‘It would be a dream come true,’ said Reverend Mother, leading them from one to the next. ‘We could make the place if not pay its way, then certainly make a big contribution towards its keep.’
‘I would doubt that,’ said Bard briefly.
She looked at him, gave him her quick smile again. ‘I’ve done some cash flows, Mr Channing, some projections. They are quite conservative and they still show considerable room for optimism.’
‘Have you indeed. And where did you learn to do such things?’
‘I taught myself. We have a computer, at the convent. It’s important, you know, in this modern world, to have a grasp of financial reality. God alone does not provide.’
‘But He helps those who help themselves, does He?’
‘He seems to. If we are lucky.’
There was a vast walled vegetable garden, several large greenhouses, albeit with most of the glass missing, and several meadows. ‘For the bees.’
They walked back to the car; Bard looked at Reverend Mother.
‘OK. The asking price is four hundred thousand pounds. What do you reckon you need over and above that to put the place in order?’
‘We need a million altogether,’ she said, ‘and then of course money to keep us going. Everything has to be paid for. We can’t produce all our food, nor of course our clothes. We try to grow enough wood for the house fires, but we need proper central heating. The residents generally are not very robust, several of our Down’s Syndrome people are prone to chest problems. It is terribly expensive, and we simply can’t manage any longer.’
‘So what would your annual outgoings be? What does your cash flow say?’
‘Sixty thousand a year, for the twelve residents we have now. If we had the priory, we could take more, maybe up to twenty. That would reduce the per capita cost. And with the increased input from the smallholding as I see it, I don’t see why we should need any more than that even at first, diminishing as time went on. We plan to have a pick-your-own fruit farm, to run the laundry as a commercial concern – ’
‘Not much call for that, I’d have thought,’ said Bard.
‘You’d be surprised. There is a local hospital for instance, their laundry contract is up for tender. Then the bakery would possibly service the village shops; the honey, eggs of course, and I thought if we could keep a few cows, we’d need advice on that, we could make cheeses to sell, yoghurt – ’
He looked at her and smiled. ‘You’re a real businesswoman, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I could use you in my company.’
‘I don’t think I could find the time,’ she said, smiling back. ‘But I think I would enjoy working with you.’
‘And would you run this Utopia yourself?’
‘I fear not. It would be too big a project, I would need to get some kind of a manager. I thought perhaps a man and his wife, who could do some of the pastoral care for the residents. I have neglected the more spiritual side of my work recently, I need to do more of that – ’
‘Like what?’
‘Like our Sunday schools, our charity work, we have services in our chapel of course, we do a lot of visiting and counselling, you’d be surprised how much of the work of the Mother Church goes on – ’
‘Oh no,’ said Bard, ‘I wouldn’t. My second wife was – is a Catholic.’
‘Oh really?’ She was clearly interested, but no more, asked no questions; how clever she is, thought Rachel, how good a diplomat.
They reached the convent again at midday. ‘We can offer you lunch,’ said Reverend Mother, ‘but I understand you are short of time.’
‘Yes, we are. I have to get back. But I’d like to see those cash flows of yours, and I’d like to be able to ring you and talk to you about them. Is there any time that’s better than any other?’
‘Oh no,’ she smiled. ‘I can usually be found. And I am not often on my knees in a stone cell. Unfortunately. Thank you again for coming, Mr Channing. It is wonderfully good of you.’
They walked back to the helicopter; Rachel looked at it with resigned misery and total dread. Mary and Richard and Reverend Mother walked with them.
When they reached the helicopter, Mary and Richard shook Bard’s hand, with perfect, formal politeness, and Mary reached up and hugged Rachel.
‘Love you lots,’ she said.
‘I love you lots,’ too,’ said Rachel, hugging her back. Her eyes met Bard’s over Mary’s head; they were determinedly and absolutely blank.
‘Right,’ he said as the helicopter rose, circled, swooped, ‘we’d better talk, I think.’
‘Well, perhaps not till you’ve looked at the figures and everything.’
‘Oh Rachel, fuck the figures,’ said Bard. ‘I’ll do this if I think it’s right. But what I want to know is exactly what your interest in it all is. Don’t lie to me, because I don’t like it.’
Rachel looked at him, and then out of the window. The horizon was hurtling up towards her again; her own stomach seemed to be following suit.
She raised agonised eyes to Bard, grabbed the paper bag the unbearably cheerful pilot had given her – ‘in case, but you won’t need it’ – and said, ‘All right. I’ll tell you. It might help to take my mind off this torture. But if you tell Francesca I will kill you. I really mean it, Bard.’
‘I won’t tell her,’ he said, ‘whatever it is. I promise.’
It was always unbelievable, death, Gray thought. Especially sudden death. You felt it must be a mistake, that everyone had got it wrong, that any moment someone would say no of course not, he isn’t really, whatever made you think that? He’d been sitting at his desk when the news came in: Tricia had put her head round the door and said have you heard about John Smith? and he’d said no, what, has he joined the Tories and she’d said no, the angels. And he’d said what on earth do you mean, and she’d said, ‘Gray, he’s died.’
