by Leo McNeir
“Can you get it checked by a surveyor?”
“Actually, there’s a very good builder in the area. He’s well-known and thorough, does a lot of work in these old properties. Everyone calls him in. His costs are also quite reasonable. He’s coming this afternoon to take a look.”
“Good. What about the rest of the job?”
“No problem with getting the colours we need. And I’ve found the most gorgeous tiles for the hall and kitchen floors. This builder could lay them. The rot in the cellar’s the only negative thing.”
“Keep me posted.”
*
Marnie and the others were resigned to this being the summer of disrupted evenings. Whatever else they had to do, it became part of their routine to be at Garfield Primary when the coaches returned. That evening the first to roll in was the extra bus, the old campaigner taken out of retirement to cope with the increased numbers.
It seemed happy enough to be plodding the roads again, and Donovan had been proved right; the kids loved it and had dubbed it Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, some with a slightly more dubious pronunciation than others. Donovan was back on duty with his Leica, shooting the venerable bus from a variety of angles, ending with a posed scene with parents and children standing proudly alongside it. Some of the children were dozing after the journey.
“I hope they give you some sort of credit for these photos,” Marnie said, as he wound the film back ready for processing.
“I don’t mind, as long as they do the job. The paper hasn’t sent a photographer, so without mine there won’t be any shots of the bus for people to see. It’ll make a good story backed up by a photo.”
In one respect he was right. But in others, completely wrong.
27
It was the third day of the week and the third day of the summer scheme. A handful of new children had appeared and been allocated to coaches. The young West Indians arrived in good time, as they had promised, and the early suspicion of the scouts had dissolved. Serena and her team were beginning to feel relaxed about the scheme, or at least less apprehensive.
Their calm state of mind lasted until the noon edition of the paper hit the streets. In Knightly St John Anne was already at the shop when the news-van made its delivery.
In Northampton Serena was not the only one to rush to the newsagent at the expected time. The front page was dominated by a story about a missing child and for some seconds her heart stopped beating as she raced through the report, until she found that it had nothing to do with the children attending the summer scheme. A wave of relief mingled with a feeling of guilt washed over her. Anxious as she was about the lost child, she was glad it had nothing to do with her kids. It was when she opened the paper and saw page three that the shock hit her.
Under the headline, Brandon slams play scheme were three photos. None of them came from the camera of Donovan Smith. The article was short and to the point. Brandon accused Serena McDowell and her ‘cohorts’ of handing over the children of the town to a gang of drug-using layabouts to further her own career. He warned of a backlash from all ‘decent people’ when they realised what was really going on. This was the crudest form of social engineering since the hippy days of the swinging sixties when decent standards were thrown out of the window and Britain began the steady slide to its current decline. It was no wonder we were ready to hand our country over to the bureaucrats of Brussels – we were already getting plenty of practice at home.
Serena did not bother turning to the editorial page. She was hitting the buttons on her mobile to rage at the editor for printing such blatant fascist propaganda. If he used the familiar argument that he was accurately reporting a statement from a legitimate candidate in a major election, she was going to stuff those words down his throat.
On the other side of town, Donovan straddled his bike outside the paper shop near the canal. He read the article on page three, studied the photographs and stared into space. There was no credit for the photographer, but he had his suspicions.
Anne regretted not taking her car up to the village shop, and she was breathless by the time she burst through the door of the office barn and slammed the paper down on Marnie’s desk. Ralph was waiting, coffee cup in hand, and they looked at the paper together. Dismay spread across their faces.
“Where on earth did they get these?” Marnie muttered in disbelief.
“They’re not by the paper’s own photographer,” said Ralph. “Too grainy. This is long-lens stuff.”
“It’s dreadful stuff.”
The main shot showed a little girl crying. Her head was turned as if she was looking for help. Behind her stood a group of young black men in black T-shirts and jeans, wearing floppy knitted berets, partly covering their dreadlocks. They appeared to be looming over her in a posture of menace.
Below was a group shot of the young blacks sharing a joke. There was no caption, but the inference was that they were loitering in a gang, up to no good. By coincidence the text beside the photo was about drug-using layabouts.
The third shot was in close-up. It showed a young man holding a small girl in his arms, her blonde head set against his black dreadlocks. She seemed to be unconscious. It was unfortunate that the picture appeared just above the continuation of the story about the missing child from the front page.
Marnie put her head in her hands. “Oh boy …”
“Why’s the paper doing this?” Anne was exasperated.
“They’re just reporting the news,” said Ralph. “Look. It mentions an editorial. See what it says.”
