Conversations

Questioning is not the mode of conversation among gentlemen.

Samuel Johnson – Life (Boswell)

Jane

It was easy to park a car in this Oxford, especially on a Sunday. I left the Griffith in the High Street, on the south side, and paid a small boy two shillings to keep an eye on it. The Rose tea shop was less than a hundred yards down the road and it was a pleasant day, with a brilliant sun and high-flying clouds. The walk would do me good.

Peter Joyce's old girlfriend Jane Phipps was standing on the pavement outside the café clutching her handbag in front of her with both hands. Her clothes were, like the rest of her, tidy, and well turned out. A pair of court shoes – well polished – medium tan seamless stockings, a navy-blue skirt of a fashionable mid-calf length, a white blouse with a pink bow at the neck under a bolero jacket of bottle-green, topped with a grey cloche hat with a broad blue ribbon wrapped around it.

Jane was as well presented as her clothes. She wore her chestnut hair in a shiny bob cut close to the nape of her neck. She had a snub, button nose, green eyes, a small ruby-lipped mouth and a trim figure. I thought she was an attractive girl in an unspectacular sort of way.

'Jane, hi!' I called out. She turned to face me and I showed her the copy of Scientific American that I'd told her I'd be carrying.

'Hello,' she said. 'Are you Ceres Wunderkind, then?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'Sorry if I'm a bit late. It's such a nice day that I took it easy on the road. Shall we go in?'

Jane and I sat down at a table in the window. 'They like that,' said Jane. 'It makes the place look busy.'

'Cake, or pastry?' enquired the waitress, bustling up to our table and brandishing her notepad.

'Are the bath buns fresh?' responded Jane.

'They was fresh this morning,' was the reply, so we ordered two buns and a pot of Ceylon tea and settled back into our seats. Our daemons sat on the table between us.

'Oh – I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't think we've been properly introduced. This is Fuchsia.' My jackdaw-daemon inclined her head.

'And this is Montgomery.' Jane's fox-daemon regarded us with alert, wary eyes.

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the waitress, a plump, pretty girl, returning with the tea-tray.

'I'll pour,' said Jane. She did so neatly, putting the milk into the cups first. We drank our tea in silence.

'Are you from Oxford?' I asked, after a short pause. It looked as if I would have to kick-start this conversation.

'Me? Oh, no.' She wiped a crumb from the side of her mouth with a handkerchief which she took from her sleeve. 'I was born in Lark Rise.'

'That's not far. Less than twenty miles away from here.'

'Far enough when you've not got a car, nor money for fares, neither.'

'Wasn't there very much money when you were a girl?'

'Oh no. We were very poor. There were eight of us, and old Aunt Maud in the end cottage.'

'Were you the oldest?'

'Yes.' Jane looked at me with interest for the first time, peering over the rim of her teacup. 'How did you know that?'

'You can tell, you know. First-borns are always special.'

'They get all the hard work, you mean. Me and Mum, we brought up all the others between us.'

'What about your father?'

'Him? Do things with the kids? You're joking!'

'I'm sorry. Was he a bad father?'

'Not bad. Just tired, I think.'

'Agricultural worker?'

'Yes.'

'So, why did you come to Oxford, then?'

'It was our teacher, Miss Thompson. She said my needlework was the best she'd seen in twenty years and why didn't I get a job in the clothes trade. Mum was against it, but when Dad heard that I'd be paid two pounds a week all found he said I could go. "One less mouth to feed, Daisy," he said to my mum," and money coming in." I send them thirty bob a week, regular.'

'So you came here to help support your family. Did you make that outfit yourself, by the way?'

'Of course.'

'All of it?'

'All you can see, except the stockings and the hat.'

'They're very nice.'

'I know.' There was another pause. I was finding it difficult to keep the conversation moving.

'So you came to Oxford. Did you start at Maison Jeanette straight away? I mean, did you get an introduction there?'

'Yes, and no. I started as a lady's maid. My mistress was a girl, no older than me. A Lady Berkeley. Her first name was Patricia, but of course I didn't call her that. She was m'lady and I was Phipps.'

'Was she a good mistress?'

'Yes, but even then – I was only thirteen – I knew I could do better for myself. All the other maids – and I met a few, on holiday or in the haberdasher's – were looking for the same thing. One day they'd meet a footman, or a groom, and they'd get married and settle down. Perhaps they'd become the housekeeper and butler in a big house. They dreamed of marrying one of the sons of the house, but that never happened – the boys' mothers made sure of that. Any hint of interest, and the girl was sent on her way, with decent references to be sure, unless she kicked up a fuss.

'Anyway, that wasn't for me, and when I heard that Maison Jeanette was looking for capable seamstresses I applied for a job there, and got it easily. You see, I knew that if I did well I could end up in charge of the make-up room, or even become a designer. I showed Mamselle some drawings I'd done and she quite liked them, she said.'

'And that was where you met Peter.'

'Sort of. I mean, he was just one of the apprentices in one of the shops up and down Shoe Lane. There are lots of little workshops and businesses in the area and they all have apprentices. Cheap labour, some call it.'

'Do you remember the first time you met him?'

'Again, sort of. He was with a gang of his mates. I think they'd been down the pub – anyway it was in the evening. They'd gathered outside the shop. I was upstairs in our bedroom – we all slept in the attic, all eight of us seamstresses – and heard them out in the road. They were making a noise, so I opened the window. I was going to tell them to shut up. When I pushed up the sash they all saw the light, I suppose, and they turned round. One of them – not Peter – shouted "Whoa-oh! Sarah! Get 'em out for the lads!"'

'Sarah?'

'Yes. Bloody Sarah Timms – pardon my French. I suppose they thought she was hanging herself out of the window for them and showing herself off. When they saw it was only little Jane, they made some coarse remark and ignored me. I told them what I thought of them, but it didn't make any difference.'

'Tell me more about Sarah...'

