Spearfield's Daughter (69 page)

She stared at him, but their faces were too close and she could not get his into focus. Or perhaps it was her mind that had suddenly become astigmatic.

“Will you marry me?”

She buried her face against his neck, closing her eyes, blind with love. “Yes. Yes.”

III

“No,” said Alain. “That editorial is
out
.”

“
Why do you object to it?” said Cleo.

“It's nothing but a condemnation of the Shah. We need to support him.”

“We?” said Cleo. “We're a newspaper, not the government. The Shah's record needs to be put in perspective and that editorial of Tom Border's does it.”

“I don't know why you had him write it in the first place. He's a reporter, not an editorial writer.”

“I suggested using him,” said Dan Follett, chief of the editorial page. “He knows the area.”

“Well, it's out. It suggests we're supporting the Ayatollah Khomeini.”

“It doesn't suggest anything of the sort.” Cleo could feel herself getting angry, but she was determined to remain cool, if only on the surface.

“The support is implied. That's the way I read it and so will a good many of our readers. As the publisher I have some responsibility for what appears in the paper—”

Cleo did not remind him that he was only the associate publisher. She was tempted to suggest they should consult his mother, but though she was angry with him, even beginning to hate him for his obduracy, she could not castrate him by bringing Claudine down to resolve the argument. In any event she knew how Claudine would resolve it.

“Righto, it's out, Dan. If we can't have some honest criticism of the Shah, we'll say nothing at all. For the time being, anyway. We'll wait till Tom comes back from Cairo.”

“Are you sending Tom Border to the Middle East?” said Alain. “Why?”

“Because he has contacts there. He's going with Roger, who thinks it's a good idea . . . Okay, Joe, what else have you got for us?”

She took the conference back under her control. The other editors round the table had sat quietly during the short skirmish between her and Alain, all of them by now aware that there was an animosity, at least on Alain's part, that was going to influence all future conferences. The amiable, dry-humoured but always efficient atmosphere that had prevailed since the departure of Jake Lintas was showing distinct cracks.

Alain made no more objections or suggestions and when the conference was finished he picked up his stick and limped out without a word. He knew who was the odd man out.

Cleo gestured for Joe Hamlyn and Dan Follett to remain behind and when everyone else had
filed
out she said, “We have a problem, as you can see.”

“I think we should have voted on that editorial.”

“Dan, a newspaper isn't a democracy. You know that as well as I do. I don't give you guys a vote when I think I'm right. His Nibs has got it into his head that he has to show some authority. Today was his day for the demonstration. I don't believe he cares two hoots about the Shah.”

Dan Follett nodded morosely. He was the oldest of the editors, a grey-haired stick of a man who could alternate between flights of fancy, in wacky third leaders, and pedantry. He had a savage hatred of the misuse of words such as
hopefully
and
momentarily.
He had once been a survivor in an aircraft that had crashed moments after take-off. He had come back to the office and remarked, “The flight attendant was correct. She said we'd be airborne momentarily and that was it—we were in the air momentarily.” He was only restrained from writing a sarcastic editorial by the knowledge that over a hundred other passengers had died permanently.

“Okay, I'll save it till Tom Border comes back.”

He went back to his desk and Joe Hamlyn waited while Cleo gathered up her papers. She looked up at him. “What is it, Joe?”

“Will you have supper with me? Uncle Joe would like to talk to you.”

She saw at once that he had something important on his mind. “I'm having sandwiches brought in. I'll order some for you.”

“There's no privacy in your office. I'll take you to McDonalds.”

“A real hideaway. Joe, you're not going to tell me you love me?”

“In a way,” he said and went back to his own desk.

The McDonalds was round the corner. It was almost empty when they walked in. A few people sat at the tables, but their eyes had the tired, empty look of people who were not interested in others; they were at the end of their day and some of them looked at the end of their tether. Cleo watched them with a stirring of pity, wondering if she had ever felt as low as these strangers looked, while Joe went and fetched the coffee and hamburgers.

