Irene cannot see out of her windows because of the heavy boarding, but she can hear the kerfuffle outside and the police are just one arm among a whole retinue of do-gooders who have already addressed her by loudspeaker. They cannot get through on the phone because Irene has taken it off the hook. Time passes more quickly than she can remember for years. It is all the excitement and fear and adrenalin; she thought she’d never experience such a rush of adrenalin ever again, but it must have been there, somewhere in her body, lying dormant under the Chilprufe vests.
‘I feel exactly the same way when I go on some of my demos,’ confirms Miss Benson from above. ‘The thrill is hard to describe when you’re lying down there in the road and the police are marching towards you with their batons and you know the risk you are taking is for such a jolly good cause.’
Oh dear, she makes it sound almost sexual. Irene changes the subject quickly. ‘Who’s out there at the moment, Miss Benson? Tell me what you can see.’
‘Well, a moment ago Frankie was out there talking to the social workers and Miss Blennerhasset has obviously been called out for some reason. She didn’t look too pleased to be anywhere in the vicinity, I must say, and can you blame her? I’m almost beginning to feel sorry for the woman. Greylands is taking one hell of a bashing.’
‘Oh dear, and it’s not that bad as far as Homes for the elderly go. I am very much afraid, Miss Benson, that the wrong people are getting the blame for all this. It really ought to be the Council, or the government with their heartless policies, but they are so faceless…’
There’s a crackling on the loudspeaker outside and Miss Benson says, ‘I must go. Someone else is about to speak. I’ll report back to you later.’
‘And I will turn the television down,’ says Mrs Peacock hurriedly, scuttling back to her chair.
‘Irene? Irene dear? Can you hear me?’
Behind the echo comes the unmistakable voice of Miss Blennerhasset.
‘I will just assume that you can,’ Matron goes on. ‘Irene, please be sensible and let us come in to make sure you are all right. Everyone is so terribly worried about you. Do let us come in and discuss this whole situation. Surely there is a way we can make things right. We tried our very best at Greylands to make you feel welcome and at one point I thought we had succeeded. Obviously not. Obviously you were terribly unhappy and we didn’t take your wishes seriously enough. Well, that will change, I promise you, if only you will agree to let Frankie or myself come in and talk to you, just for a moment…’
Mrs Peacock turns up the television again. Hah. A different tune all of a sudden. How very convenient. With the national media listening in, Matron is bound to sound benevolent but underneath the treacly words Irene detects a simmering anger. There’s no two ways about it: Miss Blennerhasset must be absolutely furious.
It is all so fascinating—people and their priorities. There’s a great debate in some of the papers about the involvement of the Queen, the monarch overstepping the mark and entering the world of politics. However, a spokesman from Buckingham Palace assured a breathless nation that Her Majesty was merely responding humanely to the plight of one of her elderly subjects; anyone would have done the same in the unhappy circumstances. At a press conference last night Irene watched the reporters mob a Buckingham Palace spokesman who said the Queen was on holiday in Scotland, was being kept informed of the situation, and was unwilling to make any further comment at this time.
All the same, the suggestion was that Her Majesty’s sympathy was entirely with Mrs Peacock and this, more than anything else, had goaded the nation into a voluble and often aggressive debate, so much so that Irene isn’t sure whether to listen to the delicious arguments on Radio Four, or tune in to highly-charged discussions on the TV. The Prime Minister is naturally wiping his hands of the whole affair, saying the question of payment for old people’s Homes lies with individual Councils.
Because of Mrs Peacock’s age and vulnerable mental condition it is imperative to tread carefully, and this means the law cannot take any heavy-handed measures to force the old lady from her house ‘for her own good’. Any sudden or violent action might well be the finish of her, and so, to a large degree, their hands are tied. This matter is one for kid gloves, and a regular psychiatrist trained to deal with hostages is brought over from Germany to try to defuse the situation and gain the confidence of the subject.
