29

Ewan’s headache was pounding, with a series of vibrating thuds to his skull, but he lifted his mobile phone. ‘Hello, Liza. What news of Jacob today?’

‘He slept for most of the night, but early this morning he was in so much pain I had to call out his doctor. She gave him a morphine shot, but it didn’t work very well. He’s not exactly asleep – sort of drifting – but I know he’s feeling rotten. He’s still really worried about you and rambling a great deal.’

‘I must visit. Will it be all right to come tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Of course. We won’t be going anywhere. Are you feeling a bit better in yourself today, Ewan?’

‘I can’t lie, Liza. I’m not.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I’ll see you both tomorrow.’

He pulled off his hair band and massaged his head, pressing all ten fingers into his skull. His grief was becoming an inner clawing of misery as Marina’s presence manifested with vivid scenes of memoir. The noise and fluster of her arrivals at his house. Swooping in with the panache of a leading lady, unpacking her cool bag and stuffing his fridge with food containers. ‘Wait till you taste the chicken pâté with brandy and nutmeg, darling. It’s fantastic. The moussaka’s made to a real Greek recipe and the lemon syllabub’s got far more cream than’s good for us, but who cares? Oh, and I’ve brought some cracking stilton from the best deli in Henley. Now, let me pour you a lovely cold glass of champers.’ Whilst she was removing the wired cork they’d chattered on like two schoolchildren, updating each other on the trivia of their lives, especially the naughty things their respective cats had got up to. Later, after they’d eaten in candlelight, the slow lowering of her hooded eyelids, pulling him to his feet, her fingers pinching his shoulders and a gentle biting of his neck. ‘Make love to me.’ No, Marina. Not yet. Your time will surely come, but not yet.

The pain in his head was making him feel seriously nauseous. It was tempting to throw down some paracetamol and dormouse down in front of the fire, but the discipline of exercise pulled him as a form of penance. Donning his cloak and boots he headed out into a raw April wind towards the marshes, but as he joined the estuary path he saw the distinctive figure of Sally Fuller, some twenty yards away. She was standing on the edge of the water, with her head held high, and although her back was towards him, it was obvious her arms were folded across her chest. A squall of wind whipped up her wild red hair, sending it to fly behind her like a bunch of russet seaweed; a parody of a mythical goddess, empowered with energy and domination, yet projecting the tenderness of an earth mother. He thought again of her long-fingered hands; hands that right now would be chilled by the cold and would lie like marble stones on his temple. He knew that Freya Godberg taught finger pressure to the cranium as one of the grief-healing arts, and he was tempted to go down to her and confess his need. But discipline overruled. The distance between them had to be maintained. He walked on by, swiftly and quietly without alerting her to his presence.

He was now at Waldringfield, a small waterfront village some two miles up the coast. Seated at a bench, in the garden of The May Bush public house, he overlooked a small harbour, where tethered yachts bobbed and a shrill wind rang their chandlery like discordant bells. A steady stream of Sunday patrons trooped past him, crowding inside to enjoy the fine food and cosy warmth, but feeling an intense need for solitude he was grateful to find that the chill of the outdoors attracted no one but himself. A pint of ale and a Ploughman’s lunch sat on the table before him, but he had no taste for either. He lit up, drew in deeply, and began the next stage of his journey.

October 1982

Dear Frances Flanagan,

I am twenty-two years old and soon to be ordained as a Roman Catholic Priest. I mention this to assure you that I’m wholly truthful and can be trusted to be of sane mind. I’m writing in the hope that you can help me to investigate the wartime activities of the Strathburn naval base, situated on the northwest coast of Scotland. I enclose a photocopy of a simplistic report, compiled by my adoptive mother in 1966. Sadly she is now suffering from a depressive illness and will have to be considered an unreliable witness. This report was sent at the time to Mr Archie Dungannon, the Liberal MP for Strathburn, and I also enclose a copy of the brief reply she received that was effectively dismissive.

My mother’s long-term neurosis began four years ago after the death of my father, and centres on the fact that she thinks herself to be solely responsible for the death of her natural son from leukaemia in 1964. Whilst I’m sure she understands very little of the world around her these days, she has always shown a desperation that I try to find out more about her wartime work, and if there could have been some form of radiation damage to herself and her friends.

