And he stormed out.
‘Spoken like a doctor,’ Don said when the resulting uproar had died down. That guy has his head screwed on.’
He tapped ash from his cigar. Catching sight of Nigel, he added, ‘It’ll be damned silly of your people if you let him get away. Speaking of getting away, though, may we have the bill?’
Ignoring that, Nigel said, ‘What do you mean? You heard what he said about us! Think we want someone with that kind of attitude in Weyharrow?’
Jenny too was staring at Don in disbelief, though Wilf was sitting back in his chair and inspecting his nails as though afraid of finding country dirt beneath them.
‘Yes,’ Don said after a pause. ‘That’s exactly who you need. I don’t think you can have been listening.’
Nigel reddened. ‘I came in late on the argument because I had to sort out a problem.’
‘But you heard me say: “spoken like a doctor”?’
‘Ah … Well, yes, of course.’
‘And a proper doctor is exactly what you need! Do you believe in devils – actual objective devils taking over people’s souls?’
Disconcerted, Nigel shook his head.
‘I should bloody hope not! On the other hand, now you know there’s been at least one major leak of Oneirin from Helvambrit, and that the stuff has after-effects lasting days or more, I hope you’re very worried indeed! That’s what Steven meant! You can’t argue with a chemical poison in your blood and bones! It’s there, and because the stuff is secret you can’t go and buy an antidote from the chemist’s! That’s what Steven saw at once, that none of you lot seemed to have cottoned on to yet! I’ll lay a bet that the only people here who’ve even started to think about suing Helvambrit are your lords and masters the Goodsirs who so much hate the firm because they bought the Trimborne mill instead of paying rent for it, which would have kept Basil and Helen in luxury for the indefinite future! Did none of you notice their faces when I said the Oneirin contract is worth over half a million pounds a year?’
He drew on his cigar and found with a grimace of disgust that he would have to relight it.
Nervous, Nigel produced and struck a match. He said, ‘But you can’t expect us to invite someone here who feels the way Steven does about us.’
There was a rumble of agreement from the rest of the company.
Blowing smoke, Don shook his head.
‘He won’t if you do.’
There was a puzzled silence. At length one of the other councillors strode forward.
‘All right! I suppose we’re obliged to you for telling us what really happened – though I don’t like your paper, or its pinko politics! But you don’t have any right to tell us what we ought to do! You march in, all the way from London or somewhere, and start giving orders like you own the bloody place!’
Don fixed him with a level gaze. He said, ‘I think you missed my point. What I meant was that if you drive Dr Gloze away you’ll wind up with someone else to replace Dr – what’s his name? – Tripkin, who either won’t know or won’t believe that some of the nervous cases he has to deal with stem from leaks at Helvambrit. He’ll just scatter tranquillizers around the way your farmers do the sprays that Mr Pecklow is concerned about!’
Thrusting back his chair, he rose to his feet.
‘Speaking of whom! How is it that I – who’ve only been here since yesterday – realized how amazing it was when he took the same side as Mr Vikes?’
He stared down any answer, and went on: ‘I’ll tell you! It’s because Dr Gloze noticed! Who had only met them when he had to dress their bruises after they got in that fight the other morning! Think a reporter from outside, like me, can catch up that quickly on what’s going on? Nuts! All I could do was watch Dr Gloze’s face during the meeting … and from his expression I figured out what I just said. And I’m not wrong, am I? You really were surprised when the Vikeses and the Pecklows turned into allies even though you too were closing ranks!’
‘What do you mean?’ said the former speaker uncertainly.
‘Against him! Against me! Against anybody who would tell you what was going on was due to anything but devils!’
Once more there was a pause. Don ended it with a glance at his watch.
‘Nigel, I asked for the bill. It isn’t here yet.’
There was a pause before the response came.
‘Oh! Oh, I thought you knew you were invited …’ Nigel drew himself up, with a glance at his fellow councillors.
‘And, you know, I said all along he’d be a good doctor for Weyharrow …’
Realizing that wasn’t going to wear, he added hastily, ‘Not of course for the reason you just spelled out. Just because – well – I got the impression he was sound.’
Sound was a good word. Nods greeted it.
‘For what it’s worth, I think so too,’ Don sighed. Thanks for your generosity; I hope it may already have been repaid, because I took special care to mention your hotel in my story, and that’s a bit of free publicity if nothing else, though I hold no brief for what the subs may have done to my text … Wilf, are you ready? I want to phone in an update from the car.’
The redhead spread his hands, as if to say: ‘Can’t be too soon for me.’
‘And thanks again to you, Jenny,’ Don concluded, bending to kiss her cheek.
But she avoided him, looking elsewhere. She said, ‘You know, there’s one thing I still don’t get. This is the age of the information revolution, right? Everybody has access to floods of it all the time! More newspapers are sold – there are more news programmes on TV – more people have typewriters and photocopiers and word processors than ever before … Yet these people here’ – with abrupt defiance, glancing at Nigel first and then the rest of the customers – ‘let a scandal like this one carry on right under their fucking nosesl Why? Why did it have to be you that broke the story?’
