I nodded. ‘I’m afraid it’s true. As you know, your side lost the appeal against the compulsory purchase order and Terra Nova has decided to go ahead with the opera house project, so unless public opinion causes the council to relent I’m afraid the eviction will be enforced in the next few weeks.’
The gummy grin on Dora’s face shrank to a frightened O. ‘What are you going to do?’ The three of them turned and looked at me.
It was all very well to be considered a source of power, but this was ridiculous: I was a journalist, not God. Then again, maybe the differences had been somewhat blurred over the last couple of years. I suggested we went inside. ‘I must tell you that I think the chances of the compulsory purchase not going ahead are slim.’ I sat down at the kitchen table, taking the mug of tea handed to me by Dora.
‘But what about the media?’ Penny Perkins spoke the word with the reverence normally reserved for the Almighty and she clearly expected a miracle.
I had to tell them: ‘There are limits to what we can achieve.’ Penny seemed amazed, looking at me like a pilgrim who’d just seen her wine turned into water. ‘It doesn’t mean we won’t keep trying.’ I attempted to soften the blow. ‘That’s why I’m here now. We know we’ve got huge public support for George and Dora.’ I nodded at them across the table. ‘But as I said, there are limits to what we can do. I’m sorry,’ I added. Then I thought of Linus and I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t so sure.
We drank our tea in gloomy silence interrupted only by the slurping as George sucked the liquid from his dunking biscuit. ‘I’m here to do a follow-up piece,’ I said eventually. ‘Who knows what might come of a renewed campaign?’
‘You can show me with my jams,’ Dora said.
‘Your jams?’
‘I’ve done them all summer. There’s been a real run on them these last few weeks.’ By way of explanation she waddled up to the larder, bringing out three different jams in their jars.
‘Dora’s Real Country Apricot’ I read on one. ‘Dora’s Real Country Strawberry’ and ‘Dora’s Real Country Kiwi’. ‘Kiwi? You surely can’t grow kiwi fruit around here? Come to think of it, what about the apricot? Do you buy the fruit?’
Dora winked at Penny. ‘’Course not. Whoever could afford that? No, I just buy the jam off the shelf. Then I put it in my own jars with my own label and no one knows the difference.’
‘It’s not very honest.’
Dora looked at me reproachfully. ‘What harm is it doing? People like bringing back little souvenirs. We’re quite the celebrities nowadays.’ The thought seemed to cheer her up. ‘Shop jam’s much nicer anyway, sweeter,’ she added.
Penny Perkins nodded. ‘They are, you know. We get people coming from all over asking for George and Dora.’
‘It’s good jam, that,’ George muttered. ‘Nothing wrong with it at all.’
‘But surely making your own from local fruit would work out cheaper and so give you a higher profit?’
‘I can’t be doing with all of that.’ Dora shrugged. ‘That’s what you’ve got your shops for. Now where do you want us for your picture?’
I sat in front of the computer, but instead of the blank screen I saw the new opera house rise in splendour above the lake, there to offer solace to generations, to educate and inspire. And there was Linus, its creator. His image was so real that I found myself whispering to him, little words of endearment that could only be thought up by a brain shrouded in mist, love-mist.
His image faded and in its place came a tumbledown cottage with roses round the door and rusty machine parts in an open shed at the front, and a surprisingly fertile vegetable plot at the back, Rookery Cottage. Now I saw George’s sharp features and Dora’s unlovely virtually toothless grin. But I was the attorney for the defence and my clients did not have to be lovable or even especially good to deserve my services. I struck the letters on the keyboard with the force of my heavy heart.
