Why the hell had she been so offended? Had going to Mass on that particular Sunday morning brought about the resurgence of her past religious ideals? Why should it? She took Ben to Mass at Christmas, and there were never any sudden religious metamorphoses then. So why now? It had to be because of the kids; maybe she just didn’t want to see them exploited. And maybe she was right.
But it was his job to report news, right? And Jesus Christ, that was news. Even the Nationals wanted it. There was no question: the story would be his ticket to Fleet Street.
With relief he finally stopped outside one of the street’s rising (or descending – it depended on which way you were going) terraced houses, a two-storey, excluding basement, Regency house, walls painted flaky white, window frames and door flaky black.
Fenn inserted the key, his hand shaking slightly from pent-up frustration rather than the few pints he had consumed in the pub next door to The French Connection. He closed the door behind him and trudged up the staircase to his first-floor flat, hoping that Sue would be waiting for him, more than sure that she wouldn’t.
The ringing phone hurried his steps.
8
‘Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you,
will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you,
won’t you join the dance?’
Lewis Carroll,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
The size of the Crown Hotel was in keeping with the village itself: small, intimate, the kind favoured by weekend lovers. The plaque on the Reception wall told Fenn it was once a sixteenth-century coaching inn which had been extensively refurbished in 1953 when additional bedrooms were added. The oak-beamed dining room comfortably seated fifty people and the hotel’s sixteen bedrooms were all well appointed, some with private bathrooms and all with television and radio. The sign also informed Fenn that the management knew he would enjoy the good food and friendly service and had great pleasure in welcoming him to the Crown Hotel. Thank you, he acknowledged silently, but I don’t think I’ll be here that long.
He noticed the bar to his left was open and decided that 10.35 was a little too early for a beer. The smell of morning coffee wafted through and the occasional elderly couple wandered in from the street and disappeared into the bar, the aroma a subliminal siren’s song for geriatrics.
‘Mr Fenn?’
Fenn turned to see a grey-haired but youngish-faced man smiling at him from a doorway further down the hall.
‘Mr Southworth?’
‘I am indeed.’ The grey-haired man stepped into full view, one arm raised towards the open doorway as an invitation for the reporter to join him within. Fenn gave an appreciative nod towards the pretty receptionist who had summoned the hotel manager for him, considering a wink a little too frisky in full view of her employer.
‘Very good of you to come, Mr Fenn.’ Southworth offered a firm hand to the reporter which he shook briefly before entering the room. Another man rose from his seat and stuck out his hand towards Fenn’s midriff. He shook the chubby hand and resisted wiping the transferred dampness against his trouser leg.
The hotel manager quietly closed the door, walked around a large, leather-topped desk, and sat. He wore a black suit with a light grey waistcoat and grey silk tie; on closer inspection his face did not look so young, although the skin was smooth save for giveaway line-clusters around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Fenn and the second man sat on two straight-backed chairs facing the desk.
‘This is Mr Tucker,’ Southworth said.
Mr Tucker nodded and for one uncomfortable moment Fenn thought he would have to shake the sweaty hand again; but the paunchy man merely nodded in his direction, his smile having little affiliation with the gimlet eyes shrewdly sizing up Fenn.
Southworth continued the introduction: ‘Mr Tucker has been a resident of Banfield for . . . what, Rodney . . . ten years now?’
‘Eleven,’ Tucker corrected.
‘Yes, eleven years. A very highly regarded member of the community, if I may say so.’
Tucker preened and Fenn secretly winced at the ingratiating smile on the blubbery lips. He noted the heavy gold chain on the thick wrist, the rings, one a sovereign, on the fleshy fingers, and wondered how many extra pounds they added to the already overweight load.
‘Very nice of you to say so, George.’ There were the barest traces of a northern accent in Tucker’s voice. He turned to the reporter. ‘I own the local supermarket.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Fenn replied.
Tucker eyed him for a moment, not quite sure how to take the appreciation. He decided the reporter was sincere. ‘I read your marvellous story in the Courier last night, Mr Fenn. First-rate bit of journalism.’