Miss Flanagan, I’m quite unable to progress any further with my investigations without help. I cannot access government papers nor can I produce any proper scientific reports. I wondered if you might be interested enough to talk to me, with a view to starting an investigative campaign in your newspaper. It would, of course, be impossible to publicly reveal myself.

If you would like to meet with me I will be in St. Gregory’s Church, Clerkenwell, every Friday night at 7.00 p.m. for the next four weeks. I will be sitting beneath the painting of St Anthony of Padua.

Yours sincerely,

EM

A week later, as he sat hopefully under the doleful painting of the revered saint, a sharp, irreverent clicking of heels echoed around the high-buttressed roof of the church. He looked up to see a tall, attractive woman of around thirty approaching. She wore a short, tight skirt, high heels and a low-cut cheesecloth blouse that failed to contain most of her large breasts. Swathes of dark wavy hair fell around her shoulders and she was smoking a cigarette. She nipped the burning tip out with her fingers and dropped the stub in her handbag.

‘I’m Frances Flanagan,’ she said, with a strong Liverpool accent. ‘I think we have a date?’ Ewan silently shook her hand. She then looked around her, inhaled the cold, holy air and wrinkled her nose. ‘Mother Mary, this place brings back memories. My guilt complex is about to overwhelm me so stand back in case I prostrate myself.’

‘So you’re a Catholic? That’s a surprise.’

‘Merseyside’s full of us paddies, but I’m afraid I’m completely lapsed. No offence. Just the way things are.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you to have a northern accent either.’

‘What were you expecting, then? Working class radicals can’t pretend to be public school posh like you are?’

‘Is that what I am? I’ve never thought about it before.’

‘You certainly are. What’s your name anyway? I can’t call you EM, can I?’

‘It’s Ewan McEwan.’

‘OK, Ewan. You can call me Fanny. It’s what everyone else calls me. To my face, anyway.’

They found a quiet corner in a small pub nearby, and she handed him a ten-pound note. ‘Mine’s a double Bushmills and you can have what you like.’ When he returned with her whisky and his own fizzy lemonade, she offered him a cigarette. He didn’t smoke, but he took one, suddenly realising that she was treating him like a schoolboy and not wanting to be seen as one. ‘So. Why me?’ she demanded.

‘Your anti-nuclear articles are the most revolutionary in the British press. You’re active as well. You go on demos and you write about CND and the Greenham Peace camp. I lead a quiet life and I don’t know anyone like you.’

‘Well, Ewan, I’ll be honest straight away. I’m not sure I can offer any help. There’s been strong rumours circulating about Strathburn for years, but the hard facts are that even people like me can’t get their hands on any evidence. There will be evidence, of course. Masses of it, but it’s firmly chained up in the vaults of Whitehall. The only people who would know anything are naval chiefs, selected members of the cabinet, high-ranking coppers and our old friends MI5. Naturally, they’re all gagged.’

‘Have you any idea what went on there?’

‘Only hearsay. What do you know about nuclear development in the war?

‘That all allied research and production was headquartered in New Mexico in 1940. “The Manhattan Project,” a top-secret venture involving an enormous breakneck effort to smash Hitler.’

‘That’s right. It involved vast resources and the best scientific minds in the world. OK. They got a result. Horoshima and Nagasaki. End of war. But what if the British government had been secretly developing their own research project? It’s highly likely they were trying to develop a version of a bomb or rocket warheads that might beat the allied project and regain world supremacy for good old Britannia. Something nuclear was definitely going on. I got my hands on an off-record medical report last year that shows a large cluster of leukaemia and thyroid cancer around the Strathburn area. Much, much higher pro-rata than in any other area of the British Isles. It’s far too much of a coincidence.’

‘Then why isn’t this public knowledge? Why hasn’t there been an enquiry?’

‘Well, if you’ll excuse my flippancy, in this case points don’t make prizes. As far as your mother’s medical claims are concerned, no matter what statistics are produced, there’ll be a stone wall of denial. Currently scientific research proves that female eggs can be destroyed or damaged by direct exposure to nuclear radiation. There’s also proof that progeny conceived at the time of exposure can be born with handicaps, such as Down’s syndrome or limb deformities. As for defects turning up years after the exposure, there’s only admittance that leukaemia can be caused through affected male sperm. We know all this, chapter and verse, from the Hiroshima statistics. However, there’s no proof that an exposed mother can congenitally affect her children born years afterwards – in your mother’s case nearly fifteen years – even though lab research has proved it can happen with animal experiments. The most interesting thing with your story is that with the deaths and fertility problems of six young women, we have the basis for a study. That is, if we can find the other survivors after all this time.’

