Pascoe followed his gaze and saw that when he'd grabbed for the phone he must have knocked the urn off the table. It had cracked open when it hit the floor and a spoor of ash marked where it had rolled a few inches.
Pascoe replaced the telephone.
'Can't argue with fate, ' he said, trying to establish control.
He picked up the urn and scattered the ashes into the corners of the dugout where, as Studholme had forecast, they blended in imperceptibly.
He felt he ought to say something. But what? It would either come out flip, or pseudo-religious, which was worse. In the end he contented himself with thinking, there you go, Ada. This world was a bit of a disappointment to you. I hope the next comes up to scratch.
It was a relief to get back to the ground floor.
Studholme said, 'Got a number? I'll check through our records, see if I can get any details on your great- grandfather's time in the regiment if you like. Or would you rather put all that behind you?'
'No, I'd be interested,' said Pascoe, producing a card. 'And thanks for being so helpful.'
'My pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe.'
He held out his left hand. There was a moment's awkwardness as Pascoe instinctively reached for it with his right. To cover it he said, 'By the way, that pistol. It wasn't really loaded, was it?'
Studholme said, 'One thing my father taught me was, never point a loaded weapon at anyone you're not willing to shoot.'
It wasn't till Pascoe was driving away that it dawned on him that he still didn't know if his question had been answered or not. x
1982 was a key year for the Tory Party both nationally and in Mid-Yorkshire.
At its start, Margaret Thatcher's grasp of the premiership seemed rather less secure than Richard Nixon's of the principles of democracy, while Amanda Pitt-Evenlode, nee Marvell, seemed set to be Vice President (Functions) of the Mid-Yorks Conservative Association for at least the next forty years.
Then came the Falklands War. Never (or at least not since Troy) in the field of human daftness had so many gone so far to sacrifice so much for the sake of one silly woman.
Its effect on the fortunes of the UK government is a matter of public record.
Its effect on the life of Amanda Pitt-Evenlode is less widely known.
What it came down to was this: on June 12th, 1982, she was radicalized.
Curiously it was not the news that her only son, Second Lieutenant Piers Pitt-Evenlode of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, was missing in action, believed dead, that did the trick. That came on June 7th and left her prostrate with shock and unable to register, let alone reject, the canonical comforts of her parish priest, the patriotic platitudes of her committee colleagues, or the phylogenic fortitude of her spouse, the Hon. Rupert Pitt-Evenlode, JP.
No, it was the news that Piers had been discovered alive and, apart from a few inconsequential bullet holes, well, that pricked her into life. While all around the air was full of joyful congratulation, and talk of a possible gong, and plans for the welcome-home party, all she could think of was her recent certainty that this war – any war – was a crime against humanity, and its attendant conclusion that those responsible for it, or supportive of it, or even indifferent to it, must therefore be war criminals.
She tried to pretend that such a certainty should crumble in face of her son's survival, but found she couldn't keep it up.
Other women's sons had fallen without being raised from the grave. How then could she be so arrogant as to assert the health of her own boy as the sole yardstick?
She tried to talk about her feelings with those she felt closest to, and found herself once again prayed over and patronized, and finally pushed towards a very fashionable psychiatrist who'd done wonders for Binky Bullmain's nervous flatulence.
Piers himself, far from being the hoped-for confidant, took to the role of bemedalled hero like a blowfly to dead meat and clearly regarded any hint of her new anxieties as a personal slur.
But still she looked for ways to adapt her new-found self to her family, her social circle and her political party, and still she found herself rejected like a new heart in an old body.
So she resigned from all of them.
The old Amanda Pitt-Evenlode felt a slight pang that the sighs which marked her passing contained as much relief as sorrow.
The new Mandy Marvell didn't give a toss.
She had married at seventeen, borne Piers at eighteen, and spent the next two decades performing all the duties proper to a woman of her husband's status in society. This meant that while tennis, golf and swimming kept her body in pretty good shape, her mind had fewer demands made upon it than would have stretched the ratiocinative powers of a footballer's parrot.
Now she found that one thought led to another in a most delightful way. Happily her father had died before succeeding in his avowed intent of dissipating all the wealth his father had so assiduously accrued, leaving Mandy with a sufficient private income to be able to live comfortably while at the same time paying the divorce settlement from Pitt-Evenlode straight into the coffers of various excellent charities. Her time and energy she gave generously too, but she did not miss any chance of proving all the pleasures which the hills and valleys, dales and fields, of her quiet country existence had failed to yield. She popped and snorted, drank and smoked; she read, wrote, painted and performed; she travelled widely and tried most alternatives from the religious to the medicinal.
For ten years she overwhelmed herself in experience and at this crowded decade's end she found that all she retained any real enthusiasm for was Mexican beer, the songs of Gustav Mahler, and straight sex. She even found she'd gone off the poor a bit, not in particular, but as an insoluble symptom of humanity's shittiness. Fifty was approaching fast. She wanted to do something she could see getting done. But what?
It had occurred to her from time to time as interesting though hardly significant that her strongest memories of life with the Hon. Rupert involved animals rather than people. They had started even, but as the humans faded, the beasts came into ever clearer focus. Now ten years on, with the Hon. reduced to little more than a long nose under a silly hat, she could still recall the exact disposition of the dark spots on a pair of Dalmatians called Aggers and Staggers she'd been given on her twentieth birthday. An upwardly mobile farm cat trying to ingratiate itself into smoked-salmon circles with gifts of moles and shrews was clearer to her than the infant Piers; and while she couldn't have sworn to the Hon's private parts in a line-up, the splendid equipment of Balzac, the estate's prize Charolais, was as detailed in her mind as if etched there by Stubbs.
She explained this to her current lover, an American evangelist, on their last night together before he bore his burden of souls and shekels home.
'This is your heart bleeping you, Cap. Pick up that phone and get in touch with base.'
His phraseology made her wince, but against that she set the pleasure she derived from his habit of crying 'HALLELUJAH!' at the moment of climax. And when he had gone she spoke to her heart.
Animals, her heart answered, were the unacknowledged legislators of mankind. They showed fortitude in adversity and temperance in prosperity. They had no need of prisons, nor did they prey on their own kind. Therefore the way humans treated them was the touchstone of their humanity.
To conclude was to act. Six months later her vigorous sampling of local loose coalitions of hunt saboteurs, cetaphiles, donkey sanctuarians, et cetera, had drawn to her several similarly minded women who agreed to form a more tightly knitted group which came to be known as ANIMA. That it was all female was not a conscious choice but a dynamic inevitability. Men fear more than they admire a powerful woman, and for her to rule over them she must normally usurp the masculine leadership of an already existing group. If instead she forms a new one, she will rarely attract male recruits till she is so successful, she doesn't want them.
The day after the abortive raid on Wanwood House, Cap Marvell laid the table in the kitchen of her flat for two.
It was simple fare: a large pie, a bowl of crisps, a green salad, a wedge of cheese, a jar of onions, and a couple of baguettes. By one place setting she put a tankard and three cans of draught bitter, by the other a tumbler and a bottle of Mexican beer.
At one o'clock precisely the doorbell rang.
Smiling she drew open the door.
The smile faded as she saw Wendy Walker standing in the corridor.
