She reached for the phone. It might be worth talking to the estate agent along those lines, and also there were people she knew from the old days in Birmingham who might be worth contacting again. A nursing home for the elderly – the idea was getting ever more attractive. One thing, though, she told herself as she dialled the first number. The last person I’ll have here is that bloody Sayer woman. A man doctor next time, someone I can handle, that’s what I’ll have. Not one of those busybody types who make more trouble than they resolve. And she took a deep breath as she listened to the distant burr of the ringing phone and tried to keep her energy marshalled into a usable stream; it was getting harder these days to keep herself going, to prevent herself from just giving in and not bothering any more. It wasn’t so easy once you’d passed your fiftieth birthday. A bit of you might be for ever fifteen, but the rest of you – perhaps you should have married that man after all; what was his name? Ernest, that was it. Ernest Barker. Being Mrs Ernest Barker had seemed the dreariest possible fate in 1958. Now it would be wonderfully comfortable; better surely, than trying to make a living on your own as sixty stared at you from over the all-too-close horizon.
Peter Hurst was sorry for himself, too. It wasn’t until all the newspapers shrieked the town’s name at him and he read the short breathless paragraphs beneath the black excitement of the headlines that he finally made the connection between Jessie’s job and the people he had that row about with Wilmington. Christ, he thought as he sat at his desk bent over the pages, Christ, but she was devious, as crooked as a person could be, really deceitful. Why hadn’t she told him what was going on there, told him she was one of these damned vivisectionists? He’d have done something, found a way to deal with what was going on, stopped the research smartly, long before all this fuss could have started. His own wife, working in a place about which people sent delegations to his department! It was appalling, wickedly selfish, and he sat and brooded over the papers, almost in tears over her duplicity. What had he done to be treated like that by her? Hadn’t he worked hard to make her living all these years? Hadn’t he been all that a husband should be? And look how she repaid him! Walking out on him, hiding important facts about what she was doing, bringing him into disrepute in his own department, ruining his career, for all he knew; it was too bad, too dreadfully bad, and his throat tightened with the misery of it all.
But most of all with the loneliness. Before she had actually gone, it wouldn’t have seemed possible to him that he could miss her so much. It wasn’t as though they’d been together all that often even when she was there, but there had been an indefinable something about the house when she was living in it that was no longer there. It wasn’t just that now there was a sheen of dust on the furniture and dead flowers smelled disgustingly in the vases; it wasn’t that there were no meals ready when he came in and that clean shirts no longer appeared on his bed. These things were tiresome, but surmountable. Food could be had in restaurants, shirts could be dropped in at the same-day cleaners on the corner of Arndale Street and collected again a week later; but none of that dealt with the cold core of the problem, that emptiness in the house, that brooding silence that made his flesh creep, sometimes, and made him put on the television set at full blast, just to keep it at bay.
He’d tried to persuade Mark to spend more time at home, but that had only the effect of making him display his terminal selfishness in all its glory.
‘Not on your Nelly, mate,’ he’d said in the false cockney accent that he used these days, and which his father so loathed. ‘Not on your bleedin’ Nelly. Sharon’s Mum and Dad have given us their two back upstairs rooms, and I’ve fitted one up as a kitchen – I tell yer, squire, it’s a right little palace we got there! Wouldn’t come back ’ere for a pension – Mum gone, ‘as she? Well, yer can’t blame ’er, reelly. Must ’ave felt like she was dead, livin’ ’ere –’ And he’d looked at his father with the bright-eyed insolence that Peter had always found so difficult to deal with and gone off whistling, taking the last of his possessions with him to his repellent Sharon’s house, and Peter had watched him go and thought savagely, let him rot. Not a penny does he ever get from me again – and turned back to the empty house and the growing fear it created in him.
Now, sitting in his office and reading about his wife’s boss and his wife’s hospital and his wife’s hospital laboratory and for all he knew, his wife’s damned epidemic, the fear grew and changed inside him, became a deep dull anger that would take a lot of controlling. He’d never been an aggressive man, but there was no doubt that this woman he had lived with and loved all these years was bringing out in him a vein of violence that he never knew existed. Indeed, it never had existed; she had created it, she had fed it, and she would be the recipient of it. That was the only comfort he could give himself.
