Authors: Jane Corrie
`Oh, do shut up, Martha!' Sarah repeated stonily. 'It's not like that at all,' and she glared at Martha, who was grinning slyly. 'There are other
things in life, you know, apart from sex, although you're going to find it hard to believe.' She took a deep breath. 'It's about something that happened a long time ago, and concerns someone he once knew. Someone he felt I let down. He's only just found out about the connection, and I didn't know of it either, or else I wouldn't have come—but got someone else to cover the story for us. Now he won't even consider a replacement—says that I'll have to rely on the others for information.'
One part of Martha was digesting the news, the other part, the journalistic training part, was quick to see an opportunity. 'You give me all the gen you've got so far,' she said, 'and I'll pass on whatever I hear at the confab,' she suggested eagerly.
Write her copy for her, in other words, Sarah thought dispassionately. 'I know no more than you do,' she said quietly, holding on to her temper.
Martha pouted in disbelief. 'So you keep telling me,' she said, 'but I don't believe you. You're too much of a newshound to let any opportunity pass. Okay, don't tell me. You'll have to rely on the men for your story, won't you? I should have a go at Charles Ashley, he's got a soft spot for you, hasn't he?' she suggested spitefully.
Sarah shrugged her slim shoulders. Charles would be the last one she would ask for help, he definitely came into the category of not giving anything away without expecting suitable reward, and Sarah had a good idea of what he would
consider suitable. He was always throwing invitations her way, but Sarah knew a little too much about him to accept his dubious offer of a quiet dinner at his flat.
`So what will you do? Go back?' asked Martha, summoning up a happy picture of herself as the only female on the project, and all the gorgeous problems that could present themselves stuck out as they were in the lonely outback region they had landed in.
Unwittingly Sarah broke her pretty balloon. 'I only wish I could! No, I'm staying. I've no choice in the matter—I've been assigned kitchen duties,' she made a face. 'He doesn't see why I shouldn't earn my keep,' she added wryly.
Martha's mouth fell open. 'Boy, he has got it in for you, hasn't he?' she commented, unable to keep the gleeful note out of her voice. 'What on earth did you do? Murder someone?' she asked in high amusement.
Sarah's lovely eyes took on a bleak look. It was too near the truth to be shrugged off lightly. She had already said too much to Martha, but she knew only too well that with a little digging Martha could find out, so it was better to have it over and done with. It was bad enough being accused of sending someone to their death without having the threat of exposure hanging over her, because Martha wouldn't be the only one to start wondering. Newsmen were naturally curious and could smell a story a mile away. `From where Sean Cartier's sitting, that's just about his view of what happened,' Sarah said wearily. 'I was engaged to a cousin of his—this
was five years ago, then I found out that he was playing around with someone else, so I broke it off, and he got drunk and drove his car off a cliff.' She met Martha's avid expression, obviously wanting to hear all the gory details, but Sarah had no intention of supplying any more than the basic facts.
`No wonder Cartier's ardour was cooled,' Martha commented baldly, seeing nothing offensive in this remark, since it was plain to see what she had thought Sarah and Sean Cartier had been up to during those dinners they had shared in Sean's private quarters, for that was the way Martha looked at life.
Sarah knew this, but did not hold it against her, not even when she was feeling so low. It was a natural conclusion, and she presumed that Martha hadn't been the only one to reach it. Charles Ashley, for another, had probably been thinking on those same lines, but it hadn't been like that at all, not that anyone would believe her.
A voice then came over the intercom—a voice that Sarah knew only too well, 'Would all members of the press attend a conference in the main dining area in precisely ten minutes' time. Miss Helm to report to Mrs Pullman in the canteen.'
Sarah bent down and picked up her shoulder bag off the bed, and met Martha's amused eyes as she straightened up. 'He doesn't do things by half, does he?' she commented, trying not to let a note of bitterness creep into her voice. In one short announcement he had told the rest of the press that she was no longer regarded as a bona
fide representative of her paper, and to add insult to injury, had given her her marching orders to the canteen.
