Frozen Music (50 page)

Individuals have always been sacrificed for causes. Maybe that's how it has to be? But the day it happens silently, without debate, without the victim being heard, that's the day a new order dawns, one of which I don't ever want to be a part. I have to do what I think is right and believe me, Linus, it's harder than you'll ever know for me to go against you like this.

Please try and understand why I'm doing what I am doing and that it's not a betrayal of my feelings for you. But what kind of lover would I be for you if I betrayed everything I believed in to try to make you love me?

I was still hoping for a reply.

The TV crew had left Rookery Cottage and so had the campaigners. Even Barry Jones had gone. He had vanished with the TV crew. All that remained was the eviction notice on the gatepost and the scent of self-righteousness in the air.

‘Bric-a-brac business's doing well,' George said on our way back up the drive. ‘Them squirrels in particular. People like to say they bought from us.' He bent down and picked up a mess of crushed egg and chicken foetus underfoot, chucking it on the compost heap as we passed on the way to the door.

‘So that young man who carves them must be earning some real money,' I said, as we sat down in the kitchen. Dora was already by the stove, making the tea. She and her brother exchanged looks.

‘He's not all that young either. Just seems that way. But he does all right for someone who's not right in the head,' George said. ‘We see to that.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Frank. Frank Wilson, same as his grandfather although Father would turn in his grave knowing his daughter's bastard were named after him.'

‘He's your nephew?'

‘He is that,' George said. Dora looked troubled.

‘So the lady who was here the other day, showing you some antiques, is your sister?'

Dora and George nodded grudgingly. Dora sat down heavily on the chair opposite mine. ‘It was a bad business back then and our father was a hard man. But they're all right now,' George said.

‘She had to go once we learnt the babby was on the way,' Dora said, her head lowered. Then she looked up at me. ‘I was sorry about that. I like little babbies.'

‘Your sister wasn't married to Frank's father?'

Dora sniffed. ‘She wasn't married to anyone, that was the trouble. Wouldn't even say who the father was although we had our suspicions, didn't we, George?' George nodded. ‘Then when Jack Grant let her have that Railway Cottage rent free and gave her a load of things to furnish, well then we knew. Anyway, Aggie came back to the village and the boy with her.'

‘Some folk thought Frank should be put away on account of him not being right in the head,' George said. ‘And Aggie was fretting what would happen to him when she goes, she's older than us both, see, because the cottage is for her, not for Frank. But we told Aggie there was no need for that. Father is long since gone and we own this place. “No, Aggie,” I said. “There's no need for anyone to be put away, thank you very much.”'

‘And there's no harm in Frank,' Dora said. ‘And he's ever so good at his carving. It's on account of Aggie going through the change when he came along, him being funny like. Well, that's what doctor said.'

‘You do understand that if the worst comes to the worst and you have to leave Rookery Cottage the council will have to pay the true market value of the house? You would get somewhere else to live. Somewhere where Frank could go too.'

‘They say that,' George almost shouted. ‘But this is our home. People around here understand our ways. Frank's too. Being a Wilson in these parts means something. There are no houses in the village for sale and if they were the money we'd get for this place wouldn't buy any, not the way they've all been tarted up. This is our home. We bought it. We struggled half our lives to be able to. What was the point if they can just come along and take it away?' George was red in the face and his eyes were watering as he banged his fist on the table. ‘What is the point?' And then he leant his head on his arms and wept.

My reporting of the eviction notice being served on George and Dora Wilson got a huge response. I had to stop reading the letters of support because it threatened my resolve. Too many of my correspondents were agreeing for all the wrong reasons, venting feelings of
spite and envy, backing up their arguments with emotive and badly argued points. There was, clinging to some of the letters, the scent of the lynch mob. They bore the signature of the Seriously Ill-informed Readers or SIRs as they were known. But, I kept reminding myself, it was no good blaming Dora and George for the failings of some of their supporters.

‘So?' Charlie perched on my desk. ‘How are we doing with dear old George and Dora? I reckon we've got another week's worth.'

