A/N: I'm sorry. RL just keeps getting more and more Real, at the moment. But I haven't forgotten my readers, nor my works in progress. It's just the small matter of achieving the requisite combination of time and good old-fashioned Peace and Quiet to write in, all of which has been in somewhat short supply this year, thus far. Fortunately Malcolm understands completely, and is a very patient soul…and here, without further ado, is the Next Bit. Enjoy!
Christmas comes and goes; I spend most of the day alone on the Grid, covering for those who have families to go to, families who will miss them if they're not there, families for whom their absence matters. Ruth has gone, albeit reluctantly, to her mother's at Cheltenham, and even Harry has received an invitation to Christmas lunch, and takes himself off at noon, with a twinkle in his eye I haven't seen in a very long time. Well, and about time, too, I think philosophically as he disappears through the pods, brushing at invisible specks on his suit jacket and straightening his tie. Perhaps this means that his interest in Ruth is finally on the wane… The phone rings, and I turn around to answer it.
"Merry Christmas, mate!" Colin greets me, his voice ebullient and relaxed: he's had three, maybe four drinks, I estimate. In the background I can hear the chatter of a room full of people who are happily celebrating together; all of Colin's family were going to have Christmas at his oldest brother's in Clapham, he told me as he left last night. "Colin! Merry Christmas to you, too." I listen wistfully to the sounds of a family that enjoys spending time together; people laughing; children shouting excitedly, carols playing somewhere in the background… "Everything all right there, then?" Colin wants to know. "Yes, it's as quiet as the grave. It's just me left, now that Harry's headed off." I can practically hear Colin frowning down the line. "It's not right, Malcolm. He oughtn't to leave you there alone. You shouldn't let him use you like that. There are other people he could roster on, but he's used to you never saying no. Tell you what, next year, you're having the day off, and I'll stay on the Grid. Deal?" I smile at the indignation in his voice, and reply, "All right then, deal. But it's fine, really it is. Ruth's gone to her mother's, and Mother…well, she's used to it. I'll take her out tonight, and make it up to her." Or I'll never hear the end of it…
In the background I can hear voices calling Colin, announcing that they're ready to sit down. "Sorry, they're yelling for me now, I've got to go, but take care, yeah?" Colin says, voice sincere, and I feel a lump in my throat at his words; ah, my friend, how very dear you are to me… "And you too. Give my best to your mother," I say, and then he is gone, drawn back into a world of warmth and laughter and love. I look around, at the empty desks, the half-lit spaces, the clinical lines of the Grid, and listen to the emptiness: usually, when surrounded by the hums and clicks of technology, I find it soothing; but today it only serves to remind me that I am alone, the only beating heart in the midst of a great and impersonal machine of state. I stare into space for a while, feeling melancholy settle over me like a blanket of fog; and then I think of last night's strange encounter in St Margaret's, and recall the old gentleman's final words, There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour…scuffling around in my desk, I find a CD an old Cambridge acquaintance sent me some years ago; a live recording of the Christmas Eve service at King's College.