But Irene hasn’t spent the whole of her life blindfold in the bottom of a barrel. She is wise to his cunning ways. She is not about to get into a discussion about her motivations or her inner self, least of all with someone shouting in a foreign accent on the end of a microphone. She is urged to pick up the phone, she need not dial, those outside are already connected. Just pick up the phone, they coo, and let us talk to you sensibly. What nonsense. These personal feelings should be kept private. The world would be a far better place if people kept quiet and dealt with their problems privately and with dignity instead of forever airing them.
Ragged people and anarchists, according to the authorities, have made attempts to join the circus surrounding Albany Buildings in order to protest in the road outside with their flags and banners. SET OUR PEOPLE FREE. WHAT NEXT, EUTHANASIA? The area has been cordoned off for this reason, and traffic re-directed. But still there are the odd scuffles every now and again, which feed the avidly waiting press photographers. It seems that just about every newspaper in the land has a representative here.
Irene watches another interview with poor, defensive Frankie, and it is painful to see what she has done to her own child. ‘I had no other option,’ argues Frankie tearfully. ‘I wish you lot would understand! I have other responsibilities. How could I keep working with an old lady at home who needs constant care?’
‘There are some who are saying that your mother does not need constant care! She is physically fit and only rather vague and difficult in her old age.’
‘Well, that’s easy for them to say. They don’t know her like I do. Mother can be a very demanding woman, especially when she fails to get her own way, and I have teenage children at home whose needs are paramount.’
The interviewer went mercilessly on: ‘Your former husband, Michael Rendell, says you were always an overly independent person afraid of commitment. You constantly blamed your mother, he says, for her blind devotion to your late father, and spent your life determined to make an alternative stand.’
Frankie snapped, ‘Michael is still very bitter, I’m afraid, after a rather painful divorce. It might be more sensible if you people took a little more time to find a more independent source for the arguments you seem so eager to pursue.’
The interviewer persisted. ‘But did you constantly criticise your mother for the way she seemed to idolise your father?’
‘Honestly,’ shouted Frankie, losing her cool and doing herself nothing but harm. ‘This is nothing whatsoever to do with the issue! My mother is of a different generation. Attitudes change—of course I want to lead my life in my own way! And naturally I have criticisms of my mother—what daughter doesn’t? But that doesn’t mean I grasped the opportunity to dump her in a Home against her will—’
‘But you must admit it looks as though your heartless behaviour might have something to do with petty revenge.’
‘Oh, go away and leave me and my children alone! Stop pestering us! If I were a man, this subject would have no relevance at all.’
And then there were the fleeting comments made by young Angus and Poppy. Some media man must have caught Angus on his way to the Tech and shouted a question. The response was quick and prickly. ‘My granny is nothing to do with me. Go away.’
And pretty little Poppy’s response as she hopped on a passing bus. ‘Go boil your head, you scrote.’
Oh dear, and what would dear William say if he could see her now? William had firm beliefs and Irene never argued against them. She always voted the same way as he did, even in the local elections although she would have preferred to vote Liberal. She never lea
rned to drive, or to change a plug, she had no need. After Frankie was born he decided one child was enough. He hated to see women ‘making fools of themselves’. He hated to see them ‘getting too big for their own boots’, ‘turning themselves into men’, ‘undermining the whole social structure by refusing to marry and choosing careers instead’. It was all right when Frankie was working part-time, when she and Michael were married. It was all right as long as Frankie was doing the shopping and cleaning and cooking. But a full-time career? Oh no. And he never believed one word of the television news after they brought in female newsreaders.
No, Irene supposes sadly that William would not approve of her actions, and if William had been alive he would have forbidden her to do this disgraceful thing. But then she would have missed so much. She would never have known how it felt to be really important.
When the whole procedure first began Miss Benson had difficulty in dissuading the police from using her flat as a Headquarters. Fatal. A desperately close shave. But she sensibly suggested that the neighbouring flat on the ground floor would be a far better location and so that poor Asian couple were forced to move out, God only knew for how long. They went to their children in Bristol.
