My Magazine Ch. 08

"Look, it's getting late," said Clifford. "Why don't you girls stay the night, we have a leisurely breakfast and then we shall look at the photographs."

"The photographs - now please Clifford," Alice said firmly.

He went off to his study.

"I'm staying, I'm doing so well at university with my studies and there's this boy Ewan whom I've got my eye on."

"I'm sorry mummy but I cannot go abroad, I want my son to be born in this house. I must stay."

"Oh darling - a son," said Alice, hugging her older daughter. "When did you find out? Oh how wonderful."

"Clifford! Come here quickly."

"Graham and I only found out this morning - we couldn't bear to wait any longer so I had a scan.

"Mummy, daddy can't go away either. He needs to stay to fight for his political survival."

"Oh damn politics Marissa. It's politics keeping him in London all those nights alone when I chose to live here that lead him into this trouble. He's not compulsively an immoral person - quite the reverse actually. In times of loneliness he's just allowed himself to wander into someone else's arms."

"But he did that twice to our knowledge mummy which is not a good example of fidelity."

"Quite right, as usually you are with that perception of yours Marissa, but all of us have some degree of weakness, don't we?"

Clifford came in with a small packet of photos.

"Tell him your news Hayley."

Clifford became excited but concealed it.

"A boy - that what you were hoping to get, wasn't it?"

"Yes daddy. But now can we see the photos?"

At that moment, watching the faces of the three women, Clifford realised that the crisis at home was over. There would be time while he was put through the rehabilitation process, but they were already a family again.

While the women oohed and aahed over the photographs he went and reconnected the phones.

Enemies and politics go hand in hand. He knew that his enemies would now be ready to fight for his political annihilation.

"Bring them on," he muttered.

"Bring who on?" asked his wife, straightening her hair as she entered the room.

She was ignored.

* * *

On Monday Jenni didn't go into work - she'd gone to ground to escape the calls - telephoned and personal visits - of the news media, both local, national and international.

Rhonda was taking the telephoned calls in the office of Sue Boyd who was faxing out legal agreements giving applicants limited publishing rights to the secret life of Lord Barcote story.

Shortly before 10:00 Ron Wiggins phoned Jenni at her hotel hideout to advise the company had just received the first two calls from resellers for more supplies of My Magazine. By noon the number had reached more than two hundred and climbing.

Elated, Jenni emerged and walked down the street to a taxi rank and gave the driver an exclusive address.

"Hey, aren't you that dame who was on telly last night exposing that randy Lord something of ours"? chuckled the driver, peering into his rear vision mirror.

"I was that dame."

"Right, I'd sure as hell hate to have you on my tail after some of the things I have done," he said.

"What's your name, driver?" asked Jenni. "I'll check you out and report my findings to your cab company and to your wife."

"Look, lady. I was only joking. Can we chat about something else?" asked the driver anxiously.

After paying off the driver who wished her good luck, Jenni went to the gates where a security man said gruffly, "I'm sorry, but no visitors are to be admitted."

"Why don't you let them know I'm here; they will be anxious to meet me."

He looked about to tell her to shove off when Jenni pulled a fifty quid note from her handbag and waved it.

"This is your and my secret big boy," she said, giving him her name.

The man went into the sentry box and made the call. The gates creaked open and Jenni marched in to the apologies of the guard for failing to recognise her.

A young woman with flying brown hair and a big smile came running towards her.

"Hello - may I call you Jenni? Everyone else does."

Jenni nodded.

"I'm Marissa, the outspoken younger daughter. You've no need to come to apologize - things are working out very well. Mummy and my sister agree it is best that this matter has been exposed when the boys are young, and not understanding the fuss being made, rather than when they were at high school or university or married with their own families."

"I'm not here to apologize Marissa - my, what a pretty name. I'm here to talk to your mother."

"She's still upset."

"Who wouldn't be?"

"How can you be so disarming to people?"

"Partly it's natural and partly it's cultivated Carissa. How are your legal studies going?"

"You even know about me?"

"A little and my contacts say you're a nice kid although a bit trigger happy."

"Mummy's going to like you Jenni. She likes people to be upfront and you also do it with style."

"I know, Marissa - I'm sure I know a lot more about your mother than she knows about me."

