V. McDermid - Report for Murder

Lindsay shook her head. ‘No, I usually write for newspapers, actually. There’s not a vast amount of cash in writing for magazines - especially the heavy weeklies. So I do most of my work for the nationals.’

‘Do you write the things you want to write and then try to sell them? Is that how it works?’

‘Sometimes. Mostly, I put an idea for a story to them and if they like it, either I write it or a staff journalist works on it. But I also work on a casual basis doing shifts on a few of the popular dailies in Glasgow, where I live now.’

Caroline looked horrified. ‘You mean you work for the gutter press? But you’re supposed to be a socialist and a feminist. How can you possibly do that?’

Lindsay sighed and swallowed the mouthful of food she’d managed to get into her mouth between answers. ‘It seems to me that since the popular press governs the opinions of a large part of the population, there’s a greater need for responsible journalism there than there is in the so-called “quality” press. I reckon that if people like me cop out then it’s certainly not going to get any better; in fact, it’s bound to get worse. Does that answer your question?’

Cordelia, who had been listening to the conversation with a sardonic smile on her face, butted in. ‘It sounds awfully like someone trying to justify herself, not a valid argument at all.’

A look of fury came into Lindsay’s eyes. ‘Maybe so,’ she retorted. ‘But I think you can only change things from inside. I know the people I work with, and they know me well enough to take me seriously when I have a go at them about writing sexist rubbish about attractive blonde divorcees. What I say might not make them change overnight but I think that, like water dripping on a stone, it’s gradually wearing them down.’

Caroline couldn’t be repressed for long. ‘But I thought the journalists’ union has a rule against sexism? Why don’t you get the union to stop them writing all that rubbish about women?’

‘Some people try to do that. But it’s a long process, and I’ve always thought that persuasion and education are better ways to eradicate sexism and, come to that, racism, than hitting people over the head with the rule book.’

Cordelia looked sceptical. ‘Come on now, Lindsay! If the education and persuasion bit were any use do you think we’d still have topless women parading in daily newspapers? I know enough journos to say that I think you’re all adept at kidding yourselves and producing exactly what the editor wants. You’re all too concerned about getting your by-line in the paper to have too many scruples about the real significance of what you are writing. Be honest with yourself, if not with the rest of us.’

Her remarks had the salutary effect of injecting a little reality into Lindsay’s attraction towards her and she scowled and said, ‘Given how little you know about the work I do and my involvement in the union’s equality programme, I think that’s a pretty high-handed statement.’ Then, realising how petulant she sounded, she went on, ‘Agreed, newspapers are appallingly sexist. Virginia Woolf said ages ago that you only had to pick one up to realise that we live in a patriarchal society. And the situation hasn’t changed much. But I’m not a revolutionary. I’m a pragmatist.’

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Cordelia hollowly. ‘Another excuse for inaction.’

But Caroline unexpectedly sprang to Lindsay’s defence. ‘Surely you’re entitled to do things the way you think is best? I mean, everybody gets compromises thrust upon them. Even you. Your books are really strong on feminism. But that television series you did didn’t have many really right-on women. I don’t mean to be rude, but I was …’

Whatever she was was cut off by Paddy interjecting sharply, ‘Caroline, enough! Miss Brown and Miss Gordon didn’t come here to listen to your version of revolutionary Marxism.’

Caroline grinned and said, ‘Okay, Miss Callaghan, I’ll shut up.’

The conversational gap was quickly filled by the other girls at the table with chatter about the day’s events and the coming concert.

As they finished their pudding, Pamela Overton came over to their table. ‘Miss Callaghan,’ she said, ‘I wonder if I might ask for your help? Miss Macdonald and the music staff are extremely busy making sure that everything is organised for the girls’ performances in the first half of the concert. I wonder if, since you seem to know Miss Smith-Couper, you could help her take her cello and bits and pieces over to Music 2 so that she can warm up during the first half?’

Paddy swallowed her dismay and forced a smile. Of course, Miss Overton.’

‘Fine. We’ll see you in my flat for coffee, then. Perhaps Miss Gordon and Miss Brown would care to join us?’ With that, she was gone.

Caroline sighed, ‘She’s the only person I know who can make a question sound like a royal command.’

‘That’s enough, Caroline,’ said Paddy sharply. The three women excused themselves from the table and walked through the deserted corridors to Miss Overton’s flat, Paddy muttering crossly all the way. Fortunately, Lorna was in her room changing, so coffee was served in a fairly relaxed atmosphere. Miss Overton reported on the success of the day and revealed that, by the end of the evening, she hoped they would have raised over £6,000. Lindsay was impressed, and said so. Before anything more could be said, Lorna appeared and announced she was ready to go over to the music room. Paddy immediately rose and grimly followed her out of the room, as Pamela Overton apologetically revealed that she too would have to leave, to welcome her special guests. Lindsay and Cordelia trailed in her wake and made their welcome escape up to the gallery where they settled in among the sixth form and those of the music students who were not directly involved in the concert.

Cordelia said, That woman makes me feel like a fifteen-year-old scruff-box, I’m so glad she wasn’t head when I was here; if she had been, I’d have developed a permanent inferiority complex.’

Lindsay laughed and settled down to enjoy the concert. In the hall below she saw Margaret Macdonald scuttling through the side door to the music rooms. Members of the chamber orchestra were taking their places and tuning up their instruments. Caroline and several other seniors were showing people to their seats and selling programmes which, Paddy had told Lindsay, had been donated by a local firm of printers. Caroline also slipped through the curtains, returning five minutes later with a huge pile of programmes. Cordelia leaned over and said to Lindsay, ‘I’m going to the loo, keep my seat,’ and off she went. Lindsay absently studied the audience below, and noticed a girl with a shining head of flaming red hair go up to Caroline, who pointed to the door beside the stage. The redhead nodded and vanished backstage. About eight minutes later, she re-emerged with Paddy. They left the hall together. ‘One damn thing after another,’ thought Lindsay ‘I wonder what’s keeping Cordelia?’

The lights went down and the chamber orchestra launched into a creditable rendering of Rossini’s string serenade No.3. Half-way through it, Cordelia slipped wordlessly into her seat, Lindsay surfaced from the music and smiled a greeting.

Then the senior choir came on stage and performed a selection of English song throughout the ages, with some beautifully judged solo work conducted by Margaret Macdonald. The first half closed with a joyous performance of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and the audience applauded loudly before heading for the refreshments. Lindsay and Cordelia remained in their seats.

Cordelia leaned over the edge of the balcony. Suddenly she sat upright and said, ‘Hey, Lindsay, there’s something going on down there.’ Lindsay followed her pointing finger and saw Margaret Macdonald rushing up the hall, looking agitated. The velvet curtains were still swinging with the speed of her passage. She headed straight for Pamela Overton and whispered in her ear. The headmistress immediately rose to her feet and the two women hurried off backstage.