The subject of Sarah was dropped as soon as they entered the main building by the kitchen door. Cordelia remarked how little it had changed in the thirteen years since she had left. She and Paddy were deep in the old-pals-together routine by the time they arrived at the dining hall; it was only the presence of the Longnor House prefects and their friends which changed the subject. On sitting down to eat, Lindsay was immediately collared by the irrepressible Caroline, who demanded, “Do you mostly work for magazines like New Left, then?”

Lindsay shook her head. “No, I usually write for newspapers, actually. There’s not a vast amount of cash in writing for magazines—especially the heavy weeklies. So I do most of my work for the nationals.”

“Do you write the things you want to write and then try to sell them? Is that how it works?”

“Sometimes. Mostly, I put an idea for a story to them and if they like it, either I write it or a staff journalist works on it. But I also work on a casual basis doing shifts on a few of the popular dailies in Glasgow, where I live now.”

Caroline looked horrified. “You mean you work for the gutter press? But you’re supposed to be a socialist and a feminist. How can you possibly do that?”

Lindsay sighed and swallowed the mouthful of food she’d managed to get into her mouth between answers. “It seems to me that since the popular press governs the opinions of a large part of the population, there’s a greater need for responsible journalism there than there is in the so-called ‘quality’ press. I reckon that if people like me cop out then it’s certainly not going to get any better; in fact, it’s bound to get worse. Does that answer your question?”

Cordelia, who had been listening to the conversation with a sardonic smile on her face, butted in. “It sounds awfully like someone trying to justify herself, not a valid argument at all.”

A look of fury came into Lindsay’s eyes. “Maybe so,” she retorted. “But I think you can only change things from inside. I know the people I work with, and they know me well enough to take me seriously when I have a go at them about writing sexist rubbish about attractive blonde divorcees. What I say might not make them change overnight but I think that, like water dripping on a stone, it’s gradually wearing them down.”

Caroline couldn’t be repressed for long. “But I thought the journalists’ union has a rule against sexism? Why don’t you get the union to stop them writing all that rubbish about women?”