Part Fifty Eight
One of Jo's eyes opened a fraction and let the sunlight of the morning mix in with that sleepy satiated feeling that a night of lovemaking with John always left her feeling, in a tangle of quilts. It was a glorious Saturday after a fortnight of one of the most gruelling trials she had undertaken that called out for a lazy morning in bed. It was at times like these that she was tempted by the dreamy prospect of a lifetime with John before the more rational side of her took herself to task about this. On a morning like this, she told herself, she oughtn't to plan too far ahead but just savour the moment.
Presently, the squeaky mechanical sound of the spring on the brass letter box being forced back announced to her that either the morning post or the Guardian was being forced through the letter box to flop onto the mat.
"Is that the paper, Jo?" John's sleepy mumble emerged out of the duvet. "You'd better fetch it."
Smiling to herself, Jo popped a thin silk dressing gown on though not before John's one eye had the brief early morning delight of a naked Jo. Typical John, trying to compensate by being masterful after his nervous debut as a chef last night.
The soft white stair carpet greeted her bare feet and she picked up the bundle of papers, colour supplement and adverts and, sleepily, cast a casual gaze at it. The headlines,
"Imprisoned Firebombers Commit Suicide" screamed out at Jo's unbelieving eyes as she grasped at the main paper, letting the rest slide sideways on to the carpet. "Last night, Ms Pilkinton was found dead in her cell at Larkhall Prison after slashing her wrist with a razor blade and at Wormwood Scrubs, her lover Mr Ritchie Atkins was found dead from an overdose of sleeping tablets. Only yesterday, they were both sentenced for their joint involvement with setting off a firebomb at Larkhall Prison to cover her escape from the prison. Preliminary investigation has ruled out foul play…….."
"John," Jo called, "Come downstairs and look at the papers."
If it wasn't for the unnatural edge to Jo's voice, John would have played deaf and curled up in bed. This time, he slipped on his trousers and popped his shirt on , which was left unbuttoned, and stumbled sleepily downstairs. The way the colour had drained from Jo's face woke up his senses straightaway.
John grabbed the paper and his features were frozen in shock. He could not even begin to
explore what a turmoil of feelings that were churning round in him. A casual observer might have thought that in real, personal situations that came emotionally close to him, he was simply unfeeling but Jo sensed that this was his way of grappling with a situation that was too big for words.
" I remember Yvonne Atkins saying to me with a peculiar expression in her eye, 'There's things Ritchie needs to hear from me and I think this might be my last chance to put things right.' It's almost like she knew what was going to happen," Jo said at last in a choked voice.
John instantly put his arms round Jo and she buried her face in his shoulder. John was insightful and sensitive to realise when Jo simply wanted the decencies of human comfort. He wanted quite as much to be held by Jo, partly because of their common experiences in the case. Mysteriously, the strong August sunshine bathed the mourners in strong sunshine and warmth, unaffected by the news though the warmth and cosiness of Jo's house did its best to comfort them.
"I'd like to phone someone, anyone, I'm not sure what to say except that our thoughts go out to them," John mumbled into Jo's dishevelled hair. "We ought to do something."
"I don't know who I feel sorry for, not Ritchie Atkins saying that 'she ain't my mother' when she wanted to speak to her but he was under the thumb of Snowball Merriman. It's just something too horrible for words."
The fractured shards of John's everyday thinking latched on to the fact that their joint suicide was no coincidence, that while they were together day after day in the dock, they had the opportunity to plan this whole thing. Someone like Ms Pilkinton, so John named her to place her in the category of proven criminal, who planned the explosion so deviously would have the perverted sick scheming mind to plan their joint suicide. But why?
"I can't understand this one, Jo," John said haltingly, feeling his way for his thoughts and emotions, let alone words. "I couldn't imagine abandoning, say Charlie, in this way or would she do the same to me. Not someone I hold dear however suicidal I might feel."
Jo nodded into John's shoulder. The way John picked out Charlie, not her, was his way of reacting, of imagining himself in Yvonne's shoes as a parent. "I feel the same about tom and Mark," Jo said softly at which John nodded in understanding.
"You must phone George," Jo said with more of her usual confidence. "She'll feel the same as us, much though a part of me still hates to feel that I have anything in common with her except you." Jo finished where the trace of her old attitudes to George was overlain by the recent feelings of somehow being on the same side.
John raised his eyebrows at this strange suggestion but, at such an emotional moment, far be it from him to deny her suggestion.
Neil Houghton was the first to grab the paper at George's house. He was properly dressed in his suit in the house where everything was neat and in mechanical order. He liked everything that way and, of course, George had to fit in with his ways. He looked at the paper and tut tutted to himself as he read the story.
