Authors: Elizabeth Oldfield
We said our goodbyes and Dilys showed us out.
‘Many thanks for kicking away the knife,’ Steve said, as we walked towards the lift. ‘For a moment there, I thought I could be a goner. But you saved my life.’
‘Not really.’
‘Yes, really.’ He pressed the lift-call button. ‘I didn’t know you’d been in a chorus line. I mean, with a high kick like that. Wicked!’
I laughed. ‘I gave myself a shock, though it was rather splendid. And so were you.’
Steve put his arms around me, drawing me close. ‘We were both rather splendid,’ he said, and kissed me.
At first our lips were closed, but they quickly parted. The kiss deepened. I shut my eyes, wound my arms around his neck and was lost in the feel and the taste of him. He felt hard, strong, male. He tasted good. I had told Lynn that we did not lust after each other, but I had been wrong.
Ponk! A soft noise sounded and a light flashed, white bright even beyond my eyelids. Startled, Steve and I jerked away from each other and looked round. It took me a moment to realise what had happened, then I saw the lift had arrived and the door was wide open. Outside stood a man with a goatee beard, wielding a camera. A professional type camera which he had pointed at us.
‘Who are you?’ Steve demanded furiously. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m a freelance working for –’ The photographer named a tabloid. ‘Someone from the flats here rang our London office to report a life or death incident, so they despatched a reporter. He’s downstairs. I happened to be in the area – went to snap a package left under a railway bridge, turned out to be a Chinese carry-out – and I’ve just taken a picture of the valiant couple who rescued –’ He broke off to grin. ‘It’s Steve Lingard, isn’t it?’
Steve gave a curt nod. ‘Correct.’
‘I was there when you were presented with your Scoop of the Year award. I won a prize that evening, too. Perhaps you’d like me to take another shot, with the two of you stood together, side by side?’ the photographer suggested.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Should I tell Tina
that Dilys had told me she was her mother? I wondered, as I dropped
The Siren
’s bundle of post onto my desk the next morning. The old lady may have asked me to keep quiet and yet she longed for a reconciliation. If I attempted to bring them together, would Tina be receptive? Or hostile? Could my interference make a bad, sad situation even worse? Tina would surely hear about the previous evening’s crisis, but would she want to be associated with Dilys – and with her violent jailbird brother?
I began slitting open envelopes. After a broken night when I had been beset with thoughts of Dilys and Tina, William and Ernest, Steve and me, I had risen early and arrived at work
ahead of time. The cleaner had finished mopping the upstairs floors and was now busy on the downstairs.
I had sorted the mail into ‘Advertisement’ and ‘Editorial’ heaps, when the door opened and Lynn rushed in.
‘Have you seen this? she demanded, waving a newspaper. It was the tabloid which the photographer from last night had said he worked for.
As I ate breakfast I had rung Lynn to tell her about ‘the William incident’, only to discover she already knew. Her grandfather had telephoned at crack of dawn and given graphic details. He had, she reported, been ‘buzzing’.
‘No, though –’ I gestured to a copy I had bought, but had not yet got around to opening.
Leafing to an inside page, she showed me a report headed ‘Known Knifeman Attacks Pensioner’ and the two accompanying photographs.
‘That’ll knock the birds off their perches,’ she declared, with an impudent grin.
‘But it gives totally the wrong impression,’ I began. ‘We –’
‘Sorry, Mum, can’t stop. Short of time. See you later.’
As Lynn dashed out, I opened my own paper and read the account which detailed Ernest’s plight, how his release had been effected and William’s subsequent arrest. Steve and I were named, his Scoop of the Year award got a mention, and Gillian was lavishly quoted. She had been ‘overwhelmed by the rescuers’ public-spirited determination to help’, ‘in awe of their selfless courage’ and would be ‘eternally grateful’. I was marvelling at her description of us as ‘fearless modern day saints’, when Steve arrived.
‘How’re the ribs this morning?’ I asked.
He put a hand to his chest. ‘A little tender, but not too sore.’
‘And the shins?’
‘Similar.’
‘Your health in general?’
‘Fine.’
I handed him the newspaper. ‘So much for your obliging photographer,’ I said.
While one photograph which accompanied the report was of William in his younger days, the other showed Steve and me with our arms around each other kissing: kissing passionately, locked in a close embrace. ‘Plucky hero and heroine celebrate their success,’ the caption read.
Steve gave a dry smile. ‘If Tina wasn’t convinced about you and I being –’ his voice lowered to Barry White deep ‘– ‘in lurrve’, she will be now.’
‘But the paper should never’ve printed this,’ I protested. ‘The guy took the second shot of us standing together and implied that that was what would be used. Though a picture of Ernest would be more appropriate. Presumably the photographer regards this as a joke, but it’s trickery and an invasion of privacy and –’
‘At least we didn’t make it to the front page.’
‘Thank God! But this is tantamount to criminal and –’
What else could I say? Steve might appear relaxed, but I remembered his anger with the photographer and knew he must be feeling compromised, embarrassed, aggrieved. It was one thing to be spotted being kissed on the cheek in a local restaurant, but quite another to have a picture of your seemingly ardent clinch circulated throughout the nation.