I slip the disc into the hard drive, and turn the volume up as the sound of the finest choir in the country, to my way of thinking, swells forth with Once in Royal David's City, the traditional opening of the festival of nine lessons and carols, and am once more transported back to my place in the narrow stalls in the ancient chapel, dressed in red and white robes, and waiting to lift my voice with the rest of the tenors…quite without realising it, I have started to sing along, and for once I don't care; there is no-one left to hear, after all, and the Grid, it turns out, has quite good acoustics…I join in with the carols, recite all the prayers, and feel my heart lightening, bit by bit, just as it had last night as I sang Silent Night; and then, I sense that someone is watching me…
Zaf stands just inside the pods, grinning widely and waiting for me to notice him; I quickly mute the music, blushing madly. "That's quite a voice you've got there, Malcolm. You should sing more often," he tells me with a grin, crossing the floor towards my desk. "Ah, erm, there's not usually much to sing about, here…the spirit of the season must have overcome me, rather," I stammer apologetically, and then it occurs to me to ask why he's here at all. Zaf sits down at his desk, fires up his machine, and replies, "You can go, Malcolm, I'm on duty now. Seeing as I don't celebrate Christmas, Harry's rostered me on for the rest of the day… didn't he tell you? Anyway, haven't you got somewhere you'd rather be…someone you'd rather see?" he winks broadly, and my heart lurches. Does everyone know? I wonder wildly, even as I methodically shut down my system, carefully ejecting the CD and putting it back in its case in my drawer. When I look in Zaf's direction again, he has already got several CCTV views of London up on his screens, his feet up on the desk, and a pair of ostentatiously large, non-issue headphones on, nodding his head to the beat of something loud and electronic… he didn't mean anything by it, I decide, and wish him good afternoon as I pull on my overcoat. I reach for my phone as I get into the Rover, and make a call. "How about Claridge's, tonight? Yes, I know…I'm sorry. I'll see you soon, then."
Several hours later, Mother faces me across the damask-clothed table in Claridge's reading room, wearing her best dress and carefully dissecting her starter of game pie with Cumberland sauce, while I address the warm salad of scallops and lobster on my own plate. "You always look so much better in white tie," Mother observes, fiddling with her new gold brooch. I smile in return; Mother loves Claridge's, and so for years I have been in the habit of reserving (and paying for) a table at both the lunch and dinner sittings. Some years we get there, others we don't…but this is one of the years that we are able to avail ourselves of the gracious ambience and subtle splendour of Christmas in the grandest hotel in the country, and Mother is pleased. "You look very elegant, yourself," I reply, and in truth, she does. In fact, in her royal blue dress and brooch, her sensibly-heeled shoes and carrying her favourite boxy black handbag, with her silver hair set and curled in the same style she has worn since about 1975, she fancies she has a passing resemblance to the Queen… and certainly she carries herself like one, when we walk into the dazzling Art Deco foyer with its black and white chequered floor and shimmering crystal chandeliers. A besuited waiter pours more wine and a string quartet plays I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, and the events of the last twenty-four hours seem very far away indeed, in this civilised cocoon.
We make our way through the courses; roast turkey, or roast goose? Christmas pudding, or a rich Italian dessert of mascarpone, chocolate, and liqueur-soaked sponge cake? Port, or brandy…the choices are endless, and not one of them has to do with life or death. It is a little oasis of gracious living in the middle of my real life, and I wish fervently that the face across the table was Ruth's, and that instead of driving back to Hampstead with Mother snoring in the passenger seat, that Ruth and I might climb the stairs to our suite, and there make love until there is nothing else in the world but the two of us, melting into each other. But this is still real life, despite the fairy-tale atmosphere of this most elegant of hotels at Christmas, and I am here with Mother, now beginning to droop after her second brandy and heaven only knows how much wine; wearily, I signal for our waiter, and ask for my car to be brought round. I cross to the cloakroom to retrieve our coats (automatically checking them for bugs with the force of habit) and Mother's red fox stole - a hideous thing with beady glass eyes that she had pestered my father to buy for years, until he had finally acquiesced, desperate for peace - and drape my white silk scarf around my neck while waiting for the Rover to appear. Mother's present to me, a glossy book about English great houses that I already know I will never read, and which will eventually take pride of place on the coffee table in her parlour, is tucked under one arm, and Mother leans heavily on the other. Glancing about me at the gorgeous Christmas decorations in the foyer, the magnificent tree hung with a thousand crystal snowflakes, the staircase wreathed with holly garlands, I suddenly catch sight of a long white winter coat and a fall of chocolate-brown hair as its wearer crosses the far end of the foyer, and turn instinctively: Ruth?!