"Hey George.Those two people that you defended have just topped themselves. That means that the Atkins Pilkinton problem won't fade away as is right and proper but there will be more sensational headlines. Still, it could be worse. Dead people can't tell tales to the News of the World. The scandal would have died a natural death anyway," muttered Neil contemptuously. "Still, I suppose that it has saved the British taxpayer a million pounds or so."
"But won't it be more bad publicity?" George's mouth moved on automatic pilot not taking in what she was hearing.
"It's a Home Office Problem, not mine," Neil commented curtly as he resumed reading the financial section of the Daily Telegraph.
There's no honour among thieves, George thought in a blinding moment of fury, and far less in Cabinet Ministers. Something seemed to snap in George that cut herself off irrevocably from Neil as she turned to brush violently at her blond hair. Neil, of course, looked out of the corner of his eye to see George doing her usual routine to get herself ready for the day. Today was just like any other day with the chance that the disagreeable events of the past weeks will fade behind him. Every Cabinet minister goes through a rocky patch these days and survives. Even if it is a resignation matter, some ministers come back from the cold given time. By contrast, George had the presentiment that sooner or later she would resign as Neil Houghton's consort and, if she ever did, she would not come back.
"Is Lover Boy there?" John asked George on the phone.
George took the cordless phone into the kitchen while Neil was busying himself with his cabinet papers and was oblivious to anything.
"Not so that anyone would notice," George's aristocratic drawl dismissed him contemptuously. That told John exactly how matters stood between George and that drip she'd landed herself with.
"You've seen today's headlines?" John asked tentatively. "I know that it sounds feeble but I wanted to phone you and to say that however badly you may be feeling about this, Jo and I feel the same." John finished with a shaky laugh that was half a self reproach for the total inadequacy of the lines.
"Why John," George's upper class drawl, infused with the warmth of feelings she denied to herself and to others. "It's nice of you to phone. And, for once, thank Jo for getting you to."
"How the devil did you guess that, George?" John asked in a puzzled tone.
"I know you of old, John darling," George's teasing tones curled their way down the telephone wires to John. "Still it's nice of you to phone. It's nice to hear a human voice." George ended, speaking in a voice that John had never heard before. George lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
"All Neil can talk about is what this will now save the bloody tax payer," Said George scornfully.
"I wonder that you expected any different," Replied John. Neil appeared looking for more coffee.
"Do you have to do that?" He said, gesturing at George's cigarette.
"Might I remind you that this is my house," Replied George, her gaze swivelling to burn in to Neil's. "Look, I've got to go," She said to John, "The lord and master is for once demanding my input in to a conversation." As she switched off the phone Neil said,
"Who was that on the phone, George?"
"Only John," George's large eyes swivelled round in his direction, her smile wiped from her face in an instant.
"Why was he phoning, George? To gloat at us because he won?" Neil pursued, operating on his own agenda.
"No, Neil." George replied coldly."And talking of phoning, I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to visit Daddy. I get worried about him. He gets lonely sometimes."
"He calls round on Wednesdays. Isn't that enough of a family duty?" Neil replied curtly. His day was already mapped out and spending his time listening to superannuated old fogeys like him droning on did not strike him as a very productive use of his busy time. Sometimes, he felt that George did not really understand how demanding his job was despite his many efforts to explain patiently to her. A crisis could blow up at 2 in the morning whereas George's job was demanding in its way but once she had done her work, she could forget about everything.
"Just for once," urged George, hoping against hope that he would say no.
"I'm sorry, I can't make it," Neil said shortly."Another time, maybe," He added insincerely.
George concealed her broad smile and with a sad face promised to pass on his best wishes to Daddy. It gave her an excellent chance to get out of the house even if it was hers anyway.
On the other end of the phone, John smiled to himself, being better able to handle the topsy turvy world he was entering where George insisted that he thank Jo for getting him to phone. Before, the most George would have thanked her for was giving her a bad cold and that said with her most barbed sarcasm.
"Well, it looks like George and Lover Boy won't remain an item for much longer. I think it's a case of 'all gong and no dinner' in their relationship, if you could call it one, Jo." John replied smugly. And on a more serious note. "I feel sorry for her as she feels the same about this ghastly matter and hasn't anyone where she is to share her feelings with."
Jo's feelings of sympathy were mixed as she had reservations about a footloose and fancy free George on the loose as much as she had more of a kinship with her than she had ever had with her. She realised that this was why, deep down , she had always clashed with George in the past.
