The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  *

  A press conference was scheduled for three that afternoon in the boardroom of Eagle Newspapers. Roland sat at the head of the long mahogany table, with Katherine and Sally Roberts next to him. Holding up a copy of the poster, Roland started to talk.

  “You’ve all come this afternoon because you want to know if there’s any truth to what’s printed here, right? Well, some of it is true.” He waited for the flutter of excitement to subside before continuing. “This is me in the picture. And this is my late wife, Catarina, who, as it says in the caption, was the only daughter of Nicanor Menéndez. That is the truth. The rest — this preposterous accusation that I opposed the war because I stood to lose money on the Buenos Aires stock exchange — is nothing but libelous garbage.”

  “Who do you think is responsible for circulating these posters, Mr. Eagles?” an agency reporter asked. “The whole city’s covered with them, you know.”

  “We’re looking very hard at the British Patriotic League.”

  “Why?”

  “You might remember that two summers ago, Eagle Newspapers staged free rock concerts as an alternative to the ‘Youth for Britain’ rallies organized by the British Patriotic League. We proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that Britain’s youth would rather listen to music than bigotry, and the League has not forgiven us for that.”

  Beyond denying the allegations, and identifying the revenge motive, there was little else that could be done. The press conference ended, leaving Roland alone with Sally and his daughter.

  “How did we do?” Roland asked.

  “We’ll know tonight,” Sally answered.

  Katherine invited her father and Sally for dinner. Later, they watched the evening news. As usual, the fighting took up the major portion. Afterward, the newscaster related the poster campaign, mentioning Roland’s refutation of the allegations, and his accusation against the British Patriotic League.

  The newscaster finished with “A spokesman for the League, Mr. Trevor Burns, has denied all knowledge of the origins of these posters.”

  The picture changed, and there was the overweight figure of Trevor Burns, the former journalist who was now a member of the League’s executive committee and its public-relations director. “We are too busy raising money for the families of the brave men lost in this war to waste time sticking posters all over town.”

  Again, the picture altered. “Christ almighty!” Sally yelled. “Will you just look at that?”

  On the screen was a gigantic rummage sale. Dozens of tables were stacked with assorted goods that had been donated to the League. The camera panned across the helpers. In the middle of them, working at a stand that sold secondhand clothing, was Alan Venables, his thin face breaking into a fawning smile as he accepted money from a customer. Positioned strategically behind him was a huge placard with the League’s crest and the message “The Falklands Are British!”

  Roland shook his head in sadness and frustration. He was witnessing a public-relations coup. All anyone would remember of this evening’s news was that the British Patriotic League had actively helped the families of fallen soldiers. How much more patriotic could they be than that? Simultaneously, the League had squared accounts with the Eagle, for Roland had no doubt that the League was behind the paper blitz. Just as he was certain that the insinuations made against him, as groundless as they were, would cause business and personal hardship.

  *

  For Alan Venables, the war with Argentina could not have occurred at a more opportune moment. At a time when the British Patriotic League had been slipping out of the public eye, the conflict in the South Atlantic had thrust a two-edged sword into Venables’s hands. With one stroke, he had wreaked a long-awaited vengeance on Roland Eagles, a man he hated; simultaneously, he had demonstrated how solidly the League supported the British effort to regain the Falklands.

  The picture of Roland and Catarina had come from Trevor Burns. Still with many contacts in Fleet Street, he had acquired it from an agency file. A plate had been made, type set, and fifty thousand copies of the poster had been printed on the equipment in the basement of Patriot House, the League’s headquarters. On Sunday night, two hundred members of the League, each armed with two hundred and fifty copies, had spread out through the capital city, from its center to its suburbs. As an added touch, Venables had organized a rummage sale in aid of the Falkland widows for the following day, when he knew that reporters would be questioning the League’s executive committee for a response to Roland Eagles’s accusations.

