'But now, we expect society not only to find us work, fulfilling work, but to find it whatever place may take our fancy. Our culture is in terminal decline because of our self-indulgence – '
'Oh come, Adam, that's rather sweeping isn't it?'
'I don't believe it is. I moved away from my home to better myself, as did George. It's what keeps you alive. These people expect to be paid for vegetating… Life's about moving forward, doing what has to be done, not indulging ourselves. Can't you see that?'
She said gently, 'I can hear you, Adam.'
He suddenly grinned broadly. 'I'm sorry, Sarah. Perhaps I was indulging myself, rather. Can I have some more of that wine, please?'
Sarah said insistently. 'But you won't be too hard on her, will you?'
'No,' he said. 'I'll confine myself to facts.'
They finished eating. 'We'll go back in the living-room, shall we?' Medlar said.
She looks tired, Goring thought. I really must go soon.
They had brandy by the fire. The phone went and Medlar got up to answer it.
Goring looked at her. They were sitting close together.
'How are you really, Sarah?' he heard himself saying. 'You know what I mean.'
The fire danced in her eyes. 'I've no regrets, Adam,' she said. 'None.'
'I'm glad,' he said softly as Medlar came back in.
Shortly afterwards, as the taxi pulled away from the old farmhouse, he realised that he'd probably never see her again. He also realised that he was still in love with her.
On the other side of the city, Jessie came to a decision: I don't want him in my house any more.
The object of her disdain was seated a few feet from her, absorbed in the TV. His name was Craig Scratchley and he was a lab orderly at the centre. Tall, tow-headed, blue-eyed, he was in his early twenties and had shared her hearth and bed for the last two months.
Ego, she thought. I was pandering to my ego having him here.
His parents were subsistence farmers on the edge of Dartmoor and taking the lab orderly job had been his way of trying to escape. He'd asked her for a dance at a social; she'd been amused at first, but then, as the wine and the disco beat set her body alight, genuinely attracted. Why not? she'd thought to herself.
She hadn't had a man since the break-up of her marriage, eighteen months earlier, Craig had been animal magic in bed and she'd persuaded herself she could control him…
'What's this about you gettin' the boot, then?' had been his greeting when she'd come in that evening. His accent wasn't as broad as that of his parents (she'd met them once, which was enough) but was still pretty strong.
'Where did you hear that?'
'It's goin' round the centre. Is it true?'
'No, it isn't,' she said, 'although they might try and make me redundant.' She told him about Goring's offer.
'Sounds to me like you could've had him by the shorties if you'd played your cards right,' he said.
'And how would I have played my cards right?'
'Tell him you'd drop the programme if he promised you a better job, in writing.'
'It's a bit late for that,' she said.
'I bet if you rung him now, he'd bite your hand off.'
'Still a bit late to stop the programme.'
He grinned at her. 'S'all right, make him promise you on the telly. No way he could wriggle out of it then.'
She gave a short laugh. 'Craig, I want to do the programme. I want to stop the centre closing.'
He shook his head, rather patronisingly, she thought. 'No way you're going to do that.'
'How do you know?' Something in his eyes made her go on. 'Who've you been talking to?'
He hesitated, shrugged. 'John Chambers.'
Paul's deputy… 'I wish you wouldn't talk to people like him behind my back.' She paused. 'What did he say?'
'That you can't win.' He looked her in the eye. 'That you're on an ego trip.'
'Oh, he did, did he? We'll see about that.'
'Jessie,' he said, 'nobody's gonna pull you out of the soft 'n' smelly 'cept you.'
'We'll see,' she repeated. But what if he's right?
A score of tiny irritations had pricked at her as she'd prepared a meal for them, watched him troughing it, cleared it away afterwards, watched him watching TV.
He's good for nothing. And God, wouldn't it be nice to have my house to myself again… The prospect of him remaining there suddenly became intolerable. I'll break it to him this weekend.
