Arthur called him. "Sit behind here while I go to the lav, will you?"
Kevin walked around the news desk and took a seat behind the news editor's bank of telephones and switchboards. It gave him no thrilclass="underline" he had the job because, at this time of day, it hardly mattered. He was just the nearest idle man.
Idleness was inevitable on newspapers, Kevin mused. The staff had to be sufficiently many to cope on a big day, so they were bound to be too many on a normal day. On some papers they gave you silly jobs to do just to keep you busy: writing stories from publicity handouts and local government press releases, stuff that would never get in the paper. It was demoralizing, time-wasting work, and only the more insecure of newspaper executives demanded it.
A Lad came across from the teleprinter room, carrying a Press Association story on a long sheet of paper. Kevin took it from him and glanced at it.
He read it with a growing sense of shock and elation.
A syndicate headed by Hamilton Holdings today won the license to drill for oil in the last North Sea oil field, Shield.
The Secretary of State of Energy, Mr. Carl Wrightment, announced the name of the winning contender at a Press conference overshadowed by the sudden illness of his Junior Minister, Mr. Tim Fitzpeterson.
The announcement was expected to provide a much-needed fillip to the ailing shares of the Hamilton print group, whose half-year results, published yesterday, were disappointing.
Shield is estimated to hold oil reserves which could ultimately amount to half a million barrels a week.
The Hamilton group's partners in the syndicate include Scan, the engineering giant, and British Organic Chemicals.
After making the announcement Mr. Wrightment added: "It is with sadness that I have to tell you of the sudden illness of Tim Fitzpeterson, whose work on the Government's oil policy has been so invaluable."
Kevin read the story three times, hardly able to believe its implications. Fitzpeterson, Cox, Laski, the raid, the bank crisis, the takeover-all leading in a great, frightening circle, back to Tim Fitzpeterson.
"It can't be that," he said aloud.
"What have you got?" Arthur's voice came from behind him. "Is it worth a fudge?" The fudge was what the public called the Stop Press.
Kevin passed him the story and vacated his chair. "I think," he said slowly, "that story will persuade the editor to change his mind."
Arthur sat down to read. Kevin watched him eagerly. He wanted the older man to react, to jump up and shout "Hold the front page!" or something; but Arthur stayed cool.
Eventually he dropped the sheet of paper on the desk. He looked coldly at Kevin. "So what?" he said.
"Isn't it obvious?" Kevin said excitedly.
"No. Tell me."
"Look. Laski and Cox blackmail Fitzpeterson into telling them who has won the Shield license. Cox, maybe with Laski's help, raids the currency van and gets a million pounds. Cox gives the money to Laski, who uses it to buy the company that got the oil license."
"So what would you like us all to do about it?"
"For Christ's sake! We could drop hints, or mount an investigation, or tell the police-at least tell the police! We're the only people who know it all-we can't let the bastards get away with it!"
"Don't you know anything?" Arthur said bitterly.
"What do you mean?"
Arthur's voice was as somber as the grave. "Hamilton Holdings is the parent company of the Evening Post." He paused, then looked Kevin in the eye. "Felix Laski is your new boss."
FOUR P.M.
32
They sat down in the small dining room, on either side of the little circular table, and he said: "I've sold the company."
She smiled, and said calmly: "Derek, I'm so glad." Then, against her will, tears came to her eyes, and her icy self-control weakened and crumbled for the first time since the birth of Andrew. She saw, through the tears, the shock in his expression as he realized how much it meant to her. She stood up and opened a cupboard, saying: "I think this calls for a drink."
"I got a million pounds for it," he said, knowing she was not interested.
"Is that good?"
"As it happens, yes. But more importantly, it's enough to keep us comfortably well off for as long as we're likely to live."
She made a gin-and-tonic for herself. "Would you like a drink?"
"Perrier, please. I've decided to go on the wagon for a bit."
She gave him his drink and sat opposite him again. "What made you decide?"
"No single thing. Talking to you, and talking to Nathaniel." He sipped his mineral water. "Talking to you, mainly. The things you said about our lifestyle."
"When does it become final?"
"It already has. I shan't go back to the office, ever." He looked away from her, out through the French windows across the lawn. "I resigned at twelve noon, and I haven't felt the ulcer since. Isn't that marvelous?"
"Yes." She followed his gaze, and saw the sun shining redly through the branches of her favorite tree, the Scots pine. "Have you made any plans?"
"I thought we could do that together." He smiled directly at her. "But I shall get up late; and eat three small meals a day, always at the same times; and watch television; and see whether I can remember how to paint."
She nodded. She felt awkward; they both did. Suddenly there was a new relationship between them, and they were feeling their way, unsure what to say or how to behave. For him, the situation was simple: he had made the sacrifice she asked, given her his soul; and now he wanted her to acknowledge it, to accept the gift with some gesture. But for her, that gesture would mean letting Felix go out of her life. I can't do it, she thought; and the words rang in her head like the echoing syllables of a curse.
He said: "What would you like us to do?"
It was as if he knew of her dilemma, and wanted to force her hand, to make her talk about the two of them as a unit. "I would like us to take a long time deciding," she said.
"Good idea." He got to his feet. "I'm going to change my clothes."
"I'll come up with you." She picked up her drink and followed him. He looked surprised, and in truth she too was a little shocked: it was thirty years since they had been in the habit of watching one another undress.
They went through the hall and climbed the main staircase together. He panted with the effort, and said: "In six months' time I shall be running up here." He was looking to the future with so much pleasure, she with so much dread. For him, life was beginning again. If only he had done this before she met Felix!
He held the bedroom door open for her, and her heart missed a beat. This had once been a rituaclass="underline" a sign between them, a lovers' code. It had started when they were young. She had noticed that he became almost embarrassingly courteous to her when he felt lustful, and she said as a joke: "You only open doors for me when you want to make love." Then, of course, they thought of sex every time he opened a door for her, and it became his way of letting her know he wanted it. One felt the need of such signals in those days: nowadays she felt quite happy about saying to Felix: "Let's do it on the floor."
Did Derek remember? Was he now telling her that this was the acknowledgment he wanted? It had been years; and he was so gross. Was it possible?
He went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. She sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair. In the mirror she watched him come out of the bathroom and begin to take off his clothes. He still did it the same way: first shoes, then trousers, then jacket. He had told her, once, that this was the way it had to be; for the trousers went on the hanger before the jacket, and the shoes had to come off before the trousers would. She had told him how peculiar a man looked in his shirt, tie, and socks. They had both laughed.