Anne found the page, and they read together the editorial entitled, A Free Press in a Free Democracy. The editor reminded his readers about their policy of reporting the news fairly and honestly. All candidates had a right to have their views represented, and no candidate in the present European election was better organised in putting over his case than Garth Brandon. But the paper was becoming wary of coming close to the edge of what was acceptable to society. Some thought they were making too much of the children’s summer scheme, turning it into a showpiece for radical views. Readers were reminded that it was just a programme of outings for children while they were at home for part of the holidays. Others thought too much attention was being paid to one party, the party with views that many considered extremist. The editor called on all the participants to raise their game over the last week of the campaign. He ended by calling for calm and reason in the interests of democracy.
*
Donovan’s mind was in overdrive. How long would the paper go on printing his photos? The summer scheme story could surely not keep running for much longer. Why were the other candidates so useless at handling the media? It was really frustrating having to slog on almost unaided by the very people who ought to be dominating the campaign. Couldn’t they see what Brandon was doing?
He came out of an alley near the town centre and pedalled hard, the shoulder bag snug in its rack behind the saddle. The photographic print studio was in a side street off the one-way system, and he left the bike in the entrance. The slides that he took the previous day looked good. He placed them on the customer light-box and ran over them with a magnifying glass. The arrangement with the paper was that he would provide ten shots for them to choose what they wanted. One by one he slipped the best into an envelope, sealed it shut and made for the exit.
In less than two minutes he was jumping from the saddle outside the newspaper offices and running in to hand over the envelope in reception. Back on the bike, he looked over his shoulder to judge when to filter into the flow of traffic. He could be home on board X O 2 in no more than five or six minutes from here.
Traffic was moderate at that time of the morning, but Donovan was vigilant. He knew how little space many drivers gave to cyclists and trusted no-one’s judgment but his own. A quick glance all round could prevent an accident.
On a straight run through the shopping area something registered in his mind. He eased back, slowed to a halt and looked across the paveme
nt at a shop window. Flicking back the pedal to launch himself off again, he hastily checked that his bag was held firmly in place behind the saddle and moved away from the kerb. Yes, he thought, there was no doubt about it. He was being followed.
*
“Calm down, Mrs McDowell, please. Serena, will you just shut up for a minute and listen! You’ve seen the paper so you ought to know my views are not what you’ve just described. Why do you think I wrote what I put in the editorial?”
“What are you talking about? I’m protesting about your distortion of the truth and I want to know why you’re doing this. This is biased reporting. It’s irresponsible and dangerous. It’s –”
The editor barked down the phone. “No-one accuses me of partiality. In fourteen years as editor I have never once been accused of anything of the sort.”
“Then explain why you published what you did. Don’t you realise the harm it will do?”
“I did explain. That’s what the editorial stated quite clearly.”
“The … editorial?”
“Of course. So what part of it don’t you understand?”
“I’m talking about the report and photos on page three.”
There was a pause while Serena and the editor caught their breath.
“You have read the editorial, Mrs McDowell?” His voice was quiet.
“I, er, didn’t get that far.” No response. “Hallo?”
“I’ve never yet slammed the phone down on anyone in fourteen years as editor.” Icy.
“And you’re not going to start with me.”
“I should be careful what you say, if I were you. You’re on dodgy ground here. You should check your facts before spouting off if you want anyone to take you seriously.”
“But I saw that report, those pictures. What do you think your readers will make of them?”
“I respect my readers. That’s why I pay them the courtesy of explaining my position from time to time. That’s why I wrote the editorial. Too bad you didn’t bother to read it.”
“But you used those photos …”
“They were part of a story. They’re not the only part, and it’s not the only story, but some of us believe the electorate is grown-up enough to make up its own mind and judge for itself. We’ve also used photos sent in by one of your supporters. I’ve got some of them on my desk now. We’ll be running them in the next edition.”
“The bus?”
“The bus. Look, I have to use what’s there. I don’t invent the stories, and everyone wants pictures these days. Words alone are not enough. Your Donovan Smith knows this and he knows how to take a good photo. But don’t forget, so does the BFP, and my job is to let people know what’s going on.”
“And what are the other parties doing?”
“What they always do, of course. But Brandon’s lot have put much more effort in with the media. To them this isn’t about one election. It’s their time in the spotlight.”
“But they’re fanatics,” Serena protested. “And you’re giving them a platform.”
“You’re missing the point on both counts, Serena. They’re organised fanatics, highly organised at playing the system. And they make their own platform. I’m a newspaper man not a censor. Look, I’m giving you much more coverage than a summer scheme for kids could expect, right?”
“So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Is that what you’re saying? You’re doing us a big favour?”
“Let’s not get back to shouting. You’re getting coverage because you’re newsworthy, especially at this time of the year. Also, you’re organised too. Your photos are good quality.”
“When are you going to give prominence to the other parties and not just the BFP?”