In bed, thoughts of the coming interview kept her awake. Had she covered everything? Would she remember it all? She thought so, but…
But. She'd have to get up, make herself a drink.
A hand stole under her night-dress… No, she thought, and was about to push it away when his fingers lightly touched her nipple and she shivered.
His fingers gently stroked her thighs and she turned to him…
He is good for one thing, she thought later as she drifted into sleep, but I still don't want him in my house.
Medlar had got Sarah into her night-clothes, washed her face, cleaned her teeth and hoisted her into bed.
'Comfy?' he asked after he'd tucked the duvet round her.
'Yes, thank you.'
They slept in a downstairs room now. It was equipped with the electric hoist, remote control phone, TV and radio, and a purpose-built bookcase she could reach during the day.
'I love you, George,' she said as he got in beside her. 'I don't deserve you.'
'Love you too,' he said. 'I don't deserve you either.' Only I mean it, he thought. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he waited for her breathing to become even, then he slipped out of bed and out of the room. Her eyes opened as he pulled the door shut.
In the living-room, he poured himself some whisky, sat down and sipped as he thought. After he'd poured the second glass, he filled and lit his pipe.
In his hotel room, Adam Goring was also drinking whisky as he thought about what his visitor had told him.
Chapter Six
Friday … She lit another cigarette and drew heavily on it as she leaned against the balustrade on the top storey of the car-park. The pale lemon sun glinted on the windows of the high-rise blocks, flashed from the waves in the sound, etched the outline of the moorland plateau.
God, I love this place. Beautiful it ain't, but I love it.
Tamar itself wasn't beautiful. Badly bombed, even more badly redeveloped, the city sprawled, unlovely, around the river for which it was named. But where to the north it ended, Dartmoor began, and to the south, the sea…
This is stupid, Jessie thought, stubbing the cigarette and stuffing her frozen hands into her pockets as she walked over to the lifts.
The TV studio was on the ground floor. She rang, gave her name into the intercom grille and the door clicked open. Traci-the-receptionist was waiting for her and showed her to Suzee's office.
'Jessie, hi, come and sit down. Coffee?'
'I'd kill for one.'
Suzee relayed the order to the waiting Traci and asked for another for herself.
'Well, you're nice and early,' she said after the door had closed.
'I've been up top for the last twenty minutes trying to calm down.'
'Nervous?'
'You could say that. I even started smoking again.'
'Thought I could smell it.' Suzee grinned. 'If it's any consolation, this is my first big national interview, so my adrenalin level's up a bit.'
'It doesn't look it.'
'I'm paid for it not to.' Suzee Price-Taylor had a magpie's nest of red hair, a palette of make-up, a clinging scarlet dress and still looked cooler than Cool Britannia.
'Listen,' she said, leaning forward, 'I'm going to give you first shout and I won't let him cut in on you, but don't go on for too long or you'll lose the impact. After that, I'm going to have to be seen to be neutral.'
'Fair enough.'
'I'll only cut in if it gets nasty… but it's not like
ly, to, is it?'
Jessie took a breath. 'He does have a reputation for having a short fuse.'
'Well, try not to light it, Jessie, for my sake, eh? Rows might be fun for the viewers, but they leave a bad taste. And more to the point, my boss won't like it,' she added.
'OK.'
The intercom on her desk buzzed. 'Dr Goring has arrived,' Traci-the-receptionist intoned.
'Show him in, Traci – oh, and offer him a coffee and bring it in with ours, please.'
Jessie impulsively held up crossed fingers, then tried to let her hands relax on her lap. She hadn't known what to wear and had eventually settled on a dark jacket and skirt.
There was a knock and the door opened.
'Dr Goring,' said Traci, and they both stood up.
'Hello,' Goring said, smiling as he shook Suzee's hand. Her bracelets jangled.
'Do sit down, Dr Goring. Has Traci offered you coffee?'