'Tell it to yourself. Stupid tart – all blonde ringlets and flounces and silly pouts whenever anything in trousers came near. Mamselle always used her if a gentleman wanted a dress modelling. If it was a lady, she'd ask Katya or Rosalinda to do it. One of the taller girls. Not me.'

'All right. So you and Peter didn't get off to a very good start.'

'No. But – I don't know – I bumped into him from time to time. In the course of business; running errands. That sort of thing. He was always polite to me, and sometimes we'd have a minute or two to spare and we'd sit on the barrier at the end of the lane and chat for a while.'

'What was he like?'

'Shy. A bit on the chubby side, not tall. Only five feet nine or so, which suited me. No offence, but I hate the way tall men stand next to you and block out all the light. Nice fair hair, very fine. Almost like a girl's – I was quite envious. Quite a nice voice. He's terribly serious. If you once got him talking about clocks, he'd never stop.'

'He's a very good craftsman, I hear.'

'Oh yes! Have you ever watched him working?'

'Only once or twice.'

'It's amazing! He's like the best of the girls in the sewing room. Everything he does is so precise, exactly right. You can hardly see his hands moving, sometimes.'

'But that isn't why you fell for him, is it? I have to say, Jane, that he strikes some people as being rather boring. He's a bit of a cold fish, they say. Got a one-track mind. Does he ever laugh, or make a joke?'

'Not often, and when he does you don't always spot it, because he's so dead-pan. I mean, he doesn't put on an I'm-telling-a-joke voice.'

'Then what was it? What did it for you?'

'His smile. Have you ever seen him smile?'

'Occasionally.'

'It's enough to melt a girl's heart. This girl's, anyway. Every time he does it, I go all bumpy. It's shy and secret and gorgeous. All the girls in the shop like him, and half the time he doesn't even notice it. That's nice, too.'

'He's not all that good-looking, though, is he?'

'He is! Especially since he got older and the baby-fat went.'

'But you split up when he got older, didn't you? Three or four years ago. Why was that? Did you just grow apart?'

'There were two things, I suppose. First, there was that Professor Belacqua, the alethiometrist. The one who died.'

'He was taking lessons with her, wasn't he?'

'Yes.'

'You do know he was in love with her, don't you?'

Jane looked up from her plate. 'Of course I do! Oh, it was so humiliating! She was really old, wore these horrible clothes and her face was all covered in wrinkles. What was he doing, messing about with her?'

'Lyra affected the lives of very many people. You shouldn't be surprised that she affected Peter's too.'

'Oh, but he'd come from her rooms on a Saturday and he'd be looking really happy. Then he'd see me, and it'd be "Hello Jane. How're things?" and it was like he'd come down to earth with a great big bump.'

'So you took action.'

'Yes, I ambushed him outside her rooms, made him buy me afternoon tea and then I took him down the banks of the Cherwell. I thought, "What would Sarah do?" and then I did it.'

'You mean, you kissed him.'

'Yes I did. Properly, on the lips, like I meant it. Which I did.'

'And then?'

'We became what some people call an item. A good thing I was there too – he started having these awful nightmares.'

'How long did that go on for?'

'Two years, and then the Professor died and they stopped.'

'I hear you went to her funeral.'

'Oh yes! It was amazing, like a State occasion. Like Royalty. You know the King came. I'm sure he saw me.'

'So did the problems go away, after Lyra died?'

'No, they got worse. Peter became so distant, and he began to concentrate more and more on his work. There didn't seem to be any time for me any more, so we slowly stopped seeing each other. Him going off to Brum only put the seal on it.'

'And so you lost track of each other.'

'Yes. I heard about Master James dying and that reminded me of Peter, but I was busy setting up the new business with Julie.'

'Oh yes. Tell me about that.'

'Julie Lock. She was with me at Maison Jeanette. She's the most amazing designer – much better than me. She was wasted there. We used to get together and make drawings of all the clothes we'd like to make up, but whenever we showed them to Mamselle there was always something wrong with them. The fabric was too expensive, or it would never hang right or nobody would buy them. So we thought – stuff this. We'll show her! We're sharing a room in Kidlington now, and we make all the things there. We take our portfolios round all the sewing circles and coffee mornings and charity dos and all the rich ladies look at them, 'cos the drawings Julie does are ace, and then we make the frocks up on a special order basis.'

'Doing well?'

'Quite well. We have some bad weeks. We've had a bad month or two, but I think it's working. Word of mouth, you know. It gets around. We'll manage, somehow.'

'Maison Phipps and Lock! It sounds good!'

'It'll look good on a shopfront, one day. Maybe.' Jane sighed.

I looked into her eyes. 'Jane,' he said, 'If anyone can make it work, you can. If you trust me, I'll trust you. I know Julie. She's got guts. You two'll make a great team.'

'Thanks, Ceres.' Jane smiled, and just for a moment I saw how terribly tired and anxious she was.

'Have you seen Peter since he got back from Bromwicham?'

'Just once, in the Post Office. We spoke, but only because we had to – we were next to each other in the queue. I wish... I wish I'd been nicer to him. He looked awful – really ill and strained. I heard later he's been doing all the work at James and James. They say the place is going bust, since the Master died.'

'Yes. It's not been at all easy for them. There are debts...'

'Debts? At James and James?' Jane's astonishment was plain to see.

We were sitting in the window of the tea shop, as I have said, and so it was that we were the first to hear the roaring of the motor and the rattle of iron-shod wheels as the fire-engine passed, going uphill at top speed. It was closely followed by an ambulance, painted white with a red cross emblazoned on the sides.

'I wonder what's happened,' I said. 'Must be pretty serious.' But Jane was not listening to me. Her face had gone deadly pale, and she was holding Montgomery close to her heart.

'Oh no,' she said. 'Oh no. Not Peter!'

Afterwards, I wondered. How on earth had she known?

Elias

I got to the bar first and ordered myself a pint. I was keeping my eyes open for him, but I was still caught unawares when Elias quietly slipped onto the next stool and said, 'I don't mind if I do,' in his soft, insinuating voice.