Mother squeaks in protest as I move, craning my neck to see where she's gone; but there's nothing more to be seen, and just then, the Rover arrives at the door. Mother tugs me towards it, eager to get home to bed after her heavy meal; I hand her into the car, tip the doorman and the valet, and leave Mayfair filled with confusion and doubt. I can't be sure it was Ruth, not with just this briefest of glimpses: it was more like an impression, really, a certain height, a particular way of moving, and of course, that coat. Not many women wear a long, white wool winter coat…but she's in Cheltenham, I remind myself, unconvincingly… besides, what on earth would she be doing in one of the most expensive hotels in London? For a moment I toy with the idea of pulling over, calling Zaf and asking him to triangulate Ruth's mobile signal; but that would be a gross invasion of privacy, and a criminal misuse of Five's resources, and after wrestling with my conscience for a few seconds longer than I am strictly comfortable with, my better nature wins out, abetted by Mother's entreaties to hurry home, as she wants the W.C. Fortunately, the roads are almost empty now, and mercifully clear of slush and fog for once, and we make excellent time on the short run to Hampstead.
Once home, I wish Mother a rather perfunctory good night, citing exhaustion from the last few days on the Grid, and go straight up to my quarters, removing various articles of evening dress as soon as the dividing door has locked shut behind me, and heading straight to the bathroom for the longest, hottest shower I can stand, trying to wash away the tight knot of unease which has formed in the pit of my stomach at the sight of that long, white coat and spill of brown hair, caught in my peripheral vision. When I finally emerge, flushed pink with heat, but feeling considerably calmer, and wearing my favourite blue striped pyjamas, I retrieve my mobile phone from the confines of one of my tailcoat's pockets, and check it for messages: there are none. Come on, be reasonable, I chastise myself, she's probably just having a nice time with her mother…surely she couldn't have been flitting around Claridge's… On impulse, I send her a text.
Merry Christmas, my love. Would that you were here with me! Are you having a good time of it in Cheltenham? Then I hold the phone in my hand, staring at the screen as I sit in bed, willing it to beep and announce her reply; but it remains silent, and eventually, weariness overcomes me; I slide down under the duvet, and fall asleep still clutching the handset hopefully, despite the aching of my lonely heart, and the welter of half-formed thoughts and nameless fears swirling through my mind.
Early in the morning before my birthday, Mother goes back to Bournemouth, having successfully foiled all my attempts to find out who she might be seeing there, by the expedient and effective tactics of becoming haughty or hysterical by turns whenever I raise the subject. She goes by train, in the end, insisting only that I drive her to Waterloo Station and install her in the carriage, like some lady from the days of the Raj, travelling with an elephant-load of luggage. I recognise that this is not so much a new-found taste for independent travel, as the expression of her wish to not be alone in the car with me for a couple of hours, unable to escape my concerned questioning. Back in the Rover once more, I call Aunt Emily (who is thrilled with the hamper from Fortnum's, and the handmade silk scarf from Liberty) and ask her if she knows what's going on; she hesitates, and then admits that she had wondered, rather, if there was someone in the picture, but she knows no more than me.
My aunt agrees to call into Chalfield Manor and try to see Mother, but beyond that, there's not much more she can do. "I don't think it is someone from the bridge club, love, or if it is, he's not a regular. I'll see what I can find out, but you know what she's like…has she seen the doctor since she's been home?" my aunt asks. I sigh into the receiver. "Yes, with great reluctance. He's adjusted her medication, said she shouldn't allow herself to become over-excited, all the usual things." Aunt Emily makes a scornful hmmphing noise, and abruptly changes the subject. "How's your Rachel? She seems very nice. I'm so pleased for you!" I blush with pleasure, unable to stop myself, and tell her that 'Rachel' is very well, thank you. As far as I know, that is…I haven't heard from her in days… and she's not even answered my messages…"You really should bring her back for a visit sometime. I enjoyed meeting her, and seeing you so happy for once." I make a non-committal sound of agreement, and ring off, unwilling to be drawn any further down that particular path. Pulling out of Station Approach, I head towards Lambeth Road, working my way back across the river to Thames House, where I hope to find Ruth, hopefully hale and hearty after her time off.