`You're not going to work in the canteen, are you?' asked Martha in amusement. Not the star reporter of the Daily News!'
Sarah walked to the door. 'I'd rather do that than suffer charity from a man who can see only one side of the story,' she said quietly, and left Martha to her over-stimulated imagination.
It would not surprise her, Sarah thought, if she were to find herself allocated to a different section of the works, where the manual workers were housed on the site, pushed back out of the mainstream of events with their own social quarters. So much secrecy surrounded the site, because it wasn't only oil Sean Cartier was seeking. His very presence at a site meant there was something big brewing, only all that had been released so far was that oil was there, and ostensibly that it was on a large enough scale to warrant commercial enterprise. This was news in itself, for the country needed the oil, but there was no getting away from the fact that Sean Cartier was on the spot, and held a high position in the Bureau of Mineral Resources, and his presence acted like a magnet to any self-respecting journalist, whatever was put out on a government handout to the press.
Sarah reached the canteen without meeting anyone she knew, for which she was devoutly grateful. She could imagine the speculation going around in the small bar at the end of the large dining hall area where they usually gathered
before a press conference, and was doubly relieved that the kitchen was cut off from the dining hall and all the food was sent down in lifts, so she would be saved the embarrassment of having the others watching her at work—embarrassment on both sides, really, because on the whole they were a decent lot, Sarah mused, as she went up the steps that led to the busy kitchen and looked around for the said Mrs Pullman.
A flustered-looking young girl with an apron two sizes too big for her gave her a quick annoyed look that plainly asked what she thought she was doing there, and that this was where the workers plied their trade, and she didn't want anyone standing watching her at work, thank you. Just then a plump, rather formidable-looking woman, also in an apron and cap, thrust the girl aside and enquired tartly, 'Are you Miss Helm?'
Sarah acknowledged that that was her name, and decided to ignore the sniff of disapproval from Mrs Pullman, since that was who the enquirer must have been, as she gave her a good looking over, taking in Sarah's tailored silk suit and matching business-styled blouse. 'You'll have to wear something over that,' she commented disapprovingly, and sighed loudly. 'As if I hadn't enough to cope with,' she said, and glared at the young girl standing by and listening avidly to the conversation. 'Lunch in thirty minutes,' she said crisply, 'and we're not getting on with it, are we, Sandy? Away with you! I want the rest of those potatoes peeled in fifteen minutes flat,' she ordered, as the girl scuttled away back to the huge sink at the end of the
kitchen where a mound of peeled potatoes ready for the pot filled a huge white bowl. She then directed her attention back to Sarah in a tired way that suggested that she hoped she would somehow have disappeared, and gave another loud sigh on finding that Sarah was still there. `Well, I suppose you can get on with the washing up of the used pans,' she nodded towards another sink a little bit further along the wall, glaring at Sarah. 'No objection, I hope?' she dared her.
Sarah shook her head. 'No objection, Mrs Pullman,' she replied lightly, and looked around for an overall that was quickly supplied by the manageress, with an air of slight surprise at Sarah's willingness to oblige, and who clearly thought that there must be a catch in it somewhere, and that nobody told her anything.
By the end of lunch, Sarah's hands were a little on the red side, having been constantly immersed in hot sudded water, for she had stayed with the washing up chore until all the luncheon dishes were cleared. Her feet encased in elegant brogues ached from the constant standing, and caused her to give way to a sardonic grin at the thought that she had thought that she was pretty fit, but it only took an unusual job to prove otherwise.
