We arrived at The News offices still in silence, and as we got to the front door, both of us sort of stopped and took a deep breath before we went into the building. I glanced across at Peggy. There was a hint of a smile, a glimmer of recognition and fellow feeling, but not enough for me to ask.
I wasn’t sure about all this at all. If this was a reality TV programme then I should have had some rules, some instructions, some guidelines, some clue about what was going on. And if it was Narnia, then where was a helpful faun or a Mrs Beaver with buttered toast? Or an Aslan to make everything right?
I took a deep breath and went into the reporters’ room, bracing myself for seeing Will. I could cope. Of course I could cope. This was only a TV programme, for goodness’ sake. It wasn’t real life. As I hung my coat up, I took a quick look around, oh so casually, and when I came to his desk, I prepared myself, controlled my expression … but he wasn’t there. I let out a huge sigh. I didn’t know whether from relief or disappointment, but I’d been holding my breath so hard that my chest hurt.
Gordon was talking to the other reporters, Alan, Tony and Derek, allocating jobs.
‘Billy’s over in the district office today, chasing something up, so you can do his jobs,’ he was saying to Alan.
‘Anything for me?’ I asked, keeping a desk between me and Gordon. I was careful not to stand too near to him. Already he had a habit of getting even closer and ‘accidentally’ brushing against my bum or breasts. He didn’t smell too sweet either. Personal hygiene doesn’t seem to have been a big thing in the 1950s. I felt like hitting him, hard, but remembering I had to be all teeth and smiles, I had, so far, restrained myself.
He looked up at me as if wondering who the hell I was.
‘If she does all the shorts today, why doesn’t she do the Prettiest Village feature tomorrow?’ asked Marje quickly, lighting a cigarette. You only ever saw this woman through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve booked a photographer but I’ve got a lot on.’
Gordon looked at me again. ‘I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘If you’ve got other things to do, Marje. I suppose if she makes a mess of it, you can do it on Friday.’
The condescension of the man!
‘Right,’ I said, all brisk and businesslike. ‘What does this involve?’
‘You tell her, Marje,’ said Gordon and went back to his desk.
‘Well, now it’s spring,’ said Marje with a wry glance through the tiny grubby window to the rain outside, ‘it’s time to start our village feature. Simple idea, you know the sort of thing. Go along to one of the prettier villages, lots of lovely pictures and then maybe a few words with the oldest resident, squire, lady of the manor, vicar, that sort of thing. Anything newsworthy or interesting. Gets people buying The News and we might dig up a few stories for the rest of the paper while we’re at it. We’ll make a few contacts at least. You should be all right. The postman reckons it’s going to fair up tomorrow. I was going to start with Middle-ton Parva. You all right with that?’
‘Fine,’ I said. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but it was a lot more fun than Princess Margaret’s planned visit to the local regiment. There are worse assignments. ‘But how do I get there?’
‘You can team up with George and take the van. But Charlie’s out with it for most of today. So if you can just sort out some of those short pieces while you’re waiting. Or check in the files on Middleton Parva.’
‘No problem,’ I said, quite looking forward to a day out of the office. With that the door opened and an oldish woman came in carrying a long narrow wooden box full of brown envelopes. Everyone stood around her as she gave them out.
‘Rose Harford?’ she said, looking at me.
‘That’s me.’ And I went up to her, like a child going to Santa.
My present was a brown envelope full of money. I was getting paid for this, what a bonus. £8. 12s. 6d. to be precise. In my normal life that would buy a couple of coffees and a sandwich. Here it was meant to provide for a whole week. But judging by what I’d seen of prices, it would buy quite a lot. I put the money carefully away in my purse.
I’d just started my list of NIBs (News In Brief – mainly jumble sales, meetings and talks in the Literary and Philosophical societies), when one of the young messengers poked his head around the door.
‘Billy in?’ he asked.
‘No. He’s over in the district office. Why?’
‘Oh his missus is downstairs wanting him. Probably wanting his money more like. I’ll go and tell her she’ll have to get the shopping on tick.’
Will’s wife downstairs? An opportunity too good to miss.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I replied, before I realised what I was saying, getting up quickly and abandoning the Gilbert and Sullivan Society’s performance of Yeoman of the Guard in mid sentence, ‘I’ll pop down and tell her.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said the lad and walked off whistling.
My heart was banging as I clattered down the narrow crowded stairs. I stopped on the turn and hung on to the rickety banister to try and get my breathing under control. IN twothreefourfivesix OUT twothreefourfivesix. Will’s wife. Will’s wife. What would she be like? What sort of girl would make Will give up his freedom? What would she look like, sound like? IN twothreefourfivesix OUT twothreefourfivesix. It was no good. I hadn’t got time to breathe properly. I strode on down.
But, closer to the front office, I slowed down, my steps heavier. Did I really want to meet Will’s wife? Did I want to see who he’d chosen, who he had children – three children! – with? What would I say to her? How painful would it be? What sort of trick was this? How was I expected to play it? Too late, despite myself, I was pushing through the battered door. Whatever she was like, I had to know.
There were only two people in the scruffy reception area, with its old-fashioned heavy wooden counters and scuffed tiled floor – a woman and a small child. The woman was wearing a workaday brown coat. She had her back to me, leaning down to talk to the child, yet there was something very familiar about her. Something I recognised, something I knew almost as well as I knew myself. The hair was the wrong colour, the wrong style but … She turned around.
‘Caz!’
This time, I didn’t get the blank look I had had from Will. Instead there was a moment’s puzzlement and then Caz’s face lit up.‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Are you the American? I’ve heard about you. I’m Carol, Billy’s wife.’
Caz? Married to Will? Somewhere in the universe, someone was playing a very sick joke on me. And it couldn’t be Caz and Will, could it? The two people closest to me in the world wouldn’t do this to me, would they, not even as a joke, not even for a reality TV programme?
‘You? You’re really married to Will?’ As I asked it, I heard the catch in my voice. Were Will and Caz really in league against me?
‘Married to Billy. Yes ’fraid so. For eleven years and counting. Is he in?’
‘No, sorry. He’s had to go out to one of the other offices.’ How did I manage to answer so calmly and politely?
Eleven years? Eleven years? Will was still in school eleven years ago. Why was he married to Caz? Caz of all people. This had to be a wind-up. And if it was, it was a pretty sick one.
‘Oh well, never mind. It’s not important.’ She smiled and turned to leave.
‘Can I give him a message?’
I didn’t want her to go. I needed to keep her there,