As soon as I step through the pods, I sense that something is up; Adam and Fiona are in a far corner, having what looks like a robust marital conversation, conducted in whispers and exasperated arm-wavings; Colin is huddled over his keyboard, assiduously ignoring them, while Zaf is rubbernecking unashamedly and Jo is feigning interest in a pile of dusty old files from the Paper Archive, by the look of them. Ruth is nowhere to be seen, at first, and then I spot her familiar silhouette outlined against the glass in Harry's office. She is standing with her back to me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think his arms are around her; then I realise that the hands I can see wrapped around her sides are in fact her own. She has her arms folded tightly about her, as if in self-defence, but from her straight back and squared shoulders, I determine that she is in a combative mood. Harry is barely visible, behind his desk, but I can just hear the low rumble of his voice; the door to his office must still be open. I decide to leave them to it, and turn towards my workstation.
Colin looks up at my approach, grinning from ear to ear as he unfolds his lanky frame from his chair and beckons me to follow him to the tech storage cage; he reaches up easily to the top shelf, and lifts down the Tessina, once more mysteriously back in its proper place, and hands it to me. I take it carefully and turn it this way and that, looking for whatever it is Colin is so patently pleased about, but I can see nothing different or unusual about the elegant little camera. And then I notice the shutter button seems to gleam just a bit more brightly than the rest of the anodised grey aluminium body, and look closer; Colin practically rubs his hands in glee. "D'you remember that bug you found on the remote control at Havensworth?" I nod, still peering at the camera, before replying, "Taiwanese, wasn't it? Very sophisticated miniature circuitry…" Colin jogs on the spot with suppressed excitement. "That's right…I've reverse engineered it, turned it into a GPS transmitter, and then fitted it all inside the shutter button. The next time the Tessina goes on one of its unauthorised excursions…" "We'll be able to track it!" I finish triumphantly. "There's a proximity sensor too; it's programmed to activate if the camera passes through the pods, so it will start to transmit even if it's just being carried in a pocket or handbag." I smile back at him; it feels like my first real smile in days, one that crinkles the corners of my eyes and gladdens my heart. "Splendid, Colin. I knew you'd find a way. Although, I would just take the shine off the button…age it to match the rest of the body. A few scratches here and there…you know the sort of thing," I tell him as I hand it to him.
Colin puts the camera back in its place, and as we leave the cage he says, "Merry Christmas, Malcolm," and claps me on the shoulder; it is then that I understand that Colin has worked on this in his own time, and I am moved by his dedication, not just to his work, but to our friendship. Reaching into the breast pocket of my suit, I retrieve a small, flat envelope, and hand it to him. "And to you," I reply, watching his face light up as he extracts four season tickets for Arsenal. "One for you, and one for each of your brothers…I know you won't always be able to get there, of course, our work being what it is…but it's the thought that counts, isn't that what they say?" Colin shakes his head. "I can't take this, it's too much…four season tickets?" I stop at the server room door, and turn to him. "Of course you can take them, with my compliments to your family. Heaven knows, you're hardly over-remunerated for the sterling job you do here…consider it a performance bonus, if you're uncomfortable with accepting them as a Christmas gift." Colin ducks his head in thanks, and says, "I'm still working on the rest of your present, so you'll just have to be patient. But I know you'll like it!" Blinking at me like a happy owl, he opens the door and we return to the Grid.
Adam and Fiona are back at their respective desks, but tension still simmers in the air; I don't like it when they have one of their infrequent fights, and hope fervently that they make it up soon. Zaf and Jo are nowhere to be seen, and Colin's face falls as he registers their absence; they've only gone for coffee, I suppose, but I still feel sorry for him. Jo has twice now politely declined his invitations for lunch, or a drink after work, and now he avoids her as much as possible. Time, I know, is the great healer, but it's a commodity we never seem to have enough of, here in Section D. Ruth looks up as I unlock my screens, blue-green eyes regarding me over the monitor with an expression that makes my heart flip. It's a rare moment of intimate connection at work, and I almost forget that she hasn't replied to any of my messages since leaving the Grid on Christmas Eve, or that I still can't quite shake the idea of seeing her in the distance in the foyer of Claridge's's. Almost… I open a secure IM session (one of Colin's more recent innovations) and type a message to her.