Abruptly her large blue eyes were full of tears.
While the onlookers were still recovering from the shock of hearing a pretty girl use a crude term they might have passed over had it emanated from almost anybody else, Don laid a friendly hand on Jenny’s shoulder.
His answer was almost a whisper, though no one missed it.
‘I’ve been in this job longer than you’ve been alive …’
He briskened. ‘Right! Thanks again! Wilf, got the carkeys? Fine! And – oh, yes. Someone will keep an eye on the Ellerford kids, won’t they? Make sure they don’t do anything stupid like set the house on fire? You know I met their parents in Hong Kong; if there’s anything I can do to help I will.’
Mechanically Nigel said as he followed Don and Wilf to the front entrance and signalled for their coats to be returned, ‘Yes, it’s in hand. Tomorrow – no, not tomorrow because it’s Sunday – next week a lawyer I know, who takes care of lots of people’s affairs around here …’
‘Ralph Haggledon?’ – with a suspicious cock of his head.
‘Any reason why not?’
‘Because unless I’m completely off my rocker he’s going to be preoccupied for the immediate future with the suit the Goodsirs are liable to bring against Helvambrit. I’ll find out whether my solicitor in London has a correspondent in the area. And I’ll pass on details to you. If your chef wants to sue, he’ll need a neutral lawyer …’
He grew suddenly aware that most of the customers from the dining-room had decided that this was the best time to end their meals and follow him. Rounding on them, he cried: ‘Yes! I am talking about the Goodsirs who sold the woods along the Chap valley for lumbering and the Trimborne mill to Helvambrit and now are more than likely getting set to sue before you even think of it in spite of the foul way you were treated! Mr Draycock told me that hereabouts “Goodsir” is a nickname for the Devil! Take my advice and don’t look any further for the power of evil in your village! No matter what your parson says! Good night!’
A little after the door had closed on Don and Wilf, the company dispersed, as gloomy in its different way as tho
se who had quit the Marriage under threat of demons.
Seeming to match their mood, since the public meeting ended clouds had overrun the valley from the west.
On the riverside terrace of the Court, Marmaduke watched them blotting out the welkin. He was sitting on a stone bench that, despite the blanket wrapped around him, seemed to suck the warmth from his scrawny, aged hams. When he heard Basil’s car on the driveway, he found he was too tired to rise.
He was weary, but not uncontent. All the precautions that were his to take had now been taken. Awareness of that fact remained to comfort him when he realized that something more than cloud was cutting off his vision of the stars.
Until the last he fought to keep his eyes ajar. They were fixed open when he ceased to breathe.
15
There had been noises from outside the Doctor’s House: cars roaring past, perhaps – Steven thought bitterly – after their drivers and passengers had stayed longer than he at the hotel or pub.
He had eaten the hors-d’oeuvre of his dinner, plus a few mouthfuls of what followed. Also he had taken at most two glasses of white wine. Yet he couldn’t remember what the main course had been; he might as well have been drunk to the point of amnesia!
Next time someone asked him, ‘Are forces of evil at large in Weyharrow?’, he was resolved to answer YES!
This damned village was unbearable!
He had changed into pyjamas in the sparsely-furnished guestroom, washed, brushed his teeth, gone through the standard nightly ritual, when it dawned on him that he was hungry. Preparing his speech had drained him of energy – delivering it, for what little it proved to be worth – and then taking over from Nigel Mender when he broke down under pressure …
He what?
He was already heading downstairs – he had made a mug of hot Bovril and a slice of toast to fill his belly – he had disposed of this exiguous nourishment … when he stopped and thought again.
And the word that haunted his mind was: after-effects.
He shook his head abruptly. He was in the kitchen with an empty mug before him and a plate that bore dry crumbs. He rose, glancing at his watch and realizing with dismay what time it was, to put the used crockery in the sink.
A car pulled up outside.
He ran water over the plate and mug, mechanically.
There was a tap at the front door.
He ignored it.
There was a ring at the bell.
That was loud enough to be heard next door. Annoyed, he marched into the hall, set to say, ‘Dr Hastoby in Hatterbridge is on duty this weekend –’
Instead he said, blinking, ‘Jenny?’
She confronted him, hands on hips, glaring. ‘Yes, it’s me!’ – kicking the door to with her heel. ‘And you’re not bloody going to turn me out! Come here!’
Once more engulfed by recklessness, he did so.
‘Why didn’t you stay?’ – spelled out by wet lips against his neck. ‘Don was right! And he’s been in his job longer than I’ve been alive!’
What am I doing here? I’m in bed, not alone! This is incredible! What became of my pyjamas – her clothes?
But he did know, if only vaguely. He recollected, when he set his mind to it, how his hands had met the sleekness of her inner thighs as he drew down her jeans.
Who? Not possible for it to be Jenny …
It was.
What, though, was she saying? It had to do with the after-effects of inhaling Oneirin –
‘I’m not a dream! Damn you! I’m real real real!’
And his mouth remembered shaping foolish words.
But not as keenly as the rest of him remembered her.