‘Obviously that’s why you wanted to see me this morning.’
‘Yes, quite.’ Southworth said. ‘As you can imagine, the news was all around town by Sunday evening, but it was your report which has given the news a greater prominence in the region. For that, we are grateful.’
‘That may be premature.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You may find a lot of unwelcome visitors to the town in the next few weeks now that the Nationals have got hold of the story too.’
Fenn noticed the look that passed between the two men. Tucker’s eyes gleamed briefly, but Southworth’s remained impassive.
‘Weeks, Mr Fenn,’ the hotel manager said, ‘but unfortunately, not months.’
‘Unfortunately?’
Southworth leaned back in his chair and picked up a fountain pen lying on the desk top; he coolly appraised the reporter while he toyed with the pen. ‘Let me be perfectly frank with you, Mr Fenn. I had heard of what took place up at St Joseph’s, of course, but had not given the story much credence, or even, I’m afraid, too much attention. I had, naturally enough, assumed that the story was wildly exaggerated or just – to put it bluntly – misinformed. But when Mr Tucker rang me yesterday evening and I took the opportunity to read your account of the occurrence, I must admit to giving the matter further thought. In the subsequent meeting with Mr Tucker, I became convinced that this event might well develop into major proportions.’
‘Give it a couple of weeks, as I said, and it’ll blow over. The public are pretty fickle when it comes to news; they like it fresh.’
‘That’s precisely the point.’
Fenn raised his eyebrows.
Southworth leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, the pen still held between the fingers of both hands like a delicately poised bridge across a ravine. His words were slow, measured, as though it were important that their meaning be received in the correct spirit. ‘The world, I need hardly tell you, is in grave recession. Economic problems are not just confined to individual countries any more; the concern is global. But it’s individual people who are suffering, Mr Fenn, not continents, nor countries. The common man has to bear the brunt of world management failure.’
Fenn shifted in his seat. ‘Er, I don’t see the connection . . .’
‘Of course not, Mr Fenn. I do apologize. Let me be more direct. We are a small town – a village, really – in a small country, and it’s we, the small villages and towns, that suffer under unfortunate government economic policies. Nobody subsidizes our local industries or businesses because, individually, their loss is insignificant when compared to the big combines or Nationalized Industries. Our local businesses are dying, Mr Fenn. Banfield itself is slowly dying.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘No, I may be over-emphasizing to make my point. It isn’t that bad, but, given a few years, it will be. Unless the decay is stopped.’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with what happened on Sunday.’ But Fenn had begun to; the idea was just starting to glimmer through.
Tucker moved his bulky frame around in his seat and drew in a deep breath as though about to speak. Southworth hastily cut in, as though fearing his colleague’s e
xpression of their thoughts.
‘You may have seen enough of Banfield by now to have formed some opinion of the place, Mr Fenn.’
‘I can’t say that I have. I’ve driven through it once or twice before, but until a week or so ago when I almost ran down the Pagett girl, I hadn’t really given it a second thought.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s a nice enough place. Quite pretty . . .’
‘But unexciting.’
‘Yeah, you could say that. There are plenty of other towns and villages in the south that are prettier, more traditional.’
‘And more attractive to the tourist trade?’
Fenn nodded.
‘That’s exactly it. We, as a community, really don’t have too much to offer. In summertime this hotel is quite a busy place, but my guests use it only as a base for travelling around the Sussex countryside or visiting Brighton and the other south-coast resorts. The benefit to Banfield is minimal. Yet I personally would be willing to invest more money in the village if I thought it would yield a reasonable return. I know Mr Tucker feels the same way, but is also reluctant to throw away good money.’
‘It’s not just us, Mr Fenn,’ Tucker spoke up at last. ‘There are plenty of other businessmen around here looking for a good investment.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you. What kind of investment are you talking about?’
