Conferences are Murder, Page 3

  “Brothers and sisters, I don’t need to remind you of the dangers we face at the hands of asset strippers and fast-buck merchants who pin their dreams of profit to the rise of new technology at the expense of the health and welfare of their workers,” she said, scarcely pausing for breath.

  “Tom Jack, the National Executive member for national newspapers, has recently had firsthand experience of negotiating with one of the new breed of newspaper proprietors, the profit pirates, the men who care more about the bottom line on their balance sheets than they do about their readers. We can all learn from the experiences of Nation Newspapers, and there’s no one better equipped to teach us than Tom.” Shanti stepped back and gestured towards Union Jack. “Over to you, Tom,” she said, sitting down behind the table.

  Tom Jack pushed himself upright and fixed the audience with his burning brown eyes. His thick brown hair was brushed back from his high forehead, and his full beard almost obscured the collar of his Tattersall-check shirt and the knot of his tweed tie. He looked slowly round the room, as if committing every face to memory, slotting them into his mental filing cabinet till he was ready to take them out, scrutinize them, temper them in the fire and lead them to glory like some irresistible nineteenth-century zealot. He thrust one hand into the pocket of his moleskin trousers, and started to speak. His voice was deep, intense and unmistakably Yorkshire.

  “Colleagues,” he intoned. “We’re facing the biggest threat to our journalistic livelihoods that I can remember. I know you’ve heard that before, and probably from me, but nevertheless, I’m not a man given to crying wolf. Shanti here has raised the spectre of new technology, and I’m here to tell you that the combination of Tory government policies, new technology and proprietors who understand nothing of the proud traditions of British newspapers could mean the end of our working world as we have known it. All the benefits we have struggled to bring our members could be lost like that”—he snapped his fingers like the crack of ice hitting gin—“unless we pick our ground carefully and fight to win.”

  The speech continued in predictable vein. The audience were exhorted to hold firm to their hard-won agreements on pay, conditions, and redundancy; to stand up to their new proprietors and show them who really ran the newspapers; and not to concede so much as a matchstick of dead wood to new technology. 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 rumor 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-percent 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-percent 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 gray 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 of smoke out of her cigarette and flicked the stub into the waves. Moments later, she jumped with shock as a warm wet tongue licked her ear. Lindsay straightened up, nearly toppling over in the process, and stared down at a golden retriever, tongue hanging out, shaggy coat dripping with salt water, tail wagging amiably.

  A breathless voice behind her called, “Becky! Come here.” Lindsay turned to see Laura bearing down on her. The dog didn’t move. “Oh, Lindsay, it’s you. I’m sorry, she thinks everybody was put on the planet to play with her.”

  “No problem. I was miles away, or I would have heard her.” Lindsay reached down and fondled the dog’s damp, silky ears. “She’s a beauty,” she added rather stiffly.

  “I couldn’t resist her,” Laura admitted. “She belonged to a friend of mine who was transferred to Brussels. Of course she couldn’t take Becky with her. She was about to advertise for a good home for her when . . . well, when my circumstances changed and made it possible for me to have her. But then, I suppose you know all about that,” she said in tones of resignation.

  “I just don’t understand how you could do that to him,” Lindsay said in a much cooler tone than the dog had been granted. She studied Laura, speculating how much time it took in the morning to shape that flowing crest of chestnut hair, and how much of the problem with the ozone layer could be laid at the door of her hair spray. Even walking the dog on Blackpool beach, Laura had managed to achieve an air of elegance that Lindsay would have been hard pressed to match at a formal dinner.

  Laura raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Beneath them, her eyes were wary. “So he’s been discussing our private business with all and sundry,” she said coldly.

  Lindsay felt the color rise in her cheeks. “You screw around with someone else behind his back and you expect him to keep his mouth shut for the sake of your reputation?”

  Laura took a startled step back. “He told you that?”

  “He had to talk to someone, Laura. And in spite of what you think, I’m not all and sundry. Ian’s my friend, and as far as I’m concerned, what you did to him is a shit’s trick. And on top of it all, to turn up with Becky in tow, when you of all people know how allergic he is to dogs. What a slap in the face! You couldn’t have made it clearer that you’ve no intention of trying to sort things out with him.”

  Laura ground the heel of a brown boot into the shingle. When she spoke, her voice was harsh. Not for the first time, Lindsay wondered at the capacity betrayers have for anger against the betrayed. “There wasn’t any going back from the moment he threw me out. He left me in no doubt about that. He wasn’t interested in my explanations, so why the hell should I kid myself?”

  Lindsay looked up at the beautiful face, clenched tight in an expression of bitterness. Then, suddenly, it was gone, and the Laura Craig cool mask was back in place.

  “Well, I hope he’s worth it,” Lindsay said harshly.