'She has, thank you.'
Traci withdrew as Goring sat. He was dressed in a sober blue suit.
'Hello, Jessie,' he said.
'Dr Goring.' He's smiling a lot this morning, she thought sourly, thinking of Hamlet.
Traci returned with the coffee and Suzee explained to them how she was going to conduct the interview. Jessie's guts twisted and she craved more nicotine.
'Well, it's quarter to,' Suzee said, looking up at the clock, 'so I'd better get you along to make-up.'
'Make-up?' queried Goring.
'For the cameras,' Suzee told him. 'Believe me, doctor, you'd look dreadful without it. Pale and shiny.'
'Well, I'd better submit myself in good grace then,' Goring said. 'So long as you'll promise not to tell my wife,' he added with a chuckle.
I bet he already knew about the make-up, Jessie thought as he chatted easily with Suzee along the corridor. What's he been taking?
In the make-up room, he gallantly waved her to the chair first. Her heart was swelling in her throat; her bladder just swelling. She made excuses, found the loo, remembered just in time not to sink her head into her hands and smudge the make-up.
Whatever possessed me to agree to this…? Agree with it? You connived at it, you stupid cow.
She washed her hands, took several deep breaths and made her way back. They were waiting for her in the studio.
'Here, Jessie,' Suzee said, indicating a chair opposite Goring. 'Are you OK?'
'I'm fine, thanks.'
They tested their microphones, then the cameramen checked their angles. A red light came on overhead.
'One minute,' said Suzee.
They waited in silence. Jessie gripped her knees, glanced up to meet Goring's eyes, which immediately flickered away.
The light went out. 'Ten seconds,' whispered Suzee.
'Action,' said the cameraman.
Suzee lifted her head and smiled at the camera. 'Good morning and welcome to Western View, not only to our regular viewers, but also to viewers in the rest of the country. Joining me this morning are Ms Jessie Pengellis, who is the Scientific Services Manager of Tamar Transfusion Centre, and Dr Adam Goring from the Blood Division…'
How does she do it? wondered Jessie, watching her as she outlined the scenario.
'Ms Pengellis,' she said, turning to Jessie, 'you've been conducting a vigorous campaign against the closure. Why is it so important we have our own centre here in Tamar?'
'It's important,' Jessie began, hearing the quaver in her voice, 'vitally important, because without it the hospitals in this area will suffer a worse blood service. Put quite simply, this means that patients will die.'
As she felt Goring stir in his seat, some of the nervousness fell from her and she continued:
'At the moment, we recruit and organise all our donors, and they appreciate the personal service we give them. Which is why they go on donating.' She smiled. 'It's harder actually keeping donors than recruiting them. We send out the teams who take the blood at the local sessions, we test and type it in our own laboratories, then process and store it ready for issue to our local hospitals.
'If we close, all of this will go. Everything will be done from the East Dorset centre in Poole, more than a hundred miles away. How can they possibly offer the service from that distance that we provide here?'
She felt her confidence strengthen as she explained how they cross matched and supplied blood for patients with rare types; how, if they closed, the hospital would have to send a sample of the patient's blood to Poole, then wait for them to send the right blood back. 'It's delays like this that cost lives.'
She paused, hurried on: 'We've been told that the closure of our centre is to save money – but how can it when the donor teams will have to travel so far, and all blood has to be issued from Poole? Transport costs will soar. Donors will become disillusioned with a faceless organisation too distant to appreciate their needs. They will stop donating and there will be a general shortage of blood – this has already happened in the areas where other centres have closed… and by the time the Department of Health realises what a terrible mistake it has made, it will be too late to repair the damage.'
There was a pause, a hush, then Suzee said in a sober voice. 'Thank you, Ms Pengellis. Dr Goring – ' she turned to him – 'by any standards, it's a horrifying scenario that Ms Pengellis has painted for us. It does rather sound as though you're making a mistake.'
