Chapter 11

In minutes Reg was in the minibus with the driver, setting off again.

The man was quite for a spell, then slowly mentioned, “I did happen to hear raised voices and crept closer to hear some of it. Are you in trouble, sir?”

“I might be, but I just don’t know.”

“I hope it works out for you, sir,” the man offered in sympathy.

“One way or another, it will. I think Hermione and Jemima will stay with us in the company. The other matters are what concerns me. You don’t want to know what they are.”

They resorted to silence for the remainder of the miles into town. The driver drew up at the hotel door, temporarily double parking so Reg could get out.

“Do you need the vehicle any more today, sir?” he asked obsequiously.

“Not that I am aware of. Someone will phone if it changes, thanks.”

“Good luck, sir.” was his parting remark before he moved off.

Reg walked inside the hotel, then stopped to draw a restoring breath. He took the stairs to ascend, rather than the faster lift, so that he could gather his thoughts for what was to come. He walked into his bedroom, half expecting Frances or one of the others to be waiting for him, but it was empty: they did not know what had happened at the Robson farm. He reversed his steps and went to the lounge room on this floor.

It was almost full. Sidra and Elizabeth were playing an onscreen game, to the amusement of Jessica who was nursing her baby as she watched. The other wives were sitting around, reading books or magazines.

Reg facetiously asked, “No-one got anything useful to do?”

Fiona looked up. “Down-time is useful, Reg. You got out on a tour; the rest of us are relaxing. Everything go as expected?”

He was constnatly amazed at how all these women got along with each other, and treated him so nonchalantly as a long-married husband. He liked it. He had to break the news, though.

“Not quite. The girls were on message for most of the time, then admitted that while pregnant, they got horny and ended up rutting with me. I seem to remember the phrase, ‘fucking like rabbits’ coming into it. I almost curled into my shell, but somehow I kept my cool and tried to ignore their words.”

“Oh, dear.” That came from Frances. “What happened?”

“They said they were happy to have more babies in future, and indicated that I was the preferred father. Mr Robson decided it was time for a family huddle, and made it clear that I was not included, so I collected the driver from the kitchen and left.”

“Stupid!” declared Frances.

“Who? Me, or Mr Robson, or the girls?”

“All of you. All you had to do was stick to the plan, and all would be well.”

“Yes, dear. But once Hermine or Jemima got started, it was too late. We’ll just have to wait and see if they can sort it out between them.”

Frances looked round at the other women and get their unspoken approval.

“We will wait, Reginald. Let the Robsons sort it out, or fight it out, or whatever. They have to be left to make their own decision about the future as a family group. If you want my opinion, they will bite the bullet and let the girls live the life they want. They can’t be expected to sit at home all the time, when they have a good job with us.”

Reg asked, “Have we sent our report to the client, Frances?”

“It was emailed a few hours ago and we have had an acknowledgement of receipt; nothing more. It will most likely have to go to the CEO first, to read through and get the gist of it, then he will want the legal bods to go through it and comment, before the total report can be put to whatever board subcomittee deals with proposed closures.”

“So we can relax for the remainder of the day?”

“Yes. Had you anything in mind?”

“I just wanted to have a wander around Scarborough Castle, to see what it looks like after being bashed by both sides in the 17th century Civil War, and then by the Germans in the 20th century. Is it free to get in to see it?”

“It is, if you are a member of English Heritage. Otherwise you have to buy a ticket to get in.”

“Are we members?” Reg innocently asked, and was laughed at.

“Silly man. If we were members you would know it; you would have a small card to flash. Mum and Dad are members, but not us. You can afford to pay for your own entry today: use your credit card.”

“You girls don’t mind me going on my own?”

“Certainly not. You have to have some time to yourself, Reg. You would be bored, listening to us girls chatting about babies and girl things.”

“Oh, no; I like babies.”

“You certainly like making them, darling,” laughed Frances.