'Pint?' I asked.

'You're a gentleman. And since you're buying, let's make it Directors', shall we?'

'Gerry,' I called out, waving a ten bob note in the landlord's direction. 'Pint of Directors', when you're ready.'

'Right it is, sir.'

'"Sir", is it?' Elias looked at me and winked. It is not an altogether pleasant thing, to be winked at by Elias Cholmondley.

'Well, I am a regular, you know. And Mister Jenkins is an old friend of mine.'

'All old friends together, eh? Well, that's nice.' Elias took the glass that Gerry had placed on the bar and took a sip. 'Oh. That's not bad.' He drank some more. 'I see you and Gerry like to look after each other.'

'I like to look after all my people.'

'You do, do you?' Elias took another swig. 'So I'm leading the good life now, am I?'

'It could be worse.'

'How?'

'You could be dead. It was a terribly close-run-thing, you know. You owe Peter a lot.'

'Yes. Right.' Elias was not looking at all happy.

We picked up our glasses and found a table in the corner of the bar, near the fire. Elias was shivering, I noticed, despite its being a mild autumn day. I signalled to Mister Jenkins to bring two more pints over in a few minutes.

'Right,' said Elias, 'I've got a bone to pick with you.'

'Only one?'

'All right, several bones, but we'll start with the first one. Have you been putting it about that I'm queer?'

'No, I don't think so. What's your daemon's name again?'

'You don't know, do you? Well, I'll tell you, Mister Effing high-and-mighty Wunderkind. Her name's Florinda. All right?'

'Pleased to meet you, Florinda. This is Fuchsia.' The two daemons exchanged sideways glances.

'All right, Elias, so you're not queer. You're not homosexual. I never thought you were, and I wouldn't have held it against you if you had been. Tell me something, though – have you ever had a girlfriend?'

'Are you trying to wind me up? Are you being funny with me?' Elias' chair scraped back. 'What do you think? Do I look like the kind of bloke the girls go for? Mister lover-lover?' He stood up.

'Sit down, Elias, please. Another pint?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

Gerry brought the glasses over right on cue.

'You're a local, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'And you live with your mother…?'

'Yes.'

'Somewhere in Summertown, I believe.'

'Yes. We've got a flat above a row of shops.'

'But nobody knows about it.'

'No.'

'And you make sure they don't follow you home.'

'I don't want any of them knowing where I live!'

Elias was becoming uneasy again. He seemed to have only two states – icy, oily calm and furious, agitated resentment. Surely there was more to him than this?

His clothes were, as ever when he was working or going to or from work, immaculate. A suit of fine charcoal-grey wool, with a purple waistcoat that looked like silk and a dark tie, all well looked after. His shoes were black leather oxfords and his hair, dark and cut short at the sides, was pomaded into a strict centre parting. He had his fair share of amour-propre, then, despite his narrow, pinched features and oddly deformed, high shoulders.

'Elias, how old are you now?'

'Thirty-four.'

'I see. And how long have you been working at James and James?'

'Fifteen years.'

'Good heavens! That's nearly all your working life. Do you like working there?'

'It's a job.'

'Have you ever thought of working anywhere else?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because,' and Elias looked directly at me out of smoke-grey eyes, 'Master James was one of the most decent men I have ever met. Because he gave me a job when nobody else would, though they'd never say why. Because I'm bloody good at it.'

'Selling clocks?'

'There's no need to say it like that. "Selling." You silver-spoon types, you come over all mealy-mouthed when it comes to making money, or talking about it. It's dirty stuff, isn't it, money?'

'No…'

'Say it like you mean it, Goodsir.'

'I'm sorry. It's just that I don't find the subject of money very interesting.'

'That'll be because you've never been short of it, Mister Silver-spoon. You see, when you look like me you have to try harder to get on with customers. And you have to do it so well they don't catch on that you're trying. You have to make them feel like they're the most important person in the world when they're talking to you. You have to understand them right off, just like that!' Elias snapped his bony fingers. 'You have to get it right first time, every time, else you lose the sale. And guess what, Mister Writer?'

'What?'

'Master James, or your precious Peter Joyce, can be as oh-so-bloody-clever as they like and oh-so-bloody-skilful and oh-so-bloody-creative, but if somebody doesn't sell their work for them they might as well go and play pinochle.'

'That's an American expression. Do you like transatlantic things, then?'

'Yes, I do, especially gangster books. I read them to Mother. She enjoys them very much. I can do all the different accents. Would you like to hear them?'

'Some other time. So Master James kept you on all those years because you're a very good shop assistant and salesman.'

'Yes.' Elias sat back, a little mollified, and finished off his first glass of beer.

'Are you hungry, by the way? They do a good shepherd's pie here.'

'Mother will be making a casserole for me later. But, thank you.'

I nodded understandingly. It was time for a change of subject 'Tell me about Martin James. When did you first meet him?'

'Ten years ago.'

'How did it happen? I didn't think he was allowed anywhere near Shoe Lane.'

'He wasn't. Not while Master James was alive. But he followed me home, despite my going through all the diversions I usually do. He talked to me, like you're talking to me now. He bought me drinks, like you're doing now. He paid for them with real money too, which is more than you're doing, Mister Wunderkind.'

'What was he after? He must have been after something'

'Oh, I saw that. I wasn't as smart as I am now, but I could still tell he wanted something from me. What, it didn't matter, so long as I got something out of it too. You've got to look after yourself first in this life.'

'True enough. What about that daemon of his?'

'I never got used to it. Never. It wasn't right. Not natural.'

'No. Neither was he. When did you last see him, by the way?'

'That Sunday, of course. Wait…' Elias looked puzzled. 'No, he wasn't there. What am I thinking? It must have been in the Kings Arms, a week or two before. That's funny… Still, I got away with it in the end, didn't I? Landed on my feet, you might say.'

Elias' confusion was only to be expected, I thought.