Older people always said they knew exactly what they were doing when they heard about President Kennedy’s assassination; this was less dramatic, but still an appalling shock. He knew he would remember this, remember sitting there, staring at Tricia for a long time. Later, other friends said the same thing. It was a parallel to Kennedy’s death in some ways: a charismatic, charming man, his promise unfulfilled, robbed of much of his life.
‘Shit,’ said Gray. ‘Holy shit!’
He asked Tricia to get him some tea and drank it, hardly noticing how strong it was.
The editorial conference was all about Smith, who would do what and how on the Sunday. Gray was briefed, predictably, to write about the massive inroads he had made on corporate and City consciousness; mindful of another piece he had been working rather intermittently on, he decided to get a quote from Bard Channing. He dialled Sam Illingworth’s line; her secretary told him she’d gone away for a few days. ‘In Greece,’ she added helpfully.
‘How nice for her.’
‘Yes. But Miss Channing’s here,’ said the secretary brightly. ‘Could she help?’
Gray had been about to say he didn’t think so, when he had a rather forceful vision of Miss Channing (the eldest) and said maybe she could. She came on the line.
‘Mr Townsend? Can I help you?’
Her voice suited her, damn her; it was husky, reeked of sex.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I actually wanted to speak to your – ’ no, wrong move, she was probably touchy about working for him – ‘to Mr Channing – ’
‘About – ?’ The voice was quite brisk.
‘About John Smith.’
‘What about John Smith?’
‘He’s dead, Miss Channing. I thought you would have heard.’
‘I had heard, Mr Townsend. Thank you.’
‘Well, I’m doing a piece for the News on Sunday about Smith’s great success in the City. Persuading the Establishment to be less frightened of a Labour government. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Mr Channing doesn’t work in the City,’ said Kirsten.
Christ, she had a lot to
learn about PR, Gray thought. He hung onto his temper with an effort.
‘His work reverberates in the City, Miss Channing. It seems deeply relevant to me. And there’s all this talk of a leadership challenge to Major. I’d like to get his reaction. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition – I’m sure Sam would have – ’ He let his voice trail away, hoping to worry her into co-operation.
He heard her digesting his irritation, trying to second-guess Sam, to think what she would have done. Then she said, ‘Well – maybe. I’ll see what I can do. He’s away this week.’
‘Not, I hope, in Greece with Sam Illingworth.’
Christ, that was unforgivable. Crass, vulgar, totally out of order. What on earth had made him say that?
There was a long silence. Then Kirsten said, ‘No, Mr Townsend, actually. He’s in Stockholm, if you really want to know.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘look, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean – that is – oh Christ. I really shouldn’t have said that.’
‘No. No you shouldn’t.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘Look,’ he said again, ‘I’m sure you won’t want to help me now. But if you can, if you can get a quote, I’d be extremely grateful.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Kirsten Channing. ‘I’ll call you back if I have anything.’ She put the phone down.
Stupid fucking bastard, said Gray Townsend conversationally to himself. It didn’t seem to be his day.
At about three-thirty his phone rang.
‘Mr Townsend? This is Kirsten Channing. I have a quote for you. I couldn’t get it before because Mr Channing was in a meeting.’
He was so surprised he knocked his cup of tea (hopelessly cold anyway, and too weak even for him, made with his new gadget) all over his desk. Certainly not his day.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I knocked my tea over. That’s all.’
‘I see. Well, do you want to mop it up or shall I give you this quote?’
‘No, I’ll take it. Oh, dear God, everything’s soaked. Can I call you back? In a minute?’
‘Sure. Only don’t be too long, because I have to go and meet someone at five.’
‘I don’t think it’s going to take me an hour and a half to mop up half a cup of tea.’
‘I hope not.’
God, she needed her bottom smacked. Hard. Frequently.
He rang back after ten minutes. ‘Right. Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to keep you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and her voice was suddenly slightly bleak. ‘You’re not. Meeting cancelled.’
‘Ah. Well, anyway, quote. Please?’
‘Mr Channing said to tell you that John Smith was a great socialist, a brilliant politician and a true friend, that he had had a profound effect on the crucially changing attitude of the City to the Labour party. And that he would have welcomed him onto the board of Channing Holdings and had he done so, he – that is my – Mr Channing – would probably have had to resign within the year. Is that all right? If it’s not enough, he said to give you his number in Stockholm and you could call it between six and eight tonight.’
‘That’s brilliant. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Look,’ said Gray suddenly. ‘You obviously went to quite a lot of trouble to get that for me. And I was very offensive about your – Mr Channing. And you’ve had your meeting cancelled; would you let me buy you a drink this evening? Just to make amends.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think – ’ she started: then there was a sudden silence, and she said, ‘Well, that would be very nice. Maybe I can think of something offensive to say back.’
