘I’m not sure why Murray’s sent you,’ Jim called over his shoulder at Sam. Sam smiled politely at the Southern News old-timer, who found it hard to hide the fact that he thought she should be back at the office making tea.
‘Me neither, Jim! Am I passable?’ she said, turning to Fred.
Fred flushed slightly. ‘Yes, definitely. Look out for the old witch next door,’ he added hurriedly, keen to change the subject. ‘She looks like she’s going to attack us all with her Zimmer frame.’
All eyes were on Sam as she walked past the pack and down the path, clutching the bouquet to her chest like a terrified bride. As she reached the front door, she caught sight of an elderly lady at the window of the house next door. She had her net curtains pulled back and was staring intently. Fred was right, she did look like a witch. She was wild-eyed, her long grey hair loose around her shoulders and her bony fingers white from gripping the curtain so hard. Sam took a deep breath and pressed the bell.
It was a good two minutes before Jane Connors opened the door, ashen-faced.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you at this difficult time.’ Sam looked directly into the woman’s reddened eyes. ‘My name is Samantha, I represent Southern News. We wanted to offer our sincere condolences—’
‘Can’t you just leave us alone?’ the woman snapped. ‘As if this isn’t hard enough. Why won’t you all just go away?’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Connors.’
‘You’re not sorry! If you were sorry, you wouldn’t do this . . . at the worst time in our lives.’ Her voice trembled. ‘We just want to be left in peace. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.’
Sam waited for the right words to come, then hung her head. The woman was right. She should be ashamed, and she was.
‘Mrs Connors, I hate this part of my job. I wish I didn’t have to do it. But I’ve learnt from experience that sometimes people wish to pay tribute to their loved ones. They want to talk to someone who can tell the world their story. In your case, you could talk about how brave your father was trying to save your son.’
Tears sprang into the woman’s eyes as she moved to close the door. ‘Don’t talk about them like you knew them. You don’t know anything about them.’
‘No, I don’t, but unfortunately it’s my job to find out. All these reporters out here, myself included, have very tough bosses who won’t let us go home to our families until you speak to one of us.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Mrs Connors peered round the half-closed door.
‘They’ll talk to other members of your family, or local shopkeepers, or write features based on potentially inaccurate information from well-meaning neighbours.’ Sam paused. ‘That would be a lasting memory for readers that you might find even more upsetting than all this in years to come.’
The woman was looking at the ground now, her shoulders sagging. She was broken. Sam hated herself.
‘These are for you.’ She laid the flowers on the doorstep. ‘Well, they were actually for my grandmother – it’s her birthday today – but she’d want you to have them. Please accept my sincere apologies again for intruding. That white Nova is my car, and this is my card. I’ll wait for half an hour and then I’ll go. I won’t bother you again.’ She started to make her way back down the cobbled pathway, hoping she wouldn’t trip in her heels in front of the bored pack.
‘Would I get to check what you wrote first?’ Mrs Connors’ voice was faint.
Sam turned round. ‘Absolutely. You can read every word before I send it off.’ She smiled gently at the woman, who examined the sodden handkerchief squashed into her palm.
Sam had noticed that the elderly woman in the house next door was standing at her open door now, still staring. She must be in her nineties. What must it be like to be so old, to have lived through so much? The woman was almost bent double over her Zimmer frame, an age spot like a large bruise on her hand. Her heart-shaped face was pale apart from the dark red lipstick she wore.
‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in then,’ said Mrs Connors, pulling her door open wide.
Sam glanced back at the pack, then at the old lady, who had fixed her with her pale blue eyes. It wasn’t uncommon for neighbours to become involved when the press were out in force, but their presence was usually accompanied by a great deal of swearing. She offered the woman a smile that wasn’t returned, but as she turned to close the door behind her, she looked up and their eyes met.