Bitter Herbs Read online

  ‘How do you know that? Oh, Public Lending Rights, I suppose.’

  ‘Precisely. When I was researching the article, I asked Grainger about her share of PLR and she was frank or vain enough to give me a copy of her latest statement. She earns only just less than the maximum, which means that hundreds of thousands of people are still borrowing her pernicious rubbish.’

  ‘What is it that’s so frightful about her books?’ asked Willow remembering her own novels and the exaggerated criticism in Posy’s article about them.

  ‘D’you mean to tell me that you’re writing about her without ever having read any?’ Posy laughed and tugged at her tail of hair to push the plain rubber band further up it. Despite her intensity there was something appealing about her. ‘That explains a lot.’

  ‘The books are a treat in store for tomorrow,’ Willow said, smiling in return. ‘Her publishers are sending round a complete set of them.’

  ‘Ah.’ Posy picked up her heavy brown mug again and sat nursing it with both hands. Her eyes looked hard as she stared at the far wall of her room.

  ‘Gloria’s books,’ prompted Willow.

  Posy turned her head slightly to look at her guest and grimaced. ‘They all suggest that male violence is inherently glamorous,’ she said as fluently as though she had practised her answer, ‘and that it masks a frightened loveless boy who can be saved by the affection of a pure and trusting woman.’

  Just as Elsie Trouville believes you can cure a tendency to crime with literature, thought Willow. Perhaps both ideas are no more than sentimental optimism. Aloud, she said:

  ‘And it’s for that analysis that she was suing you? Surely not?’

  ‘Not precisely. What I wrote about her could be construed as an accusation of incitement to real violence, which I had not meant to imply.’

  ‘But it sounds to me as though that is exactly what you think she did,’ said Willow, not averse to letting Posy think she had not actually seen the article.

  ‘Not really.’ Posy smiled again, but there was contempt mixed with her amusement. ‘I can’t imagine many men, particularly those with a propensity to violence, reading the works of Gloria Grainger. Can you?’

  Willow laughed again and hoped she did not sound as sycophantic as she feared.

  ‘No. My principal accusation is that her books persuade inexperienced, under-educated and naïve young women that they need not fear male violence, that on the contrary they should find it exciting and that if it becomes too much for them, their sweetness and love will dilute it to an acceptable level.’

  ‘Horrible!’ Willow’s instant reaction was far more genuine than her laughter had been.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But it’s not only Gloria who’s promulgated those ideas; her books are in a direct line of descent from, oh, from Jane Eyre I suppose. D’you remember that bit where Jane Eyre addresses the reader? It goes something like: “I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, had their source in some cruel cross of fate.” And of course, having seen through to the man he would have been had it not been for that cruel cross of fate, Jane makes him appreciate her and be gentler with her than with anyone else. Who could have seemed more violent and sinister than Mr Rochester?’

  ‘Heathcliffe,’ said Willow drily, trying terribly hard not to think of Tom and the sorrows that might lie behind his moodiness. Ms Hacket grinned.

  ‘You could be right. But there are plenty of more recent novels that are infinitely worse. I’ve been making a study of them. Have you ever read The Sheikh?’

  Willow shook her head.

  ‘You should try it. Do you remember how cross we all got in the late sixties when men banged on about how any miserable or discontented woman simply needed “a good screw” or even “a good rape”?’

  Willow nodded, her mouth lengthening in remembered distaste.

  ‘Considering the number of women who apparently revelled in The Sheikh in the twenties, that was a not entirely male fantasy. The heroine who is slender and boy-like at the beginning, disdains all idea of love in favour of adventure and sport. She gets her comeuppance when she’s kidnapped and raped. Later on, as her rapist’s prisoner, she discerns his inner vulnerability and falls passionately in love with him. Naturally that soothes his emotional wounds and allows him to surrender to her. By the end, his voice is trembling as he gently tells her that he can bear anything but the sight of her weeping.’ Posy’s voice was hardening with each word as her anger got the better of her self-control.

  ‘I’ve never thought about any of this,’ said Willow, interested but not convinced. ‘But isn’t that idea merely a development of Beauty and the Beast?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Posy. ‘So what? The fact that novels like that were inspired by a traditional folk tale does not excuse them. That’s like saying that because heretics were burned in the sixteenth century we need not object to religious prejudice now.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Willow was determined to push the conversation back to Gloria Grainger before it got completely lost in more interesting speculation, but before she could do so, Posy’s bleak face broke into another smile.

  ‘Your novels are different. I hadn’t considered that aspect of them before, but they’re basically Snow White, aren’t they?’

  Willow thought for a moment and then nodded in agreement.

  ‘Probably. Younger, beautiful, talented woman is nearly destroyed by much more powerful older one, goes through a fallow time and emerges as the victor at the end of the book.’

  ‘And revels in the thought of her tormentor dancing in red-hot sandals until she dies.’ Posy obviously saw the distaste in Willow’s face for she added quickly: ‘You must admit that your heroines do enjoy the sufferings of their erstwhile tormentors.’