‘I don't know, Charlie. Maybe we should quit.'

‘What do you mean, quit? The readers have been with us this far. They'll want to be in on the final act. “Axe descends on brave George and Dora Wilson.” That kind of thing.'

I looked up at his eager face and the small bright eyes darting from side to side as we spoke, as if he was anxious to make sure he wasn't missing something more interesting going on in another corner of the room. I told him I had spoken to Simon Fuller at Terra Nova Enterprises. ‘He's the new right-hand man, it seems. Work on the access road, that's the bit which is going through the Wilsons' front room, is scheduled to begin the first Monday of next month. That's just about three weeks from today.' I shook my head. ‘I don't know, Charlie. All we would be doing now is to give George and Dora hope when there is none. Nothing short of a miracle can save Rookery Cottage.'

‘What say we create a miracle?' Charlie looked upwards into the distance, the way he did when he had just spotted a headline, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if to clear the way for his vision. “Victory for the People's Paper, as
Chronicle
readers save brave George and Dora”.' Then he too shook his head. ‘No, I can't see that happen, you're right. But I want to run the finale nevertheless. Our readers expect it.'

I shook my head, about to protest when he went on, ‘Oh, and I've had Barry Jones on the phone, offering his help again. Apparently he's got a new TV show coming:
The Smallest Room in the House
.'

‘I don't think that's the miracle we need.' I was struck by a new thought, a little hopeful thought. ‘Oh, Charlie, that thing, you know
the Barry Jones scandal, it might even have been a blessing in disguise, do you think? Strengthened his marriage, given his career a new impetus?' I made my voice light and unconcerned, but I knew my eyes were fixed on him, hopeful.

‘Nah.' Charlie got up from the desk and brushed down his trousers although they looked perfectly fluff-free to me. ‘No, he's still miles away from where he was before all of that stuff. I doubt if he'll ever get back to the top. Anyway, the Wilson thing is your call, just make it good. I want a great exit from this one.'

‘It's bloody typical,' I complained to Posy that evening, over supper. It was her turn to cook and she had made couscous with spring onions and sundried tomatoes. ‘I spend my life searching for absolutes, pining for certainties. I strive to prove to myself that something in this life is steadfast and sure – even if it's only me. And then… when I do, that very proof is what wrecks things for me.'

I stabbed the couscous with my fork. ‘Not that Linus was about to leap into my arms anyway. And now bloody Charlie wants me to be some kind of peeping Tom at the Wilsons' wake for the benefit of our concerned readership. I tell you, those two old things have come to rely on the publicity. They like being in the limelight. But once they're out, they'll lose that too. I tell you…'

Posy helped herself to some more couscous. ‘I thought you had realised at last that you'd have to relax your principles a little. You are a journalist, after all.' She looked pleased with herself when she said that. People always did look pleased with themselves when they had a go at journalists. They, together with psychiatrists and lawyers, formed the unholy trinity of our society and I had considered becoming all three.

‘But seriously,' Posy said. ‘Relax a little or you'll go mad – again.'

I sighed. ‘I know, I know, principles, like spots and braces on your teeth, are adolescent afflictions; you're meant to grow out of them. But surely there's got to be a limit to how much we're prepared to buckle and bend to squeeze ourselves into the life we think we want.' A tear escaped from my eyes, landing on a sundried tomato on my plate. ‘Or
maybe not. Linus feels I've betrayed him. He thinks I'm like his mother. And George and Dora will feel betrayed, too, whatever I do.' I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘So I can look back with satisfaction at yet another successful period in my life.'

‘I thought he adored his mother,' Posy said. ‘I thought this opera house was partly about her. His Taj Mahal, you said once.'

‘He does love her, but he hates her too. You can do that with mothers.' I tried to eat my food, but it seemed to grow in my mouth until I was unable to swallow and I pushed the plate away. Then I was struck by a frightening thought. ‘Do you think God is a four-year-old? Could that be the answer to all these imponderables of existence?'

