Matter

century: 100 years

decade: 10 years

year: 1 year

Epilogue

Senble Holse was hunched over a tub with a washboard, furiously scrubbing, when her husband walked in. He came through the doorway of the apartment in the company of a smoothly handsome, ringlet-haired blond gent and holding the hand of a strange-looking little boy. She watched, open-mouthed, as he nodded to her.

“Mrs Holse,” he said. He walked to the centre of their cramped living room, put his hands on his hips — the odd-looking child still kept a determined hold of his hand — and gazed around. He was dressed rather well, even for a prince’s servant, and looked better than ever he had; well-fed and sleek. The twins had taken one look and yelped; they were hiding behind her skirts, holding on fit to drag her to her knees and peeking round, one on each side.

“You look well, my dear,” he said. He caught sight of the youngest, hiding behind the door into the bedroom. He waved. There was a thin cry and the door banged shut. He laughed and looked back at her. “Young Choubris?”

“At school!” Senble told him.

“Good.” He nodded. “Oh,” he said with a smile. (His teeth looked wrong; far too pale and even.) “Where’s my manners, eh?” He nodded at the glossy-looking man standing smiling at his side. “Senble, dearest; meet Mr Klatsli Quike.”

The fellow nodded slowly. “An honour, ma’am.” He was carrying a small pile of boxes bound with ribbons.

“Mr Quike will be staying with us,” Holse announced breezily. “And this here,” he said, waving the hand holding that of the odd-looking, very serious-seeming little boy, “is Toark. Toark Holse as he shall be known henceforth. We’ll be adopting him. Mr Quike is a man of considerable abilities who finds himself at something of a loose end and with a sentimental attachment to our dear homeworld, while little Toark here is an orphan of war, and so much in need of love and a settled family life, the poor little soul.”

Senble had had enough. She threw the wet washing back into the tub, wiped her hands once on her skirts, pulled herself up to her best height — detaching the twins, who ran for the bedroom and disappeared, squealing — and said, “Not a word, not a word for an entire year, then you march in here, bold as you like, not a word of apology, telling me there’s gents going to be staying with us and bringing me another mouth to feed when we’ve no room in here as it is even without you being back let me add and no money to spend anyway even if we did have the room, which we don’t—”

“Now, dear,” Holse said, picking up the young lad and sitting him on his knee as he settled himself in his old chair by the window. The little boy buried his face in Holse’s shoulder. “We shall have a much bigger and far better set of rooms by this evening, Mr Quike informs me, isn’t that right, Mr Quike?”

“It is, sir,” Quike said, flashing dazzling teeth. He put the pile of ribbon-wrapped boxes on the kitchen table and produced an official-looking letter from his jacket. “Your new lease, ma’am,” he said, showing it to her. “For one year.”

“Paid for in advance,” Holse said, nodding.

“Using what?” Senble asked loudly. “You won’t even get your servant’s pension now, not under this new lot, citizen. I’m owing — you owe half a year’s rent on this place. I thought you must be the bailiffs when you marched in here, I did!”

“Money is not going to be a problem for us from this point on, dearest, I think you’ll find.” Holse nodded at the washtub. “And you shall have servants to do that sort of thing, to protect your delicate hands.” He was looking round for something. “You seen my pipe, love?”

“It’s where you left it!” Senble told him. She didn’t know whether to hug the rogue or slap him about the face with the wet washing. “What’s all that anyway?” she asked, nodding at the pile of boxes on the table.

“Presents for the children,” Holse explained. “For the birthdays I’ve missed. And this,” he said, reaching into his jacket and producing a slim box, also bound with ribbons, “is for you, my dear.” He handed it to her.

She looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a present, dearest. A bracelet.”

She made a humphing noise and thrust the box into her apron pocket without opening it. Holse looked hurt.

“And where’s all this money coming from?” Senble asked. She glared at this Quike fellow, who smiled gracefully back. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally won something at the betting!”

“In a sense, dear,” Holse told her. “The money will be coming from a fund set aside for special circumstances by some new friends I’ve made.” He waved one hand airily. “Mr Quike will be handling the financial side of things.”

“And what do you propose to do?” Senble demanded. “If this is a betting win you know damn well you’ll just gamble it all away again next week and we’ll be back to hiding from the constable’s men and pawning the brass, which is already pawned, I might add.”

“Oh, I’m going into a career in politics, me dear,” Holse said matter-of-factly. He was still holding the shy young boy and patting his back, reassuring him.

Senble threw back her head and laughed. “Politics? You?”

“Politics me indeed,” Holse said, smiling broadly at her. She was still distracted by those teeth. “I shall be a man of the people, yet one who has been places and seen things and made friends such as you would entirely not believe, my dear. I’m better connected, upwards and downwards — WorldGod be praised — than you could possibly imagine. Also, as well as my earthy charm, native cunning and other natural abilities I shall have an inexhaustible supply of money,” (Quike smiled, as though to confirm this outrageous statement), “which I understand is a not un-useful attribute in the political sphere of life, and I shall additionally have a rather better knowledge of my fellow politicians’ tastes and foibles than they will ever have of mine. I shall probably make a very good parliamentarian and an even better First Minister.”

“What?” Senble said, incredulously.

“Meanwhile Mr Quike here will be keeping me honest and making sure I don’t become a — what was that word, Mr Quike?”

“Demagogue, sir,” Quike said.

“Making sure I don’t become a demagogue,” Holse went on. “So, it’s politics for me, my dear. It’s an ignominious end for a man of my earlier ambitions, I realise, and not one I’d have wished on myself; however, somebody’s got to do it, it might as well be me and I think I can confidently say I shall bring a new, fresh and wider perspective to our petty political scene which will be good for the Sarl, good for Sursamen and very good indeed for you and me, my darling. I don’t doubt I shall be most affectionately remembered by later generations and will probably have streets named after me, though I shall aspire to a square or two and possibly even a rail terminus. Now, where did you say that pipe was, dearest?”

Senble went to the mantelpiece, grabbed the pipe from its little stand and threw it at him. “There!” she shouted. “You madman!”

Holse flinched. The pipe hit him on the shoulder and fell to the floorboards but did not break. He lifted it with his free hand. “Thank you, my dear. Most kind.” He stuck the pipe in his mouth and settled back in the seat with a contented sigh, legs extended. Little Toark no longer had his head buried in his shoulder; he was looking out at the city now on this sunny, fresh and beautiful day.

Holse smiled at the still thunderstruck-looking Senble and then glanced up at Quike. “Ah, family life, eh?”