Rivals

24

Taggie slept fitfully, worried about her father, disturbed by a restless Gertrude, who imagined every creak and rattle of creeper blown against the turret windows was Declan returning. Waking at five, Taggie glanced out across the valley, as she always seemed to be doing these days, and saw that Rupert’s lights were on. She tried not to envy her father spending a whole day with him; he’d had such a ghastly time at work lately, he deserved a break. Going downstairs to check if the car was back she froze with horror to see it once more parked across a flowerbed with all the lights on. Rushing outside, she found it empty and stealthily started to search the house. Declan was not in the bedroom — her mother sprawled diagonally across the bed as though denying him access — nor in the spare room. He wasn’t in Patrick’s room, or the kitchen, or either of the drawing-rooms or the dining-room.

She was beginning to panic that he’d gone for a walk in the wood and fallen down the ravine when she heard an excited squeak from the library. Gertrude had found him, still dressed, passed out cold over his desk. In his hand he still held the pen with which he had been writing his Yeats biography. He had knocked over a glass of whisky which had spilt over the open page of the notebook, blurring the drunken scrawl.

Taggie wrapped a couple of blankets round him, and put a cushion under his head, but he didn’t stir.

He woke six hours later with a debilitating hangover and an even worse sense of foreboding. Staggering groaning into the kitchen, he found Maud reading Anthony Powell upside-down and looking bootfaced. Without being asked, Taggie tore four Alka-Seltzers from their blue and silver metal wrapping and dropped them into a glass. Declan took a gulp, retched and fled from the room.

‘Well,’ said Maud, when he came back, even more white and shaking, ‘what kept you?’

‘I don’t remember,’ growled Declan.

The telephone rang and he clutched his head, groaning. It was the Scorpion, the most seamy of the tabloids. Could they speak to Declan?

‘He’s not here,’ said Taggie quickly.

‘I gather he’s resigned from Corinium. D’you know where I can get hold of him?’

Taggie went pale. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite. The press office confirmed it.’

‘No. He’s definitely not here.’ Taggie slammed down the telephone.

Declan glared at her with bloodshot eyes, sensing trouble. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

Taggie looked nervously at her mother.

‘Come on,’ said Declan.

‘G-given in your notice.’

‘Kerist! Did I really?’

‘You bloody idiot,’ hissed Maud. ‘Ring up Tony at once and apologize. Say you were drunk.’

At that moment Ursula arrived, looking pale from her flu, but very overexcited by events. Joyce Madden had rung her in tears in the middle of the night and told her what had happened.

‘I was just telling Declan to ring Tony and say he’s sorry,’ said Maud. ‘They’re bound to take him back. He’s such a big star.’ The contempt was undeniable.

‘I’m not sure they will,’ sighed Ursula.

‘Sit down,’ said Taggie, pulling out a chair. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Declan’s got a contract,’ said Maud, ‘and he was far too plastered to put anything in writing last night.’

Ursula turned to Declan who was sitting with his head in his hands.

‘Don’t you remember anything?’

‘I remember a lot of girls in bathing dresses, who were rather ugly, and Rupert dressed up as a horse, and I think I remember having a row with Tony,’ he muttered.

‘You did,’ said Ursula. ‘You gave him an earful. Then you tore up your contract and scattered it all over him and resigned.’

‘Oh Jesus!’ Declan opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Did I really?’

‘And Tony taped the entire conversation, and Joyce Madden transcribed it at once, and no doubt copies are winging their way to the IBA and the ITCA and God knows who else at this moment.’

‘You stupid idiot,’ whispered Maud.

Fear is the parent of cruelty. Having found Declan impossible to live with for the past few months, she had considerable sympathy with Tony. Declan’s career, albeit meteoric, had always been peppered with rows. She was totally unable to appreciate the pressures he’d been under. She proceeded to be blisteringly unsympathetic.

‘Well, I’m not going back,’ said Declan at the end of her tirade.

