In Pieces (30 page)

Si took the decision and after that it was easy. He left Bill absorbed in writing about the restaurant, and wandered up to Dougy's office.

The editor was on the phone when Si reached the outer office. It was no longer the relaxed waiting area it had been in Martha's time. The new girl looked tired, but she was sharp and professional. Not a spare smile in sight. Si waited until the red light on the PA's switchboard went out and then went in.

‘Dougy, have you got a moment?'

Dougy was standing behind the huge black desk. Beyond him the vast picture windows showed the Docklands spreading out on either side of the gunmetal grey river. Dougy nodded and looked at Si expectantly.

‘I've been thinking and I don't feel that I should carry on editing the Diary…'

‘Oh come on, Si, you don't really think I can give you your own column yet, do you?' Dougy was incredulous. ‘Not with the shit you've been pumping out recently.'

‘No, that's not what I meant. I know it's not been going well. You see, I think I need a bit of time out, d'you see? Of course, I wouldn't leave until everything was sorted out and so forth…'

Dougy cut him short. ‘You mean to say you want to resign?'

‘Yes, that's it. As I say, I'm perfectly happy to stay as long as you need me. Until you find someone to take over and…'

‘Why, Si? I know you've had a tough time recently, but I still believe in you, kid. You can go far if you want to.' Dougy obviously found it hard to understand.

‘But that's the point. You see I don't want to any more.'

Dougy wasn't listening. His brow suddenly furrowed. ‘I see, someone's offered you a better job. Who is it?
The Mail
? The gits, I might have known.'

‘No, it's got nothing to do with
The Mail
…'

‘Who, then? If it's
The Daily Telegraph
, I'll ruddy kill them. Listen, kid, whatever they've told you, don't believe it. We can work this out between us, okay? I can't promise you a big raise now, but assuming things go well over the next month, I'll make sure you get a good bonus in October. How's that? Can't say better than that, can I?' Dougy paused.

Si tried again. ‘Look, Dougy, I'm sorry, but nobody else is involved and it's not a question of money. It's about me… You see, I need to get a grip on my life. To control it rather than allowing it to control me. Do you see?'

Dougy obviously didn't. He clearly thought Si had taken leave of his senses. Leaving for a better job, that he could understand. Even accepting less money for improved career prospects, okay. But just leaving? No, he didn't believe it. People simply didn't do that these days. Career and success were everything; what was left if you rejected them? Si had to be hiding something from him. Dougy hated losing staff to another newspaper, no matter how badly they might be performing for him.

Along the river, somewhere towards Gravesend, the horn of a barge echoed with a mournful finality. Like
The Last Post
.

Si left the office having done his best. He told Bill what he had done, and said he would recommend his assistant to succeed him as Diary Editor.

Bill tried hard to conceal his delight, and said how much he'd miss Si and so forth. But Si wasn't fooled. He knew this was Bill's dream come true, and hoped for Bill's sake it would work out. There was always a risk in trying to run before you could walk. The harder they come, Si quoted silently. Yet Bill seemed up for it: driven, and fiercely ambitious, he had become increasingly competent in the last few months.

Then they scraped together the page. When they had finished, Bill took it up for Dougy to approve. Ignoring the lift, he skipped up the stairs two at a time. He realised that he was truly happy for the first time since coming to London. It had been a confusing period. Half the time he'd felt
desperately insecure. And his sexual confusion hadn't helped. He hoped that now he'd conquered his first goal and won the job he wanted, he might have the confidence and clarity to tackle a much more difficult challenge. It was increasingly clear what he had to do, but how would he deal with his family? And what would Dougy say? Bill felt his happiness quaver and his stomach contract into a hard little ball. Oh God, he wasn't there yet. One step at a time, that was all he could manage.

While Bill was away, Si wrote a short formal letter of resignation explaining that he would work out his month's notice if required and recommending Bill as his successor. Before leaving for the night he dropped it off with Dougy's PA and sent a copy to the personnel department. Then, having completed his own piece of midsummer madness, he walked out into the balmy London evening.