Is everything OK? I was worried when you didn't answer any of my messages.
What messages?
Two SMS, and one voicemail. Did you not get them?
Oh, no! Sorry, I left my charger at work and my battery went flat on Christmas morning. I didn't have my spare charger with me at Mum's and I came straight here from there. See?
Ruth holds up her phone, now connected to its charger, as proof, before she switches it on and checks her messages, much to my embarrassment, before replying:
Merry Christmas, and I missed you too. I did have a nice time with mum, thanks. She was grateful I was able to spend time with her…I wish I could have told her about you.
You could have, I wouldn't have minded. After all, 'Rachel', you've met my nearest and dearest, such as they are.
I'll keep that in mind, next time I see Mum, then, shall I?
Do. By the bye, are you free tomorrow night?
For you, yes Is it a special occasion?
Wonderful. Mother's away. Dinner in Hampstead? And any time I spend alone with you is a special occasion, in my book.
Ooh, I think I see where this is headed. BTW, you do say the most romantic things! :D
Do you, indeed. You'll just have to wait and see. But yes, bring an overnight bag, if you wish.
I wish…I wish ALL sorts of things, right now! ;)
Blushing, I close the IM session and turn to my email, brimming as always with dozens of requests for tech support, assistance with searches and hacks, requisitions for materiel, and departmental circulars to be read and carefully filed away for reference. There's enough there to keep me occupied for days, let alone whatever the gods see fit to drop into the lap of Section D between now and the New Year. And then there is whatever is going on with Adam and Fiona; her behaviour lately has been more nervy and jumpy than usual, and it sometimes seems as if she is only half-here; I have noticed, too, that she has taken to glancing over her shoulder when she is out in the field, as though looking for someone that she alone can see. Adam has become increasingly concerned, under his cool, calm exterior, and Fiona seems to have reacted to this by distancing herself from us all.
No-one else seems to have noticed, but the haunted look in her eyes, so often present in the days following Danny's death, has returned…it is very worrying to witness, even from a distance, so I can only imagine how Adam must be feeling. This job doesn't leave me with a lot of time for speculation though, and even as I am working my way through my inbox, email is coming in faster than I can clear it. It's the story of our life in the Service; too much happening, with not enough time to catch up before a response is required…I grit my teeth and work faster, determined to get ahead of the game; but even under these conditions, a tiny corner of my mind is replaying the recent IM exchange with Ruth, and hoping that I will be brave enough to go through with my plan for Thursday night. I can see no other way forward, now, but I am still sufficiently uncertain of my footing with Ruth to be filled with terror as much as with nervous anticipation of her answer to the question I intend to ask after dinner at the little Italian place we both enjoy. If the night is clear, we might even walk home, over the moonlit Heath, as did John Keats and Fanny Brawne, all those years ago…resolutely, I put all thoughts of star-crossed lovers out of my head, and turn to the weekly status report Ruth has just emailed to us all; perhaps this is why she was having words with Harry, but I see nothing controversial. The year looks set to slip away quietly, but we have not let our guard down, here in Section D, and Ruth's report is as thorough as usual.
Surely this couldn't have been the source of that tense-looking discussion I glimpsed in Harry's office… the familiar, uneasy feeling of having somehow missed a crucial bit of information, where Ruth is concerned, creeps up on me, but before it can overwhelm me, I become aware of another pair of large blue eyes watching me, and I look up to see Jo standing just beyond my desk, patiently waiting for me to notice her. I smile, pleased to see her, noting how confidently she carries herself now, and her face lights up in return. "Jo, how may I help you?" Jo looks around, but we are alone; Colin is nowhere in sight, and nor is Ruth, Adam or Fiona. Zaf has retreated behind his huge headphones; If Harry catches him wearing those, I think, he'll likely get a dressing-down rarely heard outside a barrack-room.
