Graham has already contacted the Foreign Office, the UN, the British Embassy and a handful of other aid agencies working in Darfur to try for new leads.
But he’s facing the problem all journalists have to contend with these days: all anyone is giving us is a succession of uniformly bland press statements which manage to ramble on for 400 words and say precisely nothing. More importantly, there still isn’t a sniff of a picture of Janet Harper.
‘We need to get back to basics,’ Graham decides.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask.
He picks up a phone book and throws it at me, coming alarmingly close to knocking me out.
‘Oops, sorry,’ he says. ‘Now, come on, let’s split the Harpers between us and phone them all.’
‘But there are loads of them,’ I object.
‘I know,’ he replies. ‘We’d better get cracking.’
Just as I’m about to phone the first one, a new Foreign Office press release comes through and as I scan it, something immediately jumps out at me.
‘Hang on, Graham,’ I say. ‘This may not have to be as laborious as we thought. Are there any Harpers in that
phone book from Ormskirk? That’s where the FO are now saying she’s from.’
‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘Er, let’s see…two of them. Let’s give them a go.’
Excitedly, I phone the first number, while Graham takes the second. But after two minutes of it ringing out, I realise I’m not going to be in luck.
‘No answer,’ I tell him.
‘Me neither,’ he says. ‘There’s only one thing for it. We need to get out there.’
At the first address, the door is answered by an old lady with the most rampant facial hair I’ve seen outside Knowsley Safari Park.
‘What do you want?’ she shrieks, peering around the door.
‘Sorry to bother you, but we’re from the
Daily Echo
,’ I tell her. ‘We’re looking for the family of Janet Harper. She lives in Africa now but was born in Ormskirk. I don’t suppose you’re any relation, are you?’
‘What?’ she shouts again, holding a hand up to her ear.
‘I said
, we’re looking for Janet Harper,’ I say, significantly louder. ‘Do you know her?’
‘I can’t hear you,’ she bawls. ‘You’re not from that Church of the Latterday Saints, are you? If you are, you can bugger off. I gave up on God when Robert Redford got married.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘we’re not,’ and she appears to be able to lipread that much.
‘Well, if you’re conmen, I’m warning you–don’t even try it. I can do self-defence. I’ll have my fingers in your eye-sockets before you get a chance to scream for help.’
Suddenly something dawns on me.
‘Is your hearing aid on?’ I ask, pointing at my ear.
‘What?’ she hollers.
‘YOUR HEARING AID?’ I holler back.
A look of comprehension washes over her face, and she reaches behind her ear to fiddle with something.
‘IS THAT ANY BETTER?’ roars Graham, making me jump.
The old lady winces. ‘There’s no need to shout, for goodness’ sake. What is it you want?’
‘We’re looking for Janet Harper,’ I say. ‘She lives in Africa.’
She shakes her head. ‘My niece Janice lives in Aberdeen. Is she any good?’
As we arrive at the next address, it is clear that this is the hot favourite. Because, sadly, we are not the first here–far from it, in fact. There are four journalists outside already and it’s almost certain there will be more on the way.
‘Any luck?’ I ask Andrew Bright from the
Daily Mail
.
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Nobody’s in there, but our news desk has told me to wait until they return.’
Which is, I fear, exactly what we’ll be doing.
Twenty minutes later, I look at my watch and know that Graham’s earlier version of the splash will have made it onto the front page of the
Echo
, with a few late lines added in by the news desk, but not a single exclusive revelation, and certainly not a picture or interview with the family.
I’ve missed the second edition, along with my (admittedly impossible) deadline. I know now that my only option is to get something mind-blowingly brilliant for tomorrow. Although, judging by the conversations outside the Harper family home, that’s looking as unlikely for me as it is for everyone else.
Suddenly, my phone rings, and I’m on full alert. This could be Jack.
‘Evie Hart,’ I say, and am taken aback by the distinct ring of hopefulness-cum-desperation in my voice.
‘Evie. You still outside that Harper house?’
Great. It’s not the new love of my life, it’s my least favourite News Editor.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Although I was planning on leaving Graham here to head back to hit the phones again. No point in two of us being here.’
‘You said it,’ Simon says. ‘Get your arse back here. You’ve wasted an entire bloody morning.’
I’m sitting in a taxi on my way back to the office when my phone rings again. I’m coming as fast as I can, but Simon obviously doesn’t realise that the firm that runs our company taxi account isn’t exactly famed for its sense of urgency.
‘I’m on my way,’ I say, as soon as I pick up the phone.
But there’s no reply and the line goes dead. That man really is charm personified. We’re still in month one of our professional relationship and already he’s putting the phone down on me. When it rings again, I decide that maybe I should be more polite if we’re ever going to start getting on with each other.
‘Hi,’ I say, but know I’d probably sound more pleased to be speaking to the clap doctor.
‘Evie, is that you?’
I almost jump out of my seat.