  Venables felt even more pleased the next morning when he met with Burns and Neville Sharpe, the League’s financial director, at Patriot House. Sharpe had a check for more than two thousand pounds, the proceeds of the rummage sale, which would be given to the Falklands widows.

  “You’re arranging for a photographer to cover the check presentation, aren’t you?” Venables asked Burns.

  “Of course.” One picture would appear in the League’s own publication; others would be sent to newspapers. “Shall I send a copy to the Eagle?”

  “I’ve got other plans for those people.”

  Neville Sharpe spoke with all the gravity of the accountant he was. “Alan, the distribution of the posters was already stepping well outside our brief.”

  “Not when it was tied in with the column inches and television time our rummage sale received.”

  “Instead of satisfying some personal vendetta, we should be concentrating on our primary function, which is preparing for the next general election. It could come very soon. Once the Union Jack flies over the Falklands again, Thatcher will have tremendous popularity. She’ll be able to call an election whenever she feels the Tories will win the biggest majority.”

  Venables shook his head. “I am not letting Eagles off the hook. Him and his damned newspaper have been a thorn in our sides ever since we started the League. They exposed our recruiting scheme at the football games, they planted the Waters boy on us — and you both know what had to be done to recover that situation — and they damn near tied the British Brigade into us. Not to mention ruining the ‘Youth for Britain’ rallies two years ago. And don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten that slap in the face Eagles’s daughter gave me at the BBC that morning.”

  Sharpe tried again. “Our brief is to run at least one hundred and fifty candidates at the next general election. A lot of money has been invested to make sure that happens.”

  “Forget you’re an accountant for once. Act like the leader of an emergent political party, not some pencil-pusher who’s forever checking expenses.”

  “At least one hundred and fifty candidates, that is what our instructions call for.”

  “And we’ll have them, Neville. But first, I’m going to use some of the power we have at our fingertips. Christ alone knows that we won’t have it forever. After the next election, it might be time for us to fade away like three old soldiers and enjoy our retirement.”

  “Pity,” Trevor Burns said. “I think I could grow accustomed to being a political big shot.”

  Venables looked at the former journalist, and smiled. “You’re only a big shot if you get elected. And that was never in our plans, was it?”

  *

  The day after the press conference, Roland scrutinized every newspaper. His denial of interests in Argentina was given adequate space. All he wanted was fair treatment, and that was what he had been accorded. It was gratifying to know that dog did not eat dog after all.

  Fair treatment proved to be of little help. Within a day, several advertisers canceled contracts with Eagle Newspapers. The reasons were as diverse as a car dealership that expected an immediate weakening of the economy to a furniture store’s failure to obtain enough merchandise to make a special sale feasible after all. Roland noticed that the advertisements continued to run in other newspapers. The insinuation that he was dealing with the enemy was a poison for which there was no antidote.

  The feeling against Roland soon moved from
his newspaper group to his retail business. Roland arrived at the main Adler’s store in Regent Street on Friday morning to find a demonstration taking place. Two dozen young men marched in a circle on the wide sidewalk, just far enough away from the store entrance to avoid interfering with people entering and leaving — but close enough to make them stop and stare. One marcher waved the pennant of the British Patriotic League; the rest carried placards. Roland saw the words “Buy British, not Argentine!” as he crossed the sidewalk to the entrance.

  When he reached his own office, his secretary was waiting with news that similar demonstrations were occurring outside the Manchester and Edinburgh stores. The demonstrations lasted all day in London and Edinburgh. Only Manchester provided a respite; there, a driving rainstorm forced the League’s protesters from the streets at midday. Activity in all three stores was way down, with the traditionally busy Friday yielding fewer sales than a wet Monday.

  There were no demonstrations the following week. An injunction taken out by Roland’s lawyers against the League saw to that. The lack of protesters failed to ease the situation, though. As May turned to June, and the Falklands conflict entered its third month, store business continued to dip. Likewise, the Daily and Sunday Eagle went to press with a minimum of advertisements.