'It was at Peter's expense, though, wasn't it?'

'Peter? He owed me! Have you any idea what it was like for me when he turned up?'

'How do you mean?'

'It all went downhill when he came. We'd had a nice little business going there, Master James and me. We were doing very nicely. We were a team. And then the brat shows up. Apprentice. And then it's Peter this, Peter that. Peter the bright young man. Peter who's going to go far. Do you want to know something?'

'Go on.'

'My wages. I'm paid five hundred and twenty pounds a year.'

'Is that good?'

'For a shop worker; yes, it's not bad. Do you know how much Peter was paid?'

'Not much, I don't suppose. Two pounds a week?'

'Sixteen bob. Plus his keep.'

'So, what's your point? You were paid nearly thirteen times as much as him. That sounds fair.'

'Is it? Well, consider this. How much am I going to be paid in ten years' time? I'll tell you. Five hundred and twenty pounds a year, just the same as now. Master Joyce? He'll own the business. All the profits will go to him. All the hard work I do – selling, Mister Wunderkind – will go to make him rich. Him and that silly little bint of a seamstress. That Jane Phipps.'

'The shop might still go bust. Then he'll have nothing at all.'

'And so will I! If the shop goes under, so will I!'

'That's not what you thought when Master James was dying.'

'Martin James was going to inherit the shop. I'd have been all right. Then that effing will shows up. He's only gone and given the whole place, lock stock and barrel to Peter Bloody Carlton Joyce, hasn't he? Do you know how he treats me? Like a bleeding servant! "Cholmondley do this. Cholmondley, see to that.".'

'Elias, please… He's only young.'

'He's old enough to know better. He took it all away from me, the bastard. The shop, my future, Mother's future, everything. Master James and me, we were all right. We were doing all right. Why did Master have to give it all to him?'

'They were two of a kind, I suppose. But look here, Elias, haven't things changed now? Peter saved your life, didn't he?'

'And that makes it all right, does it? Now I've got to be grateful to him as well, have I?'

There were words that I could say that would help Elias, but now was not the right time to say them. Not when he was bent over the table, sobbing, in mourning. I would have to have a private word with Peter; when Viola and he were feeling better.

Mistress James

August had shaded into September by the time I was able to make my way to Shoe Lane and the premises of James and James. They had known in advance that I was coming, so when I entered the shop and rang the bell Elias answered it straight away. 'For Mistress James isn't it, Mister Wunderkind?' he asked.

'Yes please, Mister Cholmondley.'

I waited in the shop – clean and tidy, but with its shelves and cabinets almost empty – while Elias went upstairs to the office. There was the sound of low voices and the scrape of a chair on a bare floor. Then Elias came softly down the stairs and into the shop. Lifting the counter top, he beckoned me through into the back of the shop, along the passage by the silent workshop and up the stairs, which were covered with brown linoleum, to the first landing. The office door faced me. It was half-open.

'Come in.' Mistress James summoned me into her room before I could announce myself. I entered the office and closed the door.

'Please sit down, Mr Wunderkind.'

I sat. The chair was stiff and rigid, made of solid oak.

'I would prefer it if you could be as brief as possible. I have a great deal of work to do, as you can see.' There was a pile of papers stacked up on the desk beside her.

'Certainly, Mistress James. But first, please, how is Peter? You've just this moment come from the hospital, haven't you?'

Mistress James shook her head. 'He is as well as can be expected. That is what they have told me, and that is all that I can tell you.'

'Does he know yet? The full extent of his injuries, I mean.'

'No, he does not. He is still under heavy sedation.'

'I'm very sorry to put you through all this again.'

'You mean, so soon after my husband died?'

'Yes, it must be awful. Hospital visits, and all that.'

'How do you know? Do you know about hospitals?'

'A bit. I've worked in some—'

'As an ambulance driver? A porter?'

'Not quite. I sterilised gowns and dressings, and made up surgical packs.'

'That sounds easy enough. What about the harder things?'

'I haven't been an in-patient, if that's what you mean. Not for many years now.'

'That is not the hardest thing, is it, to be a patient?'

'No, Mistress James, it is not. To watch someone die in hospital, among compassionate strangers, that is worse.'

'And have you done that?'

'Yes, I have.'

Mistress James' hands were resting in her lap. Her daemon sat near her, on the top of the desk.

'So you understand, then. Why did you not let me be there at the end? Why did it have to be the boy?'

I was silent for a moment. This was the question I had feared the most.

'Peter is not a boy any longer. He has grown up.'

'You are evading the question!'

'You are right.' I sighed. 'You know how much Peter loved Master James…'

'And was his love so much greater than mine?'

'It was… it was still unformed, like an unsettled daemon.'

'You are being evasive again. Why could I not have been at my husband's side when he died?'

Mistress James was implacable in her grief, as tightly buttoned up emotionally as her widow's garb of black, high-collared and lace-sleeved, as strictly disciplined as her grey hair, in its hard, compact bun. I sighed again. 'It was necessary for Peter. I'm sorry, but there it is.'

'I see. I suppose that you will have your own way in this, as in all matters. You clearly considered that my rights as a wife were unimportant compared with the opportunity my husband's death gave for spurious emoting on the part of Peter Joyce.'

I was tempted to get up there and then and leave the office (and admit my cowardice to her, before she could accuse me of it herself.)

'No, Mistress James, it's not quite like that. A story has a momentum of its own. It carries itself forward independently of its creator. The same goes for the characters in that story. They have an inner life of their own too, which I don't always fully understand. If you'd only tell me a bit about yourself, so I could try to get under your skin a little, perhaps I could make it so that you and the story you inhabit make a better match. You do know I'm very much a beginner at this kind of thing, don't you?'

'Hmmm. Very well, Mister Wunderkind. I was born in the town of Belper, in Derbyshire, in 1975. My maiden name was Prideau. Have you heard of the Derbyshire Prideaux?'

'It is an old Hugenot family, is it not?'