As he left
The Courier
building, he felt a great weight lift from him. He knew he was doing the right thing. Not just intellectually, but emotionally and even morally the decision seemed correct. The only thing he couldn't understand was why it had taken him so long to reach this point.

The sunshine washed over his pallid face and he looked as if for the first time at the beauty of London. The cars glinted as they flowed like water down the dusty street. A flower-seller smiled at him as he passed her brightly adorned booth. Si smiled back and surprised himself by not feeling foolish. A huge warm wave surged up within him and he felt more open and alive than he could remember.

How long would this feeling continue? How long before he became used to his new condition of freedom and slipped into imprisoning routine again? Surely there was some way of preserving this inspiring vision of life? But even this sober thought couldn't diminish the joy he felt.

Everything seemed possible now. Social convention and inhibition appeared absurd. When he saw a bag lady standing on the edge of the pavement waiting for the unforgiving traffic to let her cross, he instinctively took her arm and helped her shuffle to the other side.

When he had landed her safely on the far pavement, he saw her glance with fearful eyes towards an old cane shopping basket on wheels sitting in a doorway. Understanding the plaintive look in the woman's eyes, he fetched the basket for her. Even the all-pervading smell of stale urine failed to affect him. The woman mumbled something and looked at him with evident surprise. Then she grasped the handle of her trolley firmly in gnarled hands, and tugged it slowly along the street after her.

Si stood for a few minutes watching the hunched figure shuffle away. Then he recrossed the street and carried on walking away from
The Courier
. Avoiding the cracks in the pavement, he thought that perhaps he could detect some meaning in all the apparent chaos of his life. Maybe all the pieces did add up. He wondered if it was simply that the answer was there for anyone to see, but until now he'd failed to look. Once he had seen an illuminated expression gracing the face of a man in a sandwich board; Si recognised in that emaciated eccentric something of his present self.

The emotion within him surged again and welled up behind his eyes. He dismissed this with a wry smile. This would never do. He needed to compose himself for Mary. Otherwise, she'd think he'd
taken leave of his senses. He wasn't quite sure what he would say to her. But he knew it would be important.

~

The message arrived. No sooner than expected, but sooner than the Sleeper had hoped. Scribbled on the back of a postcard of central London featuring a big red bus, and signed by Ginger: ‘Shopping on 15 September.' That's all.

This was the green light to put into effect the plan which had been explained in Hammersmith. The Sleeper had severe doubts, but there was no turning back now. He managed to suppress his qualms by thinking about the cause: all the martyrs murdered by the English, the soldiers waving guns at small kids on the streets in Belfast, all the weight of history pushing at his back to continue the struggle…

But the burden was heavy, even if he knew he was doing the right thing. He shut out thoughts of Jo, Lenny the tramp and all the other friends made in London. God help him, he thought, it had been almost a year since he first moved into Mrs Donnelley's. What had happened to her and her son Davie back from America? He hadn't really thought of Mrs Donnelley since moving out…. Since Greta. And that was the worst of it. He knew that after going into action, his life could never be the same.

The plan was to wait a while in London, carry on as normal, and then go to France for a bit. Ginger had arranged a job in an Irish pub in Paris. Then he'd wait until he received instructions. Ginger had promised that he'd be able to visit his family soon—before Christmas, he'd said. But the Sleeper knew that his time with Greta was coming to an end. That hurt. It hurt a lot. At times, it hurt so much he wished he could turn his back on the cause and run off with Greta. Somewhere romantic like Hawaii. It always looked amazing in the films. But he knew this wasn't really an option. Ginger or someone else would find him sooner or later, sure they would. And everyone knew what happened to deserters.

~

When Dougy realised there was nothing he could do to keep Si, he agreed a handover period of two weeks and made Bill the Diary Editor. Si came in late and left early, offering advice and helping out where he could. But he realised it was better to leave Bill to his own devices. After all, the new Editor was already familiar with the job's requirements and execution. The two weeks passed quickly.