After his lunch, Reg took his freedom for the day, and walked all the way to the castle, folded brolly in hand in case it rained. He poked around for ages, absorbing the ambience of the history that had grown into the masonry, wondering if there were similar historical buildings in his current home town, or in his childhood haunts, that he never knew about. It could well be, for he had no recollection of an ancient building in the town where he grew up, certainly not in walking distance and he had done a lot of walking on his own as he thought about what he had learned that day. It was one of the joys of his solitary childhood.

Possibly there were none of these ancient edifices, for many modern housing areas were on ‘greenfield’ sites where nothing had been known before other than farm or pasture land. He much preferred houses to be built on ‘brownfield’ sites, reused from previously built-upon ground, provided the removal of metals, chemical poisons, and any asbestos, had been done expertly. He had read of examples where such remedial work had not been performed to the standard laid down. If a contractor can get away with sealing off what they had supposedly done, that was what could happen.

There were examples where the developer simply covered the original waste with a thick layer of new soil on top of impervious plastic blankets laid down on the old ground level, on the basis that there was no way the poisons could get through to the new surface level. The theory was impeccable, the practice less so if there were holes in the plastic or the layer not spread wide enough.

Such practices didn’t always do the job well enough, and as the years passed, the evidence gradually surfaced, possibly with the ground affected by minor earth tremors or water ingress flooding the poison level. By that time the culprit company was long gone; changed its name or often no longer in existence to be pursued. Not even R.E.G. was capable of recovering the losses that ensued.

He liked the way Scarborough tried to retain the historical parts of the borough in their original architectural style. As for the castle itself, English Heritage had a policy of ‘leave it as it is’; don’t muck it about with renovations other than preventing collapses.

If anything, they went in the other direction, he discovered from reading the visitor signs: archaeologial research into what was on the headland prior to the 12th century castle. There had been a Roman signal station on the headland, and later a chapel was built within the abandoned station’s foundations. Pre-Roman pottery and other finds made in the castle grounds took the site back to nearly 2,000 BC.

Happy with his little solo expedition, Reg sauntered his way back into town, seeing the streets from the other direction as he went. He was not surprised the borough was still an attractive spot to visit in the summer break.

Sidra and Elizabeth were at the front door of the hotel, looking for his arrival. He greeted them both with hugs, as Sidra told him, “Welcome back, Daddy,” and Elizabeth asked, “Did you enjoy your visit to the castle, Dad?”

God, how he loved being called Dad or Daddy by these girls! He looked forward to his natural children growing old enough to voice these same sentiments. The word ‘Daddy’ gave him goosepimples all on its own.

He gathered both into his arms, asking, “What brought you to the front door to meet me, my darling daughters? A message from your mother?”

“No, Dad. The sun was shining at the front, so we thought it would be fun to wait for you here.” Sidra explained.

“Well, I can tell you that I am pleased at your actions, and I will tell your mother so. She will be quite taken by your filial activities.”

This elicited grins in both of them, as they already knew the Latin meaning of ‘filial’. He led them inside, and as they passed the reception desk, he remarked to the lady on duty, “My wonderful daughters!”

She took this in with a smile, then did some mental calculation. No way could he have fathered these girls, especially with one of pure middle eastern or east Indian looks. She correctly guessed at adoption, and was happy that such a young man could take on such responsibilities.

“Do you need your room key, sir?” she asked politely, but was told, “No thanks. My ladies are around if I need a key.”

‘Ladies?’ She wondered at the word. Why didn’t he say ‘wife’? She noted to ask the manager about this, in case it was something she needed to know about this guest. She might be part-time, but knowing about guests and their needs is the way to advancement, as she had been told when she first started to work here.

The girls led Reg to the lift, despite his protestations. The enjoyed the luzury of going up and down in the lift, as they didn’t have one at home. Elizabeth remembered the many weeks of trudging up and down the stairs to work off the excess podge from her body. She was proud now of new svelte self that attracted admiring glances on the streets. Of course, along with that came the need to be vigilant about less savoury attention, which is why Reg or the other mothers acted as distant chaperones when they went out and about.