‘For myself,’ said Southworth, ‘I would very much like to open a new hotel. A modern one, with more amenities than the Crown can offer. Perhaps even a motel on the outskirts; that would be most suitable for the amount of passing trade we receive.’
‘And I’d like to open more shops,’ said Tucker enthusiastically, ‘maybe a couple of restaurants – you know, the cheaper kind where parents on a day-trip can afford to take their kids.’
‘And there is plenty of local land waiting to be developed,’ said Southworth. ‘The village could grow, spread outwards, become a real town.’
And make you and your friends some money in the process, Fenn thought ruefully. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I see what you’re getting at. I’m still not sure what all this has to do with me, though. When my news editor rang me last night he said you, Mr Southworth, wanted to see me personally, that you had more information on the Banfield “miracle” – your words, I believe, not his. As you wouldn’t pass anything on to him, he decided it might be important for me to turn up this morning. Was he right?’
Again, a look passed between the two men; this time it was cautious.
‘We found your account of what happened at St Joseph’s a first-rate piece of journalism, Mr Fenn. Accurate in detail, and imaginative in the questions it posed.’
Tucker made agreeing noises.
Oh yeah, Fenn thought. ‘What questions?’
‘Well, comparisons really. It was that which caused Mr Tucker to contact me in my role as chairman of the parish council. You compared Banfield to Lourdes. In fact, you posed the question: Could Banfield be another Lourdes?’ He placed the pen on the desk top and smiled sweetly at the reporter.
‘I admit I got a little carried away.’
‘Not at all, Mr Fenn. On the contrary, we feel it was a very perceptive remark.’
The metaphorical light bulb above Fenn’s head flashed brightly. He could see where it was all leading, but wondered what part he was to play. ‘There’s been more than one so-called miracle at Lourdes, Mr Southworth. In all seriousness, I hardly think Banfield qualifies, do you?’
‘Oh I think it does. Look at Walsingham and Aylesford, both towns in England. They have become shrines to many thousands of pilgrims each year. As for Aylesford, nobody is quite sure whether or not a visitation from the Blessed Virgin ever took place there at all; many believed it happened in France. Also, there have never been any spectacular miracles in either of these towns, yet the mystique is there, the people flock to them in the true belief that they are holy places. At least we have evidence that something quite extraordinary happened at St Joseph’s, something that enabled a little girl to hear and speak after years of silence.’
‘Extraordinary, yes, but not necessarily a miracle,’ Fenn broke in.
‘Do you know one of the best definitions of a miracle: “A divinely ordained exception.” I think that’s rather appropriate in this case.’
‘“Divinely ordained”? Don’t you need some evidence of that?’
‘The Church does, of course. But the girl claimed she saw the Immaculate Conception; why should she lie?’
‘And why should you believe her?’ Fenn came back quickly.
‘I think it’s irrelevant whether we do or do not. Perhaps as a Catholic myself, I’m more ready to believe than Mr Tucker here is, but as I say, that’s beside the point. The fact is, many thousands – who knows, perhaps millions if the story is circulated wide enough – will believe. And they’ll want to visit St Joseph’s.’
‘Giving a dying village a new life.’
‘Is that so wrong?’
Fenn paused before he answered. ‘No, it may not be wrong. But you’ll forgive me if I say it sounds a little cynical on your part.’
Tucker could contain himself no longer. ‘This is the real world we’re living in, Mr Fenn. Opportunities come along, you have to grab at them.’
Southworth looked embarrassed. ‘Come now, Rodney, it isn’t quite so black and white as that. I deeply believe, Mr Fenn, that something – I hesitate to use the word, but I feel it’s necessary – something divine has taken place at the church. Something ordained by God. And if that is so, there has to be a reason. Perhaps the real miracle is that Banfield has been given the chance of a rebirth, an opportunity to save itself from oblivion. And a chance for the people themselves to regain their beliefs. It was Shaw who wrote, “A miracle is an event which creates faith”; why shouldn’t faith be created or renewed here?’