'It would indeed be horrifying if that were the case,' he said, 'but we in the Blood Division are in the business of saving lives, not putting them at risk. And that is what our reorganisation is going to do – save lives.'
He spoke quietly and with authority, the slight northern accent giving his voice a homely, trustworthy feel. Patients, he told them, were already dying because of the shortage of rare types and they were installing a new and powerful computer system that would link all the centres and provide a national database of donors and blood stocks.
'Suppose a patient here in Tamar needs blood of a rare type and there isn't any… the computer at East Dorset will be able to show that there's some in Manchester, and it can be brought down, flown down if necessary.'
'Why can't the system be installed here?' Jessie cut in.
'A computer system as powerful as this is expensive, very expensive, and the only way we can afford it is to rationalise the service.'
Suzee quickly came in: 'What about the other point Ms Pengellis made, Dr Goring? The people who make blood transfusion possible – the donors. Can they really expect the same level of attention from East Dorset?'
'Certainly they can – in fact, it'll improve. The new computer system will ensure that they're informed, well in advance, of where and when they should donate.'
'That hasn't happened in the South Midlands,' Jessie said. 'It's chaos up there.'
'There were some problems to start with,' Goring admitted candidly, 'but there always are when you go over to a new system – you know that,' he added with a friendly smile. 'It's settled down now and is working well.'
'That's not what I've heard.'
'Then we must have different sources of information,' Goring told her, still smiling.
'There's one matter neither of you have mentioned yet,' Suzee interposed neatly, 'and that is the staff who are losing their jobs.'
'Indeed,' said Jessie quickly. 'Thirty of us are being made redundant here, thirty trained scientists, and that's just the laboratories – three hundred staff are being made redundant nationally – '
'As you well know,' Goring cut in, 'there are plentiful job opportunities in the other transfusion centres – '
'But not for all of us. We have to apply for these jobs, compete for them, and hard luck if you get left out. A nice repayment for all the years of loyal service we've put in – '
'Loyal service?' Goring said incredulously. 'You talk about loyal service when you're planning to take all the staff out on strike? Who's endangering the patients now?'
'Whatever d'you mean? We're not planning anything of the kind – '
<
br /> 'Oh? Do you deny then that you called a department heads meeting yesterday for the purpose of discussing strike action?'
'But it wasn't… and we decided not to go on strike,' Jessie said weakly, too shaken to think out a better reply.
'Good of you,' Goring said as he leaned back, satisfied with the point he'd scored.
'Is it true though,' Suzee said quickly, trying to gain Jessie some breathing space, 'that as many as three hundred staff are to lose their jobs nationally?'
'It's nothing like as bad as that, as Miss Pengellis well knows,' Goring said easily… ‘Oh, there might be some early retirement for those who wanted it,’ he told the camera, ‘perhaps even a very few redundancies, but they would all be treated very generously…’
By now, Jessie had recovered herself enough to fire some more questions at him, but he seemed to have an easy, natural answer for every point she made.
Transport? Well, the present system was very costly, he had the figures to prove it, and they were contracting it out to make it more efficient…
Blood shortages? Well, that came down to good housekeeping on the part of the hospital blood banks, and to be frank, some of them were less than desirable…
He was so bloody plausible, and he hadn't shown the least sign of losing his rag, not once – it was as though he'd known in advance everything she was going to say. She realised that she was beginning to sound shrill, even unreasonable; she sensed that Suzee was about to bring it to a close.
I've lost it, she thought desolately.
I've only one card left to play… and it was an explosive, dangerous card, could easily destroy them both. But what have I got to lose?
'There is one other thing we haven't mentioned, Dr Goring…'
Suzee's look told her that it was the last thing and would have to be pretty quick.
'And that's the choice of those centres to close.'
'We chose those whose areas were most easily covered by other centres. Tamar seemed to slot naturally into East Dorset's area.'
Chilling Out Page 4