‘You have no choice. The BBC wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. You’ll have to crawl for once.’

‘Oh Mummy,’ protested Taggie, putting heavily sweetened, very strong cups of tea in front of Declan and Ursula.

Declan warmed his shaking hands round the mug which had a picture of a girl whose bikini disappeared when the mug was filled with boiling liquid. Like my career, thought Declan.

‘It’s all your fault,’ went on Maud, ‘taking days off to go hunting, going on the bat with Rupert before a programme. You’re like a couple of schoolboys.’

All the animosity she harboured after Rupert had rejected her and embraced Declan seemed to pour forth like scalding lava.

‘I rang up Personnel and resigned too,’ said Ursula importantly. ‘I’m not working for a police state any more.’

Oh Christ, thought Declan, that means I’ll have to pay her salary myself until she gets another job. But he put a hand on her arm.

‘Thanks, darling. That was very loyal of you.’

Everyone jumped as the telephone rang. Maud picked it up. It was the Star. Maud could never resist journalists.

‘We’re a bit hazy this end,’ she said. ‘Declan hasn’t told us anything. What happened?’

The reporter, enchanted by Maud’s soft, caressing tones, told her.

‘I see,’ said Maud grimly. ‘Where’s Rupert?’

‘Well, he arrived in London ten minutes late to chair a seminar on “Alcoholism in the ex-Athlete”. Looked like a prime target, but he refused to comment.’

‘Thanks,’ said Maud. ‘We’ll ring you back when he comes in. How could you?’ She rounded on Declan. ‘Slagging off Tony when you were miked up. I thought you were supposed to be a professional.’

Declan hardly heard her. ‘We’ll have to sell the house,’ he said bleakly.

The telephone rang again. Declan got up and seized the receiver. ‘Will you fucking go away?’ he screamed.

‘Charming,’ said a shrill voice. ‘This is Caitlin, your daughter, if you hadn’t forgotten, and why hasn’t someone come to pick me up?’

‘Oh God,’ said Taggie in anguish, catching the gist. ‘I thought she broke up this afternoon.’

‘Well, you’d better go and get her,’ snapped Maud, who had forgotten to pass on the message.

‘I’m going out,’ said Declan.

‘Whatever for?’ screamed Maud.

‘To do some thinking.’

‘Well, you’d better come up with something pretty quickly. I have no intention of selling this house.’

With four Anadin Extra, four Alka-Seltzers, a cup of strong tea and the remains of last night’s whisky churning uneasily inside him, Declan set out. A mild and sunny day with a gentle breeze had followed yesterday’s torrential rain, freak snow storms and razor-sharp winds. Everything sparkled. For the first time in months the birds ignored Declan’s bird-table and were busy singing and courting in the trees.

Down the Frogsmore, in one day, Spring seemed to have arrived. Primroses nestled on the bank. Coltsfoot exploded sulphur yellow beneath his feet, celandines arched back their shiny yellow petals in the sunshine; even the most uncompromising spiked red blackberry cable was putting out tiny pale-green leaves.

In the fields above, he could see Rupert’s horses pounding round in their New Zealand rugs, tails held high, like children let out of school. In the woods, he found the first anemones and blue and white violets. Far above him the woodpecker was rattling away at a tree trunk. He could almost hear the buds bursting open.

Why the hell had he blown it all in his fucking intellectual arrogance? All he’d had to do was to endure working at Corinium until the end of April, then in the break look around for another job. Now that he’d left in a blaze of drunken publicity with plummeting ratings, no one would want him.

He crushed a wild garlic leaf between his fingers. The smell reminded him of lunches in Soho and endlessly plotting with his cronies to make a better world at the BBC. He’d loved London, but he didn’t want to go back. It was so hot that, on the way home, he took off his coat and sat down on the bank of the stream for a long time, watching the water as it glittered and squirmed with pleasure beneath the sunshine. Gertrude splashed about, and, picking up a stick, bounced up to Declan hoping he’d pull the other end; then, when he wouldn’t, dropped it and licked his face.

