Little Bee - Chris Cleave [68]
—Oh yeah? Like whom?
—Well, like the Home Office, for example. They’re the ones on the front line, after all.
—Oh that’s genius Sarah, that really is. Because people really trust the Home Office, don’t they? And what will you call your fine uplifting piece?
—You mean what’s my title? Well how about “The Battle for Britain”?
I know, I know. Andrew exploded with laughter. We had a blazing row. I told him I was finally doing something constructive with my magazine. He told me I was finally growing out of my magazine’s demographic. Not only was I getting old, in other words, but everything I had worked on for the last decade was puerile. How almost surgically hurtful.
I was still furious when I arrived at the Home Office building. Always the Surrey girl, aren’t you? That had been Andrew’s parting shot. What exactly do you require the Home Office to do about this bloody country, Sarah? Strafe the lowlifes with Spitfires? Andrew had a gift for deepening the incisions he began. It wasn’t our first row since Charlie was born, and he always did this at the end—brought the argument back to my upbringing, which infuriated me as it was the one thing I couldn’t help.
I stood in the lobby as the dowdy clerks flowed all around me. I blinked, looked down at my shoes, and had my first sensible thought for days. I realized I hadn’t come out into the world today to make a point to my editorial staff. Senior editors didn’t really go back to reporting to shave a few pounds from their commissioning budgets. I was there, I realized, entirely to make a point to Andrew.
And when Lawrence Osborn came down and introduced himself on the dot of ten o’clock—tall, grinning, not conspicuously handsome—I understood that the point I was making to Andrew was not necessarily going to be an editorial one.
Lawrence looked down at his clipboard.
“That’s odd,” he said. “They’ve marked down this interview as ‘nonhostile.’”
I realized I was looking at him fiercely. I blushed.
“Oh god, I’m sorry. Bad morning.”
“Don’t mention it. Just tell me you’ll try to be nice to me. All you journalists seem to have it in for us these days.”
I smiled.
“I am going to be nice to you. I think you people do a terrific job.”
“Ah, that’s because you haven’t seen the statistics we’ve seen.”
I laughed, and Lawrence raised his eyebrows.
“You think I’m joking,” he said.
His voice was flat and unremarkable. He didn’t sound public school. There was a touch of roughness in his vowels, or a sense of some wildness reined in, as if he was making an effort. It was hard to place his voice. He took me on a tour of the building. We looked in on the Assets Recovery Agency and the Criminal Records Bureau. The mood was businesslike, but relaxed. Discourage a little crime, drink a little coffee—that seemed to be the tone. We walked along unnatural galleries floored with natural materials and bathed in natural light.
“So Lawrence,” I said, “what do you think is going wrong with Britain?”
Lawrence stopped and turned. His face glowed in a soft yellow ray, filtered through colored glass.
“You’re asking the wrong man,” he said. “If I knew the answer to that, I’d fix it.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at the Home Office? Fix it?”
“I don’t actually work in any of the departments. They tried me out here and there for a while, but I don’t think my heart was in it. So here I am in the press office.”
“But surely you must have an opinion?”
Lawrence sighed. “Everyone has an opinion, don’t they? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with this country. What? Why are you smiling?”
“I wish you’d tell that to my husband.”
“Ah. He has opinions, does he?”
“On a variety of subjects.”
“Well, maybe