Jessica, Sidra’s mum, had made her read news stories about what had happened to girls on their own, unprotected. Frances had added to it with other strictures about safety matters, and told both girls about all the wives getting on a self-defence course at university, to give them confidence in unwanted encounters.

Getting upstairs, Reg headed for his own room to shower before dinner, while the girls went to report his return to the ladies and their mother. Elizabeth, being an orphan and treating Sidra as her sister, regarded Jessica as her mother also.

Reg enjoyed his shower. He had first enountered a shower when he began living with Frances, Erika, and Freda. He had grown up with just a bath available for a body wash, and while that did the job, a shower was much more luxurious to his way of thinking, and he still loved showering.

After washing his hair first, he was enjoying the rush of water over his head and body as he scrubbed up with shower gel, when he found a pair of hands reaching in to him. Startled, he turned and saw Jessica running hands over his muscles.

“Oh, it is you, Jessica!”

“The girls said you were back, so I left them in charge of Rex while I came through here to lay hands on you, my lovely man. I didn’t tell them that; just said I came to have a quick word with you. That is all I can do anyway, for another month or two anyway until I heal from birthing your son.”

Reg turned down the spray little, so that it did not splash so much, and leaned out to kiss Jessica on the lips.

“And how is my dusky maiden today?”

She giggled. “Very well. Rex has kept me drained of milk, but my nipples are still quite sensitive. Feel them and see what I mean.” She opened her nursing bra and exposed her nipples to his questing fingers. “Oh, lovely. What is this I hear about problems with your Robson sisters?”

Reg exclaimed, “Oh, you were feeding Rex when I came back and told the ladies. Hermione and Jemima overstepped the planned agenda and talked about fucking me like rabbits while they were pregnant and horny. The parents were shocked at what they were hearing and basically called a family conference to discuss it. I was distinctly NOT invited to join them, so I came back here and reported. Frances said to just wait and let them get on with it. She didn’t seem too bothered, I thought, but who am I to say?”

“Reg, you are wasting water. Finish your shower and we can continue, my big boy.”

Reg did as directed, closed the shower door; and Jessica waited until he was in his bath robe. She kissed the tip of his nose, and said, “I love you, Reginald Robertson. I think I will join the family properly and have another of your babies. Rex is so lovely; a peaceful little boy. I had forgotten how nice it is to cuddle your new baby.”

“What about the pain of childbirth, though, Jessica?”

“It is sore at the time, but goes away and you forget about it. We women are built to cope with childbirth, as long as there are no life-threatening complications. Nowadays, medicine is pretty good, and the chances of dying are minimal, less than the danger of crossing a busy road.

What I can’t understand are those stupid girls from Western countries that fled to join a murderous regime in the middle east, and have children to so-called holy warriors. Many of them ended up killed by one side or another, including the side they opted to join, when they found they had made a mistake.”

Reg nodded. “Stupid is right, but there are always people who will do stupid things in a belief that their religion or regime is superior to another religion or regime. Executing unarmed prisoners, be they combatants, enemy civilians, or merely journalists, is a sign of barbarism, and a stain on the name of the religion or regime they claimed to be fighting for. The Germans were noted for similar barbarism in both world wars, but mechanical warfare seems to allow for killing civilians with impunity.

One thing you might note is that, as usual, it is not all these people on one side that do such acts of horror; and many on whatever side, find these acts reprehensible.

You will note that close-up killing is abhorred more than distant killing. Bombing the enemy, where you don’t get to see who you are killing, is assumed to be not as terrible; but to my mind, dropping barrels of poisonous chemicals on civilian areas from low level can only be condemned as an atrocity, for the pilots must see what they are doing to civilians.”

“Sorry. I got you diverted, Reg. What did Frances have to say?”

“She thinks that any loving family, and the Robsons clearly love their daughters, must be allowed to sort out their differences on their own. I see her argument, but I worry about Hermione and Jemima.”