Edna Laughton needed no comfort. The fact that she was being described by the papers as the prime source of the epidemic that had killed two children and almost killed another passed over her head, leaving behind not an atom of anxiety. She knew she’d done nothing wrong; she knew she’d been as good to those children as anyone could be, cooking them their potatoes and sausages and all that; she knew that the papers had it all cockeyed and were blaming her for something that wasn’t her fault. But she didn’t mind that at all, because the important thing was that the papers were talking about her. There was her name. There were the photographs that young man had come and taken, of her smiling and pointing at the budgies she had fed with stuff she’d got at the laboratory. There was her addrers as clear as anything for all to see. There had to be something in it for her, she had told herself happily, there had to be. And all morning she sat there at home waiting for the phone to ring and journalists to talk to her, and didn’t have to wait a great deal, because they started quite early and went on a long time, and she chattered busily while taking care to allow lots of time for them to offer her the money she knew was her due.
But they didn’t, and after several calls, during all of which she had told her story faithfully, adding only the most minor of embellishments here and there, she made up her mind that this couldn’t go on. Someone, somewhere, should be paying her, and the best thing to do was go and ask for it, and the only person who could be asked was Joe Lloyd. So she’d ask him.
Joe Lloyd was sitting in his office at the Advertiser, also waiting for phone calls. He’d filed his copy to every possible desk where he could hope to sell, and seen his stories appearing (though now they were using his by-line less than they had the day the story first broke) so by now the offers should be coming. But they weren’t and he was seriously considering taking the tide into his own hands, as it were, and asking for a Fleet Street berth. It would be more satisfying to wait for the offers, of course, to weigh one against another, but if it wasn’t going to work out that way, he’d have to do something fast. In the newspaper business today’s front-page splash is tomorrow’s three-inch single on the bottom of a left-hand page at the back of the book; today’s great men become tomorrow’s ‘Who’s he?’ faster than they ever did, he told himself, and began to work out a strategy, planning exactly how he would put himself across to the men who had the power to give him what he wanted.
The door of his office opened without a preliminary knock and Simon Stone put his head round. ‘I thought you’d want to see Mrs Laughton,’ he said brightly, and ushered the woman in, grinning like a monkey with pride at his own cleverness. ‘I know she’s part of this story of yours so I wouldn’t let her go till she had the chance to talk to you,’ and he stood back, waiting for a nod of approval. ‘She said it was important, so I brought her right in ….’
‘So I see.’ Lloyd cradled the telephone with a little clatter and scowled at the woman. ‘Well, madam, and what do you want? I’ve talked to you for hours, got all you had to say, so there can’t be much to add.’
‘To add? Well, that’s as may be,’ Edna said, and stood twisting her bag in her hands and staring at him. ‘’Oo’s to know w
hat else I know about that hospital? Worked there long enough, I did, and for all you know I could have lots more information for you.’
‘You didn’t tell me much I didn’t know already,’ Joe said, and glared at Simon. ‘Well, what do you want?’
Simon reddened. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see Mrs Laughton … and ….’
‘Yes. Sure, very pleased. Anything else?’
‘Not really ….’
‘Nothing about miracle cures you forgot to mention?’
Simon went even redder. ‘That’s not fair, Mr Lloyd! I tried to tell you, you know I did, but you just wouldn’t listen to me and ….’
‘Ah, go away,’ Joe said disgustedly. ‘And take your Mrs Laughton with you. I’ve got better things to do than waste any more time on the pair of you ….’
‘You got it in the end, Mr Lloyd!’ Simon was feeling deeply aggrieved at the injustice of Joe’s complaints now. ‘I mean, it didn’t make any difference. You got the story in ….’
‘Oh, didn’t I just! When you were about to sell it on your own to the bloody agencies, and don’t say you weren’t ….’