'It is. Very old, and very important in County matters. Out of the last ten Lord Lieutenants of the County of Derbyshire, six were Prideaux.'

'I see. Did you have any brothers and sisters?'

'One elder brother, Algernon, and a younger sister, Gwendolyn.'

'And you were christened Matilda Grace Alexandra Prideau.'

'That is correct.'

'You were privately schooled, I take it?'

'Of course. Algernon was sent to prep school and then to Ercall College. Gwendolyn and I had a governess until we were twelve, and then were sent to the Belper Girls Academy, where we matriculated. I was judged to have sufficient promise to be put forward for the University and, in due course and after taking the necessary examinations, which I will not enumerate here, I gained a place at Saint Sophia's College where I read history.'

'With Dame Hannah Relf?'

'Yes. It was she who conducted my admittance interview.'

'Was it not very unusual for a girl to go up to Oxford in those days?'

'It is still quite unusual. Tell me, Mister Wunderkind, were you at Oxford? Or Cantabriensis, perhaps?'

'No, Mistress. I went to the University of Houghton, where I read Anbaric and Anbaronic Engineering. Houghton is a northern port city, noted for its endemic poverty and lively social life.'

'I see. You are a theologian, then?'

'A practical theologian, Mistress. I deal mostly with calculating engines and their applications.'

'I see. I'm sure that it must be very interesting, for those who are interested in such things.'

I paused. Who was interviewing whom? 'Tell me, Mistress, about how you met your husband.'

'Oh – it's terribly straightforward. The clock in my lodgings had stopped. He came to mend it. I fell for him immediately. Afterwards…' Mistress James shrugged her shoulders.

'Afterwards… what?'

'My family more or less disowned me. You can imagine what they said. They were so disappointed in me, after all. You must understand that I had had to fight tooth and nail to get into Oxford. Eventually, they became used to that idea and became, I think, quite proud of me.

'After I had been awarded my degree, I think that my father thought I would go into the King's Service. Many women do go into governance, you know. I had ambition. I could have been a Minister some day. Imagine! The first woman Minister in the Great Parliament! But I had met my husband-to be by then and suddenly I'd found that I wanted nothing else but to be with him for the rest of my life. So, now I was doing what my family had wanted me to do in the first place – get married and settle down. But now they said I had married beneath myself, into a working-class family, and I was no longer welcome in Belper. I was never a beneficiary of any of my relatives' wills, you know. Nobody ever came to see us in Shoe Lane – only the James family came to Emily's christening. None of them ever knew how good a man my husband was.'

'So, you married a tradesman, your husband. What was his first name?'

'Theodore. "Gift of God".'

'Ah. And his daemon's name was Amanda, was it not. "Loveable". Was Theodore James loveable?'

'Of course he was!' Mistress James' eyes, which had been gimlet-sharp at first, became hazy and remote. 'He was so different from the men I had met in Oxford. They were witty, clever, rich – brilliant, many of them. And some of them were sincere, I am sure. But none of them were kind, as Theodore was kind.'

'Had you not received very much kindness up until then? Were your parents very distant, before you met Theodore, I mean? Were they not kind to you and your brother and sister?'

'They were very busy, both of them. We had a nurse, and then a governess, and then schoolmistresses, and they were good to us, I'm sure, but…'

'I see, Mistress. You once said something to Peter about "bad blood", referring to the James family. Is that what your parents had said to you?'

'You mean, regarding Theodore's brother?'

'Yes. But not only with respect to Martin.'

'Charlie, then. Do you want me to talk about Charlie?' Mistress James' hands, still in her lap, appeared to be wrestling, one against the other. I felt my face flush, and Fuchsia gave me a warning nip.

'No Mistress, I don't. Please don't talk to me about that. When I discovered what had happened to him I… I don't know. I was appalled. Why are we adults so cruel to our children?'

'Because they are cruel to us?'

'No, that can't be it. Not all of it. But in my world, just as in yours, children are sometimes treated quite abominably.'

'You never had a Bolvangar, though, in your world.'

'Ah, you know about that. No, we built our concentration camps for children and adults alike. They all died together, young and old, in the same dreadful ways.'

'And yet…'

'I wondered if it was a special form of envy, unique to this world. Envy of the freedom of children – their mutability.'

'You mean their unsettled daemons?'

'Yes. I'm sure that when your daemon settles it's a wonderful thing, especially if it's in a form that you really want. But Martin… That's strange. I never heard of that before – an adult with an unsettled daemon.'

'But you have heard of Bolvangar.'

'Yes, I have.'

'Then can you not guess what happened to Martin James, when he was very young? Do you think that intercision – the Maybach process – was the only experimental procedure that was performed there?'

'Oh. Oh, good grief. You mean that he was abducted when he was a boy and taken north and… operated on by the doctors and theologians there?'

'Yes. That's what Martin told me, when I showed him Theodore's will. I think he was trying to justify himself to me. It was much too late, though.

'Wait a minute. You told Peter that, after Charlie, you stopped sleeping with your husband. Why was that, if you knew that the bad blood story was a lie? And why didn't Theodore know? Surely he'd have remembered it? I'm sure that I would remember it if my brother had disappeared for several months when I was young.'

'I didn't know! Nobody knew, until Martin told me, not even Theodore. Theodore took the blame upon himself, but for all I know the fault could have been mine. It doesn't have to be anything to do with Martin. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I will have no more children. Please go now. I must attend to my duties. I have a great deal of work to do.'

'What to do with such a life?' I said to Fuchsia as we walked back down the stairs. Mistress James had returned to her books and letters. 'How can she ever find love again, if she shuts herself away like this?'

'She found it before, with Theodore, and again, with Peter,' said Fuchsia.

'That was physical comfort she was seeking from Peter, not love.'

'Yes – but the capacity is there. She could be so much more than she is. But now… Did you notice, she didn't even ask after Carrie? After all the poor girl's been through, too! I don't know. Perhaps, one day…'

'When the wounds have healed a little. Martin James has gone—'

'For now.'