‘I knew if someone didn’t do this right away it would be too late for bad and all and I’m so glad I figured it out right because I’ve made so many crazy mistakes …’
It was Sunday morning. There was light behind the close-drawn curtains, grey and misty. Steven stretched and turned over, and finally convinced himself that someone real was talking to him.
He had thought it all imagination.
But she was rolling him on his back, her hand exploring his crotch, erecting and straddling him, speaking as it were with both her mouths as her breasts bobbed up and down. She was saying again, ‘I wish you’d stayed to hear what Don said about you! He was right! If a place like this doesn’t have a doctor that can tell the difference between the Devil and a leak of chemicals –!’
He cried out, a blast of over-long chastity overcoming him. (Last night …? But last night was a veil of dream.)
She fell beside him, snugglingly content, one arm across his chest, and carried on with what she was saying.
‘And if a place like this doesn’t have someone like me whose business it is to watch and listen and take notice, people like Frass can get away with murder!’
He yawned tremendously. When he could, he said, ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Don’t you see?’ She sat up, arms linked around knees, head turned away from him. ‘We shouldn’t have had to wait until Mr Phibson went off his head before finding out what was really going on. Don said as much last thing before he and Wilf got back in their car and drove away. He said – and I’m absolutely sure he’s right – that but for the lucky accident of there being a reporter on the spot, who … No, I oughtn’t to repeat the rest.’
He caressed her back. ‘Go on.’
‘Well’ – biting her lip – ‘he made it sound as though I’d done something special. All I did was make a few phone calls.’
‘And turn down my invitation to dinner,’ Steven murmured. He was waking up by degrees, and discovering that he felt much better than he had during the past few days. His mind felt normally alert.
‘Yes. Sorry about that … But, you see, I did it for my sake, not the sake of the people here. Do you know what I mean?’ She turned a troubled gaze on him.
‘Same reason I made that godawful speech.’
‘I suppose so.’
There was a pause. Eventually, sitting up, Steven said, ‘Well, things did turn out better than I expected.’
‘I know. But I think Don was right when he said – Of course, you weren’t there when I preached my little sermon about the information revolution. I was saying roughly that when everyone is supposed to be better informed than ever in history it doesn’t seem to make much difference. And just before he and Wilf left Don said it’s because we don’t make use of it. People who want to be reporters – he was aiming this at me, and I promise you I got his point – think they have to go to London or some other big city, or places where there are riots or crimes, because all the news is happening there. He said it isn’t the right way to go about it any longer. He said it’s a hangover from the old centralized pattern due to the invention of the railways, and the pattern’s changing, so that a major news story can break even in a hole-in-the-corner place like this. And what’s happened here is going to have national repercussions, which is typical of the way the future’s likely to develop. At least,’ she concluded doubtfully, ‘that’s more or less what he said. I think.’
‘Heavy thinking this early in the day has never been my forte,’ Steven sighed. He turned over to glance at the bedside clock and discovered it wasn’t nearly as early as he had imagined. He sat up.
‘Goodness! We shan’t be able to find a Globe anywhere within miles! They’ll have been snapped up!’
‘It’s okay, it’s okay! They keep all the papers for me every day! But’ – her tone altered – ‘we ought to find out how much of the story actually got into print.’
She swung her legs to the floor, looking around for her clothes. He too rose from bed.
‘I’ll go and make some coffee.’
‘You do that’ – drawing on her panties. ‘I’ll get the papers.’ Jeans – sweater, not bothering with her bra – and shoes. ‘Back in five minutes!’
‘Right!’ – seizing his dressing-gown from the peg behind the door. Tying the sash, he was struck b
y a sudden thought.
‘Uh – does anybody know you’re here? I mean, I suppose your landlord knows you were out all night …’
‘Oh, Steve!’ In the doorway, she blew him a kiss. ‘As Don said, the old patterns are changing! Even in Weyharrow!’
Alone in the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it to boil, Steven pondered the implications of the past few days. Last night, he remembered, he had spoken with great bitterness about the determination of the local Establishment to make people believe nothing had really happened – that it was all a storm in a teacup.
Nonetheless, it had turned into a whirlwind.
Don is right. Every community nowadays needs a reporter, or someone who can be relied on to blow the gaff, at least. Every community needs someone who can look beyond the comfortable habits of the past and say, ‘This might be dangerous – this might be fatal!’
As though to underline his thoughts, the bell for morning service began to toll from the church. He wondered whether his prediction had been right, and the archdeacon – or someone sent by him – would be preaching hollow comfort and false reassurance yet again.
It must not go on! The ancient pattern – yes – was breaking up.
He began to think in terms of giving an interview to the Chapminster Chronicle when he took over Dr Tripkin’s practice. Now it was known that the village’s misfortunes were indirectly due to the Goodsir family, and their greed, it wasn’t likely that people here would much respect the old squirearchy in times to come. After Mr Phibson’s breakdown they would doubtless have less respect for Parson, too. Who was to fill the void, if not the doctor for his knowledge, and the reporter, for being in contact with the greater world beyond the limits of the village? It was a parallel …