  Sally Roberts acquainted Roland with a new problem. Over dinner at her Curzon Street flat, to which she had also invited Katherine, Sally said, “I’m seeing more and more copies of UK Press Gazette and Campaign around the building these days. I think that editorial and advertising people are worrying how long it will be before layoffs begin.”

  “First thing tomorrow, I will send a memo to every staff member at Eagle Newspapers and Adler’s. No one should fear losing his or her job.” Roland fixed a smile on his face. “Besides, if what I read in my own newspapers is to be believed, this nasty little war should be over quite soon.”

  “And when they all shake hands, does that mean our lives will return to normal?” Katherine asked. “The British forgive their enemies a lot quicker than they pardon a traitor — even a man who has been falsely accused of treason.”

  “Once this rush of public-spirited blood to the head calms down,” Roland answered, “reason might prevail.”

  “If it doesn’t?”

  Roland’s voice was strained. “I am praying that it will.”

  Katherine recalled John Saxon’s idea — a statement of support for the Falklands venture. She’d slammed the receiver down on him; her father would never accept such an about-face! But a lot had happened since then. Saxon’s prophesies had come true. Now, a derivative of his idea might work. “When this war is over, perhaps the Eagle can put one of those blank advertising pages to good use. Not to celebrate victory, but to commemorate peace. To explain that freedom cannot be taken for granted. Like everything, it has a price, and sometimes that price is blood.”

  Sally gave Katherine a cool, admiring glance, but Roland contradicted her. “That’s nothing but a transparent political ploy. It’s asking to be pardoned, when I’ve done nothing to be pardoned for.”

  “It’s better than being forced out of business, isn’t it?”

  “Since the day I got out of the army in 1947, I have been in business. Kathy, I don’t want to be remembered for being a magnate, a tycoon, or whatever the current phrase is. I want to be remembered as a decent man who stood by his principles, no matter what it cost him.”

  Katherine blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes. Her father’s principles were his most precious possessions. He would die with them intact. But if he refused to help himself, he would have to be helped. It was as simple as that.

  *

  Any doubts Katherine had about going over her father’s head were swept away that weekend. On Saturday night, a fire broke out in the menswear department on the second floor of the Adler’s store in Manchester. By the time firemen controlled the blaze, the second floor was gutted. Much of the merchandise on the other floors was ruined by smoke and water damage.

  Investigators pinpointed three separate hot spots. The burned but still identifiable remains of timing mechanisms were found. The scene was reconstructed: small but powerful firebombs had been slipped into the pockets of three pieces of clothing, probably just before closing on Saturday evening to eliminate the possibility of being found by accident. Police interviewed the sales clerks on the floor. Could they recall the last customers? The last browsers? Had they noticed anything suspicious? No one remembered a thing.

  Roland spent two days in Manchester promising everyone from the lowliest porter right up the store manager that they would continue being paid until the store was operational again. He also met with the police. When the chief inspector in charge of the arson investigation asked who might want to harm him, Roland grabbed the telephone directory, and flung it open to the B’s.

  “Look there for your arsonist — the Manchester office of the British Patriotic League. Those madmen aren’t short of a motive. They’ve been libeling and harassing me for the past week.”

  The chief inspector was unimpressed by Roland’s outburst. Motive was one thing; finding witnesses was something else.

  When Roland returned by train to London, Katherine met him. His face was one big scowl, and as he climbed into the Porsche he gave vent to the fury that had been building all the way down from Manchester. “Those bastards burned me down, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

  “What about the police?”

  “The police? They treated me like I was the accused, not the injured party. I told them who was responsible, and they replied that they could not go out and arrest someone on my word. What was that supposed to mean . . . that my word wasn’t worth a damn? That I’m not to be believed because I might have business interests in the Argentine? The police believe those lies about me more than they believe me.”