“Things change all the time in the press. We’ve just heard the PM is coming to add weight to the Tory candidate, and the new leader of the Labour Party is coming in the next few days to support his bloke. They’re rolling out their rebranded party … New Labour. Could be just up your street, Serena. If you want to get involved in all this campaigning, why don’t you just get selected as a candidate? Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a newspaper to run.”
“Listen, I was out of line, yelling like that. I should’ve read the editorial first and –”
“Forget it. Good luck with the summer scheme. We can’t go on giving you this level of coverage – old news, you know – but I wish you well. And cheer up. That missing child has been found, and we’ll be running it as our lead story. Great news, eh?”
“Good news in the paper … whatever next?”
“Yeah, and whatever happened to good old British apathy about politics?”
“Before you go, what did you mean about especially at this time of year?”
“The summer holiday period is known to journalists as the silly season.”
“Why?” said Serena.
“Because nothing happens then. People are thinking of their holidays. At this time any old trivia can get into the news.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
*
The Ford Escort is one of the most common cars in Britain, a great buy for small families, also an ideal car to use for following someone. Donovan registered it because he always watched out for cars of that size. His pet hate was small hatchbacks driven by young men whose main interest in life seemed to be training for the Kamikaze section of the air force.
A maroon Escort, unremarkable, almost invisible.
Donovan had first seen it parked half on the pavement down the road from the newspaper offices. He had spotted it again near the traffic lights in the one-way system and again at a junction when he had automatically checked out the traffic behind him.
When he had stopped to look in the shop window, it had not overtaken. Now, it was lying about fifty metres back. Donovan made a left. It made a left. He turned right at the next lights, all nice and easy, no rush, nothing to give away that he had any idea they were there.
By the guildhall he saw a traffic warden on the corner. He dismounted and asked the way to the market square, knowing he would be directed along a short section of road only for use by buses. He walked the bike through and turned the corner opposite the war memorial. Daring to put his head round the corner, he looked back to see the warden holding up a hand to stop the Escort from driving on that piece of road, pointing up at the restricted-entry sign. He could almost see steam coming through the car’s windows.
*
Calls had been coming in all afternoon. Dorothy Vane-Henderson was appalled, wondering to whom she should complain. The hot money was on the Lord Lieutenant of the County, closely followed by the Leader of the County Council, the chairman of the newspaper company and the chairman of the Press Complaints Commission. Marnie was thinking how hard it must be to be so well connected you don’t know which of your circle of friends to phone first, when she remembered how serious the problem was.
George declared himself flabbergasted and proposed a letter to the editor signed by everyone in their group.
Margaret Giles found the report and photographs very upsetting and wondered what action they were going to take. She offered to phone the other head teachers to try to organise a petition.
The next three calls were all surprises.
“Hallo, Marnie. It’s Mrs Jolly here. How are things with you? I’ve heard on the wireless that you’ve got rather a lot on your plate at the moment.”
“You can say that again, Mrs Jolly. What did you hear?”
“You’ve got that dreadful Brandon man campaigning in your county and he’s threatening to complain to the Press Complaints Board – or whatever it is – about biased reporting in the newspapers.”
“He’s what?”
“He was interviewed on the news this morning. He said they were pushing politically correct stories with a left-wing bias to discredit his campaign. Would they do such a thing? I thought the press was usually accused of being right wing.”
Marnie gasped. “I’m astonished
, I really am. Brandon’s practically dictating the headlines in the local paper every day up here. Rumour has it he’s taken out a lease on the front page.”
“Well, he’s making all sorts of allegations, my dear, says his life’s been threatened, he’s been attacked in his car. What else? Oh, yes, the media are biased against him and giving distorted accounts of his speeches, trying to whip up feeling against him …”
“Huh! This is all lies. Didn’t the interviewer challenge him on this?”
“Actually, my dear, the interviewer had quite a hard time getting a word in. Every time she tried to put a question, he just cut across her and started off on his own themes. He wasn’t interested in anything but putting out his own propaganda.”
“That’s Brandon all right. It’s really worrying.”
“But it’s not the most worrying.”
“Oh?”
“No. The worst was when they took a microphone out onto the street and asked people what they thought of him and his policies.”
“Tell me the worst.”
“Most of the people said he was only saying what a lot of ordinary folk believed. Britain was overcrowded and should stop letting foreigners in. The main parties weren’t interested in what mattered to most people, which was security. Oh and when they were asked about his bullying style with interviewers, some people said it was giving them a dose of their own medicine. Good for him!”
“Is that it?”
“I think so. Oh, no. One man said he admired him for standing up against Mrs Thatcher, when he resigned from her government at the time of the Maastricht Treaty.”
“That’s some consolation, I suppose.”
“The man thought Mrs Thatcher was far too soft.”
“It must’ve been Genghis Khan.”