Fenn was confused. Southworth appeared to be sincere, yet openly admitted he would benefit financially if Banfield became revitalized. The fat man, Tucker, made no bones about his motives: he was in it for the money. But what, exactly, did they want of him?
‘I appreciate your frankness, Mr Southworth, but I’m still not sure why you’re telling me all this.’
‘Because we would like you to write more on what will become known as the Banfield Miracle.’ Southworth’s eyes fixed on Fenn’s and his expression was serious, almost grave. ‘Your story has already created enormous interest. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to visit St Joseph’s this morning . . . ?’
Fenn shook his head.
‘I went to see Father Hagan myself earlier,’ Southworth continued. ‘He wasn’t there, but his house was under siege from a small army of your journalist colleagues.’
‘From the Nationals?’
‘I believe so. I spoke to them but, unfortunately, I’m very much in the dark about this incredible event. There wasn’t too much I could tell them.’
I’ll bet you managed somehow, Fenn mused to himself. ‘Well, you can be sure the “Banfield Miracle” will get good coverage now. Maybe too much.’ He was a trifle aggrieved that the big boys were muscling in on what he regarded as his scoop, but knew – and had known – it was inevitable.
‘I’m sure it will – for a day or so. As you say, the public is fickle when it comes to news, and so is the Press itself.’
Tucker broke in once more: ‘This is too wonderful a story to be allowed to die in a couple of days, Mr Fenn.’
The reporter shrugged. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it. Unless, of course, something else happens . . .’
Unless something happens, unless something happens! What was wrong with this idiot? Tucker’s left heel did an impatient jiggle on the red patterned carpet. He had tried to persuade Southworth to deal with the biggies, not mess around with the local rag. The Nationals could give maximum publicity now, when it was hot; Southworth was too worried about declining interest afterwards, when nothing more happened up at the church. He’d insisted that a
steadily built and maintained awareness would give more sustenance to a long-term plan, whereas massive, sensationalist coverage would only benefit in the short term. By patronizing the Courier they would, hopefully, ensure that sustained interest. The newspaper was, after all, a reflection of local affairs: it had a duty towards its audience (and to itself in terms of circulation figures) to consistently report (and, of course provide) any such newsworthy stories that would generate interest (and trade) in the area. But was this man Fenn taking the bait or was he too pea-brained to see the possibilities?
‘There’s the problem,’ Southworth was saying. ‘There is no guarantee that anything else will happen at St Joseph’s. Which is why we felt the Courier will give the incident and its consequence more coverage than any of the other media. We can promise you, personally, Mr Fenn, every cooperation, any assistance, you might need.’
Fenn was silent.
‘We do realize,’ said Tucker, ‘that your paper probably isn’t over-generous with your expenses, so we would expect to help you out . . .’
His words trailed off at the icy glares he received from both the reporter and the hotel owner.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Fenn,’ Southworth said quickly. ‘What Rodney is trying rather clumsily to say is that we would not want you to be out of pocket on this matter. Indeed, as a member of the parish council, I shall propose the setting up of a special fund to cover any expenses on the development of this, um, project. It could cover initial promotional material, personal expenses incurred by council members, and any extra miscellaneous costs.’
‘And I’d come under any “extra miscellaneous” costs?’ asked Fenn.
Southworth smiled. ‘Precisely.’
To Fenn, it didn’t smell any sweeter than the way the fat man had put it. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
‘Look, Mr Southworth, Mr Tucker, I work for the Courier, it pays my salary, and my news editor tells me what stories to cover. If he wants me to write obits for a month, that’s what I’ll do. If he wants me to cover garden fêtes for the next month, I’ll do that, too. If he wants me to spend time delving into the strange happenings at the local church of a little country village, I’ll be only too happy.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I’m saying is, my editor calls the tune. He pipes, I dance. I’m independent to a degree – and that’s a small degree – but there’s no way he’ll let me waste time on a story he considers to be defunct. Now, like I said, if something more happens, then I’ll be back like a shot.’