He came back, sat down and without preamble said, “Cleo, you and Tom Border have got to get yourselves sorted out.”

“
What do you mean?” She had been about to bite into the hamburger, but now held it, like a grenade, as if she were about to throw it at him.

“Don't tell me it's none of my business. It is. Because I like you and because of the effect it's going to have on the paper. Editors and reporters should never share the same bed.”

He came close to having the hamburger shoved in his face. “I don't think it is any of your business, Joe.”

“Come off it, Cleo. Look, you and Tom have been discreet, I'll admit that. But people have seen you around town. We see you in the office—you're almost leaning over backwards not to be noticed together. You're like all women—you think we guys don't notice things like that. You two are in love—right?—and I'm glad for you. But it's not going to make things easy for you or us around the newsroom. Are you thinking of getting married?”

She put down the hamburger, no longer hungry. “Yes.”

“Then I think Tom had better look for a job on another paper.”

“Crumbs, you're taking a lot on yourself. Or are you speaking for all the guys in the newsroom? And the women, too? Don't let's forget the girls.”

“Eat your hamburger, Cleo, while I give you some fatherly advice.”

Why do I get all my advice from men? she asked herself. Where could she get some motherly counsel? She had been in a state of quiet rapture since Tom had proposed; she was thirty-four years old and she had been seduced, propositioned and loved; but never proposed to. She did not count Jack's proposal of a Mexican marriage; that suggested all the binding ties of a United Nations resolution. She had called her father and told him the news and her own pleasure had increased, if that were possible, at his delight in it. Unwisely, however, he had asked:

“Will you give up your job?”

“Dad! Why should I do that?”

“All right, all right.” It was no longer like the old days, when the women's vote had been blind and trusting. “But there's always a risk when a man works for his wife. Or vice versa,” he added diplomatically but a trifle late.

Now Joe Hamlyn was telling her the same thing. “Cleo, it won't work. All the guys—and the
women
—will be looking for some favouritism of Tom. Or you'll go the other way and finish up not using Tom for what he's worth. Either way the paper's going to suffer. Tell him to find a job somewhere else. The
Times
might be glad to have him.”

“Joe, how do I fire my future husband?”

“I don't know. Use your woman's intuition.” He bit into his hamburger, his hunger unspoiled.

“I hope you choke,” she said.

When she went home that night Tom was already in the apartment. She was hungry by then and she warmed up a TV dinner, poured some wine and fired him after her second mouthful. It was best, she decided, to get it over and done with.

He surprised her by saying, “I've been thinking about resigning. I've actually talked to the
Times—”

“You might have told me!”

“Don't be woman-like, be an editor. Does a worker tell his boss in advance what he's got in mind? You should learn something about labour relations. The
Times
will give me a job. I'll resign at the end of the month and then we'll get married. Okay?”

She sighed and sat back, relieved that there was to be no unpleasantness but annoyed that he hadn't told her what he had in mind. “Why are you always so agreeable and understanding and lovable?”

“It's just my nature.”

It wasn't his nature, at least not totally; he had all the faults of an honest, intelligent man. He had used his intelligence to sum up his life-to-be with Cleo. There would be drawbacks, hurdles, fights, obstacles of every kind; it would still be immeasurably better to live with her than without her. Love would give him stamina and patience. He said, “The first Stoic was a man who married his boss.”

“Bull.” She was still prudish with her language, except in bed where prudery can sometimes tie a tongue. “Maybe it's for the best. But I'll miss you at your desk down at the end of the newsroom. Every time I see you down there I'm tempted to wave.” She giggled; the ridiculousness of the image suddenly and completely convinced her that he had to leave the
Courier.
An editor fluttering her fingers at her husband would finish up using copy-boys to deliver love notes. “Do you still want to go to Cairo?”

“Yes. I'd rather keep working than mope about missing you. How about a little humpin'?”

“
You're the boss,” she said and meant it.