'Fuchsia, I still don't understand how it was that Theodore James didn't know – or didn't tell Mistress James – about his brother's condition. It's funny. Everybody we've encountered has told us what a good man he was – Peter, Elias, Mistress James, Mister Hurst. But he was hiding something all that time, it seems. Why?'

'He's dead now, and his atoms have joined the Dust-Stream. We will probably never know.'

'Unless he did tell her after all, and she's denying it.'

'Oh. You know, I don't think we've got to the bottom of this. She's so self-contained. I don't know…'

'There's another thing, Fuchsia. She's been visiting Peter pretty regularly. When he comes out of hospital they're going to need a lot of support, not to mention help with the financial side of things. Do you think she'll unbend enough to appeal to the Guild of Temporalists for help? She'll never ask her family, I'm sure of that.'

'The money from Hurst's won't see them through Peter's convalescence; assuming he's ever going to be able to return to work, that is.'

'Then we're going to have to help her, else the shop is going to fail despite Peter's talent and determination and all her hard work. She's in a kind of prison. Let's see if we can't set her free.'

I had parked the Griffith at the bottom end of Shoe Lane, not far from the railway station. In this world it was so outlandish a car that, paradoxically, it attracted little attention from the curious.

'Take it easy,' said Fuschia. 'Don't drive so fast. It'll do you good to slow down a bit.'

'All right.' The exhaust burbled and growled as we set off down the Botley Road, bound for Newbury and the south.

Carrie

'Stop!' cried Fuchsia. I brought the Griffith to an impressively swift halt. 'Look, by the side of the road.'

It was Carrie Mason, sitting on a garden wall with her daemon Adrian by her feet. My heart sank. What could I possibly say to her?

'Come on,' said Fuchsia. 'May as well face up to it. You know you'll have to, sooner or later.' She was right, as usual, so I called out, 'Carrie! Carrie! Over here!'

She looked up, red-eyed. 'Ceres? What are you doing here?'

'I'm talking to people. About what's happened. You know.'

'What do you mean, I know!'

'I want to know how you're feeling.'

'Oh, do you now? What about you? How are you feeling?'

'Lower than the snake's belly, right now. Come on, Carrie. Hop in. Let's go for a drive.'

I jumped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Carrie. She climbed in, her Adrian behind her, and I closed the door.

'What's this?' she said, reaching down the side of the seat.

'It's a seat belt. For your safety. Look, you take the tongue, like this and plug it into that red socket, like this. There you are. Clunk-click, every trip.'

Carrie looked around the red leather interior of the Griffith. 'Coo! I've never seen a car like this before. Was it very dear?'

'Quite dear. I had to sell a lot of books before I could afford to buy it.'

'Is it very fast?'

Faster than you'll ever know. 'Yes, Carrie, but we'll keep the speed down today. Now where shall we go? The Rose Teashop?'

'Ceres!' said Fuchsia, dismayed. Oh hell. Why did I have to go and say that?

'Jim was going to take me there one day, you know. We were going to roll up outside, like the quality do, and he was going to escort me in. We was going to be ever so grand…'

I opened the glovebox and handed Carrie a pack of tissues. 'I'm sorry Carrie. I don't think I've got off to a very good start with you.'

In the end we went no further than Abingdon. Carrie cheered up a little once the car got moving. It was a fine afternoon, and it's hard to stay gloomy when the countryside is whizzing past you at sixty miles per hour, and the sun is shining, and the wind is blowing in your hair.

'Here, Carrie,' I said. 'Have some coffee.' We had crossed the river and turned right into the meadows on the other side, facing the town. Carrie took the cup from me and held it steady while I filled it with steaming hot coffee from a vacuum flask. I poured another cup for myself and we both drank in silence, while the river sparkled and chattered a few yards away.

There was no more putting it off. It was time to bite the bullet, so I put my cup down on the grass, put my arms out, and clasped Carrie's hands in my own. 'Carrie, I'm sorry.'

The girl's round face was screwed up with tears and her body shook with sobs. 'Why, Ceres? Why? Why did you have to take him away from me?'

Who knows all the ways of the heart? I thought.

'Jim died saving you, Carrie. I know that doesn't make it any easier.'

'Was it because we wasn't married? Was that it? Was we sinners?'

'No, I don't think you were sinners. Some might have thought that, I suppose, even in my world, but I don't. Jim… Look, Carrie, I could say he was special – and he was. I could say all the good things about him that you'd like me to say, and all that would do is remind you of all that you've lost. But I can't diminish your loss by slagging him off, either. Do you see what I mean?'

'Yes,' Carrie sniffed. 'I suppose so.'

'And it's no good my telling you that it won't always hurt as much as it does now, because, in your heart, you won't believe me. So instead, why don't you tell me what happened in your own words. Oh, and try this.' I passed Carrie a Snickers bar. She took a bite and smiled, just a little.

'It's nice. I've not had one of these before.'

'Try dunking it in your coffee. I won't mind.'

Carrie followed my advice.

'I don't know where to start,' she said after a few sticky, chocolatey minutes.

'Start at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.' I smiled in what I hoped was an encouraging manner.

'Well, it started when Peter turned up at the flat with all his stuff clanking away in his bag. He went round the back with Jim and there was a lot of hissing and lights flashing.'

'They were mending the boiler. Brazing the plug back in.'

'Yes, that's what they said. Then Jim got the hose and filled the car up with water from the sink.'

'You were in the kitchen, weren't you? At the back of the house?'

'Yes, to start off with. Anyway, then they lit the boiler—'

'Were you watching?'

'Yes, but then they were just standing looking at it, so I thought I'd go into the front.'

'Right. What did you find there?'

'Not what. Who. I found that nasty creepy Elias, poking around my things.'

'Elias. Just him?'

'Yes.'

'How did he get in?'

'Oh, the front door lock never worked properly. Anyway, I asked him what he was doing in my house.'

