Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

I thought of phoning the television station and demanding to speak to Seymour. But I knew it would do no good. Even if I succeeded in contacting him, he’d only deny the charge. Editing of taped interviews was commonplace. Whether it amounted to deliberate distortion depended entirely on your point of view. Besides, I had no record of our conversation to set against his. I had no proof he’d set out to misrepresent what I’d said. Not a shred.

Which left me to consider the fall-out from my contribution to his rotten programme. One thing was certain. If I let Sarah or Rowena or Sir Keith simply come across my interview without warning, they’d be justified in thinking the worst of me. I had to prepare them. I had to explain what I’d been duped into doing. And I had to explain it very quickly.

I phoned Sarah, reckoning she’d at least try to understand. But there was no answer. I left a message, emphasizing its urgency. Two anxious hours passed, during which I replayed the video several times. Then, just as I was about to call Sarah again, she rang back.

“I need to see you, Sarah. Tomorrow. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What?”

“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone. Can we meet?”

“Well… I suppose so. But tomorrow’s difficult.”

“It can’t be delayed. Honestly.”

“It may have to be. I’m tied up all-”

“Rowena’s involved,” I interrupted, calculating that her name would persuade Sarah where any amount of pleas in my own right might fail.

“What’s this about, Robin?”

“Meet me tomorrow, Sarah. Please.”

“It really is urgent?”

“Yes. I’ll come to Bristol. Wherever suits you.”

“All right. College Green, twelve thirty sharp. Wait on one of the benches there. I work nearby. But a long lunch is the last thing my schedule needs at the moment, so please don’t be late.”

“I won’t be, I promise.”

I drove up to Bristol early enough the following morning to be absolutely certain of being on time. It was a warm sunny day. When I arrived, the benches on College Green were already occupied by groups of idle youths and weary shoppers in search of a tan. A heat haze blurred the perspective of Park Street and the soaring elegance of the University Tower, while traffic roared by and exhaust fumes swirled in the motionless air. I stood in the centre of College Green’s triangle of grass, studying the ceaseless bustle of the world and reflecting how powerless I was to halt or alter its course in any way. What would be would always be.

She appeared promptly at half past twelve from the mouth of a narrow street between the cathedral and the Royal Hotel. A slight hurrying figure in a grey suit and white blouse. It struck me, watching her approach, that at twenty-five she’d begun to lose some of the youthful traits I’d noticed at our first meeting. Which wasn’t just a measure of her professional cares, but an indicator of how long I’d known her. Her mother had been dead nearly three years. Yet still, in so many ways, she lived.

“I don’t have long, Robin,” Sarah announced, greeting me with a fleeting kiss. “Shall we to go a pub? There’s a decent one just round the corner.” Then she noticed the plastic bag in my hand. “Been shopping?”

“Not exactly.” Her innocent question spared me the task of constructing a painful preamble. I launched straight in. “Did you know there’s to be a programme about your mother’s murder on television tomorrow night?”

“ Benefit of the Doubt? Yes. Daddy’s solicitor got wind of it.”

“This is a recording.” I held up the bag. “It’s why I’m here.”

“What are you doing with a recording of a programme that’s not yet gone out?”

“It’s a complimentary copy. A gesture of thanks from the presenter. I’m in it, you see. In more ways than one.”

We sat in a cool and shadowy alcove of the Hatchet Inn, privacy guaranteed by the hubbub of fruit machines and bar-rail conversations. Sarah listened patiently to what I had to say, pressure of commitments forgotten now I’d drawn her out of her daily preoccupations to consider once more the doubts and difficulties her mother’s death had bequeathed to her-and which she must have heartily wished could be put behind her for good and all.

“I was a fool to agree to the interview. And a bigger fool to let him set me up the way he did. The Bushranger bid was what did it. But for all that spinning around in my head, I’d never have let my tongue run away with me. I was a bit drunk, a bit resentful, a bit… Well, there it is. It’s done. And it can’t be undone. Seymour’s edited the tape to make it sound as if I think your mother tried to pick me up. I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that. But it’s how it comes out. I’m sorry. Sorry and ashamed. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Or change it. I just wanted you to know… beforehand… that it wasn’t intentional. God knows what Sophie was thinking of, but I was… thinking of all the wrong things. Not concentrating. Not considering the consequences. Not… seeing clearly.”

“I don’t understand. No amount of editing could put words in your mouth.”

“It can seem to, believe me. Seymour twists what I say by leaving odd sentences out. It’s subtly done. You might not notice if you didn’t know it had happened.”

“And that’s why you wanted us to meet? So I would know?”

“Partly. But I’m also worried about Rowena.”

“You and me both. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’s been… a bit down lately. Fretting about her exams, Paul reckons. But they’re out of the way now and she hasn’t perked up. They say depression is a recurring illness and I think it may have recurred in her case. Not because of Mummy, though, or this bloody book. I’m not even sure she knows it’s been published.”

“Why, then?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Paul’s her confidant now, not me. Or he should be.”

“The marriage hasn’t run into trouble, has it?”

“No. At least… Well, lack of trouble may be the problem. Paul loves Rowena. That’s obvious whenever you see them together. But there’s such a thing as too much love, isn’t there? It can become stifling, even oppressive. Rowena’s only twenty-two. No age really. She grew up late. Maybe she’s only just started to grow up. Maybe she’s regretting settling her future so soon. It’s all mapped out for her now. Paul’s wife. The mother of Paul’s children. A fixture in Paul’s life. A part of Paul. Where’s Rowena?”

“If that’s the way she’s thinking…”

“A renewal of doubts about Mummy’s death isn’t going to help. Exactly. Fortunately, Rowena hardly watches television from one week’s end to the next. With any luck, she’ll know nothing about Benefit of the Doubt . I’m going out to dinner with her and Paul tomorrow night. Just to make sure.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Mine and Paul’s.”

“It could look like a conspiracy to Rowena. If she ever finds out. Not mentioning the book to her. Not telling her about the TV programme. You and her husband censoring what she can be allowed to know. It’s a dangerous-”

“You have a better idea, do you?” She was angry. It happened suddenly and only now, too late, did I realize why. I’d crossed the invisible boundary between legitimate concern and unwelcome interference. “What do you suggest? Dig up all those uncertainties again? Start her chasing after that crazy idea about Mummy foreseeing her death?”

“No. Of course not. But-”

“Or is this interview your way of taking the decision out of our hands?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“Do I?”