"Be gentle with her Jenni. Mummy is a very proud lady, and now had had her pride badly dented."

"I will Marissa but please put me in her favourite place to talk. I want her relaxed."

"But that's the sitting room off their bedroom."

"That will do fine, Marissa. The best of luck with your studies by the way."

Alice was playing on the back lawn with the dog.

"Mummy the lady Jenni from that magazine is here to talk to you. Somehow she's outwitted security."

"Oh Jenni Giles. I really don't think I'm ready to talk to any journalist at this stage."

"Do you think there ever will be the right time mummy? This woman has got balls and ..."

"Marissa!"

"Oops sorry Mummy. She's also lovely, I've been chatting to her. Do the one interview mummy, to let the public know what you think, then get daddy's media adviser to put out a statement to the media on your behalf that you will be not be granting any more interviews than the one you have given to Jenni Giles."

"But that will enrage them."

"Of course but that's not your worry mummy."

"All right what you say makes good sense. Where should I talk to her?"

"Why not in your bed sitting room; you love that room."

"What a good idea. Would you please take her up there?"

"She's already up there and Mrs Smith is making afternoon tea and will bring it to you."

Alice looked at the face of her daughter - so innocent, yet so complex. She sighed.

"Don't let that natural born talent of yours turn your into becoming devious darling."

"But I'm my father's daughter mummy. I can't help what I am, but at least you have Hayley if you want a mirror image. She is ninety percent you and you know it."

"Indeed I do but she is much cleverer than I was - she's producing a son."

Alice ran her hand softly down Marissa's cheek and headed for the stairs.

Her younger daughter's mind was in a whirl? Did that comment mean that her father had yearned for a son and that yearning had become a compulsion to have one or even two? God, she hoped that if she every married her husband would not be the type who'd keep dark, brooding thoughts from her.

Jenni's preference was for modern minimalism in architecture and décor. However, waiting in the sitting room with its floral wallpaper, grey carpet bordered with tiny rosebuds and sitting in a deep old-fashion lounge chair, she felt as comfortable and relaxed as she'd ever been. The wooden bi-fold windows were open, a gentle breeze swaying the lace curtains and only a background hum of city traffic and other high-density noises of citizenry indicated that this house was not located at peace in the countryside.

She yawned.

Goodness gracious, thought Jenni. Imagine falling asleep and missing the chance of generating an inspired interview! A diversion was necessary. She found it, beside her armchair. Lady Barcote's glasses rested on a book which she picked up, carefully placing the glasses on the linen crocheted doily on the tiny table.

The author was an Australian, Alvin Potter, living in voluntary exile. According to the dustjacket, he possesses a 'wicked sense of humour' and relates how he's survived a London winter living alone in an unheated basement that originally had been His Lordship's wine cellar.

Scarcely a promising subject for a novel of some 300 pages, she thought, but turned to the first page.

I clenched my knuckles in near terror as the lumbering jet that I knew was far too heavy to get airborne, defied logic to do just that. My departure had been unsupervised by family because on that day everyone in the community of my tiny hometown of Road's End were required to be at the sportsground to support the Senior A team in the annual grudge match against Upper Valley Senior A.

A deputation of town folk waited on my parents, pleading with them to change my departure date. Regrettably for them, my parents had waited almost twenty years for this moment to reprieve themselves of my upsettling influence on their household of themselves and my siblings.

Therefore I, the best winger in the history of Road's End rugby, was pushed on to the Melbourne-bound bus by my parents, amid booing by assembled townspeople, virtually ending any chance of the team winning that year. I would never be welcomed to return home, and the townspeople and rugby team wouldn't want me back either.

My destination was Hawkesberry Street, inner London. There a cellar once the depository for the imported wines of great vintages for Lord Hawkesberry, awaited me. I was so excited and wondered if any of those wines had survived the past 110 years to caress my taste-buds, or would they be 50 years beyond their peak?

"Wine sir?" inquired the effeminate cabin attendant, eyeing me with concern. He whispered: "You can now unclench your hands and untie that sick bag from around your neck sir. We are now near cruising altitude and the airport lies fifty-four minutes behind us."

Well, thought Jenni as she put the book down as the maid arrived with afternoon tea. That is not going to be a taxing read for Lady Barcote.

She yawned.

More Coming