'Yes?'

'And he said he was looking for evidence of sin. He was going to report us to the Court, he said.'

'Did you believe him?'

'No. But yes, it was just the sort of thing he might do.'

'And you're sure it was only Elias there? Nobody else?'

'No, just him. Why are you asking me?'

'No matter. Go on.'

'So he said he'd found evidence of sinful practices. It wasn't hard.' Carrie couldn't help smiling. 'Jim and I – we was a bit blatant about it. But then he said he might not report us. He said that if we gave him something he'd forget telling the constables about our obscene ways.'

'Gave you what?'

'Peter's treasures. He wanted Peter's treasures. He'd found the Sony – with all the films in it – by the bed, and he was holding it. Well, I wasn't going to stand for that nonsense. "Give me that back, I said."'

'And did he?'

'No. He just grinned at me. So that was that. I shouted for Jim, and he came in and so did Peter.'

'What did Elias do then?'

'He just kept on grinning. He said it didn't matter what they said or what they did, he was in the right and we was breaking the law. Cohabiting without benefit of clergy, he called it. Is that a crime?'

'Not where I come from, no. Did he find the gun?'

'What gun?'

'It… it doesn't matter. Go on. What happened then?'

'Jim came over to me and held me – bless him – and Peter went up to Elias. "Don't be a fool," he said. "You know this isn't going to work." He held his hand out for Elias to give him back the Sony.'

'And did he?'

'No. He started arguing. Peter said he'd have him sacked, and Elias said that he have him in Court too, see if he didn't. It went on for ages. I thought Peter was going to hit him. I was joining in, too, and Jim. But all the time, Elias just kept on grinning. And then…'

'Then…'

'Then there was this terrific boom – like the Last Trump, it was – and a great big crashing splintering noise, like all the windows breaking.'

'Which they were.'

'Yes, and then there was a much louder bang, and…'

I passed the box of tissues over to Carrie.

'And the whole house just fell on us. Like a pack of cards. And Jim was next to me, and some great beam hit him and he fell against me and I banged my head on the floor and it all went dark.'

'Jim shielded you?'

'Yes. The beam hit him on the head, and he was next to me, so it was him got killed instead of me…'

I took Carrie's hands again in mine. Then I wrapped my arms around her, and held her while she wept.

'And Peter…'

Peter

'Are they looking after you all right here?'

Peter Joyce looked up from his wheelchair. 'Oh. It's you. Take a pew.' He waved toward a nearby chair. I picked it up and placed it at right angles to Peter's. Fuchsia perched herself on the arm of the chair. Peter's Viola was resting in his lap and he was stroking her incessantly. He never let go of her in all the time that we spent together.

'It all looks quite nice here. What are the nurses like? Anyone been to see you?'

'Oh, it's all very nice.' Fuchsia and I and Peter and Viola were sitting on the veranda of a white stucco house, tucked away in north Oxford. A convalescent home, well equipped and staffed, and with some progressive ideas about rehabilitation. 'The nurses are nice, too. You just missed Jane.'

Peter shifted in the chair and winced as a sudden pain stabbed him. 'Damn! It's not supposed to hurt there!'

'But it does. You wrote about that once, didn't you?'

'Yes, I did. Not so long ago.'

'But many worlds away.'

'Yes.'

'Peter,' I was feeling very uncomfortable and I expect it showed, 'I've been talking to people, while you've been stuck in here. Jane, Mistress James, Elias, Carrie. They've told me what they think happened. Would you tell me your story? I know I don't look all that much like a harpy!'

'Why should I?'

'Because… OK, I'll tell you. Your version of events differs in one very important respect from Carrie's and Elias'.'

'It does?'

'Yes. Now, shall I put that cushion straight? It doesn't look quite right.' I heaved Peter up in the chair and replaced the cushion behind his shoulders.

'Thanks. Where shall I start, then?'

'Pick it up from the point where Gracious Wings returned you to Jim and Carrie's flat.'

'All right.' Peter seemed relieved to have something to occupy his mind. 'Well, Martin James had just demanded that I give Viola to Elias. I knew that if I did that I would be severed from her again. But I also knew that Martin would have no hesitation in shooting Jim if I didn't hand Viola over.

'So I stood up, and put Viola in my jacket pocket. "No," I said to Martin James, "I'm not going to give Viola up. You see, I know about you." In a way, I did, but I was making a guess, too. You see, I'd done a few sums in my head, so I took a wild stab at the truth. "You were at Bolvangar, weren't you?" I said.

'Like I said, it was a guess, but it struck home straight away, and I knew I'd guessed right. It was something Lyra – the Professor – had said once, about the experiments they had done there. And Martin James was the right sort of age, too. "You're not the Child of God," I said. "You're a broken test-tube or a smashed retort. You're an experiment gone wrong."

'I'm not sure now that that was actually the right way to go about it. I knew that I mustn't let Viola be taken from me again, and I knew that I had to play for time. Precisely how much time, I didn't know. I was dreadfully afraid – soiling myself, nearly – because I knew what was going to happen in only a minute or two.'

'Yes, I thought you probably did.'

'Elias gasped. He hadn't heard of Bolvangar of course – not many of us have – but he's not stupid and he knew that I had spotted something that he hadn't. Martin James tried to bluff it out, which suited me. He asked me where I'd got that idea from, and what story-books I'd been reading. All the time he was waving the gun about. I really thought he was going to shoot me. Or Jim, or Carrie'

'Jim was already dead. Did you know that?'

'No! He was only shot in the shoulder. Martin James said he would recover…'

'He lied, or he was ignorant. You can't fire a charged particle beam like that so close to the human brain without causing irreparable damage to the cerebral cortex. Jim was still breathing, yes, but he was dying.'

'Ah. I suppose that, in a way, it makes it better. You see, I've been thinking that Jim's death was my fault. I could have warned us all to get out of the house while there was still time.'

'But Martin James would not have let you go.'