An old man, walking his ancient Jack Russell back from Penscombe, stopped for a chat. His grandfather used to be the gamekeeper at The Priory, he said, a hundred years ago, when the land stretched for three hundred acres across the north side of the Penscombe — Chalford Road. He’d kept the place like a new pin. It was sad to see the state it had fallen into, the rotting trees and collapsing walls everywhere. Declan felt ashamed.

‘You can tell Spring’s come at last,’ said the old man, ‘because all the blackbirds are singing.’

But not for me any more, thought Declan in despair.

Then the old man peered closer. ‘Didn’t you used to be Declan O’Hara?’ he said.

By late afternoon Taggie was shattered. Ursula, having parried the press all day, had gone home. After another terrible row with Maud, Declan had barricaded himself into the library, refusing to talk to anyone. Caitlin sat on the kitchen table with her arm round Gertrude, both watching Taggie stuffing a chicken with a mixture of apricots, sausage meat, breadcrumbs and garlic. Used to the central heating and constant chatter of Upland House, Caitlin was shivering like a whippet and gabbling away nonstop.

‘There are going to be no more balls against boys’ schools,’ she announced. ‘Last Friday we danced against Rugborough and one lot of boys took some fifth formers up on the garage roof and they were all smoking and drinking and telling the teachers to fuck off, and Miss Lovett-Standing — think of being saddled with a name like that — the gym mistress, found three condoms in the rhododendrons next morning.

‘I came top in the exam on The Mayor of Casterbridge,’ went on Caitlin. Then, seeing Taggie struggling to understand a recipe for potatoes Lyonnaise, her lips moving slowly as she read, she added kindly, ‘but a sixth former who did the same paper last year told me all the answers beforehand. And two girls in the upper sixth are having abortions this holidays.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Taggie absent-mindedly.

‘Taggie, you’re not listening.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so worried about Daddy.’

‘He’ll be OK. Someone will snap him up.’

‘I don’t know. He’s lost all his confidence. I’ve never known him so down.’

‘That’s hangover,’ said Caitlin.

Her ability to spread mess everywhere was even greater than Maud’s. Her open trunk lay in the hall and lacrosse sticks, tapes, posters, rolled-up art work, wet towels, coloured files, a teddy bear and a squashy bag, overflowing with underwear, were scattered in a trail all the way to the kitchen. She was wearing a very expensive pink T-shirt, pinched from Maud at half-term, over which all her friends had written messages in biro, a puffball skirt, laddered tights and black clumpy stompers, and was now eating muesli out of a cup with a teaspoon.

‘Christ, this house is cold.’

The telephone rang again for the hundredth time. The line was awful.

‘Can I speak to Declan?’ said a male voice.

‘He can’t talk to anyone,’ said Taggie hysterically.

‘Is that Taggie?’

‘Yes,’

‘It’s Rupert. How’s your father?’

‘Not great.’ Taggie felt herself going very red, and turned her back on Caitlin. ‘He walked out, you know.’

‘It was partly my fault. He was in an exocet mood. I should have stopped him storming in to see Tony, but he’s better out of it; it was killing him. Are you all right, sweetheart?’

The sudden gentleness in his voice made her want to burst into tears.

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled.

‘Well, tell him I’ll be over later.’

Upstairs, Declan turned on the five forty-five news and found Tony Baddingham, with a red carnation in his buttonhole, giving a press conference.

‘The truth of the matter,’ he was saying, ‘is that Declan O’Hara tendered his resignation last night, and we accepted it.’

Stupid word ‘tendered’, thought Declan. There was nothing tender about it at all.

‘Naturally, we’re very sad to lose Declan,’ said Tony, looking absolutely delighted, ‘but, quite frankly, there have been a series of disagreements and there’s a general feeling at Corinium that when people get too big for their boots, we’d prefer them to go off and wear out other people’s carpets.’