‘Not sell it, I swear!’ Simon said. ‘I just knew it was a story and you said you didn’t want to know so I thought I’d put it on the wire and let anyone who wanted it have it ….’
‘Call yourself a journalist, you half-witted newt, you? Ah, piss off and leave me alone, will you? If it weren’t for the bloody union, I’d have you out on the street for what you did … go on, get out of my sight.’ And he glared at Edna Laughton then. ‘You too. I’ve done with you andn ….’
‘Have you, then? And what about my money, then?’ Edna cried shrilly. ‘It’s all very well you go putting me all over the papers like you have but here’s me with not a penny to show for it!’
‘Money?’ Joe stared at her. ‘What bloody money? You’ve got no money coming to you ….’
‘After all I told you? After all the papers what you told what I told you? Course I have! Got to have … I’ll make a complaint, I will, if you don’t make sure I get everything what’s due to me ….’
‘A complaint? Who to?’ Joe began to laugh then. ‘Who bloody to?’
‘The authorities,’ Edna said passionately. ‘The authorities, that’s who to.’
‘Go and make it,’ Joe said with a vast scorn, and picked up his phone. ‘Right now. Go and make it and stop wasting my time. I’ve got work to do,’ and he began to dial, not looking at either of them. ‘If you and this woman aren’t out of here in one minute flat, you’ll wish you were never born,’ he said, and Simon pulled on Edna’s arm and jerked his head at her and took her away, risking slamming the door on Joe as he did so. But the old man didn’t look up and went on dealing with his telephone.
‘You might as well do as he says, Mrs Laughton,’ he said, and looked at the woman with his face creased with commiseration. ‘Go away, I mean. There’s no way anyone’s going to give you any money, you know.’
‘What, and me told them all that stuff to put in the papers? Course there’s got to be money for me! It stands to reason there is ….’
‘Well, there isn’t. It’s what’s called a free press. And that means no money for anyone like you. Not much for me, either, come to that. I’d forget it if I were you. You won’t get anywhere.’
And when he had at last coaxed her to the lift and seen her on her whining way out of the building he went back to his own desk, telling himself gloomily that he could do worse than take his own advice. Forget the newspaper business, that’s what I ought to do. Bastards like Lloyd and the obits and the damned courts – where’s the point in it all? I’d have a better time selling eggs at Safeways.
‘Call for you,’ Robert said as he got back to his desk. ‘The agency you were talking to the other day – when Lloyd heard you and did his nut. They want to talk to you – they didn’t say about what. Make sure the old bugger doesn’t hear you this time ….’
What they wanted to talk about made Simon change his mind completely about his choice of career. He was the right man in the right-shaped hole after all. How could it be otherwise when he’d been offered a job with a Fleet Street news agency, who had an eye for a young man who could pick up good stories and feed them in to them? He sat there at his desk, his phone clamped to his ear, watching Joe Lloyd through the glass of his door occupied in the same way. But Lloyd wasn’t grinning at all, and Simon was.
‘June? I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,’ Ben said. ‘It’s been absolutely awful, all of it. I hope you haven’t been too upset by it all ….’
‘Upset?’ June frowned and shook her head, watching Timmy all the time as he bumbled about the room on his fairy tricycle. It made an awful mess when he did that, but it was too wet for him to play outside today, and he wanted to ride his tricycle, so what else could she do? But it took constant watchfulness to prevent him breaking things as he went barging about the cramped space. ‘No, I haven’t been … oh, Ben, hold on a moment … no, Timmy darling, not like that. Go slowly, sweetheart, or you’ll break Mummy’s sideboard and then what will she say? No, don’t cry, darling, just wait till Auntie’s finished on the silly old phone and then I’ll play with you … I won’t be a moment … Ben, I am sorry … it’s just so difficult, with Timmy not being able to play outside … it’s been raining all morning, you see, and I don’t want him catching cold.’
‘I said I hope you haven’t been worried about all the fuss.’
‘What fuss?’
There was a little silence and then Ben said carefully, ‘You haven’t seen the papers?’