‘I’m sure we could trace them. Then you could write an article in your paper.’

‘Ewan, from a personal and journalistic point of view, an exposure of Strathburn would be the scoop of a lifetime. Mind-blowing news and the history books rewritten, but you don’t really understand the limits of my freedom at The Courier. I’m a just a glorified hack. I write what I’m directed to write; newsworthy, highly politicised stuff to do with Greenham, the White House, the Kremlin and the IRA.’

‘Surely there must be something you can do?’

‘The case would need to be built up with several layers of public concern, and the first proof would have to be the evidence and admittance that the place was used as a nuclear research station throughout the war. Have you approached Greenpeace or Friends of the Earth? What about CND and that religious organisation of yours, the Pax Christi?’

‘I’m too scared to get involved. My circumstances strictly forbid political activity.’

‘Sod your circumstances. How come Monsignor Kent is the Secretary of CND?’

‘Father Kent’s only able to do what he does because he has no chaplaincy or office. I can’t do anything to jeopardise my ordination.’

Fanny exhaled with irritation. ‘I came here tonight because I’m interested, but you’ve got to turn yourself into a radical. Look, there’s a huge gathering being planned at Greenham on December 12th. It’s called ‘Embrace the Base.’ The plan is to link hands around the whole perimeter of the army base, and all the heavyweights will be there. Father Bruce and CND. Pax Christi. All the banner wavers. Politicians. Students. Famous faces from the media. Come and join the women and get stuck in.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. Get involved or throw the whole story in the bin. Join the heartbeat of the country. What interaction with the rank and file of society do you get? Not much, I’ll bet.’

‘I have a wonderfully enriched life. I’m training to be a grief counsellor and my days with the bereaved are full of joy and rewards. You’re a Catholic, Fanny. You know all about the life I’ve chosen. Surely you’re not suggesting I have to sin to make life worthwhile?’

Fanny let out a loud groan. ‘You don’t have to commit the seven deadly sins or swing from a chandelier with a live frog in your mouth. Just mix with vibrant people and hear conversations. Join in with lively debate. Even laugh a little, for God’s sake! Do something that helps to make you grow. I can tell you’re sweet and kind and intelligent, but your brain’s saturated with cant. OK, I don’t really know you, but it’s obvious that all your emotions are going into your ordination. But what then? You’ll get a parish and an elderly housekeeper. You’ll spend night after night on your own in front of the telly with a packet of fags and a six-pack. You’ll end up like all priests end up. A sad, lonely old soak.’

Ewan sat still without comment. He didn’t want to hear her words of reproach about his dedication, or what she thought he should or shouldn’t do. In situations such as this, when berated by lapsed communicants, he’d been taught to find the inner strength of God’s love and forgiveness. He sat still and composed and looked around the room, as if searching for it. Having found it, he also found some honesty. ‘As a priest, I’m going to have to accept that sort of flack, but it hurts.’

‘Then take my advice. It’s 1982, for pity’s sake! Become a new type of priest. Come out of the Middle Ages. Help your fellow man to fight Regan and Gorbachev and all the other bastards. Fight the cold war and the arms race and the IRA. Pull down the Berlin Wall. Battle for a new order.’

‘But what can I do, Fanny? I can’t rant and rave on street corners.’

‘Of course you can’t, but it’s the age of peaceful protest. The Greenham women are united in a wholly passive movement. There are no knives or stone throwing or verbal abuse. The only tactic they use is tying themselves up together with wool. Wool, for God’s sake! It only seems like violence when four plods are needed to haul up the limp body of an eight-stone woman. Come down and join us? Of course, it’s a women’s enclave, but anyone else of support is welcome. If you make some effort, you can take up the Strathburn challenge and lead from the front.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

She rose and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Oh, well. Your choice. Get in touch if you change your mind.’ But as she began to walk out, he jumped to his feet.

‘OK. I will come down to Greenham and embrace the base.’

‘Good man. I’ll give you a lift in The Courier’s van.’