One of Jo's eyes opened a fraction and let the sunlight of the morning mix in with that sleepy satiated feeling that a night of lovemaking with John always left her feeling, in a tangle of quilts. It was a glorious Saturday after a fortnight of one of the most gruelling trials she had undertaken that called out for a lazy morning in bed. It was at times like these that she was tempted by the dreamy prospect of a lifetime with John before the more rational side of her took herself to task about this. On a morning like this, she told herself, she oughtn't to plan too far ahead but just savour the moment.
Presently, the squeaky mechanical sound of the spring on the brass letter box being forced back announced to her that either the morning post or the Guardian was being forced through the letter box to flop onto the mat.
"Is that the paper, Jo?" John's sleepy mumble emerged out of the duvet. "You'd better fetch it."
Smiling to herself, Jo popped a thin silk dressing gown on though not before John's one eye had the brief early morning delight of a naked Jo. Typical John, trying to compensate by being masterful after his nervous debut as a chef last night.
The soft white stair carpet greeted her bare feet and she picked up the bundle of papers, colour supplement and adverts and, sleepily, cast a casual gaze at it. The headlines,
"Imprisoned Firebombers Commit Suicide" screamed out at Jo's unbelieving eyes as she grasped at the main paper, letting the rest slide sideways on to the carpet. "Last night, Ms Pilkinton was found dead in her cell at Larkhall Prison after slashing her wrist with a razor blade and at Wormwood Scrubs, her lover Mr Ritchie Atkins was found dead from an overdose of sleeping tablets. Only yesterday, they were both sentenced for their joint involvement with setting off a firebomb at Larkhall Prison to cover her escape from the prison. Preliminary investigation has ruled out foul play…….."
"John," Jo called, "Come downstairs and look at the papers."
If it wasn't for the unnatural edge to Jo's voice, John would have played deaf and curled up in bed. This time, he slipped on his trousers and popped his shirt on , which was left unbuttoned, and stumbled sleepily downstairs. The way the colour had drained from Jo's face woke up his senses straightaway.
John grabbed the paper and his features were frozen in shock. He could not even begin to
explore what a turmoil of feelings that were churning round in him. A casual observer might have thought that in real, personal situations that came emotionally close to him, he was simply unfeeling but Jo sensed that this was his way of grappling with a situation that was too big for words.
" I remember Yvonne Atkins saying to me with a peculiar expression in her eye, 'There's things Ritchie needs to hear from me and I think this might be my last chance to put things right.' It's almost like she knew what was going to happen," Jo said at last in a choked voice.
John instantly put his arms round Jo and she buried her face in his shoulder. John was insightful and sensitive to realise when Jo simply wanted the decencies of human comfort. He wanted quite as much to be held by Jo, partly because of their common experiences in the case. Mysteriously, the strong August sunshine bathed the mourners in strong sunshine and warmth, unaffected by the news though the warmth and cosiness of Jo's house did its best to comfort them.
"I'd like to phone someone, anyone, I'm not sure what to say except that our thoughts go out to them," John mumbled into Jo's dishevelled hair. "We ought to do something."
"I don't know who I feel sorry for, not Ritchie Atkins saying that 'she ain't my mother' when she wanted to speak to her but he was under the thumb of Snowball Merriman. It's just something too horrible for words."
The fractured shards of John's everyday thinking latched on to the fact that their joint suicide was no coincidence, that while they were together day after day in the dock, they had the opportunity to plan this whole thing. Someone like Ms Pilkinton, so John named her to place her in the category of proven criminal, who planned the explosion so deviously would have the perverted sick scheming mind to plan their joint suicide. But why?
"I can't understand this one, Jo," John said haltingly, feeling his way for his thoughts and emotions, let alone words. "I couldn't imagine abandoning, say Charlie, in this way or would she do the same to me. Not someone I hold dear however suicidal I might feel."
Jo nodded into John's shoulder. The way John picked out Charlie, not her, was his way of reacting, of imagining himself in Yvonne's shoes as a parent. "I feel the same about tom and Mark," Jo said softly at which John nodded in understanding.
"You must phone George," Jo said with more of her usual confidence. "She'll feel the same as us, much though a part of me still hates to feel that I have anything in common with her except you." Jo finished where the trace of her old attitudes to George was overlain by the recent feelings of somehow being on the same side.
John raised his eyebrows at this strange suggestion but, at such an emotional moment, far be it from him to deny her suggestion.
Neil Houghton was the first to grab the paper at George's house. He was properly dressed in his suit in the house where everything was neat and in mechanical order. He liked everything that way and, of course, George had to fit in with his ways. He looked at the paper and tut tutted to himself as he read the story.
