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51.

Our staff sensed the friction, read the press, and thus there was frequent bickering around the

office. Sides were taken. Team Cambridge versus Team Sussex. Rivalry, jealousy, competing

agendas—it all poisoned the atmosphere.

It didn’t help that everyone was working around the clock. There were so many demands from

the press, such a constant stream of errors that needed clearing up, and we didn’t have nearly

enough people or resources. At best we were able to address 10 percent of what was out there.

Nerves were shattering, people were sniping. In such a climate there was no such thing as

constructive criticism. All feedback was seen as an affront, an insult.

More than once a staff member slumped across their desk and wept.

For all this, every bit of it, Willy blamed one person. Meg. He told me so several times, and he

got cross when I told him he was out of line. He was just repeating the press narrative, spouting

fake stories he’d read or been told. The great irony, I told him, was that the real villains were the

people he’d imported into the office, people from government, who didn’t seem impervious to this

kind of strife—but addicted to it. They had a knack for backstabbing, a talent for intrigue, and they

were constantly setting our two groups of staff against each other.

Meanwhile, in the midst of all this, Meg managed to remain calm. Despite what certain people

were saying about her, I never heard her speak a bad word about anybody, or to anybody. On the

contrary, I watched her redouble her efforts to reach out, to spread kindness. She sent out

handwritten thank-you notes, checked on staff who were ill, sent baskets of food or flowers or

goodies to anyone struggling, depressed, off sick. The office was often dark and cold, so she

warmed it up with new lamps and space heaters, all bought with her personal credit card. She

brought pizza and biscuits, hosted tea parties and ice-cream socials. She shared all the freebies she

received, clothes and perfumes and makeup, with all the women in the office.

I stood back in awe at her ability, or determination, to always see the good in people. The size

of her heart was really brought home for me one day. I learned that Mr. R, my former upstairs

neighbor when I was in the badger sett, had suffered a tragedy. His adult son had died.

Meg didn’t know Mr. R. Neither did she know the son. But she knew the family had been my

neighbors, and she’d often seen them walking their dogs. So she felt tremendous sorrow for them,

and wrote the father a letter, expressing condolences, telling him she wanted to give him a hug but

didn’t know if it would be appropriate. With the letter she included a gardenia, to plant in the son’s

memory.

A week later Mr. R appeared at our front door at Nott Cott. He handed Meg a thank-you note

and gave her a tight hug.

I felt so proud of her, so regretful about my feud with Mr. R.

More, I felt regretful about my family feuding with my wife.