I left him making notes from the Dictionary of National Biography and went to buy a fresh parking card. When I got back to the car a large, familiar and not too welcome figure was waiting beside it.
Molly Abershaw greeted me by saying that the fellows on the taxi rank had spotted my car and suggested that I wouldn't be long in returning to it. Today she was in a multi-coloured poncho that she had probably bought from the Latin-American craft shop, i thought you'd like an early copy.' She handed me an Evening Telegraph.
The main story was headed PROFESSOR'S RESCUE PLUNGE. I read it rapidly. Clearly Mat and I could have saved ourselves some trouble if we'd picked up a telephone instead of peering over the wall of John Brydon House. Professor Jackman was confirmed as the hero of Pulteney Weir.
Molly Abershaw beamed and said, 'I must admit I'm quite chuffed with it. This has been my story from the beginning. It's really satisfying when you can follow it up like this.'
'So you spoke to the professor yourself?'
'After Mat put me on to him, yes. He's a bright lad.'
'Do you mean Mat?'
Molly Abershaw quivered with amusement. 'Both, I assume, but I did mean Mat, yes.' It was clear from the way she continued to smile that she had something else to raise. 'You didn't mind me speaking to Mat?'
'How could I object?' I said reasonably. I refused to be lured into saying anything controversial. 'He answers the phone if I'm out.'
'Very capably, too. Most kids his age speak in monosyllables. I'm sure the school makes a difference.'
'Possibly.' I was wary. I didn't want the school mentioned in the paper again and nor did Mat.
'May I ask, will you be going to see Professor Jackman to thank him personally?'
This was where Mat would have blurted out a graphic account of the incident at John Brydon House. Thanks to Mr Fortescue and his history assignment, however, the press was denied a salacious story. I answered with well-chosen words, 'We'll find some way of expressing our thanks, certainly.'
'I knew you would, and I can arrange it for you.'
'Oh, that won't be necessary,' I said quickly.
'You do want to meet him?'
'Yes, but -' My poise was gone.
'Shake his hand and all that?'
'Well, I expect so.'
'He's going to be at Waterstone's bookshop tomorrow. There's a signing by Ted Hughes and all the local literati are invited.'
'I couldn't possibly go.'
'Why not? It's open to the public. That's the point of these parties. It's all about selling books. You and Matthew-can sidle up to the professor and have a quiet word with him over a drink. Much easier than calling at his house or going up to the university.'
I wavered. It did sound painless.
Molly Abershaw added, 'And Mat won't have to take any time off school.'
'He's quite busy with services on Sunday.'
'In the afternoon?'
I conceded that on balance no better opportunity was likely to present itself for expressing thanks to Professor Jackman. Fickle creature that I am, I found myself wondering what to wear.
'I'll probably see you there, then,' said Molly Abershaw.
Chapter Five
THAT SUNDAY LUNCHTIME, WATERSTONE'S BOOKSHOP in Milsom Street was teeming with people wanting a glimpse of the Poet Laureate, or his autograph. Just out of the scrum, Mat and I were at a temporary standstill between the fantasy and crime sections. We were keeping watch for another distinguished man.
Mat, under heavy protest, was in his red and white striped school blazer, grey trousers, white shirt and tie. I'd told him he couldn't turn up to an occasion like this in his usual Sunday choice of teeshirt and jeans, which the choir wore under their cassocks at the Abbey services. He'd grumbled to me that if any of his form-mates spotted him walking up Milsom Street in school uniform, his life would be hell next time he saw them. I'd pointed out that I could expect some flak myself from the taxi drivers if they saw me in a skirt.
'That's him!' Matthew said suddenly.
'Where?'
'In that group on the far side, close to the books.'
'There are books all around us.'
'Against the wall, under the fiction notice, just in front of the woman with the green hat. He's with the tall black man and that bald man with a bow tie.'
'Is that him?' I said. 'I imagined he was taller when I saw him on the television.'
'That's him all right,' Matthew insisted. 'He is quite tall.'
'Well, yes. It does look like him. You're right.'
Professor Jackman was talking animatedly to the people with him. With the black moustache and darting eyes and the hands vigorously reinforcing what he was saying, he looked more like a gondolier haggling over a fare than an academic. A communicator, obviously. No doubt his lectures were worth attending. I found myself wanting to get closer to hear what he was saying. Yet I was petrified by the prospect of interrupting him to introduce my son and myself. His reaction was impossible to predict.
Matthew, too, shrank from seizing the opportunity now that it had come. 'His hair is standing up more than when I saw him,' he said to me, blatantly marking time. 'Of course, it was wet. And he wasn't wearing a jacket.'
'That one is tailor-made, by the look of it,' I murmured. 'He must be hot.'
'So am I,'said Mat.
'There's a woman serving orange juice over there,' I said. 'Shall we see if it's for everyone?'
We'd not moved a couple of steps when I felt my arm touched and held. The air was warmer and there was a clank of metal jewellery. Molly Abershaw had found us.
'You're heading in the wrong direction, my loves. He's over there. My, you're looking smart, Mat. Come on, I'll introduce you.'
She cleared a route across the room, with Mat and me following like foot soldiers after a tank. The group around the professor was still listening keenly to his conversation.
'Professor Jackman?'
'Yes?' He turned, eyebrows raised at being interrupted in mid-flow.
'My name is Molly Abershaw. We spoke on the phone yesterday morning. I'm from the Evening Telegraph:
The muscles at the edge of his mouth tightened. 'I thought it was agreed, Miss Abershaw, that I don't have any more to say to the press.'
The tank might have stopped advancing in one sense, but in another it trundled on. 'Relax, Professor. I'm not asking for a statement. I just want to introduce somebody to you – well, it's more of a reunion than an introduction, in point of fact. Remember young Matthew?' She placed her hand on Mat's shoulder as if there might be some uncertainty in identifying him. 'You can say your piece,
Before Matthew opened his mouth, Professor Jackman said tersely, 'There's no need.'
This is his mother, Mrs Didrikson,' said Molly Abershaw. 'They've come here specially to meet you.'
The bald man with the bow tie said, 'What's this, Greg -your past catching up with you?'
Molly Abershaw took a tighter grip on Matthew's shoulder and pushed him closer to the professor, saying at the same time, 'Stand back, Mrs Didrikson.'
Then a fresh voice said, 'Professor, would you look this way please?'
A camera flashed.
It was unexpected by everyone except the photographer and Molly Abershaw. In the mass of people I hadn't