When he was a young boy Linus had often dreamt that he was big and powerful, and that he rescued his mother. He had never known just what it was he should have rescued her from, so in his dreams it varied. Sometimes it was from a giant with eyes the size of wagon wheels and teeth like slabs of granite (that had been when he was very young). Sometimes it was from Red Indians and once it had been a wolf. He saved her from robbers and kidnappers, and as he got older he found ways of curing what had made her sick. But always the dreams would end the same. His mother would open her eyes, and smile at him and say, ‘Thank you, Linus. Whatever would I have done without you.’ For that brief moment he was a king, filled with pride and happiness; complete. Then, as the dream subsided into reality he’d cry, drained, empty of hope, and each time the tears were more bitter than the last because the truth was that he would never save his mother. She was gone; for ever beyond his reach and, dream as he might, there was nothing, nothing at all he could do to change that. When it had mattered, when his mother had needed him, when he could have made a difference, he had been too young, too stupid, too small and puny and powerless. He grew up. He grew strong, but the sense of powerlessness remained.
But now, as he stood before the completed model of his opera house, he felt the same elation as when he had dreamt and found his mother’s eyes smiling up at him, thanking him, her rescuer.
He had learnt from so many previous occasions that no drawings, no computer images could ever quite prepare you for the sight of the finished model. Sometimes it fell short of your expectations, at others it lived up to them, but rarely did it exceed them. This was one of those rare moments. His creation rose before him, perfect and true to life in every detail but size, and it was a beauty. He moved around the model table. Not only was the opera house gorgeous, but the days and nights spent working had made sure that it was perfect, too, for its purpose and for its setting by the lake. He bent down and peered into the main auditorium, the cocoon. Every acoustic panel was in place, every seat – stalls, dress circle and balconies. Even the lights were in place, perfect scale models of the chandeliers, which he had commissioned from Olle Holm, the glass sculptor. He straightened up and stood back, getting a whole view of the model. Then, before him, like an overlay on a computer image, came the vision of two old people who had lost their home. ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle,’ he mumbled. But not any more, it wasn’t, and he, Linus, was party to the deconstruction of their lives. ‘Oh Esther,’ he groaned. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ And he felt like crying the way he had when he was a child who had just seen his dream slip away.
Thirty-two
The compulsory purchase order against Rookery Cottage had gone through and the eviction notice was about to be served. I didn’t know they served eviction notices at the weekends. Penny Perkins and her fellow campaigners were waiting for the council officer as he arrived, driving up to the gate in his red Vauxhall, and so was I and a photographer, Paul, from the paper. I had been talking to some of the protesters. ‘You must care deeply about George and Dora to do this?’ I asked one.
The woman, in her twenties with lank mid-blonde hair, looked blankly at me. Then her brow cleared. ‘Yeah, them.’ Course I do. I’ve seen them on telly. It’s diabolical.’
‘I don’t actually know the Wilsons,’ a middle-aged woman in baggy jeans and a multicoloured knitted jersey confessed. ‘Not many of us around here do, but I simply couldn’t sit idly by and let this kind of thing happen.’
A man, fiftyish and wearing a bright-blue V-neck sweater with a small eagle motif, told me he was the local publican. ‘We don’t often see them down at the pub and when we do they keep themselves much to themselves, but you have to do your bit for the community, know what I mean.’
A man stepped out from behind the crowd and into the line of Paul’s lens, pointing at the red Vauxhall. It was Barry Jones. A thinner Barry Jones with a less extravagantly bouffant hairstyle, but Barry Jones nevertheless. ‘This is it, girls and boys, so let’s show ’em what we British are made of.’ His voice soared above the din of a pas
sing harvester as the campaigners formed a ring round the cottage. Fists were raised in victory salutes. The council officer stepped out from his car and, with barely a glance in our direction, walked up to the gate and nailed the eviction notice to the post. Then he turned on his heels and walked back.
