Peter, if you dont stop trying to be funny, Ill get dressed again. And incidentally, why are you drinking from both those glasses?
Sorry, said Pascoe handing over the fuller of the two. Incidentally in return, how come at nine-thirty in the evening youre wearing nothing but the Evening Post anyway?
Every night for what seems weeks now youve been staggering in late. Rosie instantly sets up that awful howl and you stagger upstairs to talk to her. I dread to think what long term effect these little monologues are having on the child!
She doesnt complain.
No. Its the only way she can get your attention for a little while. Thats what all this is about. The next stage is for you to stagger back downstairs, have a couple of drinks, eat your supper and then fall asleep beyond recall by anything less penetrative than Fat Andys voice. Well, tonight Im getting in my howl first!
Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully, finished his drink and leaned back on the sofa.
Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully, finished his drink and leaned back on the sofa.
Howl away, he invited.
The Unusual Will item had caught other eyes that day too.
The Mid-Yorks Evening Post was one of several northern local papers in the Challenger group. The Challenger itself was a Sunday tabloid, published in Leeds with a mainly northern circulation though in recent years under the dynamic editorship of Ike Ogilby it had made some inroads into the Midlands. Nor did Ogilbys ambitions end at Birmingham. In the next five years he aimed either to expand the Challenger into a full-blown national or use it as his personal springboard to an established editorial chair in Fleet Street, he didnt much care which.
The other editors within the group were requested to bring to Ogilbys notice any local item which might interest the Challenger. In addition Ogilby, who trusted his fellow journalists to share a story like the chimpanzee trusts its fellow chimps to share a banana, encouraged his own staff to scan the evening columns.
Henry Vollans, a young man who had recently joined the staff from a West Country weekly, spotted the piece about the Huby will at half past five. Boldly he took it straight to Ogilby who was preparing to go home. The older man, who admired cheek and recognized ambition to match his own, said dubiously, Might be worth a go. What were you thinking of? Sob piece? Poor old mam, lost child, that sort of thing?
Maybe, said Vollans who was slim, blond and tried not unsuccessfully to look like Robert Redford in All the Presidents Men. But this lot, Women For Empire, that rang a bell. There was a letter in the correspondence column a couple of weeks back when I was sorting them out. From a Mrs Laetitia Falkingham. I checked back and it had the heading. She lives at Ilkley and calls herself the founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. The letter was about that bother in Bradford schools. She seemed to think it could be solved by sending all the white kids to Eton and educating the blacks under the trees in the public parks. I checked through the files. Seems shes been writing to the paper off and on for years. Weve published quite a few.
Yes, of course. Rings a bell now, said Ogilby. Sounds nicely batty, doesnt she? OK. Check it out to see if theres anything there for us. But I suspect the doting mum/lost kid angle will be the best. This racial vandal stuff at the Kemble theatre looks more interesting.
Could be if theres some bother on the opening night, said Vollans. Shall I go? I could do a review anyway.
Theatre correspondent too, mocked Ogilby, admiring the young mans pushiness. Why not? But talk to me again before you do anything on Mrs Falkingham. Were treading very warily about Bradford.
Bradfords large and growing Asian community had highlighted by reversal the problems of mixed race schooling. It was the usual question of how best to cater for the classroom needs of a minority, only in this case the minority was frequently white. The Challengers natural bent was conservative, but Ogilby wasnt about to alienate thousands of potential readers right on his doorstep.
OK, Henry, said Ogilby dismissively. Well spotted.
Vollans left, so pleased with himself that he forgot his Robert Redford walk for several paces.
Nor did interest in the will end there.
A few hours later the telephone was answered in a flat in north Leeds, quite close to the University. The conversation was short and guarded.
Yes?
Something in the Mid-Yorks Evening Post that might interest. Women For Empire, that daft Falkingham womans little tea-circle out at Ilkley, could be in for a windfall.
I know.
Oh.
Yes. Youre way behind, as usual. All thats long taken care of.
Oh. Sorry I spoke.
No, you were right. Youre in a call-box?
Natch!
Good. But dont make a habit of calling. Bye.
And up yours too, said the caller disgruntledly into the dead phone. Condescending cunt!
Not far away in the living-room of his small suburban flat, Sergeant Wield too reclined on a sofa but he was wide awake, the Evening Post with its news of wills and vandals lay unopened on the hall floor, and the ice cubes in his untouched Scotch had long since diluted the rich amber to a pale straw.