“Of course you do. That is your love for all your women coming through, Reginald. You have been brainwashed into thinking that you must love all the ladies who have granted you their favours. It isn’t necessarily so, but I see nothing wrong with you feeling the responsibility that comes with loving people. From what I was told, you didn’t feel love for the Robsons when they came to you. They were simply a pair of truants needing correction, and you applied that correction. Your love for your other ladies persuaded these two that what you had was worthy of emulation, and slowly they came to love you.”

There came a banging on the door, and Sidra’s voice called.

“Mum? Are you and Reg still in there? The others are waiting for you before going to dinner.”

Jessica pulled away from Reg, and called out, “Be there shortly, Sidra. Just finalising a few things!” She air-kissed Reginald and made herself presentable.

Reg and Jessica were quickly tidied and got dressed for dinner; giggling at their own teenage antics in response to the more mature warning of their teenage daughter. In a few moments they were ready, and Reg opened the door for Jessica to walk sedately out into the corridor. She gave a short gasp, “I forgot about Rex. I’ll need to see if he is okay.”

Reg placed a hand on her arm, “Is he in the nursery?”

“Yes.”

“Then Sandra will be seeing to him. You trust Sandra to do that?”

“I ... I suppose so.”

“Then we go for dinner. You can ask any mother who was in the nursery when she left for dinner, if everything was fine with Rex.”

“All right. It may seem nothing to you as a father, Reg, but a woman’s baby means a lot to her.”

“I do appreciate it, Jessica, but you have to remember you are not alone: The other girls and Sandra are there to help with each other’s babies. Trust them, my wonderful Jessica.”

She sighed and went along with him. For such a young man, he seemed mature to her; but that was in contrast to her pathetic ex-husband.

The evening meal was a jolly affair, as everyone was back from work tasks, and the final report sent to the client. It was a chance to really relax and talk babies again. Reg did his best to join them by praising each of his offspring as they came into the conversation. Rex was included, to Jessica’s relief, in that he was happily asleep in his crib. Reg was astonished at how many cribs the hotel could come up with at short notice. He suspected a reciprocal arrangement with other hotels who had much older guests at this time.

After a leisurely meal where Reg was the only one who partook of alcohol, they retired to the nursery and the upstairs lounge to associate with the children. Reg happily shared the task of cuddling the little ones, rocking them to sleep after a good feed of breast milk.

At one point he had fallen asleep with one of the babes in his grasp, and Frances had shaken him awake.

“Reg, love, your child is not safe in your arms if you fall asleep like that. Give him to me, and take yourself to bed. You obviously need a good rest. Who knows what might transpire in the morning?”

She was right, for Reg had no sooner undressed and got into bed than he fell sound asleep. He was woken in the morning with Jessica wrapped round him, fondling his prick. She explained her presence.

Frances decided that no woman was to get your sexual attention last night, and I can’t do sex for a while, so she allowed me to sleep alongside you, and just enjoy being with you. I did.”

Reg put his arms round her, and hugged.

“Thank you, Jessica. I appreciated my unbroken sleep. I hadn’t realised I was so nackered.”

He kissed her adoring face. “What time is it?”

“I am not sure.” She looked at the bedside alarm: “Coming up 8 a.m. When did you want up? I have to go feed Rex, or you will get wet from my milk.”

“On you go, then. I’ll get myself up. Oh, do you want to shower before you go to the nursery?”

“No. My breasts are bursting with milk. I’ll shower afterwards.”

She threw on her robe and left, and Reg took a leisurely shower to waken himself properly. He decided to look in on the nursery before going to breakfast, and found Jessica was not alone in breast feeding. Two other girls were similarly engaged and ignored his presence until he looked into their faces and waved a hand. He got a quick recognition and was then waved off.

A sleepy Sandra asked, “Are you going for breakfast, Mr Robertson?”

“Yes. Care to join me? Did you have a busy night?”

“Yes, several nappy changes, and a couple of mums came through to feed their babies during the night.”

“All well, otherwise?”

“Yes, sir. I am hungry now, so if I can rush ahead and stuff my face with a buttered roll and get some juice, that would be great. Please order a full cooked breakfast for me, if you are having one. Just no black pudding, please; I can’t abide these things made with blood.”