She also had some persuading to do when they accused her of encouraging Mrs Peacock in her unfortunate venture, particularly when they found out she was responsible for contacting the press and the relevant pressure groups who were causing so much hassle outside. But Miss Benson told them, ‘How would I know she had a key? When I brought her here for the odd day out I thought nothing of it when she set off for the odd little airing. I could hardly prevent her from leaving the premises, could I? And all along she must have been buying bits and pieces behind my back to help her withstand the siege.’ And the planking across the windows? ‘I know nothing about any planking. As far as I am concerned she could have used old floorboards.’ The strength to pull them up? ‘Who knows what a body can do when one is driven to extremes. And Mrs Peacock, contrary to reports, is a perfectly healthy old lady.
‘But having said that, I am right behind her all the way. What they did was iniquitous!’
They believed her in the end, thank the Lord, gave up all ideas of a secret accomplice. Little, prim, inoffensive Miss Benson does not fit the part.
That night, Miss Benson calls down again.
‘Ready for bed yet?’
‘Only if you think I’ll be safe.’
‘They won’t try anything tonight, don’t worry. The issue is far too sensitive and there are too many people about. I will stay on watch. At the slightest sign of any hanky-panky I will call you, and phone the press immediately. They daren’t do a thing! You’ve got them by the short and curlies.’
Oh? A rather crude expression for Miss Benson to use; funny how little you really ever know about people. ‘Is it time to make my final demand, d’you think?’
‘Another couple of days should do it, if you think you can hold out that long.’
‘I can hold out here as long as I want. I am perfectly comfortable and enjoying the whole business. I must say I never thought I would. This is the most exciting thing I have ever done in my life. I have just finished a nice piece of plaice with some new potatoes and parsley sauce, one of those packets you just shove in the oven. I had a couple of welcome gins just before the six o’clock news so I feel lovely and relaxed and I might have another as a nightcap.’
‘That all sounds very good. You must keep healthy. A couple more days and we’ll throw in your request to the Queen. By then I think it will be quite hard for anyone to resist it. Public opinion is one hundred per cent behind you, and growing, if that were possible. It’s all very well for the Royals to keep out of the political arena, but this goes further than politics. This touches the very heart of our civilisation and I am sure the Queen realises that.’
‘I do hope you are right, Miss Benson. I so long to meet her.’
‘Well, it shouldn’t be much longer now. You go to bed and get a good eight hours. I will keep watch from my front window. I will contact you first thing in the morning and send the papers down. They are not bringing your post here, of course, but I was told there were sackloads of letters waiting at the Post Office. All, I imagine, from avid supporters.’
‘Good night, Miss Benson. And once again, thank you so much for everything you are doing for me.’
‘Good night, Mrs Peacock. And it’s my pleasure. Really.’
It sounds a bit like the Waltons, all cosy and homely, thinks Irene as she changes into her dressing gown and prepares for an early bath.
Snake in the grass. Frankie Rendell is certain Miss Benson is behind all this, although there is no way to prove it. She comes across as far too naive and simple for belief and there is no way her mother could have prepared for an exercise as massive as this without somebody’s help. My God, if she could only lay hands on her mother now, she would probably strangle her with her own bare hands. The children are going through torture at school through no fault of her own. And how typical that Michael should put his oar in, given the chance to besmirch her name in public, to make her sound like a hard-faced cow when she’s not, not really.
There’s nobody on her side! Perverse, really, when you consider how many families have managed to dump their elderly relatives, take power of attorney over them and get away with it without a murmur. Where are they now? Where are the hundreds of thousands of voices of support? So easy for those to criticise who have never been faced with the immediate problem of a doolally old woman who goes about forgetting to dress.