Declan switched off and looked down at the floorboards. He hadn’t got any carpets to wear out, and probably now he never would have. The telephone rang again. It was one of the Corinium shop stewards.

‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ he chided Declan, ‘you should’ve hung in and let him fire you.’

‘I know,’ said Declan almost apologetically. ‘I felt I had to retain some shred of integrity.’

‘Wish you’d come to us. Look, the lads want to come out. You’ve only got to ask. We’ll black out the ‘ole network for you, Declan, and get you reinstated.’

Declan was so moved he couldn’t say anything for a minute. Then he said gruffly that there wouldn’t be any point.

‘I can’t work for Tony any more, but thanks very much all the same, and say goodbye and thanks to all the boys for me.’

It was dark outside now, but a robin was singing on the bare honeysuckle outside his window. It had turned up at exactly six-thirty for the last week now, as if to cheer him on.

‘Art thou the bird whom man loves best,’ he murmured to himself, ‘The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English robin?’

Tears filled his eyes. Oh God, what was he going to do?

Taggie knocked on the door and, getting no answer, walked in. She found him looking so haggard and despairing that she ran across the room, stumbling over the piles of papers and books all over the floor, and put her arms round him.

‘Please don’t be so sad. It doesn’t matter if we go back to London. We were all happy there. You’ve just got to get your confidence back. Rupert rang, by the way. He’s coming round.’

Going upstairs to her bedroom, she was horrified by how awful she looked. She’d been so busy she hadn’t had a moment to wash or even clean her teeth all day. She knew she had no chance with Rupert, that it was appallingly presumptuous, but for once she wanted to look her best when she saw him. Caitlin’s welcome-home supper could wait, she decided. She was going to have a bath and wash her hair.

Caitlin wolf-whistled when Taggie came into the kitchen an hour later. She was wearing a red-and-black-striped polo-necked jersey which Patrick had given her for Christmas, tucked into black jeans which were in turn tucked into black boots. As her hair was still damp she’d tied it back with a black ribbon. She wore no make-up except smudged black eyeliner, which made her silver-grey eyes look huge and almost luminous. A hot bath and the hairdryer had given her pale cheeks quite enough colour.

‘Because you so seldom bother,’ said Caitlin critically, ‘one forgets how beautiful you are: much more so than anyone else I know.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ muttered Taggie in embarrassment, putting the chicken into the top-right oven of the Aga.

‘How soon will it be ready?’

‘About nine.’

‘Good, I can watch “Dynasty”. Who are you going out with?’

‘No one.’ Taggie busied herself with draining the parsnips. ‘You like parsnip purée, don’t you?’

‘Adore it. You haven’t answered my question.’

‘No one.’

‘Then why are you done up like Gertrude’s dinner?’

‘I just felt awful,’ muttered Taggie apologetically, as she threw the parsnips into the blender. ‘I didn’t have time to wash all day.’

‘Hum,’ said Caitlin beadily, as she watched Taggie add curry powder, then butter, then cream to the parsnips.

‘As I just got up into yesterday’s clothes, I felt I must change,’ went on Taggie, even more embarrassed.

‘Fee, fi, fo fumble,’ said Caitlin, ‘I smell the blood of Rupert Campbell.’

‘Oh shut up,’ said Taggie, turning on the blender.

Caitlin waited until she had turned it off.

‘I am Campbell-Black but comely,’ said Caitlin giggling. ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the turtle-necked sweater is worn in our land.’

‘Oh shut up,’ screamed Taggie. Picking up Gertrude’s rubber ring, she hurled it at Caitlin, missed and nearly hit Rupert, who, finding the door open, had let himself in, followed by Freddie Jones. Taggie stood rooted to the spot with horror. Gertrude went into a frenzy of outraged barking that someone had entered the house without her knowing.

‘Hello, Gertrude,’ said Rupert. ‘How extraordinarily good you look today. Nice dog, Gertrude, well done, hurrah, what a beautiful curly tail you’ve got.’ Bending down, he stroked the bemused Gertrude over and over again.