‘Papers? Oh, no, darling, not with Timmy to look after! How could I? I try to see them when he goes to bed, perhaps, though by then I’m usually too tired to bother. Why? What’s in them?’
‘Nor heard the radio? Seen the news on TV?’
‘What is this, Ben? You know I’m looking after Timmy! I did tell you I’d be staying here a few days, bringing him over to our place just a bit at a time so he settles better and enjoys Christmas with us ….’
‘Oh, yes, Christmas,’ Ben said and laughed. ‘I’d forgotten about Christmas. Look, it’ll take me too long to explain now. But find a moment to read the papers. The Guardian has got it about the best – all the others are madly inaccurate, making a great drama out of it all – but read the Guardian. And then tonight, I’m on Probe and ….’
‘Probe? That TV programme?’
‘That TV programme, June, yes. I’ll be staying in London overnight, and I’ll be back tomorrow, I hope. I’ll talk to you then. Give my love to Timmy,’ and he hung up carefully and gently, controlling his irritation as much as he could, because he wanted to be fair to her. After all, he was as obsessed with what he was doing as she was with Timmy; to be annoyed with her because she wasn’t aware of what was happening in his life was hardly just, but all the same, he was annoyed and he had to work hard to contain it.
But there were worse things than that to worry over and he sat and stared at the wall of his cluttered comfortable office trying to order his confused thoughts. So much to be done – the animal room to be restructured and restocked, the trials of Contravert to be started again, the child on Ward Seven B to be monitored, and above all the publicity to be handled – yet all he could do was sit and stare at the wall and do nothing. What he should be feeling was the elation of the scientist who has made his leap forward, the rich academic excitement of the successful questor. But what he was feeling was absolutely dreadful. Almost tearful, which was, of course, ridiculous.
23
Regent Street was awash with people, and they stood at the top of the steps climbing up from the underground at Piccadilly Circus and looked along the curve of the street, trying to catch their breath. For Jessie it wasn’t just the crowds that made her feel breathless and anxious; it was the harsh glitter of the Christmas decorations that draped the shop windows, the flapping garlands and lights and the fat and singularly vacuous-looking Mickey Mouses and Donald Ducks simpe
ring down at her which made her feel so curiously uncomfortable, and she drew a little nearer to Ben and said, ‘Heavens, but I feel so provincial! I can’t remember the last time I was in London, and all this makes me feel the complete country cousin.’
‘Such nonsense!’ Ben said. ‘Of course you’re not provincial.’ He looked down at her, standing there in her neat buff raincoat with its collar up against the cold and her hands thrust into her pockets, her head uncovered and a little windblown, and then laughed. ‘Though I suppose I do know what you mean. Looking at some of these people and their extraordinary clothes, I do feel I’ve got straws in my hair.’
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come up so early, after all. It seemed like a good idea at the time of course, but now ….’
‘It was a good idea and it still is. We’ve been tied to that place for so long we’ve forgotten there’s anywhere else. And I’d have gone mad sitting there all day thinking about tonight. This way I won’t be able to think about it so much.’
‘If you believe that you’ll believe anything,’ she said. ‘I haven’t stopped worrying about it since I woke up this morning. Nor have you – be honest.’
He laughed again. ‘Well, no. I was so sick with it I couldn’t eat any breakfast.’
‘And now it’s lunchtime. Come on. Let’s find somewhere and then plan how we deal with the rest of the day. We don’t have to be at the studios till eight, do we? We’ve plenty of time to kill. What about Christmas shopping?’
They were walking north now, along Regent Street, and Ben grimaced. ‘I suppose I could … I hadn’t given it a thought, to be honest. I don’t usually. I mean, there’s only June and I usually give her a cheque and she can do what she likes with it. Buys stuff for Timmy, mostly, I. think. She’d rather do that than anything else. If I did something different she’d get into a state over it, I imagine. So ….’ He stopped talking and walked a little faster so that she had to scuttle, almost, to keep up with him.
The Virus Man Page 23