And the clinch was ‘seemingly’ ardent for, in the clear light of day, I recognised that the kiss had been spur of the moment, inspired purely by relief and, while it had stirred me, of little consequence. We had spent the remainder of the evening together, but there had been no repeat. Steve had not morphed from autocratic boss to good friend to ardent lover. How could I have been such a klutz as to imagine he had?
I was taking a breath, ready to resume my protest, when Melanie walked in, followed by Tony. She had a copy of the tabloid tucked beneath her arm.
‘I was buying my Smints when Ravi suggested I might find this of interest. And it is interesting,’ she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
Ravi, a Patel son, is the manager of one of the newsagents’ shops along the High Street.
‘Did he tell you whether the photograph of us is in any of today’s other papers?’ Steve enquired.
‘It isn’t,’ Melanie replied. ‘He’s checked and it’s just in this one. Though the rest of the papers have reports of the trouble.’
Steve looked at me. ‘I guess we should be thankful for small mercies.’
Melanie giggled. ‘The two of you do –’ She broke off, the switchboard telephone had started to ring and she went to answer it. ‘Mr Pinkney-Jones for you,’ she informed Steve.
‘I’ll speak to him in my office,’ he told her, and departed.
‘How come you and Steve were at the retirement flats when the old chap was being held captive?’ Tony enquired.
I explained, described the scene and unfolding of events, and had finished answering Tony’s questions when Jenny came in.
‘Carol, are you all right?’ she demanded, her voice tight with worry. ‘I’m on duty in the shop this morning and Eileen’s just told me that someone told her you were caught up in a knife attack last night.’
‘I wasn’t attacked and I wasn’t hurt,’ I assured her, and, leading her through to the quiet of the interview room, I quickly related the facts.
‘How frightening for everyone,’ Jenny said. ‘I feel sorry for the old lady, too, having such a nasty piece of work for a son.’
‘She also has a daughter, one she’s proud of. This is confidential, but Dilys told me she is Tina Kincaid’s mother.’
Jenny gave a startled laugh. ‘What?’
‘You’d think the idea was even odder if you saw Dilys. Her dress sense is… colourful, she’s not the most demure or elegant of old ladies. Her language can be colourful, too.’
‘Tina comes out with the odd ‘crap’ from time to time.’
‘She does. Dilys would love for them to meet and make up, yet she’s asked me not to let Tina know I’m aware of their relationship. She only mentioned it due to the stress of the situation,’ I said, and explained.
‘Given a push, perhaps Tina would welcome a chance to make up, too,’ Jenny suggested.
‘I’m not sure. They’ve both lived in Dursleigh for years and have had ample opportunity to build bridges, but it hasn’t happened, so –’
‘Let it mull.’ Jenny turned towards the door. ‘I must get back to the shop. So relieved you’re safe, Carol. I’ll see you at Tina’s tomorrow and we can discuss further. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
I had taken the ‘Advertisement’ stash of mail downstairs and was on my way back when Steve called me into his office.
‘Mr P-J is delighted we’ve got ourselves in the national press as the editor and chief reporter of
The Dursleigh Siren
,’ he said. ‘He reckons it’s valuable publicity and –’
‘Did he say anything about the photograph?’ I broke in.
Jenny had not mentioned it, though I felt certain she would see it – courtesy of Eileen? – sooner or later.
‘Not a word. He must’ve read the story in another paper – and he was full of praise for the ‘dynamic duo’ and said there’d be a bonus with our next month’s wages.’
I smiled. ‘Nice!’
Back at my desk, I was preparing to write a piece about the controversial clearing of local woodland when Dursleigh’s Member of Parliament strode in. He wanted to congratulate Steve and me on our derring-do and hear about the William incident firsthand. His visit turned out to be the first in a procession and, if people didn’t come into the office, they rang. A surprising number of Dursleigh residents, including the Giffords,
père et fils
, the firemen I’d interviewed and the lady mayor, were eager to praise us and learn the full story. Some commented, with amusement, on the photograph. My response was a casual dismissal. Determinedly casual.
Late morning, after non-stop fielding of visitors and telephone calls, Steve and I went along to the police station to give the required fuller statements. This done, we called in at a coffee shop for a quick lunch and some welcome peace – until a fellow luncher realised who he was sitting next to.
When we returned to
The Siren,
three reporters from assorted national newspapers were waiting to speak to us. The reappearance of ‘Billy the Bridge’ had aroused interest – the athlete, now a leading commentator, had already relived his Seventies ordeal on breakfast television, so one of the reporters informed us – and they wanted to hear our account of the fracas. Two of the interviews were straightforward and relatively swift, but the third journalist, a sombre intellectual who worked for a Sunday quality, was, he stated, preparing an in-depth article discussing the theory of ‘once a villain, always a villain’. His in-depth article necessitated an in-depth interview with the pair of us, which centred on William’s words, actions and presumed feelings.
The afternoon was fast disappearing when I settled back down to work on the felling of the woodland article. I had written a couple of paragraphs when the public door swung open, yet again. This time, the visitor was Debbie.