For her devotion to duty she earned Mrs Pullman's grudging praise, then she found herself up to her elbows in vegetables to be got ready for dinner, by which time her back had joined her feet in aching protest at the enforced maltreatment, and when the vegetables were finished, and Mrs Pullman announced that she could take two
hours off, but report back to work at six-thirty, all Sarah wanted to do was to lie flat on her bed, hoping for physical recovery before the next onslaught, and as soon as she got back to her quarters that was precisely what she did, and was thankful for the fact that Martha was not around to witness her exhaustion, because that would have been more than she could take at that time.
She had to stay fit, she thought, as she lay with closed eyes soaking up the luxury of relief from her aches and pains. No way was she going to back out on the excuse of physical exhaustion, for she could well imagine Sean Cartier's caustic comments on what he would consider skiving on her part.
The first day was always the worst, wasn't it? she told herself firmly. It was just that she wasn't used to the continual standing, but by tomorrow she would be all right. She felt the glare of the late afternoon sun on her eyelids, but hadn't the energy to get up and pull down the blinds at the window. What luxury a good soak in a bath would be now, she thought longingly, but there were no such refinements on the site. Showers, of course, and Sarah would have to take one before she reported for duty again, but not yet, she told herself; she didn't have to move yet.
Now that she could relax, her mind went over the sudden change of circumstances. Things had happened too fast for her to really take in, and she had been given no previous warning that a spectre from the past would rear its ugly head again to disturb her peace.
There was no way she could have known that
Sean Cartier was Don's cousin, as Don had been reticent about his family, and Sarah, who had been orphaned at an early age and reared by an aunt, had thought that, like her, he had had an unhappy childhood, and had not sought confirmation.
It hadn't mattered in those early days, when Sarah was a very junior reporter on the local newspaper, and had met Don at a wedding she was attending for the paper. She sighed. She had been eighteen then, and very eager to make her mark in her chosen profession. Don had worked for a big advertising agency that had thrown a lot of work her paper's way. It had all been so wonderful at the time, she thought, recalling the day the editor congratulated her on obtaining such a prized contract, for as with most provincial papers they relied heavily on revenue from advertisements to keep their heads above water, and their small paper needed it more than most.
She turned her head restlessly, as if to dismiss the past, but she couldn't. Not now that it had caught up with her again. Had she really loved Don? The thought had haunted her for a long time after his death, and she had come to the sad conclusion that she hadn't. If she had, she would still be mourning his death, and still looking for an excuse to blame herself for what had happened.
Sarah drew a deep breath. Don had been weak, and he couldn't resist a drink, neither could he resist a pretty woman. Not that that alone would have killed what she had thought was her love for
him. No, it had been much worse than that, for when Don had proposed to her and been accepted by the deliriously happy Sarah, he had had a mistress tucked away downtown, living in deplorable conditions and supporting a young child—his child.
It was only by a stroke of fate that Sarah had found out about it. She had been covering a funeral and had visited the poorer area of the town to get the details from the relatives, and found herself sitting in a dingy top flat staring at a photograph of Don holding a young boy in his arms and laughing at the camera.
After the first sense of shock had worn off, Sarah gave no sign of recognising the man in the picture. Even if she had, it would not have been noticed by the woman supplying the details for the press, she was too upset at the loss of her only surviving parent to notice any unusual behaviour on the part of the young reporter, but a few innocent-sounding queries from Sarah gave her all the confirmation she needed.
Confirmation that hadn't really been necessary after a child about four years old had rushed into the room and clung to his mother's skirts. His wide brown eyes, so like his father's, had quashed any hope of Sarah's that Don might just have been a friend of the family.
Sarah drew in a quick breath. At that time, she supposed, she must have been in love with Don, for she had tried to excuse him. The woman was pretty, with fair naturally curly hair, and a plump curvaceous figure that would attract men—not that she looked her best when Sarah saw her, for
sorrow had left her pinched-looking and touchingly pathetic.
It had only taken a few sympathetic words for everything to come tumbling out, and an embarrassed Sarah didn't want to hear her story, not when she wanted to exonerate Don; but she had to listen, and as she did so, her love for Don evaporated into thin air.