‘Maybe you can. I deserve it. Look, the Groucho at six suit you? I’m quite tall and dark, and I’ve got – ’
‘It’s all right, Mr Townsend,’ said Kirsten Channing, ‘I know what you look like. I’ve just found your picture at the top of your last Sunday’s column.’
He supposed it would be arrogant to assume that she had changed her mind and agreed to meet him because she liked the look of him.
She was waiting for him when he arrived, on the leather sofa just inside the door of the Groucho; looking more demure than when he had last seen her, wearing a pale pink suit, the skirt of which extended at least halfway down her thighs, a cream silk shirt and a pair of high-heeled beige ankle boots, a fashion which Gray hated, but which every girl in London seemed determined to wear. Her hair was piled up, tidily untidy, onto the top of her head, and cascaded down in a series of long, corn-coloured fronds onto her shoulders. Gray felt a slug of response to her and her beauty somewhere deep in his guts, and tried to ignore it.
‘Sorry I’m late. My taxi seemed to know every clogged-up street between Holborn and here. Let’s go in.’
She stood up; in her heels she was as tall as him. She led him up the steps into the bar. He was very aware that a great many people were looking at them and cursed himself for bringing her somewhere so public. Briony would hear of this, in no time at all. Fortunately everyone was obsessed with Smith; three people greeted him and all three said how dreadful it was.
‘What would you like?’ he said to Kirsten. ‘They do a very nice house champagne.’
‘Cool,’ said Kirsten.
‘I hope so,’ said Gray, wondering if she’d get the rather schoolboy joke; if she did, she clearly didn’t think it worth responding to. They sat down at a table in the window and Kirsten looked at him rather complacently.
‘I have another quote for you. From Mr Channing.’
‘You do? That’s great.’
‘Yes. He rang back and I said I was meeting you and he said to tell you that in his opinion, the death of John Smith had robbed the Labour party of at least fifty per cent of its brains.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Gray. ‘That’s a great quote.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’ She smiled, sipped her champagne, looked around the room. She must think I’m a thousand years old, thought Gray, and struggled to find something to talk about that would interest her. Herself was probably a fairly good bet.
‘Are you enjoying it there?’ he said. ‘At Channings?’
‘Not much.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well – am I allowed to refer to the faint connection between you and the proprietor?’
‘You are,’ said Kirsten. For the first time she smiled at him, properly smiled, a warm, conspiratorial smile; Gray looked at her, astonished, without smiling back. It invaded every corner or her face, that smile, lightened it, transformed it, gave it charm, warmth; she looked less remarkably beautiful for a moment, and infinitely more desirable.
‘What did I say?’ she said eventually.
‘Nothing. You didn’t say anything. I – well, never mind.’
‘Why didn’t you think I’d like being at Channings?’
‘Well – I’d have thought it must be a bit of a hard row to hoe. Everyone thinking how you were only there because of your dad. Not knowing what everyone really thinks of you. Knowing also they probably all think you’re a spoilt brat. Not being able to let your guard down there. Watching everyone else not letting their guard down. Pretty horrible.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, sipping her champagne, looking into the glass thoughtfully, ‘pretty horrible.’
‘So why are you there?’
‘Because,’ she said after a moment’s pause, clearly trying to decide whether to be truthful or not, ‘because I couldn’t get any other job.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘It’s true. I got a lousy degree. Not one law firm in the country wanted me to do my articles with them. I’m a hopeless secretary, got fired three times. I walked out of Miss Selfridge and The Gap. Even McDonald’s didn’t want me. Hobson’s choice, really.’ She sighed.
‘I’m sure I’m not the first person to say th
is and I don’t want it to come out sounding wrong, but did you think of being a model?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, smiling at him again. ‘I tried it once, when I was much younger. It’s a dog’s life. Or rather a bitch’s. Even if you do well. Boring, Christ it’s boring.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose you’re – ’
‘Don’t say it. I can’t bear people saying it.’
‘Saying what?’
‘That I’m lucky really.’
‘I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say I suppose you’re not going to stay very long.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘not very long. Although I didn’t really say that, did I?’ The smile again: sudden, conspiratorial.
‘No. No, you didn’t.’
‘You know, I’m really enjoying this conversation.’
‘Good. So am I.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ said Gray carefully.
‘Permanent partner?’
‘Pretty permanent.’ Now why did he say that, why not just ‘Yes’?
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a photographic stylist. She’s called Briony and we live in a very nice house in Clapham.’
‘So it is permanent?’
‘Well – yes. I suppose so. Yes.’
‘You don’t sound very sure. What’s rocking the boat?’
‘Oh – nothing. Nothing really.’ This was getting out of hand. ‘How about you?’
‘Well, I have a boyfriend. He’s very good-looking and he earns lots of money, and he’s a good laugh,’ she added cheerfully.
‘But you’re not in love with him?’
‘No,’ she said, and he might have asked her if she was a transvestite, so amused was the expression on her face. ‘No, of course not. I don’t believe in love.’
‘Oh really? And what’s made you so cynical about love at such a young age?’
The Dilemma Page 13