"Hey George.Those two people that you defended have just topped themselves. That means that the Atkins Pilkinton problem won't fade away as is right and proper but there will be more sensational headlines. Still, it could be worse. Dead people can't tell tales to the News of the World. The scandal would have died a natural death anyway," muttered Neil contemptuously. "Still, I suppose that it has saved the British taxpayer a million pounds or so."
"But won't it be more bad publicity?" George's mouth moved on automatic pilot not taking in what she was hearing.
"It's a Home Office Problem, not mine," Neil commented curtly as he resumed reading the financial section of the Daily Telegraph.
There's no honour among thieves, George thought in a blinding moment of fury, and far less in Cabinet Ministers. Something seemed to snap in George that cut herself off irrevocably from Neil as she turned to brush violently at her blond hair. Neil, of course, looked out of the corner of his eye to see George doing her usual routine to get herself ready for the day. Today was just like any other day with the chance that the disagreeable events of the past weeks will fade behind him. Every Cabinet minister goes through a rocky patch these days and survives. Even if it is a resignation matter, some ministers come back from the cold given time. By contrast, George had the presentiment that sooner or later she would resign as Neil Houghton's consort and, if she ever did, she would not come back.
"Is Lover Boy there?" John asked George on the phone.
George took the cordless phone into the kitchen while Neil was busying himself with his cabinet papers and was oblivious to anything.
"Not so that anyone would notice," George's aristocratic drawl dismissed him contemptuously. That told John exactly how matters stood between George and that drip she'd landed herself with.
"You've seen today's headlines?" John asked tentatively. "I know that it sounds feeble but I wanted to phone you and to say that however badly you may be feeling about this, Jo and I feel the same." John finished with a shaky laugh that was half a self reproach for the total inadequacy of the lines.
"Why John," George's upper class drawl, infused with the warmth of feelings she denied to herself and to others. "It's nice of you to phone. And, for once, thank Jo for getting you to."
"How the devil did you guess that, George?" John asked in a puzzled tone.
"I know you of old, John darling," George's teasing tones curled their way down the telephone wires to John. "Still it's nice of you to phone. It's nice to hear a human voice." George ended, speaking in a voice that John had never heard before. George lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
"All Neil can talk about is what this will now save the bloody tax payer," Said George scornfully.
"I wonder that you expected any different," Replied John. Neil appeared looking for more coffee.
"Do you have to do that?" He said, gesturing at George's cigarette.
"Might I remind you that this is my house," Replied George, her gaze swivelling to burn in to Neil's. "Look, I've got to go," She said to John, "The lord and master is for once demanding my input in to a conversation." As she switched off the phone Neil said,
"Who was that on the phone, George?"
"Only John," George's large eyes swivelled round in his direction, her smile wiped from her face in an instant.
"Why was he phoning, George? To gloat at us because he won?" Neil pursued, operating on his own agenda.
"No, Neil." George replied coldly."And talking of phoning, I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to visit Daddy. I get worried about him. He gets lonely sometimes."
"He calls round on Wednesdays. Isn't that enough of a family duty?" Neil replied curtly. His day was already mapped out and spending his time listening to superannuated old fogeys like him droning on did not strike him as a very productive use of his busy time. Sometimes, he felt that George did not really understand how demanding his job was despite his many efforts to explain patiently to her. A crisis could blow up at 2 in the morning whereas George's job was demanding in its way but once she had done her work, she could forget about everything.
"Just for once," urged George, hoping against hope that he would say no.
"I'm sorry, I can't make it," Neil said shortly."Another time, maybe," He added insincerely.
George concealed her broad smile and with a sad face promised to pass on his best wishes to Daddy. It gave her an excellent chance to get out of the house even if it was hers anyway.
On the other end of the phone, John smiled to himself, being better able to handle the topsy turvy world he was entering where George insisted that he thank Jo for getting him to phone. Before, the most George would have thanked her for was giving her a bad cold and that said with her most barbed sarcasm.
"Well, it looks like George and Lover Boy won't remain an item for much longer. I think it's a case of 'all gong and no dinner' in their relationship, if you could call it one, Jo." John replied smugly. And on a more serious note. "I feel sorry for her as she feels the same about this ghastly matter and hasn't anyone where she is to share her feelings with."
Jo's feelings of sympathy were mixed as she had reservations about a footloose and fancy free George on the loose as much as she had more of a kinship with her than she had ever had with her. She realised that this was why, deep down , she had always clashed with George in the past.