  “That’s not what they meant at all. They need witnesses and evidence before they can arrest anyone.” All the same, Katherine could not help wondering whether her father was right. Were the police being deliberately unhelpful because they felt there was some truth in the allegations? It was crazy. A reputation took a lifetime to build, and only a couple of hours and some clever lies to destroy.

  More than ever, Katherine knew she had to help her father.

  *

  On the morning of Monday, June 14, ten weeks after the Argentine invasion, a white flag was seen flying over Port Stanley, the capital of the Falkland Islands. The next morning, Argentine forces formally surrendered. The fighting, at last, was over.

  Across Britain, public houses were full at lunchtime, and again in the evening. The country was witnessing an outpouring of pride, pleasure, and relief that had not been seen since the spring of 1945.

  When the pubs disgorged their celebrants at closing time, Fleet Street was moving into full stride. Presses rolled on early forms, compositors labored over late pages. A party atmosphere prevailed, joy over triumph’s headlines.

  At the Eagle, Lawrie Stimkin made the final check of the front page. Block capitals screamed “Victory!” Beneath the headline was a photograph of the surrender. The story itself, with other details of the war’s final moments, was carried on pages two and three. Satisfied, the editor passed the page to Roland, who, with Katherine and Sally Roberts, had made a special trip to see the paper put to bed on this momentous occasion.

  The one-word headline, and the stark picture of triumph and defeat, jumped right off the page into Roland’s face. It was the most eye-catching Eagle front page he had ever seen. So it should be, considering the importance of the occasion. But all Roland could say was “About blasted time. How many men had to die so this picture could be taken?”

  No one answered, because it was obvious that the question was rhetorical. Katherine studied her father as he looked at the front page. The tension of the past few weeks — the personal attacks, the harassment, the arson at the Manchester store — had taken its toll. Roland’s eyes looked sunken. D
eep lines were etched around his mouth. And his shoulders, Katherine noticed, seemed bent, taking two or three inches off his six-foot-plus frame. For the first time in her life, Katherine applied an adjective to her father that she’d never dreamed she’d use. He looked old.

  “If you’ve seen enough,” Katherine said, “I’ll take you home. Then I’ll be able to get some sleep.”

  Roland nodded in agreement. Sally walked with them to the street. When they reached the Porsche, Sally wrapped her arms around Roland’s neck and kissed him. “When you wake up tomorrow, Roland Eagles, the world’s going to be a much better place. You wait and see.”

  “I believe you’re right.” He bent to enter the Porsche. Over his head, Katherine flashed the quickest of winks at Sally.

  As the Porsche roared away, Sally walked quickly into the Eagle building and rejoined Lawrie Stimkin. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Stimkin rapped out orders, and compositors who had been sworn to secrecy went about their special work.

  *

  Despite staying up to watch the Eagle put to bed, Roland rose at eight o’clock the following morning. He showered and shaved, and came downstairs in a shirt and the trousers of the blue suit he would wear to work that day. A place was set for him in the breakfast room. A steaming cup of tea waited, set out by Peg Parsons, who had heard his footsteps on the stairs. Next to the tea was a copy of the Eagle.

  Roland picked up the newspaper and held it at arm’s length to get the full impact of that graphic front page. His mouth dropped. His hands gripped the paper fiercely enough to tear it. This was not the front page he had seen at press time. The layout was similar. It was just as graphic, just as startling, but it was not the same page!

  Instead of “Victory!,” the headline read “Freedom!” The picture of the surrender was replaced by a photograph that burned its way into the brain. A weary British paratrooper sat on the ground, his back against a tree. A bandage covered his forehead, and the eyes that squinted at the camera described the pain and suffering of every war that has ever been fought. Beneath the picture, in bold type surrounded by a black box, was the simple message: “Freedom, like everything we hold precious, is not free. It must be paid for. With determination. With vigilance. And sometimes, unfortunately, with blood. Thank you.”