Taggie giggled.

‘That’s better,’ said Rupert. He looked a bit pale after yesterday’s excesses, but seemed in excellent spirits.

‘Hullo,’ he said to Caitlin. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’ Caitlin beamed. ‘I was just quoting the Bible to my sister to keep her on the straight and narrow.’

‘Caitlin,’ pleaded Taggie in despair, frantically concentrating on spooning the purée out of the blender to hide her blushes.

Rupert went over to Taggie and, putting a hand on the back of her neck, drew her towards him. With most women, he would have dropped a kiss on the tops of their heads, but Taggie was so tall, he was able to rest his lips for a second against her temple.

‘There, angel, you mustn’t worry about your papa. Frederico, the whizz kid, and I will sort him out.’

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ stammered Taggie. ‘What would you like? Daddy’s in the library.’

‘I’d like a Bacardi and Coke, love,’ said Freddie, ‘and if Rupe ’ere can keep it down, he’d like a whisky and soda.’

‘If there isn’t any Malibu, I’ll have a Vod and Ton, Tag,’ added Caitlin.

Fleeing into the larder, Taggie paused before she got down the bottles. Unbelievingly she touched her left temple where Rupert had kissed it, then, moving her fingers to her lips, kissed them in ecstasy. What was happening to her? She wondered if Caitlin’s welcome-home chicken would stretch to six.

‘’Ullo, Declan,’ said Freddie, as they went into the library and found him slumped at his desk. ‘I’ve just seen that fucker Tony on the news. You’re well shot of the smarmy bastard.’

Sitting down on the window seat, Rupert waited until Taggie had brought in the drinks. Then he shut the door behind her and said, ‘Look, Frederico and I have been talking about you for some time. To put it bluntly, both being hard-nosed businessmen, we hate to see a hot property like you being wasted.’

‘We’ve decided to form our own independent production company,’ said Freddie, ‘an’ employ you to make programmes for the network, Channel 4 and the overseas market.’

It took a lot of tough talking to persuade Declan they weren’t just being kind. He looked at his untouched glass for a second; then a real gleam of excitement came into his eyes. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we pitch for the Corinium franchise, and boot out Tony.’

Freddie and Rupert looked at each other. ‘Aren’t we too late?’

‘Not at all,’ said Declan. ‘If we step on it. The applications don’t have to be in until the beginning of May.’

‘We know all the right people,’ said Rupert. ‘So there won’t be any problems getting our Board together.’

‘And we won’t have any trouble getting the backing,’ said Freddie, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘An’ I can provide you wiv all the technical know-how.’

‘And I know the Corinium Programmes backwards,’ said Declan, ‘so we can submit better programme plans standing on our heads.’

Taggie popped her head round the door: ‘Anyone want more drinks?’

Too excited to be deflected, Declan shook his head. So did Freddie, who’d hardly touched his glass. Only Rupert handed out his. ‘Please, angel,’ he said with a grin, ‘and could I have soda this time?’

‘Oh goodness, did I give you Coke? I’m really sorry, and poor Mr Jones must have had Bacardi and soda.’

‘I don’t think he’s noticed,’ said Rupert.

As Freddie and Declan got more and more excited over their plans, Rupert thought about Taggie, how she’d trembled when he kissed her, and how adorable she’d looked with her long legs in those black boots, and her hair tied back like a boy soldier. But he mustn’t think about her, he told himself grimly. She was Declan’s kid daughter, totally out of bounds. Wrenching his mind back, he heard Declan saying: ‘In fact Tony’s only trump card with the IBA is Cameron Cook, and the staff are in a state of uproar about her as it is.’

‘How would it be if I seduced her on to our side?’ said Rupert idly.

‘We don’t want her!’ Declan exploded. ‘She’s a treacherous evil bitch.’

‘Not once I’ve sorted her out,’ said Rupert. ‘I was always good with difficult horses. I guarantee to have her eating out of my hand in a few weeks.’