Timescape

to do it, but this evening I feel a little selfish. It’s not just your being out all the time. It’s been a long hard day, one thing after another. I had to queue up for hours, they were out of meat everywhere, I can’t get anyone to come and fix the loo for a whole bloody fortnight, and someone broke the lock on the garage today and stole a bunch of tools.”

“They did? You didn’t tell me.”

“You gave me no chance. I can never reach you at the bloody lab. And Nicky came home from school in tears because Miss Crenshaw, of all people, has up and gone off to Tristan da Cunha with no notice or anything, and you know how devoted Nicky was to her. I thought the government was going to stop emigration of needed workers. I suppose Miss C. didn’t qualify as needed. Anyway I had to console Nicky. And then you phoned and said you were bringing Peterson home. Honestly, sometimes I feel just like a football for other people to kick around.”

“Why don’t you take a day off? Go into London shopping? Buy yourself a dress. Go to the theater.”

“Alone?”

“You choose the day and I promise I’ll come up in the evening and meet you for a play. How about that? So long as it’s not one of those new-style gloom-and-doom pieces. The world’s in bad enough shape already without that.”

She laughed, mollified. “Oh, things are not as bad as everyone makes out. The world’s been through worse times. Think of the Black Death. Or the Second World War. We’ll survive all this too. Yes, I think a day in London is a good idea. I haven’t bought any new clothes for ages. Oh, John, I feel a lot better now. And you know, you don’t really have to stay this evening. I know you’re dying to get back to your work.”

“I’ll stay,” he said firmly. “Tell me more about what was taken from the garage. You know, it’s high time we had an alarm system installed. Do you think it was those squatters up at the old farm?”

“Oh my God, John,” she wailed suddenly, “look at the souffle! It’s flat as a pancake!” She sat down heavily and stared at it. Then she started to laugh. Her laughter merged gradually into sobbing. John stood behind her, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

“Don’t take on so, luv,” he kept saying.

Finally she dried her eyes and sat up. “Well, I’m not hungry anymore anyway. I don’t want to eat the beastly thing. I’m exhausted. But the kids haven’t had dinner. I suppose I’ll have to get them something.”

She started to get up, but John pushed her back into her seat. “No, you don’t. I’ll open a tin of soup for them or something. You go off to bed. You look all in. Don’t worry about a thing. I’m staying home this evening and I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks, John, you’re a dear. Yes, I really think I will go to bed.”

She watched him go into the kitchen and stood up wearily. Then she almost started to laugh again. Just an hour or two ago, she had been feeling starved of sex because John was so seldom home. Now he was home for the evening and she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open long enough to get to bed. Bloody marvelous, wasn’t it?

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

SHE APPEARED ON TIME AT THEIR AGREED-UPON meeting place, the low stone wall in front of King’s. Peterson hesitated for only an instant, rummaging for the phrase that would call up her name. Ah, yes, Laura-at- Bowes. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, smoothing her dress with dainty hands.

He murmured something in automatic reply, struck again by how pretty she was. He noticed with amusement that she was wearing a simple dress that was a copy of one of Sarah’s models. A good copy. It would have fooled almost anyone.

Laura was impressed with the car, a late model custom-modified for him. She looked wonderingly at the bossed wood and understated dash, yet said nothing. Trying to appear blase, he judged. Even Sarah, who must have been sophisticated at age five, had exclaimed over the interior. Come to think of it, the only person he could recall who had not been impressed was Renfrew. He wondered what that meant.

When they entered the restaurant, some miles outside Cambridge, the head waiter apparently recognised him. The other male diners didn’t; it was Laura who drew the stares. Gin-and-tonics, opulent linen napkins, the usual. Laura looked round the room in a way suggesting that she was taking mental notes for her friends. Impressive, he supposed, but stylistically a hodge-podge. Basically an English country inn with touches of French elegance that didn’t fit. The chintz, the large stone fireplace filled now with plants for the summer, the beamed ceiling, the low round oak tables—all were comfortably familiar, solid. The chandeliers and tinted mirrors were wrong. Doubly so for the flatplate TV giving a not-quite-right view of a French courtyard, with distant moving figures in the fields, farmers apparently gathering hay. And the fake Louis XVI half-round side-table with its bowed gilt legs was simply a monstrosity.

“Frangers!” Laura exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said.

She remarked very precisely, “I wonder what the rognons de veau flambe is like? And the cotes d’agneau a l’ail?”

“The first, probably so-so. They’re big on flaming here. The second, more likely adolescent mutton than real lamb. Your French is quite good.” Might as well get that in. He phrased a longer compliment in French.

“Sorry, I only speak food.”

He laughed, pleased to find a touch of wit in her.

They discussed shiplifting in Bowes & Bowes; Peterson had deflected most of her questions about Council matters. “Why not a guard at the door, searching briefcases?” he asked.

“Mr. Smythe wants ours to remain a gentlemen’s establishment, where the customers don’t feel they’re under suspicion.”

Peterson recalled a time when one could count on having rooms in college, and was given sherry when one went round to one’s tutor, and wore a white dinner jacket for the May Balls. Now all the colleges admitted women, and women shared rooms with the men if they liked, and there was even an all-gay college, and academic gowns weren’t required anywhere.

She went on about how rude the students were today. He nodded, guessing that this was the sort of thing she expected he would like to hear. Not far wrong, actually. But it was her charm that interested him, not her opinions.

He brought his mind to bear on the situation. It seemed like a straightforward problem in the timeless sexual game. Perhaps it was the predictability of it that explained his inattention to detail; he had to force himself to follow the thread of her talk. She wanted to get into films or maybe acting, check. A flat in London if she could only find some way to move, right. Cambridge was dull, unless you liked the dreadful academic sort of amusements. She felt something really did need fixing in the current political situation, but had no suggestions as to what that might be. No surprises, but she was awfully pretty and had a graceful way of moving.

She accepted all of the vegetables that arrived in silver dishes, each in its own sauce. Probably didn’t get much variety at home, particularly since the French crop failures. He speculated for a moment about whether the Council should have stepped in on that one, ruling out the new techniques, and then pushed the subject back into place; no point in dwelling on past issues.

Since he was having trouble focusing, he began directing the flow of talk. It was easy enough to work in a recent state function, slide a few names past at the right speed to be understood, but not so slowly that she would suspect he was dropping them in deliberately. Then he slipped in a reference to Charles and she blurted, “Do you really know the King?” Actually he was on respectful and professional terms with Charles, but had no hesitation in exaggerating the relationship as far as believable. He felt confident that she did not even notice the discreet gesture with which he ordered another half bottle from the wine waiter. She was getting slightly giggly now. He took advantage of it to try rather more risque stories on her. At one point she covered her glass with her hand, protesting that she had had enough. He set the bottle down and started to tell her the salacious details behind the Duke of Shropshire’s recent divorce. He quickly got to the scene in court when the famous “headless” photo was