I started on this task as soon as I got back to the flat, and had managed to read about seventy pages when Fiona called by in the early evening. She brought two large paper carrier bags, one of which had foliage spilling over the top.
‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You look different.’
(I remember these rather absurd exclamations of hers, now. ‘Gosh’ was one; ‘Crikey’, another.)
‘Do I?’ I said.
‘I caught you on a bad night, didn’t I? Last evening, I mean.’
‘Maybe. I’m feeling more … with it, tonight.’
She put the carrier bags down on the floor, saying: ‘I brought these round right away. They need re-potting. If I can leave them here, I’ll just go and freshen up and things, and then I’ll come and give you a hand.’
When she had gone I took a peek inside the bags. There were plants in one and a couple of fair-sized earthenware pots and saucers in the other, along with some bits of shopping, and a newspaper. It was a long time since I had looked at this particular tabloid, but remembering that today was a Friday I took it out of the bag and thumbed rapidly to a page near the middle. When I found what I was looking for I smiled a private smile, and started to read through it: without much interest at first, but then, after a few lines, I frowned and something chimed within my memory. I went into my spare bedroom, the one I used as a study (the one I never went into), and came back with a large box file full of newspaper clippings. I was looking through these when Fiona returned.
She took her bags through into the kitchen and set about repotting the plants. I could hear the noise of things being moved about and taps being turned on and off. At one point she said: ‘I must say your kitchen’s awfully clean.’
‘I’ll come and help in a minute,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate this, you know. I must reimburse you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Ha!’
I had found the cutting, which I pulled out of the box with this small cry of triumph. It was a vindication of my powers of recall, apart from anything else. I laid out today’s paper on the dining table, opened at the appropriate page, placed the cutting next to it and read both items again carefully. My frown deepened. When Fiona came in carrying one of the plants, she said: ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink.’
‘Sorry. Of course. Only I was just looking at this column. What do you make of it?’
When she saw that I was looking at her newspaper, Fiona became defensive: ‘I didn’t buy that, you know. I found it on the tube.’ She glanced at the identical pictures of Hilary Winshaw which headed each page, and grimaced. ‘That dreadful woman. I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re a fan.’
‘Not at all. But I do have a professional interest. Read them while I get you something, and let me know what you think.’
The column had been running for more than six years now and still bore the title PLAIN COMMON SENSE. The photograph at the top hadn’t changed, either. It was here, every Friday, that the great television mogul and media personality could be found airing her views on any topic which happened to seize her wandering fancy, holding forth with equal conviction on issues ranging from the welfare state and the international situation to the length of hemline sported by members of the royal family on recent social outings. Countless thousands of readers seemed to have been charmed, over the years, by her endearing habit of professing almost total ignorance of any subject which she chose to discuss – her speciality in this regard being a willingness to put forward the most strident opinions relating to controversial books and films while cheerfully admitting that she had been unable to find the time to read or see them. Another winning feature was her way of making the reader feel generously included within her circle of intimates, by being prepared to write at extraordinary length about the minutiae of her domestic arrangements, in tones which would rise to a pitch of righteous indignation whenever she described the vagaries of the successive builders, plumbers and decorators who seemed to be in permanent attendance at her enormous Chelsea home. It’s an interesting but little known fact that for pouring out this torrent of nonsense, Ms Winshaw was paid a yearly fee equivalent to six times the salary of a qualified school-teacher and eight times that of a staff nurse in the National Health Service. I’ve got proof of that, as well.
The two items which I’d chosen for comparison found Hilary in a political frame of mind. Although they were separated by roughly four years, I present them here as Fiona and I read them that day: side by side.
A NEWSLETTER reaches my desk today from a group who call themselves the Supporters of Democracy in Iraq – or SODI for short.
They claim that President Saddam Hussein is a brutal dictator who maintains his power through torture and intimidation.
Well, I’ve got some words of advice for this silly bunch of SODIs:check your facts!
It’s not often that a television programme can make me feel physically sick, but last night was an exception.
Can there be anyone in the country whose stomach did not turn over, as we watched Saddam Hussein on the Nine O’clock News,parading the so-called ‘hostages’ he is wickedly proposing to use as a human shield?
Who is responsible for the social welfare programmes which have brought such massive improvements in housing, education and medical services throughout Iraq?
Who has recently given the Iraqis pension rights and a minimum wage?
This was one image that will stay with me for the rest of my life: the spectacle of a defenceless and clearly terrified child being mauled and pawed by one of the most vicious and ruthless dictators to hold power anywhere in the world today.
Who has installed new and more efficient irrigation and drainage systems, made generous loans to local farmers, and promised ‘health for all’ by the year 2000?
If any good at all can come from such a revolting display, it will be to make the so-called ‘peace’ lobby come to their senses and realize that we can’t just sit back and allow this Mad Dog of the Middle East to get away scot-free with his terrible crimes.
Who has no less a figure than President Reagan ordered to be removed from the list of political leaders accused of supporting terrorism?
And who else, out of all the Middle Eastern leaders, has put his moolah where his mouth is and called on so manyBritish builders and industrialists to help with the rebuilding of his country?
It’s not just the invasion of Kuwait I’m talking about. The whole eleven-year presidency of Saddam Hussein is one long, sickening history of torture, brutality, intimidation and murder. Anyone who doesn’t believe me should take a look at some of the information leaflets published by SODI (Supporters of Democracy in Iraq).
That’s right – it’s ‘brutal’, ‘torturing’ Saddam Hussein.
Come off it, SODI! It’s those barking Ayatollahs you should be complaining about. Life in Iraq may not be perfect, but it’s better now than it has been for a long, long time.
So lay off Saddam. I say he’s a man we can do business with.
There can be no doubt about it: the time for moral fudging is over; the time for action is here.
Let us pray that President Bush and Mrs Thatcher understand that. And let us pray, too, that the brave, plucky little boy we saw on our television screens last night will live to forget his meeting with the evil Butcher of Baghdad.