  ‘Isn’t that a natural human instinct?’ asked Willow, turning ideas over in her mind again. ‘After all, didn’t Thomas Aquinas say that Christians in heaven would find their pleasure greatly increased by watching the sufferings of those in hell?’

  ‘I’ve no idea but I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Posy. ‘It’s no excuse, though. Most natural human instincts are pretty revolting.’

  ‘All right, you win. Just as you have over Gloria Grainger. You must be enormously relieved that she won’t be writing any more.’

  Posy looked angry as she shook her head.

  ‘Her death won’t stop the books that she’s already written. There’ll probably be a flurry of publicity and a series of reissues of all that tripe now and the libraries will still stock it.’

  ‘There ought to be a law against it,’ said Willow in mock outrage. Posy had begun to nod before she caught the mockery and her lips tightened. Willow looked at a large clock on the wall and wondered how long Posy would be prepared to go on answering questions.

  ‘By the way, which of Gloria’s books do you recommend? I obviously won’t get through them all.’

  ‘I imagine any one would do. I suppose the one that made me most angry was Buttercups for the Bridesmaid.’

  ‘I’ll look out for it,’ said Willow, adding kindly: ‘I can imagine a bit of what you’ve been going through with the case. Each time one of my books comes out I do have a frisson of terror that someone will react horribly. I really sympathise with you for all that anxiety.’

  Posy took a mouthful of tea and said nothing. After a while she looked at Willow consideringly, but still did not speak.

  ‘What have I done?’ Willow asked frankly. After a long pause Posy said slowly:

  ‘You are not at all as I’d imagined you from your books.’

  ‘Considering what you wrote about them,’ said Willow with some sharpness, and some amusement too, ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

  Posy frowned, clearly not amused at all. Willow was surprised that she had so little sense of humour.

  ‘You seem worried,’ she said, wanting to find out exactly what Posy was thinking.

  The journalist bit her upper lip and then released it. The muscles in her face clenched.
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br />   ‘I suppose what’s bothering me is that it is just possible that Gloria Grainger might have been different, too,’ She squared her shoulders and shook her head. ‘If she wasn’t I can’t think of any way you’d be able to say something charitable in your memoir.’

  ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ The slight doubt in Posy’s voice had been replaced by something surer and sharper.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Willow. ‘Why do you hate romantic novelists so much? I’m not complaining about what you wrote about me, but your dislike seems remarkably personal. Romantic novels are pretty harmless really, even if they do peddle old myths to new generations of women.’

  Posy swallowed a large mouthful of tea and then laid her thin hand flat across her throat as the liquid burned her pharynx. As soon as she could speak, she put down her mug and said formally as though she were dictating a public statement:

  ‘Suffice it to say that I think that the myths are dangerous and have caused a lot of women to suffer, to deny their real selves and sometimes to short-change the men they marry.’

  Willow looked at the journalist in the way she had always looked at new administration trainees in the civil service, trying to assess their strengths and weaknesses, to see past their image of themselves to the reality behind it. Certain that Posy had some undisclosed personal scores to settle with Gloria, Willow asked what stage the libel case had reached.

  ‘The wretched publishers tried to settle,’ said Posy with disgust.

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Willow. ‘After all the Readers’ Quarterly can’t have many resources, and a full jury trial would have been very expensive – and the possible damages incalculable.’

  ‘But it’s outrageous. It’s a matter of principle. I have even fewer resources than they do, but I’ll never settle. I’d prefer to go bankrupt.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. To give a woman like that the satisfaction of a public apology in open court? I’d never do it. Never.’

  ‘Well, you must be safe now, given that one can’t libel the dead,’ said Willow, wondering if the ending of a libel case could ever be a motive for murder.

  She herself always went to great lengths to invent names for her characters so that she could not accidentally use the name of some real person who might sue her. Always terrified of the possibility, like many authors of melodramas she tended to give her villains names that verged on the incredible. ‘Caliban Smythy’ was the worst of the twisted scoundrels in her entire oeuvre. The thought of libel had always frightened her, and it seemed that Posy shared some of the fear, even if in her it was overlain with anger.

  ‘I’m not certain that I am safe yet,’ said Posy distinctly.

  Seeing that Willow looked doubtful, the journalist went on:

  ‘I talked to a legal friend yesterday and he said he thought libel cases could be inherited like negligence claims, which means that it isn’t necessarily over at all.’

  ‘Surely not!’ Willow could not help thinking that if the stopping of a libel case were really a motive for murder, she had just heard the clumsiest possible defence. Posy was a journalist. She must know more about libel law than she was pretending.

  ‘Well, that’s what he said.’ Posy was definite. ‘I’ll know for certain when the solicitor rings back. I never even thought of checking until Friday evening. The solicitors had all gone home by the time I rang, and so I fell back on the only friend I have in that world. He pointed out that the so-called libel took place while she was still alive and he seemed to think that it is just possible that her heirs will be able to inherit it. But he does commercial law, not libel, so I suppose he could be wrong.’

  Yet again Willow was faced with an interviewee talking far more than was necessary to answer one of her questions. Superficially Marilyn Posselthwate and Posy were quite different and yet both had exhibited surprising similiarities under questioning.

  ‘But there’s still hope.’

