James Craig - The Enemy Within

Clowne, South Yorkshire, June 1984

Tea?

That would be lovely, thank you.

It was nice to have company, whatever the circumstances. Beatrice Slater poured a cup of Earl Grey into one of her best bone china tea cups and handed it to the young man perched nervously on the edge of her sofa.

Would you like some milk and sugar?

Black is fine, thank you. Martin Palmer patted his already expansive waistline and smiled sadly. My mother has had me on a strict diet for almost a month. He made a face. Im supposed to cut out the dairy products wherever possible and have lots of green vegetables.

I see.

She thinks I need to lose almost four stone.

Gosh, thats a lot, isnt it?

Palmer stared morosely into his tea. What she doesnt understand is that Im big-boned, just like my Dad.

Its an ambitious target, Beatrice agreed. How are you doing, so far?

Martin grinned sheepishly. Depending on which scales I use, Ive either lost one pound or gained two.

Ah.

I know, the boy groaned. Thats why the diet is supposed to run until Christmas.

Oh dear, the old lady said, with feeling. What a shame.

Yes, the young man looked down at his belly sorrowfully, as if unable to understand quite how it had come to be there, its terrible.

Christmas. . Beatrice mused, conscious of the sunlight streaming into the conservatory. Today was just about the first nice day of the year, so far. Summer remained little more than a hopeful smudge on the horizon. Thats rather a long way off, isnt it?

Quite a way, yes, Martin agreed, eyeing the plate of Mr Kipling French Fancies that his host had unthinkingly placed on the table between them.

Im sure that one wont hurt, dear, Beatrice said, following his gaze. After all, they are rather small.

A glimmer of hope appeared in the boys eyes. Yes.

And theres still plenty of time.

Martin looked at her blankly.

For the diet, I mean. Pouring a cup of tea for herself, Beatrice added a dash of milk, stirring the mixture with a teaspoon.

Yes, of course. Well, youre quite right. Placing his cup carefully on the coffee table, the young fellow reached over and grabbed a cake. The pink ones are my favourite, he explained, along with the chocolate ones.

Have one of each, Beatrice smiled, taking a sip of her tea. What your mum doesnt know wont hurt her.

Im not so fond of the yellow ones, he reflected, as the entire cake disappeared into his maw, but Ill eat them if thats all thats left.

Finishing his tea, Martin placed his cup and saucer carefully back on the tray and sat back on the sofa, wondering about the wisdom of eating that fourth French Fancy. Ah well, he thought, its too late to worry about that now. What was it that Shakespeare said? Whats gone and whats past help should be past grief. It was something like that, anyway. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he should have kept on with his English studies. He could have become a teacher, or maybe found a nice job in publishing. That would have been ideal: long lunches and home before five. Something more suited to his temperament than his current line of employ.

Looking round the room, he had to admit that the old girl had a very nice place. Her redbrick Victorian villa was at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, in a small village half an hour from the motorway. After travelling up from London, hed had some trouble finding the place, having to ask directions twice. On both occasions, the people he spoke to knew exactly who Beatrice Slater was; the old girl was clearly something of a local celebrity, which was rather disconcerting, given what he had to do.

The house itself was too big for her on her own but the atmosphere was both comfortable and relaxed. It reminded Martin of home. Or at least, home when he was a kid. These days, things were different. He knew that his parents were keen to see the back of him, particularly now that he had a job, but Martin didnt see the point of leaving the spacious family home in Finchley for the kind of flea-ridden bedsit he would be able to afford on his paltry salary as an entry-level intelligence analyst.

Not wanting to think about imminent homelessness, he reached over and sniffed the bouquet of white roses that had been placed in a vase next to the sofa. Aah! He turned to Beatrice and smiled. Theyre lovely.

Thank you, the old lady beamed, youre very kind.

Not at all; I like flowers. These are very nice indeed.

I grow them myself. She gestured towards the garden which stretched from the back of the house for maybe a hundred yards before giving on to farmers fields. Ive been a member of the Amateur Rose Breeders Association for more than fifty years now. Martin nodded. Beatrice guessed he must be in his early twenties, but sitting on her sofa, with his tie at half-mast and crumbs around his mouth, he looked about twelve.

A boy sent to do a mans job.

My mum likes her garden, too, although ours is a lot smaller than yours.

Yorkshire is famous for its roses, Beatrice explained. The white rose of York dates back to the first Duke of York in the fourteenth century.

Yes, Martin nodded. History wasnt his strong point and he was already feeling hungry again. There was one French fancy left on the plate, a yellow one. Not ideal, but better than nothing. He couldnt grab it, could he?

Beatrice pointed to the vase. Those ones are called Margaret Thatcher.

The boy frowned. After the prime minister?

Yes.

His eyes narrowed as his brain tried to compute this latest piece of information. But I thought you hated her?

Beatrice placed her cup on the table and gave the young man a steely glare. Hate is a very strong word, Mr Palmer, she said primly, particularly when you get to my age. She was conscious that she was slipping into schoolteacher mode, going back to the days when she tried to instil some interest in mathematics amongst the flotsam and jetsam passing through the third year in King Ecgberts school in Sheffield. It wasnt necessarily her most friendly demeanour, but at least this lesson would be short. I dont hate Mrs Thatcher. Apart from anything else, I have never met the lady. But I dont particularly like some of the things that she says and I dont like some of the things that she does.

Ye-es. . Settling in for a long lecture, her guest kept his eyes firmly on the last cake on the plate.

I look at all the conflict and violence taking place right now and I wonder just why it is taking place.

Well-

And I wonder if we had more intelligent, thoughtful political leaders we might not be able to avoid it. All this shameful nonsense about the miners being the enemy within, it is crass and unhelpful, the language of a woman spoiling for a fight. On a roll now, conscious of her elevated heart rate, she glared at young master Palmer, and using useful lackeys like you to do her bidding.

But-

I am sure you will disagree with me. Indeed, you are paid to do so. But the strikers are just normal people with families to support. They are the exactly the same as you and me.

Speak for yourself, grandma, Palmer mused.

It seems incredible to me that such a basic truth can threaten the thought police so much.

Palmer blushed. Im hardly the thought police, Mrs Slater.

So why are you here then? she shot back. What have I done that demands this visit to try and shut me up?

Palmer shifted uneasily in his seat. No one is trying to shut you up.

Im glad to hear it, Slater said gently. The boy clearly wasnt up to much in the debating stakes. As long as I stay within the law, I am allowed to express my opinions. Is that not right?