Timescape

skylight. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in.

“God, Markham would have been back here tomorrow and we’d have had the Brookhaven backing. Who’s going to speak for us now?”

“Mr. Peterson said he was prepared to help, the last time he was here.”

“I don’t trust the fellow. But if I could at least get in touch with him, God damn it!”

He went over to the water fountain and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He kicked it.

“I never thought I’d live to see water rationing in England,” he said, “and it’s raining cats and dogs, too. ‘Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.’ I remember learning that one at school. ‘And slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea,’ yes.” He snorted. “It’ll be the red cliffs of Dover soon.”

“Why don’t you go home?” Jason suggested. “I’ll stick here in case there’s a call from London.”

“Home?” Renfrew said vaguely. Once, Marjorie had been the first person to turn to in times of stress. Her capable motherly presence and simple optimism had always reassured him. But now she was edgy and nervous all the time. He suspected she was drinking too much. He had mentioned as much to her once, but she had flown off the handle, so he hadn’t brought it up again. Her innate good sense would pull her through, he was sure. And the kids. He hadn’t even seen them, except briefly, for a month. They got up late, since there was no school, so he didn’t even see them at breakfast. Yes, perhaps he should go home. Try to make contact with his family again.

Leaving the lab, he found that someone had cut through the chain and stolen his bicycle.

•  •  •

It was evening and dark by the time he got home. He stood wearily on the porch and shook the rain off his coat. His key turned in the lock but the door was chained on the inside. He rattled it, but no one came. He pressed the bell, realizing as he did so that there were no lights on in the house so the bell wouldn’t work either. Turning up his coat collar, he left the shelter of the porch and squished round to the back. The kitchen door was locked, too. Peering through the window, he saw Marjorie sitting at the table in flickering candlelight. He rapped on the window pane. She looked up, screamed. The candle went out and there was a crash.

“Marjorie!” he shouted. “Marjorie! It’s me, John.”

A thumping. The chain rattled. She opened the back door.

“Don’t do that,” she complained. “My God, you almost gave me a heart attack. Now I can’t find the damn candle. It fell on the floor somewhere.” She locked the door behind him. “I’ll get another one.”

In the dark he heard her fumbling round, banging cupboard doors. His feet crunched on what sounded like broken glass on the floor. He smelled whisky. She never used to drink whisky. A match burst orange; wan candlelight sent their shadows leaping up the kitchen walls.

“Why in heaven’s name don’t you use more than one candle?” he asked.

“Because you can be sure that will be the next thing the country will run out of.”

“Where are the kids?”

“Good heavens, John, they’re at my brother’s. I told you that. They were just trailing around here twiddling their thumbs so I thought they’d have more fun with their cousins. They can help with the harvest. If the rain doesn’t completely wipe it out.”

She bent to pick up the pieces of broken glass from the floor.

He started to ask if there was anything for dinner, then tactfully reworded it. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.” She gave a little giggle. “I drank my dinner instead. It saves trouble.”

The giggle reminded him of the old bouncy Marjorie. With a strange surge of feeling he reached out and took her hands.

“Damn!” He jerked back, sucking his thumb where a splinter of glass had cut him.

“You silly bugger,” she said unsympathetically. “You could see what I was doing.” She threw the pieces of glass into the trash and wiped the floor with a sponge.

“You never used to drink whisky,” he said, watching her.

“It’s quicker. I know what you’re thinking. You’re afraid I’m becoming an alcoholic. But I know when to stop. I just drink enough to take the edge off things.”

“How about some food then?”

“Help yourself,” she shrugged. “You could open a tin of beans and heat it on The gas ring. Or there’s some cheese in the larder.”

“You know, it’s not a whole lot of fun to come home on a rainy night to a cold dark house, and not even any dinner.”

“I don’t see how you can blame me because it’s cold and dark. What am I supposed to do, burn the furniture? And it’s the first time you’ve come home this early in God knows how long and since you didn’t let me know, you could hardly expect to find dinner ready. John, you have no idea how awful it is to shop for food these days. You have to queue up for hours— literally—and then there’s practically nothing to be had anyway.”

“I don’t know, Marjorie. You always used to be so resourceful. We ought to be better oft than most people. We could kill a chicken, and then there’s your vegetable garden.”

“God, John, sometimes I feel as if you’d been away for months. The chickens were stolen weeks ago. All of them. And I know I told you. As for the vegetables, am I supposed to go slopping around there in the rain looking for a leftover potato or two? It’s the end of September. The garden’s a swamp now anyway.”

The lights came back on suddenly. The refrigerator whirred. They blinked, two people confronted with each other without the shadowy softenings. A silence fell. John fidgeted.

“Heather’s mother died,” she said abruptly. “Well, it’s a happy release. Not like Greg Markham. God, that was a shock. It’s hard to believe he’s dead. He seemed so—well, so alive. And Heather and James lost their jobs, you know.”

“Don’t tell me any more bad news,” he said gruffly and disappeared into the larder.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

MARJORIE HOPED JOHN WOULD BE HOME SOON. HE had worked past midnight every night this week. She ran a hand through her hair, eyed her empty glass. Better not. She’d had three already. Was this how one became an alcoholic? She got up suddenly, turned on the radio and the stereo at high volume. A cacophony of sound blared through the room, a jazz band clashing against a trio of Latin singers, bringing a kind of life. She went through the ground floor again, turning on all the lights. Conservation be damned. Her nerves were jumping and she was having a little difficulty focusing her eyes. After all, what was there to stay sober for? She picked up her glass and headed for the sideboard.

Halfway across the room she stopped, catching some half-heard sound. Lottie was barking furiously, shut up in the laundry room. She hesitated, then turned down the radio and stereo. This time it was unmistakably the front doorbell. She stood in the middle of the room. Who would… ? The bell rang again. Then a knock. How silly of her! As if a prowler would knock at the door. It was probably a friend. Yes, thank God, someone to talk to, spend the evening with. She hurried to the hall, turned on the porch light. Through the stained glass window to the left of the door she saw the silhouette of a man. Panic seized her again. Distant thunder growled. She took a deep breath, then leaned against the door and called out as calmly as she could manage, “Who is it?”

“Ian Peterson.”

She stared blankly at the door for a moment, mind a blur. She slowly slid back the chain and the two bolts and opened the door a crack. His hair was ruffled. His jacket showed wrinkles and he wore no tie. A wave of embarrassment ran over her as she realized what a sight she must present, too, with her hair awry, clutching an empty glass in one hand and dressed, for God’s sake, in a tatty old sundress because it was so hot. She smoothed her dress with one sticky hand and tried to hide the glass behind her with the other.