He was thinking about Maurice Eaton. And he was marvelling that he had managed to think so little about him for so long. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, they had even wandered once close to the decision, momentous in that time and at that place and in those circumstances, of openly setting up house together. Then Maurice, a Post Office executive, had been transferred north to Newcastle.
It had seemed a God-sent compromise solution at the time close enough for regular meetings but far enough to reduce the decision on setting up house to a problem of geography.
But even small distances work large disenchantments. Wield had once been proud of his fierce fidelity but now he saw it as a form of naïve self-centredness. He recalled with amazement and shame his near-hysterical outburst of jealous rage when Maurice had finally admitted he was seeing somebody else. For thirty minutes he had been the creature of the emotions he had controlled for as many years. And he had never seen Maurice again since that day.
The only person who ever got a hint of what he had gone through was Mary, his sister. They had never spoken openly of Wields sexuality, but a bond of loving understanding existed between them. Two years after the break with Maurice, she had left Yorkshire too when her husband was made redundant and decided that Canada held more hope for his family than this British wasteland.
So now Wield was alone. And had remained alone, despite all temptation, treating the core of his physical and emotional being as if it were some physiological disability, like alcoholism, requiring total abstinence for control.
There had been small crises. But from the first second he had heard Sharmans voice on the phone, he had felt certain that this was the start of the last battle.
He went over their conversation again, as he might have gone over an interrogation transcript in the station.
Whered you meet Maurice? hed asked.
In London.
London?
Yeah. He moved down from the North a couple of years back, didnt you know that?
It was a redundant question, the boy knew the answer. Wield said, New job? Is he still with the Post Office?
British Telecom now. Onward and upward, thats Mo.
And hes well?
Perhaps he shouldnt have let the personal query, however muted, slip out. The boy had smiled as he replied, Hes fine. Better than ever before, thats what he says. Its different down there, see. Up North, it may be the eighties in the calendar, but theres still a ghetto mentality, know what I mean? Im just quoting Mo, of course. Me, this is the first time Ive got further north than Wembley!
Oh aye? Whys that?
Whys what?
Whyve you decided to explore, lad? Looking for Solomons mines, is it?
Oh aye? Whys that?
Whys what?
Whyve you decided to explore, lad? Looking for Solomons mines, is it?
Sorry? Coal mines, you mean?
Forget it, said Wield. Just tell us why youve come.
The boy hesitated. Wield read this as a decision-making pause, choosing perhaps between soft-sell and hard-sell, between freeloading and blackmail.
Just fancied a change of scene, said Sharman at last. Mo and me decided to have a bit of a hol from each other
You were living together?
Yeah, natch. The youth grinned knowingly. You two never managed that, did you? Always scared of the neighbours, Mo said. Thats why he likes it down there. No one gives a fuck whos giving a fuck!
So you decided to take a trip to Yorkshire and see me? said Wield.
No! I just set off hitching and today I got dumped here and the name of the place rang a bell and I said, hello, why not get in touch with Mos old mate and say hello? Thats all.
He didnt sound very convincing, but even if he had, Wield was not in a convincible mood. Hitchhikers didnt get dropped at bus stations.
He said, So Maurice told you all about me?
Oh yes, said Sharman confidently. He was showing me some old photos in bed one night and I said, Whos that? and he told me all about you and the thing you had together and having to keep it quiet because you were a cop and all that!
The real pain came at that moment, the pain of betrayal, sharp and burning still as on that first occasion, an old wound ripping wide.
Its always nice to hear from old friends, said Wield softly. How long are you planning on staying, Cliff?
Dont know, said the boy, clearly puzzled by this gentle response. Might as well take a look round now Im here, see the natives sort of thing. Ill need to find somewhere to kip, not too pricey though. Any suggestions?
The first squeeze? Well, he had to sleep somewhere and it made sense to keep a close eye on him till the situation got clearer. Wield examined this conclusion for self-deceiving edges, but quickly gave up. You didnt devote your life to deceiving others without becoming expert at deceiving yourself.
You can sleep on my couch tonight, he had said.
Can I? Thanks a million, said the boy with a smile which hovered between gratitude and triumph. I promise Ill curl up so small that youll hardly know Im there at all.
But he was there, in the bathroom, splashing and singing like a careless child. Wield was acutely aware of his presence. His existence had been monastic for a long time. There had been another dark-skinned boy, a police cadet, who had ambushed his affections against his will, but nothing had come of it, and the cadet had been posted away. Sharman reminded him of that boy and he knew that, if anything, the danger was even greater now than then. But the danger to what? His way of life? What kind of life was it that a simple surge of desire put at risk?