The campaigners, led by Penny and Barry Jones, were too busy shouting their slogan – ‘What do we want? Justice for George and Dora. When do we want it? Now!’ – to notice that he had gone, his business done. When they did realise there was a moment’s silence before one of the campaigners, a burly man in his sixties, balding and red-faced, took up the chant: ‘We shall not we shall not give in, we shall not we shall not give in.’ That seemed to perk them up as they linked hands once more for the camera. Suddenly a huge cheer went up. I turned round to see if the notice had been torn down, but it was still there, neatly pinned to the gatepost. The cause of the good cheer was the arrival of the crew from a local TV station. Penny raised her fist. ‘What do we want? Justice for George and Dora. When do we want it? We want it now!’ Lights, Camera, Go! Barry Jones linked arms with the nearest protester, a woman with long grey hair cascading down her back. ‘This is a human rights issue,’ he pronounced and when he realised that the crew had missed it the first time, he said it again, twice, adding, ‘I care not a jot for my own safety,’ as if he were expecting an armoured car full of secret police to storm through the gate at any time. The crew moved closer. ‘As I said, this is a human rights issue…’ The protesters surged forward drowning out his words with their chanting.
‘Is this how Frankenstein would have felt, do you think?’ I asked Paul, as I watched my unlovely creation form and swell before us.
‘Monsters don’t have feelings,’ he replied. ‘That’s the point of them.’
‘But Frankenstein wasn’t the monster. Frankenstein created the monster,’ I explained. ‘Surely you knew that?’
‘Whatever.’ Paul shrugged.
I hadn’t reread my last article when it appeared the previous week, but I knew it by heart, line by manipulative line. And the line had been swallowed, gratefully, by our readers and the letters of support were arriving by the sackful. But it looked as if this time nothing I could do would stop the eviction of the Wilsons from their home. For their sakes, if nothing else, maybe it was time to face up to the inevitable and stop campaigning. But would Charlie agree?
I had written to Linus, trying to explain my actions. I had avoided phoning because I knew that once I heard his voice I would melt: first it would be my heart, then my brain and finally the telephone receiver itself, until there was no logic, no determination, no creditable defence, but just a soggy mess of blood and guts and plastic. So I had written this letter instead.
Dear Linus,
I know you’re very angry with me. I know you feel betrayed. I also know all too well what this project means to you and on one level I hate what I’m doing. And it’s not as if the project is without its merits.
But are you sure that Stuart Lloyd’s insistence on it being built on the land adjoining his estate is not more to do with personal ambitions than thoughts of the importance of bringing culture to the masses?
Dora and George Wilson are not the world’s most attractive people. They don’t contribute anything very special to the sum total of human greatness or happiness. They’re not terribly bright, nor are they especially good. But Rookery Cottage is their home, the only one they’ve known. It’s pretty well the only worthwhile thing they’ve ever had; as I said, God not having been overly generous with his gifts to them. There they are in all their frailty and they are powerless. I don’t think there’s anything worse than to be powerless.
Individuals have always been sacrificed for causes. Maybe that’s how it has to be? But the day it happens silently, without debate, without the victim being heard, that’s the day a new order dawns, one of which I don’t ever want to be a part. I have to do what I think is right and believe me, Linus, it’s harder than you’ll ever know for me to go against you like this.
Please try and understand why I’m doing what I am doing and that it’s not a betrayal of my feelings for you. But what kind of lover would I be for you if I betrayed everything I believed in to try to make you love me?
I was still hoping for a reply.
The TV crew had left Rookery Cottage and so had the campaigners. Even Barry Jones had gone. He had vanished with the TV crew. All that remained was the eviction notice on the gatepost and the scent of self-righteousness in the air.
‘Bric-a-brac business’s doing well,’ George said on our way back up the drive. ‘Them squirrels in particular. People like to say they bought from us.’ He bent down and picked up a mess of crushed egg and chicken foetus underfoot, chucking it on the compost heap as we passed on the way to the door.
‘So that young man who carves them must be earning some real money,’ I said, as we sat down in the kitchen. Dora was already by the stove, making the tea. She and her brother exchanged looks.
‘He’s not all that young either. Just seems that way. But he does all right for someone who’s not right in the head,’ George said. ‘We see to that.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Frank. Frank Wilson, same as his grandfather although Father would turn in his grave knowing his daughter’s bastard were named after him.’