“On you go, Sandra. I’ll order the cooked breakfast as you ask.” She hurried ahead.

In the breakfast rom he took a quick glance at the newspapers laid out on offer for guests. He was about to pick up one of the quality papers, when when there was a tap on his shoulder.

He turned and the hotel manager was there.

Reg immediately asked,”Oh. Good morning sir. I was about to order two cooked breakfasts please, for me and our babsitter, Sandra. She says she doesn’t want black pudding.”

“I will note that, Mr Robertson, but I thought I should point out the Daily Trumpet. Page three is of interest.”

“Right. I’ll take that and check it out first.”

“Sit down, please, before you read it, sir. Coffee for two, I presume?”

“Yes, please. We are the only ones awake enough for breakfast.”

He found the table where Sandra was sitting, and joined her.

“Cooked breakfast ordered as requested, Sandra, and coffee for us both.”

He reached for a morning roll and the small butter dish, laying down the paper while he opened his napkin and spread it on his lap. Cutting his roll in half and buttering both sides, he started chewing one half while he spread the newspaper on the table. The main headline was a typical tabloid ‘revelation’ about a footballer’s private life. He ignored the story and turned to page three. The story was not what he had hoped for.

The headline read, “Who is this mystery man?”

The actual story revealed his name and reported that he was apparently a university student running a start-up company with a group of female students, all of whom had babies and all apparently were living with him. There was no direct claim, but the paper’s reputation for sleaze stories was enough to put an implied negative slant on ‘living with’.The story went on to say that his Company, Recovery Enterprise Group, had these women on its books, despite them having small children.

“This man had last year killed a ruffian with his bare hands, but was never prosecuted, according to court records. He apparently appeared at university with financial help from somewhere, despite coming from a background of poverty.

Now he is running a company and that company is paying a bunch of female students who live with him, as supposed employees.

Who indeed is this mysterious Reginald Robertson, and what is he up to? This paper would like to know.”

Reg almost grabbed the paper to crumple it in anger, but held back. He closed his eyes and steadied himself for a while.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

It was the manager, bringing the coffee pot to the table, looking at him wioth some concern. Reg aksed him, “Do you think there is any mystery about me?”

The man smiled cheerily.

“No mystery, Mr Robertson. You and your family are a delightful group, helpful to poor hotel managers and to grocery stores in trouble. You have a good reputation in this town. I was rather upset at the slur on you for killing your attacker a year ago. The police investigated that thoroughly, and you were almost killed by the attack: I remember the story plastered all over the local paper. This lot don’t mention that important fact.”

Reg had calmed down sufficiently to be able to read the story again with a more level mind.

“Ah!” he smiled to himself.

The manager enquired, “What is it, sir? If I may ask?”

This story slanders our company, Recovery Enterprise Group. I will get our QC to issue a writ to that effect, as soon as possible.”

“A writ, sir?”

“Yes. The press seem to think they can get away with defaming people currently prominent, but they overstepped themselves this time. They don’t realise I don’t fit their stereotype as victim, for I don’t regard what they say about me as anything except rubbish.

As well as the legal redress, I will need to get our company PR director to issue a statement declaring that all staff are professional researchers, and paid as such, with a track record of success to point to; and not ‘women with babies’ on the books of the company. Most men who are employed by companies also have children, but no innuedoes are made against them. The whole thrust of the article impunes the capability of the company and its staff, notwithstanding our excellent business record.

As to the killing charge, it ocurred in self defence when an unprovoked knife attack was made on me, and nearly killed me at the time.

That can go to the paper, asking for it to be printed in a prominent position, but also to other newspapers as well, ‘pour encourager les autres’.”

The manager wanted to be helpful. “Might I suggest sir, that you fortify yourself with a good breakfast before you start on that counterattack?”

“Quite so. I will make my phone calls later; I can think about them while I am enjoying your wonderful food.”

