said, determined to give him both his identity and his due. ‘No matter where you sent him, he instinctively knew how to get the best shot – even group portraits that can look so dreary.’
‘But he was a paedo,’ she insisted.
‘He had a weakness,’ Duncan replied to the girl, whose doe eyes and full lips would undoubtedly have played to it. ‘I’m really not happy discussing it, but if gossip is still doing the rounds after twenty years you ought to know the facts.’
‘Why?’ the pug-nosed boy asked.
‘Because there’s more than one side to every story,’ Duncan replied, taken aback. ‘And Bert’s … Ponsonby’s story’ – he quickly added the surname for fear of sounding complicit– ‘is a constant reminder to me of that. It’s true that Bert took photos of girls – young women – in inappropriate poses.’
‘You mean like this?’ One of the first boys to grab a chair now leant back in it, with his legs splayed and a finger inserted in his pouting mouth.
‘Something like that,’ Duncan said, above the wolf whistles. ‘The vast majority of them were in their late teens and early twenties, but a couple were underage. Up in the dark room, he was able to develop the pictures undisturbed. One girl – or it might have been her parents, I forget – contacted the police. After a lengthy investigation they decided not to press charges.’ He turned to Bert’s principal accuser. ‘That’s where your mother was wrong, there would have been no trial. I kept Bert on. In retrospect it was a mistake, but I accepted the police line that he hadn’t coerced – let alone, interfered with – any of the girls. Indeed, given his medical condition’ – he gulped – ‘that wouldn’t have been possible. But there was another paper in Francombe at the time, the
Citizen
, which liked nothing more than to disparage the
Mercury
. They covered the story in the most scurrilous way, insinuating that we knew and even condoned Bert’s … Ponsonby’s actions. An unholy alliance of parents, feminists, church groups and the National Front held a series of protests outside the building, haranguing my staff as they came to work. Worst of all, the
Citizen
published Bert’s address and a gang of thugs firebombed his house. The only person in at the time was his mother.’
‘Was she killed?’ a moon-faced girl asked, in between chewing a hank of hair.
‘Not in the fire, no, but she had a heart attack and died in hospital a week later. The morning after her funeral, Bert drank bleach.’
‘Then he really was a weirdo,’ said the girl with the jelly bracelets.
‘It wasn’t for pleasure!’ Duncan replied in amazement.‘Quite the opposite. There were plenty of his mother’s pills in the bathroom that he could have swallowed, but he seems to have wanted to suffer.’
‘That’s what I said. A weirdo!’
The conversation having taken an unforeseen turn, Duncan was eager to move on. He led the pupils to the second floor where he introduced them to the reporters, the lack of response to his suggestion that they might have seen them around town a reflection less of the children’s apathy than of the reporters’ increasing confinement to their desks. His assertion that staffing cuts had resulted in a leaner, closer-knit team was challenged when one of the boys noticed the Readers’ Response chart pinned to the wall.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s a record of the number of letters, phone calls and emails each of the news team have received,’ Brian said.
‘Who’s Rowan?’
‘Rowena!’ she corrected him sharply. ‘The token woman.’
‘You’ve not got half as many ticks as Ken and Brian.’
‘That’s because I’m not given half as many big stories,’ she replied, poised to break ranks.
‘Or else because young Brian here gets all his friends to write in,’ Ken said quickly.
‘That’s libel,’ Brian said. ‘And I’ll be calling you lot as witnesses.’ Some of the
‘But he was a paedo,’ she insisted.
‘He had a weakness,’ Duncan replied to the girl, whose doe eyes and full lips would undoubtedly have played to it. ‘I’m really not happy discussing it, but if gossip is still doing the rounds after twenty years you ought to know the facts.’
‘Why?’ the pug-nosed boy asked.
‘Because there’s more than one side to every story,’ Duncan replied, taken aback. ‘And Bert’s … Ponsonby’s story’ – he quickly added the surname for fear of sounding complicit– ‘is a constant reminder to me of that. It’s true that Bert took photos of girls – young women – in inappropriate poses.’
‘You mean like this?’ One of the first boys to grab a chair now leant back in it, with his legs splayed and a finger inserted in his pouting mouth.
‘Something like that,’ Duncan said, above the wolf whistles. ‘The vast majority of them were in their late teens and early twenties, but a couple were underage. Up in the dark room, he was able to develop the pictures undisturbed. One girl – or it might have been her parents, I forget – contacted the police. After a lengthy investigation they decided not to press charges.’ He turned to Bert’s principal accuser. ‘That’s where your mother was wrong, there would have been no trial. I kept Bert on. In retrospect it was a mistake, but I accepted the police line that he hadn’t coerced – let alone, interfered with – any of the girls. Indeed, given his medical condition’ – he gulped – ‘that wouldn’t have been possible. But there was another paper in Francombe at the time, the
Citizen
, which liked nothing more than to disparage the
Mercury
. They covered the story in the most scurrilous way, insinuating that we knew and even condoned Bert’s … Ponsonby’s actions. An unholy alliance of parents, feminists, church groups and the National Front held a series of protests outside the building, haranguing my staff as they came to work. Worst of all, the
Citizen
published Bert’s address and a gang of thugs firebombed his house. The only person in at the time was his mother.’
‘Was she killed?’ a moon-faced girl asked, in between chewing a hank of hair.
‘Not in the fire, no, but she had a heart attack and died in hospital a week later. The morning after her funeral, Bert drank bleach.’
‘Then he really was a weirdo,’ said the girl with the jelly bracelets.
‘It wasn’t for pleasure!’ Duncan replied in amazement.‘Quite the opposite. There were plenty of his mother’s pills in the bathroom that he could have swallowed, but he seems to have wanted to suffer.’
‘That’s what I said. A weirdo!’
The conversation having taken an unforeseen turn, Duncan was eager to move on. He led the pupils to the second floor where he introduced them to the reporters, the lack of response to his suggestion that they might have seen them around town a reflection less of the children’s apathy than of the reporters’ increasing confinement to their desks. His assertion that staffing cuts had resulted in a leaner, closer-knit team was challenged when one of the boys noticed the Readers’ Response chart pinned to the wall.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s a record of the number of letters, phone calls and emails each of the news team have received,’ Brian said.
‘Who’s Rowan?’
‘Rowena!’ she corrected him sharply. ‘The token woman.’
‘You’ve not got half as many ticks as Ken and Brian.’
‘That’s because I’m not given half as many big stories,’ she replied, poised to break ranks.
‘Or else because young Brian here gets all his friends to write in,’ Ken said quickly.
‘That’s libel,’ Brian said. ‘And I’ll be calling you lot as witnesses.’ Some of the
Similar Books