'No he wouldn't. He was ranting on – you've read the kind of stuff he said before. Well, this was the same, only even more deranged. I tried to signal to Carrie to take cover but she was crouched next to Jim, trying to get him to talk to her, and she didn't hear me. Oh Ceres, in those last few seconds it was like a nightmare. The kind of nightmare where you're trying to shout but your voice is all throttled and it comes out as a croak. This terrible thing was going to happen, and there was nothing I could do to help anyone.'

'And then…'

'And then the car blew up. The Ridgeworth Steamer. It had been cooking away at the back of the house all that time and the pressure had been building up in the boiler. While Martin James was going on and on about Destiny and the Divine Will and the Next Generation, his doom – our doom – was standing outside the back door of Carrie's house, waiting for us.'

'Didn't it have a safety valve? Steam engines have safety valves to prevent blow-ups.'

'Yes, but I think it must have been damaged when we overheated the engine the week before. You know; when the safety plug melted. If Jim and I had been there, instead of inside, we'd have seen it. The pressure gauge was working properly, I know. I'd mended it, just as Jim asked me to. I remember what he said – "We don't want the boiler exploding, do we?"' Peter's face was bleak with pain.

'So that's what happened,' I said. 'I thought so.'

'Well, nearly. The Ridgeworth blew up, like I said, and the whole house shook. Plaster fell from the walls, I remember, and Martin, Elias and I were knocked off our feet. I think the back wall collapsed. Even then, I think we'd have been all right, if it hadn't been for the gas supply in the kitchen. The pipes were old and badly maintained – like the rest of the house – and I think that gas must have been building up under the floorboards for weeks. It always smelled a bit funny in there. When that went up – a second or two after the boiler – it must have lifted the whole place off the ground. It was as if the house was a wild animal and we were its prey. It pounced on us. There was this almighty crash, loads of dust and stuff. After that, nothing, until I woke up in the Radcliffe. And now – just look at me!'

I looked. I could not avoid doing so any longer. Peter's left leg ended in a stump, just below the knee. The left sleeve of his jacket was empty and had been neatly rolled up and pinned to his shoulder.

A nurse came. 'It's time for Mister Joyce's physio. Five more minutes; that's all I can give you, Goodsir.'

'Thank you, nurse. Peter, there are some things I want to tell you. I can't undo that—' pointing to Peter's left side, but I can try to help you understand why.'

'Is it because I betrayed Lyra with the Book Lady in the World of the Dead? It that why I'm… like this?'

'No, Peter. Carrie asked me the same question. Don't you know that you are free? Free, and forgiven. The idea of an angry, vengeful God who punishes those who break His laws was abolished long ago. I could never believe in such a capricious God, and neither should you. But you knew that, once you had been given a gift of Time and returned to your world, the normal operation of the laws of the Universe would be resumed. Lyra and Gracious Wings told you, remember? Those laws speak of Chance as well as Destiny. Didn't Mary Malone once speak to you of such matters, on the Downs in Bristol?'

'Event forks… yes.'

'Yes. Good, you remember. Now, tell me. Have you seen any time-ghosts since you returned to this world?'

'No. No, I haven't!'

'Then…'

'Yes! I see what you're getting at, Ceres. I'm in the right place, at last. Even if…' He pointed with his right hand at the vacant sleeve.

'Have they called you a cripple yet?'

'Yes, they have. It's written above the door of the ward. Ward Three (Cripples), it says.'

'Do you know what you are going to do?'

'Do?'

'With your life.'

'I don't know. I don't know if anybody will want me, now I'm… like this.'

'How many visitors have you had today?'

'Oh – Mistress. Jane. Mum and Dad and Tom, of course. Elias turned up yesterday, with a bunch of grapes – I was amazed. I saved his life, you know. I landed on him, after the second blast.'

'Jane was by your bedside all the time that you were unconscious. Did you know that?'

'No.'

'Every day and night.'

'Gosh! That was nice of her.'

'Don't drift apart again, will you?'

'We'll see. It's hard to think about the future at the moment. Not with this missing arm of mine hurting like buggery. But look, you haven't said what happened to Martin James. Where's he gone? Don't tell me he got off scot-free!'

'The answer is yes, and no. Do you remember how you were rescued from Miss Morley, that Saturday in Lyra's study?'

'Some men came and saved me. The Warriors, Lyra called them. They came out of Time, didn't they? That's what I wrote in my book seven years ago, though I only half-believed it then.'

'Yes. Gracious Wings and Lyra both spoke to you of a deeper struggle. You should bear in mind that, for there to be a fight, it takes two sides. Martin James was rescued from the explosion – and Time tampered with – in just the same way that you were before. But not by the same side. I must say no more about this. You have brushed against great, implacable forces, and it is no surprise that you have taken some harm from it. But Martin James… Do you remember how you used to feel, back when you could see the ghosts? Displaced, uneasy, unsettled?

'Yes, sort of.'

'It will be the same for him now. He has been forcibly plucked from his native world. I do not envy him his exile.'

'Meanwhile, the others – Carrie and Elias – do not know that he was present in the Botley Road that Sunday. The flow of Time has been diverted a little, like a stream on the beach. There are significant differences between your memory of those events and theirs. I would suggest that you will find that their memories correspond more closely than yours to the real state of affairs in this world. Oh, and by the way. The treasures – your twonkies – were recovered. They were safe under the bed. Carrie has them.'

'And the gun?'

'Is gone. Gone with Martin James. It won't be seen in this world ever again, Peter. Did you know it was powered by imprisoned Dust?'

'Yes, that's what Arthur said. I'm glad it's gone. It was a horrible thing.' Peter's head fell back against the chair. He clutched Viola with his right arm and held her close to his heart. I got up to leave.

'Peter…'

'I know. Look at me. This is me, for the rest of my life. But I'll find a way. I always do. Things always work out for the best in the end. And look, Ceres – we're whole, Viola and me! At last – we're whole!'