My God. Mother was ever a determined woman. Even while under the thumb of the dominating William, Mother would find a way to wheedle and persuade. So much for the helpless victim. But what a sick and humiliating way to have to behave! It’s not as if the powers that be had not considered allowing Irene to stay in the flat with a home help and a nurse popping in at bedtime. They decided against it only because of a lack of funds.
Greylands was cheaper.
What could Frankie do, faced with such firm Council policy?
So why is everyone blaming her? Including her own miserable children! It’s wretched and it’s just not fair.
What does Mother intend to do now? she wonders. How long does she plan to stay barricaded in there while outside, the media await developments? They have discussed turning off the water, the gas and electricity, trying to flush her out in this way, but because of her age and the huge public concern, these obvious options are not available to them. Mother has got them exactly where she wants them, with that sly Miss Benson’s help.
Frankie has spent hours standing outside pleading by megaphone, feeling like a fool, despised by the world, able to offer nothing for barter because there’s just no way Mother can come and live at home, not that she’d even want to. As far as the flat is concerned, it is already sold to the Marshes from Milton; the contract is about to be signed. The Council cannot go back on their policy just in Mother’s case. If they backed down now, all hell would be let loose. The aged and infirm would come crabbing out of all the Rest Homes in the land, intent on reclaiming all those lost properties once again.
And the Queen should know better. Frankie is furious with the Queen. It’s all very well for her, her mother would have been put away long ago but for the army of servants employed to keep her going in the style she has been used to. And her kids would have probably gone into care, by the sounds of it. If only it were so sodding simple for everyone else. How dare the Queen take sides when she doesn’t know what she’s talking about?
One last try. The flustered Chief Constable insists upon it. ‘Mother! Mother! I know you can hear me! Come out! Come out of there at once before this goes much too far. You have made your point, now let’s all get together and talk about it, for goodness sake!’
‘Dear me,’ says the elderly reporter from Woman’s Own, moving like a bat in her crocheted cape, snaking out from the shadows and into the limelight, adjusting her half-moon glasses and
peering up at the harassed Frankie. ‘Couldn’t you try a little more sympathy, dear? I must say, you sound quite aggressive. No wonder your poor mother’s gone to ground quite unable to face you. No wonder the poor soul has been forced into such harrowing devices.’
At her wit’s end, Frankie grips the megaphone and rams it down on the silly woman’s head. And this, of course, is the picture which will appear in the morning papers.
THIRTY-TWO
Joyvern, 11, The Blagdons, Milton, Devon
SO. POOR OLD VERNON. He has failed in this, as in everything else he has ever attempted in his life, and it is with weary resignation that Vernon Marsh watches the police march up his garden path.
If Joy was alive today she would be screaming about the neighbours watching. It only takes a couple of police cars, an ambulance or a fire engine to bring all the residents of the cul-de-sac rushing to the front doors of their houses but, Vernon supposes, he mustn’t be bitter. It’s only that feeling of ‘Thank God it’s him and not us’ that brings them that kick of pleasure.
He watches their approach with a shaking heart. What should he say? How should he play it? Will they caution him first? Will they lead him away in handcuffs with everyone watching? Does it matter any more? His life has been turned into a constant hell anyway. Since Jody Middleton arrived last night Vernon had known his time was limited but he never expected the young fellow to turn him in so quickly. A decent kind of lad in a way, he felt they had more in common than they knew. He’d been surprised to wake up and find him missing after the interesting conversations they’d got into last night—everything from football to the keeping of hamsters—but he must have got up early and decided to go straight to the law. And who can blame him for that? This morning started badly anyway, as soon as he opened the paper he saw himself on the front page highlighted there amongst the sensational pictures of the siege which has captured the nation. As soon as Vernon saw that, he knew it was going to be a bad day. And look, they even blame him for agreeing to buy the old woman’s flat, as if there was something unkind behind it, as if he already knew she was being hassled into a Home by the authorities against her will. My God, they’ll use every trick in the book to make an innocent person look guilty, he’d thought when he’d read it. How they would curse if they knew the truth.
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