  ‘Indeed. But I shan’t withdraw what I wrote even if the family pursues the action. It had to be said. And if even one woman is made to think twice by what I wrote, it will all have been worth it. All of it,’ said Posy looking at her watch. Willow obediently got to her feet.

  ‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said. ‘It’s been illuminating.’

  ‘I’m glad that you’re intelligent enough to take criticism so well,’ said Posy, making Willow smile. She herself had used that phrase or one very like it to preface any adverse comment she had had to make on members of her civil service staff. It had always pre-empted tantrums.

  ‘I’ll confess I thought your views of my book a bit exaggerated,’ she said, ‘even though they didn’t lead me to telephone my solicitors.’

  Posy’s angry face softened slightly and she held out her hand. Willow shook it and walked down the shabby stairs to her car, thinking hard about Gloria Grainger and the effect she seemed to have had on all the people who came into contact with her.

  Chapter Five

  Willow arrived at the Home Office the next morning determined to use her work for the committee to full advantage. She would be dealing with criminologists, forensic psychiatrists, prison governors and probably ex-offenders, too. One of them, at least, might be able to throw some light on the problem that was beginning to obsess her.

  Why, exactly, had Gloria Grainger died? The chance heart attack no longer seemed completely credible to Willow. It had been just too convenient for too many people.

  Dressed with elegance and austerity in a dark-grey Armani suit and a stone-coloured shirt, she took the lift up to the Home Secretary’s office. Since she no longer had to pretend to be either poor or dowdy, Willow was also wearing her handmade gold earrings and a string of large, perfectly matched natural pearls. She had made up her face with as much care as if she were being photographed for the jacket of one of her books.

  When she reached the Home Secretary’s outer office, Willow was offered a chair and asked to wait. One of the private secretaries explained that Mrs Trouville had been involved in an urgent and unexpected meeting. Willow picked up a copy of the Independent and settled down to read it. Twenty minutes later she was allowed into the inner office.

  Mrs Trouville greeted her warmly, but with enough calculation in her brown eyes to make Willow aware of just how much she had conceded. A tray of coffee was brought in and they discussed the chairman of the committee, a Professor Misterton of Bristol University, who was due to meet the secretariat later that day.

  ‘It all seems rather hurried,’ said Willow, raising one darkened eyebrow in defensive mockery. ‘What if I had refused your blandishments and the job?’

  Mrs Trouville merely smiled and told Willow that she had had an understudy available. Then they discussed those members of the committee who had already agreed to serve on it.

  ‘It’s both an impressive and imaginative group,’ said Willow when she had run out of questions. ‘Far fewer familiar names than I’d expected, but oughtn’t we to have someone with experience of adult literacy teaching as well?’

  ‘I’d have thought you could get enough information by using an outside expert, but do take it up with Professor Misterton if you like. It’s his business not mine.’

  There was a knock at the door and the Home Secretary’s personal assistant put her head round the door to announce the arrival of Raymond Beete, the principal who had been seconded to assist Willow. Once Mrs Trouville had introduced them to each other, she asked the young man to take Willow to the offices that had been set aside for the secretariat.

  ‘You’ll find Sandra Bannett, the HEO, there and a filing clerk, whose name I don’t know.’

  ‘John Fund, Home Secretary,’ said Raymond Beete.

  ‘Fine,’ said Willow.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything,’ said Mrs Trouville, picking up some papers from one of the trays on her desk and obviously withdrawing her concentration from them b
oth.

  Willow left with the young man, met the rest of her staff and laid down several rules about the management of their work for the committee and the research they were to put in train even before the first full meeting.

  ‘I suspect we’ll also need comparable information from the rest of Europe and Scandinavia, but that can wait,’ she went on, pleased with the intelligence and apparent obedience of her small staff.

  ‘I did a short ENA course last summer,’ said Raymond, impressing Willow, who knew that only the brightest and the best of British civil servants were sent to the Ecole Nationale d’Aministration in Paris. ‘And I’ve kept up some good contacts in France. Would you like me to ask them for information?’

  ‘That would be splendid,’ said Willow, thinking that he was going to be a useful member of her team. ‘We’ll have to talk to the civil liberties people, too, if we’re to achieve the Home Secretary’s aim of making sure no one leaves prison unable to read. Forcible education is unlikely to go down well.’

  At the end of the meeting, Willow felt that she had good reason to trust her staff and she even smiled at them as she said:

  ‘I ought to go and visit a prison fairly soon and see the governor and get myself familiar with what goes on. Can one of you talk to the Directorate of Prisons and find out which one, close to or in London, would be best?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Raymond. ‘Once we’ve got the trainee the Home Secretary has promised, he can do that.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can get hold of you on the days you don’t come in to the office?’ asked Sandra. ‘Just in case it should prove necessary.’

  Reluctantly, Willow gave them her telephone number in Chesham Place and then went with Raymond to the room where the committee was to meet. The professor from Bristol had not arrived and she sat at the long, polished table, checking everything she had asked her staff to do and asking questions every so often, which Raymond usually answered decisively.

  They both stood up as the door opened and a tall, loose-limbed man in his fifties came in, unwinding a yellow scarf from about his neck.