Si had been concerned that Mary would take his resignation as further proof that he lacked mettle. She had surprised him.

‘Darling, that's the best news I've heard for a long time. Brilliant. Mummy will be delighted. She never did approve of you working at
The Courier
.'

‘Mm, I guessed as much.'

‘So what'll you do instead?'

‘I haven't made my mind up yet. I thought I'd take a bit of time to work things out.'

‘Darling, that's fine. So long as you're happy. I've got enough for both of us. You could even sell your flat and move in with me.'

‘That's really sweet. But I think my savings will get me by for at least the next six months.'

‘Six months? Goodness, how long are you planning to stay unemployed?'

‘Well, I don't really see it as unemployed. More a case of changing direction. And if one's been ploughing ahead in one direction all one's life, you build up a certain momentum. It can take some time to alter course smoothly.'

Mary seemed slightly reassured. ‘Right, I think I see. Anyway, it's brilliant news. It'll mean we have more time to spend together.'

‘I suppose so. But that implies your taking more time out from your job too. After all, you work far longer hours than I do.'

‘You're right. I'm also going to turn over a new leaf. I'll make an effort to get out earlier in future.'

Mary's reaction was far more encouraging than he could have imagined, although how long her tolerance would last was not clear. But Si determined to make hay in the meantime.

‘You do that, my love. Turn over a new leaf, that is. I guess I've not just turned over a new leaf, not even started a new chapter. I've chucked the whole sodding book away.' The idea was both exhilarating and deeply daunting.

~

The train drew into Ryburn with a hiss. Mary chucked her novel into her bulky Kenzo bag and left the carriage. She was the only one to get off at the tiny station. She looked around at the short platform, the delicate Edwardian wrought iron and the big clock. It was amazing this branch line to Oxford had survived the Beeching Plan. Cynically, she decided that Ryburn's chocolate box qualities made it the kind of village where politicians had weekend retreats; hence the reprieve when the axe had dropped on thousands of similar village stations.

She watched the train slide away into the long horizon, as in a western movie, only no smoke. Opposite the platform fields of poppies and corn stretched away up the hill towards a small farmhouse. Even the pylons at the top of the slope managed to look picturesque.

Mary felt her insides dance a quick jig, as they always did when she arrived to visit Elspeth. She loved Ryburn; it reminded her of her childhood and the long summer holidays, the time when she believed she would live forever, and every experience was a new one. She'd never imagined—even as
a fourteen-year-old snogging that boy from Ryburn post office—that a time would come when there was nothing new, just new ways of doing the same things.

The taxi followed the familiar route. Out of the village and onto the causeway. Down the lane lined by high bushy hedges and dry ditches—rinnies, that was what they called them down here. Mr Johnson the taxi driver knew her Gran. ‘Mrs Somerset's a wonder of the world,' he marvelled. ‘You wouldn't know she was a day over sixty. Backbone of the village, she is. Just the other day she rang my wife and offered to bake some cakes for the fair.' The Ryburn fair was the big social event of the year round here. People came from up to twenty miles round. Mary remembered waiting with barely contained excitement for the day to arrive.

‘When is it?'

‘Oh, next Saturday. You'll be staying for the fair, then?'

‘I wish,' sighed Mary. Today was Sunday, and she'd be leaving later today to get back in time for work tomorrow. She'd originally planned to come down yesterday, but a last minute crisis had meant an unscheduled half-day in the office. It was high time she took control of her life.

‘Oh, you can't miss the fair. Nothing like it in these parts. But then again I suppose it'd be nothing special for you London types.'

Mary didn't react to the implied rebuke. Mr Johnson was quite right. London certainly destroyed all sense of proportion. ‘So what else has been happening?' she asked breezily. Mr Johnson rose to the challenge admirably, and during the five-minute drive he brought her up to speed with the latest village gossip. It had been too long since she last came down, thought Mary. She barely recognised some of the names featuring in Mr Johnson's monologue.