The young woman leans towards me across the desk, and says, "Is it me, or is everyone being a bit…well, weird…today?" Her face is worried, her eyes seeking reassurance, and I am touched that she would come to me. "They do call it the silly season for a reason," I offer, adding, "I find the best thing to do is to just keep an eye on people, while getting on with my own work. Tea, coffee, or a strategically proffered small cake can work wonders, too. Just be there for them, Jo. It's what I do, and it seems to help." She grins at me, and from behind her back produces a small cellophane-wrapped packet, which she hands to me, saying, "In that case, Merry Christmas…I made them myself, my gran's Scottish and taught me how to make these when I was a kid," and through the red wrapper I make out the triangular shape of petticoat tails. "I think this calls for tea!" I tell her delightedly, and getting up, I hurry to the kitchen to make us each a cup; out of the corner of my eye I see Zaf heading purposefully towards the pods. It really must be time for Elevenses…
Jo, meantime, distributes similar packets throughout the office, as I see upon my return, carefully carrying two mugs. Jo pulls up a chair on the other side of my desk and we chink mugs companionably, before I unwrap her gift and we each take a rich, buttery piece of shortbread. "Blwyddyn Newydd Dda," I say, and Jo's eyes go wide. "That's Happy New Year, or the Welsh equivalent, anyway," I explain, and she looks at me curiously. "Are you from Wales?" she enquires, and I nod, mouth full. "Dunvant, near Swansea," I expand, and she frowns, "You don't sound Welsh…oh, sorry. That didn't come out right…" "Don't worry, I haven't lived there in decades, and besides, I never sounded local, even when I did. My mother was at great pains to make sure of that…" I trail off, unsure whether Jo is even interested. "What other languages do you speak?" she wants to know, and reddening slightly, I enumerate them for her. "Erm, well, there's Latin, Greek, and French – I did O levels in those – and then there's German, I took a couple of courses in that at University, and I taught myself Russian, Arabic, and Chinese – Mandarin, mostly, but I have enough Cantonese to get by."
Jo's eyes are like saucers by the time I stop, embarrassed. "Now I feel dumb, with my one Spanish O level," she responds, looking down at her feet. "Oh dear, I didn't mean…I'm sorry, I don't usually trot out the whole lot. I just really like languages, and I suppose I always thought I'd travel a lot more…" She beams at me, shaking her head in amusement. "Malcolm, you're a genius, or the closest thing to it that I've yet met…I'd expect you to speak at least half a dozen languages, and I was only kidding. I'm pretty proud of my Spanish, actually. It's come in handy in Ibiza, and a few other places besides!" Winking at me, Jo unfolds her willowy frame from her chair, and collects our mugs. I think of something else to add. "The shortbread was delicious, thank you! I can hardly manage to boil water." Jo smiles over her shoulder, and strides off towards the kitchen.
For a few seconds, the Grid is empty once more, and I listen to its electronic heartbeat, as comforting to me as a ticking clock wrapped in a blanket is to a newly weaned kitten. I might not yet have fulfilled my dreams of making a very grand tour indeed, but sitting here, in the place that has held my hopes and ambitions, fears and triumphs, I suddenly know with absolute certainty that I am exactly where I am meant to be. I only wish that I could have that same prescience about my relationship with Ruth in general, and tomorrow night, in particular. Faint heart never won fair lady, I remind myself, as I have so often done, and then, damn my wretched, lily-livered heart, as faint on this point as the lady in question is fair…Oh, Ruth. Do you know, have you any idea, of the immensity of my feelings for you, or the agony of uncertainty I'm in, or of the fragile hope I have nurtured so fondly all year?
I think not.