‘Isn't it enough that He's a He?'

I nodded. She had a point there.

I was getting ready for bed when the phone rang. It was Linus. My heart thumped against my ribcage as I took the receiver from Posy. ‘Yes.' My voice came out a squeak. ‘Yes,' I tried again, an octave deeper.

‘It's me, Linus. I'm coming over next week to meet with Stuart Lloyd. I thought we might have dinner one night.'

‘You got my letter?' My voice sounded small, as if it didn't want to be found.

‘Yes, I did. I'm sorry not to have written back, but I've been snowed under with the project and anyway, I'm a lousy correspondent.'

‘You must be thrilled it's definitely going ahead?'

‘I can't tell you how much.' He paused. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did the other day. You don't owe me anything. I'd like us to be friends. Especially now I've got what I want.' There was another pause. ‘That was a joke, kind of.'

We decided on dinner Monday evening, then he hung up before I'd even had a chance to ask how everybody was.

‘I can't tell you how much this thing means to me.' Linus stood with Stuart Lloyd before a computer image of the People's Glyndebourne.

Stuart Lloyd nodded. ‘You and me both.' He turned to Linus, a huge grin on his face. ‘It's going to be fantastic. I knew you were the
man for the job the moment I saw those preliminary designs. The person to turn my dream into reality.' He looked sideways at Linus, an embarrassed little smile on his face. ‘But enough of this sentimentality. Still, I tell you there was a time when I thought we'd lost. With the launch of the travel agents being imminent I simply couldn't afford all that negative publicity, but people have moved on. These days people's outrage lasts about as long as their breakfast cereal. In a couple of weeks it will all be forgotten. There's always a new story, a new outrage. Right now this thing about the woman who had her baby's sex changed at a private clinic in Switzerland seems to take up a lot of space.' As Linus looked blank, he explained: ‘Her husband had four sons already from a previous marriage so when she gave birth to yet another boy she had him operated on. There's been quite a fuss about it, as you can imagine.'

‘Still, it's a pity we couldn't have done it without robbing the Wilsons of their home,' Linus said. ‘This project is everything I've dreamt of. The “Now I Can Die Happy” thing of my life. But it turns out to be built, literally, on someone else's misery.'

‘You know that journalist, don't you?'

‘Yeah.'

Stuart Lloyd shook his head. ‘Look here, Linus. Do you want to see your opera house built?'

Linus sighed. ‘Yes, more than anything.'

‘Well, there you are. I mean, look, we'd all like to get our own way
and
be smelling of roses while we go about it. But life isn't like that. Most actions are compromised, whether by self-interest or by it buggering up someone somewhere along the line. Nothing comes clean, everything is tainted. That's just life, take it or leave it.'

Linus thought of Astrid. ‘I'll take it,' he said. ‘All of it.'

‘Good. And by the way, with or without you, I'd still build. The difference is that your design is a great one and the others weren't, which is worth thinking about; long after we're all gone and our petty squabbles are over that building will contribute to the cultural well-being of the nation. So, Linus, there's no place here for faint hearts.'

‘Quite,' Linus said, feeling curiously light, as if he hadn't got a heart
in the first place. It felt good. Peaceful. ‘Where do you want me to sign?'

Stuart Lloyd looked puzzled. ‘Sign?'

‘Soul, devil…'

‘Ah. I see what you mean. A fax will do. We've even got faxes in hell these days.'

‘So here we are,' I said stupidly, as the waiter at Lincoln's seated us at a table for two right by a trolley laden with shellfish, some dead; the lobsters, some alive; the oysters, but whatever their status they were lying in state on the same bed of ice. Lincoln's was famous for its seafood. Linus and I had arrived at the door of the restaurant at the same time, punctuality being one thing we had in common. I tried to think of something else, but my mind was as still as my heart was furious. I looked across the table at Linus, my eyes drinking from his, my lips trying to catch his breath as he leant across to light my cigarette. When I could bear it no more I looked around me instead.