‘Jack! Bloody hell! Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says, ‘but this line is terrible and I’ve got to be quick. Listen, I’m so sorry about the weekend.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I can hardly be annoyed at someone who’s jetted across the world to rescue hostages.’
‘I’m not sure I was that heroic,’ he says. ‘Look–I’m due
back the day after tomorrow. I’ll phone you then, if that’s okay. And in the meantime, I really am sorry. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, let me know.’
‘Now you mention it,’ I say, ‘there is something you could do for me.’
The minute the
Daily Echo
hits the streets at 11 a.m. next day–and my story takes its place as the lead item on our website–every national newspaper in the country seems to be on the phone seeking a copy of the picture of Janet Harper. The chat with the family is also widely sought after, but it’s my interview with Janet herself–conducted on Jack’s mobile from her hospital bed–which has got everyone the most excited.
Everyone, that is, apart from Simon, who couldn’t have been more begrudging in his praise if somebody had been holding a gun to his head. Not that that matters. The Editor himself sent one of his famed ‘hero-gram’ emails around the newsroom, telling everyone how great they’d done on that day’s paper. And he singled
me
out in it.
Particular thanks go to Evie Hart
it said,
who has proved in spectacular style just what hard work, determination and brilliant contacts can do. Well done, Evie
.
Janet was lovely when I spoke to her, and has agreed to do a follow-up interview with me when she returns home in a couple of weeks.
She was also full of praise for Jack.
‘There is no way the Foreign Office would have jumped into gear that fast if Jack hadn’t been on their back from the word go,’ she said. ‘He really is wonderful.’
Alma de Cuba, Liverpool city centre
Seeing Jack prompts the most unusual physical reactions in me. I’m talking the sort of symptoms for which other people might seek a doctor’s appointment: churning stomach, racing pulse, raised temperature, that sort of thing. I could, in fact, quite feasibly be diagnosed with the early stages of malaria.
I’m pretty certain I haven’t got malaria, though. I’m pretty certain that what I’ve got is…well, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. But as I sit opposite Jack, in one of Liverpool city centre’s trendiest bars on an unusually balmy April evening, it’s difficult.
His skin is a shade darker after Sudan and his hair has been cut into a style which, on anyone else, would look boyish. But boyish is still the last word you’d use about Jack. He might be a sensitive soul who reads excessively and helps people in poor countries, but to look at he’s 100 per cent alpha male–and has the biceps to prove it.
‘So, I helped then?’ he asks.
‘Very much so,’ I say. ‘I suspect if you hadn’t spoken to
Janet Harper for me I might have been begging for a trainee-ship to serve burgers somewhere by now.’
He smirks.
‘I’m exaggerating about that, by the way,’ I add. ‘I owe you one, but I’m not going to be forever indebted to you, so don’t get any ideas.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘I’d have enjoyed thinking of ways for you to repay me.’
It’s a week later than originally planned, but Jack and I have finally managed to get together and now I’m sitting opposite him, I have all the composure of a giggly schoolgirl on a date with Justin Timberlake.
The reason, I suspect, is that there are no speeches to interrupt us now. No wedding cake to be cut. No bridesmaids looking for spare tampons. This is just Jack and me.
‘Do you want another drink?’ he asks.
‘Please,’ I say, draining my glass.
He picks up the cocktail menu. ‘Well, you can have a Singapore Sling, Mai Thai, Sea Breeze, Cosmopolitan, Daiquiri, Cuba Libre, Long Island Ice Tea, Klondike Cooler or indeed, any exotic combination of fruit and alcohol you want.’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ I say.
He goes to order, but then hesitates. ‘You don’t fancy going somewhere a bit less…fancy?’ he asks.
As we walk out into the street, where throngs of people are making their way from bar to bar, Jack takes my hand and I huddle up to him as if to keep warm–despite the fact that I’m actually perfectly cosy already.
In recent years, the city centre has been overtaken by lots of hip bars featuring painfully fashionable clientele and not a packet of pork scratchings in sight. Tonight we’re in the
mood for something different, something simpler, and as we reach a familiar door I know exactly what it is.
‘The Jacaranda!’ I exclaim, pulling Jack towards the bar. ‘I haven’t been here for years.’
‘Me neither,’ he smiles. ‘And for good reason.’
‘You mean you’re not a fan of the open mike?’ I ask.
‘You wouldn’t get me up there for a night with Elle Macpherson.’
I frown.
‘Okay, a week,’ he says.
As we enter the bar, we are struck by a combination of heat, noise and a heady perfume of booze and sweat. This is a bar where people know how to enjoy themselves. It isn’t a bar for posing, or picking up, but it is a bar where you can drink old-fashioned booze (the kind in a pint glass) and, if the mood takes you, do the thing this place is best known for: sing.
Tonight at the Jacaranda is open mike night, which basically means karaoke with taste, in theory at least. This isn’t ‘Like a Virgin’ territory, this is for serious musicians or those who fancy themselves as such.