“Your cooked breakfast plate should be here imminently, Mr Robertson: ah, here we are.”

The waiter arrived bearing to two plates, and Reg made sure that the correct one was placed in front of the ravenous Sandra. As she set to without comment, Reg remarked to the manager, “The amount of food that teenagers pack away is astounding.”

His only reply was, “Yes, sir.” He was not going to comment on any guest’s hunger.

Sanra waited until she had swallowed, before saying to Reg, “You try working all night and you will see how hungry you get, sir.”

“Do we pay you a bonus for night-time duties, Sandra?”

“No sir. It is a straight hourly rate.”

“Remind me to speak to Frances about that. Night work is more tiring, I agree, and you have shown your ability to cope with everything.”

With her mouth full, she just nodded at him in gratitude for that recognition.

Reg had finished his cooked breakfast, and was working on the toast and coffee, when his phone rang. Thinking this might be the press again, he snapped it up and demanded brusquely, “Yes?”

“I see you have read the newspaper article, Reginald!” said a familiar voice. “This is Hubert Dangerfield, Freda’s father. I presume you want me to start proceedings against the newspaper: they are clearly libelling the company, not to say your good self.”

“Hi, Mr Dangerfield. Most definitely; we should take them for all we can, for this story is misleading at every turn. I thought it was slander.”

“Definitions, my dear boy. Slander is defamation that is spoken, person to person. The equivalent in print, broadcast or any other media is known in law as libel. Freda should have explained that to you.”

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it yet this morning. Do go on.”

“The editor must have let this go into the paper without checking with his lawyers. None of them would have passed it without further checking of the assumed facts. That bit about you killing a ruffian and no court case found: stupid! The details of the event were on the front page of the Scarborough News at the time, which they would have found if they had simply bothered to check their news databases. Victims don’t get taken to court as a rule, and that is the first assumption they should have made before writing that story. What made them act so stupidly, I wonder?”

“Possibly being egged on by that woman who complained to the police and got rebuffed. The female reporter seems to have been strongly influenced by her, and the story got twisted from that point on. That is all I can think.”

“Well, they are going to pay heavily for that lapse. Such a blatant attack on the company without any evidence in support makes me think I should claim for two million in damages to the company’s reputation and possible losses resulting.”

“Wow! You really think that will play with the court? I am not arguing with your judgement, sir; just amazed.”

“The claim will be for two - no, two and a half million. We will be lucky to get a million and a half, in my view, but the courts are strong on punishing the media for getting their facts wrong and hurting business and people, so we shall see.”

Reg suddenly became aware of the time.

“Sir, what are you doing in your office so early?”

“Reginald, I am speaking from home. I made sure to have THAT paper delivered here this morning, so I could check what they would say. I read the facts as provided by your local editor, and he was very circumspect in what he told them. The facts were accurate in the way he wrote it, but the Trumpet twisted things to suit their own agenda, and in doing so hurriedly, they blundered into business law without checking with their legal people.

I will ask Jenny to get things into motion, so that when I get in to the office we are ready to slap a writ on them for libelling you, defaming the company, and insulting your excellent staff of executives. I am going to have fun with this one. They are going to pay costs as well, so that my fees will be paid by them.”

“Thank you, sir, for being so on the ball. I was thinking of having our PR director, Jemima Robson, prepare a press release rebutting all the claims made in the newspaper. Can we still do that?”

“Oh, yes. Belt and braces, my lad: belt and braces. Get her to word it purely in terms of facts; say nothing about the writs. Send it to all the national papers and the company’ll get good publicity out of it. The old adage about ‘no such thing as bad publicity’ has some truth behind it at times. Tell her to keep to the simple facts and do not elaborate further.”

“Right, sir. Thanks again. I am glad we don’t have to pay your bill for this one!”

“Goodbye, my boy. Give my love to Freda and her little one.”

“Will do, sir.”

The call concluded, Reg sat back and reckoned his day was going to be occupied with the fallout from the newspaper story. There was enough in it to be slightly perturbed, but not enough to make him too worried.