Knowleses?’
Alan stood up. ‘You know the answer to that – to campaign. It’s the only game we can play. More to the point, it’s the only game we can – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said wearily, ‘I know, I know – it’s the only game we can afford.’
A phone began to ring. Neither of them was in a hurry to answer it and it continued to sound eerily through the dingy rooms. Suddenly the street door banged and they heard the rapid tap of Jenny’s metal-heeled boots as she ran into the general office to snatch up the phone.
In the silence, Daisy picked up her argument again. ‘We should be doing both. Campaigning and offering support. Honestly, Alan, what’s the point otherwise?’
He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘But, Daisy … It’s always a mistake to get too …’ He hesitated. She had the feeling he had been about to say emotional, not a word she would have appreciated. Instead he murmured: ‘… involved in these things.’
Jenny’s voice called from the outer office, summoning Alan to the phone. Before disappearing he gave a gesture of regret, an affirmation that, according to his reckoning, he had won his point.
Daisy stood up and took a couple of turns round the filing cabinets, trying to make sense of her anger. It wasn’t just the lack of money, though that was a continual problem, it wasn’t even Alan’s habit of putting a dampener on her most precious ideas, though he did that often enough to make her suspect that he got a perverse satisfaction from it. No, the worst part was the knowledge that he had a point, that much as she longed to see a case brought against the agrochemical camp it would be wrong to let it go ahead at the Knowleses’ expense. However determined Alice Knowles was, however keen her son to find a purpose in his illness, it was doubtful that a case fought with such meagre resources would be worth the emotional and financial strain. Reluctant though she was to admit it, Alan could have been right, and she should have done a better job of talking the Knowleses out of it.
Dropping dejectedly back into her chair, she leafed through her diary, looking for a date when she could go and see Alice again. The weekend, as usual, was the only time she had free.
She started on the mail, automatically flipping the discarded envelopes into the box earmarked for recycling. Magazines, journals, reports, scientific papers, members’ letters, non-members’ letters: too much of it, always too much of it.
Opening a large envelope, she pulled out three smaller ones, each addressed to a box number at Farmers Weekly . In a guilty reflex, Daisy glanced over her shoulder. This was a little idea she’d forgotten to mention to Alan, but now was not, she felt, the moment to come clean. The ad had been simple enough: ALDEB. Anyone experiencing health problems from exposure to this fungicide, please write Box No … . Normally Catch accumulated their case histories through people like the Farmers’ Union Health Executive, through newspaper articles or contacts made on Catch’s behalf by friendly toxicologists. To Daisy these haphazard methods had always seemed inadequate, and she’d long been haunted by the almost certain knowledge that there were dozens of other cases out there, just waiting to be uncovered.
The first letter was not promising. It was from a lady in Wiltshire who’d worked on a chicken farm and wanted to know if Aldeb was the medicine they were always feeding the chickens, because if so, she thought it was responsible for her ‘hormones’. She’d been under the doctor for months, had had several operations, but was still suffering all her old troubles.
Daisy put the letter to one side. Investigating chickenfeed wasn’t within Catch’s present brief, though if anyone bothered to analyse a modern broiler hen’s intestines, it probably would be.
The next letter was from a Lincolnshire farmer whose wife had developed cancer. Their main crop was potatoes and, until
Alan stood up. ‘You know the answer to that – to campaign. It’s the only game we can play. More to the point, it’s the only game we can – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said wearily, ‘I know, I know – it’s the only game we can afford.’
A phone began to ring. Neither of them was in a hurry to answer it and it continued to sound eerily through the dingy rooms. Suddenly the street door banged and they heard the rapid tap of Jenny’s metal-heeled boots as she ran into the general office to snatch up the phone.
In the silence, Daisy picked up her argument again. ‘We should be doing both. Campaigning and offering support. Honestly, Alan, what’s the point otherwise?’
He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘But, Daisy … It’s always a mistake to get too …’ He hesitated. She had the feeling he had been about to say emotional, not a word she would have appreciated. Instead he murmured: ‘… involved in these things.’
Jenny’s voice called from the outer office, summoning Alan to the phone. Before disappearing he gave a gesture of regret, an affirmation that, according to his reckoning, he had won his point.
Daisy stood up and took a couple of turns round the filing cabinets, trying to make sense of her anger. It wasn’t just the lack of money, though that was a continual problem, it wasn’t even Alan’s habit of putting a dampener on her most precious ideas, though he did that often enough to make her suspect that he got a perverse satisfaction from it. No, the worst part was the knowledge that he had a point, that much as she longed to see a case brought against the agrochemical camp it would be wrong to let it go ahead at the Knowleses’ expense. However determined Alice Knowles was, however keen her son to find a purpose in his illness, it was doubtful that a case fought with such meagre resources would be worth the emotional and financial strain. Reluctant though she was to admit it, Alan could have been right, and she should have done a better job of talking the Knowleses out of it.
Dropping dejectedly back into her chair, she leafed through her diary, looking for a date when she could go and see Alice again. The weekend, as usual, was the only time she had free.
She started on the mail, automatically flipping the discarded envelopes into the box earmarked for recycling. Magazines, journals, reports, scientific papers, members’ letters, non-members’ letters: too much of it, always too much of it.
Opening a large envelope, she pulled out three smaller ones, each addressed to a box number at Farmers Weekly . In a guilty reflex, Daisy glanced over her shoulder. This was a little idea she’d forgotten to mention to Alan, but now was not, she felt, the moment to come clean. The ad had been simple enough: ALDEB. Anyone experiencing health problems from exposure to this fungicide, please write Box No … . Normally Catch accumulated their case histories through people like the Farmers’ Union Health Executive, through newspaper articles or contacts made on Catch’s behalf by friendly toxicologists. To Daisy these haphazard methods had always seemed inadequate, and she’d long been haunted by the almost certain knowledge that there were dozens of other cases out there, just waiting to be uncovered.
The first letter was not promising. It was from a lady in Wiltshire who’d worked on a chicken farm and wanted to know if Aldeb was the medicine they were always feeding the chickens, because if so, she thought it was responsible for her ‘hormones’. She’d been under the doctor for months, had had several operations, but was still suffering all her old troubles.
Daisy put the letter to one side. Investigating chickenfeed wasn’t within Catch’s present brief, though if anyone bothered to analyse a modern broiler hen’s intestines, it probably would be.
The next letter was from a Lincolnshire farmer whose wife had developed cancer. Their main crop was potatoes and, until
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