  She turned away, giving the dog a final pat and strode up the beach as fast as the shingle would allow. She didn’t grant Laura a single backward glance.

  By the time she returned to the Winter Gardens, Lindsay’s run-in with Union Jack was already history. At least half a dozen things had happened which had grabbed the attention of delegates desperate to be riveted by anything other than conference business. But although the rest of the world seemed oblivious to Lindsay’s highly charged encounter with the father of her chapel, it was still vivid in her mind. It didn’t need Ian’s solicitous enquiries as she sat down to remind her of the wound that Union Jack had so callously opened.

  “Are you okay? Bloody Union Jack. I can’t believe he could be so bloody insensitive,” he said, but not quietly enough to avoid arousing the interest of other members of the delegation. “Even though he didn’t know about Frances, he still had no right to drag her in like that.”

  Lindsay rubbed a hand over her face. Any good the fresh air had done her vanished like mist in sunshine. “He was just trying to discredit me, that’s all. Making sure that anyone who didn’t know I’m a dyke knows now. That and telling everyone that I’m somebody else’s puppet. Why should I expect him to have known about Frances?”

  By now, the entire table had given up any pretence of listening to the debate. Lindsay and Ian were the center of everyone’s attention, even Paul leaning forward to hear better.

  “Because he bloody should have. Because you’re a member of his chapel, and for three months your partner was fighting a losing battle against cancer. He should have made it his business to see you had any support you needed.”

  Lindsay sighed, and patted the fist Ian was banging on the table. “I got the support I needed from you and the rest of my friends. You know I didn’t want a big song and dance about it. Frankly, if Union Jack had been forced to swallow his prejudices and offer me sympathy, the sight of so much hypocrisy would have made me vomit.”

  “Maybe so, but you shouldn’t let it rest here. Union Jack treated you abominably, bringing up Frances like that, and I want to take it to the chapel committee. You deserve an apology,” Ian said defiantly. He had not noticed that Laura had come up behind him while he spoke.

  “And that’ll really make Lindsay feel better,” she said sarcastically. “For Christ’s sake, Ian, let the woman bury her dead in peace.”

  Ian whirled round in his seat, the chair legs screeching on the floor. He faced Laura, his face flushed scarlet. By now, the surrounding delegation tables were agog. Lindsay felt a slow anger burn in her. How dare Laura use her pain as a stick to beat Ian with?

  “What the hell has this got to do with you?” he demanded belligerently.

  “Exactly as much as it has to do with you. Christ, Ian, you’re just as bad as Union Jack. You’re as willing to use Lindsay’s grief for your own political ends as he is,” Laura snapped.

  “Stay out of this, Laura,” Lindsay butted in. “This is nothing to do with you.”

  “You don’t even know what we’re t
alking about,” Ian said in exasperation, getting to his feet.

  Laura made a deliberate point of stepping back and tilting her head upwards to look at his skinny frame towering above her. “You think not? Let me tell you, Ian, if there’s anyone in this hall who’s caused a lot of heartache by jumping to conclusions, it sure as hell isn’t me.” Her voice was low and dangerous.

  The pair of them held each other’s gaze. Ian’s ears were scarlet, Laura’s mouth set in a sneer. The stalemate might have continued indefinitely had it not been for the call for a vote. The muttering and rustling as delegates quickly checked which way they were voting and raised their hands shattered the moment. Ian turned away and picked up his voting card. Laura smiled ironically at the rest of their delegation and walked off towards the platform.

  “What a prize bitch!” Siobhan muttered in Lindsay’s ear. “He’s well shot of her.”

  “Almost makes you feel sorry for the new man in her life.”

  Lindsay didn’t want to think about how much whisky she’d drunk. She knew she’d only had three and a half hours sleep after the Scots/Irish ceilidh, but lack of sleep was only a tiny component of the pounding, gut-churning hangover that had invaded her body. She felt like the ball in a rugby match somewhere towards the end of the first half: it was bad already, but she knew it was going to get worse. At least it was the final morning of the conference. She could probably lay her head on her arms and sneak a couple of hours’ kip at the delegation table. Someone would happily hang on to her card and vote in her stead. The hangover would pass. Her guilt at not being in a fit state to carry out her duties as a delegate would probably hang around for longer.

  As she slowly crossed the hotel dining-room, she managed to grasp that she was far from the only one who looked like they used to be members of the human race. As she passed the buffet table laden with fruit juices and cereals, she gave a shudder and slunk into her seat at the table she shared with Ian, Siobhan and a sub-editor from the Evening Standard who hadn’t yet managed to make it to breakfast. “Coffee?” she croaked. Siobhan passed her the pot. Lindsay’s shaking hand knocked over the salt-cellar as she reached for the milk. Ian moved his pot of hot water out of Lindsay’s line of fire.