IV

Jack Cruze was sitting in his library watching Gloria Swanson in
Sadie Thompson
when Emma phoned to tell him that Dorothy St. Martin had just died. It was the first time she had called him in more years than he could remember; but he recognized her voice before she named herself. Not only in his films was he more and more living in the past. His head was full of echoes.

“I'll go to the funeral,” he said. “Will you be there?”

“Yes.”

She had not been at Rose's funeral, the excuse being that she was not well enough to attend. He had been glad he had not had to meet her publicly, but now all at once he wanted to see her again. He was about to ask her to have lunch with him after the funeral, then decided it would be better to wait till he saw her. He did not have to rush headlong back into the past.

They had a short, formal conversation, then she hung up. He sat for a while thinking about the St. Martin sisters; he had always enjoyed their company back in the old days, even though they had always made him feel socially inferior. But he should be grateful to them: they had brought him both Emma and Cleo. He debated whether he should call Cleo and tell her of Dorothy's death.

He had been tempted to phone her several times: the desperate cries of a drowning man. But he had resisted the urge; he knew it was all over between them. Occasionally he felt bitter and furious, but there was more acceptance of the loss of her than he had expected; his own resignation surprised him. When he had left New York to come home to London it had not even occurred to him to send her white roses; that would have been too spiteful, something he could not do to the woman he still loved. Now there was an excuse to call her.

He phoned her at the
Courier,
knowing she would still be putting the paper to bed. He knew her professional habits had not changed; she was the sort of editor who might leave the chores to other people but never the responsibility. He was put through to her at once.

He was more awkward with her, whom he had spoken to less than a month ago, then he had been with Emma. “Don't hang up on me—”

“
I wasn't going to, Jack. What is it?”

“Dorothy St. Martin has just died. I thought you'd like to know. Do you want me to order flowers or something?” He was willing to run errands, do anything for her.

“Please. I'm sorry to hear about her death. I suppose she gave up after Rose died. I believe that often happens with old people when someone dies whom they've loved—”

Not only old people.
But he
was
old; or anyway felt it. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you. And you?” They were as formal as he and Emma had been.

“As well as can be expected.” He couldn't resist that. Then abruptly, before he spoiled everything, he said goodbye and hung up.

Cleo sat with the dead phone against her ear for a moment, then she slowly put it down. She picked up her gold pen, the one the St. Martin sisters had given her, and looked at it with guilt. She had neglected both sisters: a couple of short letters a year and a card at Christmas were not enough for what was owed to friends. Her life, she realized, was full of debts, small and big; she had never thought of herself as selfish, but she was. She had not given a thought in years to Pat Hamer, the actress who had told her of the story in the St. Martin sisters, the story that had started her career in London. Was Pat still playing the maid in French farces, still showing off her
boom
but still dreaming of playing Lady Macbeth? Did Mr. Brearly, the features editor on the
Examiner,
and Roy Holden and Simon Pally on
Scope
ever feel that she owed them something? She felt ashamed: she never thought of them at all. She had never trodden on anyone to get to where she now sat; but she had never looked back to thank any of them. Suddenly she wanted to rush across the Atlantic to be at Dorothy St. Martin's funeral; then she would go looking for all the others, invite them to a grand reunion of the Cleo Spearfield Progress Association. But the thought was as ridiculous as it was quixotic. And there was no guarantee any of them would appreciate her gesture.

She was only sorry that she could no longer reach Dorothy and Rose.

Two days later Jack went to the funeral. The service was held at the Farm Street church; Jack sat in a rear pew and listened to the priest's eulogy. There was no mention of her as a reformed sinner; the Jesuits were worldly, they knew there were more ways to Heaven than the straight and narrow. There were only a few mourners; Jack recognized some doddering old men as clients from the old bordello days. Emma sat in her wheelchair in a side aisle, her housekeeper by her side. When the service was over Jack walked up
the
aisle and shook hands with Emma.