‘He’s your nephew?’
‘He is that,’ George said. Dora looked troubled.
‘So the lady who was here the other day, showing you some antiques, is your sister?’
Dora and George nodded grudgingly. Dora sat down heavily on the chair opposite mine. ‘It was a bad business back then and our father was a hard man. But they’re all right now,’ George said.
‘She had to go once we learnt the babby was on the way,’ Dora said, her head lowered. Then she looked up at me. ‘I was sorry about that. I like little babbies.’
‘Your sister wasn’t married to Frank’s father?’
Dora sniffed. ‘She wasn’t married to anyone, that was the trouble. Wouldn’t even say who the father was although we had our suspicions, didn’t we, George?’ George nodded. ‘Then when Jack Grant let her have that Railway Cottage rent free and gave her a load of things to furnish, well then we knew. Anyway, Aggie came back to the village and the boy with her.’
‘Some folk thought Frank should be put away on account of him not being right in the head,’ George said. ‘And Aggie was fretting what would happen to him when she goes, she’s older than us both, see, because the cottage is for her, not for Frank. But we told Aggie there was no need for that. Father is long since gone and we own this place. “No, Aggie,” I said. “There’s no need for anyone to be put away, thank you very much.”’
‘And there’s no harm in Frank,’ Dora said. ‘And he’s ever so good at his carving. It’s on account of Aggie going through the change when he came along, him being funny like. Well, that’s what doctor said.’
‘You do understand that if the worst comes to the worst and you have to leave Rookery Cottage the council will have to pay the true market value of the house? You would get somewhere else to live. Somewhere where Frank could go too.’
‘They say that,’ George almost shouted. ‘But this is our home. People around here understand our ways. Frank’s too. Being a Wilson in these parts means something. There are no houses in the village for sale and if they were the money we’d get for this place wouldn’t buy any, not the way they’ve all been tarted up. This is our home. We bought it. We struggled half our lives to be able to. What was the point if they can just come along and take it away?’ George was red in the face and his eyes were watering as he banged his fist on the table. ‘What is the point?’ And then he leant his head on his arms and wept.
My reporting of the eviction notice being served on George and Dora Wilson got a huge response. I had to stop reading the letters of support because it threatened my resolve. Too many of my correspondents were agreeing for all the wrong reasons, venti
ng feelings of spite and envy, backing up their arguments with emotive and badly argued points. There was, clinging to some of the letters, the scent of the lynch mob. They bore the signature of the Seriously Ill-informed Readers or SIRs as they were known. But, I kept reminding myself, it was no good blaming Dora and George for the failings of some of their supporters.
‘So?’ Charlie perched on my desk. ‘How are we doing with dear old George and Dora? I reckon we’ve got another week’s worth.’
‘I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe we should quit.’
‘What do you mean, quit? The readers have been with us this far. They’ll want to be in on the final act. “Axe descends on brave George and Dora Wilson.” That kind of thing.’
I looked up at his eager face and the small bright eyes darting from side to side as we spoke, as if he was anxious to make sure he wasn’t missing something more interesting going on in another corner of the room. I told him I had spoken to Simon Fuller at Terra Nova Enterprises. ‘He’s the new right-hand man, it seems. Work on the access road, that’s the bit which is going through the Wilsons’ front room, is scheduled to begin the first Monday of next month. That’s just about three weeks from today.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, Charlie. All we would be doing now is to give George and Dora hope when there is none. Nothing short of a miracle can save Rookery Cottage.’
‘What say we create a miracle?’ Charlie looked upwards into the distance, the way he did when he had just spotted a headline, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if to clear the way for his vision. “Victory for the People’s Paper, as Chronicle readers save brave George and Dora”.’ Then he too shook his head. ‘No, I can’t see that happen, you’re right. But I want to run the finale nevertheless. Our readers expect it.’
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