Deadheads

'The Principal says we will all be well looked after in the new Institute,' he now said anxiously. 'But, Ellie, I keep on hearing this voice saying you will now all der shower be taking; please to form der orderly line and into der shower be moving.'

Finally he left. At the door Ellie asked when the department would like the scripts returned.

'Oh, a couple of days,' he said vaguely. 'With all this time on your hands, it shouldn't take you long.'

She had closed the door with great force and made a rude gesture at the trembling woodwork. But the scripts had to be read and the sooner the better. The only firm commitment she had the following day was coffee with Daphne Aldermann again. They had met in the Chantry on Monday as arranged and she'd enjoyed it so much that she'd offered no resistance when Daphne, obviously thirsty for friendship, suggested Wednesday and insisted they should return to the Market Caff. It had been this gesture towards democracy which had persuaded Ellie that, scripts or no scripts, she shouldn't put the meeting off, and to find herself stood up had not pleased her, though she had no doubt there was a perfectly adequate explanation.

And when after an hour of yawning her way through the scripts as though her jaw were seeking a physical dislocation to match the logical and linguistic ones which abounded therein, she snatched up the phone and heard Daphne's voice, it was this perfectly adequate explanation she expected to receive.

Instead Daphne said abruptly, 'I want to see you.'

'You do? Now, if you'd been in the Market Caff at nine-thirty as arranged, you might just have managed it,' replied Ellie with spirit.

'I'll come round,' said Daphne. 'I just wanted to check you were home.'

'Yes, I'm at home. And I'm also extremely busy marking exam scripts,' said Ellie, feeling all her irritation welling up. 'Daphne, what is it . . .'

The phone went dead.

Puzzled, Ellie replaced the receiver. Trouble was imminent, she felt sure of that. Daphne had sounded cold and hostile as only the well-brought-up English girl can sound cold and hostile. Ellie had read enough Marxist interpretation of history to know that the wrath of the bourgeoisie was not to be taken lightly.

She returned uneasily to her marking.

Half an hour later the doorbell rang.

'You found it then,' said Ellie inanely.

‘It wasn't easy,' said Daphne accusingly.

Ellie guessed that the taut fury which she had sensed behind the telephone call had slackened off to some extent during the drive, and now Daphne was seeking new devices to renew the tension. Ellie resolved to make things difficult for her.

'I'm so glad to see you,' she smiled. 'You've no idea what a hundred exam scripts with half an idea between them can do to the brain.'

'No, I wouldn't have, would I? Middle-class reactionaries with kids at private schools aren't intellectual enough to recognize even half an idea, are they?'

There was a fine high colour in her cheeks, the divided emblem of anger and embarrassment. It made her look extraordinarily attractive. If I caught a man thinking that, I'd call him a sexual fascist, Ellie thought.

She said, 'Daphne, something's upset you . . .'

'Sharp!' mocked the other, now fast re-approaching the pole of her cold biting anger. 'Really keen! What I wouldn't give for such sensitivity! Well, I may be just a plain little pawn in the class war, but at least I'm not the kind of two-faced bitch who goes around spying on her friends!'

Ellie had retreated into the lounge where she was working, with Rose in her carrycot lying at the open french window and gurgling at the sparrows quarrelling over scraps on the bird table. She now subsided into an armchair so that Daphne towered over her.

'You don't look much like a plain little pawn from here,' she observed, still determined not to react. 'Daphne, please, forget the forensic fire and just tell me in plain words what you're talking about.'

'Oh, don't pretend you don't know,' said Daphne, attempting a sneer which came close to being a sob.

'I may have my suspicions, but I won't know till you tell me,' said Ellie. 'And if you could sit down first, I'd appreciate it.'

Daphne hesitated, then sat on the edge of a high, wing-chair. Rosie, momentarily attracted by the prospect of quarrelling adults, decided that size was no substitute for savagery and returned her attention to the sparrows.

'Just answer me one thing,' said Daphne. 'Yes or no. Did you know when you decided to take me under your little left wing that your husband was in charge of an investigation intomine!'

'Oh dear,' said Ellie, her worst fears confirmed.

'Yes or no!' insisted Daphne, latching on instantly to this hint of assent.

'It's not as simple as that,' protested Ellie. 'Any simple answer to that question accepts all the implications of the question, which I don't.'

'Oh come on!' said Daphne. 'Don't play the nit-picking academic with me. It's a simple question.'

'And don't you play the WI plate-cake and flower-arrangement dummy with me!' retorted Ellie, happy to let go now she knew what she was into, it's not a simple question and you know it. Let's get my reasons for making your acquaintance quite clear for a start. First, I gave you a lift because it was raining. Nothing more. I'd no idea who you were. All right, I did work out you were a St Helena parent and it did amuse me to see your reaction when you spotted the placard in the car, but my motive was simple humanity. Second, I didn't decide to take you under my little left wing, though I must say I quite admire the phrase. It was just that as I talked to you, well, I found I liked you.'