Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

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СКАЧАТЬ The rounds of spontaneous applause that greeted Union Jack’s cries to arms astonished Lindsay. It was a long way away from the stony silence that he’d had to face when he returned to office meetings with news of yet more concessions that Carnegie Wilson’s henchmen had wrung out of him. It was easy to see there weren’t many Daily Nation staff members at the meeting.

      With an unobtrusive glance at his watch, Tom Jack wound up. ‘At the end of the day, we’re the ones with the ink in our veins. We know how newspapers work. Carnegie Wilson made his millions out of butchering sheep, and he’s found out the hard way that we’re no lambs to the slaughter. Carnegie Wilson and his like have to bow the knee to us, because without us, newspapers can’t exist. We have to remember, colleagues. They’ll never invent a machine that can knock on doors or comfort a grieving widow. They’ll never invent a machine that can persuade governments to change the law. Whatever the Carnegie Wilsons of this world would like to think their fancy computers can do, we have to remind them again and again, day in and day out, that without us, they have nothing to show for their millions of pounds of investments.’

      It was a rousing finish, and some people even stood as they applauded Union Jack. Lindsay looked around and noticed with interest that Ian Ross and a handful of other Daily Nation journalists had not joined in the frenzy of applause. Tom held his hands up in the air, accepting the plaudits. As the applause continued, she remembered a rumour Ian had mentioned in the car. The JU’s long-serving National Newspaper Officer had suffered his second major heart attack the day before conference began. The word was he would be offered early retirement and the obvious man to step into his shoes was Tom Jack. He’d filled every significant post open to part-time lay officials. There was nowhere left for his ambition to go unless he moved into a full-time paid official’s job that could lead one day to the top job of them all – general secretary. Lindsay wondered if she’d just heard the first speech in an election campaign.

      Tom sat down next to Shanti, who patted him on the shoulder as the applause finally died away. ‘I know some of you may have questions for Tom,’ she said. ‘We have ten minutes left …’

      A couple of the audience had clearly been primed with questions that managed to make Tom look even more statesmanlike than his speech already had. Disgruntled, Lindsay pushed herself away from the wall and stuck her hand up. Shanti nodded to her, after a quick glance at Tom, whose eyebrows lifted in acquiescence. Clearly he expected no trouble from one of his own flock.

      ‘What advice can Tom offer to other chapel officials to help them avoid losing the ground we at Nation Newspapers have already lost? I refer specifically to the fifty per cent reduction in maternity leave, the cut in holidays from eight weeks to seven, the ending of time off in lieu for overnight stays away from base, and the freezing of expense allowances at 1982 levels.’ She could see Tom’s eyes narrow and his thick eyebrows descend, but she carried on. ‘As far as I’m concerned, that is a lot more than the thin end of the wedge.’

      Tom was on his feet, all traces of his momentary anger gone. His voice was conciliatory, aimed at the expressions of uncertainty that had appeared on the faces of some of his audience. ‘Colleagues, Lindsay’s making a point here that none of you can afford to ignore. And that point is that even with a strong chapel and experienced negotiators, you have to give a little ground. But against that, we have to weigh the fact that I personally sat across the table from Carnegie Wilson and persuaded him to drop his plans for ten per cent redundancies across the board at Nation Newspapers. We also now have a deal that no element of new technology will be introduced without a fully negotiated agreement between management and workforce.’ He was blustering now, desperately trying to make it look as if he hadn’t rolled over like the lap-dog Lindsay suspected he was. She could imagine only too well the ‘good old boys’ atmosphere of the negotiations, and the amount of alcohol that had flowed to ensure good working relationships.

      As he carried on trying to win his audience back, Lindsay pushed herself away from the wall and walked out in disgust. Her departure made her point more forcefully than her words, but she was past caring about the effect. She wandered back towards the main concourse, desperately wishing Frances was only a phone call away.

      She had reached the door of the conference hall when she was stopped by a member of the JU Women’s Caucus, canvassing support for some motion or other. Absently, Lindsay listened to the familiar litany, nodding non-committally when some response seemed to be called for. She was shocked back to full attention by a heavy hand clamped on her shoulder and Tom Jack’s voice in her ear. ‘Just whose side are you on, Lindsay Gordon?’ he asked menacingly.

      Lindsay looked over her shoulder. Tom was flanked by a handful of his sidekicks. Ian was hovering on the edges of the bunch, trying to work his way round to her. She spoke softly, so her words wouldn’t carry farther than their small group. ‘Keeping the truth from people doesn’t solve anything, Tom,’ she said wearily. ‘It tends to filter through in the end. Then what people will remember is that you bull-shitted them over your deal with Wilson.’ She would have said more, but Ian put a warning hand on her arm.

      ‘You’re too bloody smart by half. You should remember whose side you’re on. Leave playing devil’s advocate to that fancy lawyer you’re shacked up with. You’ve been spending too much time listening to Miss Frances Collier.’

      Lindsay felt suddenly light-headed. Tom Jack’s mouth carried on moving, but she could hear nothing. It was as if a glass bubble had enclosed her, cutting her off from the world around her. Without a word, she pulled away from his restraining grip and pushed through the group of men behind him.

      As she began to run down the hall, the wall of silence shattered and she heard Ian Ross shout at Tom Jack, ‘You stupid, insensitive bastard. You’re about as out of touch as you’re out of order. Don’t you know anything about your chapel members? Frances Collier died six weeks ago. How could you not know that?’

       3

      ‘An inevitable consequence of the volume of work demanded of conference delegates is that they will suffer from a lack of sleep as conference week progresses. In order to avoid feeling like dead dogs, we recommend you bring a substantial supply of Vitamins C and B Complex as well as the painkiller of your choice.’

      from ‘Advice for New Delegates’, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

      The shingle crunched beneath Lindsay’s feet as she charged headlong down the beach. At the water’s edge she stopped, her chest heaving for breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She stared out at the grey Irish Sea, glad of its bleakness. Recovering herself, she squatted down to make herself a smaller target for the sharp northerly wind. She pulled a crushed packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, straightened one out, cupped a hand round her lighter and inhaled deeply. In spite of the cancer that had taken three months from its diagnosis to kill Frances, Lindsay still couldn’t bring herself to quit. Most days she felt only the nicotine and the caffeine were holding her together.

      Three hellish months, trying to come to terms with the one adversary that wouldn’t accept anything other than total surrender. Three months watching death inch closer and closer to the woman she loved. Three months trying to accept the unacceptable. Then that last week, when Frances was beyond words, beyond the defiance that had insisted on Lindsay’s rights in the face of her intransigent family. They had done what neither life nor cancer could; they had separated Lindsay and Frances. When the news finally came, it had been from one of the workers at the hospice. At the funeral, Lindsay had stood apart, flanked by a couple of close friends, the ultimate spectre at the feast. That had been five weeks ago, and nothing was getting any easier.

      She dragged the last lungful СКАЧАТЬ