As for why I like it so much, well, I have a confession to make. I used to come here to sing too. In those days, when I was at university, I fancied myself as a musician too, although I was never really a serious one. I always knew my days as the lead singer of Bubblegum Vamp (a name which I despised for the entire two and a half years of our existence) would eventually peter out when I got a proper job.
Anyway, these days, the only exercise my vocal cords get is singing in the shower and occasionally in the car, although I do less of that since I noticed the looks I attracted from other drivers. Grace saw me at some traffic lights belting out
‘Suspicious Minds’ once and told me afterwards that I looked as if I was having a fit.
‘This brings back memories,’ I say, as we dive towards two stools at the bar when a couple stand up to leave.
‘You’re not a singer, are you?’ Jack asks.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ I say. ‘As a matter of fact, I used to be in a band. A long time ago, admittedly. Nirvana were in the charts at the time. God, I feel old.’
‘So, are you having a go tonight?’ he enquires, clearly with some degree of amusement.
‘No
way
,’ I shake my head vigorously. ‘It’s been forever since I sang in public.’
‘Well, then,’ he says, ‘I’d say it’s about time you gave it a go again.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘Believe me,’ I reply. ‘I’d only embarrass you.’
‘You won’t embarrass me,’ he says. ‘If you’re crap I’ll just pretend I don’t know you.’
Oh God. What am I doing?
I’ve sung in front of all sorts of audiences: parents and teachers at school, students at university, and many a time in front of the crowd in this place too. But after an hour of Jack attempting to persuade me to do this–and eventually succeeding–I suddenly feel desperately nervous.
My palms are unpleasantly clammy, my stomach feels very like it does after a dodgy curry and, now I’m up here, all I can think about is what on earth possessed me to agree to this. Okay, the glass of wine and two bottles of beer probably had something to do with it.
At least the band are pretty good, so much so that I’m amazed they agreed to get up here with me. I only knew the bass guitar vaguely back in my Bubblegum Vamp days after I went out with one of his friends (for four days–a particularly low point in my commitment problem).
As the opening bars begin, I realise immediately that the song I’ve chosen is all wrong. I saw Ruby Turner sing ‘Nobody But You’ live on Jools Holland’s show years ago and fell in love with it immediately. But I should have remembered one of the fundamental principles of singing in public: no one
should attempt to emulate Ruby Turner unless they’re Ruby Turner.
A spotlight suddenly shines in my eyes and I wonder if everyone in the audience is aware, as I am, of the bead of sweat moving slowly down my forehead.
Too late to worry about it now. I take a deep breath, and the second I start singing those beautiful words, my anxiety disappears. Because, unbelievably, I actually sound half-decent.
‘
No-one ever gave me anything
…’ I lament.
I glance up and realise that people are looking up at me–and in such a way that they appear to want to listen too. I close my eyes and imagine myself singing in the bathroom, with no inhibitions, no audience, only a crackly radio and a load of empty conditioner bottles to keep me company.
It may be misguided, but I suddenly have complete and utter confidence that I sound good. No, forget good, I sound bloody
great
!
‘No one ever held my hand
…’ I croon.
I look over at the bass player and he nods his approval. I am still nervous, but I feel on top of the world.
‘
Nobody. Nobody but you.
’
My eyes fix on Jack as I sing to him with all my heart and soul. But as I’m about to start on the second verse, someone else catches my eye. Someone at the front. Someone waving.
Oh my God.
Oh fucking hell.
It can’t be.
It bloody can.
It’s Gareth.
Uh-oh. That last line was wonky as hell.
‘
Every time that I felt lost
…’
Oh shit, shit, shit. Even wonkier.
I’m trying desperately to concentrate, but I can’t keep my attention on anything other than Gareth, whose smiling expression suddenly bears a distinct resemblance to Jack Nicholson’s in the final scenes of
The Shining
.
I’m trying my very best to sound soft and husky, but now I just sound like I’ve got a cold. And as people start to turn away, I look over once again to the bass player for some moral support. This time, he avoids making eye-contact, obviously wishing that he was with someone with more vocal ability. Like the Cheeky Girls, for example.
Gareth is now right at the front of the crowd and is the only person in the room swaying in time to the music, his eyes glued on me. I glance anxiously at Jack, on the far side of the room. When he sees me, he smiles encouragingly. For some reason it brings to mind the expression of my Sunday School teacher after I broke wind conspicuously in the middle of a nativity play when I was six. Even at that age, I was painfully aware that the Virgin Mary was simply not supposed to fart–at least not publicly–and no matter how sympathetic my teacher looked, my humiliation wasn’t going to just go away.
As the song reaches a crescendo, I close my eyes, desperate to block out any sight of Gareth and determined that, as I reach the final, most difficult line, I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.
‘No
…
body
…
but
…
YOUUUUU!’
I gave it all I’ve got all right.
Shame I sounded like a chicken being slaughtered.